by Sanna Hines
Holly’s father had been a cop, the last of a long line of Glasscocks who protected the streets of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He’d come home to tell stories of the people he helped that day, inspiring Holly to follow his lead. I’ll make you proud, Dad, she promised silently while waiting for traffic to clear on Beacon. This bodyguard job could be the start. At least it has something to do with law enforcement. If you can pull any heavenly strings for me, do that, okay?
Using the Massachusetts State House as her landmark, she traced a path to the address. Her destination was a single family residence—that much she knew from the Internet. Not a huge house, which had puzzled Holly, who thought ‘private security’ might mean a glorified concierge job in one of the mansions converted to condos, but on Beacon Hill, size didn’t matter. Even fixer-uppers went for millions.
She was glad she’d worn the unfashionable wide-heeled boots so she didn’t have to teeter along uneven brick sidewalks. Her mother urged ‘sensible clothes’ for the interview—dark slacks, white shirt, and “a wool blazer, if you have one. Oh, and tie your hair back so it doesn’t look wild.” Holly took her advice except for the blazer. She didn’t own one, but she had a safari jacket that looked vaguely military. It would have to do.
All the homes on the street were built when America was new. Holly spotted the right house number beside white double doors. There was another door to the right, below a short flight of iron-fenced stairs—a servants’ entrance in the old days. She had to crane her neck to take in all four floors of the tall, rose-brick building. Bright chrysanthemums filled an urn by the main doorway, cheering Holly as she climbed marble steps to press the bell.
A brunette around forty answered the door. “Mrs. Smallwood?” Holly inquired.
The woman shook her head. “I’m the housekeeper.”
“My name is Holly Glasscock. I have an appointment with Mrs. Smallwood.”
“May I see some identification?”
As Holly fished through her purse for her wallet, she decided the homeowner must suffer from paranoia. What other reason could there be for checking IDs and hiring private security? Holding up her driver’s license, Holly watched the housekeeper nod and say, “Come in, Miss Glasscock. Mrs. Smallwood is waiting for you in the living room.”
She followed the housekeeper through a foyer into a room that had the feel of the early American period without the hazards of spindly, priceless antiques. Thick, white walls encased the windows. A crystal chandelier hung from a plaster medallion in the ceiling. Ben Franklin could have smiled at his reflection in the round mirror over the black-marble fireplace. The floors were dark wood and so were the slender tables, but an Oriental carpet was light, mostly gold and beige. Mocha suede armchairs faced a cream couch.
Sitting on that couch was a petite blonde probably in her early sixties. Dressed in taupe and black linen, she was an attractive woman who must have been gorgeous as a girl. Large, blue eyes dominated a fine-boned face. She rose to shake Holly’s hand, waved her toward an armchair and reseated herself. “I’m Catherine Smallwood. Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. I’m eager to fill this position. You know about the disappearances of private school students here in Boston?”
Holly nodded. The news had been running non-stop stories on the kidnapped kids.
Mrs. Smallwood pointed to a framed photograph of a teenage girl in English riding clothes. “I’m looking to hire a bodyguard for my granddaughter, Olivia. She’s fifteen, a sophomore at The Sidley School in the Back Bay. Two of the missing students attend that school. Last Friday, Olivia witnessed the abduction of her friend, Ariel Kelly. The police suggested the criminal might believe Olivia could identify him and so pose a threat.”
“Can she identify the kidnapper?”
“She didn’t see the driver of the van, but he wouldn’t be sure of this, so Olivia may be a target.” Mrs. Smallwood gazed at her clutched hands. “She’s my only grandchild. I can’t bear to think of anything happening to her. I’d rather be over-protective than fail to do what I should.”
“Olivia’s parents are deceased?”
Mrs. Smallwood looked up. “No. Her mother—my daughter—lives in California. We agreed that Olivia should attend secondary school in Boston.”
Clearing her throat, Mrs. Smallwood handed Holly a paper. “The details of the bodyguard position are here. We’re talking about full-time, temporary employment. Hours begin before school and include after-school activities and Saturdays. While Olivia is in class or has other supervision, your time is your own.
“There’s no telling when this criminal will be caught, so I’m setting an arbitrary limit of six months for the job. After that time, I think we can assume the kidnapper has no special interest in Olivia. Even if the situation is resolved quickly, I’d still like a person to take charge of getting Olivia to and from school during the winter months. The school is roughly three quarters of a mile from here. There are no school buses or carpools available.
“Salary for the position is a daily fixed rate,” Mrs. Smallwood went on. “Oh, and this is a live-in arrangement, so if you have commitments elsewhere, please let me know.”
Holly studied the paper. She got as far as the salary before deciding she wanted the job—a lot. She hadn’t considered living in Boston, but a three-hour commute from New Hampshire and back by train, subway and foot would get old really fast.
“Now,” Mrs. Smallwood said, “let’s talk about you. You’re a native of Portsmouth, twenty-two years old, and you have training in martial arts. You graduated this year from Franklin Pierce College with a degree in criminal justice?” She paused for Holly’s nod. “Most recently, you served an internship with the Salem, New Hampshire police.”
Holly set down the paper. “Afterward, I was supposed to move into a regular job with the force, but the funding didn’t come through.”
“So I heard. I contacted your mentoring sergeant,” Mrs. Smallwood revealed. “He was pleased with your performance. He also confirmed that you would have been offered a full-time position if there weren’t a hiring freeze. Since the internship, what have you been doing?”
“I’m still in Salem job hunting, doing fill-in work at the station, and volunteering at an after-school youth program. I teach the kids self-defense.”
Mrs. Smallwood’s face lit up. “We have that in common. I spend most of my time on volunteer work.” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You should know that Olivia is opposed to having a protector. She’s afraid of losing her privacy and of being shunned by friends. I think her safety overrides these issues.
“I’ve shortlisted three women for this job. You are the youngest, which I consider a plus because you could fit into Olivia’s environment, drawing no more attention to yourself than an older sister. I hope…” Mrs. Smallwood leaned back, hand to forehead, and yawned. “I do hope—” Voice dropping abruptly, Mrs. Smallwood’s eyes closed and her head tipped forward.
Holly stared. “Mrs. Smallwood?” She stood and went toward her, reaching out a hand.
From the hallway, Holly heard a voice stage-whisper, “Leave her be. She’s all right.” The housekeeper stepped through the living room doorway. Holding a finger to her lips, she beckoned Holly with her other hand. “She’s sleeping. Come with me.”
“Was it something I said?” Holly whispered.
Chuckling on her way downstairs, the housekeeper led Holly to a space halfway below ground on the street side but level with a back terrace visible through French doors. The former servants’ quarters were part-kitchen part-family room now. In the family room section, a couch, chairs and tables faced a wall-mounted TV.
The kitchen had an island angled toward the front windows. Along the side wall, white cabinets, black-granite countertop and stainless steel appliances looked sleekly efficient. Recessed lighting made the room bright but not glaring. It was a comfortable space.
Going around the kitchen’s island to set a copper kettle on the cooktop, the
housekeeper said, “My name’s Jennifer Barnes, but Jen will do. We’ll let Mrs. S. sleep for fifteen minutes or so, and then bring her a cup of herbal tea. Do you want tea?”
Holly shook her head. “Is Mrs. Smallwood sick?”
“She has narcolepsy with a touch of cataplexy. That’s a mouthful to say, harder to understand, but it’s an ongoing condition, not an illness. And no, she doesn’t abuse drugs, swear when she doesn’t want to, or steal.” Jen turned to Holly with a stern look. “People come up with all kinds of crazy ideas when they don’t know what narcolepsy means.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Her body’s mixed up about waking and sleeping. She nods off without warning. That’s why she told me to wait in the hall while she talked with you. She didn’t want you thinking she had a stroke or heart attack and call in paramedics.”
“I feel like I should have done something for her.”
“As long as she’s in a safe place like the couch, she’s fine. She can hurt herself if she falls while standing or climbing stairs. Sometimes, her muscles give out when she’s awake—knees buckling, hands turning weak and dropping things, jaw going slack, speech slurring. These kinds of things scare other people and embarrass her, so she stays pretty close to home. When she does go out, I go with her. That’s mostly why I’m here—as a safeguard for her.”
“You live here, too?”
“Used to, until I remarried this summer. Never thought I’d tie the knot again, but life always throws you a new curve.” Smiling, Jen pointed toward the French doors. “There’s a suite—bedroom and bath—beside the terrace. I lived there for three years. It’s been redone as a guest room, and I guess that’s where you’ll stay if you get the job. Go ahead and have a peek.”
Holly went to the French doors. The property was enclosed all around, with ivy lacing down from the top of a high back wall. Along the terrace’s left side a long room with wide windows flanked an apple-green door. The room fit under the first floor’s deck.
“There’s a private entrance,” Jen called from the kitchen. Holly turned to see her pointing toward the street. “When you come in the ground floor door, you’ll find a side corridor leading directly to the terrace. No need to go through this kitchen.”
“Seems nice here.” Holly perched on a stool by the island.
“It is—for the right person.” Arms crossed, Jen turned to face Holly. “Look, Mrs. S. is a good woman. She runs half a dozen charities for kids, battered women and old people. Gets nothing for it, not even the smiles and hugs. She does work no one else wants to do—haggling over supply prices, twisting arms to get donations, smoothing feathers of diva volunteers, background-checking staff and like that. So,” Jen said pointedly, “if you have anything to hide, don’t think she won’t find out.”
Holly rubbed her lips thoughtfully. Other than speeding tickets, her record was clean. It occurred to her she needed some questions answered, too. “What can you tell me about Olivia?”
“Good kid, more or less, considering the life she’s had. Could use a shot of self-confidence.” Jen turned toward the whistling teapot. “I’ll pour the tea, and then we’ll take it up to Mrs. S. When she asks, remind her of where your conversation broke off.”
Holly and Jen found Mrs. Smallwood awake and talking on her phone. After setting down the tea, Jen left. Holly took her seat in the armchair and tried to give Mrs. Smallwood privacy for her call by gazing into the connected dining room, which was much like the living room—the same marble fireplace and round mirror, a warm-toned rug, graceful table and chairs. Even with her head turned away, Holly could tell all wasn’t well by the number of “Oh, dear!”s and “Are you sure?”s she heard.
Putting down her phone, Mrs. Smallwood told Holly, “That was my son. He has my car, but he won’t be able to drive Olivia home from school.” She sighed, her expression a mixture of worry and exasperation.
“I could walk to the school and escort her home,” Holly said.
“When you haven’t been offered the job yet?”
“Consider it a free trial offer or…or just consider it a favor. Everyone gets in a jam from time to time.” Holly paused to take a deep breath. “I really want this job, but if you decide someone else should have it, I can still do you a favor, no strings attached.”
Mrs. Smallwood gave Holly an appraising look. “That’s very kind of you. The problem is I don’t want Olivia walking home today. The police revealed that this kidnapping was reported by a classmate. Media people are sure to besiege the school. I don’t want them to interview Olivia or mention her name on the news. Even if I send a cab, someone might take her picture, which would help the kidnapper identify her.” She picked up her teacup and stared into it.
The two sat in silence until Holly had an idea. “I may be able to get my hands on some wheels…” she thought out loud as the plan unfolded in her mind, “to whisk Olivia away from school without interviews or pictures. Yeah…yeah! It could work.”
“Tell me how,” Mrs. Smallwood urged.
“Give me a minute. What time is school over?”
“Three ten.”
Holly stood. “I need to make a call. It could be…um, a delicate negotiation, so I’ll step outside.”
On the front stairs, Holly called her younger brother in Portsmouth. Eric would be snoring in his bed at this hour.
“‘S up?” his sleepy voice asked.
“I need your help, Ricky. I’m calling in all the favors you ever owed me, and…and there’s a six of beer in it for you, too. Meet me in Boston on Beacon by the State House at 2:30. Not a minute later. Make sure you and The Rocket look your best.”
“No way! Mom will skin me if I touch The Rocket. That’s worth a case of beer, at least.”
“Done—and I’ll take the heat from Mom. Just be here on time, okay?”
Silence. Grumbles. Grudging agreement.
Holly clicked off and did a fist pump. The Rocket was on its way!
CHAPTER THREE
Day 3—Monday
Peering down the one-way street, the cab driver said, “Looks like news crews are tying up traffic. Want me to go another way?”
Stealth fingered his knit cap. This was an unexpected setback. Using any other route, they wouldn’t pass the school. “No…no. Keep going.” Publicity was a good thing. Over the weekend, the news was all about the kidnapped state senator’s daughter. It was like no one remembered the others, like no one cared about Stealth anymore.
“Could take a while—and the meter’s running,” the cabbie said.
“‘s okay. See what’s happening.”
As the cab inched toward Sidley, Stealth’s dead twin fidgeted in his head. So many school emblems, Brandon moaned. So many girls.
Shut up about girls! Didn’t you make enough trouble today? Stealth’s foot still throbbed where the bitch on the subway stomped it. This isn’t the time to collect emblems. This is recon.
Aw, you’re no fun! When Brandon isn’t having fun, he warned in his maddening, sing-song voice, Stealth gets to do clean-up himself.
Stealth shuddered. It was dangerous to push Brandon too far. Look, there’s one—no, two!—with white shirts. School emblems stood out on white. Stealth turned his head to give Brandon a better view as the girls went by. Stealth felt Brandon sigh, and the crisis passed.
“All right,” Stealth mumbled aloud.
“Didn’t catch that,” the driver said before he shouted, “Oh, man! There’s an old Honda Interceptor! Haven’t seen one of those in years. Looks mint.”
Stealth leaned forward. “What?”
The driver pointed out the windshield. “The bike in front of the school is a classic. I’ve always liked the red-and-silver ones best. Give my right arm for a crotch rocket like that. Maybe the rider’s a celebrity ‘cause the cameraman just aimed at him.”
Now Stealth was interested. With traffic deadlocked, the cab wasn’t moving. He said, “Going outside.” Shoving the door open, Stealth stepped onto
pavement, his height making the view over other cars easy.
The motorcycle rider wore full leathers. All in black. Slim, with broad shoulders. Smooth, tight butt. When the rider pulled off his helmet, freeing a mane of glossy, black hair, Stealth’s heart beat faster.
Brandon snickered. Down, boy. We’re doing recon, remember?
Stealth’s fists clenched. A fifteen-year-old in your head could make anyone crazy. You’re such a shit!
And you’re so much better?
Stealth isn’t a snotty, little kid. Stealth grew up.
Brandon had to have the last word. Just on the outside, bro. Just on the outside.
Stealth gripped the door handle, but movement by the school’s doors caught his eye. People shifted aside when a red-haired woman strode toward the street. A girl wearing a motorcycle helmet scurried after her.
Isn’t that the tall chick who hurt us this morning? Brandon asked.
It was. Stealth stroked his ribs, remembering her hated touch. No one should touch Stealth. Brandon had to stop taking control of Stealth’s hands when Stealth wasn’t concentrating.
The reporters chased the girl in the helmet. Maybe she was the one who saw the last kidnapping—the witness.
She looks important. Worth collecting?
Stealth stroked his chin.
The girl climbed on the motorcycle. The male rider got off, handing his helmet to the redhead. She took over the bike and wove her way through traffic. Stealth saw her face in his mind long after she disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Day 3—Monday
Soon as she could get away from her grandmother and the new bodyguard, Liv escaped to her room. She brushed dust off Margaret’s painted head, and then smoothed Sarah’s organdy dress. “You have no idea,” she told the six porcelain faces staring at her, “what a day I’ve had!”
Wrinkling her nose at the dolls, Liv sprawled on her frilly bedspread. She nearly heaved when she first saw the room—white canopy bed, daisy wallpaper, dolls? Liv wanted to scream, “Are you serious?” until Grandmother hugged her and said, “I’ve always loved this room. I’m so glad you’re here to enjoy it.”