by T F Allen
“I believe you,” Hannah said.
“Hold on a minute.” Thatcher’s face turned tomato red. He covered her digital recorder with his hand. “We’re jumping to conclusions. Michael hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s probably hiding out in his apartment and avoiding his phone. He does that all the time when he’s painting.”
“Have you seen or heard from him since this time yesterday?” Hannah said to Thatcher.
“He said he was going home to paint.”
Sister Mary Elizabeth turned to Hannah. “I can’t explain how I know, but he’s not hiding anywhere. And he’s definitely not painting. Something is wrong.”
Thatcher fumbled with his smartphone and poked furiously at the screen.
Hannah stared into the worried nun’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Sister. If Michael is lost or in trouble, I’ll find him. I’m good at finding people.”
“I didn’t catch your name, dear.”
“My name is Hannah Klein, and I was sent here to help you.”
CHAPTER 14
I fought as hard as I could to stay quiet inside Hannah’s mind while she drove Sister Mary Elizabeth back to Michael’s apartment. On the surface, the two women were as different as they came—one set on following the winds of the Universe toward her destiny while the other trusted God to lead her to help others. But together they’d found a common goal that seemed to drive them: they both needed to figure out where Michael had gone. I could barely contain myself.
Hannah fought to contain herself in front of the nun, too. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Delacroix was sure to agree to an interview once she helped the sister find him. Sister Mary Elizabeth had the sweet kind of old lady face you couldn’t say no to. And when you threw in the outfit she was wearing—a traditional habit—Hannah imagined there weren’t many who’d refuse a favor when she asked.
Though she’d told the nun she believed her about Delacroix, she wasn’t convinced he was really in trouble. She remembered how evasive he’d been during the cab ride to O’Hare. He seemed to want nothing more than to disappear. But just like she knew it was her destiny to be in Grant Thatcher’s office the exact moment the sister stormed in, she also knew this woman would help lead her to the most important source for her story. It didn’t matter whether Delacroix was still at his apartment. Wherever they found him—throwing rocks on a beach, holed up in a seedy motel, even camping out in Golden Gate Park with a few of his old friends—she knew he’d answer her questions if Sister Mary Elizabeth was by her side.
Following the Universe’s signs was already paying off. Sister Mary Elizabeth was proving to be the best source she could find to fill in the missing pieces from Delacroix’s past. “You’re saying he survived all night as a newborn in a dumpster?”
“It was a miracle,” the sister said. “Even the monsignor agreed.”
“That’s a great—I mean, such a tragic story. And they never found the mother?”
“Never, even though it was in all the papers. I guess those articles didn’t come up in your search, did they?” Sister Mary Elizabeth pulled down her sun visor. “That’s because we hadn’t named him yet.”
“And what a prophetic name you gave him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Hannah tapped the steering wheel. “His last name—Delacroix. Just like the famous French painter.”
“I didn’t name him after anyone. There’s no one else like him, anyway. He’s a very special boy, and his life has always been in the hands of the Father. That’s why God told me I needed to come to San Francisco.”
Hannah shook her head. “How did that happen? Did you see a burning bush?”
“Like I said, I can’t explain it. But I know what I heard.”
“Like an actual voice?”
“Yes.”
Hannah glanced at her GPS and turned the next corner faster than she needed to. Just as she’d suspected, this nun was a live one. A full-blown Jesus freak who’d dedicated her life to a book full of fairy tales set in the desert a couple thousand years ago. Keeping her mouth shut and getting along would be a challenge, but she’d faced tougher assignments before. Until they met up with Delacroix, she needed to humor Sister Mary Elizabeth, make her think they were friends. And pump her for as much information as she could.
“Do you know why he moved to San Francisco?”
“This was as far as his money would take him,” the sister said. “When he turned eighteen, his foster family kicked him out. He came to me that afternoon, begging for advice.” She blinked away a tear. “I cleaned out our discretionary fund and tucked the money into his pocket. I told him to head west, where no one knew his name or his history. Someplace he could start his life over. And somehow the Father led him here.”
“How did you know he’d become an artist?”
The sister shook her head. “I only knew God had a special plan for him. He rarely tells me in advance.”
Hannah checked her GPS. They were close. “Maybe you could ask him where Michael is right now.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Hannah usually loved calling other people’s bluffs, but this time was different. Somehow she felt bad for what she’d just said—but not bad enough to apologize. The nun crossed her arms and clammed up. Neither of them said a word until they reached Michael’s apartment.
As they climbed the last flight of stairs, Sister Mary Elizabeth said, “Don’t worry about the door. I have Michael’s spare key.”
“That saves a step.” Hannah tried the handle anyway. It was unlocked.
“I guess I forgot to lock it earlier.”
“Are you sure?” Hannah waited for an answer. She didn’t want to walk into an ambush.
“Yes.”
She rushed into the living room and looked around. In one corner an easel held a half-finished painting—basic shapes, blotches of uniform color, no swirls anywhere to be seen. She wasn’t impressed. “You’re right. He definitely isn’t painting. And there’s enough art supplies to last him a year.”
Sister Mary Elizabeth was busy opening bedroom and closet doors, cabinets, anything with a handle. “He’s not here. You see? He’s gone. He’s just gone.”
Hannah took a quick survey of the apartment. She couldn’t believe how sparsely he’d decorated the place. He must have spent less than five hundred dollars. And he definitely didn’t have a girlfriend. She knew within seconds that Delacroix wasn’t here, but she kept searching anyway. She wasn’t looking for the missing artist. She needed to find something that proved he hadn’t just taken off on his own.
After a quick search of every room, she returned to the living room. Sister Mary Elizabeth sat on the edge of Delacroix’s recliner, looking anything but relaxed.
“He didn’t pack a thing—not his toothbrush, not his razor. And there are plenty of travel bags still in his closet.”
“Does that tell us anything?”
“For anyone else I’d say yes. But I bet he left the place looking just like this when he took that plane to Chicago.”
“You’re probably right,” the sister said.
Hannah brushed her fingertips across the painted sections of Michael’s canvas. “How long does it take oil paint to dry?”
“About a day or two. But that only proves he hasn’t painted recently.”
“What about his cell phone?”
Sister Mary Elizabeth ran into the kitchen and opened a drawer next to the sink. She reached in, took out an ancient-looking flip phone, and tossed it to Hannah. “One of the many gifts I sent him that he rarely used.”
“How does this guy function?” Hannah tried to power up the phone, but it was dead. Michael probably hadn’t used it in weeks. “There’s nothing here that would make anyone think he hadn’t just gone to the beach for the day. We’re screwed.”
“There are always signs, dear,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “We need to learn how to look for them.”
/> “Or where.” Hannah fished her keys out of her purse. “Only two things are missing from this place—Delacroix and his car. We need to retrace his steps starting from where he was last seen.”
“Back to Mr. Thatcher’s place,” the sister said.
“He might know more than he thinks. Let’s go.”
“I’ll lock the door this time.”
• • •
Hannah ignored the GPS on her way back to Thatcher’s, relying instead on her photographic memory. It impressed me to watch her match street signs and minor landmarks against the images her mind recorded during her drive to Michael’s apartment. She drove fast and took each turn decisively, never second-guessing herself the entire trip—and why would she? As long as she followed the path toward her destiny, the powers of the Universe would never lead her wrong.
Back in his office, Thatcher seemed less agitated than when she and Sister Mary Elizabeth had left him. The sleeves of his sports coat were pushed up to his elbows, and his chest hair looked like he’d just fluffed it with a blow dryer. The women waited as he talked into his smartphone. “Thanks, Max. I owe you one. You probably won’t find anything, but if you do, give me a shout.” He ended the call and set his white phone on his white desk. “What did you ladies find out?”
Sister Mary Elizabeth spoke first. “He hasn’t been there in a while. Nothing is out of place and nothing is missing.”
“Except Delacroix and his car,” Hannah said. “What about the airport?”
“My people are still checking, but they haven’t seen his name pop up yet.” Thatcher shifted in his chair. “I know you ladies are convinced, but I’m still looking for anything that tells me Michael hasn’t just gone for a drive.”
Hannah had to admit he was right. As much as she wanted to believe Sister Mary Elizabeth, the most logical next step was to drive back to Delacroix’s apartment and wait for him to show up. The Universe had gone silent since her last visit here. If it didn’t speak up soon, she’d have to start a difficult conversation with the sister.
I wasn’t a detective, an investigative reporter, or a forensics expert. But sometimes I saw things most people missed. If Hannah hadn’t been so busy staring at Michael’s artwork the first time she entered this room, she might have noticed it on her own and made the connection. Now she needed my help to see it. I took a mental photograph and flashed it into her mind.
The revelation took her by storm and restored her sense of purpose. “With all this priceless artwork hanging around, you must need a security system to protect it.”
“I don’t have a choice. Any one of these is worth more than the house.” Thatcher motioned toward Delacroix’s paintings.
“Do you record all your camera feeds?” She pointed toward a tiny security camera mounted near the ceiling above Thatcher’s head. It was hard to see because, of course, it was white.
“Sure, but I’ve never needed to look at them.”
“This is the last place we know Delacroix visited before he disappeared.” She glanced at Sister Mary Elizabeth, who seemed to hang on her every word. “You’re the last person to see him. If there’s a video, maybe we could get an idea where he headed after he left.”
“I already told you. He said he was going home to paint.”
“He hasn’t painted in days,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “We checked.”
“Just let us look at it.” Hannah slapped her palm on his desk. “If it doesn’t show anything, we won’t bother you anymore.”
Thatcher grabbed his phone. “It’s probably a waste of time, but since you asked so nicely.” He climbed out of his chair. “Follow me.”
• • •
Hannah felt the electromagnetic energy buzzing from behind the door. Again the Universe had bailed her out of a dead end, and she was sorry she’d ever doubted it. She took Sister Mary Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it. No way could this woman feel what Hannah was feeling right now, not with that attitude and not dressed in those clothes. Maybe one day she would share her secret. But only if Sister Mary Elizabeth proved she was open to hearing it.
“This is where the camera feeds are recorded.” Thatcher led the women inside. “I use an outside company for monitoring, but we can replay anything from the last week right here.” He pointed to an empty chair tucked against a desk with a computer and three large monitors. A cabinet of servers with blinking lights sat in one corner. On the wall in front of us were six more screens, all showing live camera shots of various locations around the property. The pictures were black and white, but the resolution was impressive. Hannah guessed this setup must have cost Thatcher more than her annual salary at the Sun-Times.
He pulled out the chair, sat, and grabbed the mouse. “Where do you want to start?”
“Yesterday morning when you met with Michael,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said.
Thatcher waved his mouse and clicked a few keys. A high-angle view of his office appeared on all three monitors on his desk. At first the room was empty, then Thatcher rushed in and jumped into his chair, dressed only in a bathrobe. A second later Delacroix appeared on the screen, standing awkwardly and shifting his weight from one leg to the other like a student called into the principal’s office.
“Oh,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said.
“I’ll slow it down,” Thatcher said.
The screen showed Thatcher leaning back in his chair, then grabbing a sheet of paper and showing it to Delacroix. All the while he never seemed to stop talking.
“What happened to the sound?” Hannah said.
“This isn’t the NSA,” Thatcher said. “It’s only to help identify burglars.”
The rest of the conversation played out on the screen until they both walked out. She wished she knew what was actually said in that room, but she could guess the theme of the meeting. “This was your strategy session on how to capitalize on Chicago, right?”
“Capitalize? No. This was a creative brainstorming session.”
“Then what was on that paper?”
“I jotted down a few ideas for his next series of paintings.”
“I noticed he didn’t take it with him,” she said.
Thatcher stood and pulled his sports coat tighter around his chest. “Are we done here?”
“No, we’re not. We need to find something to go on,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said. “This hasn’t helped at all.”
“I told you it wouldn’t,” Thatcher said.
“Where did he park?” Hannah sidled up to Thatcher, blocking his way out of the room. “I want to see him get in his car.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m not leaving until I see it,” she said.
Thatcher rolled his eyes and collapsed into the chair. More keyboard clicks, another wave of the mouse, then a camera view appeared showing Delacroix walking down the driveway. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. And his mouth was moving.
“Who’s he talking to?” Hannah said.
Thatcher grimaced. “He does that sometimes.”
Sister Mary Elizabeth grabbed Hannah’s hand and whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
Suddenly on the screen, Delacroix broke into a run down the driveway, toward the upper right corner of the picture. “Zoom in,” Hannah ordered Thatcher. It was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but another vehicle was parked in front of Delacroix’s. A man in a work suit stood next to Delacroix’s Hyundai. Delacroix confronted him—and just as quickly, the man attacked, taking him to the ground.
“Oh my!” the sister said.
“Holy shit,” Thatcher said.
The camera didn’t capture the entire picture, but she could piece together the scene from what was shown. The man knocked Delacroix out with something, injected his leg with a syringe, then loaded him into the back of his vehicle. When the man drove off, Delacroix’s Hyundai followed close behind. A tow truck. The man was driving a tow truck so he could remove all traces of his crime.
“Okay,” Thatcher said. “Thi
s is a problem.”
“He took my Michael,” the nun said.
Hannah placed a hand on Sister Mary Elizabeth’s trembling shoulder. “Don’t worry. Now that we know, you and I—we’ll take him back.”
CHAPTER 15
When I left Thatcher’s security room, I felt better than I had since Michael flew to Chicago. The police wouldn’t pry open the trapdoor to his cell in the next few hours, but watching Sister Mary Elizabeth and Hannah push until they found the video of his abduction fed my hope that Michael would survive and be rescued. And hope was something Michael and I desperately needed.
Michael had been losing hope since the day he learned Jolene was missing. He’d felt the emotion build inside him all semester while he painted her image in the secrecy of his apartment studio. It didn’t matter that he’d never seen her nude. Even better that he hadn’t. What we both knew, and what his professors would never begin to realize, was that Michael never focused on painting the figure of a naked woman like the course required. The curves of her body were nondescript. Her facial features were simply drawn. He spent all his time and effort—using a glazing technique he’d recently perfected—creating the radiant glow of her skin. He applied several layers of paint combined with a secret mixing agent to create the effect, which took several weeks to complete. With each new layer, his hope deepened that Jolene would see what he could never say with words: that he loved her from afar, every part of her, in a pure, idealized way.
He didn’t really know her at all. So he’d painted the person he hoped she was.
When I rejoined him in his cell, I knew Michael didn’t have enough hope to paint a figure like that again. Instead his mind was swimming in dread about what Donnie might do next. Still sitting against the mattress he’d propped against the mirror, he tugged on his collar to see if he could loosen it.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Donnie appeared just beyond the barred gate. “That thing holds enough amperage to stop your heart.”
“Then why use it?”
“It’s either the collar or this.” Donnie tapped the handle of the knife on his hip. “Time to get to work.”
