Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  But still his feet refused to move.

  * * *

  Alison tapped the end of her pencil against her chin as she studied the intriguing nooks and crannies at the base of the gnarled oak tree. She could imagine a family of gnomes seeking refuge within the massive trunk. But what—or who—threatened gnomes so they had to hide? No matter how hard she tried to focus on the tree’s knots and limbs, her thoughts turned to home and the danger she had left behind.

  Dr. Ericson’s sleeping powder had worked its magic—she had slept even better last night than she had when Skipper drugged her coffee.

  She outlined two tiny gnomes on her drawing of the oak, then felt a presence behind her. She shifted in her seat to greet Trish.

  Except it wasn’t Trish who stared back at her.

  She blinked, refusing to believe her eyes. “Ian.”

  He didn’t move. Despite his scrubbed and starched appearance, the rigors of the past two years marked his face. In the creases near his eyes, across his forehead, she detected hardship, privation, and unspeakable sorrow.

  “How did you . . . ?” Ian began, then swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t know where you were.” She stood, then suddenly feeling lightheaded, sat down again. He hurried to her side and hesitantly reached for her hand. His fingers brushed the hair from her temple, traced the fading scar as if it provided proof that she wasn’t a mirage. “Trish said you escaped from Colditz.”

  “I did.” His familiar grin flipped her heart. “And now I’m home.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and she touched his cheek. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since yesterday. So many awful things have happened.”

  “All that matters is that you’re safe.”

  “No.” She traced his face with her fingers, memorizing the contours and lines. “All that matters is that you’re safe.”

  They both laughed nervously. Then Ian drew her close, finding her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling his warmth, and returned his kiss, hungry for the taste of him. Never wanting to let him go.

  “I love you, Alison Schuyler,” he whispered between kisses. “Always be mine.”

  Her heart pounded against her chest. Did she hold on to the family fate? Or trust God with her future?

  She leaned back and gazed into his hazel eyes, finding in their depths a love that could only come from heaven. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath. “I love you, Ian Devlin. I’ll always be yours.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  AUGUST 1942

  Sunpennies glinted like an abundance of diamonds upon the gentle waves in the Bristol Channel off the shores near the Devlin estate. Alison shaded her eyes and looked out at the boulder protruding above the blue water.

  “I see why it’s called the giant’s hand,” she said. “You can actually swim that far?”

  “Used to,” Ian said.

  Alison didn’t think he even realized he rubbed his shoulder when he spoke, the gesture was so unconscious. But she knew the injury bothered him and that he ached for the strength that two years in a POW camp had stolen from him. Not that he ever complained. Others had lost limbs, their sight, their lives. Those were the ones who deserved sympathy, he had told Alison, not him.

  “You ready?” He held out his hand to help her into the skiff. When their hands touched, Alison smiled at the tingle that quickened her pulse, knowing he felt it too. She hoped it never went away.

  Two months had passed since their reunion beside the gnarled oak. Ian’s new assignment, teaching escape and evasion techniques to Allied airmen and setting up safe routes through occupied Germany, had earned him a promotion to captain. He and sweet little Libby had settled into a brownstone within easy walking distance from the Mannings, where Trish mothered the twins and Alison. And Alison mothered Libby while Ian worked.

  Though Alison had met Ian’s parents when they came to London after Ian’s return, this was her first visit to Kenniston Hall. The squat manor was much as she had imagined it, and she relished the feeling of stepping back into the past when Ian had taken her on a tour of the older section.

  “Do you know what today is?” Ian sank the paddle’s end into the channel, keeping the skiff on course to the giant’s hand.

  “Monday,” she said mischievously, knowing that wasn’t the answer he wanted.

  “The date.”

  “August 24.”

  “Three years ago today, we met at Waterloo Station.”

  “And had Miniver scones.”

  “You told me you’d never see me again.”

  She trailed her hand in the water, then flicked the drops at him. “You’ve been persistent.”

  “Because I love you.”

  Smiling, she captured his face in her heart. How ruggedly handsome he was with his strong chin and Anglo-Saxon features. The haunted expression in his gold-flecked eyes had disappeared, replaced by an intensity that softened whenever he looked at her. The gauntness was gone too, but not all the creases beside his eyes. The hard months had aged him, but she cherished each line, knowing its cost.

  “I love you too,” she said and delighted in Ian’s affectionate smile. How easy she found it now to say the simple words. And she meant them. From the bottom of her heart, she meant them. The family fate no longer controlled her destiny. Only God could do that. Come what may, she treasured that belief deep within her soul.

  Ian steered the boat onto a slender shelf, and they climbed the pathway across the top of the giant’s palm and settled upon the wind-carved bench.

  “That’s Wales,” he said, pointing to the northwest.

  “Such a beautiful view,” Alison exclaimed.

  “It’s always been one of my favorite places.”

  “I can see why.” Gazing across the blue waters, Alison remembered her trip to the Welsh quarry. Great Britain hadn’t found it as necessary to hide her cultural treasures as had Holland and France. Not that those countries’ efforts had done much good. Stories of looting circulated throughout the art world. Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris was rumored to be a collecting point for treasures being shipped to secret caches throughout Germany.

  To think, because of her trip to Wales she had been in Waterloo Station three years ago to be captivated by a boy violinist and his soldier-hero.

  She smiled at Ian. “I wish I had my sketch pad.”

  “No sketching today. I’ve got something else in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This.” He dug a jeweler’s box from his pocket and opened it. Brilliant diamonds flanked a square sapphire, their prisms of color sparkling in the sun.

  Alison gasped as her heart pounded. Joyful tears clouded her vision.

  “The blue reminds me of your lovely eyes, and how you see beauty in what most people ignore. The diamonds are for your strength and your courage.” He took the ring from the box and, kneeling awkwardly on the narrow path, cleared his throat. “Alison Schuyler, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She tried to say yes, but the small syllable caught in her throat. Laughing, she nodded eagerly. He slipped the ring on her finger, a perfect fit. She admired the way it looked on her hand, then threw her arms around his neck. “Yes,” she said, finally able to speak. “With all my heart, yes.”

  * * *

  She said yes! Ian smiled toward the heavens. The sky looked bluer, the wisps of clouds even whiter as he and Alison walked hand in hand across the lower garden. Trish, Mark, and the elder Devlins relaxed within the shade of the arched gazebo, enjoying the seaside view, while Libby and the twins played with the spaniel puppy. All three children had gained weight in the past two months, and their squeals and giggles added to the joy of the day.

  Ian watched as Libby tried, without much success, to boss the twins into playing some game only she understood. Her brown eyes expressed frustration with her playmates, but no hint of fear
or grief. She no longer clutched the cloth doll, now propped on her bed in the newly refurbished nursery—Lady Devlin’s special project before the arrival of the children.

  Earlier that day, Alison had braided Libby’s dark hair with ribbons that matched the little girl’s purple dotted swiss dress. She looked so different from the tiny vagabond that had traveled with him from Germany. His own sweet princess.

  The unbidden thought stopped him in his tracks. Caught off guard, Alison turned. “What is it?”

  “Libby.”

  Her eyes darted to Libby and back at him. “She’s fine.”

  “I want to adopt her.”

  “So do I.”

  “You agree?”

  She chuckled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Did you have to ask?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t.” He grinned as he drew her close. “I want to adopt her soon.”

  “Then I guess we’d better get married soon.”

  He mimicked an evil laugh. “The sooner the better.”

  “Papi! Alison!”

  They interrupted their kiss to see Libby racing toward them. As he often did, Ian bent down and caught her in his arms, then swung her around. Holding her with one arm, he drew Alison close with the other. “My girls,” he whispered, kissing first one then the other. “My family.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  OCTOBER 1943

  Theodor read the message twice, absorbing the cryptic news he had waited so long to receive. Pieter Schuyler arrested. Gestapo headquarters, Amsterdam.

  He penned an immediate reply with clear instructions to safeguard the prisoner until his arrival, then poured himself a double scotch and toasted his good fortune.

  More than a year had passed since Alison’s disappearance. Theodor guessed she was in England, having heard that several hundred Dutch had somehow managed to elude the mines that littered the North Sea and reached those shores. Probably with that Brit she couldn’t stop thinking about. His chest tightened and he downed the scotch, welcoming its burn.

  He had trusted her, and she had slipped through his fingers. Given the opportunity, he’d return to that dismal day and change what happened. If only she understood how much he loved her, the plans he had made for their future. The risks he had taken for her.

  The chauffeur Brant, to his credit, had kept his part of their bargain. He confessed to planning the assassination attempt on Göring’s life without implicating Alison’s father. And he told Theodor where to find the hidden art cache, a fortune in paintings and sculptures that were now hidden in a cave not far from the Scheidemanns’ Bavarian chalet.

  Despite the danger to his own life, Theodor had kept his word to Brant and arranged for Will’s successful escape. That may have been his mistake, he mused, speculating for the millionth time whether Will and Alison had left Holland together. All he knew for sure was that the Dutch saboteur hadn’t been seen since. He never should have let the criminal go, but he’d given his word. On his honor, he’d given his word.

  When he had returned to the hospital to claim his prize, Alison and Hendrik were gone. Even Duret, that simpering French minion, had disappeared. Theodor posted guards at the hospital, the gallery, and even the destroyed canal house, but to no avail. Despite an interrogation so severe that it twisted Theodor’s stomach, Brant refused to give any helpful information. The next morning, he was found dead in his cell.

  It was as if the entire Van Schuyler family had vanished into thin air.

  But now Pieter was within his grasp. And if Theodor calculated his moves with enough cunning and finesse, Alison soon would be too.

  * * *

  “Are you certain? Completely certain?” Alison sat on the edge of the chair in Dr. Ericson’s snug office.

  The doctor chuckled. “One hundred percent.”

  “When?”

  “Mid-May. Give or take.”

  Alison blew out a breath of air and leaned back in the chair. “I thought so. But I didn’t dare hope.”

  “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you. And tell Ian that when the blessed event occurs, I want the finest cigar he can round up. Nothing cheap.”

  She smiled, her heart so filled with excitement she thought it would burst. “I’ll tell him. He’ll be home in three or four days.”

  “Off on another secret mission?”

  “Only he knows for sure.” That wasn’t quite the truth, but she didn’t dare say more. Ian’s position with the escape-and-evasion office, known simply as Room 900, required him to meet with returning Allied airmen for debriefings. Two Americans who had been shot down over Belgium had managed to connect with the Comet Line resistance group and were being flown from Spain to an undisclosed location in southwestern England.

  “I must fetch Libby.” Alison stood and gathered her things. “She’s taking piano lessons now.”

  “Any progress on her adoption?”

  “Not yet. We have no proof that she is an orphan. For all we know, her father is still alive.”

  “Even if he is, how would you ever find him?” Richard walked with her to the door. “Surely the court understands how impossible that would be.”

  “At least we have legal custody.” Josef’s uncle, Abraham Talbert, had gladly assisted them with that hurdle. “The rest is in God’s hand.”

  “I’ll pray for His providence.”

  “Please do.” Alison smiled brightly, struck anew by the miracle happening within her. A baby. She shivered with joy. “And thanks for such wonderful news.”

  “Thank me by taking good care of yourself. And don’t forget about that cigar.”

  “I won’t; I promise.” She glanced at her watch. “I really need to run. Thanks again.”

  She practically waltzed out of the office, her thoughts filled with visions of baby layettes and nursery schemes. Primary colors or pastels? Pink or blue? Humming the lullaby that Libby had taught her when they first met, Alison hurried to hug the little girl who would be a big sister in the spring.

  * * *

  “Pieter Schuyler. At last we meet.” Theodor paced around the broken man strapped into a wooden chair in the middle of the interrogation cell. Both of Pieter’s eyes were black-and-blue, the left swollen shut. His fractured nose seemed held in place by the swelling beneath his eyes and above his lips. The horribly distorted face sickened Theodor’s stomach. But his blood boiled at the unnatural angles of the fingers on Pieter’s right hand. Only a moronic Neanderthal could have done such a thing to an artist. So much destruction was making animals of them all. What had happened to the Aryan dream?

  “I don’t know you,” Pieter said through bloodied lips.

  “I am an art collector. An admirer of your work.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “My work only—” he struggled to speak—“in the United States.”

  “But that’s not true. Your works are all over Holland. Forged identification cards. Forged ration cards and birth certificates. If I’m not mistaken—and I’m certain I am not—even forged paintings. You have a great talent, Herr Schuyler. However, you have chosen to use it quite unwisely.”

  Pieter didn’t attempt to answer.

  “We are not your enemy, Herr Schuyler. We came to protect you and your countrymen.”

  Still no response.

  Theodor sighed heavily, as if exasperated. He turned to the guard, standing quietly in the corner. “Bring water for the prisoner.”

  “Major?”

  “You heard me. Go.”

  The instant the door closed behind the guard, Theodor stepped behind Pieter. “I know who you are. And I know your daughter. We are friends. At least we were, before this dastardly war.”

  Pieter’s head jerked upward. “No.”

  “It’s true. I also arranged Will Brant’s escape. Surely he told you.”

  Pieter slowly nodded.

  “Reichsmarschall Göring does not yet know of your arrest, but he will soon. And when he does,
he will demand your execution. There is nothing I can do to stop that. But if you will allow me, I will write to Alison on your behalf.”

  “My father didn’t trust you.”

  “There are things about me your father didn’t know.” Theodor gripped Pieter’s shoulder. “The war is going badly for Germany. Hitler knows this. Göring knows this. When the war ends, there will be trials. While your father sees me as Göring’s friend, I am instead his enemy. His crimes are many, and I have the proof.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “I risk my own neck telling you these things.” He walked toward the door and stood with his back against it. “The guard will return soon. What may I tell your daughter?”

  “There is nothing.” Pieter’s words were strained. “She knows I love her.”

  “At least she is safe.”

  “Yes.”

  Theodor frowned in frustration. He had only one more card to play. He took a deep breath. “I have your paintings, including The Girl in the Garden.”

  Pieter’s head shot up. Theodor refused to waver, though the distortions of his prisoner’s features made him ill.

  “I wish for Alison to have her mother’s portrait. Your masterpiece. As Germany is taking your life, allow me to make this small amends.”

  Pieter stared at Theodor with one eye, now filmy with unshed tears. “You could get the painting to her?”

  “I have connections with art dealers in both Sweden and Switzerland. It could be arranged.” He willed himself to be patient, to allow Pieter’s deep attachment to the painting to cloud his judgment.

  “She’s married now.”

  Theodor’s jaw stiffened and his breathing slowed. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let her marriage change his plans. What he told Pieter was true. The Aryan vision was crumbling amid cruel debauchery. He needed Alison more than ever to restore the Nazi dream.