Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  ‘Randy said you might be interested in another watercolor,’ I say.

  ‘Possibly,’ she says, ‘but probably not. Under the circumstances.’

  Butterflies begin to flutter in my belly.

  ‘How long do you think you can keep it up?’ she’s asking.

  I put the cup down carefully. ‘How long what?’ I ask.

  She stares at me, straight in my eyes. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t know who you were?’

  It’s then that I know, but I don’t have time to respond before she keeps going.

  ‘Your father took millions from me. And so did you.’

  EIGHT

  I can’t breathe. She knows who I am. She knows what I did. How can I explain that I didn’t know whom I was stealing from, that I only had account numbers? It was a job, a dare, almost, to see if I could do it. I didn’t stop to think that there were actual people on the other side of those accounts.

  I am making excuses.

  My father, on the other hand, did know his victims. He befriended them; they knew exactly who was stealing from them and he took as much as he could from under their noses before he got caught. Was Madeline Whittier one of the victims who testified at his trial? How much did he steal from her? Had she fallen in love with him, like most of his women clients had? My father was a handsome man, with chiseled features and a wide, warm smile that made anyone on the receiving end of it feel as though she was the most important person in the room. That’s how he seduced Tony DeMarco’s wife.

  Madeline Whittier leans across the table, her hands set on the edge of it, her diamonds glittering in the glare of the sun that’s settled across the tea set. Her expression is hard, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘I heard a lot of things about you. That you were in hiding. I hoped you were gone for good. And then you show up at Randy’s. What have you taken from him?’ Her voice is low and hard.

  I can’t justify what I did any more than my father could justify his actions. I can’t defend it. Looking at her, I don’t think she wants me to. What she wants is my blood. She wants me to pay.

  I shake my head in response to her question. It will do no good to talk to her, to explain what I’ve done with my life since I stole her money. Technically, I didn’t really steal it since Zeke intervened and managed to restore most of it, but she knows that I tried. That, for a little while, I had access to her account and moved her money somewhere she might never find it.

  I stand, reach down and pick up my backpack, surprised that I am as calm as I am, that my hands are not shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and begin to walk away.

  But she’s fast. She’s managed to get between me and the French doors, her arms outstretched so I can’t get past.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ she spits at me. ‘You certainly will be sorry. You’re not going anywhere. You can’t run and hide this time.’

  I spot the young girl who answered the door just outside the room we’d come through to get to the porch. She is wringing her hands in front of her, shifting back and forth on her feet, her eyes trained in the direction of the front door.

  Someone is coming. Someone is coming for me. Madeline does not mean for me to escape.

  My memory flashes on that white Cadillac with the tinted windows that was behind me on the street. Maybe my paranoia was not so misplaced, but it’s possible that it’s not only Tony DeMarco who wants me dead. It certainly seems as though Madeline Whittier might, too. Maybe they’ve joined forces. I wouldn’t put it past her to reach out to Tony, to tell him where I am. He is old and sick, but his power and vengeance still has a long reach. It’s too bad that the FBI couldn’t make any charges against him stick. Zeke and I found a deep web child pornography site that we traced back to him but by the time we could do anything about it, the money trail we’d found had vanished. Still, even if he’d been convicted, it wouldn’t have stopped him.

  Right now I need to stop thinking about him and figure out how I’m going to get out of here before anyone shows up to give Madeline her revenge.

  Madeline is elderly; her long, spindly arms are no match for me. Yet something in me hesitates. I don’t want to hurt her physically when I have already done so much damage in so many other ways. But maybe I don’t have to hurt her, and maybe I don’t have to go back out the way I came in. Maybe I shouldn’t.

  The long porch runs the length of the house. There’s a door that leads out to the front, but it’s not a room, per se. It’s merely a porch with a railing – and it’s not so far a jump to the gardens below. One problem, though. It might be difficult to leap over a railing while wearing a dress and sandals. But perhaps not so difficult just to run the length of the porch and take my chances with what’s at the other end. It’s worth trying.

  I pivot and, as I do so, I sling the backpack over both shoulders, securing it against my back. Before Madeline knows what’s happening, I’m running, my sandals clacking against the wood floor. I’m glad that they don’t have high heels, which makes it much easier.

  I hear some sort of commotion behind me, but I can’t stop, can’t hesitate. I’m at the end of the porch now; there are steps that lead down into yet another garden. I stumble a little as my foot misses the stone path and settles into the soft dirt, but I manage to regain my footing and leap from stone to stone. The path leads around to the back, disappearing behind a tall green hedge. I circle around, following it, the hedge now between me and whoever is after me.

  I glance around once but I don’t see anyone behind me because I’m shrouded, and when I turn back I hit an iron gate, bouncing off it and struggling to catch my breath. I run alongside the gate, my hands and eyes searching for a way out. Just when I think that I’ll never find it, it’s there. I reach for the clasp and flip it up, pushing the gate open and into the yard of the house behind Madeline’s. I slam it shut behind me, hoping that it will slow down whoever is after me. I see a man out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t stop.

  The neighbor’s yard is not nearly as long as Madeline’s, and within seconds I’m at a long driveway. The pavement is hard underneath my sandals, but I can’t get distracted and slow down. I’m soon on the sidewalk, and I turn left, toward town. If I’d gone in the other direction, I would have dead-ended at the waterfront park and I’d be even more exposed.

  I look around for a hiding place, but it’s too residential here. I have to head for a busier street, maybe one with a lot of restaurants and bars. My head is spinning with ideas; I’m more than aware that my breaths are raspy as I pull in more air. Running is far different than riding a bike, and I’m using muscles and energy I’m not used to. I’m also not wearing my sneakers, which have settled against my back in the pack. Blisters are forming on my toes and heels from the sandals that I’ve only worn a couple of times.

  I focus on these things to keep from thinking about who might be after me. Did Madeline call the police? I’m technically not a fugitive anymore, so the police wouldn’t be able to hold me on anything. The statute of limitations ran out years ago on the bank job. But it’s more likely as I first suspected: she may very well be in contact with Tony DeMarco. If it’s his people who are after me and find me, no one else ever will.

  I’m running in the direction of Randy’s gallery, but of course Madeline will have told them about that, so I can’t go there. I also don’t want to involve Randy; he doesn’t deserve the trouble and I don’t have time to explain.

  Cars are passing me; motorists are taking notice of me. I’m on Meeting Street and there is a hotel up ahead, one with an awning and a valet parking sign. I hear heavy breathing behind me. Whoever is after me is catching up, despite my head start off the porch. I can’t afford to get caught, but I’m slowing down with exhaustion, despite the adrenaline that’s pumping through me.

  And then I see it again, the white Cadillac. It’s coming toward me on the road. Maybe it’s not the same car, but my imagination is going wild. I fully expect to be gunned down right
here, in the streets of Charleston, and Tony DeMarco will be able to die in peace knowing he finally got the justice he’s thought he’s due. I should have stayed in the gardens, going from yard to yard, staying more hidden.

  Before I know what’s happening, the Cadillac screeches up to the sidewalk next to me, up over the curve. I stop short and slam into the hood of the car. The impact knocks the wind out of me and I step back, struggling for breath as the driver’s window rolls down an inch. I wait to see the barrel of a gun, but instead I only hear a firm command: ‘Get in. Now.’

  NINE

  I hesitate only a second, because another car is careening toward me and I spot the man following me on foot, since he is quickly gaining ground on me. If I hadn’t recognized the voice from inside the car, I wouldn’t have pulled the back door open and scrambled inside, but I do. The car shoots back into the road even before my door is closed, and the movement throws me across the seat.

  ‘Careful!’ I say.

  Spencer Cross turns slightly to look at me and then looks back at the road. ‘Seat belt.’

  I look out of the back window and see the other car getting closer. I don’t want to stay in the back seat, so I shrug off the backpack, climb quickly over the center console and settle myself in the front passenger seat, finally pulling the seat belt across me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head as he grips the steering wheel, his eyes darting from the rearview to the side-view mirror and back again. I keep an eye on the car behind us in my own side-view mirror. It doesn’t seem to be gaining too much ground as Spencer’s foot is heavy on the accelerator. His mouth is set in a grim line as he maneuvers the side roads, zigzagging as though he actually knows where he’s going.

  He must know, because we take a quick turn into a driveway. A garage door in front of us is rising. I twist around in my seat to check out where the other car is, but I don’t see it. Within seconds, we are inside the garage, the door closing, and Spencer is unlatching his seat belt.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, not waiting for me as he climbs out of the car. I reach behind for my backpack. By now he’s already going through a door, and I scurry to follow him. I pause just for a second in the doorway to see if I can hear the car outside.

  ‘We’re OK,’ Spencer says from somewhere within the house, and I step inside, closing the door behind me. I’m not so sure about the ‘OK’ part, but right now I feel like I’m in an alternate reality after what I’ve just experienced.

  The kitchen could be something out of a magazine, with bright white cabinets and gleaming stainless-steel appliances. It’s what I would have imagined Madeline Whittier’s kitchen looks like. I go over to the window and peer outside. I don’t see any cars idling; there are no cars on the street at all.

  ‘Where did they go?’ I ask.

  Spencer shrugs as he takes a pitcher out of the refrigerator. ‘Sweet tea?’ he asks, holding it up. He’s acting a little too nonchalantly, while my heart pounds inside my chest and I feel as though I can’t breathe.

  ‘I think I’d like something a little stronger,’ I manage to say.

  He gives me a grin and seems to magically produce a bottle of bourbon.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ I say as he pours a short one and hands it to me.

  I take a drink and savor the heat in my throat, taking the moment to really see Spencer. He’s cut his hair since the last time I saw him; the long ponytail has been replaced by a much shorter look, and he’s actually clean-shaven. His eyes are clear, not glassy, which surprises me, but it’s possible he might not have been able to drive like that if he were stoned, so I’m grateful for his sobriety. It’s going to be short-lived, though, since he now lights up a joint.

  He offers it to me, but I shake my head, indicating my glass. No peer pressure, because Spencer merely nods and takes a drag.

  ‘Are you sure that we’re OK here?’ I ask, still a little uncertain as to where ‘here’ actually is.

  He nods. ‘No worries.’

  But I am worried. He showed up out of nowhere and rescued me. But Madeline or Tony DeMarco or both could be lurking outside, ready to make good on that hit. A closer look at Spencer indicates that he really isn’t as worried – or worried at all. I peer outside again but the street is quiet; there are no cars passing by, no one walking on the sidewalk. I take a deep breath and face Spencer when I’m almost certain that we might be safe.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. Now that my heart has stopped pounding quite so hard, my curiosity has come back. It’s no coincidence that he is in Charleston.

  ‘Thought you might need a little company,’ he says simply. ‘Come on.’ He leads me out of the kitchen and into the living room. I expect to see half-a-dozen computer screens, a setup similar to what he had in his house in Coral Gables. But I don’t. The room is crowded with antiques. It’s more like a store than a living space. I spot a sofa in one corner and a chair in another, but the antique oddities like the large Chinese vases that stand as tall as I do, a table covered with five tea sets, two – no, three – cigar Indians, a wooden baby’s crib and more are overwhelming. There is barely room to move.

  ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ Spencer says. ‘But after a while, you get used to it.’

  ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I mean, who owns this house? All this?’

  He looks me straight in the eye, and I can see he’s not quite stoned – not yet, anyway. ‘I do.’ He shrugs. ‘I mean, it’s from before. You know, when I had my company.’

  ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘I never really lived here, though, and if anyone checks, it’s owned by a holding company. My name’s not associated with it anywhere,’ he says, almost apologetically. ‘I bought houses everywhere. I’ve gotten rid of most of them, but this one, well, you can see why it might be a little harder to sell. I had a little bit of a hoarder problem.’

  Understatement. I don’t even want to move. I worry that I’ll break something. It wouldn’t be too difficult because it’s a bit stifling.

  ‘Where did you get all this stuff?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Here and there. I did a little bit of traveling and bought things. I had them shipped here.’

  ‘Nowhere else?’

  He takes a long hit off his joint. ‘Somehow this house became the repository. And then I stopped coming here because it reminded me that I should stop buying shit. But I didn’t stop. Not until, well, you know.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a garage sale or something?’

  ‘The idea of that is a little overwhelming.’

  ‘You know there are people who would do it for you.’

  Spencer rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He pauses. ‘I haven’t been here in a long time, but when I found out you were in Charleston, I figured I should keep an eye out, and since I had a place to stay and all …’ His voice trails off. ‘You’re not really surprised to see me.’

  I shake my head. ‘I figured you had a GPS in the phone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you disable it?’

  I’m quiet for a second as I take another drink of bourbon. ‘Maybe I wanted to be found,’ I say softly.

  He studies my face. He knows what I’m thinking. ‘Just not by me,’ he finally says.

  I don’t want to talk about it. ‘Who was that after me?’ I ask, eager to change the subject. ‘And don’t pretend that you don’t know. You showed up in that white car for a reason.’ And then I remember. ‘You’ve been following me. How long?’

  ‘Not long. Just today. I got in this morning.’

  I am about to ask ‘from where,’ but before I can, he heads down the hall toward an elaborate wooden stairway. I note the ornate crystal chandelier and the oil paintings on the walls as I scurry up behind him. One of the paintings makes me stop, though. It’s an ocean scene, with a small white ferry amid an angry purple sea. I take a deep breath.

  ‘That’s mine,’ I say.

>   ‘That’s right.’

  I look up to see Spencer on the landing above me. ‘How …’

  ‘I bought it at that gallery. You know, on Block Island. From your friend. Veronica.’

  A million questions rush through my head. ‘When?’ I ask.

  A sheepish expression crosses his face.

  ‘How long have you been following me?’ I ask.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone there.’

  ‘When you called me to tell me about Zeke, how he was gone, were you on the island then?’

  He doesn’t need to answer me; I can see it in his face.

  ‘I can’t believe that you’ve been following me.’

  ‘Zeke wanted me to watch out for you,’ he says quickly.

  ‘Why didn’t he watch out for me? Why you?’

  ‘He had business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  Spencer shakes his head. ‘Come on, Tina.’ He disappears around the corner, and I don’t have a choice. If I want answers, I have to follow him.

  It’s up here that I find what I’d been expecting. Five computer screens are set up in a semicircle on tables; a chair on wheels sits in the middle. As in his house in Coral Gables, the windows are covered with dark fabric to keep the daylight out. I’m taking it all in as he sits in the chair with a keyboard in his lap. Suddenly, the screens all spring to life.

  ‘Take a look,’ he instructs, and I step forward, although I don’t need to.

  It’s on the screen. What he warned me about. I could never have found it myself. Because somehow he’s managed to hack into the street security camera system in Paris on the rue de Rivoli, where the ATM machine is. The one mentioned in the story that had Zeke’s picture.