Somewhere in Time

by Alyssa Richards

  He sighed with disgust and paced by the masterful art that hung on the walls. “No one else in the world—at any point in time—has ever had the opportunity that you have right now. No one!”

  He placed both hands on my shoulders and shook me as if he tried to arouse me from unconsciousness. “Blake’s gone now. Do you understand that? You and I are partners now—a brilliant team. Just as it once was.” His eyes were distant.

  I stared at him blankly. He was right. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how I would find Blake. Or get out of this mess. I hoped William might swoop in with twenty other agents and rescue me. That might happen if Otto left me alive long enough to be found.

  But there was no rescue for Blake. No one had been able to help my father and grandfather for over twenty years. Now Blake was with them, and just as unreachable.

  He shook me once more and I nodded.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Get to work.” Otto motioned for Philippe to open a small cabinet, and he handed me a pair of white gloves.

  There was no sound in the room. Just dark silence filling every vapid space. I felt it weighing on me and winning. I wiped the last of the blood from my face, pocketed Otto’s handkerchief, then put the gloves on.

  My voice was thin and icy. “Where do you want me to start?” I asked.

  Chapter 48

  Three images of Rembrandt’s Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee leaned against the wall in front of me. All three were the same size and each one appeared exactly the same as the next.

  Though only one could be real.

  To touch a real Rembrandt had been a childhood dream. To know firsthand what he thought and felt when he painted these masterpieces that would last hundreds of years was a secret that very precious few people would ever have the ability to know. And I was one of them. As so often happened though, especially in my life, my dreams come true were typically surrounded by a nightmare. I reached out to the side of the canvas.

  “Oh, and Addie.” Otto paced to the opposite side of me. “If you should get this wrong—or if you’re thinking of giving me false information—your new career with me will be cut vastly short.”

  My hand held steady in the air, but my insides fell apart, I gathered my focus, leaned forward, and touched my left hand to the painting. The images poured through clear and steady. Otto at the easel, his intent to defraud, to deceive, to punish, his undying need to set others up, just to watch them fail.

  I removed my hand and said nothing.

  The next Rembrandt was the same, and I became increasingly aware of how intent Otto was to make people think that he had made their dreams come true, then to laugh at them for playing the fool. I, too, had been one of his pawns, and not that long ago.

  I crawled over to the third Rembrandt and felt more frightened than when I’d touched the other two. What if this was the real one? What if it wasn’t? Would Otto kill me if he didn’t like my answers? Helplessness swam up within me like a rising tide and threatened to swallow me whole.

  The third finger of my left hand rested firmly on the last Rembrandt. Painting this one gave him little pleasure. It was the topic, he decided. Perhaps it was the water. He didn’t know, but it was uninspiring to him. Out of his boredom he painted himself into the painting, and staring right at the viewer, no less. Though it was every bit as good as Rubens, which was his goal. Maybe even better. Maybe he’d keep this one for his own burgeoning art collection.

  After my conversation with Rembrandt himself, I opened my eyes to see what he had shown me. And there he was, peering at me from the past.

  I stood and faced Otto. “It’s this one,” I pointed at the third canvas. “The other two are yours.”

  Otto walked over to the canvas and ran his hand across the top, lost in the art. Only his shoes against the hardwoods and his silky voice made any noise in the small, tomb-like room.

  “Very good,” he said. “Now these.”

  Very good? Did he already know the answers before I gave them? Was this a test?

  Otto pointed at four canvases reflecting Manet’s Chez Tortoni. An ornate gold frame sat to the side. From what I’d read about the Gardner heist, I knew that Chez Tortoni left the museum in its frame, unlike most of the other pieces, which had been cut. I inspected the canvases first, each one holding subtle markings that said they had all spent time in a frame. Smart.

  Then I touched the first canvas just next to the black top hat. It didn’t take long.

  Otto. Special. He considered himself and his ability to be so special.

  I dropped my hands into my lap. I hated to admit it, but his talent was extraordinary. “Yours,” I said to him.

  I sped through the next two and struggled over the final Monet. They were all Otto’s. My body gave a convulsive shiver. Was this a trick? A test? Or had one of his sons sold a piece out from under him? He’d warned me before I started that he held my future in his hands.

  “They’re all yours.” Silently, I braced myself to be hit again. This couldn’t be the answer he wanted.

  Otto inhaled deep and slow, his nostrils slightly flared, his face stoic. “Did you sell any of these paintings?” Otto pushed Philippe, but his energy didn’t respond with any compliance.

  “No,” Philippe said.

  “Did you?” Otto pushed harder, his face close to Philippe’s.

  “No!” Philippe yelled.

  Otto turned to walk away then spun around and punched Philippe across the jaw with a closed fist. Philippe took it and I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

  “Did you remove any of the paintings from this vault?” Otto pushed Philippe hard enough that I felt my own insides singe and crumble under the pressure.

  Philippe shook his head. “No,” he groaned.

  Otto shifted his attention to Nicholas with a push and Nicholas shook his head. Otto rubbed his knuckles. “One of you did. Unless…unless it was John,” he muttered under his breath.

  My ears perked at the sound of my grandfather’s name.

  “Do those next,” Otto said. He pointed to a side table in the corner with four tiny images of Rembrandt’s self portrait placed on it. Each sketch was no bigger than a postage stamp.

  They were easy to read as well. “They’re all yours,” I said, and hid my joy that someone had gotten away with something Otto valued.

  Next was Edgar Degas’ watercolor series, La sortie du pesage. There were five in the series—all three of the first one were Otto’s. The rest were authentic, and I told Otto as much. He pushed me through the rest of the pieces, all of which had an original in the room.

  “Philippe, you know what to do with her.” Otto gestured toward me. “Nicholas, package up these paintings.”

  I exhaled nervously, removed the white gloves, and placed them in my pocket. The energy from Otto’s handkerchief told my sensitive fingertips what I’d already guessed, that he never had any intent to bring Blake back. I was his prisoner, his replacement for Carolena, and he’d use me as such until one of us died.

  Chapter 49

  Philippe restored the handcuffs to my wrists and left my hands in front of me this time, which I appreciated. He also yanked the black hood over my head, which I didn’t appreciate. My shoes clanked on the metal steps when we descended from the crypt of priceless art, and Philippe’s gun nudged me in the back of my ribs to hurry.

  The muffled sound of an external door being opened slid across the quiet of the warehouse and Philippe stopped. He jerked me to the side and I stumbled, then he dragged me along a crooked route toward what I thought must be the outer door. He grabbed the hood from my head and laid a finger across my lips in a shh sign, then nudged me with his gun.

  The warehouse was quiet again, but I had the feeling that someone was out there. Maybe several someones. My hopes jumped to life at the promise of a rescue. I weighed the risks of yelling, but the gun in my side talked me out of it.

  Philippe lifted me by the arm and hoisted
me into the back of the van.

  “FBI! Freeze!” I heard a man yell from inside.

  Pop, pop, pop! Gunshots fired inside the warehouse followed by the deadly sound of silence.

  Philippe slammed the van door, jumped into the driver’s seat, and we sped out of the storage park through a back exit. I’d missed my chance. I shivered from cold and nerves and hoped that if William had followed us that he hadn’t been shot. Philippe drove past the highway exit that led to my home, and fear slammed into me. I didn’t know where he was taking me next. Maybe the FBI had killed Otto and the two brothers were going to carry the family business forward with me in tow.

  “Do you remember how our families used to be so close?” I asked.

  Philippe quickly glanced at me in the rearview mirror, then his eyes returned to the road.

  “Do you?” I laughed, my nerves showing more than I would have liked. “I remember playing at the firm when we were about nine, Nicholas put on Ellen’s long black coat which showed like a minister’s robe on him, and he married us. Lexie was terribly jealous. I think she wanted you all to herself.”

  I waited a beat, but still no response. “Do you remember?” I asked timidly. “We all used to be such good friends.”

  “I remember,” he said finally and searched the side view mirrors carefully.

  “Philippe, I don’t know where you’re taking me. You know you don’t have to do this. You could just let me go.” The van was silent except for the engine and the blowing of recycled heat that was forced through the vents. “We have money. My family would pay you for my life. You could use that money to get away, have your own life. Away from Otto and your brother.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. This will all be over soon.”

  My eyes closed and cold dread covered me inside and out. “You were always the kind one, Philippe. Not like Nicholas. I need you to remember that now.”

  Philippe’s phone rang, and he turned on a side street and put the gear in park. Then he stepped back and put the black hood over my head again.

  “Yeah. Yeah, we’re on our way,” he said.

  After a long drive Philippe cut the engine and swiveled in his seat to face me. I stared him square in the eye since I had already removed the hood several miles ago. If he wanted to kill me, he would have to look me in the eye before he did it.

  “Why are we here?” I pointed to the backside of the brick building I knew all too well.

  The lower level of the firm was empty. What life the firm used to have was now dead, and it left behind only distant echoes that served no purpose.

  “Where are we going?” I whispered, afraid to speak aloud for fear that my whereabouts would be revealed.

  Philippe walked silently ahead, solemn and resolute.

  “Please,” I said and reached for his arm, my wrists still bound with shiny steel. At once I saw him, bruised and beaten, a young man humiliated by his father.

  “Oh, Philippe,” I said.

  He paused while I held his wrist. I felt the ridges of the scar and turned his wrist to see it. “When? I asked.

  “A long time ago.” He turned his head and took his wrist with him.

  Philippe’s phone vibrated. “Hey,” he answered. “Yeah, that’s perfect, we’re already here. No, he’s not.”

  “Come on,” he said to me. He hung up his phone and released my handcuffs. “We have to hurry. Or we may both be dead soon. This won’t make any sense when I tell you, I need for you to just listen first.”

  I nodded quietly. Though he hadn’t said anything, I understood now that Philippe was running from Otto just as much as I was. Perhaps we might help one another.

  “When Nicholas and I were kids, Mother was always arguing with Otto, telling him that he needed to spend more time with us. At the time we didn’t know why he was gone so much, but we figured it out later.

  “Anyway, Otto finally agreed to spend time with us, but on his terms. We came to his office where he kept a painting. Eventually he built this room where he kept the painting inside of a safe. It was a painting that you could walk through. Or at least Otto’s friend could walk through.”

  “Carolena,” I said.

  “Yes…” Philippe said. “How did you know?”

  I shook my head. “Small world story, and not enough time for the details.”

  “So, he had her take us, as if we were a family.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  Philippe watched me pensively, directly. “She took us back in time.”

  I nodded.

  “I realize how this must sound,” he said. “But it’s true. The painting is a Wentworth and—”

  My hand ran over the outside of his arm, to give comfort and reassurance. He was no longer my captor. “I’ve seen this kind of thing, though only recently. He took Blake,” I said quickly. “I’ve got to bring him back. He’s been shot.”

  “How did you—?” The realization slowly donned on Philippe’s expression that somehow we weren’t so far apart in understanding, that his job was going to be a lot easier than he expected.

  “Otto has talked about his plan since he was arrested over the summer—to throw Blake into the past, so he could force you to work the black market with him. I didn’t take him seriously until he wasn’t convicted. Then I knew I had to find his Wentworth. I was going to leave, but couldn’t let him do this to you. I had a hard time getting to this one.” Philippe pointed to the hole in the brick wall. “For a while I thought Carolena might have a copy. I even bribed her to give me one. She says she doesn’t have one. I also have a friend at the Met who has searched their hidden collections for me. Right now this is our only option. He’ll never bring—”

  “He’ll never bring Blake back,” I said over his words. “I know, that’s why I’ve got to get to him myself. When I said it I felt like I’d just agreed to land a hijacked airplane. It was something I had no idea how to do, and yet lives were at stake and depending upon me to figure it out. “Please tell me you know how to do this…”

  Philippe nodded. “I’ve traveled through time a few times, though not entirely on my own. Carolena has coached me.”

  I smiled with relief. “Thank God.”

  “I’m going to take you to where he is.”

  “Oh, Philippe.” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him hard. “Thank you.”

  Philippe grabbed my arms and tucked them to his chest. He stared at me with intent. “I can get you there. But the two of you are going to have to find your way home on your own.”

  “Why?” The thought of navigating the painting on my own left me deflated.

  “Because I’m not coming . There’s nothing left for me here.” Philippe’s expression was resolute.

  “No.” I shook my head. “That’s—are you sure?”

  “There’s no life for me for as long as Otto is in the picture. The past is the only place I can go where I can be my own person. And there’s someone there who I care about.”

  “Won’t he be able to find you there as well?” I asked.

  “We’re going to fix it so that he can’t,” Philippe said. “I’m going to need your help. For the last twenty or so years, he’s used a rope to go from this time to the next. A red cord that Carolena left in place from her travels. It’s sort of like a trail of breadcrumbs so someone can find their way from here to there. To keep John and Campbell from accessing it, he ties off the rope before he gets to the end of the painting. So that whomever accesses the painting from the end point won’t have any guidance to get home. It’s a dangerous path to go it alone.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve seen that.” I told Philippe about the Monet I accidentally stepped into. “The emotional currents nearly knocked me off my feet, and the number of paths available was overwhelming.”

  Philippe guided me through the small portal that led to the bricked room.

  “Why did he do this?” I asked, and gestured to the bricks.

  “This started as just a sep
arate room,” he said. “With a door with locks. It looked like a storage area. Then he added an alarm system. When he got suspicious of Blake, he bricked it up altogether. Just in case he found this area.”

  “Didn’t the FBI search this space? Seems like they would have wanted to see inside.”

  Philippe shook his head. “This space is an entirely different property from the firm. It’s privately owned under a separate company that’s in Nicholas’ and my names.” Philippe grabbed the couch cushions, tossed them onto the floor with a muted thump. Then he set about twisting the combination.

  I lifted the framed wedding photo of Carolena and Otto and scoffed. “So, I guess we can add bigamy to his list of offenses.”

  Carolena’s genuine youth and happiness glowed through the black-and-white photo. She sat on a brown tufted chair, and Otto sat on the arm of the chair and held her hand. The gold jeweled bracelet shone from her wrist and she held her cascading bouquet of white roses to the side.

  “This chair.” I inspected the photograph more closely and patted the chair in front of me. “Is it this chair?”

  “The entire room is a replica of the living room from their house in 1920. He had it built after she left for the last time.”

  For the last time, I heard him say. She must have left more than once. I placed the frame back on the table.

  Philippe lifted the silver handle, but it didn’t budge. “Shit,” he said and untucked a piece of paper from his pocket. He checked the numbers he’d written on the paper, then turned the combination again.

  When he got to the last number he turned the dial carefully, slowly. When he twisted the lever he got the same result.

  Dammit!

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “He must have had someone come and change the combination. I can’t get to the Wentworth.”

  “They’re not here,” Nicholas said to Otto when they walked into Addie’s townhome.

  Otto slammed his water bottle down on the counter. “What?”