by Nupur Tustin
“What if I hadn’t?”
They both knew she was being contrary. She’d had the nun to guide her. In hindsight, there’d been no question that the container would be found.
And Dirck knew that, Celine. I made sure of it. He obviously had no idea where his certainty came from. But even the densest human being is open to spiritual suggestion.
There was no arguing with that. You didn’t have to be psychic to receive insights in the form of a dream or a sudden inspiration. Nor did the nun have to remind Celine that while John was alive, their secrets hadn’t been Dirck’s alone to share.
The thought calmed her down.
She sank deeper into the couch, reclining her head against the armrest.
“But why tell me about all this now?” she wondered. She took a few more bites of her apple and chewed thoughtfully.
Had Dirck intended to share the information with her all along, simply waiting for the right moment? Or had circumstances compelled him to make the revelation?
There’d been such an air of finality in the way he had shown her how to change the codes that opened and closed the closet. Dirck had acted like a stage IV cancer patient revealing details of bank accounts and ATM pin codes to a surviving relative.
Like a person who knew he wouldn’t be around for much longer.
And now, all of a sudden, the task was hers?
Celine took a bite of her apple. It was almost gone, and her teeth met core and seed. She spat the stuff out onto a paper napkin, tossed the napkin and the remnants of the apple into the trash can by the countertop, and got up to get herself a drink of water.
Taking a sip of the ice-cold water, she returned to the couch. For as long as she’d known him, Dirck had a heart condition. Just like John. But unlike John, Dirck was always careful to take his medication and comply with his physician’s recommendations.
He’d seemed exhausted these past few weeks, but Celine couldn’t believe his condition had worsened. She hadn’t noticed any change in his prescriptions—in the medications themselves or the dosages—when she’d refilled them at the Apothecary, a few doors down from the Delft.
She twirled the glass in her hands.
No, she didn’t think Dirck had originally intended to say anything about the secret closet and its codes. Telling her about the cardboard box, showing her the closet, had all seemed to come as an afterthought—when she’d asked if there was anything she could do before he chased her out of the bar that night.
And he’d been in quite the hurry to get her out of that bar.
Her mind, like a river following its course, turned to the curio Dirck had been storing for his friend. Why had he been so eager to remove it from the Delft’s premises?
It needed to be in a secure place. But what could be more secure than a closet whose existence no one but Dirck knew about?
Unless its location had been compromised. Did someone else know about the closet? Or, more likely, that the item was at the Delft?
Was that why Dirck was insisting it be returned? Because it was no longer safe for him to store it for his friend?
No wonder he’d been so adamantly opposed to her storing it in her cottage, either.
“He’s in some kind of danger,” she muttered to herself. “And I would be, too, if I had the thing anywhere near me.”
She sat on the edge of the couch, certain her instincts were on the mark, but unsure what to do about it.
The danger was likely imminent if Dirck was unwilling to wait until the morning for Celine to either hand-deliver or mail the item back to his friend.
Does brooding about the matter really help? Sister Mary Catherine’s voice startled her.
“Yes, it does,” Celine said firmly. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”
You’ll know soon enough. There’ll be time enough to figure things out then. But until then, I’d get some sleep if I were you.
Celine frowned. “What will I know soon enough?” she wanted to ask, but she knew she’d get nothing more out of her guardian angel.
Besides, there were things that even Sister Mary Catherine, despite the vantage point death gave her, didn’t know.
And most likely the item, whatever it was, was safe in the barn. Celine doubted that any person—even someone covertly watching them on a regular basis—would suspect it had been smuggled out of the Delft.
Transporting empty wine bottles to the Mechelen was a routine chore for anyone who worked at the bar.
She finished her water and headed to the bedroom.
Chapter Eight
“Celine!” Dirck’s voice was urgent. She heard it a second time, a little louder “Celine!”
Where was he? In the darkness, Dirck’s voice seemed to come from all around her. Celine searched the blackness, her desperation growing.
When she finally turned around, her heart nearly stopped.
A dark sedan, torched by flames, sat right in front of her. She felt its searing heat now, scorching her skin.
Dirck? She tried to say his name, but its single syllable remained trapped within her vocal cords.
Then she saw his form emerge, dazed, from the burning car. A surge of relief flowed through her. He’s alive. A hand reached out to help him.
The Lady?
Celine wasn’t sure.
Then relief gave way to despair. They were at the bottom of a ravine. She could dimly see its high walls reaching up beyond her. Her head arched back as she followed the rugged outline of rock toward an ashy gray sky.
There’d be no getting out of here. The flames would eat them alive.
“Celine!”
Dirck was closer to her now. She saw the red, splotchy burn marks that dotted his face.
He stretched his hand out to her, palm upturned.
“The pills, Celine.”
He staggered forward, clutching his chest.
“The pills.”
Oh my God, she’d forgotten the pills.
Celine’s eyes opened. She bolted upright, her heart pounding, and reached for the large tote perched on a woven cane armchair by her bed.
Inside the bag, her hand felt its soft silk lining, then her fingers closed around a plastic bottle.
Dirck’s prescription. She’d picked it up yesterday and forgotten to give it to him.
She glanced at the clock. It was 2 a.m., hours past the time he was supposed to take it. She’d have to wake him up.
She swung her legs down to the floor.
Not in his cottage, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice startled her. He’s not there.
“Not in his cottage?” She thought the question rather than uttering it out loud.
No, Celine.
“Then, where?” she demanded, her voice nearly shrill from agitation.
Special Agent Blake Markham’s eyes opened to a gray dawn in Massachusetts. His mouth felt dry and chalky. He passed his tongue over his lips, grimacing in distaste at his own stale breath.
What time was it? His eye passed over the coffee table with his laptop, its screen still up, sitting on it; the flat-screen television in its recess on the back wall; and settled on the pine display clock in a smaller recess above it.
Jesus F’in’ Christ! He’d missed Pike’s call. The last vestiges of sleep dissipated.
He couldn’t believe he’d slept through the raucous ringtone he’d set on the unregistered phone he was using to communicate with Grayson Pike. Goddammit, where was the damn phone?
In the gray light that filtered through the blinds, Blake’s fingers fumbled around on the seat of his easy chair and then around the laptop. He found the device at last behind his laptop. Impatiently, he flipped it open.
The plain blue screen showed him the date and time. Blake swore. Pike was supposed to have called three hours ago. He hit Menu and then selected Call Log from the list of options. The most recent call listed was the one he’d received from Pike shortly after 11 p.m.
Nothing since then. Nada.
/> That was troubling. Had Pike failed to retrieve the art? Or had he . . . ?
Blake leaned forward and hit the power button on his laptop.
Three hours ago, Pike’s tracker had been where it was supposed to be. At the wine bar where he’d arranged to meet with Duarte.
The screen came to life, showing the secure website he was using to track Pike’s movements.
Blake peered at the screen. The green circle showing Pike’s location was outside the wine bar now, not within it. And it wasn’t blinking. There were only two explanations for that, one of which could be ruled out immediately. The battery on the tracker was near full charge.
The only other explanation for an unblinking green circle, according to the product manual, was that the subject was motionless.
The agent considered. Pike had been drunk when he’d last called. Had he downed a few more beers and passed out near the bar?
With the art? Or without?
Either option was distasteful. He ought to have known Pike would mess the whole operation up. What had he been thinking?
You weren’t thinking, Markham, that’s the problem. Over twenty years later, and he could still hear the rants of his fuming scoutmaster. What a disastrous camp trip that had been.
But Blake was damned if he was going to let the situation get out of hand this time. He was an FBI agent, not a kid. And he had resources.
Clenching his lips together, he hit Contacts on his phone and scrolled down to the number on Pike’s tracker.
No answer.
He glanced at his laptop. The flashing gray button on the sidebar indicated the call had gone through. Why wasn’t Pike picking up?
Chapter Nine
The wheels of the Pilot squealed as Celine reversed out of the gravel parking area in front of her cottage and onto the driveway. She glanced at the clock as she shifted the gear into Drive.
2:20 a.m.
What was Dirck still doing at the Delft?
The gate out of the Estate was unlocked, one leaf still open. It was confirmation of what Sister Mary Catherine—and her own fleeting search of the Estate grounds—had already told her. Dirck hadn’t returned.
The Pilot drove out and swung left in a single smooth curve. 2:21 a.m. She’d be there in ten minutes. She punched the gas. The streets would be empty at this hour.
Downtown Paso Robles was eerily quiet. She turned onto Pine Street and then into the alley. Dirck’s van was still parked in its spot, the only vehicle in the parking lot. Celine pulled in beside it and stopped the engine.
Her skin prickled—tiny pinpricks of unease on the back of her neck and down her arms. Something wasn’t right.
She surveyed her surroundings. The back door to the bar was firmly closed. The buildings overlooking the alley behind her showed no signs of life.
It was quiet.
So quiet, Celine would have expected Dirck to hear her pulling into the parking lot. If he was still awake—and well. But she’d seen him clutching his heart only minutes ago in her dream.
She grabbed her leather tote with his prescription, jumped out of the car, and pushed against the back door.
It remained closed. She looked at it, puzzled. Was it stuck?
She thrust her body against it, hard. It didn’t yield an inch.
She pushed again, harder this time. Nothing.
The door was locked.
Dirck had locked the back door to the bar. Why?
Celine’s skin prickled again. Clutching her tote, she walked out of the parking lot, into the alley, and turned left.
A narrow walkway separated the café next door from the Delft. It was the quickest way to the front door on 13th Street. She walked carefully, alert for any suspicious sounds or activity.
She’d just emerged onto 13th Street when she stumbled, the sensation of a hard, round object penetrating the leather soles of her shoes.
Celine stepped back and looked down. It looked like a watch of some kind. Probably a customer’s. She bent down, picked it up, and dropped it into her purse. It could go into the Lost-and-Found basket once she’d made sure everything was all right with Dirck.
Her head pivoted left, then her eyes widened and her form went rigid. The Delft’s front door was ajar. A dim light filtered through the crack.
That didn’t make sense. Why would Dirck lock the back door only to keep the front door ajar? The bar was air-conditioned. Neither door was ever kept open. And when one of them was in the bar after-hours, only the front door was ever locked.
Was Dirck expecting someone? Was someone already in there with him?
Celine’s arms tingled. Her feet felt icy. She took her phone out of her tote and, pulling the bag over her front like a shield, advanced cautiously forward.
For the past fifteen minutes, Special Agent Blake Markham had been pacing the floor of his small living room in Chelsea. He flipped his work phone nervously from one hand to the other, debating the wisdom of calling his supervisor.
But there was no way to spin the current situation without admitting Operation Project Recovery had gone south. At best, Pike was lying in a drunken stupor in a Central Coast city alley.
At worst, he’d taken off his tracker and fled with the finial and whatever else he’d been able to recover from Duarte. This wasn’t a scenario Blake was willing to consider. His stomach tightened as it entered his mind yet again.
He gave his laptop a fleeting glance as he passed by it on his way to the living room window. The green dot indicating Pike’s location showed no signs of life.
Blake stopped at the window and peered through the slats in the blind. Was there any reason for Pike to dishonor his agreement with the FBI?
If he made away with the eagle finial, Pike would be foregoing the one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward the Gardner Museum was awarding for its recovery. Moreover, he’d be turning himself into a felon. He’d be charged with theft and possession of stolen property. And worse.
The black market value of the finial, once it was discovered to be a stolen item, would be no more than seven-to-ten percent of its true value. Even if Pike managed to sell it as just another Napoleon finial—there was more than one of those floating around—Blake doubted he’d get very much more than the reward money the Gardner was offering.
No, there was no logical reason for Pike to welsh on his agreement.
Blake turned pensively from the window. He was about to resume pacing toward the back wall when Pike’s green dot blinked to life. Stunned, he moved closer to his laptop.
Sure enough, Pike was moving. Away from the alley and . . . Then Pike hovered by the street. He’d better not be going back to the bar.
The green dot pulsated. Get on with it, man!
Blake stared at his laptop screen. Pike seemed rooted to his spot.
Then, seconds later, he began moving again—back toward the bar instead of away from it.
But at least the shitstain was moving. Blake’s call, made fifteen minutes ago, must have jogged the bozo into action.
Blake tossed his phone from his left hand to his right. He’d give Pike another fifteen minutes. That would be time enough for the slimeball to get everything he needed and get out of the area.
If he hadn’t called back by then, Blake would check in.
Chapter Ten
“Dirck,” Celine called softly.
Icy barbs of fear suddenly stung her skin, and she leaned back, out of sight, against the wall. It’s just a door, she told herself. Nothing more sinister than an open door.
Dirck must have wanted to let in some fresh air; he was often short of breath.
But the fear persisted, accompanied by the strong sense that she was about to encounter something menacing.
Still holding herself against the rough, stucco surface, she tilted her head cautiously out to peer into the interior of the Delft.
“Dirck,” she called again. “Are you there?”
She stepped forward.
Dirck was obviously not in
the main area of the bar open to the public. As far as Celine could tell there were no lights switched on here.
The soft glow that illuminated the floor and spilled out onto the front step was coming from a powerful light switched on somewhere beyond.
Celine clutched her bag and edged herself into the crack left by the open front door and entered the bar.
“Dirck!” she called a little louder. The kitchen door on the left was closed and deep in the shadows. But the wall panel that led to the concealed room on the right had been slid open.
She glanced over her shoulder at the open front door. A curious odor filled her nostrils—burnt, smoky. Someone other than Dirck was here—or had been until quite recently. She was sure of it.
Celine took several deep sniffs of the air around her. Along with the cool night breeze curling around the doorway, she detected the acrid smell of burning cigarettes. It was dissipating thanks to the gusts of fresh air blowing in, but the heavy odor of cigarette smoke still lingered.
Dirck didn’t smoke. Whom had he brought in here?
Celine turned to look at the wall panel. The concealed room was a space so private, she’d been the only employee Dirck and John had trusted to go in there. No one else even knew of its existence.
She walked toward it.
“Dirck, it’s Celine. I forgot your pills. I—”
At first she thought Dirck was asleep. On the carpet in the middle of the room that he’d always kept hidden. His legs spread in a misshapen heap on the left, his head and neck twisted to the right. His arms resting loosely on the carpet, hands bunched into fists.
Then she noticed the Lady sitting at his feet. The Lady looked up at Celine, her features sorrowful. The smell of cigarette smoke was even stronger here.
Celine’s gaze shifted to Dirck. Circular burn marks dotted his face just as they had in her dream. Dirck’s features were contorted into a painful grimace. A slender gash scored the skin around his neck, branded into his sunburned flesh like a thin red band.
