Impostor's Lure

by Carla Neggers

  “Mmm.” Oliver’s green eyes were alert, no sign of fatigue. “She’s in touch with...well, whomever. She doesn’t tell me and I don’t ask.”

  Colin didn’t need to follow up. Oliver and Henrietta’s relationship with each other and with MI5 was for them to sort out.

  “Why did my grandfather go to Declan’s Cross?” Emma asked.

  Oliver’s chin went up. “I wasn’t aware he had.”

  They chatted another minute, but Oliver was clearly fading, given the late hour. “Give my best to Henrietta,” Emma told him. “Will you help her with the deadheading?”

  “I did a couple of weeks ago and deadheaded the wrong flowers.”

  “You’re only supposed to snip wilted and dead blossoms.”

  He smiled. “Now you tell me. Good night. My best to Father Bracken and your families.”

  After they disconnected, Emma snuggled close to Colin. He slipped his arm around her, wanting nothing more than to carry her upstairs. “Think Oliver knows why Wendell is in Declan’s Cross?”

  She shook her head. “No, he seemed genuinely surprised.”

  “Oliver doesn’t like surprises. He likes adventure, risk and high stakes but on his terms, under his control.”

  “He needed control as a boy and a young man. With maturity you realize you aren’t in control—you learn to differentiate between what you can control, what you can influence, what you just have to deal with as it comes.” She was silent a moment. The wind kicked up, the shades rattling. The kitchen smelled of baking blueberry pie. “Coming face-to-face with his parents’ killers and falling in love with Henrietta were two major surprises Oliver’s had to manage this summer.”

  “Do you think he fell in love with her or just realized he’d been in love with her for years?”

  “A little of both, maybe.”

  “Sometimes you can fall hard and fast and it’s right. You know it’s right, in your gut.” He kissed her, aching for more. “It’s forever.”

  “That’s us.”

  “Yes, it is. How long before that pie’s out of the oven?”

  * * *

  He carried her upstairs. It was their thing. Emma relished every step. He laid her on the bed. She held him tight, this man of hers—this one and only husband. “Today was a tough day, but I’m glad we’re here together.”

  “I am, too.”

  Their clothes went. The house wasn’t air-conditioned, and she’d opened the windows while he walked back from Hurley’s. The breeze chilled her after the heat of the past few days, and her pie-baking. But Colin’s palms smoothing over her bare skin, his long, tender kiss, soon warmed her. He tasted of the salt air, and as he made love to her, and she to him, the troubles of the day fell away. Feeling him inside her, pulling him deeper, she let herself stop thinking and worrying. She coursed her hands up his strong arms and curved them over his shoulders, down his sides...and he rolled over with her, onto his back. He drew her down to him, and she was done, gave herself up to every sensation pouring through her.

  Afterward, she did freeze. The wind had stiffened with the cold front and gusted through the screen, curtains billowing. She shivered, snuggling closer to Colin. “Hot then cold, cold then hot.” She smiled, his arm coming around her. “I like it.”

  “Summer in Maine.”

  She placed a hand on his chest. “I’m worried about Tamara McDermott.”

  “Yeah. The search is on. The Maine state and local police and the Boston FBI field office are on it.” He paused. “Sam.”

  “He could be his own one-man unit.”

  “I wonder if Yank wishes Tamara had never invited him to dinner.”

  Another gust of wind had Emma pulling a lightweight blanket over them. “He and Lucy are friends with both Tamara and her husband. It can be tricky when friends divorce.”

  “Takes adjusting.”

  “Yank and Lucy obviously care about Adalyn.”

  “Adalyn has mother issues,” Colin said. “I don’t. My mother and I worked everything out when I was twelve. She didn’t tell me what to do and I stayed out of jail.”

  “You’re probably not joking.” With the wind quieting, Emma drew the blanket down a bit. “My mother and I do well together. We’re not as close as we might have been without my father’s fall, my flirtation with convent life. Also, she can draw. I can’t.”

  “We’re damn lucky with the families we have.”

  “We are.”

  Colin shoved the blanket down past his hips. “Do you hear bats?”

  Emma laughed, half on top of him now. “No, I do not hear bats.”

  “I had an ulterior motive for saying that.”

  “I know you did.” She eased on top of him. “You’re changing the subject, and you know I kind of like bats.”

  “And I don’t.”

  “But you don’t need me to protect you from them.”

  “Not when they’re outside. Inside...” He kicked off the blanket. “Inside, they’re all yours.”

  “Now, though...”

  They had each other, and when the wind gusted again, so hard this time it blew papers off the dresser, she wasn’t cold at all. She was where she wanted to be, with this man she loved—and who, she knew, loved her. Whatever happened tomorrow, that wasn’t going to change.

  15

  “What do you want with me?”

  Tamara hated the fear in her voice. She refused to accept it. If nothing else, she wouldn’t give her captor the satisfaction. Unless it helped her situation. Then she’d damn well grovel if it made a difference and got her out of here.

  No response.

  Maybe she hadn’t heard actual footsteps on the stairs. The wind could have caused moans and creaks of pipes and other cellar things—water heater, pump, washer, dryer, freezer.

  Vermin. There had to be mice down here.

  Tamara sat cross-legged on the smelly yoga mat. Her head was spinning in rhythmic waves. Fear? High blood pressure, given the terror and uncertainty of her position? The aftereffects of whatever drugs she’d been given? She kept trying to piece together anything she could remember since she’d been grabbed, in hopes something might help her escape. She’d managed to sleep some. She wanted to be ready for any opening to make her escape. She didn’t care about beating her captor to death or discovering who it was. Just get out of here.

  She’d left a dim light on above the sink during the night. She’d eaten a protein bar. Drunk the water in the bottle. Refilled it. Balled up the blanket so her dried barf wasn’t visible and didn’t smell as much. Cleaned up as much as she could without proper toiletries.

  Not the Hilton...

  Milky light penetrated the thick plastic over the window, presumably from the moon and stars rather than a streetlight or another building. She’d stood on the toilet before it got dark, but the plastic was too opaque and dirty for her to see outside. She had no idea where she was or if anyone would come back for her.

  She shut her eyes. The spinning eased. She constantly fought claustrophobia. She wished she’d paid more attention in her anti-kidnapping, what-to-do-if-you’re-snatched-by-some-crazy-SOB training, but some of it had stuck—or maybe it was just reptilian instinct at work.

  She heard footsteps again.

  She opened her eyes. Yes, footsteps. No question now...

  They were on stairs on the other side of the door, nearby.

  Wood stairs.

  Why can I not remember stairs?

  Were the stairs the only way out of the cellar? Was there a bulkhead? Was anyone else in the building—house, business, whatever it was?

  What about weapons? A loaded shotgun tucked in a cellar closet would be nice. Tools on hooks. What she wouldn’t give for a good crowbar right now. She’d grown up with two older brothers and a macho father who’d all considered crowbars, hammers,
saws, drills and such their domain, but she’d learned a few things. She’d been her dad’s “little helper.” She smiled, thinking of him.

  Law school, Tamara? I thought you wanted to be a teacher.

  I could teach at a law school one day.

  Whatever makes you happy. You’ll make a fine lawyer.

  He’d been a state police officer in upstate New York. He’d never had much use for lawyers, but he’d liked that she’d become a prosecutor. He’d died when Adalyn was seven. Tamara blinked back tears. “Oh, Dad. I hope you’re watching over me now.” Her whisper was hoarse, tight with the fear she hated. “Take care of Adalyn. Let me shoulder whatever she’s got herself into.”

  Tamara didn’t see how anyone could have followed her to Graham Blackwood’s rental house, and it was unlikely if possible she’d happened upon a stray thug or drug dealer or had been followed by someone related to her work. More likely, her kidnapping involved Graham Blackwood and his reasons for wanting to speak with her.

  The footsteps stopped. She focused on her posture on the mat as a way to cope with her fear. She had to stay present. She did her yoga breathing. Deep enough but not too deep. She didn’t want to hyperventilate or get nauseated by the odors in the bathroom. Barf and old pee, dank wood, musty wallboard—she figured there had to be nasty mold in the walls.

  She heard a shuffling on the concrete floor outside the shut bathroom door.

  “Why were you meeting with Verity Blackwood?”

  Tamara stayed very still. The voice was male, not male. Female, not female. Deliberately so, perhaps. She licked her lips and pushed back the fear with the same skill and determination she’d used countless times in difficult witness and suspect interviews, before judges, bosses and congressional committees.

  The footsteps stopped. Was her captor on the other side of the door?

  That close?

  She swore she heard breathing through the wood door.

  “Why, Tamara?”

  Patient, insistent. She licked her lips again. The cuts didn’t sting as much as they had at first. “I didn’t meet with Mrs. Blackwood.”

  “You were going to, before her flight back to London on Saturday. What happened?”

  She considered her response. “Can you let me out of here and let’s talk, clear up any questions you have?”

  “Why didn’t you meet with Verity?”

  “I didn’t get a good explanation.” Tamara placed a hand on the door frame for balance as she stood, aching with muscle strains and bruises she hadn’t noticed until now, probably because of what she’d been injected with. “Verity’s husband met me instead. We only talked for half a minute at most.”

  “About Adalyn?”

  She shut her eyes, willing herself not to panic—not to pound her fist on the door in anger.

  Her captor knew her daughter’s name.

  She’d warned herself to expect as much, but she’d hoped she was wrong and this mess she was in turned out to involve only her job after all, not Adalyn.

  “You’re not Graham Blackwood, are you?”

  Silence.

  “Where am I? Maine? Boston?”

  Again no response.

  “Graham told me his wife—Verity—was on her way through security to the gate for their flight. Did he return to London with her after all? He planned to stay.” She waited, but again got no response. “Are you still here? Who are you?”

  “Was Graham upset with Verity for wanting to speak with you?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. Look, why don’t we—”

  “Are you worried about your daughter?”

  Tamara heard herself gasp. More tears rose in her eyes. She placed a palm on the door and leaned forward, without putting her forehead on the cheap wood. “A mother always worries.”

  A snort on the other side of the door. No hint of empathy whatsoever. She eyed the fake brass doorknob. What if she turned it? Would her captor start thinking of her as a normal person trapped in a bathroom? How could she humanize herself? She reached for the knob but didn’t touch it. A fresh surge of adrenaline made her wobbly on her feet, shaky, as if she had low blood sugar.

  She stood straight too abruptly, and her left shoulder rebelled. She moaned in pain but squelched any verbal indication she was vulnerable. No swearing, no cursing, no frantic pleas.

  She sank onto the toilet. She’d lowered the lid when she’d tried to see out the window.

  Her captor rapped on the door, impatient. “What did Adalyn tell you about the Blackwoods?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not true, though, is it?”

  “I know about Stefan Petrescu. Did you kill him?”

  No response. Tamara had taken it as a good sign her captor had gone to lengths to keep his or her identity from her. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it hadn’t taken any effort once she’d been subdued with drugs. Maybe her captor needed her alive only for now.

  Why?

  For information? As a hostage? To lure someone to this place?

  Then kill her when she was no longer of use.

  “You stuck me with something,” she said. “Did you drug me? Is that why I passed out?”

  She stood and turned on the faucet at the sink. Her captor would hear the running water. She didn’t care. She was parched. With her right hand, she cupped water and drank as much as she could. “I have a bad shoulder.” She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. She looked terrible. Haggard, older than her years, but at least she’d sounded calm. She turned from the mirror. It was just two steps to the door. Whoever was on the other side would hear her just fine. “I can’t hurt you. People will be looking for me soon if they aren’t already. Let’s resolve this now.”

  Footsteps.

  Quick, firm on the concrete floor, with none of the tentativeness she’d perceived earlier.

  Then on the stairs. Faster now. Taking the stairs two at a time, maybe.

  A door shut hard.

  Tamara turned on the faucet again and splashed her face with cold water.

  Was her kidnapping a repeat of a previous kidnapping? How had that one turned out?

  Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  She returned to her mat and opened the remains of her protein bar. She needed to keep her energy up, bide her time and make her move at the first opportunity. If she had to kill her captor to get out of here and protect her daughter, she would. She’d be ready.

  16

  Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England

  Ruthie Burns, Oliver’s longtime housekeeper, arrived early to set him up on the terrace with tea, poached eggs, grilled tomatoes from the garden, a rack of toast and a pot of marmalade she’d made herself. She also provided heaps of butter. “My doctor says butter is back,” she told him.

  “I won’t resist, then.”

  She smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. She was a sturdy woman in her late fifties—maybe her early sixties? Oliver knew he should pay more attention to such things. She had an adult son who worked on the farm, who’d been but a boy himself when Oliver’s parents had been killed in London. Charles and Deborah York had been beloved in the Cotswolds village where they’d grown up, his father here on the farm, his mother a few miles away. Until recently, Oliver hadn’t realized how much their deaths had affected their friends and neighbors, particularly the children, among them young Henrietta Balfour. She hadn’t been raised in the village. When she was a child, her parents would drop her off with her great-aunt while they went gallivanting, telling themselves she’d be bored in Paris or Rome or San Francisco—wherever they were off to next. Truth was, they hadn’t wanted to be burdened with a child, have to take into account what Henrietta might enjoy at six or ten or fifteen.

  Regardless, Oliver realized he’d been a self-absorbed sod, no matter how broken he’d bee
n, how justified he’d been in choosing his solitary ways. People understood. Henrietta insisted they did. That didn’t make it right.

  He didn’t know why, precisely, but he was less concerned about his years of occasional thieving around the world than he was about his bad form over the years with the villagers. He could make right his criminal past, if not by serving a sentence behind bars. Risking his life, exposing himself to dangerous people, providing information to the intelligence services to save innocent people from attack—if not atonement for his misdeeds, he hoped it made a difference.

  He’d returned the art, too.

  A perilous undertaking that had been, with Wendell Sharpe and his FBI granddaughter and future son-in-law breathing down his neck.

  Jurisdictional considerations helped him elude prosecution, but there was also the matter of the paucity of evidence incriminating him. Law enforcement in the various cities where he’d done his less-than-honorable work had little to go on. Emma and Wendell could probably cobble together a credible case against him and share their findings, but they’d need the cooperation of British authorities—and that they wouldn’t get. MI5 had Oliver at their beck and call. How much Henrietta knew about his intelligence work was beyond his grasp, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it were everything.

  He dug into his breakfast to the sweet sounds and smells of summer, at least until Alfred barreled onto the terrace.

  Martin Hambly followed far too many paces behind the wire-fox terrier, who was still a puppy. “He’s delighted to see you, Oliver.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Pet him. Reassure him you’re a part of his life.”

  “Am I a part of his life? You’re still trying to make me the alpha dog, Martin, and I’m not. You are. I’m like a frequently absent uncle.”

  It was an ongoing argument, but Oliver did feel a surge of pleasure at seeing the pup on the bright, fragrant summer morning. His grandparents had always had dogs, but he’d never pined for one for himself, much to their consternation and bafflement. He’d loved their dogs in his own way, but he hadn’t wanted a helpless puppy to get attached to him. He’d inevitably prove a disappointment. He’d thought much the same about Henrietta, but only got into a muddle when he tried to explain. She wasn’t a puppy. He knew that.