And The Bride Vanishes

by Jacqueline Diamond

  The pro shop turned out to be busy enough so that no one looked up when Wick entered. He headed through the displays of golf equipment and sports clothing toward the snack shop.

  Settling at an inconspicuous table with a cup of coffee, Wick fixed his gaze on the door. Through the glass front, he had a perfect ringside seat.

  All the same, he was glad he’d never taken up golf. Otherwise, he would know and be known by too many people here.

  While he watched carts arrive and depart, images of Linda kept intruding into Wick’s thoughts. He could picture her focused alertness as she guided him through the mall garage this morning, and her unmistakable relief as they stepped into her family’s airy cabin.

  In retrospect, his suspicions of the past weeks seemed paranoid. Linda hadn’t been plotting against him. If so, she would never have turned around last night and gone back to the trailer.

  Nor would she have been so eager to escape their pursuer this morning. More likely, she would instead have led him into a trap.

  He had to concede that the woman he’d married was exactly what she seemed, an honest and kindhearted person. On the other hand, she had agreed to marry Avery soon after Wick’s supposed death.

  He knew how strong her loyalties were to her family and longtime friends. Compared to them, he remained an outsider. Perhaps, after his “death,” she had rethought their relationship and come to believe it was a mistake.

  Or perhaps not. But, in any case, because of his long absence, a wedge had been driven between him and Linda before their marriage had a chance to get established. In the final analysis, Wick had to be prepared to face the world alone. But then, he was used to that.

  Outside the pro shop, another golf cart rolled up. The man at the wheel was instantly recognizable: leonine head, black hair silvered at the temples, powerful shoulders. It was Granville Lyme.

  At his side, Avery stood and jumped from the cart before it came to a complete stop. Blond like his mother, who had died of cancer a few years earlier, he was slim and several inches shorter than his father.

  Wick’s breath caught in his throat as he examined the third member of the group. The man’s face was hidden beneath sunglasses and a golf cap, but his body had the lean, hard look of an athlete.

  Or, perhaps, a professional killer.

  Avery strode toward the pro shop. Wick knew he ought to duck out, but he couldn’t leave yet. He needed to get a better look at the third man.

  The fellow remained deep in conversation with Granville until one of the golf pros strolled by and greeted them. Then their discussion broke off abruptly.

  The third man removed his cap and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Wick stared, willing himself to connect a name to the partially revealed face. The forehead was high and aristocratic, the hairline receding. How many men carried handkerchiefs these days, anyway?

  Avery had almost reached the door to the shop. When he entered, Wick would have to turn away. The third man would escape, unidentified.

  But he knew he’d seen that face before.

  Granville called to his son, and Avery turned back. At the same time, the third man shook hands with Granville and, giving Avery a crooked ghost of a smile, shouldered his golf bag and headed for the parking lot.

  It was the smile that clicked. Wick knew where he’d seen it before. The man was Pierre D’Amboise, one of the clients whose files he’d given to Sarah.

  Had Pierre and Lynette taken the artifacts out of greed, or did they have a collector’s passion for rare objects? That didn’t excuse their actions, but it would make them more sympathetic.

  Wick knew he needed to follow Pierre. He wanted to see what kind of car the man drove, and where he was going next. Pierre might be a go-between, or he might be the killer himself. Or neither.

  Sarah hadn’t been able to find out much about D’Amboise’s early life. It was possible the records had been destroyed in the country’s independence revolution two decades ago. Or perhaps Pierre D’Amboise wasn’t his real name and the import business had been a front for something more sinister.

  Tossing money on the table to pay for his coffee, Wick walked casually out of the shop. Avery was still talking to his father. Although Granville faced Wick, the man wasn’t paying attention to anything but his son.

  Struggling to keep his movements natural and unhurried, Wick sauntered toward the parking lot. At any moment, he expected to hear his name shouted in Avery’s familiar tenor or Granville’s baritone.

  Ahead, Pierre paused to survey the lot before heading toward a van. It had no windows on the sides and only a small, thick one in back.

  It was a suitable vehicle for a businessman who hauled valuable merchandise. Or for a man who wanted to transport something illegal.

  Keeping to the perimeter sidewalk, Wick circled to his motorbike. Pierre was ahead of him, but it took longer to unlock the van and get strapped inside than it took to jump on a bike. When Pierre pulled out of the lot, Wick had no trouble following.

  Lacking experience in tailing cars, he quickly discovered how difficult it was to keep the van in sight without making his presence obvious. Once Pierre cleared the immediate neighborhood and reached a main route, however, Wick had a pretty good idea where he was going.

  The D’Amboises lived in the northern part of town, where custom-built mansions lay secluded on large lots. This route should skirt the lake area and take them there.

  Wick hung back, keeping his quarry distantly in view in case Pierre decided to head somewhere else. Even if the man were going home, Wick wanted to follow. He desperately needed to confirm his suspicions, either by seeing Pierre meet someone else or by watching him unload telltale evidence, possibly weapons.

  Of course, if Pierre were going home, that presented other obstacles. While Inland was far from a high-crime area, wealthy homes were generally equipped with security devices. Also, they were secluded from public view, which meant he couldn’t disguise himself as a casual passerby.

  He did, however, have one advantage. Before the D’Amboises acquired their property the previous year, Wick had taken clients to see it while it was listed for sale. So at least he knew the lay of the land.

  His best bet, he decided, would be to use the service driveway that led into the estate from the back. The driveway passed between low rocky bluffs, which would provide cover and a view of the house and garages.

  When the van turned onto a feeder road that would take it directly to the property, Wick stayed on the main road for another long block. If Pierre had begun to wonder about the motorbike, that should reassure him.

  At the next intersection, Wick stopped at a gift shop and had a teddy bear wrapped. Lynette D’Amboise volunteered at both Inland’s art and nature galleries, so he signed the card, “With thanks from the museum staff.” If anyone challenged him, he would claim he was making a delivery.

  Then he took a side road that ran between high walls partially hidden by tropical trees and shrubs. He slowed as he approached the service gate.

  There was no guard in sight. If the D’Amboises were indeed involved in illegal activities, it seemed odd that they would be so careless.

  Stopping to one side of the gate, he spotted a camera mounted atop the wall, with a buzzer beneath it. He didn’t want his image captured on film. If the police decided to enhance it with computers, he felt certain they could identify him despite the helmet and goggles.

  A nearby acacia tree provided cover for the motorbike and footholds with which he could scale the wall. Stuffing the package containing the teddy bear into his pocket, Wick boosted himself up.

  He dropped to the ground inside, and noticed at once an unfortunate change of landscaping. Inside the walls, succulents and desert palms replaced the dense vegetation on the outside.

  Stretches of natural grasses and delicate moss offered no cover at all, and were interspersed only by the patches of natural rock that he remembered from when he’d shown the property to clients. In his memory, t
hey had loomed larger than they actually were.

  The sprawling, mock-Tudor home, although set back several hundred feet, lay slightly above him. Anyone who happened to be staring out a second-story window could see him clearly.

  Wick crouched as he scurried between outcroppings. He heard no sounds and saw no movement at the house as he came near, but his skin prickled from sheer nerves.

  Still, he managed to cover ground rapidly. Given the heat of the day, he had no desire to prolong the experience.

  At last he reached the final thrust of rocks. The blood whirred through Wick’s arteries as he paused to take his bearings.

  Ahead of him, the service driveway ended at a rear parking area, from which double doors led into the kitchen wing. To his left, a low stucco wall marked the pool and spa area. Wick heard neither voices nor water jets.

  To his right, a walkway skirted the house toward the front turnaround. Feeling as if a dozen pairs of eyes must be fixed on him, Wick hurried along the path. A sudden gust riffled palm fronds overhead, but nothing else stirred.

  He reached a point at which he could see past the house to the front turnaround. It was flanked by four freestanding garages, all shut tight.

  Had Pierre already parked and gone into the house? If he’d locked the garages, there would be no way of making sure the van had arrived. Yet, having come this far, Wick was determined not to leave without doing everything in his power to confirm his suspicions.

  He felt so close to success he could taste it. One sight of an assault rifle or other illegal weapon inside the van and he would contact federal authorities. In view of the D’Amboises’ shady past, it ought to be enough to spark an investigation.

  It was a thin hope, but the best he had come across in four months. A return to normality, and a second chance with Linda, seemed to flutter almost within his grasp.

  He waited, straining to hear any sign of life. There was only the drone of a far-off airplane and, briefly, the whine of cars passing some distance away on the street.

  Wick slipped from his hiding place and crossed open ground until a squatty palm tree provided a measure of privacy. From here, he could see that the van had been left in plain view outside the garages.

  He took a deep breath. Not only had Pierre come home, he had left the van within reach. It seemed too good to be true.

  On the other hand, it might mean Pierre was going out again in a few minutes. Or that a staff member would soon appear to put the van away.

  The odds of being spotted increased dramatically once Wick entered the turnaround. Furtive movements would be a red flag to any gardener or maid who noticed him.

  He removed the rumpled package from his pocket and smoothed the creases. His story wouldn’t hold up if examined, since it didn’t explain why he had jumped the wall instead of announcing himself, but it was better than skulking.

  His footsteps sounded like drumbeats in his ears as Wick abandoned his cover and marched around the front of the house. The sun pounded against his shoulders, and he could feel the sweat forming beneath his helmet.

  The house lay to the left; to his right were the garages, with the van parked in the middle. On the far side of the concrete, a narrow path disappeared between giant birdof-paradise bushes. From showing the property, Wick knew that it led to a guest house and tennis courts.

  Were Pierre and Lynette eating a late lunch, or settling down for a Mediterranean-style siesta? They could be anywhere in the expansive house or on the grounds, and so could the servants.

  Squaring his shoulders, Wick walked across what felt like an infinite stretch of open space toward the van He was acutely aware of the smell of overheated motor oil and a trace of gardenia perfume from an unseen garden.

  With a surge of relief at finally being shielded from view, he rounded the van. He didn’t dare touch the door. Even at home, Pierre was likely to have set the alarm, particularly if he kept contraband inside.

  From here, Wick could see only the front seats, which were empty. A black curtain shielded the interior. The only other window lay in the back of the van.

  To reach it, he would have to step into view again, but there was no alternative. With the anxious but excited sense of having reached the home stretch, Wick paced around the vehicle.

  He strained to see through the reinforced glass. For a minute, the darkened interior defied him, and then he made out a long shape lying on its side. An automatic weapon? Perhaps even a rocket launcher, Wick thought, although he knew it was a wild stretch of the imagination.

  Then, with a lurch of disappointment, he recognized the object. It was Pierre’s golf bag.

  There was nothing else visible. If Pierre had been carrying a large weapon in the Chevy, he hadn’t left it in any obvious place in the van.

  Irritably, Wick yearned to poke around the property further to try to find something, anything, that would end this nightmare. He’d come so far and risked so much that he could scarcely bear for it to come to nothing.

  But he wasn’t likely to find damning evidence lying around unguarded. He had no right to take any more foolish chances when his main responsibility was to protect Linda and the baby.

  Grumbling inwardly, he returned the way he’d come. An urge to hurry made him head straight down the service driveway rather than taking cover as before. It seemed as though luck was with him, however, because he went unchallenged.

  Wick was about a hundred feet shy of the wall when he heard a new sound: panting. He stopped, trying to make sense of it. In the shimmering heat, he almost thought it might be his own heavy breathing echoing off the outcroppings, and then he realized it was the kind of rapid panting made by large dogs.

  A swift survey showed two sleek rottweilers emerging from the pool area behind him. One sniffed the air while the other regarded him with startled interest.

  For a frozen moment, Wick debated whether the best course was to stroll calmly on his way or to try a mad dash to safety. His mind was made up when both dogs broke into a fit of barking and lunged forward.

  In the house, a door slammed and a man’s voice called, “What is it, boys?”

  Wick didn’t stick around for the answer. Patches of rock threatened to trip him and sandy soil cut his stride as he raced for the wall. The barking flew toward him, much too fast.

  The package in his pocket thumped against Wick’s thigh. He turned and threw it toward the dogs.

  They stopped to sniff it. The momentary distraction was all he needed.

  With more speed than he would have thought possible, Wick flung himself at the wall, scaled it and dropped to the ground. On the motorbike, he twisted the throttle too hard, nearly choking the engine, before the thing sputtered to life and carried him down the road.

  Behind the enclosure, he could hear furious barking. Pierre hadn’t been able to reach the gate fast enough to watch Wick’s escape, but he couldn’t have helped seeing the fleeing shape of an intruder.

  From now on, security would be doubled at the D’Amboise estate. There would be no second chance to look for evidence.

  Chapter Seven

  Sitting in the living room, Linda turned on the radio and listened to the news, but there was nothing about Wick being captured. She felt reassured, but only a little. What was taking him so long?

  Images of the bike being smashed by a car, or forced off a bridge, crowded her mind. But it wasn’t only imminent danger that troubled her, she admitted reluctantly.

  It was Wick himself. In times of trouble, he withdrew instead of confiding in her. She couldn’t be sure she knew where he had gone, or why.

  He had kept so many secrets, who knew what else he might be hiding? She didn’t believe the man was deliberately deceiving her, but at times she felt his emotional distance like a wall between them.

  Wick was a loner, an outsider, not only in the opinion of her family but in his own eyes. At any moment, he might decide the safest course, for both of them, was simply to disappear again.

  She didn’
t want him to disappear. She wanted to try to save her marriage, and she wanted her child to grow up knowing its father.

  But she couldn’t bind Wick to her by the force of her will. Anytime he was away from her, like now, Linda knew there was a chance he might choose not to come back.

  In the front of the cabin, a thump against the door made her jump. She waited, her throat tight, but there were no further sounds, and finally she realized she must have heard the arrival of the town’s weekly throwaway newspaper.

  Cautiously, she peered out the window to make sure no one was watching before she opened the door. Sure enough, a pristine paper lay nestled beside its yellowing twin from the previous week.

  She snatched the new one inside and relocked the door, leaving the old one in case some passerby might wonder at its disappearance. Even sticking her nose outside seemed like taking a big risk, after her unexpected encounter with Mina.

  For the hundredth time, Linda replayed her meeting with the older woman. If there was anything she could have done to avoid recognition, she couldn’t imagine it.

  But had she revealed too much? She had even let Mrs. Barash drive her home, which meant the woman knew where she and Wick were staying.

  Restlessly, Linda slid off the rubber band and unrolled the paper. It must have gone to press before the events of the previous day, because there was no mention of the kidnapping or of Sarah’s murder.

  Too distracted to register much of what she was reading, she scanned a story about the art museum’s annual fund-raising masked ball, scheduled for the following evening at Granville Lyme’s estate. Linda wondered if it had been canceled due to her abduction, but hoped not. The museum relied on those funds, and a lot of work went into the planning.

  She and Avery had planned to drop by, using their wedding clothes as their costumes, mingle for an hour or so with Inland’s distinguished residents and listen to a band imported from Los Angeles. Now that event, and the anticipation she had felt, seemed to belong to some other lifetime.

  On page three, a name caught Linda’s eye. Reina Marinovskya, the retired Russian opera singer. She’d been one of the clients whose files Wick had taken.