Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

  There was nothing he could say.

  After a while, she pulled out of his arms and sat upright. “I guess I should make everybody some breakfast.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Tony said. “You have enough to cope with.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s something I can do. You and Larry have been here all night. I want to feel useful somehow. I’m going to do it.”

  Tony stood up with her. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks for the shoulder. You have no idea how much I needed it.”

  “Any time.” Tony watched her disappear back into the kitchen, then went back into the living room where he and Larry had been sleeping.

  Larry was sitting up now. “You’re getting a little too close to this case, don’t you think, Tony?”

  Tony shot him a disbelieving look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, man. You’re here to help find her child, not fall in love with her.”

  “Fall in love?” He almost laughed. “She was upset, and I tried to comfort her.”

  “Be careful. That can become a habit.”

  “Yeah, well, you ought to know.” He raked a hand through his rumpled hair and wished for a shower.

  “I’m serious, Tony. The woman’s really vulnerable right now. She’s going through a lot. You need to keep your distance.”

  Tony turned back around and glared at his partner. “That’s just hilarious coming from you, Larry. In fact, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  Larry grinned. It was no secret that he had married a woman whose case he’d worked on. It was also no secret that he’d never been happier in his life. “Look, I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking that I was telling you the same thing just a few months ago. ‘You’re getting too involved. You’re not being objective.’”

  “I was the exception,” Larry said with a grin. “But this is different.”

  “No, it’s not different,” Tony said. “But don’t worry. I’m not gonna get hurt.”

  “Get hurt?” Larry asked. “Mr. Confirmed Bachelor? I’m not worried about you getting hurt!”

  Tony gaped at him. “Her? You think I’ll hurt her? What kind of lowlife do you think I am?”

  “A noncommittal lowlife,” Larry said matter-of-factly, though a twinkle of humor shone in his eye.

  “Thanks a lot, pal.”

  Larry pulled on his shoes and got up, stretching. “Speaking of commitment, I think I’ll go call my bride.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” Tony sat down and watched his friend go out of the room. And some part of him resented that Larry had been so lucky. Tony hadn’t realized he was lonely until he’d seen how happy Larry’s marriage had made him. More and more lately, he had wondered if the bachelor life really had all that much to recommend it.

  On the other hand, seeing the tangled web of this family reminded him that marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The storm raged on, tormenting those who waited. It had been two hours since the short appearance they’d all made on the news, in which they had pled for the return of their children. In her despair, Sharon had offered a $25,000 reward for information leading to their return. But still, they hadn’t heard a word.

  Now Sharon wandered in and out of rooms like a phantom, racking her brain for some idea that would get her child back. In her mind, her prayer for Christy and Emily’s safety played like a chant, repeating itself in the same cadence over and over. She wondered whether God was even hearing it.

  She stepped out onto the porch and looked up through the screen to the cloudy, angry sky. Under this same sky the children were hidden. God knew where they were, and he was the only one she could trust to keep them safe. Tears came to her eyes as she looked up to plead with him, but a voice behind her startled her.

  “I thought we’d have them back by now.”

  She swung around and saw Ben sitting on a bench leaned back against the wall of the house. His voice was hoarse, and she could see that he’d been crying. For a moment, she thought of going back into the house, but the brief connection seemed more important. Besides Anne, Ben was the only person in the world who knew exactly how she felt.

  Quietly, she turned back around and looked up at the sky.

  “I never thought we’d come to this,” he said. “In my worst nightmares, I wouldn’t have believed . . .”

  Sharon didn’t look at him. A million thoughts fled through her mind, thoughts of how he’d brought it on them somehow, how he was being punished for all the cruelty he’d inflicted on her and their children, and that the kidnapped children were just caught in God’s crossfire. But some part of her knew that wasn’t true.

  “Despite what you might think, Sharon,” he went on, his voice raspy and heavy with emotion, “and despite how cruel I was, I never meant to hurt any of you.”

  If he’d said that two days ago, she would have laughed sarcastically, then reminded him of all the little instances in which his hurting had seemed deliberate. But the fight had left her now, and all that remained was a dull numbness.

  “I thought I’d forgiven you,” she whispered. “At church, I even bragged about it. Lectured to other divorced women about letting go and praying for their exes. I told them that God loved their ex-husbands as much as he loved them. Even when I invited you to move in, part of me was patting myself on the back, thinking how everyone would see how I lived out my faith. What it looked like to truly forgive. I had it all worked out. I thought I’d even gotten some peace about it. But I didn’t know what a farce it all was.”

  A long note of silence stretched between them as the cool wind whipped around the house, whispering through the leaves.

  “I can’t undo what I’ve done, Sharon,” he said from his dark corner of the porch. “This whole week, it’s been like my life has passed before my eyes. But it’s done.”

  “That’s right,” Sharon said. “And none of it really even matters right now. I just want my baby back.”

  She turned and looked at him now, and saw that his eyes were closed as he struggled to control his emotions. “I guess it would make this a little easier if I thought you and I weren’t enemies,” he said.

  “How could we be enemies, Ben? You’re in my house. You’re the father of my children.”

  “Neither of those things qualifies for friendship.”

  “Oh, is that it?” she asked, her sarcasm returning. “You want to be friends?”

  “It’d be nice,” he said. “We have a lot in common, you know. We both love our children. And we used to love each other.”

  She turned away again. “Love dies, Ben. You ought to know that more than anyone.”

  Before he could answer, Sharon went back into the house and left him alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Look, Emily. Light!” Christy clawed at the dirt, ignoring the bloody blisters on her fingers. “We reached the other side!”

  “Can we get out now?” Emily asked.

  “No. We have to dig the hole bigger! Help me!”

  The two girls dug faster, the skin on their fingers raw and bloody and caked with the dirt through which they would escape. More light filled the small shed, giving them hope as the hole got bigger and the pile of dirt next to it piled higher.

  “I think it’s big enough,” Emily said. “I can slide out.”

  “No, you’ll get stuck. It has to be bigger!”

  On their knees, they both pulled and clawed at the dirt, getting closer, closer, to the point at which they could slide under the wall and embrace their freedom.

  Then they heard the car.

  “He’s coming!” Christy cried. “He’ll see the hole!”

  “I’m going now!” Emily fell down on her stomach and started to crawl into the hole.

  “He’ll see you!”

  “But I’ll get away,” she said. “Come on. Hurry!”

  Th
ey heard his car door close, and Christy hoped he had parked on the other side of the building. His footsteps in the gravel were growing closer. He was coming around the side to the door, and probably wouldn’t see Emily escaping. “Go! Hurry!” she whispered.

  Emily burrowed through the hole, then up on the other side, and turned back to help Christy.

  Christy went head first into the hole, slithering under the wall, but as she tried to come up on the other side, she heard the door open.

  “You brats!” the man thundered. Suddenly she felt a hand grab her feet, and she was jerked backward.

  “Run, Emily!” Christy screamed. “Run!” She watched as the terrified five-year-old took off into the woods, screaming in fear.

  Christy fought with all her might not to be pulled back into the shed, but he yanked her up, bruising and scraping her back on the bottom of the wall as he got her back inside.

  She tried to fight him as he lifted her, but he was too strong. Cursing, he held her sideways with an arm around her middle and bolted out of the building. The car parked outside was different from the one he’d taken them in, and he opened his trunk and threw her in, then slammed it shut, encompassing her in darkness once again.

  Terrified, she hunkered in a little ball and covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle her sobs for fear he would hurt her if she made too much noise.

  And then she began to pray, as hard and as fast and as deeply as she’d ever prayed in her life.

  Emily had to get away. It was their only hope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It took only a few phone calls to confirm that the original Marazzio had never been recovered. Dubose had lied.

  Larry sat over Dubose’s telephone records, which he had finally managed to get from the phone company, and compared them to the names on Dubose’s desk calendar. “This one guy keeps coming up,” he mumbled, thinking out loud, “Eric Boudreaux. The page torn off of the desk calendar was for the day after Dubose died. From the impression on the next page, I can read the words ‘Eric Boudreaux, 2:00.’ The phone records show a call from Boudreaux in France the day before the murder.” He looked up at Tony, who was studying some documents they’d brought from the gallery. “Have you got anything on him yet?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, looking up and resting his chin wearily on the heel of his hand. He shuffled some papers around and checked his notes. “He’s a museum curator in France. Nothing unusual came up. No prior arrests.”

  “Do you think Dubose was planning a telephone meeting, or was he going to meet him in person?”

  Tony picked up the phone. “I’ll call and ask.”

  He got the long-distance operator, placed the call, and waited. After several rings, a woman answered in French.

  “Eric Boudreaux, please,” Tony said.

  She returned something in French that he couldn’t understand, and he closed his eyes. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”

  “A little,” she said in a heavy accent. “Uh . . . Monsieur Boudreaux is . . . not here . . . in town . . .”

  “He’s out of town? Where?”

  “Les Estats Unis. Florida.”

  Tony’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked up at Larry. “Do you happen to know what town?”

  “Non, Monsieur. I could have him . . . phone back? Yes?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thank you very much.” He hung up the phone and looked up at Larry. “Ten to one our boy is in St. Clair as we speak.”

  “Then you think the appointment was face-to-face?”

  “Maybe he moved it up a little,” Tony suggested.

  Larry thought that over for a moment. “I’d say we need to talk to him.”

  “Without delay,” Tony agreed, getting up. “Call for someone to relieve us while we pay him a visit, and I’ll start calling the hotels until I locate him.” He picked up the phone and started dialing. “Oh, and ask Ben if he knows anything about this guy. He might know something we don’t know. And hurry.”

  Larry rushed into the kitchen, where Sharon and Ben sat stone-faced and silent over coffee that was turning cold.

  “Eric Boudreaux,” Larry said, leaning both hands on the table and leaning over it. “What do you know about him?”

  Ben shrugged. “He’s a well-known art dealer.”

  “Well-known how?”

  “He makes some pretty amazing buys.” He sat up straighter as something occurred to him. “A few years ago he found one of the lost Monets.”

  Larry tried to sort out what that might mean. “Where did he find it?”

  “He claimed he bought it at an estate auction. That some deceased person had it, and no one knew how he’d gotten it. No one had realized it was an authentic Monet, one of the missing ones. He knew it immediately and seized the moment.”

  Larry went to the phone and dialed the number of the precinct. While he waited, he asked, “Did anyone ever check out that story? Confirm where he’d found it?”

  “What do you mean?” Ben asked.

  “I mean, to make sure he hadn’t stolen it himself, or bought stolen goods, or that sort of thing?”

  Ben breathed a laugh. “Actually, there was so much hoopla about finding the painting that I don’t think too many people were concerned about how he’d found it. Art theft is big business, and it’s rarely prosecuted, even when the people are caught. The discovery of a stolen Monet is a very big deal.”

  Larry turned away long enough to ask for relief officers, then hung up and turned back. He began to pace, trying to figure this out. “Okay, let’s just pretend. Let’s say that Dubose had some important original. And let’s say that he had made contact with this Boudreaux guy to sell it. How much did the book say the original lost Marazzio would sell for?”

  “Probably around twenty million.”

  Larry whistled.

  Sharon got up, interested now. “You think this Boudreaux person is the killer? The one who has Christy and Emily?”

  “No, now wait. It’s a hunch. A possibility.”

  “But why would he kill Dubose for the painting? Why not just buy it from him?”

  “Maybe the profit margin was higher if he did away with the middle man.”

  Ben thought that over for a long time, silently trying to work it all out in his mind. “So you think Eric Boudreaux is the one?”

  “I hope so, man.” He saw the squad car pull into the driveway, and Tony came into the kitchen.

  “He’s at the Biltmore. Let’s go.”

  “I’m coming with you!” Sharon said, heading out the door.

  Tony lassoed her with an arm and pulled her back in. “Oh, no, you don’t. Let us do our work, Sharon.”

  “But the children could be there with him!”

  “We’ll call you immediately if anything breaks,” he said gently. “Just trust us.”

  Reluctantly, she went back in. “Please. Call us if you find out anything!”

  “I promise,” Tony said, and they headed for their car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Emily heard his footsteps coming closer. Breathless, she kept running. She wove through trees and bushes, leapt over logs, tore through briars and thorns.

  She cried as she ran, and kept looking back over her shoulder. She couldn’t see him yet, which meant that he couldn’t see her. Soon she would be to that grandma’s house she and Christy had talked about, and she could go in and call the police, and they would come and get them so they could go home.

  But the house never came into sight, only deeper, thicker woods, a forest prison that frightened Emily the farther she ran. But what came behind her frightened her more. She could hear his heavy breathing, his feet hitting the ground with weight and speed . . .

  She looked back and still couldn’t see him, but she could hear him getting closer. She kept running, slipping under branches and tangled vines.

  Then she stopped.

  She stood at the edge of a gully, looking down into the stream bubbling by. Would the stream be too de
ep for her if she slid down into it? No, she couldn’t do that—there was no place to hide down in the gully. He would see her, slide after her, and catch her.

  Panicked, she turned around and searched for a hiding place. There was a tree with low branches beside the ravine. Without thinking, she began to climb it. She climbed from one big branch to the next, knocking away smaller branches and vines entangling it, climbing higher and higher, where the man would never think to look.

  Certain she was hidden by the leaves beneath her and the vines webbing through the tree, she found a sturdy branch and sat still, holding her breath.

  Within seconds, the man was beneath her, searching. She saw him reach the edge of the gully and almost fall down, but he caught himself. He stood still for a minute, looking up and down the gully, but then turned back around.

  She shrank into a tighter ball as he looked up into the trees. His eyes passed over where she sat, and she breathed a sigh of relief that he had not seen her.

  Slowly, he walked back through the trees and brush the way he had come, and she watched until he was out of sight.

  She thought she was safe—until she looked down at the branches she had climbed to get there, and didn’t know if she’d ever have the nerve to go back down. Would she have to stay here, in this scary tree, even when it got dark? What if no one found her?

  And where was Christy? She started to cry again. She had heard Christy scream for her to run, and she had, but then she hadn’t heard anything more from her sister. What if the man had caught her? What if he had hurt her?

  She put her filthy, bloody thumb into her mouth, then quickly spat it out. Wiping a smear of dirt and blood on her shirt, she tried again. The dirty thumb gave her some comfort, but only enough to make her cry harder.

  Daddy would find her somehow, she told herself. This was harder than hide-and-seek, but it was more important. He had to rescue them both. He had to.

  Hurry, Daddy. Hurry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  There was no answer at the door to the room at the Biltmore where Eric Boudreaux was staying. Larry and Tony knocked again, then looked at the manager who had accompanied them up. “We have a warrant to search his room,” Larry said, flashing the paper they had gotten from a judge on the way to the hotel. “Could you let us in, please?”