Haunted Echoes

by Cindy Dees

  The gray-haired man tried to struggle, but another man jumped out of the front seat of the car and took him by the other arm almost immediately. The two much larger, much younger men bodily lifted the man into the car. Both men were dark-haired, olive-skinned and wearing black leather—very sinister. They leaped into the vehicle, as well. The black car sped away. From this angle, she couldn’t see the license plate. And even if she could’ve, her abruptly eighty-year-old vision wouldn’t have been able to make out the letters and numbers. Damn.

  Elise looked over at her guard in consternation. “Did we just witness a kidnapping?”

  He looked alarmed, but said soothingly, “I’m sure nothing is wrong. That gentleman is probably a high-risk client and those other men were merely his bodyguards, taking every precaution to minimize his exposure on the street.”

  Except the street was practically deserted at this early hour. And nobody out there had tried to approach the older man or shoot him or in any way harm him. She frowned as the guard took her elbow to lead her away from the window.

  Who could she tell that she thought she’d just seen a man abducted? They all thought she was crazy already. And it didn’t help that she’d just aged thirty years in under a week.

  She climbed back into bed and let her guard tuck the blankets in around her. He left the room, but sleep refused to come to her. She looked over at the elegant white flowers. Who was that man?

  What a plane it turned out to be. Plush didn’t quite describe the inlaid rare woods, the glove leather upholstery, and even what looked like a small, honest-to-God Renoir painting. The full bathroom was even better, with its hot shower and closet full of women’s clothes. Elise’s clothing was immeasurably more elegant than anything I’d ever dreamed of wearing, but it fit as if it were made for me. Like I said before, we were nearly identical in height and build.

  I went first, scraping off the filth of the past day with relish. I used the hair dryer and a brush to dry my hair in soft waves around my face, and I even indulged in some of the cosmetics I found in the medicine cabinet. Finally human once more, I stepped out and relinquished the hot water to Robert.

  He was gentleman enough to pause for a moment, taking in my changed appearance with an appreciative head-to-foot sweep of his eyes. Ah, a bold Scotsman was good for a girl’s ego.

  While he was in the shower, the copilot came back and laid the table with bone china, Waterford crystal and sterling silver. And then, from the refrigerator, he produced a cold breakfast fit for a king. I dug in, famished, and Robert joined me shortly. There must’ve been a razor in there, because he was clean-shaven. And looked excellent, if I do say so myself.

  We finished the spread of fruits, cheeses, cold cuts, pastries and coffee with gusto, then Robert pushed the plates aside.

  “Okay, Ana. Time for some straight talking. What’s so important about this statue you’re tracking down that someone’s trying to frame me for stealing it?”

  “I don’t know. The owner told me it wasn’t especially valuable in and of itself as a work of art but that the…sentimental value…was very high.” I hoped he didn’t notice my momentary hesitation over my choice of words, but I expected he did. Robert Fraser was a sharp cookie.

  “What exactly is this statue?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me,” I retorted. “You’re the one tracing its provenance, after all.”

  He frowned. “You think we’re working on the same piece?”

  “How can we not be? Two mysterious private citizens approach us at the exact same time over apparently identical statues? I’ve been sent to work from its last known location, and you’ve been sent to work from its first known locations.”

  Robert shrugged in acquiescence to her logic. “I know it fell briefly in the hands of Adolf Hitler at the beginning of World War Two. He held it until a few months before his death. I don’t know where it went after that.”

  I leaned forward, very interested. I had a decent idea of how it came to be in Elise’s hands, given that she worked as a double agent within the Nazi government during the war. Next time I saw her I’d have to ask if the Führer gave it to her personally or someone else had it first. “What about its history prior to Hitler?”

  “It was a gift to him from a British nobleman before the war when England was still trying to make nice with the bastard and avoid bloodshed.”

  “And that nobleman got it where?”

  “The guy was a cousin of Queen Victoria’s. Apparently she owned it for most of her life. Didn’t pay much attention to it if my sources are accurate, but it sat in a bookcase in her bedchambers, apparently.”

  That was interesting. Hitler didn’t die until he lost the statue—and according to what I’d heard about his drug addiction and the assassination attempts on him, his survival up to that point was considered to be something of a miracle. Then, Queen Victoria lived to eighty-one and safely bore nine children, all while in glowing health. Jeez Louise…that statue really packed a punch!

  “Where did Victoria get it?”

  “That part’s a little fuzzy. Apparently it was passed down through a family known for acting as men-and ladies-in-waiting to the British royal family until it was given to her. They were only minor nobles themselves.”

  A shiver rattled through me. “And the name of this family?”

  “The Norvilles.”

  Lady Jane Norville. My ghost.

  “And how did they get the statue?” I choked out.

  “I have no idea. I’ve found no record whatsoever of it prior to the early 1600s. That’s what I’m hoping to research at the Vatican. The Norville family apparently thought it had something to do with the Catholic Church in England. They, themselves, were Protestant, however. I can’t figure out how or why they’d have ended up with a relic like this, especially if they thought it was a Virgin Mary image.”

  The answer was right there on the tip of my tongue. I could taste it. It was as if something inside my head already had the answer and I couldn’t quite pull it up to conscious memory. Maybe this was why Lady Jane’s ghost had been pestering me.

  Hello.

  Did I just acknowledge that I thought my ghost was real?

  Ghosts. Do. Not. Exist.

  Period.

  Except of course, the one inhabiting my head.

  Which was starting to ache ferociously right about now.

  “I need a nap,” I announced. “We’ve still got a little time before we get to Rome.”

  “Good idea,” Robert replied mildly. He propped his feet up on the chair beside mine, laced his fingers across his flat stomach and closed his eyes.

  I followed suit.

  I should’ve known better than to fall asleep with Jane on my mind.

  I was there again, in Liz’s bedroom. Jane was arranging a fingertip-length purple velvet cape over the queen’s shoulders. The dress was high-waisted and several layers thick, more medieval in cut than Elizabethan. If you looked really closely, you could see the swell of her belly. Her pregnancy was probably a good seven months along. But, if you didn’t know to look for it, you probably wouldn’t notice the distinctive bump, especially when that cloak was pulled forward around her.

  Jane commented, “The ladies of the Court complain when you are out of earshot that they do not like this new style of dress. They say it makes them all look pregnant.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “Better that they should all look pregnant than I be the only one. Jesus, I cannot wait to be rid of this babe.”

  “You do not mean that, Your Highness. Do you not long for the sweet smile of your babe nestled in your arms?”

  “I do not,” Elizabeth answered tartly. “This bastard will do nothing but complicate my life. How shall I ever find a suitable husband from among the kings of Europe with this child hanging around my neck like a millstone? The greedy fools may want England, but not at the cost of being saddled with an impure wife and her bastard offspring.”

  “What will you do, my lady?
”

  “I will kill it.”

  Jane hissed in her breath along with me. Although Elizabeth said the words with great conviction, the pain in her eyes when she uttered the words gave me hope that she was not sincere.

  “You must not, Your Highness! You will damn your eternal soul to the deepest circles of Hell!”

  “Well, at the least, I shall get rid of it. Foist it on some baker’s mistress to raise.”

  “Nay, you cannot. This will be a child of royal blood. Of your flesh.”

  Elizabeth rounded sharply on her servant, yanking the hem of the velvet cape out of Jane’s fingers. “You presume too much!” she snapped.

  Jane, to her everlasting credit in my book, did not bow and scrape before this display of wrath as I expected her to. Instead, she stuck her chin up—albeit trembling—and replied gamely, “I cannot let you forfeit your immortal soul, for I love you like my own sister. If that is a crime, then take my head and hoist it on London Bridge for all to see, for I shall not repent of caring for you.”

  Surprisingly, Elizabeth stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Jane. “Dear Jane. Then you shall take this baby and raise it as your own.”

  Lady Jane pulled back, staring in shock. “I am not married! It is not mete that I should do so!”

  “This child will be a fatherless bastard one way or another, for I have forbidden Winchester upon pain of death from ever uttering a single syllable about the parentage of this child. You shall take the babe home to your family and raise it as your child. Here. We will stuff a pillow under your dress and let all the Court know you have taken a lover and met a most unfortunate fate.”

  Jane spluttered, “But my family—my father—he will be crushed—he hoped for me to make a good settlement here at Court—to increase our family’s purse—”

  Elizabeth whirled away and went to her desk. “And so you shall. I shall provide all the coin you ever need to raise this child. Gold aplenty to buy off your disgrace. If no man is intelligent enough to see your true nature beyond the shame of your bastard babe, then he does not deserve you.”

  Jane looked about ready to throw up. Couldn’t say as I blamed her. Nothing like having your boss’s indiscretion turn into a scarlet A on your chest. And the poor girl was only trying to look out for an innocent baby. It hardly seemed fair. Jane opened her mouth a couple of times, no doubt to protest this arrangement, but no sound came out. Eventually she turned away, shaking her head and fiddling with the objects sitting on the writing desk….

  And someone was shaking me, as well.

  “Ana. We’re there. Time to wake up.”

  I swam groggily to consciousness, my brain unwilling to relinquish the vestiges of the dream. Yet again, I had that feeling of an answer dangling just out of my reach.

  But Robert was insistent. The airplane’s engines shut down just then, and I realized the plane had come to a complete stop. The copilot came back to tell us to stay put and customs would be out momentarily to clear us. Wow. Personalized customs service. All kinds of perks came with this jet, apparently.

  While we waited for the customs agent, I went into the bathroom to grab a toothbrush, some makeup and a couple outfits from Elise’s stash. I was sure she wouldn’t mind. I would have them cleaned and return them when we got back to Paris. I folded several garments carefully and opened my rucksack to put them in.

  And frowned. I hadn’t packed a brown paper bag in here last night before we went into the catacombs. And my flashlight, candles and chalk were gone. I opened the bag more fully and peered inside. Then I had a look at the manufacturer’s tag. No doubt about it. This wasn’t my rucksack! Thank goodness I always zipped my passport and Interpol badge into one of my coat pockets.

  When in the world had I lost my backpack? I thought back to the catacombs. The last time I’d gotten in it was when we stopped to wait for René and had a picnic by candlelight. I tried to remember back. Then René and his drunken buddy showed up. We talked briefly and my rucksack had been sitting near my feet. And then the Italians had shown up. René had bent down to grab his bag and I’d bent down to grab—

  We’d switched bags. This was René’s pack. And, as I focused my memory in on the inadvertent switch of our bags, I came to another startling conclusion. The switch had been deliberate. René had leaned over in front of me and taken my bag on purpose, leaving this one behind for me.

  I reached down for the rumpled paper bag and opened it. And my jaw dropped. Literally. As in hit my chest.

  “Ana!” Robert called through the door. “The customs agent is here.”

  Oh, shit.

  I stared down at the beautiful little statue nestled in the plain paper, her motherly eyes and those of her chubby little baby smiling up at me.

  The Black Madonna.

  Chapter 12

  N ow what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t very well pass through customs with a stolen piece of art in my bag. But I dared not leave the statue lying around somewhere. Should I hide it here in the plane? Take it with me?

  I had no way of knowing how long we’d be in Rome and whether or not this plane would sit here the whole time waiting for us. I decided to brazen it out and take her with me. After all, I had my Interpol badge with me and I had a legal right to have the statue. I’d been charged with finding and returning it to its rightful owner, after all. I just didn’t want Robert to get into trouble for being near it.

  I stuffed Elise’s clothes in and around the statue and put on my best innocent face. I never could lie worth a darn. But this time it was Important. Capital I. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I owed nobody any explanations. I was—technically—a cop. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the salon.

  A pinched-looking man in a black wool suit stood there, looking impatient. We handed over our customs declarations. I’d filled mine out before we landed and hadn’t declared anything of value in my possession on it. Oops.

  The guy asked about our luggage and Robert answered that we had none.

  Casually, I mentioned, “I have a rucksack that I use like a purse. It has my wallet, a few personal items, a change of clothes and my Interpol badge in it.”

  The guy’s eyebrows about shot over his hairline. “I see. We weren’t informed. Welcome to Rome, Agent Reisner. If there is anything the local authorities can do for you while you are here, by all means let us know.”

  I smiled as pleasantly as a bald-faced liar could and wished him a good day.

  The guy left the plane and we were free to go.

  I let out a long, relieved breath. And caught Robert’s questioning gaze on me. Ten to one, he’d sensed that I was lying to the guy. “That badge sure is a handy little sucker,” he commented dryly.

  “And how. Let’s go visit some archives and see what we can find.”

  The copilot cleared his throat. “The plane will be refueled in an hour. Do you have any idea when you plan to return to Paris?”

  “I honestly haven’t the slightest,” I answered. “We need to get back there as quickly as possible, however. Our work here should take at least several hours.”

  “We will be standing by and ready to go as soon as you return.”

  I turned to Robert. “Let’s get rolling. I really need to get back to Paris right away.”

  He gave me another significant look. Man, he was good at reading me. He definitely knew something was up. We walked through the small flight operations center and grabbed a taxi that was conveniently sitting right out front. “Where to?” the driver asked.

  I answered in my somewhat shaky Italian, “Vatican City, please. The archives.”

  The guy nodded and floored the taxi, bolting out into traffic like a suicidal maniac. Between brake squealing stops and neck jarring accelerations, it was a supremely uncomfortable ride. Welcome to Italy.

  I murmured, “Last night, my rucksack got switched with our friend’s.”

  He glanced down at the navy blue nylon pack and back up at me. His eyes widened. “Is what
I think is in there actually in there?”

  I nodded solemnly.

  “Well, then.”

  I was at a bit of a loss for words myself.

  “Do you mind if I look?” he asked.

  I reached for the sack and unzipped it. I fished around in the clothes, peeling them back to reveal the Black Madonna, nestled within a cream silk Chanel blouse. He reached out a single finger to touch her cheek. “She’s beautiful,” he breathed.

  I took a closer look at her. She really was. Unlike most statues of her time, her features were not elongated and dour. Her face was full and cheerful, and her eyes almost twinkled up at me. And the chubby, smiling toddler in her arms practically squirmed to get down and run free. While the sheer happiness of the pair made the statue of little worth as a Christian-style religious relic, the quality of the workmanship was extraordinary.

  I touched the Madonna’s dress with my fingertip and it was almost warm to the touch. An odd—and definite—tingle shot through me. I looked up at Robert in surprise. “Do you…feel anything…when you touch it?”

  “Like what?”

  “A vibration. Almost like an electric current.”

  “Where did you touch her?”

  I showed him and he laid his fingertip on the exact spot on the lady’s robe that I had just touched. He concentrated for several seconds.

  “Nope. Nada.”

  Damn. First I saw ghosts, and now this. I was turning into a certifiable lunatic. In despair I glanced up and noticed the taxi driver looking at me intently in the rearview mirror. Even he must think I was nuts. Sheesh. I tucked the Black Madonna back into her nest and zipped up my pack.