by Mallory Kane
“I told you, she’s fine.” The raspy whisper—Paige couldn’t tell if it were male or female—sounded impatient.
“Let me talk to her.”
“All in good time.”
“I have to talk to her!” She gripped the phone in both hands, hunched over it as if she could somehow get closer to Katie by doing so.
“All you have to do is listen.”
“But—”
“No! You will be allowed to talk to Katie when you obey. When you don’t obey…”
Paige’s heart turned to ice. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had kidnapped her daughter. They were threatening to hurt her. The flat, emotionless voice promised horrible, unthinkable things.
“O-okay,” she stammered. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt her. Please!”
“Now listen carefully. I will only say this once. Bring me Johnny Yarbrough.”
“What?” Paige’s hand tightened reflexively on the cell phone. Her head spun. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Johnny? But he’s…he’s dead.”
“Do not insult me. You know where he is. Bring him to me and your daughter will be returned to you. Do anything other than exactly what I tell you and you will never see your child again.”
Paige’s mouth went dry and her heart squeezed with pain. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in years. I thought he was dead.” She took a sobbing breath. “I just want my baby back.”
“Then you know what you have to do.”
“You can’t do this! I’ll…I’ll go to the police.”
An ominous laugh crackled through the phone. “Don’t be stupid, Paige. If you go to the police, or tell anyone at all, I’ll know. And little girls are so very small and fragile.”
Paige could hardly force breath through her constricted throat. “No, wait. I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt her.”
How was she going to do this? She had no idea. She vowed to tear the city apart brick by brick if she had to, to save her child.
The voice went cold with impatience. “Whether she’s hurt is entirely up to you. I’ll talk with you again soon.”
“Please! Don’t hang up! I have to hear her voice. I have to know she’s all right.”
She heard a sigh on the other end of the line, then a curt command. Her heart beat faster. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
“Mom—”
The word was cut off short, but it was Katie. Paige wanted to scream into the phone, but Katie’s voice was small and scared, so she bent all her will to sounding calm.
“Katie? Hi, sweetie. I love you.”
“Mom, come get me—”
“Oh, Katie, I’m trying to. Be brave, honey.”
“Nice sentiment, Paige.”
Her throat ached with the need to cry. “Katie,” she mouthed soundlessly.
“But you don’t have time for sentiment. Your daughter’s time runs out when the cell phone battery runs out.”
“Wait! What do I do if I find him?”
“You don’t worry about that.”
“But how will I get in touch with…?” Paige realized she was speaking to a dead phone. She dropped it as if it were hot and stared at it, wringing her hands.
“Katie,” she whispered hoarsely, then forced herself to take a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. Think.”
She paced back and forth clenching and unclenching her fists as she wrestled with the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She worked to gain control of her whirling thoughts.
The picture. The picture with Johnny’s signature on it. Paige felt a minuscule flutter of hope. She’d call Sally and find out about the picture.
Grabbing the cell phone, she punched buttons, but nothing happened. She looked at it. The little display screen was black. Not even the time or the signal showed. She shook it and punched buttons again.
What was wrong with the stupid phone? It was like the keys were stuck. She wanted to throw it, but instead she clutched it to her chest. It was her only link to her baby.
A vise of terror clamped around her heart. Katie was in danger and she didn’t know where she was, or how to get in touch with her.
Paige forced herself not to give in to terror and grief. She had to think. What could she do? She stared at the silent phone. She tried to remember everything the kidnapper had said, but her brain wouldn’t work right.
Oh God, she needed to hear Katie’s voice again. If she could just hear her, she could be sure she was all right.
Her tape recorder! She had a minirecorder that she used to dictate notes about her social work clients. She could record the calls. Maybe she could somehow use the information to find Katie.
She ran into her bedroom and grabbed the little tape recorder off her bedside table. Having it didn’t do much to calm her growing panic, though. It didn’t solve her biggest problem. She thought about the voice’s demand. She had to find Johnny Yarbrough.
How was she going to find a dead man?
Chapter Two
Paige stood in front of yet another tiny, musty shop. She’d been inside dozens of similar shops today, up and down the streets near the docks.
She’d taken a cab back to Sally’s place last night, but Sally hadn’t been available. She’d gone off with a gentleman friend, according to her housekeeper. But she’d left the drawing in case Paige came by.
Frustration and fear had Paige’s muscles wound as tight as springs. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. Now it was almost dark and she still hadn’t found the right shop.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last. Nausea gnawed at her insides and she couldn’t stop trembling as she clutched the cell phone in one hand and the small, framed sketch in the other.
What if she did something wrong and those people hurt Katie? What if the artist wasn’t Johnny?
What if he was?
The cell phone rang.
Paige jumped and almost dropped it. She jabbed the one button that worked. “Katie?”
“It’s been sixteen hours, Paige. That battery won’t last forever.”
“Wait!” she cried, fumbling in her pocket for her tape recorder. The phone went dead.
Paige froze. Were they watching her? Had they seen her pull the tape recorder out of her pocket? She looked up and down the street, the hairs on her neck prickling, the weight on her chest making it hard to breathe.
She didn’t need the faceless voice to tell her how long it had been. She knew exactly, down to the second. It had taken all her will not to go to the police. It had taken all her strength to make it this far. The only thing that had kept her going was Katie.
This was for Katie.
Forcing her leaden limbs to work, she entered the shop.
The interior was dark after the bright sunlight outside. The odor of incense and mildew swirled around her. Exotic fabrics draped the walls and spilled over counters and chairs. On a shelf stood a number of apothecary bottles labeled with odd names like wolfsbane and maidenhair.
A table held an ominous collection of straw and rag dolls, some with long, pearl-tipped pins stuck in them.
On the main counter was a drawing held flat by a yardstick. Like the one in her hands, it was deceptively simple, no more than a few perfectly executed lines. An old pier with a seagull perched on a board was in the foreground, with a hint of mist-shrouded sea behind.
She peered closer, squinting in the dimness. The date was three months ago. Her heart sped up. The signature was the same.
Paige caught the edge of the counter as relief sent dizzying blood rushing to her head. Finally, she’d found the right place.
Beads clattered as a dark woman in a yellow turban stepped into the room. “Ah, c’est vous.”
Paige started. “What?”
“It is you. From the drawings.”
Paige studied the thin, brightly dressed woman. Her eyes, enormous and black in her dark face, reflected wisdom and sympathy, along with a hint of amusement. Maybe she would h
elp her.
Paige held out the framed sketch. “I must find the artist.”
“Ah, everyone comes to Tante Yvette seeking the mysterious artist.”
“You mean other people have been asking about him?” Her fingers tightened around the cell phone in her pocket. “Who?”
“Two men,” the woman spat. “Rough. Stupid.”
“Did you tell them?”
The woman laughed and the sound echoed through the little shop like a wind chime. “It is not my place to tell secrets.”
“I have to find him. Please.” Paige heard the desperation in her voice, the rising panic.
The turbaned woman shook her head and waved a thin hand. A dozen or more bracelets jangled. “Perhaps he does not wish to be found.”
Despair clutched at Paige like punishing fingers. “Who is he? You have to tell me. My daughter….” She stopped.
If you tell anyone…your daughter is so small and fragile.
The jangling bracelets stilled. “Your daughter?”
Paige shook her head. “Never mind. I have to find the artist. It’s important.”
“Many things are important. For this artist, perhaps not being found is important.”
“Please don’t talk to me in riddles,” Paige begged. “If you won’t help me, just say so. I don’t have much time.” She thought of Katie, of what the kidnappers might be doing to her.
Tante Yvette stared at her intently. “Time? For what?”
Paige shook her head, but before she could speak, a noise outside startled her. She clutched the frame closer and didn’t breathe.
“You are afraid,” the woman said. “Tell Tante Yvette who frightens you.”
Paige shook her head. “I can’t. They—they’ll know.”
Tante Yvette looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are the girl in the picture, non?”
Paige looked down at the carefully drawn eyes, the exquisite perfection of the few lines that formed the shoulders, neck and hair. Then she stared at the signature and the date.
The answer was unbelievable, but for Katie’s sake she prayed it was true.
She met Tante Yvette’s gaze. “Yes.”
The older woman nodded. “Come with me.”
She led Paige behind the beaded curtain into an apartment that connected to another apartment, then another. As they encountered other people and stepped around furniture, Tante Yvette gestured or spoke in what was probably French. No one said a word to Paige.
Finally they walked through a crowded storeroom to a heavy door. “Go out this door and turn right. Stay behind the buildings. Go to the hotel and ask the old drunk.”
“But where are you sending me?”
“You want to find the artist?”
Paige nodded, her head pounding with exhaustion.
“You are the girl in the picture?”
She nodded again.
“Then go.”
Tante Yvette opened the door and Paige stepped out. She turned back. “Please be careful,” she whispered to the woman who was helping her. “They’re dangerous.”
Tante Yvette nodded. “Go.”
The alley was shadowed and dark, and held the stench of too many garbage bins. Paige walked quickly, swallowing the nausea that swirled in her empty stomach.
Any minute the phone would ring and the voice would tell her she’d lost her chance to ever see her daughter again.
She had no idea if she were doing the right thing. She certainly didn’t know why Tante Yvette had helped her. Or even if she had. She could be walking into a trap.
But nothing that happened to her could be worse than losing Katie. If there was any chance this alley would lead to Johnny, she had to take it.
Johnny. She shook her head. It was impossible. Beyond belief. But what if it was true? What if Johnny Yarbrough was still alive?
Exploring the answer to that question was more than Paige’s battered emotions could take. If this mysterious artist was Johnny, she was about to trade his life for her daughter’s.
For his daughter’s.
She couldn’t think about that. All she could think about was Katie.
Expecting any minute to feel a rough hand grabbing her, or to hear the cell phone ring, Paige continued down the dark, stinking alley.
Sitting on the front steps of the hotel was an old black man dressed in a dingy shirt and tie, wearing a jacket that left his bony wrists bare.
Paige walked cautiously up to him, glancing around.
The old man studied her through rheumy eyes.
She held out the picture. “Do you know where he is?”
“You’re the girl,” the old man said.
She nodded. “Yes. I’m the girl.”
“So his past has come to meet him.” The old man yawned and pulled a bottle out of his pocket, then took a long swig. “I reckon Jay wouldn’t have put that picture out there ’less he was looking for an answer.”
“Jay? His name is Jay?” She thought of the monogram with its three initials and the signature on the drawing.
JAY.
He nodded and stood, wiping his mouth. “Down at the end of the hall. Don’t you do him bad, you understand?”
Paige found herself answering reflexively. “No, sir.”
The old man chuckled and walked away.
She ran up the steps into a hall lit by dim bulbs that made pale circles of light on the floor. Paige walked down the empty corridor; her sneakers were soundless on the hardwood.
The last door was room twelve. She shifted the picture to her right hand and wiped her left one on her jeans. Behind this scarred wooden door might be the man who had left her alone, who had broken her heart.
The one man who could save her daughter.
She was trembling so much that she could hardly make a fist to knock.
She lifted her hand.
JAY WELLCOME JERKED at the sound of the rapping on his door. The charcoal broke in his suddenly tense fingers. Nobody ever knocked on his door except the landlord, and today was not the first of the month.
He set the sketchbook aside and stood. A glance told him the window opposite the door was unlocked. It had been almost three years since he’d woken up wounded and alone, with no idea of who he was or what had happened to him. And still he remained always aware of everything around him.
He waited, wondering when whoever had failed to kill him before would try again.
Satisfied that his escape route through the window and out to his deceptively battered car was clear, he pulled a T-shirt over his head, brushed his hair back with a quick gesture, and stepped over to the door.
He listened for a second, but didn’t hear anything. Cautiously, balanced on the balls of his feet, poised for fight or flight, he opened the door.
And found himself staring at the girl who haunted his dreams.
He almost ran; almost slammed the door. He wasn’t ready for this.
He’d let Tante Yvette and Old Mose talk him into putting the sketches out there. He’d been skeptical, torn between a yearning to pull himself out of the dead zone where he’d existed nameless and lost for so long, and the fear of being found. He’d spent the past three years working on the oil rigs, and always, always, looking over his shoulder.
He really hadn’t expected a response. He hadn’t expected to sell a drawing. And he certainly hadn’t expected this.
He stood there clutching the doorknob, staring at her.
Although the resemblance was obvious, she was older than the girl in his dreams. She was a woman. A beautiful woman.
The wheat-colored hair he remembered as short and shaggy was long, smooth, and woven into some kind of intricate braid that hung down her back.
She was smaller than he’d thought she’d be. The top of her head barely reached his chin.
The girl in his dreams was thin. This woman had curves where a woman should have curves. The eyes were the same though. Familiar gold-flecked green eyes that seemed sunken and sad in a face that was no
longer round and blushing with youth. It was pale.
He realized it was getting paler.
She whispered a name.
He stiffened. He was being way too careless. The shock of seeing her had caught him off guard. Straightening, he took a step backward and tried to make sense of her words.
“What did you say?” he snapped.
She clutched a small, framed picture to her chest. If possible, her face lost even more color. She looked as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Johnny? What happened to you?”
Johnny? The name meant nothing to him. Did she know him?
Without thinking about the possible consequences he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside the room. With a lightning-fast glance into the hall, he pushed the door shut.
She backed away from him, up against the heavy wooden door. “What are you doing?”
Jay studied her. Her pale face showed a strength of character, a wisdom that wasn’t in the young innocent face he’d drawn.
The eyes though, were hauntingly familiar. The only difference was these eyes were filled with terror, and they hadn’t left his face since he’d opened the door.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Shock darkened her gaze and lifted her delicate brows for an instant. Then she seemed to shrink, and something changed in her. A tension, or anticipation, drained out of her, leaving her seeming even smaller. Her enormous green-and-gold eyes closed and she shook her head slowly, once.
When she looked at him again, her expression was carefully blank, although the rigid set of her spine had not relaxed at all.
“I almost didn’t recognize you either,” she said tightly, “but it’s impossible to forget those sapphire-colored eyes of yours.”
Johnny stared at her, panic shearing his breath as he wondered if he should be relieved or worried that someone had finally recognized him.
Paige swallowed hard, hanging on to control with as much force as she hung on to the picture. He was so different. This was not the boy she had fallen in love with. This wasn’t the frustrated young artist who was so intimidated by his father he couldn’t even bring a girlfriend home to meet him without getting permission first.
