* * *
Oliver drove. He often took the train, avoiding clogged roadways, but when he’d left the farm for what he’d anticipated would be a quiet few days in London, he’d packed his Rolls-Royce. It wasn’t new, but it was luxurious and a dream to drive, whether on a lane winding through the rolling Cotswolds countryside or on a crowded motorway. He suspected Henrietta could be in a rusted heap for all she would have noticed or cared. She often took the train to London—or so she claimed. He’d ridden with her once in her mud-encrusted Mini. She’d been a mad driver in her teens, but now, with her MI5 training, she could turn a simple drive to Stow-on-the-Wold for tea into a white-knuckle adventure.
When they came to Oxford, Henrietta tapped the Blackwood address into her phone and produced turn-by-turn directions. She didn’t switch on the voice commands. She pointed, phone in hand. “Bear left.”
“I know the way.”
Oliver hated using GPS. He kept stacks of maps in the car. Real maps. Printed on paper. He didn’t tell her he’d looked up the address on his Oxford map while she’d checked out of Claridge’s. He’d memorized the route. Better for the brain than relying upon a device, and he was familiar with Oxford.
“Have you spent much time in Oxford?” he asked her.
“I kayaked on the river with an old boyfriend. I don’t mean old as in former, either. He was thirty years my senior. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“When was this?”
“Eons ago.”
“You’re only thirty-six, Henrietta.”
“I did quite enjoy the river,” she said vaguely. “What about you? Have you been back here much since you flunked out of Oxford?”
“I didn’t flunk out. I withdrew.”
“Mmm.”
“My grandparents had died, and I realized I wasn’t one for a formal education. Martin urged me to give it more time. He told me I’d only get into mischief if I left prematurely.”
“Truer words never spoken.”
Oliver didn’t indulge her with a response. He hadn’t begun thieving until a decade later. He’d studied on his own, reading everything he could find on myths, legends and folklore, particularly Celtic, and prowling through museums, libraries, churches, graveyards and ruins. He now understood he’d been trying to make sense of what he’d witnessed at eight, kidnapped and held in a Scottish ruin by his parents’ killers, escaping on his own, picked up by a priest out for a walk...
“It’s not as grand a house as I’d imagined, but it’s nice,” Henrietta said, yanking him out of his meandering thoughts. She pointed. “We’re here, Oliver.”
“Oh, right. Yes.”
He pulled up in front of a handsome detached brick home on a quiet, shaded residential street. “Shall we see if anyone’s home?”
Henrietta unsnapped her seat belt. “Who would be home with Verity in hospital and Graham in New England?”
A good question. Oliver stayed behind Henrietta and let her ring the doorbell. Not surprisingly, no one answered. She sighed. “Well, it’s good to get a look at the place.”
“Let me see if anyone’s in back. You can wait here.”
She narrowed her turquoise eyes on him. “If you set off an alarm, Oliver, I’m fleeing the scene. You’re on your own.”
He’d never triggered an alarm, but he kept that tidbit to himself and set off along a stone walk leading past a flower border and fence between the Blackwood house and its neighbor. He ended up on a stone terrace—table, chairs and barbecue left out as if the residents would be arriving for lunch any moment.
He found a key tucked on a gutter and let himself in. He didn’t linger, but went straight through the kitchen to the entry and opened the front door for Henrietta. “I was beginning to sweat,” she said.
“Somehow you managed to apply fresh lipstick in the five minutes I was gone.”
“For the police. I want to look good in my mug shot.”
He pointed behind him. “I smelled gas. I was afraid there might be a leak and let myself in.”
“Did you ever use that line in your thieving days?”
He’d never had to, but he didn’t answer.
“I don’t suppose the Blackwoods would mind if I used the loo now we’re here,” Henrietta said, stepping past Oliver into a traditional sitting room decorated in robin’s-egg blue with accents of raspberry. “Nothing’s new. I’d say Verity has yet to put her mark on the place.”
“She might like it the way it is.”
“Even the books look as if they’ve been here for years.” She peered at a shelf. “No art books. If you’d worked as an art exhibitor, wouldn’t you have art books?”
“Turning over a new leaf. Maybe Verity’s taken up gardening.”
Oliver was playing devil’s advocate. Henrietta didn’t seem to mind. He examined the art in the attractive, if rather uninspired, room. A display of carved wooden ducks and geese appeared to be original, as did the three paintings—two small oil paintings, one a portrait of an early nineteenth-century gentleman, the other depicting a late-Victorian fox hunt, and a large acrylic painting above the mantel of kayakers on the River Cherwell.
“I didn’t realize Fletcher Campbell painted English scenes,” Oliver said, noting the signature in the corner.
Henrietta frowned. “Who?”
“An American painter in the tradition of Andrew Wyeth.”
“Ah. That’s the simple explanation, I imagine.” She stood next to Oliver. “Nice.”
“Did you and your elder fellow kayak here?”
“I don’t remember. I was focused on not tipping over and how to get rid of him before dinner.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t tip over.” She pointed toward the back of the house. “I’ll find that loo now.”
He followed her into the kitchen, also traditional, with creamy white cabinetry, an older Aga, tiles and a sturdy wood table with an empty glass bowl in the middle. “Cleared out the fruit bowl before they left, at least,” he said.
Henrietta was reading something on the worktop. “It’s from a local funeral. Stefan Petrescu, dead at forty-eight. Why do I know that name, Oliver?”
He read the simple sheet over her shoulder. It included a short biography—an obituary, he supposed. The dead man was born in Bucharest, attended the University of Bucharest and moved to Oxford eight years ago, where he’d lectured in linguistics and worked as a consultant. He’d never married, and left behind his mother and two brothers in Romania.
“A friend, I gather,” Oliver said.
“It doesn’t say how he died.” Henrietta was typing on her phone. In a moment, she sighed heavily. “He was murdered two weeks ago. No wonder his name seemed familiar.”
“How—”
“He was shot on his way back to Oxford from London. He pulled over in a wooded area, apparently for a comfort break. It was at night—about 11:00 p.m. Police haven’t released many investigative details, but there hasn’t been an arrest.”
“Can you find out more?”
“Honestly, garden design looks better and better.” She put away her phone. “I’ll do what I can. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wasn’t joking about the loo...”
Oliver returned to the sitting room. Verity Blackwood had flown from Boston. Graham Blackwood had stayed behind. Wasn’t Fletcher Campbell from Boston—near Boston? Oliver thought so but wasn’t positive. He took a closer look at the painting. Did it have anything to do with what had prompted Verity to contact Wendell Sharpe? Oliver knew little about forgeries. The Sharpes would know more.
Henrietta returned. She put out her hand. “I’ll drive while you phone Emma.”
“I can phone her now—”
“We need to leave, Oliver. There’s no gas leak. We’ve checked.”
“Point taken.” He handed over the key. “If you cra
sh my car, you’re paying for repairs.”
She grinned at him, folding the key into her palm. “I’ve never driven a Rolls. Shall we?”
* * *
Oliver waited until they were on the A40, almost to Burford, before he rang Emma Sharpe. He didn’t relish speaking with her with Henrietta next to him. He’d never been a passenger in the Rolls-Royce, this was her first go at driving it and she was MI5. But he had no choice. All in all, Emma took what he had to tell her well, despite the early hour and the call being from an art thief she and her family had chased for a decade. Her husband of a few weeks took it less well. “Is that Agent Donovan I hear grumbling in the background?” Oliver asked.
“He thinks you should have called me last night.”
“Of course he does.”
“Where is my grandfather now?”
“I believe he’s at Heathrow for his flight back to Ireland. He’s seen quite a lot in his day. He’ll have a pint with his mates and put last night behind him.” Oliver thought it might take more than one pint, but kept that to himself. He’d focused on informing Emma of the facts of the situation, whether because of Henrietta’s glances or his own instincts he wasn’t sure. “The police will want to speak with Graham Blackwood. They’ll want to know what he and his wife did—”
“Of course. Thanks for the call, Oliver. My best to Henrietta.”
He disconnected and sighed. Emma had gone FBI on him, hadn’t she? Well. He considered her a friend. Colin, too. “Agent Donovan and I have a ways to go before he’ll acknowledge me as a friend,” Oliver said, more to himself than to Henrietta.
“He’s a tough one,” she said. “Did they have anything for you?”
“The FBI isn’t in the habit of sharing information with me.”
“There is that, I suppose. Did they seem surprised by your call?”
He considered the question. Henrietta’s driving wasn’t as wild as he’d anticipated. Fast, smooth, sure. That was Henrietta Balfour in a nutshell, wasn’t it? He turned from the bucolic view, watching her as he answered. “I only spoke with Emma. Thankfully.”
“Wendell hadn’t been in touch with her?”
Oliver shook his head. “No.”
“Interesting. We’ll be at the farm soon. I’ll see what I can find out while you walk Alfred and get lunch sorted. I’m in favor of protein and vegetables. I swear I’m blurry-eyed from the croissants.”
“Not something I want to hear with you cruising along at a hundred kilometers.”
“Only a hundred?” She grinned at him. “I can do better than that.”
8
Tamara licked her lips, dry and chapped, cut in places from biting them and spitting out bile and bits of the blanket her attacker had tossed over her. She’d wrestled it into a heap next to her. She’d vomited on it. The place reeked.
She was in...what?
Milky sunlight slanted through a small, fixed window above her. Thick, filthy plastic covered the glass. She wasn’t steady enough to find a light switch, but she could make out a rusted, brown-ringed toilet and a stained pedestal sink.
A bathroom.
She’d been dumped in a filthy little bathroom.
Where?
Maine? Boston?
She had no idea. She didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t remember anything between the hood coming over her head and now...
Puking. She remembered puking in the dark. Here? In the car?
She sat up, groggy, sick to her stomach but not vomiting. She was on a mat—a smelly yoga mat. She licked her lips again. She was thirsty. She couldn’t remember ever being this thirsty.
The air was relatively cool. Dank. The bathroom had a concrete floor, and the wall with the window and wall opposite the sink and toilet were constructed of cinder blocks.
A cellar.
She fought back a wave of nausea. Had her attacker carried her down here? Dragged her? Coaxed her? Threatened her with a weapon? She couldn’t remember. She checked herself—head, arms, legs—and noted bruises here and there but nothing major or out of the ordinary after, say, getting shoved onto the floor of her car.
Why couldn’t she remember any details?
“Drugged.”
Her voice was little more than a croak. Anger surged through her.
Bastard. Bitch. Whoever you are...
Tamara shut her eyes and forced herself to take a calming breath. She had to keep her wits about her, rely on her self-control, her training in basic survival techniques and her sheer determination to get out of here. Even if she could find a way to get the plastic off the window, the opening was too small for her to crawl through. Maybe she could alert someone. She didn’t hear any cars or voices—no birds, ocean or anything else for that matter. Not even any cellar noises or mice scurrying in the walls.
It’s like being dead.
She stopped that line of thinking in its tracks. As she shifted position, her hand struck a plastic plate. Food. Protein bars, apples.
Well, how nice. She hadn’t been left to starve.
She felt around and knocked over a plastic water bottle. Her heart raced in panic, but the bottle wasn’t open and didn’t spill out its precious contents. Her stomach wasn’t ready for food yet, but she knew she needed to stay hydrated. Open the bottle now? Take a few sips and see if she kept them down?
You have a sink.
What if it didn’t work?
Slowly, bracing herself on the wall and sink, Tamara struggled to her feet. She was dizzy and her stomach lurched, but she didn’t pass out or barf.
All good.
She turned the rusted faucet. It creaked and groaned, but a trickle of water came out—and then more, a normal stream. She cupped some in her hand and took a few sips, and splashed the rest on her face. She wouldn’t die of dehydration. That was something to hold on to. A ray of...what? Hope? Sure. Hope. Why not?
She sank back onto the mat. It smelled like stale sweat. Hers? Its owner’s? Had it been used with another captive? What if she wasn’t the first woman to be held down here?
Should I yell and scream? Is anyone out there who can help me?
Adalyn...
She’s safe. She has to be.
I missed her birthday.
Tamara heard a small cry and realized it had come from her. She smacked her mouth shut, biting her lips again, tightening her jaw to keep herself quiet. If she cried out, she wanted it to be on her terms.
She’d made her abduction easy, hadn’t she? Preoccupied. Meeting a man she didn’t know in an unfamiliar place that had turned out to be isolated. She hadn’t checked in advance. She’d just blasted her way to Maine.
Phone dead.
Hot, sweaty and out of shape.
She’d cut corners. No question, no excuses. She’d been desperate for a break, time on her own. She’d wanted to get this Blackwood business settled in her mind so that she could head to Nova Scotia in peace. As a result, she’d made herself easy to snatch and harder for anyone to realize she was in distress.
They’ll think I left on vacation early.
That had been her plan, but not until after Adalyn’s birthday dinner.
“The note. Oh, hell.”
She’d written it in case she did decide to leave early. She’d taken her suitcase with her after brunch. Adalyn had gone back to Cambridge on the subway. When she found the note, she’d be irritated.
No one will miss me until I don’t show up in Portland for the ferry.
And even then, who would care? She’d deliberately kept her itinerary to herself. Spite, Adalyn would call it. Probably right, but it was navigating this new world she was in as a single woman. She’d been with Patrick since their first year in law school. They’d always done up vacation itineraries together and sent them off to his folks, her folks, their offices—and Adalyn, of course,
when she was away at school.
I’ve never gone on vacation alone until now. Why would I have?
Tamara squeezed her eyes shut. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t let Adalyn think any of what happened was her fault. Emma Sharpe, Colin Donovan and Matt Yankowski were three top-notch law enforcement officers. If they saw the note she’d left for Adalyn, would they question it—suspect she might have been forced to write it? If they got so much as an inkling something was off about her not showing up for dinner, they’d pounce. They’d get the bit in their teeth and wouldn’t let go, no matter where it led. Right now, Tamara had no idea where it would lead. Who had her. Why.
The man she’d been meeting... Graham Blackwood...
She opened her eyes, willing herself to remember any details of her kidnapping. Adalyn liked the Blackwoods. She’d been in a prickly mood at brunch, bringing up her disappointment that her mother hadn’t come to see her in London. This two weeks after she was already home. Why hadn’t she said something while she was still in England, when Tamara could have done something about it? She hadn’t realized Adalyn wanted her to visit. London was her chance to be on her own for three months before her intense final year in school. Tamara had been socked in with work, but she’d have carved out a long weekend or something if she’d known Adalyn had wanted to show off her life in London. What could she do about it after the fact?
Then had come that bit about the murdered linguist.
And this was after Verity Blackwood wanted to meet her at the airport. Tamara had assumed it was about a birthday surprise in the works for Adalyn. Then Graham Blackwood had shown up instead.
Tamara couldn’t hold on to the image of him, the memory of their brief exchange. She was so tired. She hadn’t felt such bone-deep fatigue since giving birth to Adalyn...my baby girl...
She curled into a fetal position on the smelly mat. What if that memory of Graham Blackwood wasn’t real? What if it was the drugs messing with her mind?
Maybe she didn’t want the FBI to find her. Maybe Adalyn was in trouble and needed her. Maybe she should figure out how to escape and then pretend nothing had happened to her.
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