Portrait of a Girl

by Luanna Stewart

  Dang.

  “Nicholas, I need to pee.”

  He stopped his chatter and turned to her, like he was surprised to find her there. “Oh, I will show you.” He said something to Meg, she smiled, and he went to the door. “It is around the side.”

  Heather followed him to a small building set about twenty feet away from the house.

  “That’s your sister?”

  He nodded and held open the narrow door.

  She stepped into a surprisingly clean-smelling privy, unlike other outdoor toilets she’d encountered in her life. She turned back to Nicholas. “What’s her name?”

  “Magritte. I will introduce you.”

  She shut the door, stunned. Holy smokes, this was the woman Tony and Chas had been talking about.

  That gorgeous woman had slept with Jeffers? Heather had heard that wealth and power could be an aphrodisiac, but all of Midas’s gold wouldn’t have gotten her in bed with that old scrawny goat.

  Knowing she didn’t have much time, she took care of business, but there was no sink. Or mirror. God only knew what she looked like.

  Back in the house, Magritte showed her where she could wash her hands, and offered her a brush to use. One look in the small mirror and Heather gave up. She managed to get a few tangles out of her hair and shoved it back into the clip.

  If Tony knew about Magritte, he’d find out where she lived. He could be on his way to rescue her right now. She should make sure she was still here to be found.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “At sunset, Magritte will drive us to—”

  “No, you can go on from here alone. I’ll just hang out.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot let you go free yet. Not until I have found Jeffers.”

  “What the hell do you need me for? I don’t know where he is, and I don’t have what he’s looking for.”

  “I am not the only one looking for Jeffers. If we should confront the gendarmes, you will help me.”

  The hell I will.

  As far as she was concerned, she’d repaid Nicholas for helping her escape from Laroux.

  She gestured to Magritte. “What does she think of all this?”

  “She will do as I say.”

  Great, a downtrodden woman doing what the man says. Best to keep her knowledge of Magritte’s connection to Jeffers to herself. It may come in handy later.

  She wished her French was better than “où est la bibliothèque?” Then she could convince the other woman to let her go. Nicholas could turn himself in—or not. She no longer gave a damn.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tony fought through the underbrush but had to admit he’d lost them. He was convinced that faint call he’d heard had been Heather. She was still alive and wanted his help. This could be the best news he’d had all day.

  He had one bar of service on his phone. He punched in Gaston’s number and held his breath.

  “Oui, Tony, where are you?”

  Tony did a quick calculation. “My best guess is about a mile east of where you last saw me. Any news?”

  “We got the cousin, Emile, but he is not talking. So he either does not know what Nicholas is up to, or he is keeping his mouth shut for another reason.”

  “Another dead end. Do you have any idea why Nicholas would set off in this direction? Or is he running blind?”

  “I am looking at my map, and there is something very interesting. You recall that Jeffers has a young son, yes? And his maman took him away from the château after the devil disappeared. She is known to live in a small house very near to your location.”

  Tony’s pulse picked up speed. “And Nicholas would go there because…”

  “Because blood is always thicker than water, mon ami. Magritte is Nicholas’s sister. He is sure to go to her for help, particularly if he is still bent on finding Jeffers.”

  “Don’t you have someone watching her? If she has the boy—”

  “Non, the boy is with grand-mère in town. We have a man stationed there. Do you have the satellite navigation on your cell phone?”

  “Uh…yeah. Send me the coordinates for the sister’s house. That’s got to be where he’s taken Heather.”

  “Naturellement, I will send immediately. I am on my way there as well, but it will take me some time. Au revoir.”

  A minute later Tony set off, following the map Gaston sent. The little arrow was helpful, but it didn’t show him the stream he had to cross, or the patch of mud he stepped in, soaking his left foot. It was getting too dark to navigate safely without danger of poking an eye out. Half an hour later he came to a real road, and he headed right. Now that he didn’t have to dodge trees, he picked up speed.

  He passed several overgrown driveways as he neared the red dot marking the spot on his map. It certainly was very quiet out here. Deserted. Not a single car had passed. A driveway showing regular use was where it was supposed to be. He broke into a jog, slowing to a walk again when he saw the house in a clearing ahead. A light burned inside, and smoke drifted from the chimney.

  A small red car sat next to the door. Someone was home. Cautious, staying to the lengthening shadows, he approached, slipping his gun from its holster.

  A quick glance in the nearest window showed him very little, just a small fire burning on the hearth. Evidence of a meal lay on the table. Judging by the number of napkins, three people had dined on bread and cheese. He’d bet the white wine in the well-used bottle was better than anything he’d get back home at twice the price. He licked his dry lips. Maybe there was a sip or two left.

  He moved to the only other window and peeked around the frame. Again the thickness of the wall made it impossible to see the entire room.

  Backing away from the window, he again contacted Gaston.

  “I’m at the house. Looks empty.”

  “Merde. I am almost there. Did not pass any vehicles. I will notify the team in town to keep an eye on the old woman’s house.” The line went dead.

  Tony tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He pushed the door open, ready to dive for cover.

  Nothing stirred. A clock ticked on the mantel; the fire crackled on the hearth.

  Sitting on a chair, next to an old-fashioned sink, was the woman he’d crossed an ocean to find.

  “It’s bloody well about time you showed up,” Heather hissed, peering behind him through the open door. “Close the door before they see you.”

  “Better yet, let’s get out of here.” He shut the door and crossed to her, unsure whether to shake her for running out on him, or clasp her in a hug and make her promise to never scare him like that again.

  The anger won. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Keep your voice down. They said they’d be right back.”

  “Right, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet, and heard a strange rattle.

  “Do you have a pair of bolt cutters in your pocket?” She raised her right foot. A heavy chain was held in place around her ankle by a padlock. The rest of the chain trailed under the sink. Tony sank to his haunches and saw the other end of the chain looped around the water pipe, secured with a larger padlock.

  “Fuck.” He didn’t have any tools. He glanced around, looking for anything he could use to pry the lock apart or smash it to pieces.

  The loft caught his attention. He crept up the ladder to find a bed covered in a poufy comforter taking up most of the space. Clearly a woman’s bed, if the lace-covered pillows were anything to go by. And only a woman slept here, because he didn’t think any man would put up with the pink bedside table, the flowered lamp, and the pervading scent of roses.

  He jumped down from the third rung of the ladder and prowled. There wasn’t even a fireplace poker. One towel hanging by the sink, one comfortable chair in front of the fire, one pair of boots sitting next to the door. The only kitchen utensil that came close to what he needed was a large knife, but he knew the blade would snap.

  “What are you d
oing?”

  “Looking for something to break the chain. I don’t want to risk shooting at the lock.”

  “I don’t want you to, either. Look, just get out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving without you. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I kind of do. I’m the one who got kidnapped by the bald guy, remember? And it was for me that he was digging a grave.”

  His heart stuttered and he crossed to her side, only now seeing the bruise on her cheek.

  “That bastard hurt you.” He gently touched the swelling, wishing he could take away the pain. “Or was it Nicholas?”

  “No, Nicholas got me away from the bald guy.” She slumped in the chair and shook her head. “I thought he was rescuing me, but he’s just using me, like everyone else around here.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll explain everything later.” He knelt next to the sink. Maybe there was a way to disconnect the pipe. “Who is with Nicholas?”

  “His sister, Magritte. Whom I guess you’ve already met.” She quirked her eyebrow at him. “I gather you and she were friends. She mentioned your name quite a few times over dinner.” She gestured to the table and the remains of the meal.

  Tony sat back on his heels. Was she jealous? Sure, he’d found Magritte attractive at first, until he got to know her. And when she took up with his friend and partner Greg, Tony had tried to warn him away. To no avail. So Greg had ended up with a career-ending injury, and the bitch had gone to her wealthy lover.

  But that had all been six or seven years ago.

  “I’m done talking about her, let’s—”

  Heather held up her hand for silence, but the only noise was a log shifting in the fireplace.

  “You need to get out of here. They were just going to a neighbor’s house for something.”

  “What are they planning?” Tony reached under the sink again, but there was nothing he could do with his bare hands. There must be tools around somewhere. Who doesn’t have basic tools?

  “They changed their plans so many times, mostly in French, so I’m not sure. But as far as I know we’re leaving here in the morning and going somewhere to get Magritte’s son.”

  “Right, I know exactly where that is. Will you be safe here all night?” He held her hand, shocked that it was ice cold. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the chair near the fire and draped it over her shoulders.

  “How the heck was I supposed to have gotten this when my chain is so short?” She yanked the blanket off and handed it back. “Listen buddy, you wanted my help, so I’m helping. Go away and let me get on with it. I’ve survived on my own so far.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” Dammit, he’d just found her and she wanted him to leave.

  “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time. Your being here is making me nervous.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave. But first I need to do something.”

  He pulled her to her feet again, enfolded her in his arms, and kissed her like there was no tomorrow. Because there might not be. For either of them.

  Then she kissed him back, pressing against him and grabbing on to his shoulders. But quickly pulled away.

  “I thought you didn’t trust me.” Flushed cheeks and glimmering eyes could be a sign of arousal, but in her case he suspected it was likely anger. At him, and at herself.

  “My job is to not take anything at face value.”

  “When do you stop being your job and start being a person?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that. The two had been entwined for far too long.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Just go. Meet us at the grandmother’s house in the morning.”

  He reached for her again, but she sat and turned her face away.

  “I’m not giving up, Heather.”

  He pulled the door closed, scoped out the clearing, and jogged down the driveway. He arrived at the road just as Gaston pulled up. Tony leaped into the passenger seat and the car took off, roaring down the narrow road.

  “I found her.”

  Gaston took his foot off the gas.

  “No, keep going.” And he told Gaston what he’d learned

  “I am not happy she stays in that house.”

  “Neither am I, but she’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

  Gaston grinned. “A woman who knows her own mind—that’s a woman worth having.”

  Tony wanted to think so, too. Convincing her to give him another chance might be impossible.

  They drove to the police station in Autun and got to work making plans of their own. One of the local officers suggested they pull the men who were watching the grandmother’s house, so as not to spook anyone. Tony didn’t like the idea, but he had to follow the local’s lead. He was shown a bunk on the second floor and tried to relax, knowing he’d have to be sharp come morning.

  Less than an hour later he was roused from his slumber by the sound of feet pounding up the stairs. And a minute after that he was in the police car, heading to what he hoped was the end to this madness.

  Gaston drove like he had money on the race. “We must hurry. One of my men visited the maman of Magritte and found the poor woman in a bad way. Someone beat her up very badly. She is in hospital.”

  “Damn. And the boy?”

  “I fear he is missing. I told my officer to watch the house. Perhaps we can get there before the others and lay a trap.”

  “Any sign of Jeffers? Could he have taken the boy?”

  Gaston shrugged as only a Frenchman could. “No one was seen. It could have been Jeffers. It could have been Laroux.”

  A shiver of dread trickled down his spine. He didn’t know which he’d rather go up against—a terminally ill man trying to protect his son or a crazy man out for revenge.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?”

  The car actually slowed. Gaston pointed ahead.

  “The house with the green shutters, you see?”

  Tony nodded. “I don’t see anyone else around. Maybe we’re in time.”

  “We wait here. It is a red car we look for, remember.”

  Tony unbuckled his seat belt, slipped his gun from under his arm, and rested his hand on the door handle. This business was ending today.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Heather sat in the back of the small two-door car, clutching the seat. She wished she could understand what the other two were talking about, but she was pretty sure it was an argument. Based on hand gestures from both parties, Magritte was happy with the way they were headed and insisted they continue. Nicholas would rather be going somewhere else.

  And Heather was pissed off because they’d left only a few minutes after Tony. They weren’t sticking to the plan. Would the police be ready?

  A few minutes later, they turned off the road onto an unpaved track. Trees and bushes scratched both sides of the car, and several potholes made Heather’s teeth knock together.

  She leaned forward between the seats and glared at Nicholas. “Hey, could you ask her to slow down?”

  He didn’t answer.

  They drove out of the woods and Heather was surprised to see they were right on the edge of a town. A couple of turns and Magritte pulled to a stop in an alley behind a row of densely packed houses.

  Nicholas turned to Heather. “You will come with us. You will not cry for help.” He held up the gun to make sure she understood.

  She nodded. Now that they were here, her heart started racing, and her hands left sweaty prints on the seat. Nicholas folded down the front seat, still arguing with his sister. Heather climbed out of the car and allowed herself to be led farther down the alley. The wind cooled the sweat on her body, and her teeth chattered. This was ridiculous. She should make a run for it. He wouldn’t dare shoot her here. Would he? People would hear the blast, and then he’d be caught for sure. Of course, she’d also be dead.

  They veered out of the alley into a back garden, climbed over a low brick wall and headed toward the back do
or of a shabby white house. Magritte opened the door without knocking. Nicholas gestured with the gun and Heather stepped inside, finding herself in a small kitchen.

  Magritte screamed.

  Blood was smeared and splattered across the floor.

  Nausea gripped Heather’s stomach, and she had to take deep breaths to keep from tossing her cookies. “Oh my God. Is this your mother’s house?” She backed toward the door, not wanting to find whoever had left the mess of blood.

  He didn’t answer, merely rushed through the house, calling for his mother. He dashed up the narrow stairs and came back down a minute later.

  “She’s gone. The boy, too.”

  Tears filled Heather’s eyes as she looked at Magritte’s terrified white face. She couldn’t begin to imagine the other woman’s pain.

  “Où est mon enfant? Où est mon enfant?” Magritte repeated over and over.

  “We need to leave.” Nicholas went to the door and peered through the small window. “Come, we cannot stay here and wait for the flics.”

  Magritte shook her head. “Non, non, we search for my baby.”

  “He’s not here. We have to get out.”

  The door opened. Heather turned, expecting to see the police with guns drawn, but it was an old woman, clutching her apron.

  “I saw you arrive.” Her accent was hard to pinpoint. German, maybe. “Your poor mother, she left in the ambulance.”

  Magritte grabbed the older woman’s arm. “And my son? What has happened to my son?”

  Magritte spoke English? Why the heck hadn’t she been speaking English all along?

  The woman shook her head, her eyes sad. “That man, M. Jeffers. He come, stay in the house for a few minutes, then leave with the boy.” She pointed toward the alley.

  “He stole my baby.” Magritte covered her face with her hands and started moaning, rocking on her feet.

  Heather couldn’t stand another minute of the heartbreaking scene. She wrapped her arms around the distraught mother and murmured soothing noises. This was a disaster. Not only hadn’t they found the boy, but he was now in the hands of a killer. And God only knew where he’d been taken.

  “To which hospital did they take Maman?” Nicholas grabbed the tattered phone book off a shelf next to the table and flipped through the pages.