Hidden Away Page 3

  She still didn’t trust him.

  The trees thinned.

  Isabel stared up at the house, her voice filled with worry. “Perhaps he’ll just go away.”

  He doubted that.

  “He made a mess in the foyer,” she said. “If we get out of here, I’ll have to explain that to my clients and my boss.”

  Her priorities seemed a little out of order. “Let’s just focus on getting out of here before he has a chance to come after us again.” His phone still showed no signal.

  Snow pelted them as they came out in the open and approached the circular driveway. “Hide behind my van. He might be watching.”

  He didn’t want to worry Isabel. She seemed anxious enough, but another thought concerned him. How did the man with the knife have time to slash both sets of tires and come after them pretty much nonstop? He suspected there was not one but two thieves roaming around the estate. One of them had probably been waiting in the unseen car and been called in when things fell apart.

  Isabel scurried up the driveway and crouched on the far side of the van. He slipped in beside her, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “Let’s figure out where he is before we go to that studio. Is there a back way in?” Though he didn’t want to alarm Isabel, he wanted to know if they were dealing with not one but two men.

  She nodded. “Through the kitchen.”

  She led him around the house using the bushes for cover, then opened a door to a kitchen fit for a four-star restaurant. Stainless steel gleamed everywhere. An array of pots and pans hung above the island. The granite countertop displayed every gadget and more appliances than anyone could utilize in their lifetime. The lights were out. Clouds covered the late-day sun, making the room dim.

  Isabel rushed toward the swinging kitchen door. He peered through it at the open living room and expansive entryway with its black-and-white checked floor.

  If the thief was watching any part of the house, it had to be the entryway. The second-story mezzanine provided a bird’s-eye view of the main floor. The man with the knife could stand in the shadows and wait for them to cross the space. Jason studied each inch of the second floor as much as his limited view would allow. And if the thief had an accomplice, that only created more land mines.

  Still no signal on his phone. The storm might be messing things up. He was going to need warmer clothes, or at least a coat, if they had to go back outside.

  He cupped a hand on her shoulder. “You stay here. It’ll be safer. I’m going to see if I can figure out exactly where those guys are.”

  “Guys?” she whispered.

  He put his finger to his lips and signaled for her to stay.

  He eased open the door. Keeping an eye on the second floor, he pressed his back against the textured wall. The whole house seemed darker. He wondered if the storm had taken out the electricity.

  Jason’s heart pounded wildly. He loved this part of his job. Most detective work involved sitting and watching the sordid lives of other people. As dangerous as the situation was, he couldn’t help but relish the excitement.

  He slipped into the living room, staying in the shadows and watching for movement. Gaze darting everywhere. Listening for the slightest out-of-place noise.

  He waited for some time. No chance that these guys had just left. One of them might be searching the woods for them. The other looking for the bookmark they’d come here for.

  Jason eased open the door and stepped back into the kitchen. His heart seized up.

  Isabel wasn’t there.

  Heart racing, he opened the door to the pantry. When he tried the light switch, it didn’t work. He whispered her name and circled through the pantry. No answer. He doubted she’d wandered off. Most likely, she’d been chased or...taken at knifepoint.

  Either way, he needed to find her and fast.

  THREE

  Once again, Mr. Knife pressed the metal blade against Isabel’s neck. He’d dragged her through the kitchen and into the media room on the far side of the house. Lighting strips marked the aisles between rows of chairs. A single light that must be battery operated blazed on the back wall, lighting the media equipment.

  She could feel the cold blade against her skin. She cringed, envisioning that coppery smell and the warm seeping of her own blood.

  Oh God, I don’t want to die.

  Mr. Knife leaned close and spoke in her ear, his voice raspy and filled with venom. “Where is it? What did you do with it?”

  He let up the pressure of the knife so she could answer.

  Her mind reeled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know?” He pushed the knife against her neck again.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t play coy with me. There are two of you. One of you will tell me where it is.”

  She dared not cry out, fearing that he might slice the knife across her throat and seek the information he needed from Mel. Mr. Knife had made it clear he wasn’t opposed to killing her.

  Still gripping her upper arm, he pulled the knife away from her throat, twisted her around and pushed her against the wall. He shoved an arm underneath her chin and pressed up. Her neck muscles strained, and she struggled for breath.

  His eyes looked almost yellow. His breath stank like rotten eggs. Even in the dim light, she’d gotten a good look at him.

  “That was our payday you took.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t take anything.” He’d used the word our. Was there another killer stalking through this house? Mel had said as much.

  “Liar.” He took the pressure off her neck but pushed her to one side. Her chest slammed against a commercial popcorn machine.

  She righted herself and prepared to fight back. The knife still glinted in his hand. Pushing the popcorn machine on its casters, she created a barrier between them and backed him into a corner. She took the opportunity to run from him past four rows of movie-theater chairs down toward a movie screen. The floor was raked just like in a theater.

  There was no door by the screen. No way to escape. She hurried around it toward the door beyond the far aisle.

  Mr. Knife raced after her, grabbing her shirt just as she reached for the doorknob. She turned and kicked him in the leg. He yelped in pain. Isabel flung the door open and found herself running down a long dark hallway. Straining to see clearly, she turned a corner and peered out a window. No footsteps came toward her. She must have shaken Mr. Knife or he’d taken a wrong turn.

  She slid it open and climbed out into the cold. Snow swirled around her and the wind nearly knocked her over. With the pending darkness and blizzard, she could see maybe three or four feet in front of her. Grateful for Mel’s coat, she shoved her hands in the warm pockets.

  When she looked behind her, the wind was blowing enough to cover her tracks. Victoria Wilson’s art studio was out here somewhere. Though she’d never had reason to go inside it, she’d seen it from the house.

  The snow pelted her and she forged ahead until an A-frame structure came into view. Finding the door unlocked, she pushed inside and fell on the floor, out of breath.

  Isabel shut the door and pushed a large metal sculpture against it.

  In addition to the artist’s supplies, the studio had a couch and a woodstove. She dared not start a fire. It might be spotted from the house. She gathered the blanket off the couch and wrapped it around her.

  The sky was already growing dark. Was she going to die out here? Today was her day off and no one but Mel and the Wilsons knew she was up here. But she still wasn’t sure she could trust Mel, and the Wilsons wouldn’t know to worry about her until it was too late.

  Isabel buried her face in her hands. What a mess.

  She shook her head. “Izzy, you seem to have a gift for getting into messes.”

  Her mother ha
d always said that she wouldn’t amount to anything. Maybe Mom was right. Even when she was trying to do the right thing by being conscientious about her work, it seemed to end in disaster.

  She wrapped the blanket tighter around her and the melody of a hymn came into her head. She hummed it and then sang the words. She calmed a little.

  God was her refuge and she could rest beneath His wing. She closed her eyes tight. She had to believe that. Somehow this would all work out.

  The door rattled and she jumped. A fist pounded on the thick wood.

  “Isabel, it’s me.”

  That was Mel’s voice.

  She hesitated. Did she really want to let him in? She still didn’t know how he was connected to all this chaos. He seemed interested in keeping her safe, but his secrecy bothered her.

  The pounding stopped. A moment later his face appeared at the window by the couch. He tapped on the glass.

  She had a decision to make. Did she trust him or not?

  * * *

  Jason stamped his feet to stave off the cold. When he’d gone to search for Isabel in the house and couldn’t find her, he remembered her talking about the art studio that was separate from the main house.

  Was she really not going to let him in? He couldn’t stay out here in the cold much longer. Though he’d grabbed a jacket he found hung on a hook, the chill had sunk down into his bones and his fingers were numbed.

  He heard a scraping noise. She was moving something across the floor.

  “Come inside.” Isabel sounded out of breath.

  He hurried around the little building and mounted three steps to open the door. The room was full of metal, canvases and easels. Isabel had retreated to the far corner by a couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” She stepped across the room and pushed the heavy metal object back against the door.

  He nodded. She’d hesitated but she’d let him in. Maybe she was starting to understand that he wasn’t the bad guy.

  She pointed toward the end of the couch. “There’s a blanket over there.”

  He pulled back the curtain on the only window. Though the artist studio was only partially hidden by a grove of trees, he saw no sign that their pursuer had figured out where they’d gone.

  He gathered the blanket around his shoulders. Silence descended and coiled around the room. With the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, he rose from the couch and paced.

  “I take it your phone still doesn’t work?”

  He shook his head. “The storm must be wreaking havoc with the signal.” His eyes rested on a bowl full of wrapped mini candy bars. He picked it up and walked toward Isabel, who took several out of the bowl and whispered a thank-you. She gazed at him with big round doe eyes. Though most of the time she was so guarded, she had a softness to her that he felt drawn to.

  “Mrs. Wilson must eat these while she’s waiting to be inspired, huh?” He grabbed a few pieces for himself before setting the bowl back down.

  The remark brought only a faint smile to Isabel’s face. “I don’t know that much about her personal habits.” She rose to her feet. “She’s got a sink over here to rinse her brushes out. Do you want some water?”

  “Sure.”

  The faucet sputtered and spit while Isabel filled two paper cups, but at least it wasn’t frozen. She handed him one of the cups and then sat back down.

  The cool liquid soothed his dry throat.

  Jason let the blanket fall to the floor while he paced. She really did act like she worked for a property management company just as she’d said when she’d first opened the door to him. It was clear to him now that she was an innocent in all this mess.

  “That man who chased us. He wants something. He thinks I have it.” She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on here?”

  A debate raged in his head. How much should he tell her? So the thief was trying to find the bookmark. That meant it must have been moved. Only one person could have moved it.

  They were trapped here until the storm broke. Taking the bookmark would reinforce the ruse that they wanted to be part of the smuggling ring. “Part of your job must be to tidy up before owners of the house come to stay.”

  “A little bit. Sometimes workers have left a mess in the owner’s absence or things just look out of place.” She shrugged. “That sort of thing.”

  Her eyes held a certain serenity, a total lack of guile. He wondered how much of his hand he should show. “Do you think you might have moved the thing the thief was looking for?”

  She thought about it. “Nothing of value.” She shook her head. “Besides, if he wants to steal things there is plenty of expensive stuff to take in that house.”

  “It sounds like he’s looking for one thing in particular.”

  “It sounds like you know more than you’re telling me, Mel.” Her voice held a bit of an edge. “Like exactly what he’s looking for.”

  His initial impression of her had been that she was soft and refined. But something in those eyes told him she had a spine of steel underneath. He admired that about her.

  He let out a breath. “My name isn’t Mel. It’s Jason. I got that shirt at a thrift store. It’s useful in my line of work.”

  “So, you lied about your name.” She continued to study him, waiting for a deeper explanation. “What is your line of work?”

  How much did he dare tell her? Chances were the bookmark was in some container that looked like junk but that the pickup man would recognize as his package. “So this thing that man is looking for. Do you think you may have been tidying up and moved it?”

  “Why are you after the same thing they are, Jason?” Suspicion colored her words.

  “He’s not leaving until he gets what he came here for. Maybe we can find it.” In order to keep the investigation under wraps, he needed to continue the fiction that he and Isabel were thieves who wanted in on the smuggling ring. Getting that bookmark might open the door to going undercover and infiltrating the smuggling ring, as long as he could get Isabel out of danger.

  “And do what—give it to him? He disabled both our cars. I don’t think he wants us to leave here alive. He thinks you and I are after the same thing he is.” She looked right at him. “I don’t like being accused of being a thief.”

  Her words filled with intensity. He didn’t want her involved in this. Once they were out of here—if they got out of here—maybe he could get her some protection. “I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.”

  “I don’t even know what that man—or men, if there is another guy—came here for. But you do, don’t you?”

  He studied her for a long moment. Her stare made him feel like she could see beneath his skin. She was shrewd.

  A hundred contradictory impulses charged through his head at once. The thieves thought he and Isabel were trying to horn in on their territory. Getting that bookmark would help the Bureau with their investigation and give him that much more cred with them, but he also had to find a way to get Isabel safely disentangled from this mess.

  Private detective work could be feast or famine. The FBI throwing him a job from time to time would help keep the wolves from the door.

  One thing was clear. Isabel was smart enough to play tit for tat. She wasn’t going to give him any information until he gave her some. “I’m a private detective. Yesterday, a man dropped off a gold bookmark at this house. It’s worth a great deal of money. The two men in the house were supposed to pick it up. You weren’t supposed to be here. No one was.” The less she knew, the better. Best not tell her about the FBI or the scope of the smuggling ring.

  Her posture softened a little. Maybe she was warming up to him. “The people who own the house had a change of plans. They’re coming earlier than expected. I’m the only one who knew that.”

  She rose to her feet and f
aced him, letting the blanket fall to the ground. “So what are we going to do? We could wait the night out here. They probably don’t know about this studio.”

  “They might start searching the property once they can’t find us in the house,” he said. “I’m thinking it’s not just one guy either. He has a partner.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes, I think you’re right about that.” She started to pace. “I believe the one with the knife won’t hesitate to use it.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “We really need the police.”

  “It would be better if we didn’t get the police involved. I can’t say why. Besides, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to get up that road until the storm stops and it’s plowed.” Making an arrest at this point in the investigation might tip the head of the smuggling ring off.

  She flopped down on the couch and stared at a blank canvas across the room. Then she studied him again. Her cheeks were flushed with color and he liked the way her blond curls framed her face. He didn’t like the suspicion he saw in her eyes, though.

  Finally, she bent her head. She put her feet one on top of the other, then switched the bottom one to the top. “I’ve made a mess of everything. I’ll probably lose my job. Trouble just seems to find me no matter how hard I try to do the right thing.”

  Picking up on the deep pain in her voice, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “None of this is your fault.”

  She laced her fingers together and then drew them apart over and over. “The Wilsons are expecting to come home to a cozy warm house.”

  It would be better for the operation if the homeowners didn’t find the house in disarray. But they would probably just assume it was a run-of-the-mill break-in. He wasn’t sure why she was fixated on doing her job considering a man with a knife was stalking them. “Look, the thieves are searching for that bookmark.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him as fear filled her voice. “Don’t you think staying safe should be our priority?”

  “We’re not safe as long as they are here. Finding it could give us some leverage.”