“All you have to do is listen.”
“But—”
“No! You will be allowed to talk to Katie when you obey. When you don’t obey…”
Paige’s heart turned to ice. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had kidnapped her daughter. They were threatening to hurt her. The flat, emotionless voice promised horrible, unthinkable things.
“O-okay,” she stammered. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt her. Please!”
“Now listen carefully. I will only say this once. Bring me Johnny Yarbrough.”
“What?” Paige’s hand tightened reflexively on the cell phone. Her head spun. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Johnny? But he’s…he’s dead.”
“Do not insult me. You know where he is. Bring him to me and your daughter will be returned to you. Do anything other than exactly what I tell you and you will never see your child again.”
Paige’s mouth went dry and her heart squeezed with pain. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in years. I thought he was dead.” She took a sobbing breath. “I just want my baby back.”
“Then you know what you have to do.”
“You can’t do this! I’ll…I’ll go to the police.”
An ominous laugh crackled through the phone. “Don’t be stupid, Paige. If you go to the police, or tell anyone at all, I’ll know. And little girls are so very small and fragile.”
Paige could hardly force breath through her constricted throat. “No, wait. I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt her.”
How was she going to do this? She had no idea. She vowed to tear the city apart brick by brick if she had to, to save her child.
The voice went cold with impatience. “Whether she’s hurt is entirely up to you. I’ll talk with you again soon.”
“Please! Don’t hang up! I have to hear her voice. I have to know she’s all right.”
She heard a sigh on the other end of the line, then a curt command. Her heart beat faster. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
“Mom—”
The word was cut off short, but it was Katie. Paige wanted to scream into the phone, but Katie’s voice was small and scared, so she bent all her will to sounding calm.
“Katie? Hi, sweetie. I love you.”
“Mom, come get me—”
“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?
Chapter Two
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.