The two Austrians, young, tall and blond, moved forward. A pair of handcuffs dangled from Stefan’s hand as he approached the Iranian.
As Rashad was being cuffed, Matt called his superior at the Sacher Hotel in Vienna. “We got him,” he said, watching Basim shoot him a murderous look. “Is that chopper on the way? I’ve seen enough snow to last me for a lifetime.”
“It should arrive any moment,” Roger Fairfax replied. “And by the way, that was good work, Matt. I’ll buy you a beer when you get back in town.”
In the distance, the sound of a helicopter engine grew closer. “They’re here,” Matt said. “See you soon, Roger.”
The helicopter was just overhead now. As the pilot started to lower the cable that would lift Basim into the chopper, Matt’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” He covered his other ear with his hand to shield off the noise of the hovering aircraft. “Lucy? Is that you?”
“Yes. What’s that racket?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” she shouted back. “You need to come home right away, Matt.”
Matt felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What happened?”
“Dad’s been arrested for murder.”
Four
The clock on the dash of Grace’s Ford Taurus read 8:45 p.m. when she reached the outskirts of New Hope. Getting out of Boston had been a nightmare. After two wrong turns, a flat tire and a three-mile traffic jam on I-95, she had finally spotted the sign for Route 29. Fifteen minutes later, she was crossing the bridge that connected Lambertville, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania.
She knew little about this quaint little town, except that it was situated in the heart of one of the most beautiful and historic areas of Pennsylvania—rural Bucks County. It was a peaceful, quiet town, although a quick check through the archives of a local paper had confirmed what Sarah had told her. Twenty years ago, a nineteen-year old girl named Felicia Newman had disappeared, and although it was suspected that she had been murdered, her body was never recovered. Five days later, a mentally disturbed man, also a resident of New Hope, was arrested. Since then, there had been little crime in the town—until Steven’s murder.
Grace slowed down and glanced at the directions. “A right turn will take you to the cottage,” Sarah had said. “To go to the gallery, you keep straight on Bridge Street.”
After driving for more than nine hours, the thought of curling up in a warm bed, even a strange bed, was infinitely more appealing than an inspection tour of an art gallery. But she couldn’t help it. She was curious. She had to see if Steven’s pride and joy was as spectacular as he had claimed.
Bridge Street, she soon found out, was partly commercial and partly residential, which made finding a parking space at this time of night, when everyone was home, more difficult than she had expected. She found a slot in front of a shop called Red Hot Momma’s, a boutique of some sort that she would definitely have to check out in the morning.
After shutting off the engine, she got out of the car and made her way down the stone walk that led to the gallery. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and no alarm went off when she opened it. Letting go of the knob, she ran her hand along the wall in search of a light switch.
Before she could find it, a dark form sprang out and slammed into her with a force that sent her crashing against the wall.
“Hey!” Instincts rather than wisdom took over. As the figure prepared to strike again, Grace let out a bloodcurdling scream, and, using a technique she had learned in self-defense class, she executed a perfect heel-kick to the groin area. From the Ahrr sound that came out of the intruder’s mouth, she knew she had hurt him.
Thank you, Frye boots.
“You bitch,” the man grunted.
He sounded as enraged as a wounded animal, and would have torn her to shreds if she had given him the chance. She didn’t. Instead, she raised her foot, ready to deliver a front kick to the knee, but this time, her opponent saw the blow coming. Staying just out of her reach, he gave her a vicious shove and ran out.
She hit the wall again and the back of her head exploded in pain. She felt herself slide down the wall, her eyelids fluttering, as she tried to catch a glimpse of her attacker.
Her vision started to blur. She struggled to remain conscious, but her mind kept playing tricks on her.Maybe she should scream again. The problem was, she couldn’t find the strength to open her mouth. Or keep her eyes focused, so she closed them, welcoming the darkness.
Grace wasn’t sure what she saw first—the pale green walls around her, or the handsome man in a white coat shining something in her eye.
“Miss McKenzie?” He smiled and tucked the penlight in his breast pocket. “Welcome back. I’m Doctor Fenley, and you are in the Solebury Memorial emergency room. How are you feeling?”
She touched the back of her head. Ouch. “Like I was hit with a cast-iron pan.”
He laughed. “Luckily you weren’t.”
It all came back to her then: the drive to New Hope, her stop at the Hatfield Gallery, her attempt to stop a robber. “How did I get here?”
“The paramedics brought you in a few minutes ago. Apparently, a young couple passing by heard screams coming from the art gallery and rushed to help. A man ran out just as they turned the corner, jumped into an SUV and sped away. They found you on the floor, unconscious, and called 9-1-1.”
“Am I all in one piece?”
“As far as I can see. You have a mild concussion and a bump on the back of your head that will remain tender for a couple of days. How’s your vision?”
“I don’t see two of you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Excellent. Any fuzziness?”
“No.”
He took a clipboard from the foot of the bed and wrote something in what she presumed was her chart. “We’ll keep you here overnight and I’ll stop by in the morning to see how you’re doing.”
She sat up, trying to look perky. “Is an overnight stay necessary? I feel fine.” No, you don’t. Stop showing off to the handsome doctor.
“Standard procedures, Miss McKenzie. Concussions can sometime take a bad turn.”
She lay back on her pillow, already sorry for trying to be a hero. “You’re the doctor.”
“That’s my girl. Now, do you feel up to having a couple of visitors?”
“Already? I just arrived in town.”
“This is not your standard welcome wagon. I’m talking about New Hope’s chief of police and his deputy. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
And she had questions of her own. “All right.”
The doctor hooked the chart back on the bed railing. “I’ll send them right in, but they shouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. If you get tired, you just tell them.”
He walked out and she heard him talk to someone, then the curtain parted again, and two men walked in. The first one had a definite look of authority. His step was confident, his dark blue uniform crisp, even at this late hour, and his gaze sharp. He was in his early-to-midforties with brown hair cut flat on top, an acne-scarred face and a square jaw. He reminded her of SpongeBob. The man next to him was younger with an easy smile and light blue eyes.
“Good evening, Miss McKenzie,” the older man said in a formal tone. “I’m Chief of Police Josh Nader, and this is Deputy Rob Montgomery.”
She was too tired, and too worried about the gallery to waste