Then his mouth opened and his eyes glared. “Fucking Philippe,” he said.
Otto rushed from room to room, opened doors, and yelled threats to whomever might be around to listen to them.
Frank leaned against the wall of the salon and watched Otto with a satisfied grin.
“Keep lookin’ Otto,” he said.
Chapter 50
Philippe paced in circles around the faux apartment that Otto set up in memory of his 1920s life with Carolena. He grabbed a fistful of wavy hair with his left hand, pressed his phone to his head with the other. A toxic mix of fear and fury pounded from his heart, twice with every step, and did nothing to build my confidence.
“Hard to predict exactly,” he said to someone on the other end of the line. “FBI showed up at the warehouse. I don’t know if they got to them. Addie and I are here in the room next to the firm and, if Otto and Nicholas escaped, then I think we have at least an hour or so before they figure out we didn’t return to her townhouse.”
Waves of shock swept over me in a fast-rising tempo, and I fought to keep my breath calm. Mostly I fought for air. I wasn’t free, I was about to be pursued again. By Otto.
“I tried that combination,” Philippe said after a minute. “No, I tried that one, too. And I did write it down. Exactly as he dialed it the first time. I knew he saw me watching him,” he said into the phone. “He must have had one of the Pulizzi clan come in and change it. I guess they have locksmiths on the fucking payroll.”
Philippe ran his hand back and forth over his beard, and drew his hand into a fist.
“All right,” he said. “No, I don’t want you to do that. I’ve got this covered.”
He hung up the phone as he passed by Otto and Carolena’s wedding photo, and pointed at Otto’s likeness. “You miserable fuck. You are not going to ruin my life. Not again.”
Philippe sighed and put his hands on his hips, then he realized I was staring at him. I must have appeared as alarmed as I felt.
“I’ve got this,” he said. “I do.”
I nodded. “I hope so. Who were you talking to?”
“Carolena. I thought she might have a suggestion on the new combination. No such luck.”
Philippe’s text alarm went off and he read the message. “She’s here,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
“Who’s here?” I asked, but Philippe didn’t answer as he made his way out of Otto’s memory vault.
“Wait! I can’t. I can’t stay in here. His presence is too much around me here.” All the events since Blake’s and my kidnapping were crashing together in my mind. I couldn’t be this close to Otto and have any sense of strength.
Philippe was half-ducked out of the hole in the brick wall when he extended his hand to help me through.
“I understand. Just wait right here.” He put both hands out to signal a stop. Then he bolted back through the hallways of the adjoining firm.
I stood alone in the empty warehouse-like building and took a deep breath of the frigid air, Otto’s shrine to Carolena happily at a distance. I sensed less of him from my new position. Which was rather like standing upwind from street garbage, as opposed to downwind. Neither was great, but one was clearly better than the other.
“Well, these were near the others so I brought them, too. They’re not exactly the ones you asked for, but they’re similar in style and painted around the same time. I thought it couldn’t hurt,” a woman said.
It was a familiar voice. Though just enough out of context for me such that I couldn’t place it. Like two entirely different worlds showing up in the same place—too jarring, too unexpected.
I stared at the door and her voice got closer.
“Addie!” she said, as shocked as I was.
“Elizabeth!” I was at once relieved to see her and simultaneously panicked that she would be caught up in Otto’s underworld.
“What are you doing here?” I ran and hugged her neck. Her hands were filled with the black, leathery handles of two large portfolio cases, but she returned the hug and scrunched her shoulders against me.
Philippe took the cases from her and rested them against the wall.
Elizabeth opened her mouth and shook her head, her dark hair flipping up at the ends and dancing along her shoulders. “I can’t believe you’re here! Are you okay? I haven’t seen you in so long!”
“I’m fine. I’m good,” I lied. “I guess I was just trying to keep you out of a…mess I’ve gotten myself into.”
“What kind of mess?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I waved her off. “I’ll work it out. What did you bring?”
Philippe was rapidly combing through the paintings inside each portfolio, each one separated by sheets of glassine paper and dividers.
“Well, I was moved to the dungeon in the Met, you know, the one I told you about. Which was fine, because I needed a break from the eighth realm of political hell. And I really just care about the art and the museum…”
I focused on Philippe as he put one portfolio aside and unzipped the next one.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said. “I rattle on a lot these days. Too much time alone in the MMA basement—as Chief Curator of the Land of the Misfit Toys.” She let out a deep sigh.
Philippe gently lifted a large canvas from its carrier, unwrapped the glassine paper, and examined the art.
Elizabeth had always been so well positioned in the New York art community and in the rarified society life that went along with it. She typically skated so skillfully around the hidden land mines of political battles. Yet here she was, tired of the game, on the outside of the in crowd, and relegated to managing the Eclectic Art Collections, which were located deep in the lower bowels of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Anyway, Philippe here called me a while back and asked if we had any 1920 Wentworths in this new…collection I manage.”
“Addie.” Philippe turned the canvas around so that I could see it. Vibrant oils depicted a carefree picnic lunch for several couples by the lake. Two of them were in a state of undress. “It’s a Wentworth.”
I rushed to where he stood and placed my fingertips on the canvas. Just as had happened with the Monet at Fowler’s house, the paint drew my fingers into its landscape and the world around me began to fall away.
Every leaf, every face, every article of clothing that was featured in the painting had an adventure to share. With only a glance in their direction they stretched toward me, begged me to experience their story. There was a tug on my upper arm and I saw a masculine hand and a bit of wrist.
“Not yet,” I heard Philippe say.
I relaxed my focus on the elements of Wentworth’s painting and directed my attention toward Philippe’s voice. Within a few seconds I was back in the nearly empty room with Philippe and Elizabeth. The transition left me feeling dizzy, and I held on to Philippe’s arm to steady myself.
“We need to get ready first,” he said. “I’m going to get a few things from my trunk. I’ll be right back.”
I floated on a wave of total ecstasy. We had a Wentworth. We were going to find Blake, get him the help he needed, get my father and grandfather, and bring them all back. I turned to Elizabeth, who stood with her mouth slightly agape.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been overwhelmingly self-conscious and worried about what she had seen. Though, as I had become accustomed, normal was simply not my life, and no longer my masquerade.
“I would explain, but, I don’t know that I could. Or even that it would make that much difference.”
Elizabeth walked toward the painting and lightly ran her fingers over the canvas. Hers didn’t sink into the world of Wentworth as mine had. “Philippe has told me the most fantastic stories over the years, about how a Wentworth can transport you to another time. I thought he was referring to the beauty of the art and the talent of the artist. You know, in terms of how all good art can carry you into other worlds. I didn’t realize—” She
stopped and shook her head in disbelief. “How did you do that?”
“Well, it’s the art more than me, I think.”
Elizabeth pressed her fingers against the canvas several times, as if she were testing the dryness of the paint. “I don’t know about that,” she said and inspected the art closely. “At least not entirely. Of course after what I’ve seen in the Eclectic Collection, as I call it, nothing would surprise me,” she mumbled.
“What do you mean?” I leaned toward her.
The door that lead to the firm swung open and Elizabeth and I bolted upright.
“Sorry,” Philippe said when he saw that he had startled us. “Here.”
Philippe gave me the handle to one of the medium-sized, wheeled travel bags he brought in. I laid it down, unzipped it, and marveled at the contents: a bronzed sheath dress with beaded detail down the front, shoes, stockings, and a coat. All according to the style of 1920.
“Of course,” I said.
Philippe picked up a small purse that was tucked into the corner and opened it. There were several stacks of blue-inked bills in an envelope, and a coin purse filled with change. “These are all authentic to the time,” he said. “You’ll have enough to last you several years. Not that you’ll need that much…”
I nodded. There was no need to explain.
Philippe pushed his sleeve to reveal his watch. “We’d better hurry. You can change in the bathroom in there.” He pointed toward the brick room.
Elizabeth picked up the suitcase and started toward the brick room. “I’ll help you.”
I knew Elizabeth was going to use my dressing time as an opportunity to ask questions. Thankfully, she kept them fairly indirect and open-ended. She was ever gracious, and perhaps, still not quite believing.
“I have to help Blake. He’s hurt,” I told her. “And this is the best way to do it.”
She only agreed with a nod. There was no other response she could have given, really.
“Philippe…” Elizabeth and I stooped through the hole in the brick wall. “…it’s a different painting from the one Otto used. How are we going to get there without the guidance of Otto’s red cord?” I pointed at the Wentworth that was leaning against the wall.
Philippe took my hand in his, wrapped his arm around my back, and guided me toward the painting. “This is one of a series of six that Wentworth painted,” he said and squeezed my hand gently. “He worked on all six of them at the same time, like a mural.” He took his phone from his pocket and opened his browser to a saved page.
“Here’s a wide shot of all six of them from Wentworth’s atelier in 1920. They were never meant to be sold or even separated, see?” Philippe moved his finger along the series that hung around Wentworth’s atelier. Each painting was in a different stage of development and depicted a separate scene from the gathering at the estate.
“The one we have now is this end piece, the picnic at the lake scene. Otto has this center piece. The location of the other four are unknown.”
“Why weren’t they supposed to be sold?” I asked and adjusted the strap of the slip which had fallen down my arm. It felt strange that someone I had known since childhood had just bought me lingerie.
“These were done as models for his room-sized murals. See, they’re all connected. It’s the same scene, painted by the same artist at the same time. Years ago, when we entered the center picture, I could turn left or right and see the rest of the scene on either side of me. So, I think we could still get to where we want to go, but going in a different way. Once we’re into this painting, we just have to go right, across the side yard of the estate. We ought to find the red cord that he had there.” Philippe pointed to the left side of the center picture that he had enlarged on his phone.
“Okay,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. “What happens if we don’t find it?”
“Then we won’t make it.”
I blinked twice. The suggestion that I might never find Blake took my hope and strength. Philippe’s phone rang and my heart stopped on the downbeat when I saw Nicholas’ name on the screen.
“What?” Philippe answered brusquely.
“Where the fuck are you, Philippe? What have you done with her?” I heard Nicholas bellow.
“We’re right here. What are you talking about?” Philippe motioned for me to put on my shoes and grab the money-filled purse that were still in the bag.
“You’re in deep shit,” Nicholas said.
Philippe hung up the phone. “They’ve figured out where we are.” He picked up his gun and placed it in his waistband.
Elizabeth helped me fasten the stiff leather straps on the shoes, then I hurried over to the painting and Philippe.
“Do you have a key to my place?” I asked Philippe.
“Why?”
“Give it to Elizabeth. Hurry!”
Philippe dug into his pocket then handed Elizabeth two silver keys. “The keypad code is 3478#,” he said.
“You’ll want to change the code and the locks because Otto has access,” I said. “Go into the library and flip through This Side of Paradise. Every day. Watch for messages from us.”
“What?” Philippe’s head spun toward us.
I kept my eyes on Elizabeth, whose brown eyes were wide and her breaths shallow.
“Just do it. And don’t—do not—tell anyone about this. Do you understand? Or you could kill us all.”
“After we’re gone, take the painting and return it to the basement of the Met. Hide it. Don’t seal it up in any way. And above all, don’t let Otto or Nicholas near it,” Philippe said.
“We should go,” I said, not even remotely understanding where I was going or how we were getting there. Not at all.
Philippe blew out a deep breath. “It’s easier if you go first. Once you’re in just stand still, and I’ll be right there to lead the way.”
I stood in front of the painting, then turned my head to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” I said.
She nodded.
I placed my fingertips on the painting and varied hues of ink crawled up my skin. “Hurry,” I heard Philippe whisper.
I leaned into the scenery just as a distant crash sounded. I spotted the picnic scene immediately, straight ahead and slightly to the left. Just in front of a light blue pond whose sun sparkles were so bright I had to squint.
Still on my belly, and half inside of that space between where I had just been and where I was about to be, I studied the couples by the lake, one woman naked as if fresh from a swim, and stretched across the white blanket. She sipped a glass of wine and turned toward me, and smiled when she noticed me.
When I scrabbled across the slippery inked landscape to drag myself forward and into my future, a strong hand wrapped itself around my ankle and yanked me in the opposite direction. The lake scene became blurred and disorienting while I slid out of the painting. I spilled onto the cold cement flooring, my dress gathered up around my waist. I licked my lips and swallowed a wave of nausea while my new world, my old world, swirled around me and left me in a vicious state of dizzy.
“Taking a trip?”
I tugged at my hems and cocked my head to see Otto hovering over me. Nicholas stood to the side and held Philippe’s arms so far behind him I couldn’t figure how that position was physically possible. I didn’t know what happened to Philippe’s gun while I was in the painting, but it was no longer visible in his waistband.
Otto grabbed my upper arm and lifted me to my feet, then walked a circle around me. Otto clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth three times and shook his head. “All dressed up and no place to go. Such a pity.”
Otto’s eyes shifted to the Wentworth and then to me. “I should have known that you would have this ability.”
“You,” he said flatly to Elizabeth. “I guess you can be bought now that you’ve been kicked out of your job?”
Elizabeth tried to appear unaffected but fear showed through her strength, and I knew Otto could see it, too.
Then he glared at Philippe, who set his jaw.
“Did you send them to meet us at the vault?”
Philippe’s eyebrows lowered in tandem with his frown and he shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t believe you,” Otto said. “Too much of a coincidence when stolen art and FBI show up in the same place.”
FBI…William.
“Though they didn’t get the art, or us. Several did catch a bullet.”
William. A shifting sadness sloshed between my head and heart. He must have had someone follow us to the warehouse.
“After all I’ve done for you. This is how you repay me?” He waved toward me and then to the hole in the wall.
Otto’s eyes fixed on Philippe and I found myself more afraid for Philippe's life than I was for my own.
“You know what you are?” Otto asked. Philippe's chin jutted out slightly and I felt him steel himself for Otto’s answer.
“A regret,” Otto said simply. His eyes moved up and down Philippe’s stature with disgust.
Nicholas held Philippe’s body firmly, and I waited to hear the crack of Otto’s knuckles against Philippe’s nose.
Instead he spun around and the back of his hand crashed into my cheek.
“No!” Philippe yelled.
Otto smoothed a lock of hair that had fallen into his face. The pain I felt ignited into hatred.
“You may not care what happens to you. Though I’m pretty sure you care what happens to her.”
My hands pressed to the side of my face, my eyes watered with tears.
“I’ve been fair with you,” he walked toward me, his heeled shoes clicking off slow, measured steps against the concrete. “I gave you an opportunity to earn your freedom. You didn’t—”
“I didn’t give her a choice,” Philippe said. “I dropped the hood and the cuffs on her and I brought her here. She didn’t choose this.”
Otto walked back to Philippe, then leaned in close to his face.
“I. Don’t. Care.” Otto punched him.
Philippe spit and blood spattered on the floor.
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