Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  Trevor chuckled. “You’d be right about that, too. But she’s cracking at research.”

  “My daughter’s gone Goth. Black makeup, clunky boots, those, what do you call them, corsets? I actually think I prefer the purple hair.”

  Simon turned onto the long dirt road up to the Burwell Estate. The dash clock showed that it was perilously close to six o’clock.

  “I hope he’s punctual. Not one of those ­people who shows up fifteen minutes early.”

  “Hey, I’m one of those ­people,” Trevor shot back.

  Simon flashed a smile. “Then let’s catch this son of a bitch with his pants down.”

  He drove slowly, each of them scanning ahead. As they eased around an overgrown, sprawling yew tree, the manor house came into view.

  The building was a square, grayish-­brown brick, saved from ugliness by turrets at the front two corners and multiple faux Ionic columns set into the walls. A makeshift car park of dirt and weeds had been set up to the right of the road. The only car was a dark green Mini Cooper.

  “A late guest? No way that’s your guy.”

  “No. He’ll occupy by force,” Trevor agreed.

  Simon drove around to the back of the museum, parking next to a BMW. “Curator’s still here.”

  That was both good and bad. It meant Max still intended to make the appointment, but it put the curator at risk. The two operators climbed down and opened the back of the SUV, distributing the equipment and weapons like they’d partnered a hundred times before. Trevor pulled out the stripped-­down, bare-­bones floor plan of the house, printed on plain white copy paper. He set it on the bonnet, holding it flat.

  “I’m betting the curator’s office will be on the ground floor, somewhere close to this door and his car.” Trevor nodded toward the BMW.

  “This room’s a good candidate.” Simon pointed to a small room blocked off from a larger, open area.

  “Agreed. I’ll start there.” Trevor looped the strap of the Uzi across his body, settling the submachine gun so it hung from his right shoulder toward his left hip. Both twisted the radio receivers into their ears and did a comms check.

  Trevor peeked in the window as they positioned themselves on either side of the door. He turned the knob. It was unlocked. He held up three fingers of his other hand, counting down. On one, he pulled the door open. He went in fast and low to the left, Simon mirroring him on the right.

  They were in what looked like a mudroom. Considering the terrain outside, that wasn’t too surprising. An anorak hung on a peg, with galoshes below it. Beyond the archway, a long corridor stretched ahead of them. A plain wooden door stood ajar on his left.

  “Hold your position inside the door until I get the curator out.”

  “Understood.”

  Simon placed himself to the front right of the mudroom, where he could cover Trevor but not be seen by anyone in the corridor. Trevor took a quick peek into the left door. The area ahead seemed dimly lit. He pushed it open slowly and stepped inside the gift shop. Tables and display cases lined the small space; he ignored the myriad objects crowding every surface. He checked the front of the shop; the security gate had been pulled most of the way across, but had not yet been locked. He hugged the back wall as he moved across the room, heading for the second door, and, hopefully, the curator’s office.

  It, too, was ajar. A tall, spare man with thinning gray hair sat in the glow of the single lamp on the rosewood desk, leaning on one elbow and chewing the end of a pencil as he flipped the pages of a ledger. The soft strains of classical music drifted in the air.

  “Found him. Going in,” he murmured.

  “Standing by.”

  Trevor burst through the door and was on the man before he’d even registered the intrusion. He slapped a hand over the man’s mouth and put a single finger up to his own lips. The man’s eyes bugged out as he saw Trevor’s weapons.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “You are in danger, and I need to get you to safety. Nod if you understand me.”

  The man—­presumable Larry Upton—­began to nod frantically. Trevor didn’t lift his hand. Not yet.

  “You’re meeting a man named Max Whitcomb tonight, yes?”

  More nodding.

  Trevor pulled a sheet of paper and placed it in front of Upton, showing him the photo of the grandmother clock as he released his mouth. “Is this what he’s here to see?”

  The curator rolled his eyes up toward Trevor, unsure if he was now permitted to speak. “Go ahead, Mr. Upton.”

  “Yes, yes,” the man said. “That’s the one. The 1926 Venetian-­style Kieninger moon-­phase floor clock, one point eight five meters by—­”

  “Uh, yeah. Don’t need to know the dimensions. I do, however, need to know—­”

  The telephone trilled faintly. Upton jerked at the small noise.

  “Is it Max?”

  The curator shook his head. “It’s Arnall, one of the docents. He’s waiting to let Mr. Whitcomb in before he leaves for the evening. Just who are you? And what sort of danger—­?”

  “Later.” Trevor grabbed the phone and pulled it close to Upton, sitting on the corner of the desk. “This is what you’re going to do. Answer the phone. Tell Arnall you want to speak to Max. When he gets on, apologize profusely. Tell him there’s some sort of . . . clock emergency. Ask him to wait five minutes. Then get on with Arnall again. Got that?”

  Upton looked as though he were regaining some composure; and with it, his courage. But he nodded agreement and reached for the receiver. Trevor placed his hand over it first.

  “Say exactly what I told you to,” he warned. He didn’t move his hand until Upton nodded again.

  Upton picked up the receiver. He was breathing a little too fast, but he seemed to be hanging on. “Yes, Arnall? Oh, yes? Very good. He what? How many ­people? Hmm. That’s rather irregular. May I speak with him?” He glanced nervously at Trevor to make sure he was following instructions. Trevor gestured for him to continue.

  “Mr. Whitcomb. Good evening, sir. I am so terribly sorry I wasn’t able to meet you personally when you came in. You see, one of my . . . oh, of course you don’t want to hear . . . yes, I am indeed eager to discuss an endowment to the museum. Very eager indeed. And afterward, I’ll happily show you the Kieninger grandm . . . er, no. These are very delicately engineered works of art. You won’t be able to open it . . . why would you want to open it?”

  His voice rose. Trevor held up his hand. Five minutes, he mouthed.

  “Yes, yes, we can discuss all that in person. If you will simply give me five minutes, I can close off this issue and be down to meet you straightaway. May I speak with Arnall?” He let out some air, wiping his fingers along his trouser leg, then put a hand over the mouthpiece. “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him to go out the door, lock it behind him, and drive home. Get him out of the building, Mr. Upton.”

  “Is he in danger also—­ Yes, Arnall. Thank you for staying past closing. You may go home now. No!” he said sharply, with a sidelong glance at Trevor. “I do not need you to stay. Go home. Straightaway.”

  He took two tries to settle the receiver in its cradle. “All right. I did what you asked. Will you please explain to me just what is happening?”

  Trevor placed a hand on his shoulder. “That was very well done. I know I’m asking you to do strange and confusing things with no explanation. You’re disoriented and alarmed. I understand that. But now, sir, I need to get you out of this building and to safety.”

  Upton tried to straighten his tie, but only managed to further skew it. “How can Mr. Whitcomb possibly mean me harm? He’s a patron of the arts. He intends to make a rather hefty donation to the museum foundation. And though it’s a bit irregular, we do from time to time have patrons come in after normal hours.”

  What could he say to move this along
? The longer the curator stayed away, the more suspicious Max would become.

  “He brought men with him, didn’t he? How many?”

  Upton’s eyes bugged out again. “Arnall wasn’t specific. A lot, he said.”

  “Okay.” Trevor took his arm, urging him out of the chair. “By the way, what room is the clock in? The one Max wants to see?”

  The question seemed to confuse the curator. “Erm, uh, it’s upstairs. Yes, second floor, far left corner. Black Forest Region, 1920 to 1954.”

  “That’s . . . extremely specific. You know your clocks, I’ll give you that. Please come with me now.”

  He got Upton up and moving. At the door he paused, checking the gift shop before leading him back into the mudroom.

  “Coming in.”

  “Roger.”

  Upton stopped abruptly when he saw Simon. “I still don’t understand what is happening. Are you robbers?”

  Simon lowered the muzzle of his rifle, trying, Trevor thought, to look less lethal. It didn’t seem to work, because Upton refused to take another step.

  “Sir, we’re a special unit of the police,” Trevor lied. “Units are standing by. The museum and grounds are surrounded, but you won’t see any of them. They’re, uh, in hiding until my partner and I get all civilians out of the building. Once you’re safely away, they’ll move in and arrest all the men Max brought with him. They’re charged with . . . uh . . .”

  “ . . . misappropriation of funds,” Simon inserted smoothly. “Specifically, embezzling funds from pension trusts. Stealing from widows and orphans. It’s all very unsavory.”

  “Gawd, blimey. In my museum?” he said. Then, “I’m responsible for the art here.”

  “And I will safeguard every piece to the utmost of my ability,” Trevor assured him. “The arrests should go easily.”

  He cracked the outer door, first listening, then risking quick looks. Everything seemed quiet. “Sir, your car is ready. Are you?”

  “I’ll leave straightaway,” Upton said, sounding certain for the first time.

  Simon shared an amused look with him as Trevor shut the back door and bolted it.

  “We need a peek down that corridor.”

  “We might be too late.”

  Trevor anchored the rifle butt into the curve of his shoulder, aiming along the barrel, finger at the trigger guard. They stepped into the hall as one, knees bent, weapons up, weight shifted forward as they advanced down the corridor. Both paused at an open archway to the right. Trevor signaled, and Simon whipped around the corner, sweeping his rifle from left to right. Trevor lowered his weapon as Simon passed in front of him, then came in to the left.

  “Stairwell’s clear.”

  The blueprints had shown a room to the left of the stairwell. He checked the door.

  “Locked. Let’s move on.”

  They moved past it. Simon heard the voices first, lifting a closed fist in a signal to halt. Both froze in place. Trevor lowered his hand and patted the air next to him. Simon took five steps, planting himself against the wall beside him. Trevor slid forward a step at a time. At the column, he risked a look, pulling back almost at once.

  “Shit. They’ve moved.”

  He entered the great hall, a space easily forty feet wide and even longer, with a double set of staircases to his left. Rifle first, he swung left, right, then left up the staircase. He could hear several sets of boots tromping up the steps. Turning, he gestured back the way they’d come. They moved back and ducked into the stairwell.

  “They don’t know where the clock is,” he said. “They’ll have spread out to find it.”

  “How many?”

  “Couldn’t tell. And they’re no doubt down here as well. All right. We split up. Clear up to down, out to in, like we talked about.” He pulled out the floor plan again. “You head up these stairs. Clear the rooms starting with this one, right above the mudroom. If I understood the curator right, that’s where the clock is. I’ll cross the great hall and start catty-­corner at the other end.”

  Simon hesitated. “Are you sure we should split up? If Max is smart, he’ll have sent his men in teams of two.”

  “We double our chances if we split up. Remember, silence is key. We take them out one by one.”

  “All right. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  They bumped fists and headed in opposite directions.

  Chapter Twenty-­Nine

  EVEN BREAKING EVERY speed limit, it took forty-­five minutes to get to the museum at the Burwell Estates. Shelby’s knees were shaking by the time they turned onto the dirt lane. She’d let Lark drive, because time was of the essence. She’d spent most of the drive with her eyes screwed shut.

  “There it is,” Lark said. “Oh, shit. Look at all those cars.”

  Three SUVs sat at odd angles in front of the manor, as though the drivers had simply braked wherever was convenient.

  “Max is definitely here. Pull over,” Shelby said. “We need to go in on foot.”

  Lark pulled the car as far as she could to the side of the lane. Shelby got out, eyes darting around as she opened the rear passenger door.

  “Holy shit, Shel, are we actually going to do this? This is, um, kind of scary.”

  “You can stay in the car, if you want. Just give me the stuff.”

  Lark straightened her shoulders, chin lifting. “You don’t know how to do it. Besides, it only works with both of us. Okay. Okay. Let’s do this, before I pee my pants.”

  Shelby slung the assault rifle over her shoulder and took her Beretta out of the gym bag.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to Lark. “Just in case.”

  Lark seemed to be having trouble breathing as she took the handgun. “Just pull the trigger, right?”

  Shelby took hold of the barrel, angling it away from herself. “Here, see this little lever? You have to push it down until you see the red dot. Then you pull the trigger.”

  “Okay.”

  Her voice was as low and subdued as Shelby had ever heard it. She took the younger girl by the shoulders, leaning down until they were face-­to-­face. “You’ll be outside the whole time, Lark. You’ll be safe.”

  “But you’ll be—­”

  “Shh. I’ll be fine.” Shelby hugged her friend hard. “We need to hurry, though.”

  Lark pulled out her bag and opened it while Shelby slipped into a windbreaker. All too soon, they were ready.

  “Wait,” Lark said. She rummaged in the bag. “Here.”

  Shelby looked at the can of Pledge. “Uh . . .”

  “Homemade flamethrower. Here, take the lighter.”

  She tapped the assault rifle. “You know I have a gun, right?”

  “Just take it. In case.”

  She didn’t ask “in case what” as she pocketed both items. It seemed to make Lark feel better.

  They tiptoed their way to the front door. A thick archway surrounded it, with a balcony at the top. The door itself was a solid piece of dark brown wood.

  “It’s locked.” Momentarily bewildered, Shelby looked around. No way would she be stymied by something as simple as a locked door. Maybe she could climb to the balcony?

  Maybe not.

  “I’m going around back. The blueprint said there’s a door back there. Like a ser­vice entrance.”

  Lark followed her to the edge of the building and around what looked like a turret inset with windows, but without the pointed roof. There was no place to sit.

  “This feels really exposed.”

  Shelby put her hands on her hips as she looked around. “You’ll have to sit on the ground, I guess.”

  Lark sat and crossed her legs. “Exposed and uncomfortable. Got it.”

  “Are you set?”

  “Yeah. Be careful, Shel.”

  “You, too.”

&nb
sp; Shelby found the back door easily enough, and the SUV Trevor and Simon had driven away in. She gulped in air, relieved. She wouldn’t be alone in the museum with Max and however many of his thugs had ridden in those three SUVs.

  The back door, too, had been locked.

  Pressing her face to the glass with both hands shielding her from the setting sun, she verified no one stood on the other side of the door to conveniently let her in.

  She couldn’t give up now. Trevor needed her, whether he knew it or not.

  He was going to be livid.

  Wait a minute. She bent at the waist, looking around for a rock. A brick. Something she could use to break the window, as Trevor had done in Lark’s car when they’d been attacked. The rifle swung forward and bumped her shoulder. She mentally smacked her head. Come on, Shelby Gibson. You’re smarter than this.

  She wished there was a way to muffle the sound of glass breaking, but she had no idea how to do it. Unslinging the rifle, she reversed it, holding the stock up to the window. She pulled it back as far as she could, then slammed it into the glass. It cracked. She hit it again, and this time it broke. It made far less noise than she’d feared.

  Huge shards stuck in all directions along the frame. She used the butt of the rifle again to clear the area above the door lock, then cautiously reached inside. Her fumbling fingers found a bolt. Pulling it free, she reached in farther and popped the lock in the doorknob.

  She pushed it open by degrees, listening hard. Her heart pounded. No one came running to catch her, so she eased inside.

  First hurdle passed.

  She tiptoed to the long hallway. If anyone turned the corner, they would spot her instantly. Safer to go through the left door.

  If she were a sociopathic egomaniac, where would she be?

  Chapter Thirty

  TREVOR TURNED THE corner into the great hall and scissor-­stepped sideways to get behind the nearest curving staircase. The enormous area rose through all three levels to the roof. Load-­bearing walls placed every ten feet broke up the inner space, and gave him plenty of places to duck behind should the need arise. Framed photographs of Big Ben and the Grand Central Station clock in New York decorated them. Beyond the staircase, nestled against a bearing wall on the right, he saw an enormous grandfather clock.