Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

  The captain took a few deep breaths and checked his watch. It was 11:30. They would need to leave in just a few minutes to make the drop by midnight. He looked from Larry to Tony, then strolled to the window of the conference room. Outside, Ben Robinson was sitting at Larry’s desk, calling his family to tell them they’d found the painting. He was crying quietly.

  The captain turned back around. “All right, guys. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna let him get the painting, let him make his escape. Whoever gets close enough can follow him, but keep in close contact with me. If he heads for the airport, you follow him in.”

  Tony breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t finish. Follow him in, but do not let him get on a plane. Do you hear me? Do not let him get on the plane.”

  “Captain, that’s a mistake—”

  “Apprehend him before he boards. That will give him ample time to call the family. If he hasn’t done it by then, we have to assume that he’s not going to. We’ll play heck getting the information out of him if he’s apprehended in Atlanta—or, worse yet, in Mexico City or someplace like that. We need to find those kids tonight.”

  Tony slammed a fist on the table and got up. “Captain—”

  “You’ve got my orders, Danks. Don’t violate them.”

  “Fine!” he said through his teeth, heading for the door. “I just hope those orders don’t ruin any chance we have of finding those girls.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  It was nearing midnight when Tony, Larry, and Ben went back to Sharon’s house, and Ben got into his own car with the painting. The cops stationed at the track had not spotted Chamberlain or the handkerchief yet, so Larry and Tony would follow Ben at a distance to the railroad tracks, and let him look for the marking and deliver the painting to the boxcar alone. Even if they spotted Chamberlain hanging the handkerchief, the cops watching for him had been instructed not to act until he had the painting in his hand.

  There were no lights in the area of the railroad tracks that Chamberlain had designated, so it was difficult for Tony and Larry to see from where their car was hidden. They quietly got out of the car. Tony watched with night glasses as Ben walked along the tracks, the multimillion-dollar painting in its cylinder clamped beneath his arm, looking for the boxcar with the red handkerchief.

  “Has he found it yet?” Larry asked Tony.

  Tony shook his head. “No. And I don’t see it. What if he hasn’t marked it yet?”

  His voice stopped cold when he saw Ben hesitate. There, above the door of one of the cars, was a handkerchief flapping in the wind. Ben glanced in both directions, then jumped into the car.

  Seconds later, he jumped out and headed back to his car.

  “All right,” Tony said, shoving the night glasses back into their pouch on his belt. “If we cross here, and come up behind the train, it should be dark enough that we won’t be seen. The painting’s hidden on the eighth car from here. You take the one before it, number seven, and I’ll take the one after it. That way we can watch from both sides.”

  They crossed the tracks, stepping over a joint between two boxcars, and ran hunched over, counting cars. Larry jumped into the one directly behind the marked car, and Tony ran ahead and quietly climbed into the one in front of it.

  Crossing the car, he sat by the opposite door, his body carefully hidden in the darkness so that he would have a clear view when Chamberlain came to get the painting. He knew that other plain-clothed officers circled the area, searching for the rental car they had discovered Chamberlain was using now. They had been told not to act if they found it. Just to stay in place so they could follow it when he made his escape.

  Tony sat so still that his muscles ached, and he wondered if Sharon was holding up all right. She was at her wit’s end. And he couldn’t blame her. If they messed up tonight, if the children weren’t found, or if they were found but they weren’t alive . . .

  His heart ached, and he told himself that they just had to be alive. He couldn’t accept the possibility that they weren’t. He couldn’t stand the thought of telling her.

  Time ticked slowly by, and no one came for the painting. He began to wonder if they had put it in the wrong car, or if this was all just some kind of hoax, if maybe he was a sitting duck for Chamberlain’s warped sense of humor.

  He looked up at the sky. Stars sparkled with an uncanny brilliance, like white paint splattered in fine drops on a black canvas. But he doubted even Marazzio could have duplicated it tonight. It was beautiful, and seemed to testify to such peace, that for a moment he found himself wondering if there really was someone up there beyond it, keeping the earth spinning on its axis, the moon circling the planet, the stars suspended where they were.

  For the first time, the thought that there was seemed infinitely more comforting than what he had always chosen to believe. If there wasn’t a creator, and the earth spun on its own, and the moon controlled its own destiny, and the stars were all there by coincidence—then the world truly was formed out of chaos, and nothing could be predictable, and he might be sitting here wasting his time while those children were in grave danger.

  Maybe there was a God. And maybe he did answer prayers. Intelligent people prayed to him all the time. They seemed to think he answered. Even when things went bad, as they had with Jake Stevens and Lynda Barrett, they still seemed to believe that God was with them, working it all out.

  He knew that two cars back, Larry was probably praying right now. They were probably all praying. Sharon, Jenny, Lynda, Jake . . . everybody. Heck, they probably had all their church friends praying on one of those prayer chains. Half the town of St. Clair, at least those who believed, were probably praying for him and for this whole operation right now. It was a little intimidating. And a little comforting.

  He looked up at the stars again. God, is it you? he asked silently.Are you really there? Or are they just talking to air? I’ve never been one to accept things on faith. That’s for dreamers. I’m a realist.

  Then why was he talking to the sky? he asked himself wryly.

  The car bumped, and he sprang to attention, ready for something to happen. He looked outside, but saw no one, then wondered if he’d missed it. Had Chamberlain gotten into the car behind his, jarring the car?

  But then the car bumped again, and he realized this time that the train was moving. Slowly, inch by inch, it began to creep down the tracks. He checked his watch and pushed the indiglo button to light the digital readout. It was 12:30. Time for the train to leave.

  It was all right, though. He had thought of this. He and Larry had agreed that Chamberlain might be waiting a little way down the tracks, prepared to jump on the car to get the painting, then off before the train picked up any speed. It would be the most foolproof way to keep from getting caught.

  He braced himself as the train began to move, the noise of the wheels grinding on the tracks sending up a roar. Knowing he wouldn’t be heard now, he pulled out his walkie-talkie and turned it on. “We’re moving, guys,” he told the other cops who were stationed at various intervals at the intersections down the tracks. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  The train moved about fifteen miles per hour down the track, slow to someone waiting to cross the tracks, but too fast for some one inside waiting to catch a killer. He stayed in the shadows, watching, watching, as they passed intersection after intersection.

  Where was he? Surely he didn’t plan to wait until the train’s next stop. He must know they’d have people waiting there, ready to catch him. No, the best bet would be to come onto the train from some unpredictable place—anywhere but a stopping point—and jump off before anyone could be the wiser.

  “Bingo.” It was Larry’s voice, and Tony held the walkie-talkie close to his ear.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I see a guy with a flashlight checking the boxcars,” he said. “I think we’ve got our man.”

  Tony turned off the walkie-talk
ie and set it back in his coat pocket. Suddenly he saw the flashlight beam searching the doorway of his boxcar. It moved onto the next, then the beam cut off—no doubt because Chamberlain had seen the handkerchief.

  He watched, carefully, as a man ran alongside the tracks, right next to his own car, looking back behind him for the perfect moment to jump on board. He fell behind, in pace with the marked car, then disappeared.

  “He’s on,” Tony whispered to himself. He inched closer to the door, and waited for him to jump back off. Nothing happened.

  What was he doing? Was he checking the painting before he got off? Was he going to ride it to the next town?

  Before he had time to panic, he saw the man jump back out and roll down the bank of grass. Time for action.

  Tony watched him run toward a dark intersection, where a black car was parked off the street, near some trees. He let the train take him a couple hundred feet down the tracks, then jumped off himself. Larry followed.

  Tony pulled the walkie-talkie back out and turned it on. “He’s at the tracks at Gray Street, guys. The black Ford Tempo.”

  “We see him,” one of the cops radioed back.

  “Don’t let him see you. And keep me posted. Somebody pick Larry and me up at the same intersection in about three minutes.”

  Larry was dusting himself off. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, no problem. I’m just hoping this guy has an ounce of compassion inside him. Maybe he doesn’t want to abandon those kids.”

  “Let’s hope so.” They jogged back up the track to the intersection Chamberlain had left moments ago.

  A car was waiting there for them, and they drove back to the car they had parked miles up the track.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Ben walked into the quiet house, wondering where everyone was. His hands were shaking, and he went to the cabinets, searching for something strong to drink. Something that would calm him and make the wait less excruciating.

  But he found nothing, and he realized idly that Sharon never kept alcohol in the house. If ever there was a need for some, it was now. How was she coping without it?

  He sat down at the table and pressed his fist against his mouth as tears came to his eyes. What had happened after he left? Had they gotten Chamberlain? Had he told them where the kids were?

  He couldn’t sit still, so he jumped up again and went through the house looking for his wife or his daughter—or even his ex. They weren’t downstairs.

  Had something happened to them? Anxious, he ran up the stairs. The world had gone haywire, and someone had come in here and taken them, too—

  And then he heard voices in Christy’s bedroom.

  He hurried to the door. Inside, he saw his daughter Jenny, with both of the mothers of his children, sitting in a circle on Christy’s bed, holding hands and praying.

  He sucked in a sob, and they all looked up.

  “Daddy!” Jenny lunged off the bed. “Daddy, did you see him? Did you find Christy and Emily?”

  “Not yet,” he said, wiping his eyes. She pulled him to the bed and he sat down next to Anne, who put her arms around him and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. “I delivered the painting. They . . . they told me to come home and wait for him to call and tell us where they are.”

  He felt himself losing control even as he spoke, and he collapsed against his wife and broke down completely. She got on her knees on the bed and held him, and Sharon sat back and watched her former adversary comfort the man who used to be her husband.

  And it was all right.

  “We were praying, Ben,” Sharon whispered, reaching for his hand. “We have to keep praying. There’s a phone in here. We’ll hear if he calls.”

  He nodded, unable to speak, and kept leaning against his wife as they began to pray again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Nelson Chamberlain navigated the back roads of St. Clair, making his way to the interstate where he could head for the Tampa Airport. So far, he saw no one following him, and he laughed out loud. He had gotten away with it.

  He patted the long cylinder on the seat next to him. He had already checked it, back in the boxcar by flashlight, so he knew that it was just what he’d expected—The Multitude, a priceless masterpiece by one of the greatest Italian painters who’d ever lived.

  He reached into the box on the floor. There was a fake mustache and goatee, tinted glasses, and a black fedora. As he drove, he fit the mustache above his lip, pressed the adhesive tightly, then applied the goatee. He saved the glasses and hat until he was ready to get out. The garment bag sat in the backseat. When he got to the airport, where he’d told Boudreaux to meet him, all he would have to do is slip the long tube into the garment bag, make the exchange with Boudreaux, and get on the next flight to England. Boudreaux would head back to France. No one would find the children where he’d left them, and they would probably starve to death. But that was just as well. He couldn’t risk having them identify him and ruin what was turning out to be the perfect crime.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  What have you got, guys? Anything yet?” Larry held the walkie-talkie close to his ear as Tony drove.

  “Nothing,” John Hampton answered. “He’s headed for the airport so fast I’m afraid the Tampa police are gonna pull him over.”

  “All right. We’re on our way there now. If he stops to make the call, don’t let him see you.”

  He looked at Tony as he took the ramp onto the interstate. Tony looked as tense as he’d ever seen him. “What do you think? Will he call?”

  “He has to,” Tony said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The pain in Christy’s hands woke her, and she looked down at them, barely able to see them in the darkness. They were swollen and still grimy, and the open sores from where she’d rubbed the skin off were wet and painful. Besides that, she didn’t feel good. She had a bad headache, and her back was aching. And her throat burned with thirst.

  She moved the cat off her lap and got on all fours to crawl to the broken pipes where the sink had been. Maybe there was a leak there. Maybe something a little wet, that she could catch on her tongue . . .

  Her hand grazed something hairy, and she jumped back with a scream.

  Emily jumped up. “What is it? What’s wrong, Christy?”

  Christy pressed back against the wall and felt around for the flashlight. Her fingers were almost in too much pain to turn the switch on, but she managed. “Over there, in the corner,” she cried. “I can’t look! Look and see what it is.”

  Emily took the flashlight, wincing as she moved the circle of light slowly across the floor. When she saw the dead rat, she yelped.

  “What?” Christy asked. “What is it?”

  “A rat!” Emily cried.

  The cat, awakened by all the commotion, pranced over to the rat and picked it up, demonstrating that it was dead. Then he dropped it back in the corner.

  “He killed it! It’s dead,” Christy said, still crying.

  “I don’t want to look anymore,” Emily said weakly. She shone the flashlight on her hands. Hers, too, were oozing and swollen and grimy. “My hands hurt.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “Are they ’fected? Mommy says if you don’t clean a sore, it’ll get ’fected.”

  “I think so,” Christy said.

  “What will happen? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Christy said. “All I know is it hurts. I want to get out of here. I want to go home.”

  They started to cry harder. Finally, Emily asked, “When do you think Daddy will come? He said tonight. He promised.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t keep his promise.”

  “But Mr. Chamberlain said he would kill us if Daddy didn’t do what he wanted. Do you think he’s gonna kill us tonight?”

  Christy thought that over for a moment. Her first instinct was to say no, that he wasn’t going to kill them, but then she realized that it could be likely. He hadn’t fed them all day or
brought them anything to drink. He had left them here with the rats. Why wouldn’t a man like that kill them?

  “I wish we had a phone,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “I’d call 911.”

  “I wish we had a ladder,” Christy said. “I’d climb out that window up there.”

  The cat purred and rubbed up against Christy. “Well, we have a cat. And we’re together. When he put me in that trunk by myself when you ran away, I was scared I’d be alone.”

  Emily whimpered, laying her head against Christy’s shoulder. “Do you think Mommy and Daddy know we haven’t eaten? Do you think they know he might kill us?”

  “They know,” Christy whispered. “They just can’t find us.”

  The cat purred and snuggled deeper into their laps.

  “I wish I remembered that story,” Emily whispered.

  “What story?”

  “The one your mom told us that night. About Beth.”

  “Beth and her tree cottage?” Christy asked. “You don’t have to remember. You just have to make it up. I’ll tell it to you. You can help.”

  “Okay,” Emily said.

  “Once upon a time, a mean man came and stole Beth out of her tree house.”

  “And he put her in a dark, scary place,” Emily added quietly.

  “But Beth was very brave. And she was smart. Real smart.”

  “Could she read when she was four?” Emily asked on a weak whisper.

  “Yes. And she knew that song with all the states.”

  “What happened to her?” Emily asked.

  “Well, she watched and waited, and found a way to escape.”

  “What way?” Emily asked without much hope.

  “There was a secret door in the dark place,” Christy said. “A secret door that only the nice people could see. The bad man couldn’t see it at all. And at first she didn’t see it, because she was too upset.”