Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

  Anne turned back to the woods, the direction the footsteps led. “She ran in there! She’s still in there! I know it.” She ran into the woods, unstoppable, calling, “Emily! Emily, it’s Mommy! Honey, don’t be afraid. Just tell us where you are!”

  Sharon followed behind her, praying that Christy was with her. But there were no footsteps for Christy.

  Frantic, Anne came to the drop-off and looked down into the gully where a stream of water ran. Had Emily tried to cross it? Had she fallen in?

  She turned back, looking with horror at Sharon. “Where is she? Where is she?”

  She was beginning to tremble from her head to her feet, and Sharon began to cry with her. They weren’t here, and there were only two possibilities. They had either been caught by the kidnapper and taken somewhere else, or they were at the bottom of that gully somewhere, washed downstream.

  “Emily!” Anne screamed. “Emily! WHERE ARE YOU?”

  Feeling the same anguish Anne felt, Sharon stood motionless, fragmenting piece by piece until there was nothing left of her control.

  “They’re not here!” Anne screamed. “Sharon, they’re not here!”

  Sharon took a step toward her and put her arms around the weeping woman. Anne fell against her, heaving with sobs. “If we’d just come earlier. We could have saved them. We could have saved them.”

  Sharon wept, too, clinging to Anne like a sister, knowing that she was the only other woman on the face of the earth who knew exactly how Sharon felt.

  Tony stood back, deeply frustrated that this lead had led nowhere. Yet this picture, of two enemies embracing, touched him in a place that he rarely visited.

  Larry came up behind him and saw the women. When Tony looked up at him, Larry saw that his eyes were moist. Neither of the men wanted to look at the other.

  “He must have rented another car,” Larry said quietly. “I sent the others to check out all the cars that have been rented from other rental car agencies in town. We’re getting the sketch printed up, so they’ll be taking copies with them. Soon enough we’ll know what he’s driving.”

  Tony touched the shoulders of both women to coax them apart. “We’d better get back to Sharon’s. He probably doesn’t know we know who he is, so he’ll be calling soon. Come on, we need to go,” he said.

  Sobbing, they separated and slowly made their way back to the car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Nelson Chamberlain drove the streets of St. Clair, desperately seeking someplace else to hide the children. He couldn’t take them back to the shed, not after they’d escaped from there once. His home was out of the question, since he was supposed to be out of town. He hadn’t gone near his own house since before the murder. He couldn’t take them to his hotel, for there was no way to get them inside without their being seen. Their pictures were posted everywhere, and he had no doubt that the St. Clair police were searching everywhere for them and the kidnapper who had abducted them. He hadn’t even tried to threaten the Robinsons against involving the police—that would have been a fantasy. The police always got involved, whether overtly or covertly. The fact that they’d been camped in Sharon Robinson’s home since the children disappeared was something he could watch and stay on top of.

  But where should he take the children now? He couldn’t leave them in the trunk all day. The fact was, even though he needed them for leverage to make Ben Robinson act, they were really more trouble than they were worth. He had counted on keeping them in the little shed until their father capitulated and handed over the painting, but the little brats had ruined that.

  He saw a pay phone at a convenience store, and inched the car as close as he could so that the cord would reach inside the car. Inserting a quarter, he dialed the phone number of the Biltmore.

  He asked for Boudreaux’s room. When the clerk responded that Boudreaux had checked out, Nelson’s heart crashed. He couldn’t have left! Not without the painting!

  He searched his pockets for the number of Boudreaux’s museum in France, and inserted a fistful of quarters. He thought briefly about using the cellular phone he carried in his briefcase, but quickly thought better of it. If his name did ever come up as a suspect, it wouldn’t do to have records on his cellular phone bill that showed he had made calls to Boudreaux, Ben Robinson, or anyone else that could incriminate him. Especially not when he was still supposed to be in England. No, he’d just have to stick with the pay phones.

  A French woman answered, and he said, “Excuse me. My name is John Lieber, and I’m a friend of Monsieur Boudreaux’s. I was to meet him here in St. Clair, but I’m afraid I missed him. Do you have any word on where he might be?”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” she said. “Monsieur Boudreaux has a message for you. He has moved to Holiday Inn downtown Tampa and is using the name Passons.”

  “Very good, very good,” Nelson said, breathless. “Excellent. I’ll call him right away.”

  He hung up and breathed out a gigantic sigh of relief, inserted some more quarters, and dialed information. He got the number, dialed it, then asked to be connected with Eric Pas-sons’s room.

  He listened through two rings. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Eric, how are you?” It was his most professional business voice, and he knew Eric recognized him immediately.

  “Not well,” the Frenchman said. “Very disappointed.”

  His temples were perspiring, and he pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dabbed at them. “Eric, has something happened?”

  “Oui,” the man said. “Some American phoned my secretary earlier asking where I was. I feared being drawn into this . . . uh . . . investigation. I changed my name and location.”

  “That was wise,” Nelson said. “I’m glad you left the information for me.” He paused. “Look, Eric, I can promise you that I’ll have the painting by tomorrow morning. Surely you can understand how the circumstances of Dubose’s death have complicated things.”

  Eric laughed sardonically. “Complicated things? After all this time, you still do not have the painting?”

  “I know precisely where it is,” Nelson countered, his face reddening. “But I don’t have to tell you how delicate these matters are. I have to be very careful how and when I retrieve it. And then there’s the matter of transporting it.”

  “You understand, do you not, that I have a buyer for it? The longer I make him wait, the less likely he is to buy it. I really must not wait any longer.”

  Nelson sat back hard on his seat. He could hear low, muffled voices in the trunk. The children were singing something. He looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear it.

  “Will you give me until morning, Eric? We both know that the wait will be worth it in the long run.”

  “Not if I am . . . how you say . . . arrested? The picture would be taken from me. And with the murder, and now the kidnapping of Ben Robinson’s children, I must tell you I have grave reservations. Perhaps later, in a year or two, after the suspicions have died down.”

  “In a year or two I can guarantee I’ll have another buyer. One who might even pay more than you’re offering. Your buyer could hide it for a period of time, until he’s comfortable. But unless you act now, someone else will profit from it.”

  That did make the man hesitate. “Very well, Monsieur Lieber. If I wait until morning, and the picture is delivered, I will proceed with our bargain. But if I do not have it by noon, I will be on my way back to LeMans.”

  “You’ll have it by morning.” Nelson cleared his throat and wiped his perspiring face again. “You do understand, now, that there will be some restoration involved? The painting has been rolled up since its theft—”

  “Which often means there are cracks in the paint. I understand that, Monsieur Lieber. My price has allowed for that. But if it is an authentic Marazzio, and you do indeed deliver it to me, I am certain that it can be restored to its previous condition. Now, about this investigation.”

  The singing had stopped, and he heard them t
alking. Didn’t they ever shut up? He revved his engine, hoping the noise would overpower the voices.

  “I am concerned in my mind as to who killed Dubose.” He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “It has occurred to me that you may have been involved.”

  Nelson laughed too loudly. “Me? Why on earth would I be the one?”

  “The money we’ve agreed upon is quite a lot of motive, would you not agree? Perhaps you wished to dispose of Dubose so that the money would not be divided.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Nelson bit out. “This is a clean, painless, harmless deal. People do not murder over art.”

  “Pardon, my friend,” Boudreaux said. “But there have been many murders over the last decades, precisely over art. Money is a powerful motivator.”

  Nelson laughed again. “I assure you that Dubose’s death was as much a surprise to me as it was to anyone. He was a dear friend of mine. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

  “Indeed,” Eric said, not convinced. “My . . . what you say . . . instincts . . . warn me to return to France.”

  “Then your instincts are wrong. This whole endeavor will make you a richer man,” Nelson said. “I’m not a fool, Eric. I’m well aware that you could sell the painting for a third more than what you’re paying me. There are museums in Italy that would sell entire roomfuls of art to raise the funds for this one picture. As for the murder and the kidnapping, I can assure you that they have nothing to do with this transaction. My theory is that Ben Robinson was involved in drug trafficking, and he was probably the real target for the murder—that is, if he didn’t do it himself. Robinson is a very complex, dubious man. Very dishonest. A marvelous painter, and quite a gifted restorer. What he had going on outside of the gallery, I don’t know. But I feel sure it will all come to light very soon. You’ll see. And you’ll be very glad you didn’t miss the opportunity to find the most important piece of lost art this century.”

  “Do you think Robinson has any knowledge of this painting?”

  “No,” Nelson said, as if with certainty. “Not at all. It was very carefully hidden.”

  When he’d finally convinced Boudreaux to wait, he hung up the telephone and rolled his window back up. The children had grown quieter now, and he racked his brain to think of the location of a pay phone where he could call Ben Robinson and let him talk to at least one of the girls. That might remind him of the urgency here. But all of the pay phones were too public, and someone might see the child. Not only that, but one of them might do something unpredictable to call attention to herself. He couldn’t take that chance.

  Once again he thought longingly of his cellular, but it just wasn’t worth the risk. He would wait until dark, and then take one of the children with him to make the call.

  Until then, he had to find some place to put them.

  A thought occurred to him as he drove across the Spanish Trail Bridge, out to the eastern edge of St. Clair, where there were still a few small farms and some old dilapidated buildings that were boarded up. There was one in particular he remembered seeing a couple of days ago on the way to his own property. An old abandoned store. That was just the place, he thought, and headed toward it.

  The car cut off, and Emily clung to Christy in fear. “We’ve stopped, Christy!”

  “Shhh. Just be quiet.”

  They heard his car door slam, and braced themselves. In a moment, they heard keys jangling at the back of the trunk, and suddenly the trunk came open, letting in a harsh flood of light that made them squint.

  The two grimy little girls sat up and looked fearfully at their kidnapper.

  He grabbed them each by one arm and bent down close to their ears. “If either one of you so much as breathes hard while I’m moving you, I’ll throw you off the St. Clair pier into the Gulf and your parents won’t find you until you wash up on shore—after the sharks are through with you.”

  Both children trembled and allowed him to move them out of the car.

  As he herded them from the car toward the dilapidated building, Christy searched frantically, though quietly, for someone who might see them. But there was no one anywhere around.

  He opened the door. This building was much bigger than the last one, and it had a concrete floor. He acted like this was the first time he had been here, and he left the front door open, providing light as he dragged them in.

  “No, not here!” Emily cried. “It might have rats! Please! Not here! I want to go home! I want my daddy!”

  Nelson Chamberlain squatted down in front of her, his big, threatening finger pointing at her nose. “What did I tell you about making a sound?”

  She tried to keep her lips shut, but she began to cry, and the sound wouldn’t be muffled easily.

  “Mister, we need to go to the bathroom,” Christy whispered. “Is there a bathroom here?”

  That seemed to give him an idea, and he got back up, still holding each of them by their upper arms. “Up those stairs, and we’ll see,” he told them. “Come on now.”

  Emily was crying harder, biting her lip and trembling as they took each step. Some light shone in through a window that had been shot out about fifteen feet up, but it cast only enough light to show the degree of dust and filth that had accumulated since this place was last inhabited. Dead hanging plants covered with spiderwebs dangled from slimy, fungus-covered macramé hangers. The place might have been pretty once, but now it was a study in filth and decomposition.

  The man nodded toward a door in the back corner of the dusty room. “There.”

  “No!” Emily cried again, but he jerked them toward it.

  The door opened into Emily’s worst nightmare. There was a filthy, cracked commode with only half a seat on it; warped and rotting boards made up the floor. The sink had long ago been torn off the wall, leaving a gaping hole that revealed rusted plumbing—the perfect place for rats to lurk. Above it all, at least ten feet up, was another broken-out window too high for them to reach, and a dozen or so dead hanging plants just like the ones on the other side, with long, brown vines laced with spiderwebs that seemed to reach down and grab for them.

  “Mister, can’t you leave us your flashlight?” Christy asked.

  “No. The dark will keep you from trying to find some way out again.”

  “But . . .” Christy’s voice broke, and she started to cry, but she tried to keep her voice steady. As her mother had told her more than once, whining got you nowhere. “Those dead plants have spiders, and there are rats in that wall, I can hear them. Can’t you? If we’re in the dark and we hear something or . . . feel something . . .” She sobbed and reached for Emily’s hand. Her sister was trembling so hard she could hardly hold it still. “We might scream by accident . . . And somebody might hear us. If you want us to stay quiet, we promise we will if you’ll just give us the flashlight.”

  The man was quiet for a moment. “All right,” he said finally. “The batteries won’t last long, anyway.”

  He handed Christy the small flashlight. “Now, go on. Get in there.”

  “It stinks,” Emily squealed. “I’m scared.”

  “Mister, couldn’t we stay out here, in this room?” Christy asked, crying fully now. “Please . . . We promise not to make any noise . . .”

  He thrust them in and shut the door behind them.

  Christy and Emily hunkered in a corner with the flashlight illuminating the nightmarish sights around them. Outside the door, they could hear him moving things to bar them in, since he didn’t have a lock.

  Emily buried her face against Christy’s chest, and tried not to cry loudly. But Christy was having trouble herself. Her fingers, still filthy from digging, were hurting from where they’d blistered and bled as they’d dug. She knew that sores needed to be cleaned to keep them from getting infected, but she suspected that that was just one more thing she had to worry about now. She wondered what Jenny was doing. She wondered if Mommy was worried, if she and Anne were fighting. She wondered if Daddy was looking for
them.

  They heard something in the wall, and Emily’s voice went an octave higher, though she kept her mouth muffled against Christy’s shirt. Christy shone her light toward the sound, hoping to frighten whatever it was away, but she squeezed her eyes shut to keep from seeing it herself.

  “Pray,” she whimpered. “Pray hard. Now.”

  Emily only trembled, and Christy knew she couldn’t count on her to pray. She’d have to do it herself. “Dear God,” she squeaked. “We’re so scared”

  “It doesn’t work!” Emily cried. “It doesn’t work, Christy! We tried, remember?”

  “It does work,” Christy said. “It has to. Mommy said it works.”

  “Then why didn’t it work before? Why didn’t Daddy find us?”

  “He will,” Christy sobbed. “I know he will. We just have to pray harder. Now, either pray with me, or be quiet.”

  Emily chose to be quiet as Christy started praying again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Nelson Chamberlain needed a drink. For a while, he drove around near the abandoned store, making sure there was no reason for anyone to get close to the building where he had hidden the children. They wouldn’t be discovered there, he decided finally. The building was too old and dilapidated, and those who drove past it daily would never notice that anything was different about the old building. The girls were stuck there until he went back to get them. Now all he had to do was decide what his next step would be.

  He drove into town to a trendy bar called Steppin’ Out and pulled into the parking lot as it filled up with happy hour traffic. The bar was popular this time of day, he thought with relief. He could blend in, and no one would notice him. He walked into the noisy room decorated with twenties memorabilia, found a seat at the bar, and ordered a scotch. It calmed him as it went down, and he told himself that things were going to work out after all. Yes, a lot had to fall into place, but the more he drank, the more confident he became.

  The music seemed to be growing louder, an unidentifiable blend of guitars and drums, drowned out by the chatter of the after-work crowd. He looked around, through the haze of cigarette smoke, at the silk suits and designer dresses, the perfectly coifed locks of young professional women, the moussed hair of lawyers and accountants and consultants of every kind. He was comfortable here, as he was in bars like it all over the world. In ways, it was his sanctuary, the place where he knew he could come at any time for sustenance or comfort. Even now, as he nursed his scotch, he felt that comfort seeping through him.