by Amy M. Reade
I recoiled in shock when a flashlight rent the darkness with its beam of blinding light. My assailant shone it into my eyes, making it impossible for me to see his—or her—identity.
“What do you want?” I managed to ask, my voice slurred and slow.
“You know what I want,” the person said in a hoarse whisper. I still couldn’t tell if I was at the mercy of a man or a woman, though the strength with which the person had shoved me to the ground indicated it was probably a man. I wished I could reach up and turn on the light, but I was paralyzed with panic and pain.
“I don’t know,” I said, suppressing a sob. I hated the weakness in my voice. “Tell me what it is and I’ll give it to you.” Why did Seamus have to be so far away?
“The painting,” the voice growled. The low tones of the person’s voice also led me to believe I was dealing with a man.
“What painting?”
He landed a fierce kick in my abdomen. “The one with the map! I’ll find it myself.” Lying on my side, I curled up to prevent any more damage to my midsection. He yanked me into a seated position, then I heard the sound of ripping duct tape. The assailant bound my hands together in front of me. There was no way I would be able to escape the binding even if I had all my faculties.
When he pulled me to my feet, he steered me toward the coat closet next to the front door and shoved me inside. I could hear him dragging one of the living room chairs in front of the door to prevent me from escaping. I sank to my knees on the floor of the closet and tried yelling, but the throbbing in my head was too crippling. I couldn’t manage any but the faintest noises.
Under the door I could see he had turned on the lights in the living room. I strained to hear what was happening. The banging and crashing were, no doubt, my attacker’s attempts to find the painting he was looking for.
As the minutes crept by, the fog in my mind started to lift. I realized with a gasp that the painting he was looking for had to be the William Leighton Leitch that Florian had bought just before his tragic death. The person, whoever he was, must have known the painting’s centuries-old secret.
But who was it? The only people who knew about the painting were Felix and Chloe and Hagen, plus the old professor who had told Hagen the story. While I sat in the dark I wondered again whether Alice knew of the existence of the map.
I wished I had asked her when I had the chance. But knowing now that she had followed me as I toured London, would her answer be trustworthy? There was no way for me to know.
The invader was returning to the closet. I shrank back in fear, wondering wildly what would happen when he opened the door. He obviously would not have found the painting anywhere in the house, the shop, or the studio, because we didn’t have it. I was terrified of what he would do to me out of frustration and desperation.
But I was shocked by what happened next. I saw nothing but darkness again under the closet door—he had turned off the lights. There were more bumps and jostling noises as the living room chair was dragged away from the closet, then I heard the front door open and slam. In a matter of seconds, silence had descended upon the cottage once more.
I was sure the person had left. I yearned to open the closet door and check for myself, but fear kept me rooted to the floor. I stayed there for several minutes, until the pain behind my eyes went screaming through my head and overcame the need to stay hidden and safe. I needed to see a doctor.
I pushed open the door with my foot. Slowly its familiar creak echoed through the silence and I peered around the edge of the door into the darkened living room.
I was alone—I was sure of it. I stood up by bracing myself against the closet door, then walked over to the front door, where I used my shoulder to flip the light switch. Soft lamplight flooded the room, and I was met with the unwelcome sight of overturned furniture and desk drawers lying on the floor, their contents spilled about the room. The front lock was broken—that must have been how the person got in while I was at the pub.
I hurried through the kitchen, ignoring the damage, and went straight into the shop. My stomach lurched when I saw what my attacker had wrought. Dozens of pieces of antique art lay on the floor, shredded and smashed. Seamus’s original paintings lay scattered around the floor, scuffed, torn, ruined.
My first thought was to cry, but that would only hurt my head more. My next thought was to call Eilidh and get help.
My wrists were still bound in duct tape and my mobile phone was in my back pocket. For one fleeting moment I thought of running to Eilidh’s house for help, but a crippling fear that the person might be waiting for me outside prevented me from leaving. Instead I dragged myself to the kitchen drawer, where I kept a pair of scissors. Holding the scissors open, I used them to pierce a hole in the duct tape. I wrenched my hands this way and that until the duct tape tore and eventually ripped completely, allowing me to break free. My wrists were bruised and raw where I’d ripped off the tape.
In an instant I was on the phone with Eilidh. “Please come over, and bring Callum,” I pleaded in a choked sob. “And please phone the police and ask them to come, too.”
“What’s the matter? What happened?” The alarm in her voice was palpable.
“Someone attacked me in the house. My head is killing me. I need to get to a doctor.”
Without a word Eilidh rang off, and only a minute or two later she and Callum ran up the path to the kitchen door. I was standing in the shadows of the kitchen, waiting for them. I unlocked the door as soon as they arrived, then quickly locked it again once they were inside. I limped to the table and slumped into a chair.
“What on earth happened?” Eilidh asked, glancing around and taking in the disarray.
“Someone was waiting for me when I came in from dinner. The lights were out and I knew I had left a light on in the shop. I should have known something wasn’t right,” I chided myself, “but I came inside and as soon as I turned on the kitchen light the person—whoever it was—switched off the light and came after me. He must have been hiding in the laundry room.”
“You don’t know who it was?” Callum asked.
I shook my head, forgetting how much it would hurt. I winced.
“We need to get her to hospital,” Eilidh told her husband.
Just then we heard the siren of a police car. Looking through the kitchen window I could see a car jerking to a stop in the drive. Within minutes, two police officers had made sure there was no one still in the house or on our property. They had called an ambulance, which was on its way. They asked very basic questions about the break-in and my injuries, but my head hurt too much to talk to them for very long, so they said they would have an officer meet me at hospital.
“Have you called Seamus?” Eilidh asked.
“No. I doubt he’ll have a signal.” I said with a grimace. “That’s part of the appeal of being in the mountains.”
“We need to try, though,” Eilidh replied. She dialed his number on her mobile phone and listened for a moment. Then she turned off the phone, shaking her head. “You’re right—no service.”
“I’ll just have to wait until he comes home on Sunday,” I said.
“Maybe Callum can drive up and look for him,” she suggested.
“It’s nice of you to offer, but he’d never be able to find Seamus. He likes to go completely off the grid when he’s camping. I’ll just wait.”
When the ambulance arrived a few short moments later, Eilidh grabbed my handbag and my set of keys from the kitchen floor, where I had dropped them when the intruder turned off the kitchen light. Callum stayed at the house, since the police said they would like to have a look around and begin gathering possible clues as to the intruder’s identity. Callum could answer some of their questions about the house and the attached shop. He also offered to make any necessary arrangements to have the locks replaced. I was so grateful to him. I didn’t relish the thought of returning home after seeing a doctor; I was too afraid.
I refused to be strapped to a
stretcher, so the paramedics supported me while I walked to the ambulance, and Eilidh made sure she could ride with me. I was still trembling from my ordeal and from the pain in my head.
When the officer arrived at hospital to talk to me I was awake, but groggy. I had no idea what time it was. Eilidh left the room at the officer’s request, then I told him everything that had happened since I finished dinner at the pub. I answered his questions as best I could, but the pain in my head was becoming too great for me to concentrate. He left after talking briefly with Eilidh, promising me we would talk when I felt better.
The doctor ordered several tests on my head. The sun was rising when I was finally assigned a room and allowed to sleep. Eilidh promised to stay with me until Callum could come to relieve her. She also said she would call Greer and Mum.
When I awoke a few hours later Callum and Eilidh were in my room, along with Greer and James. I opened my eyes and looked around, then squeezed them shut again.
“Where’s Ellie?” I asked, alarmed at her absence.
“Shh,” Greer said, rubbing her fingers lightly across my forehead. “She’s with a neighbor. I didn’t want to bring her here until we found out how you’re doing.”
“How do you feel?” James asked.
“My head hurts,” I mumbled.
The lights in my room were off and someone had closed the blinds. It was as dark as possible, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t open my eyes without a searing pain.
Everyone except Greer left when the doctor came in.
“It seems you’ve suffered another concussion,” he told me in a quiet voice. “I had a look at the records from your last hospital stay, just over three years ago. That makes two concussions in about three years—not a good record, as I’m sure you know.”
“What can we do for her?” Greer asked. I was content to let her do all the talking.
“She needs lots of rest, quiet, no visual or mental stimulation, and as little stress as possible. The effects of this brain injury are likely to be more severe and last longer than her first concussion. That’s normal.”
“When can I go home?” I murmured.
“Probably tomorrow,” the doctor said. “I want to keep you today for observation.”
“Okay.”
“Is she married?” the doctor asked Greer.
“Yes, but her husband is camping in the Cairngorms and can’t be reached by mobile phone. He’s expected home tomorrow.” I was embarrassed when I felt a tear slipping from my eye onto the pillow.
I still didn’t want to open my eyes, but I could feel Greer’s hand on my arm. “I’ve left him a message, and I know Eilidh and Callum have both left messages, so his mobile will buzz as soon as he comes back into range. He’ll be here before you know it,” she said.
I sniffled. “Thanks.”
The doctor and Greer left the room to continue talking, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to listen; I just wanted quiet. I heard someone come in and I could smell food, so I knew there was a tray of breakfast for me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of food.
The police officer paid me a visit later in the day to explain that detectives had found numerous fingerprints in the shop, the gallery, and the house. Eilidh, Callum, James, and Greer were all in the room.
“Will you be able to analyze all of them?” asked James.
“Yes, but it’s going to take some time,” the officer answered.
“There would naturally be a lot of prints from people coming in and out of the shop and the studio,” Greer said.
I could hear the rising alarm in Eilidh’s voice when she spoke. “My prints will be everywhere, because I worked in the shop for those weeks Sylvie and Seamus were in London, and Callum’s prints will be in there, too, because he was there last night.”
Greer must have sensed the conversation was becoming stressful for me, because she suggested they all go talk in the hallway or a waiting room. I was left alone in the blissful silence, trying not to think about all that had happened and all that awaited me on my return home.
All I cared about was seeing Seamus’s face and getting rid of the headache and nausea I was feeling.
I started crying when Mum showed up later in the day, having driven up from Dumfries as soon as she heard about my injury. I had been sleeping, but I heard a voice through the fog of exhaustion and knew Mum had come.
“My little girl,” she murmured into my hair as she bent down to kiss my head. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” I said, trying to smile for her.
“I don’t want you to worry about a single thing,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’ve come to stay until you’re better.”
The relief I felt at hearing Mum’s words washed over me like a gentle wave on Cauld Loch. I squeezed her hand and opened my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure Seamus will be happy to hear it. I know he’ll be worried when he gets home.”
And he was. When he swept into my room the next morning, tears in his eyes, he could only stare at me and hold my hand.
“Say something,” I said with a smile.
He shook his head. He didn’t want to cry in front of me. My big burly husband, the ex-con, couldn’t stand to see me in the hospital bed. Mum put her hand on his arm and led him away for a moment.
“It’s okay to cry, Seamus dear,” I heard her say. “Sylvie’s all right. I know those are tears of relief.”
She crept from the room and Seamus and I were left alone. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at me.
“I’ll never forgive myself for being gone and completely out of reach when this happened,” he finally said.
“You couldn’t have known someone would break in,” I told him.
The doctor came in to discharge me and Seamus stood to shake his hand. The doctor reminded him to keep me quiet, keep my stress to a minimum, and keep me from doing anything that would be visually or mentally taxing.
“How long will she be like this?” Seamus asked.
“It’s hard to know, but probably longer than the last time,” the doctor replied. “How long did her symptoms last back then?”
“A little over a week,” Seamus said.
“Then I would expect her to be house-bound for two weeks, at least,” the doctor cautioned. “You can’t risk her getting hurt again, because it can be dangerous when a head injury occurs before a concussion heals.” Seamus nodded.
I kept my eyes closed on the drive home. The sunlight was too much for me to bear comfortably.
CHAPTER 11
Back at the cottage, a cold fear swept over me, covering me in a thin layer of sweat. Seamus took my hand when he noticed my hesitation to go inside.
“Dinnae worry about the locks, love. Callum had them changed. No one is getting in here.”
“But the intruder broke the lock. He could do it again,” I worried.
“Shh. You let me worry about it. We’ll simply check each lock every time we come into the house. No one is going to break in again, anyway. Whoever it was saw that we didn’t have what he was looking for, so he has no reason to come back.”
He led me to the bedroom. Mum followed, carrying my bag. They worked, each on one side of the bed, to make sure I was as comfortable as possible, then left the room after closing the blinds and turning off my mobile phone. I slept for hours.
When I awoke Mum was sitting in an armchair next to the bed.
“This is one way to get you to come up to the Highlands, isn’t it?” I asked with a sleepy smile.
“I would have come even if you didn’t get hurt. I was just waiting for an invitation.”
“You know you don’t need an invitation to visit. Seamus and I love having you here.”
Mum and I talked quietly about my trip to London for a few minutes, then I settled back against the pillow. The talking had made me tired, so remembering a trick that used to make me relax as a child, Mum rubbed the back of my hand with her fingers until I fell
asleep again.
I woke up to the smell of dinner. Seamus had made my favorite: fish and chips. We didn’t eat fried foods very often, but when we did it was a treat to savor. I helped Mum clean up after dinner. Both Mum and Seamus objected, but I was wide awake and feeling like I needed to do something useful. I couldn’t read or watch television or do anything on the computer, but I could help with the housework. I had a feeling we would have the cleanest cottage in the Highlands after a few weeks of recovery.
That night, Seamus and I talked quietly in bed.
“Who do you think broke in?” I asked.
“I dinnae know, but you’re not supposed to be worrying about that. Let me worry about it.”
“Do you suppose he was looking for the painting you sold Florian?” I asked, ignoring his advice.
“Probably. What else would someone go to such great lengths to find?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” I replied with a sigh. “I thought the whole search for the painting, and the investigation into Florian’s death, had died down because we hadn’t heard anything in a while. But I guess not.”
“I dinnae think so,” Seamus agreed. “The police may not have been around here lately, but there’s clearly someone who thinks we have the painting.”
“There are only a few people who know about it,” I pointed out. “The list of people who could have broken in here looking for it is pretty short.”
“Let’s see. Felix and Chloe both know about it, because Hagen knew and told them,” Seamus said, counting on three fingers.
“Plus the professor in London who told Hagen,” I added.
He nodded. “Then possibly Alice.” He gave me a dark look. “Did you by any chance ask her about it during your little get-together?”
“Of course not,” I said, remembering I hadn’t told him about seeing her in the Westminster Abbey photo, or about our last meeting in London.
Should I tell him now? I decided to wait. Bedtime was never a good time to have a discussion that was likely to make someone angry.
I fell into a fitful sleep. My head hurt from thinking so hard about the break-in and trying to figure out who did it. I had a bad dream that night. Alice was at the kitchen door, rattling the handle, trying to get in. I was watching her from inside the laundry room, unable to move or utter a sound. Hagen was in there with me, urging me to let her in. I searched the kitchen for Felix and Chloe, but they were nowhere to be seen. I tried calling out for Seamus to help me, but no sound would come out. Alice was growing angrier with each attempt to open the door. Her eyes, black and flashing, were huge. Like the eyes of a bug.
