Chapter
twenty-two
Zander was in high school again.
He and Britt stood side by side at Bradfordwood’s kitchen counter, making cinnamon rolls at ten o’clock at night. She’d pulled her hair up into a high ponytail and wore a navy and gold sweat shirt that said Merryweather Panthers across the front.
She explained to him how to roll the dough so that it was thick but not too thick.
He watched her. Slim arms. Graceful hands. Serious concentration in the familiar angles of her profile. When she had the dough how she wanted it, she scooped up handfuls of the cinnamon-sugar mixture to sprinkle on top.
She gave him a nudge and peered up at him laughingly. “C’mon, Zander Ford. You have to pull your weight.” She scooted the bowl of cinnamon sugar in his direction, and he went to work.
“No One” by Alicia Keys played quietly and the scent of bread dough filled the air. But it was Britt—it had always been Britt—who commanded his senses most.
She rolled and sliced the dough, then slid a pan full of rolls into the oven. “They’ll be gorgeous when they’ve baked and we’ve drizzled them with frosting.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Zander?”
His breath fled. “Yes?” Mighty emotions, too big to control and almost too big to bear, expanded inside him.
“I love you.”
Elation came swift and deep in response.
Except . . . something seemed off. Not quite right. He kicked his misgivings to the side.
Her hands bracketed his face, and she arched onto her toes to bring their eyes closer to level. She gave him a winsome smile. Then her lips met his.
Only, she hadn’t kissed him in high school. She’d never told him she loved him. Reality began to intrude. At first he fought to thrust it away because he longed to cling to the dream. But then a nagging sense—that there was something he needed to focus on in the real world—slithered around him.
Whatever it was, this dream was better. He tried to wrap his arms around Britt, to keep her with him, but she dissolved, and he was left with nothing but darkness.
He woke filled with regret because the dream had ended.
Why was he . . . Cobwebs blanketed his brain. Why was he stretched out . . . on such a hard surface—
My God. Terrible realization split into his mind. In a single pulse, everything that had happened rushed into his memory. The four men. Him, stomach-down on the parking lot’s asphalt. Britt flailing as one of the men wrestled her toward their SUV. He’d felt a sting in his neck, and then . . . nothing. Until now.
Tom had said to tie him up and leave him in Frank’s apartment. That’s exactly where he was, in the living room, hardwood floor below him. The lights were on. The humidifier whirred. A nail poked from the wall where the painting had hung.
A piece of what he guessed to be duct tape covered his mouth. He tried to move and discovered that his feet were cinched together with a plastic restraint. His hands were likewise bound in front of him at the wrists.
He looked for Britt, though he knew, in the place where his worst fears seethed, that she was gone.
Gone.
The men had taken both the painting and Britt.
Dread made a grab for his throat. His nose strained to push air into his lungs. He’d told Tom he’d go with them. He’d wanted it to be him. But Tom must have been able to tell how Zander felt about Britt. Tom had decided to leave behind the one who loved the other because the one who loved would be less likely to gamble with the life of the one who’d been taken by going to the authorities.
Britt’s well-being was one of the most important things in Zander’s life. His desire to protect her had motivated his choices for years. But if Tom thought that he’d pursue Britt’s safety in this situation through silence, then Tom had misjudged him.
Zander would move mountains and oceans to get her back.
He levered himself into a sitting position and checked his watch. He’d been out for approximately twenty minutes. With effort, he inched toward the wall shared by the apartment next door. He banged it with his feet. Then he banged the floor. Then the wall.
He needed someone to hear him. He needed someone to come.
When his legs began to shake with exhaustion, he used his hands. His knuckles grew bloody. As much as his body protested, he found he could master it far better than his mind.
His mind turned on him like poison. He worried that no one would answer his pounding. He worried about the things Tom and his men might do to a young and beautiful captive. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to find her. That he’d go to the police and they’d search and search and . . . nothing. He worried that Britt wouldn’t make it through this alive.
He ceased his movement long enough to catch his breath, to pray.
Right here and right now, when it mattered, Zander knew who to turn to. The fire of his predicament brightly illuminated what was, and wasn’t, important.
His head bent beneath the weight of his remorse. For years, he’d nurtured his complaints, content to bind himself to God with duty. His behavior shamed him now, so much his chest ached with the force of it.
The God he’d failed was the same one—the only one—who could shield Britt now.
Zander had been unfaithful, and if God operated on human rules of fairness, then he would have no right to ask God anything. God would have every right to turn away and shut His ears to Zander’s pleas.
But against all odds and all comprehension, God didn’t operate on human rules. He’d trampled fairness when He’d sanctioned the most unfair act of history—the crucifixion. Because of that, Zander had been made right with God. He was God’s son. A son full of mistakes. But a son, nonetheless.
Zander’s unfaithfulness couldn’t negate God’s faithfulness. Faithfulness was inseparable from God’s character. And so Zander could be sure that here, where no one else might be able to hear him, there was One who would hear. One who could be counted upon to listen.
Zander prayed, empty-handed and undeserving. He begged God to forgive him. He begged God to keep Britt safe. He begged God to send someone to free him.
Renewed energy flowed in his limbs by the time he ended the prayer. He hit his feet against the wall over and over. He prayed. Hit his feet against the wall. Prayed.
At last, a knock finally sounded at the door. “It’s management,” a female voice called. “Everything all right in there?”
He thumped furiously with his feet until he heard a key turn in the lock. Relief blurred Zander’s vision when a middle-aged woman wearing a navy business suit entered. Her face blanched at the sight of him. She reassured him that she’d get help, used her phone to alert a coworker, then knelt beside him. Her name tag read Crystal.
Gingerly, she peeled the duct tape from his mouth.
“Scissors,” he said.
She placed a quick follow-up call requesting scissors. “Are you all right?” Fear and concern stamped her face.
No. He was not all right. “I’m fine.”
“Who did this to you?”
“I’d rather not say. Do you see my cell phone or my keys?”
“Wait a sec.” She hurried around the space. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t.”
They’d taken his method of communication and his method of transportation.
Crystal returned to his side. “What happened?”
“Some men stole something from me.” He wasn’t referring to the painting. “And left me here.”
“I’m so glad that Mrs. Jenks, in the apartment below yours, called to tell us about the noise you were making.”
Another woman ran in with scissors. Her name tag identified her as Pam.
“If you’ll cut the tie around my wrists, I’ll cut the one around my ankles,” Zander said.
It took some muscle to sever the plastic tie, but after a few moments, Pam managed it.
Zander took the scissors, cut the tie around his ankles, and ascended to his feet. “I’m going to need access to a phone and a car.”
“We’ll call the police,” Crystal, clearly the more senior of the two, replied. “Our security protocol—”
“I’ll call the police,” Zander informed them in a tone that didn’t invite discussion. “A woman’s in danger, and I need to do this my way, or she could get hurt. Do you understand me?”
Crystal reached for a necklace that wasn’t there, as if seeking reassurance from it. “Yes, but . . .”
“You might need to see a doctor,” Pam said. “Your face.” She motioned. “And your hands.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, irate at the time they were costing him. “I need a phone and a car. Immediately.”
“Who are you?” Crystal asked.
“My name is Zander Ford.”
Pam gave a squeak. “I read your book.”
“Mr. Ford,” Crystal said. “You can’t expect us to hand over our phone or car. Come to the office and you can use the landline. We’ll call a taxi—”
“He can borrow my phone and car,” Pam offered.
“Pam!”
Ignoring her boss’s exclamation, Pam walked as quickly as her short legs allowed toward the elevator bank. Zander followed.
“Pam,” Crystal repeated.
“Like I said,” Pam told Crystal, “I read his book. I know he’s an upstanding person—”
“You know nothing of the kind.”
The three of them stepped into the elevator. “It seems like he’s in a desperate situation, and that a woman’s life is on the line,” Pam said to Crystal. Her attention jumped to Zander. “So, yes. I’ll let you borrow my phone and car.”
“Thank you.”
Within minutes, Zander was sitting behind the wheel of Pam’s ten-year-old Mazda. Before starting the car, he ran a search in her smart phone’s app store for the tracking app Britt had used earlier today to track him. He’d gotten the same app back when she’d told him about it, then deleted it before leaving on his trip. He might be able to use it now in reverse, to track Britt.
He downloaded the app, then signed in with his username and password. The app remembered him and showed him the locations of the few people he’d connected. However, it couldn’t pinpoint Britt. Instead, next to her name on his list of contacts, it read Customer Offline.
The men who’d taken her must have disabled her phone.
He took a jagged breath as he struggled to get ahold of himself. Then he dialed Detective Kurt Shaw as he pulled onto the road in the direction of Merryweather.
Kurt came on the line, and Zander provided a terse explanation of events. He gave a description of the men, their Mercedes, and the license plate, which he pulled up from memory.
“Do you have any idea where they might be taking her?” Kurt asked.
“None. They mentioned that they want to get the painting out of the country. That’s all I know.”
“They could be heading to the Canadian border. Or to an airport.”
“Or to a boat. I think her phone’s out of commission. Even so, can you try to locate its position?”
“I can try. I’ll notify Chief Warner and the sheriff’s department immediately.”
“Don’t forget the FBI. Grab a pen. I’ll give you Agent Delacruz’s number.” He rattled off the digits.
“I’d like for you to meet with us at the station,” Kurt said. “How long will it take you to get here?”
“Thirty minutes.”
They disconnected, and Zander purposely recalled the day he and Britt had visited Emerson. He visualized, in detail, the sticky note Emerson had stuck to the back of his phone. Black numbers on yellow paper.
He punched the digits into Pam’s phone. No one answered. When asked to leave a message, he said, “This is Zander Ford. Call me back.” He dialed her number again. No answer. He swerved to the side of the road and came to a stop so that he could text her. Pick up the phone. This is Zander Ford. It’s an emergency. He sent the text and pulled back onto the road.
He called her again. “Pick up,” he growled.
She picked up. “Hello?”
“It’s Zander.” For the second time since he’d climbed into the Mazda, he recounted Britt’s kidnapping.
Emerson Kelly had not told them everything she knew the day they’d spoken with her. If anyone had information on the four men who’d taken Britt, it was her.
Emerson responded to Zander with silence.
“Emerson?” he said sharply.
“I’m very sorry this happened.” She spoke in a tone so tightly controlled it made him suspect that he’d shaken her. “I wish you would have contacted me as soon as you hit on a suspected location for the painting. I could have prevented this.”
She was blaming him, and her arrow struck home because he deserved blame. Britt had led Tom and his men to The Residences. But she never would have gone to the Residences if he hadn’t gone there first or if he’d told her that they might be monitoring her car. He’d had no business making the trip to Olympia today. He should have stayed in Merryweather and waited for Agent Delacruz. If he had, none of this would have happened.
An image of Britt’s family—her parents, her sisters, her grandmother—rose before him. His gut roiled at the thought of having to tell them that Britt had been taken.
He cleared his throat, scattering the image. “The only thing that matters now is rescuing Britt. I have to know what you know about Tom and Nick and the others.”
Again, no reply.
He reached a stoplight and squeezed shut his eyes against a tide of desperation. “I believe that you’re honorable.” It was a lie. He strongly suspected that Emerson had no honor. He’d pegged her as a person who, like his father, acted solely in her own best interests. “You cannot allow an innocent woman to die because she got herself involved with a painting stolen in a heist you planned. I trust that you won’t allow that.”
Silence.
“Emerson!” he shouted. He had tears in his eyes as he sent the car hurtling through the intersection when the light turned green. His hands, bloodied at the knuckles, strangled the steering wheel.
“I’m here,” she said.
“I need you to help me. Now.”
“What are you planning?”
He hesitated. Tom was holding Britt as collateral in order to keep Zander from going to the police. At this moment, Zander was driving as fast as he could in the direction of the police. If Emerson was working with Tom and she informed Tom that Zander hadn’t kept his end of the bargain, Britt could pay the price.
However, Emerson had sounded genuinely surprised just now, when Zander had told her what had occurred. If she was in league with Tom, why hadn’t she driven to Olympia today to retrieve the painting with the others?
His instincts were telling him that they’d need Emerson’s knowledge if they were going to have a hope of finding Britt. In exchange for that knowledge, he was going to have to depend on a woman he didn’t trust.
“I’m planning to work with the Merryweather police, the sheriff’s department, and the FBI to bring Britt home. If you help us, I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”
“I’m not interested in your money. However, your friends might be able to offer me something I am interested in.”
“I’m on my way to the Merryweather police station. Will you meet me there?”
“Yes. Bring the highest-ranking people you can. I’ll bring my attorney.”
They’d chained Britt to a pipe.
She couldn’t see what they’d done, exactly, because the pipe ran up the wall at her spine, and they’d fastened her wrists together behind her back on the far side of the pipe. They’d used a rigid binding—plastic, maybe—to restrain her wrists. It had no give. She’d been pulling and twisting and tugging without success ever since they’d left her in this room. Maybe thirty minutes ago? All she’d managed to do was chafe the skin on her wrists and cause a few of her fingers to turn numb.
She eyed her industrial surroundings. Stained concrete floor. Dirty cream-colored paint. Exposed ductwork.
In Olympia, they’d handcuffed her before stuffing her into the middle seat in the Mercedes’ second row. She’d expended so much energy fighting them that her sawing inhales and exhales had been the only sound inside the SUV when it had pulled away from The Residences. As soon as she’d recovered her breath, Nick had pulled a hood over her head, and Tom had turned on Guns N’ Roses.
Agonizing fear and guilt had stretched her time in the Mercedes, making every minute grueling. Her thoughts churned the entire drive. What have I done? Is this really happening to me? It can’t be. It is. What have I done?
It wasn’t until they’d deposited her here, released her handcuffs, secured her arms behind the pipe—her fighting them every inch of the way—that they’d finally whipped off the hood. Then they’d shut the door behind them, leaving her here alone.
She’d been sitting on the floor, her mind rioting, ever since. She’d kept it together by asking for God’s strength and by focusing on how to escape and by ignoring the full-blown panic attack hovering over her.
Just a few hours ago, she’d been in her clean, orderly, familiar kitchen at Sweet Art, boxing chocolate in preparation to make deliveries.
Now she was here.
When she’d discovered that Zander had lied to her, she’d let anger submerge caution.
“This piece of art is worth a fortune,” Zander had said to her earlier. “There are plenty of people in the world who wouldn’t hesitate to kill us both to get their hands on it.” Until she’d seen Tom and the others with her own eyes, the people Zander had been afraid of had seemed as imaginary to her as storybook pirates. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that the pirates might use GPS on her car to guide them to Renoir’s masterpiece.
She hated that her carelessness had led Tom to Young Woman at Rest. And she really hated that she’d put Zander in danger. What if they’d taken him instead of her? And it had been all her fault?
She could—she would—bear the stress of the situation she found herself in now. She couldn’t have borne it if Zander had been the one taken.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d been unconscious on the surface of the parking lot. What if they’d hurt him? What if they hadn’t simply tied him up inside Frank’s apartment—
Stop it. She couldn’t let her train of thought go there.
They’d tied him up inside the apartment at The Residences, and he’d be fine.
She chewed the edge of her lip.
She wished she’d stopped by to see Nora last night after she and John had returned from Fiji. She wished she and Willow had taken the day trip to Bellingham’s galleries they’d been planning. She wished she’d done a better job of telling her parents that she’d had the best childhood possible because of them. And she desperately wished her last minutes with Zander hadn’t been blistered by her temper.
Text message from the co-pilot of Tom’s private plane to Tom:
We’ve made up time in the air and will be arriving earlier than expected, in one and a half hours.