Marked for Revenge

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  The security system in his new museum was state of the art. It should be, he grumbled to himself. The video camera installation alone had cost a half a million to install and fine-tune to his specific space, but the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and isolated location made his insurers nervous. There were no neighbors within miles, meaning no one to help keep an eye on the space at night and report suspicious activities. He had a dedicated phone line to the nearest police station installed as well as discreetly placed panic buttons throughout the exhibition halls. He had even hired an on-site caretaker, a retired cop who lived above the café next door, to help appease their minds and lower his monthly insurance premiums. Still, securing this museum was costing him a fortune.

  He was only able to survive thanks to the exorbitant ticket prices and café. Restoring and converting the dilapidated mansion into a café had been a lucrative business decision. Luckily, the newness of such a privately funded institution and the blockbuster exhibitions he was able to arrange brought in busloads of visitors.

  His museum was about to celebrate its first anniversary. There was no way he was going to let those Robber Hood jokers tarnish his reputation and destroy his life’s greatest achievement.

  He wasn’t as worried about his permanent collection being taken. The museum was designed to house several of his extraordinarily large pieces—a maze of rusty red steel by Richard Serra, a pair of sunbathing giants by Ron Mueck, and an upside-down swimming pool by Leandro Erlich. The rooms were custom-built to accommodate their size and highlight their beauty.

  Most of his paintings still hung in his home. He displayed a few in the bimonthly exhibitions, the chosen works best complimenting or engaging with the art his extensive network of collector friends lent him.

  According to the information the police sent in an email to one hundred and fifty museums and galleries spread across the Netherlands, his current exhibition, Ode to Modernists, was the perfect target. He was counting on it to draw in new crowds. It was his museum’s most ambitious exhibition to date, and several friends had done him a personal favor by lending out paintings and sketches by Kandinsky, Chagall, and Picasso—all pieces never before displayed in a public exhibition. It was the smaller sketches that made his stomach lurch. One successful robbery would mean the end of Kronenburg Museum. No one would ever dare lend him their artwork again.

  A fellow museum director had told him about a reputable security-for-hire firm. He requested the two burliest men they had available and was pleased to see they’d taken him seriously. Robber Hood and his gang of thieves had struck sixteen museums in twenty-three days. The police did not have a solid lead to go on and no trail to follow. No one knew how much longer this robbing spree would continue. So far, the thefts had all occurred after hours. It would cost him a pretty penny, but as long as this Robber Hood gang was on the loose, he was prepared to do whatever it took to protect his museum’s collection and reputation.

  He looked across his desk at the two men the security company had sent over. Both were perfect for the job and available to start immediately. Each man held a copy of the police’s email. Cornelius wanted them to know what they were up against. “Your orders are to stop these jokers at any cost.”

  The guards-for-hire raised their eyebrows. The older man asked, “At any cost?”

  “Within the law, of course,” Cornelius said, leaning forward to make eye contact with them both. “We don’t want to turn this into a murder investigation, but you must understand, these thieves, this Robber Hood gang, they are the bane of every decent museum in the Netherlands.” Cornelius paused before adding, “Broken is good.”

  The guards exchanged nervous glances.

  “I will be happy to pay you extra—off the books—for any unpleasantness. Stopping any intruders is of the utmost importance. You will be doing the entire Dutch cultural sector a favor if you intercept and capture them. We all need this problem to go away.”

  30 On the Road to Recovery

  September 13, 2018

  Zelda opened her suitcase, and the scent of coconut oil and body butter wafted out. The smells of the spa immediately brought a smile to her face. Their three glorious nights at the Sanadome, a spa resort in Nijmegen, was pure bliss.

  Now back home, they were both refreshed, reenergized, and more of a couple than ever. Zelda’s wound was healing well, and the stubble around it was already an inch long. Luckily, most of her hair was still intact, meaning she could sweep it over the shaved bit and look normal. She no longer shunned mirrors. Instead, she was happy to see most of the bruising and swelling was gone. Her migraines had subsided to an occasional headache, and the bouts of dizziness were also less intense.

  It had been easy for Zelda to put the intruder, Gabriella, and her head injury out of her mind and revel in Jacob’s undivided attention. She wished his work wasn’t so far away, though she knew he didn’t have much choice at the moment. In an intimate moment, she’d said she’d move to Cologne if he wanted to stay there. Her heart jumped for joy when Jacob told her to let that thought go. His research grant was only for a year, and he wanted to move back to Amsterdam as soon as it ended even if it meant searching for academic work. And, in the meantime, he wanted to find ways to be together more often.

  Zelda was so grateful because she loved Amsterdam. When she was a child, her family moved often, and she never really got attached to any of the places they’d lived. As an adult, Zelda had spent several years traveling the globe but never felt so at home in any city before. For the first time in her life, she wanted to settle down and root herself to one spot. It was a fantastic feeling, knowing where you wanted to be, but during these past few days, she realized she would move anywhere Jacob asked her to because being with him was more important than where they lived. Still, she was glad she didn’t feel forced to choose between him and her new hometown.

  Jacob’s graciousness and the spa environment had also made her talk with Renee de Vries bearable. Zelda knew it was coming, but it was still a shock to receive her call their first night away. Her landlord was indeed raging mad that Renee had sublet the studio to Zelda for a year. He agreed to let Renee stay on only if Zelda vacated the premises by the end of the month. Given the circumstances, Zelda was grateful she had two weeks to look for another place.

  Zelda carried the suitcase into their bedroom and began unpacking its contents. Most of the clothes she threw into a pile on the ground, wanting to get the clothes in the wash before Jacob got back from the grocery store. She was done being the helpless invalid and wanted to do every little thing she could to help out around the house. Jacob had done enough for her these past few days, and it was time to contribute fully again.

  She’d finished unpacking one bag and was about to open the other when a familiar beeping noise drew her attention to her night table. That’s where it is, she thought as she pulled open the drawer. Sure enough, her phone was inside. In their rush to get on the road, she’d forgotten it. When Jacob offered to turn around to fetch it, she’d decided going offline would be better. How refreshing it was to not be constantly distracted by her phone’s beeps and rings. However, it was a necessary evil, she realized when she saw thirty unread messages were vying for her attention. Most were from colleagues, wishing her a speedy recovery. Zelda was certain everything she’d told Esmee about her attack and hospital stay had already been relayed via watercooler conversations to the entire staff.

  Four messages were from unknown numbers. As she read through them, the calm Zelda had found while on vacation disappeared in an instant. All were from Marko, asking about her progress in finding Gabriella, each more urgent and vaguely threatening than the last. It sounded like he expected her to be searching for the artist. The last message of ticktock made her skin crawl. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  Zelda noted each came from a different number. She called the first, but the line was disconnected. She dialed again, only to hear the same grating beeps. The other three were also no long
er in service. Wasn’t he going to borrow a coworker’s phone to call? Why were none in service, she wondered.

  Zelda was convinced Gabriella would have either been found or got in touch with the police while they were at the spa. After all, she’d been missing for thirteen days. If she were kidnapped, someone would have demanded a ransom by now, and the country was too small to just disappear. Oh God, Zelda thought, what if she is dead?

  Zelda turned on her iPad and searched for information about Gabriella but to no avail. She couldn’t find any news indicating that the artist had resurfaced of her own accord nor any reports of her death. She looked again at the text messages on the phone.

  “What have you found out?”

  “Where is Gabriella? I don’t like being ignored.”

  “Do yourself a favor and get in touch. Or have you forgotten what we discussed?”

  The last, “Ticktock,” sent a chill down her spine.

  Zelda’s concern for her friend grew by the second. Did the man who hit her kidnap Gabriella? The police still had no leads to his identity. Gabriella was practically unconscious from her insulin dip. She could not have packed up her bags and artwork in the state she was in. Whoever hit Zelda, must have taken Gabriella and her possessions with them. But why? If they were kidnapping the artist, for whatever reason, why take all of her things? It must have taken them several trips with the elevator to get all of Gabriella’s stuff downstairs. They would have risked getting caught every time they exited her apartment. Or were they just picking her up, and Gabriella went of her own free will? But if that was the case, why did someone feel the need to hit Zelda over the head.

  What if Gabriella left of her own accord? Did her disappearance have anything to do with the Robber Hood thefts, or was there something else going on? A week out of the hospital and Zelda was still having reservations about what she had seen in Gabriella’s apartment. She’d almost convinced herself that her memories of the artist’s studio and her work on the Conversations exhibition had merged in her mind. Was Pollock’s Study Number 5 really hanging on Gabriella’s wall as she’d originally thought? Or was that a strange figment of her imagination, a twisting of memories induced by the concussion?

  Zelda shook her head, immediately regretting the jarring movement. She held her head in her hands and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she saw the contents of the open nightstand drawer, specifically a single key—the key to Gabriella’s apartment. Zelda had forgotten all about it. Jacob had been mad at her for exchanging keys with their new neighbor the first week they moved in. He wanted to wait and see if she was trustworthy enough and assumed she only wanted to swap so she could steal from them. But after Zelda realized the artist stored stacks of her artwork in her living room, paintings worth ten to fifty thousand euros a pop, Zelda was convinced Gabriella wasn’t planning to rob them.

  She picked up the key, wondering if it was worth going next door and looking for clues to Gabriella’s whereabouts. The police must have picked it over with a fine-tooth comb, she thought, but if she didn’t look, she would never know. Before she could make up her mind, the doorbell rang. She peered through the peephole. It was Marko.

  31 Unexpected Visitor

  September 13, 2018

  Marko felt like a fool standing outside Zelda Richardson’s door. He was convinced the woman knew nothing about Gabriella’s whereabouts or the stolen artwork. If she did, why did she go to the spa for four days instead of skipping town? When Luka told him to exert more pressure on Zelda, he knew better than to say no. His uncle was so keyed up about Gabriella and any copies she may or may not be making, questioning his orders could prove fatal.

  Marko knew Luka had bet everything on this upcoming deal—confident heroin would prove more profitable than art theft and forgeries in the long run. Marko didn’t agree but knew it wasn’t his place to set the parameters. At least, not yet.

  So here he stood, outside Zelda Richardson’s apartment. Not surprising, she didn’t let him inside.

  “What do you want?” she yelled through the closed door.

  “Just checking in to see if you had heard from Gabriella yet. You didn’t respond to my messages.”

  “How would you know? Your telephone numbers are all disconnected.”

  Touché, he thought. He changed phones daily, one of the many things he did to remain as untraceable as possible. “I’ve been moving around a lot. Look, can I come in…”

  “No!”

  Marko snickered. “Okay, well, I can imagine you have a lot of washing to do after a long weekend at the Sanadome,” he called out.

  “Have you been following me?” Zelda yelled back. He could hear the panic in her voice.

  “We just want to find Gabriella, Zelda. Nothing more. Don’t make me do anything we’ll both regret. If you know where she’s at, you need to tell me.”

  “I don’t know where she’s at! No one does! Not even the police.”

  “Hey! What’s going on here?” Jacob was back from the stores, full shopping bags in both hands.

  Marko held up his hands. “Nothing but a misunderstanding. I’ll leave you and Zelda be, for now, Jacob. You let me know if Gabriella surfaces, okay? I’ll be in touch.”

  Jacob puffed up his chest and jabbed a finger toward Marko just as Zelda opened the door.

  “Jacob, please come inside!” she cried before glaring at Marko. “And you, will you leave us alone? I don’t know where Gabriella is. If you keep bothering me, I’ll go to the police.”

  Marko smiled. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Before either Zelda or Jacob could respond, he walked casually past the elevator and down the stairs. Only when he reached the third-floor landing did he sprint down the rest of the staircase and race out of the building.

  32 Faulty Memories

  September 13, 2018

  “What just happened?” Jacob asked, his eyes fixated on the now-empty stairwell.

  “That’s the guy I was telling you about—Marko! I don’t think he’s Gabriella’s friend.”

  “Why is that creep looking for her?”

  “Jacob, I didn’t tell you everything about what happened in Gabriella’s apartment.” His eyes widened so quickly, she added hastily, “Or rather, what I saw. Come inside, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Once they were back on the couch, Jacob wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Okay, what did you see?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy….” She looked up at him sheepishly, but he only hugged her closer.

  “Try me.”

  “I saw Jackson Pollock’s Study Number 5 hanging on her living room wall. It was one of the paintings stolen from the Amstel Modern.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It looked like she was copying it. There was another version on her easel. But I don’t know for certain. I mean, many of her paintings are so loose and colorful, it’s just… that Pollock was one of my favorites. I even made it my desktop’s screen saver. I looked at that thing every day. That’s why I’m convinced it was the same piece.”

  “Darling, you’ve suffered a horrible head injury. Are you sure you didn’t remember it wrong? If you were already concerned about Gabriella and the thefts, maybe your brain transplanted the beloved Pollock piece into her apartment? Didn’t the doctor say that could happen?”

  Zelda nodded. Doctor Maring had mentioned that her memories would be unreliable for a few days if not weeks. But could she have imagined seeing the Pollock in Gabriella’s apartment? It did seem farfetched.

  “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But what if it’s true? That may explain why Marko is trying to find her so he can take the Pollock from her.”

  “Zelda, we have to go to the police.”

  33 Securing Storage Space

  September 13, 2018

  Ivan Novak glanced over the contract in his hand, more stalling for time than out of interest in the rental terms. The storage unit wasn’t his respons
ibility anyway. After what felt like the appropriate amount of time, he flipped to the end and signed the contract, making certain the printed version of his name was legible.

  “Excellent,” said the storage unit’s customer service representative as she grabbed the contract and double-checked that all the appropriate boxes had been checked. This facility outside of Nijmegen was one of the company’s thirty that specialized in art storage. Once she was positive it was complete, she smiled and said, “Now all I need is your passport.”

  Ivan handed it over, smiling widely. “Certainly.”

  The woman looked at it in surprise. “Wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight,” she exclaimed, then blushed at her indiscretion.

  Ivan chuckled. The man in the photo was a lot wider and more muscular than he had ever been.

  “I was diagnosed with leukemia last year.” Though he had taught himself to speak in perfect British English, he allowed his natural Croatian accent to shine through just as Luka Antic did.

  The woman’s eyes widened in shock as her mouth formed a tiny O.