Disappeared

by Lynn Mason

  “Agreed,” said Sydney as she rose to her feet and smoothed the folds of her long silk robe. “But I shall need no assistance,” she added, regarding Mrs. MacDougall disdainfully. She hoped to discover more news from Pinelli and Donaldson, and knew it wouldn't be possible with Mrs. MacDougall present.

  “Send the maid to me,” Carmina said huffily. “I have much to carry.”

  “Fine.” Von Muller nodded. “Then we are all in agreement. Are we not, Mr. Baranov?”

  “We are,” Konstantin said, standing and stretching his arms lazily. “Although I do hope to get some sleep tonight, and it may not be possible with all of us in the parlor. I have been told, von Muller, that you are a horrible snorer.”

  He turned and strode out of the parlor, laughing contemptuously.

  “He's right scary, that one is,” came a small voice from behind Sydney. She whirled around and saw Malcolm, sitting upright, his wide eyes staring after Konstantin. “He has the laugh of a devil.”

  * * *

  Sydney shut and locked the door to her bedchamber, set down her candle, and immediately snatched her sunglasses off the dresser. Then she hurried to the window and pushed back the drapes.

  She was starving for any scrap of information from her team. She'd been on Balfour Isle less than ten hours, and already two people were dead. And the worst part was, she had no idea who killed them. It was clear someone in the house was on a homicidal streak—and she could very well be the next victim.

  If only she knew what to do. Her Romanian lessons and hand-to-hand combat skills seemed useless now. What she needed was advice. Or backup. Or a stealth helicopter circling over the roof to rescue her. Any sort of sign that she wasn't as alone as she felt.

  Sydney stared out at the light beacon and put on the glasses. The pulse was still there, blinking intermittently. But it was the same message as before. Hold position. Y-O-Y-O. . . .

  She ripped off the glasses and sank down onto the edge of the bed, listening to the forlorn wail of the wind. Pinelli and Donaldson's instructions only filled her with more dread. She'd wanted something to do, some plan of action. Instead, they kept telling her to hold position, stay put, wait. . . . Sydney felt as if she were treading water in a vast ocean with no help in sight. She was safe, at least for now—but her hope was failing fast.

  Get a grip, she told herself. Stay alert. If you lose it now, you'll only end up in more danger.

  Sydney sighed and got back on her feet. The bossy voice of her conscience was right. She couldn't waste time and energy feeling sorry for herself. She had to trust her instincts to get through this. And after all, she reminded herself, I've managed to scrape by on my instincts for most of my life.

  She tossed her glasses back into her purse and scanned the contents of her wardrobe for the most comfortable-looking outfit. Eventually she pulled out some beige twill pants, a long white angora sweater, and a pair of red leather boots. She quickly put them on and checked her wig in the small beveled mirror over the dresser. Her disguise was holding, although the contacts were starting to make her eyes feel dry and itchy. She dipped her forefinger in the pitcher of water and held it over her head, letting a few cool drops fall into her eyes. Then she opened her bags and began to repack.

  As she hurriedly folded clothes and laid them inside the yawning leather suitcase, she mentally packed up her anxieties, as well, squeezing them into a small, dense parcel that she could stash in a hidden corner of her mind. It was a process she'd perfected over the years. Somewhere deep inside her, she was vaguely aware of a virtual closet crammed full of such parcels, straining to burst open.

  Sydney had just zipped up the first suitcase when a muffled yelling reached her ears. She recognized it as Mrs. MacDougall.

  “Malcolm! Malcolm! Where are ye, lad?”

  She rushed out to the corridor just as Carmina emerged from her room. In the flickering light of the candle sconces, they could see Mrs. MacDougall coming toward them. She ran crookedly down the hall, peering into open rooms and shouting in a high, panic-stricken voice.

  “Come out here afore I have yer hide! Come out!”

  “What is the matter?” Carmina's sharp, angry voice brought the woman to a sudden halt.

  “It's me grandson. He's gone a-missin'. He was supposed to wait fer me in the parlor, but he isn't there. And there's no sign of him in the kitchen or the library or anywhere! Oh, it's this wretched house! There're ill spirits about. I can feel it in me bones!”

  “Have you tried looking on the third floor?” Sydney asked, remembering his earlier prowling.

  Mrs. MacDougall looked at her, aghast. “No, m'leddy. Folk are not allowed there. Ye know that now.”

  “Of course I do.” Sydney worked hard at erasing every bit of sympathy from her tone. “But . . . it is often in a young boy's nature to break rules, is it not?”

  “Not me Malcolm,” Mrs. MacDougall insisted, shaking her head. “He's a good lad. He'd never disobey his master.”

  Don't be so sure, Sydney muttered inwardly.

  “What is going on?” Von Muller strode down the corridor, frowning at them.

  “Apparently the niño has disappeared,” Carmina replied indifferently.

  “Mrs. MacDougall has checked everywhere but the third floor,” Sydney added.

  Von Muller tugged thoughtfully on his chin for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “Adriana and Carmina, would you be so kind as to check the downstairs for the boy? I shall inspect the third floor myself. Mrs. MacDougall, please tell Mr. Baranov to interrupt his packing and help you check the second-floor bedchambers.”

  “This is intolerable. We are guests. Why should we search for an insolent servant?” Carmina rattled on in her Cuban accent.

  “Please, m'leddy,” Mrs. MacDougall begged, clasping her hands together in front of her. “This house is an evil place. The lad could be hurt! And he's all I have in the world!”

  Carmina crossed her arms irritably and turned away, but it seemed to Sydney that her features were slowly softening. “Very well,” she snapped. “I will look for him. But I hope he is to be punished once he is found.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. MacDougall said, wiping her eyes. “Thank you, m'leddy.”

  “We shall meet back here in ten minutes, with or without the boy,” von Muller instructed.

  Sydney grabbed a candle out of her room, and she and Carmina made their way to the staircase. “Von Muller is an imbecil,” Carmina muttered to herself as they slowly descended. “My associates will be very unhappy when they hear about this night. His silly, thieving business will have no more protection from us!”

  They had almost reached the ground floor when a piercing scream came from the floor above. Sydney and Carmina glanced at each other, startled, and then dashed back up the stairs.

  Mrs. MacDougall was standing in the doorway to Konstantin's bed chamber, tugging at her housecoat and whimpering. They raced forward and peered into the room.

  Konstantin was lying on his back in a puddle of blood, a fireplace poker stuck deep in his heart.

  13

  Carmina pushed past Sydney and Mrs. MacDougall. She dropped onto her knees, staring at Konstantin. “Kostya?” she called hoarsely. “Kostya, mi amor? ¿Mi vida?” She lifted her hands and let them hover shakily over his body. Then she reached out and gingerly touched his cheek. Konstantin's head flopped lazily to the side, gazing toward Sydney with lifeless, vacant eyes.

  “No!” Carmina crumpled forward and threw her arms around him. She sobbed facedown, her head between his chin and the poker, her hands slapping his sides futilely. Then she slowly rose up, threw back her head, and began screaming. Horrible, despairing cries that Sydney thought would never end.

  Sydney heard the pounding of feet. She turned to see von Muller running toward them, his face white with fright.

  “What is it?” he asked, glancing around. “Carmina?”

  He stopped at the doorway and looked in at Carmina grieving over Konstantin's bloody form.
His back stiffened.

  “Mina?” he said, his voice lower and gentler than Sydney had ever heard it before.

  Carmina stopped her wailing and stared at him. “You!” she growled. Her eyes were blazing, and strands of black hair stuck to her tear-streaked face.

  She rose to her feet and went toward him, her dark eyes flashing with rage. “You did this! You! You could not stand it that I loved him! That I didn't love you!”

  Von Muller shook his head and stepped backward into the hall, trapped in her gaze. “No,” he whispered. “It wasn't me. I swear, Carmina. My darling.”

  “Do not lie to me!” she shouted. “You always hated him. Hated him because he won my heart when you could not!”

  Von Muller shut his eyes and hung his head. “Mina,” he said, half choked. “Don't.”

  Carmina began to circle him slowly. “Yes, I loved him,” she taunted. “Him! I loved him with my heart and my body. I made love to him in your house! Your own kitchen, as you slept!”

  “Don't.” Von Muller squeezed his eyes shut. “Don't.”

  A sudden realization swept through Sydney. Carmina and Konstantin. They'd been lovers, not accomplices. Their odd behavior at dinner had probably been a game of footsie instead of secret message-swapping. And their late-night rendezvous in the pantry had simply been a secret tryst.

  Von Muller must have known of their relationship. Or sensed it. And that was why he'd openly disliked Konstantin. Because he wanted Carmina for himself.

  “You are a fool!” Carmina spat at von Muller, keeping up her measured pacing around him. “You deserved that scratch I gave you. When you came to my door, begging for my love like a little boy!”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her, his mouth lifting into a shaky smile. “But you loved me once,” he said feebly.

  “¡Idiota!” Carmina slapped his face. “The only reason I slept with you in the past was to get information for my agency! You were a mission, a chore—not a lover!”

  Von Muller's face seemed to crack from all sides. His brow furrowed and his mouth twisted as if he were in pain. “No,” he murmured.

  Carmina ceased her prowling and glared at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You should never mix love and work. Do you not know that?” She turned to Konstantin's body. “It only comes to grief,” she added softly.

  Thunder crashed nearby and a flash of lightning shot sudden flares of light through the room.

  Without warning, Carmina let out a cry of rage and ripped the butterfly-shaped pin off of her dress. Before Sydney realized what was happening, Carmina lunged forward and swiped at von Muller, severing his throat with one of the thin metal wings.

  Von Muller clasped his neck. For a few seconds, he stared at Carmina with wide, wounded eyes. Then he stepped forward and reached for her.

  Black-red blood trickled from his neck.

  As Carmina backed away, Sydney looked wildly around. How to stop the blood? You couldn't put a tourniquet on someone's neck, could you? To her horror, the trickle turned into a stream. Carmina had sliced him deeper than Sydney realized.

  Von Muller stumbled toward Carmina, his shirt drenched with blood. Carmina stumbled backward, slicing back and forth with her pin.

  An icy sensation spilled through Sydney's chest. “Carmina!” she shouted.

  But it was too late. Carmina, her wide, terrified eyes glued to von Muller, was backing directly toward the stair railing. Just as von Muller gave a last, desperate dive for her, she fell backward and flipped over the banister. Sydney heard the sharp popping sound of breaking wood, and Carmina's scream, followed by a dull thud from the floor below.

  Von Muller dropped to his knees, grasped at the air that had once held Carmina, and keeled forward. He lay there, motionless, his bloody right hand hanging over the shattered edge of the landing, still reaching for her.

  * * *

  Everything became eerily silent. Sydney stood frozen for a moment as the reality of what had happened hit her. Blood was everywhere. Splattered on the walls, the ceiling, even her sweater. A dark channel curved across the corridor, leading from the spot where Carmina first slashed von Muller to where his body had eventually collapsed.

  Sydney carefully picked her way to the staircase. Then she raced down the steps to where Carmina lay, awkwardly splayed across the antique Persian rug. Her neck had snapped on impact.

  As Sydney knelt beside the body, a feeling of deep sadness came over her. Carmina may have been a killer for Mercado de Sangre, but Sydney had seen a human side of her as well.

  The firelight from the hearth glinted off something in Carmina's right hand. The butterfly pin. Sydney pried it from her frozen grip. A line of rubies glimmered along the platinum body of the insect, and its wings appeared to be fashioned out of a lightweight, razor-sharp metal. Possibly titanium. With enough force behind it, it could quite possibly slice through bone.

  Sydney laid the pin on Carmina's chest, pulled down a drapery panel, and covered her body with it. Then she turned and mounted the stairs, her head reeling.

  Had Carmina been right? Had von Muller murdered Konstantin? It was the most logical conclusion, and yet he'd seemed genuinely truthful when he'd denied it to Carmina. And if he did kill Konstantin, did that mean he killed Hubbard and Rifat, too? If so, why?

  At least it was over now. She was safe. Maybe Pinelli or Wilson could help her piece it together once she got out of there.

  As she climbed, strange sounds, like a muffled, high-pitched bleating, echoed down the stairwell. She reached the second floor and found Mrs. MacDougall sitting with her arms around her middle, rocking back and forth and crying.

  Sydney was about to rush to the woman's side and comfort her when she stopped herself. The mission might essentially be over, but she was still undercover. And she still wasn't in safe hands. She couldn't reveal her true self yet, even to Mrs. MacDougall.

  “It is over,” she said in the softest voice she assumed Adriana might be capable of. “Get up. We should go downstairs, away from all this mess.”

  “Oh! There's a fearsome evil about!” Mrs. MacDougall moaned, her brogue thicker than ever. “Deviltry it is! Ghost-craft! They won't rest till we're all in our graves!”

  “Don't be foolish.” Sydney reached down and placed her hands on Mrs. MacDougall's plump arms, pulling her to her feet. “Come. We must go downstairs and wait until the afternoon when my people arrive.” She was grateful that Malcolm had been spared the sight of this. Now if only they could find him.

  They hobbled carefully down the stairs. Mrs. MacDougall was still so agitated, Sydney worried the woman might lapse into a fit and fall. Eventually, they reached the first-floor landing. Mrs. MacDougall cried out as she spied Carmina's shrouded form. Sydney quickly steered her away into the parlor, where she flopped, sobbing, onto the chaise longue.

  The worst of the storm seemed over. The thunder and lightning were less frequent and more distant. Sydney unlatched one of the large front windows and pushed open a panel. The air outside was still wet and cold, and a gusty wind shook the awning above her. Even if her team had managed to pick up on any trouble, there was no way a helicopter could make it in this weather. She had to keep on alone—flying solo, as it were.

  “We should warm ourselves,” Sydney said. She shut the window tightly and tossed some tinder onto the dying fire. Then she clapped the grime off her hands and warmed them in the glow of the hearth. It felt good to keep busy. It silenced her mind and steadied her body. She glanced over at Mrs. MacDougall's hunched, tense form and wondered if the same would work for her. “I think you should make us some tea,” she said decisively.

  Mrs. MacDougall nodded. She stood and headed for the doorway, then stopped and looked pleadingly back toward Sydney. “Please, m'leddy. I must find Malcolm. And I don't want to be alone. These terrible goin's ons have left me all a-flitter!”

  Sydney pretended to be exasperated. “Tea will steady our nerves. Then we'll look for your grandson.”

  Mrs. Ma
cDougall clamped a hand around Sydney's upper arm as they walked through the shadows toward the kitchen. They passed through the main landing, where Carmina lay at the foot of the stairs. Von Muller's hand still reached down from the darkness above, drops of blood raining down from his forefinger. They then made their way down the corridor to the dining room, where they had to step over Rifat's stiff remains. The entire house is littered with bodies, Sydney thought, fighting off a wave of panic.

  It's over now, she reminded herself. All they had to do was wait.

  Once they passed through the door to the kitchen, Mrs. MacDougall finally let go of Sydney and busied herself, lighting tapers, locating cups, and filling a large copper teakettle with water from a nearby pump. She lit a fire on the iron stove and reached for a small ceramic crock with the word tea printed on its side. Just as she was lifting off the lid, a strange noise echoed from the floor below. Sydney jumped. Mrs. MacDougall shrieked and threw up her hands, dropping the earthenware pot. Bags of tea and brittle shards of pottery scattered about the floor.

  “It's one o' the spirits! He's comin' fer us!” Mrs. MacDougall backed into a corner, sobbing.

  “Nonsense!” Sydney exclaimed, trying to mask her own distress. She was exhausted and anxious, and it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain her accent and stay in character. “It is probably the wind.”

  The sound came again. Only this time it sounded nothing like wind. It was low and animal-like. A faint yet insistent moaning. She glanced around and eventually traced it to a narrow door at the back corner of the kitchen.

  Sydney pointed to it. “What is behind there?”

  “'Tis only the stairs to the basement scullery, m'leddy,” Mrs. MacDougall replied shakily. “No folk are allowed there. The master said—”