Bad Road to Nowhere

by Linda Ladd

  Two guards stood on duty at the barn’s door, and both instantly stepped back out of Emma’s way. The minute they had opened the door and she walked in, however, the men came together and blocked Novak’s entrance. “Not so fast, buddy. The lady likes to work alone. Bodyguards never go inside. That means you.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Emma said, turning back to them. She smiled at the guy who had spoken. He smiled back. Enchanted. “I want him to move some storage boxes for me. Barrett said it was okay.”

  Neither looked convinced. They looked at each other, then back at Novak, but they stood down and allowed him to pass. Wilson’s decree took the edge off their worry, no doubt, if what she said was true. If it wasn’t, Emma would receive the full brunt of Wilson’s wrath, not them, and they knew it. Inside, Novak got his first good look around the interior of the place that he felt held the key to Wilson’s illegal operations. Unfortunately, there was little to see inside, and it was certainly not a central distribution center for drugs as Novak had expected. Not at first glance. All he saw was a lot of art easels holding a lot of canvasses, some finished, some not. Others already in nailed-up crates beside the big rolling truck door, with mailing labels attached.

  All of which probably meant Emma was still selling her work after being declared dead, and most likely for one hell of a good profit. So maybe her husband really was passing them off on the black market as some of her finished work as yet undiscovered by the public. No wonder her husband kept her locked up. She was his money cow, and she was going to stay that way. And her son was under his control, too. Another coercion he used against her. A sitting area sat in the middle of the barn with a couch and settee and rugs on the floor and lamps and beautiful artwork. All done in navy and beige and white. At the far end, other easels were stacked up, ready to go whenever she chose to use them. Dozens more were propped up against the wall and covered with bright white drop cloths. Probably finished projects. Emma did a hell of a lot of painting inside that barn.

  It wasn’t hard to figure why she preferred to work there, either. High above his head, an expanse of skylights lit up the interior. It was a perfect place to paint if one wasn’t claustrophobic. No windows. No doors, other than the big rolling one and the street door that was guarded. On the other hand, Novak had a feeling this just might be Emma Adamson’s personal sanctuary. Where she could be alone. Where she could be her own boss. Where she could do what she wanted when she wanted. Where she could feel free for a little while. Where nobody would hit her.

  “I love to paint,” she said suddenly to Novak, breaking the extreme quiet. She turned and faced him, caught his gaze and held it with those extraordinary aquamarine eyes. “It’s very private. Don’t you think so? Being in here relaxes me.”

  Novak said nothing.

  “I don’t usually let anyone else come inside. Except for my husband, but he rarely bothers me, not when I’m working. He likes for me to work.”

  Novak knew why. Wilson’s logic was neck deep in dollar signs. “Then why bring me inside? Won’t I bother you?”

  Emma studied his face a moment, quite soberly, as if considering her answer before she spoke it aloud. She finally told him. “Because I like you. You seem to be a quiet man, and you listen to me. Really listen to what I say. Nobody else around here ever does that. Certainly not my husband. And the guards are afraid to. You’ll see that for yourself. It won’t take long. I think I trust you more than the others. I guess that’s why.”

  “Why trust me?”

  Emma sucked in a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and then gave a small hitch of her shoulder. “I don’t know why. I just do. Maybe you know why I do.”

  Novak considered that. Not sure what she meant. Was that an invitation to confide in her? Tell her things that she hoped to hear. That he might help her? On the other hand, his gut told him that her quiet barn studio just might be bugged. Most likely it was. Wilson was the type who would have placed hidden cameras focused directly on her when she was enjoying her rare private moments. He considered himself lord and master, especially where Emma was concerned. He was also that obsessive. Emma had taken a chance, reaching out to Novak, even in that small way. And Novak couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. He couldn’t tell her until he’d nailed down his plan to get her out of there. It was just too risky to move so soon. To believe she would not give him up if he confided in her.

  “Hell if I know why. I’m just doing a job here. Nothing else. I don’t even know you.”

  After that, their eyes locked together. Emma’s eyes first held a look of surprise, and then a different emotion took over. Hurt, maybe. Novak felt like a damn heel, couldn’t help himself. She looked more than hurt. Crestfallen. As if his cavalier dismissal of her budding trust had robbed her of all remaining hope.

  “Yes, that’s true, Mr. Novak. We are practically strangers, after all,” she finally said, and then she glanced away from him. She gestured down to the small sitting area. “There’s a daybed over there, Mr. Novak. You may wish to sit down. I’m going to work now and I usually work for a long time.” They stared at each other some more. Then she said, “Please don’t take offense, but I rarely say anything at all when I’m working. It’s just my habit. I have to completely concentrate on my art. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Wilson. I understand.”

  After that, she walked away and totally ignored him. He watched her step up onto a raised dais sort of stage and move to an easel that was already set up there. Her work in progress, no doubt. Novak watched as she pulled off a drop cloth and turned to a table beside it and picked up a clean palate. She went to work mixing paints, utterly absorbed in what she was doing. She ignored him. So Novak watched her for a few minutes, thinking she looked like an angel standing up there with all that soft blond hair cascading down her back, wearing a modest white skirt and a loose white knit sweater.

  Looking around, he wandered aimlessly about the big room as if he were admiring her work. He was really looking for the hidden video feeds. He didn’t find any, but he was positive they were there somewhere. Wilson would not allow her complete privacy. It just wasn’t in him. He came across some finished work, stacked up. Ready to be packed for mailing, maybe. Already sold and for plenty, he suspected.

  He turned and looked back at Emma. “May I look at your work?”

  Emma glanced up, nodded absently, and then went back to her painting. He picked up a framed canvas that measured about thirty-six inches by twenty-four, and held it up to the light. It was a reproduction. Monet. It depicted a bridge over a lily pond, of course, very similar to others that he had seen. If Emma had painted this one, she was very good. Almost good enough to be a forger. Maybe that was what she was doing. Forging famous works for the black market. Made more sense than most of the other theories. “This looks like a genuine Monet. Do you do a lot of reproductions like this?”

  Emma glanced at him again but didn’t answer. He waited a few moments but she kept working. She had told him she didn’t like to chat while she painted. Guess she meant it. Or the question bothered her. So he sorted through the rest of them, all interesting, all different, both in subject matter and technique. No more Monets. Some of them he recognized as reproductions of a lesser known Australian artist that he was familiar with through Sarah, but some were all Emma’s own. Same heavy paint, built up in those swirled ridges, the melting pastels making the scene misty and surreal. He liked her technique a lot. Wouldn’t mind having one of them, a small one, maybe, for his boat. It relaxed the eye. He liked that.

  After he took a good look around and found nothing other than paintings and art supplies, he retreated to the sitting area. He sank down on the couch and then he just sat there and watched Emma work, thinking that it was almost startling how beautiful she was. She looked ethereal and soft in the light flooding down on her. Her skin looked perfectly clear and white, like fine, smooth porcelain, but porcelain that would be soft to the touch and feel warm under his finger
s. She didn’t wear much makeup. Maybe none at all. He couldn’t really tell. Her mouth was full and pale pink, her blue eyes clear, and held steady on the canvas as she worked her brush over the canvas with fast, sure strokes.

  Novak realized with not a little dismay that he found the woman desirable. Her husband had been right. Any man who saw her would look twice and then again, and then they’d want to possess her. He wondered if she realized the sexual effect she had on men. Then he wondered if she used that sex appeal to her advantage like Wilson insisted she did. She hadn’t tried to use it to manipulate Novak, at least not yet. Or maybe she had, and that’s why he was sitting there thinking about her, admiring her beauty, wondering how it would feel to slide his palms over her bare skin. Maybe she’d done it with such subtlety that he hadn’t picked up on it. Maybe she used that deep look inside those incredible eyes and her seeming helplessness and victimization by her bully of a husband. All focused solely on arousing Novak’s protective instincts. And other, baser instincts. And it had been there. Gotten through to him. More than once. He’d seen it. He’d felt it. A tacit invitation aimed straight at him. Soft, unspoken, sweet on his tongue. Come taste my charms, Mr. Novak. I won’t stop you. I want you to touch me.

  Whatever she had going for her, however she accomplished it, one thing he knew for sure. It sure as hell was working. On him. And he was pretty much immune to women’s wiles. It had definitely been working on Jose Madero as well, if Novak was any judge. And most definitely on her husband. Here Novak sat, thinking about her, wondering about her, wondering what it would be like to kiss her, to pull that sweater off over her head and watch all that soft blond hair sift down over her naked shoulders, and find out how her skin tasted. Maybe that appeal she sent out was innocent on her part. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was the reason for Wilson’s wild jealousy. Maybe she had woven her feminine spell over every man he had ever assigned to guard her. Maybe she was going to act on it with him given the time. Had already started by inviting him to watch her work where they would be alone and anything could happen. Maybe the way she was moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue while she worked, and brushing her hair over her shoulder. Maybe he had damn well better put up his guard against all of that sexual energy she was sending over his way and think about the job he had to do.

  After that, Novak studiously kept his eyes off her. Silence reigned for a good long time. Several hours passed. He was tired of sitting there, waiting; he wanted to get out of there. He felt cooped up, trapped somehow, getting himself caught up in her loveliness and her cloud of loneliness and her air of quiet despair. She wielded her brush and did what she was told as if fully accepting of her fate. He wondered if there had been other men who tried to free her and ended up fired, or dead. He heard the rumors more than once, heard Wilson’s other men talking about her bodyguards who just up and left or disappeared. Novak was beginning to believe that Wilson would be capable of that kind of extreme possession. Especially when it came to a woman like his wife.

  For all of these reasons and some other reason that Novak couldn’t quite name, he still held back from approaching her with the truth. Not quite sure he could trust Emma. Something didn’t seem right to him. Maybe it was her air of availability that he felt so strongly. Like she wouldn’t mind one bit if he strode over there and grabbed her and kissed her. He had been waiting for the right time to reveal himself, to tell her that Mariah had received the matchbook and they had come to help. He had wanted to give her hope that she and her son would soon be free of Wilson. If she really did want that freedom. He had to have her cooperation and she had to have enough patience to stay put until he figured out how to get her and the kid out. But now, maybe the time had come. Maybe he should feel her out without out fully revealing himself. See how she reacted. Time was spinning away from him.

  “Is that an Australian accent I hear?” he asked her suddenly.

  Emma jerked up her head and this time she presented him with her full attention. Her expression revealed itself, easy to read. Fright. What he’d said had scared her. Her chest heaved with short, anxious breaths and she darted a quick look at the door. She wasn’t faking it, either. Novak could tell that. What had Wilson done to her to cause that kind of anxiety?

  “I don’t like to talk when I’m working. It distracts me. I’m sorry if you think that’s rude.” She was breathless; her voice was trembling. Her eyes remained fixed on the door as if Wilson would burst through at any moment.

  “Okay. Sorry I interrupted.”

  Then utter silence prevailed. It took about twenty minutes before she said anything else. When she spoke, it was almost too soft for him to hear the words. Her eyes remained steady on the canvas in front of her, her brush still moved. “Yes. Sydney.”

  “Me, too.”

  Emma darted a quick look at him.

  Novak thought a moment about what he could and could not say. “Yeah, I used to live on Mt. Henry Street, that’s up in Balmoral. Great place to grow up. Lots of other kids to play with. All up and down the street.”

  That got her undivided attention. She stared at him. Eyes huge now. Face flushed; expression stunned. He was pretty sure then that she knew he was there for her and definitely on her side. Probably hadn’t been sure she could trust him. Maybe thought he was a plant put in place by her moron of a husband. Probably had faced that before. He wouldn’t put it past Barrett Wilson to insert a spy to trick her into saying something incriminating. At this point, Novak wouldn’t put anything past Barrett Wilson. Neither would she, not by the long, nervous hesitation that followed, and the way her face slowly came alive with hope. He found himself wanting to believe all that was real, but he wasn’t sure yet.

  Emma looked straight at him, held his gaze. “I miss it down there. I miss my street. And the people who lived there.”

  That’s all she said for the next twenty minutes. But she glanced over at him a lot and looked as if she were trying to figure him out. Now she smiled as she worked. He had set the hook, for better or worse. She would be waiting now for him to make the next move. She was much too scared to do it herself, so he would have to. But the time had to be right. Unless he had misread her and she truly loved her brutish husband, despite or because of his abusive treatment. Stranger things had happened. There was no telling what abused wives would do. He had learned that the hard way when at the NYPD and dealing with domestic violence cases.

  They didn’t have time to work themselves up to more revealing conversation. Wilson himself showed up and barged through the door like a snorting bull. He was alone. He nodded at Novak as he strode past the sitting area, and then he stepped straight up on the dais with his wife. Novak watched him put his arms around her from the back and started kissing the side of her neck and openly groping her breasts. Rough and crude. God, he was a pig. Novak clamped his jaw and forcibly restrained himself from intervening. He looked away from them, not wanting to witness her humiliation. Listening to it was bad enough. When he glanced back, Wilson had her skirt pulled up and his hand taking liberties. Novak could see her face. She was staring right at him. Stoic, her expression totally blank. She was not resisting. She had learned not to.

  Wilson saw him looking, too. “Get the hell outta here, Novak. I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon with my wife. I’ll lock her up later myself. You’re free to do whatever you want until tomorrow morning.”

  Novak walked to the door and left Emma in her utter degradation, feeling sick to his stomach. It was a hard thing for him to do. Any other time, a man mistreating his wife like that in front of Novak would be unconscious on the floor, with a broken nose or worse. Probably worse. Wilson already had his wife thrown down on the day bed before Novak had stepped out of the barn. The two guards were gone.

  Novak stopped there a moment, sucking great draughts of the cold air, trying to stop himself from going back inside and putting an end to what was going on. It took a few minutes of stringent self-control. After he got hold of his anger, he w
alked back up the path, around the house to the driveway, and climbed into his Jeep. A curious kind of rage was building up inside his chest, fast and hard and threatening to overwhelm his better judgment. Big time anger. More than anything, he wanted to go back inside that barn and teach that son of a bitch a lesson he would never forget. So he sat there a few moments longer, gripping the steering wheel, staring down at the barn, furious at his inability to intervene. Yet. But it was coming soon. He kept seeing Emma Wilson’s face, her helplessness to do anything about her fate.

  Novak made up his mind that the time had come to get her out. He pretty much knew the full story now. He was going to take her out of this marital hell she was in, and he was going to do it soon. Biggest problem? The kid. Novak could get Emma alone, no problem. But Ryan? That boy was a whole different story. Novak never knew where he was, didn’t see him much, and Ryan didn’t seem all that fond of his mother. Brainwashed to disrespect her by his father. He might refuse to go with them. But Emma would know when and where the kid would be easy to find. Novak had to figure out a way to talk to her where they wouldn’t be overheard or watched. And that wasn’t going to be easy.

  That evening the weather took a turn for the worst again. The storm hit the compound full force, wild, intense, bolts of lightning forking out of the sky and claps of thunder crashing in the distance. The inclement conditions complicated everything. The weather was more ferocious than the rain had been the night before, making it that much harder to navigate. And the temperature had dropped considerably, the wind cold and biting, strong enough to bend treetops and tear off tree limbs. The violence outside continued to roll through the woods in a kind of fury that he hadn’t witnessed in a long time. A wet awful night to attempt the kind of rescue it would take to get the woman and kid out safely.

  Novak ate alone in the bunkhouse, still shunned by the other men and still glad about it. He kept his attention on the front door, in case Wilson decided to show up again. He didn’t. Probably still torturing his wife in his sadistic way. After dinner, he fought through the buffeting rain and made it back to his cabin in his rain slicker, shook it out, and lay down on his bed, fighting the intense rush of anger that had welled up again over what had gone on inside that barn. It would not let go of him. He kept seeing how Wilson was practically molesting her, and the visual picture ate like acid into his mind. He kept planning the extraction inside his head, as soon as the weather calmed down some, going over every detail again, until he knew exactly what to do and when to do it. He texted Mariah and told her to get ready. That he was taking Emma and Ryan out soon. Then he tried to force his thoughts quiet enough to get a few hours of sleep. It wasn’t easy. Not with the storm attacking the cabin outside and his guilt for not doing anything to help Emma.