Mallory Kane - Heir To Secret Memories

“Oh, Katie, I’m trying to. Be brave, honey.”

“Nice sentiment, Paige.”

Her throat ached with the need to cry. “Katie,” she mouthed soundlessly.

“But you don’t have time for sentiment. Your daughter’s time runs out when the cell phone battery runs out.”

“Wait! What do I do if I find him?”

“You don’t worry about that.”

“But how will I get in touch with…?” Paige realized she was speaking to a dead phone. She dropped it as if it were hot and stared at it, wringing her hands.

“Katie,” she whispered hoarsely, then forced herself to take a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. Think.”

She paced back and forth clenching and unclenching her fists as she wrestled with the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She worked to gain control of her whirling thoughts.

The picture. The picture with Johnny’s signature on it. Paige felt a minuscule flutter of hope. She’d call Sally and find out about the picture.

Grabbing the cell phone, she punched buttons, but nothing happened. She looked at it. The little display screen was black. Not even the time or the signal showed. She shook it and punched buttons again.

What was wrong with the stupid phone? It was like the keys were stuck. She wanted to throw it, but instead she clutched it to her chest. It was her only link to her baby.

A vise of terror clamped around her heart. Katie was in danger and she didn’t know where she was, or how to get in touch with her.

Paige forced herself not to give in to terror and grief. She had to think. What could she do? She stared at the silent phone. She tried to remember everything the kidnapper had said, but her brain wouldn’t work right.

Oh God, she needed to hear Katie’s voice again. If she could just hear her, she could be sure she was all right.

Her tape recorder! She had a minirecorder that she used to dictate notes about her social work clients. She could record the calls. Maybe she could somehow use the information to find Katie.

She ran into her bedroom and grabbed the little tape recorder off her bedside table. Having it didn’t do much to calm her growing panic, though. It didn’t solve her biggest problem. She thought about the voice’s demand. She had to find Johnny Yarbrough.

How was she going to find a dead man?

Paige stood in front of yet another tiny, musty shop. She’d been inside dozens of similar shops today, up and down the streets near the docks.

She’d taken a cab back to Sally’s place last night, but Sally hadn’t been available. She’d gone off with a gentleman friend, according to her housekeeper. But she’d left the drawing in case Paige came by.

Frustration and fear had Paige’s muscles wound as tight as springs. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. Now it was almost dark and she still hadn’t found the right shop.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last. Nausea gnawed at her insides and she couldn’t stop trembling as she clutched the cell phone in one hand and the small, framed sketch in the other.

What if she did something wrong and those people hurt Katie? What if the artist wasn’t Johnny?

What if he was?

The cell phone rang.

Paige jumped and almost dropped it. She jabbed the one button that worked. “Katie?”

“It’s been sixteen hours, Paige. That battery won’t last forever.”

“Wait!” she cried, fumbling in her pocket for her tape recorder. The phone went dead.

Paige froze. Were they watching her? Had they seen her pull the tape recorder out of her pocket? She looked up and down the street, the hairs on her neck prickling, the weight on her chest making it hard to breathe.

She didn’t need the faceless voice to tell her how long it had been. She knew exactly, down to the second. It had taken all her will not to go to the police. It had taken all her strength to make it this far. The only thing that had kept her going was Katie.

This was for Katie.

Forcing her leaden limbs to work, she entered the shop.

The interior was dark after the bright sunlight outside. The odor of incense and mildew swirled around her. Exotic fabrics draped the walls and spilled over counters and chairs. On a shelf stood a number of apothecary bottles labeled with odd names like wolfsbane and maidenhair.

A table held an ominous collection of straw and rag dolls, some with long, pearl-tipped pins stuck in them.

On the main counter was a drawing held flat by a yardstick. Like the one in her hands, it was deceptively simple, no more than a few perfectly executed lines. An old pier with a seagull perched on a board was in the foreground, with a hint of mist-shrouded sea behind.

She peered closer, squinting in the dimness. The date was three months ago. Her heart sped up. The signature was the same.

Paige caught the edge of the counter as relief sent dizzying blood rushing to her head. Finally, she’d found the right place.

Beads clattered as a dark woman in a yellow turban stepped into the room. “Ah, c’est vous.”

Paige started. “What?”

“It is you. From the drawings.”

Paige studied the thin, brightly dressed woman. Her eyes, enormous and black in her dark face, reflected wisdom and sympathy, along with a hint of amusement. Maybe she would help her.

Paige held out the framed sketch. “I must find the artist.”

“Ah, everyone comes to Tante Yvette seeking the mysterious artist.”

“You mean other people have been asking about him?” Her fingers tightened around the cell phone in her pocket. “Who?”

“Two men,” the woman spat. “Rough. Stupid.”

“Did you tell them?”

The woman laughed and the sound echoed through the little shop like a wind chime. “It is not my place to tell secrets.”

“I have to find him. Please.” Paige heard the desperation in her voice, the rising panic.

The turbaned woman shook her head and waved a thin hand. A dozen or more bracelets jangled. “Perhaps he does not wish to be found.”

Despair clutched at Paige like punishing fingers. “Who is he? You have to tell me. My daughter….” She stopped.

If you tell anyone…your daughter is so small and fragile.

The jangling bracelets stilled. “Your daughter?”

Paige shook her head. “Never mind. I have to find the artist. It’s important.”

“Many things are important. For this artist, perhaps not being found is important.”

“Please don’t talk to me in riddles,” Paige begged. “If you won’t help me, just say so. I don’t have much time.” She thought of Katie, of what the kidnappers might be doing to her.

Tante Yvette stared at her intently. “Time? For what?”

Paige shook her head, but before she could speak, a noise outside startled her. She clutched the frame closer and didn’t breathe.

“You are afraid,” the woman said. “Tell Tante Yvette who frightens you.”

Paige shook her head. “I can’t. They—they’ll know.”

Tante Yvette looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are the girl in the picture, non?”

Paige looked down at the carefully drawn eyes, the exquisite perfection of the few lines that formed the shoulders, neck and hair. Then she stared at the signature and the date.

The answer was unbelievable, but for Katie’s sake she prayed it was true.

She met Tante Yvette’s gaze. “Yes.”

The older woman nodded. “Come with me.”

She led Paige behind the beaded curtain into an apartment that connected to another apartment, then another. As they encountered other people and stepped around furniture, Tante Yvette gestured or spoke in what was probably French. No one said a word to Paige.

Finally they walked through a crowded storeroom to a heavy door. “Go out this door and turn right. Stay behind the buildings. Go to the hotel and ask the old drunk.”