by Wendy Byrne
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
With my mind preoccupied, I wasn't sure how long I'd driven before I finally arrived at the address. Out of the way didn't come close to describing this place nestled in the woods. While the voice giving me directions said, "Arriving at destination on the right," it took a few moments for my eyes to spot anything resembling a building. But finally I spied it amongst the forest like an extension of the trees themselves, the color and texture so closely resembling bark.
No signs of life outside of a few squirrels chasing each other up and down the trees. I pulled as close to the house as possible on the makeshift driveway and shut off the car. Despite the voice inside my head urging caution, I got out of the car and walked around the property. Floor-to-ceiling windows and an expansive deck covered the back of the house and overlooked a small pond. I climbed up the steps and peered inside the windows.
Art supplies, including canvases, brushes, and paints, littered the inside along with a ginormous stone fireplace running through the center. The idea that this could be my father's hideaway had me pounding on the windows and doors. But, as I suspected, no one answered.
Then I remembered the Iowa hiding-a key-by-the-door mentality and ran around to the front of the house. Instead of a traditional door lock, a combination lock was hooked onto the door handle. I couldn't imagine what numbers he might use…my birthdate…his birthdate…my mother's birthdate…wishful thinking or not, I keyed in 0719, and the lock opened. Nerves threatened to stop me from taking advantage, but I pushed through and went inside.
The air was saturated with the smell of paints. I breathed it in as the sensation of home surrounded me. Even though I'd technically never met him, I felt his presence within the room and drew in another deep breath.
I glanced through the plethora of paintings propped next to the fireplace. Even though they weren't signed, I knew they were his.
A staircase leading to the second floor beckoned to me. I felt compelled to explore. Surely if my father had stayed here, there'd be some evidence. The first room had a king-sized bed with a fluffy gray comforter and two pillows. I felt the bed, but it was cold, making me believe it hadn't been slept in. Broken glass littered the floor, while pictures of my mom and dad were torn and scattered about the room. As much as I could tell, they were old and taken both before and after my birth. Did my father destroy all remnants of my mother in some fit of rage? I fingered the photos as if to gauge how long they'd been in this state, but it seemed to be recent as the photos showed no signs of being exposed for a long period of time. As I let that idea settle inside me, I glanced inside the closet, but found nothing to make me believe anyone lived here. Instead, I moved on to the next room, hoping to find something to help answer some questions for me.
My breath caught in my throat the minute I walked inside. Delicate paintings of fairies and butterflies circled the room in contrasting colors of purple and pink against a light gray background. The name Isabella was written in fancy letters above a small basinet. Tears bubbled to the surface and began to stream down my cheeks. A small brown teddy bear with a purple silk bow around its neck was positioned in the corner of the basinet.
I'd been here as an infant. The conviction rattled through me without question. What had happened? There were so many questions I needed answers to, but until I found my father I wouldn't have them.
Despondent, I got into the car and backed out onto the road. Lost in thought, I'd been driving for more than an hour contemplating what to do next when my phone rang. I glanced at the readout.
Nate.
His call had to have something to do with the police force in Iowa City who might have alerted him to what had happened last night. No doubt they'd compared notes on the crazy lady from New York.
Knowing I couldn't ignore him, I pushed my blue tooth on. "Good afternoon, Sheriff."
"I talked to Dr. Hunter about collecting Ike T's paintings. He didn't know what I was talking about."
"But his wife…" I shook my head. It didn't really matter if Dr. Hunter had been stonewalling him or not. "Never mind. I assume you heard about last night?"
"Yes. They got a partial print on a guy by the name of Vic Strong. He did a six-month stint for breaking and entering at the same prison as Phil Reed. He was hired as a waiter for the art show last night so he might have targeted you knowing you were alone. Nobody can find him right now, but they're out there looking. I took it upon myself to check a little further into Phil Reed's arrest and found out he got released early. But I'm betting you already knew that."
I sat up in my seat, impressed he'd gone the extra mile. While I wasn't naïve enough to think it had anything to do with me, at least he was giving me something to work with. "Are you going to bring him in for questioning? Can you send me a picture of that Vic Strong guy to see if I recognize him?"
"I'll send it to your phone. But now that Phil's gone missing as well, I thought it would be good to warn you just in case. Chances are they're in this together. He drives a black Ford truck. Stop by my office as soon as you get to town, and we'll figure out a way to make sure you're safe until he's apprehended."
"Thank you."
"No problem." He hesitated for a few moments, and I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I waited him out as I continued driving.
"There's something you're not telling me." His evasiveness scared me more than anything.
"We found a car submerged in the river." His words were measured.
I couldn't imagine why he was being so evasive…except…I gasped and pulled my car to the side of the road. "What?"
"I'd rather you come here and we can talk."
"You need to tell me now." My breath stalled in my chest.
"It's your father's car. We found his registration in the glove compartment."
My mouth went dry, and I felt a little queasy. He wouldn't be telling me all this on a whim. I'd bet he was ninety-nine percent sure something bad happened. I was afraid to ask. Afraid to know.
It felt like I had been submerged underwater and deprived of oxygen rather than my dad. A kind of claustrophobia that had nothing to do with tight spaces overtook me. I pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and threw open the door.
I'd heard drowning was a horrible way to die. The thought rumbled through me with the force and determination of a runaway train.
"He might have survived. We haven't found a…body."
"But you think he drowned?" Even though I said it like a question, the validity of it thumped inside my chest, and I started to hyperventilate. I bent at the waist and drew in gulps of air as I tried to regulate my breathing. I could hear Nate on the other end of the line calling my name, but I couldn't respond.
I…needed…to…catch…my…breath. I'd just seen his artist's cave—the place where he created and had at some point taken me home to. Now he was lost to me before we even found each other.
"Izzy. You need to breathe with me. In. Out. I want to hear you." His shout brought me out of my spiral. "Come on now. In. Out. In. Out."
Little by little I got myself back under control. "How?" I wanted to finish my question but couldn't, even if I didn't know what to ask.
"With the rains we've had the last couple of days, some people were caught in the surge by the river. It looks like that's what happened."
"Or somebody knocked him out and pushed his car into the river." He had to have the same suspicions I did.
"I promise I'll do whatever I can to find out what happened. How long before you get home?"
"Maybe twenty minutes or so."
"I can call Gabe and see if he can pick you up."
I shook my head even though he couldn't see me. "I'll be fine. I need another minute or two to regroup."
"Are you sure?"
My phone beeped signaling low battery. "I'll stop by as soon as I get to town." Without another word, I hung up, walked back to my car and plugged it into the charger. When a new text from Nate popped up, I hit the scr
een. A mug shot appeared. The guy had dark hair and eyes and looked vaguely familiar. Was Nate right? Had this guy targeted me after the art event? Or was he working with Phil? Being that they were in the same prison, they had to know each other.
The only thing I was certain of right now is that I was going to figure out who might have killed my father if it was the last thing I did.
Clouds darkened the sky as I paced along the side of the road and tried to collect my thoughts. Phil and Sally? Something felt right about their culpability in what happened, but wrong at the same time. The scare tactic last night felt like them. But, based on my limited exposure to Sally, I didn't see her being complicit in murder. Did they have anything to do with what happened to my father? Did they kill him and try to make it look like an accident? Where did Vic fit into this?
Then I circled back to Dr. Hunter. Yes, he was arrogant and obnoxious and played fast and loose with his prescriptions, but did that make him a murder? I thought back to our encounter in the bathroom. Were his words and actions that of a murderer or merely a misogynist pig?
I wasn't sure how long I'd been there when I spotted the first flash of lightning followed by the roar of thunder. All those things I'd heard about tornadoes and flash floods were a constant reminder that I needed to be on my way despite the unfinished business going on in my head.
I got back into my car and turned the key. Rather than roar to life, the engine made a clicking noise. I wanted to scream about poor timing, but that seemed pointless. Remembering the loose wire issue Gabe had showed me, I opened the hood hopeful there'd be an easy resolution. But after three attempts, I gave up.
I grabbed my phone from inside the car and called Gabe. When he didn't answer, I texted. My car broke down about five miles out of town. Could you come pick me up? I'm on Route…Before I could finish, my cell died.
Really? This cannot be happening. Except it was.
Instead, I grabbed my pepper spray from my purse just in case, put my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt, and began to walk. It wouldn't take me more than an hour to get back home.
But whatever they say about Murphy's Law must be true because as soon as I started the trek, the sky opened up, and rain poured down. I took shelter under the shortest tree I could find just in case that lightening thing about striking the tallest object was true. Judging by how my day was going so far, I'd be wise to not take any chances.
At another time, I might appreciate the scenery around me populated by hills and small lakes. Instead, I was cold and wet and anxious to get back to Inez.
Screw this. I needed to be smart. Nate would call Gabe to rescue me when I didn't get to his office in twenty minutes, and despite how that idea sounded in my head, the next flash of lightning convinced me I could live with the concept of being rescued.
I dug my hands further into my pockets and shivered as I waited for his truck to appear. There were three roads running through town, but he thought I was coming from Iowa City so no doubt would choose Route 21 instead of Route 41, but he'd figure it out. After fifteen minutes, I had just started to lose hope when I spotted a black truck in the distance. There were hundreds of black trucks in Iowa, but I wasn't taking any chances. With my luck being the way it was, that had to be Phil.
If I could only make it to the cornfield, I might have a chance of hiding somewhere. The truck screeched to a halt, and the door opened just as I ran like hell in the opposite direction.
"Isabella." The voice slowed me even if I didn't understand why. I turned and noticed a man who looked nothing like Phil was sitting in the cab of the truck. He had dark hair with graying temples. Tears formed in my eyes as I ran towards the truck. "Dad?"
He threw the truck in park and ran to meet me. Emotions I never knew I had swarmed me as he pulled me into a hug. Neither one of us seemed to know what to say and instead held on to each other.
"I've waited so long," he whispered in my ear as he patted my back.
Sounds of a car approaching broke us apart. He escorted me to the shoulder as we made our way back to the truck. He turned and suddenly grabbed my hand. "Run," he shouted dragging me along.
"What?"
Instead of answering, he pushed me into the truck, got in on the other side, and pressed down the gas pedal. Before we could get away, a car looking like Dr. Hunter's SUV smashed into the side of the truck, spinning it around and pinning it against a tree.
Exploding airbags stifled my view. Once they started to deflate, I saw the rumpled mess of the dashboard pinning my father in place.
He glanced over at me. "Run!"
"But—"
"I'll play dead. You run," he repeated with more force.
So I did. I ran as hard and fast as I could for the cornfields. All I could think about was I didn't want to leave, even while I knew I had no choice.
I'm no match for Dr. Hunter physically, but I might be able to outrun him—or at least hide until someone came by. I plunged into a field of corn stalks and hoped for the best. Poked and prodded by protruding husks as I tried to find ones tall enough to cover me, I kept running.
"Give up, and I'll make it all go quickly. You won't suffer." That wasn't Dr. Hunter's voice. It was Claire's. Why didn't I see that before? She'd flown under my and everyone else's radar. Now the torn-up pictures at my father's cabin made perfect sense. The cologne smell in the car wasn't courtesy of Dr. Hunter. It was her new man. Of course, she'd mentioned Dr. Hunter drove the Mercedes during the summer and fall. I should have put that together….
I gulped down the fear that had surfaced. While she thought she had the upper hand, I had her right where I wanted her.
Okay, not really, but I needed to think positive while I formulated a plan. Besides, I needed to rescue my father. He was depending on me.
The rustle of nearby cornstalks signaled she was getting close. Armed with pepper spray and the element of surprise, as soon as she got close, I pulled up my T-shirt to cover my mouth and nose, turned my head, and depressed the nozzle. The stream hit her square in the cheek. She started coughing and swearing while I took off running back towards my father.
I trampled through the stalks, coming out by the black truck. When I peered inside, his legs were held captive by a crumpled steering wheel—much worse than I'd thought. His eyes slid partway open. "I'll get you out." I grasped the handle of the door and yanked, but it didn't budge.
"Go. Beep. Car." His eyes closed once again. But what did he mean?
Tears flowed into my eyes. "I can't leave you."
"Take her…."
It was then I recognized the beeping sound emanating from the Dr.'s car signaling the keys had been left inside and realized what my dad meant. There was only one thing to do. I ran toward the car, jumped inside, and locked the doors. I needed to get back to Inez in order to save my father.
The whole thing suddenly came together as the aroma of Tom Ford's Special Blend cologne drifted around me. I thought back to the times I'd noticed that scent—at my father's house that first night, on the trail when I'd been pushed, when that creepy Zorro guy knelt beside me at the Gilded Lily Celebration, at the fairgrounds, in Dr. Hunter's car, and last night when that waiter bumped into me.
OMG. It had been Claire with that Vic guy at my hotel room last night. It had to be the same guy I spotted her with in the kitchen. I needed to tell Nate.
Lost in thought, I fumbled to turn the key. It dislodged from the ignition and fell to the floor.
As I kept a watchful eye on Claire who was emerging from the cornfield, I rooted around the floor for the keys. Finally my fingers touched metal just as I heard Claire's coughing and hacking getting closer. It wouldn't be long before she recovered. The roar of the engine was music to my ears.
"Don't…do…it." Claire Hunter screamed between coughing fits. "He…lied…I…loved him."
I ignored her ranting and threats and pulled into the road, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. When I glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted her picking up a
large rock and stumbling toward my father, any relief I'd felt morphed into fear. While she moved slowly, my father couldn't defend himself. If she truly loved him, would she kill him?
Unable to take the chance, I braked hard and pulled a one-eighty. I wouldn't let her take him away from me. I'd run her down with her own car if I had to.
Judging by the way she wavered in her steps and rubbed her tear-soaked eyes, Claire hadn't quite recovered yet. But she inched her way towards my father, a large rock in her hand. I screeched to a halt in front of the truck, partially barricading my father. I had to get him out.
Searching inside the car for a weapon, I uncovered a tennis racket and the medical bag I'd seen the other day. Several syringes were still inside, along with vials of drugs. I grabbed two syringes. If I could get close enough, I'd put her out without regret. I stashed them in the pocket of my sweatshirt, then popped open the trunk.
While Claire hobbled closer with tears still streaming down her face, I found a tire iron to help extricate my father. I ran to the door and put the edge into the opening and tugged. The metal door bent but didn't budge. My father moaned while my anxiety skyrocketed.
"I didn't go through all this to lose you." I put my foot against the door and yanked. The door hit my forehead as I pinwheeled backward, landing on my butt.
I scrambled to my feet, pried the caved-in dashboard away from my father so that I could slide him out. To my relief he roused enough—probably from the pain—that I could drag him to the car. After I slid him inside, I ran to the other side.
Claire stumbled towards me, but I evaded her, got inside, and started up the car. Before I could pull away, she smashed the driver's side window with the rock. Fragments scattered across the dashboard, my father, and me. Before I could react, she reached inside and grabbed my arm. I tried to shake her loose, but she put a chokehold around my neck and squeezed. When I stepped on the gas, she upped the pressure. In order to counteract her hold, I twisted my upper body toward the window, my foot coming off the gas pedal.