Abducted Page 17

  She was staring at him, head cocked to the side, fervent eyes searching his face. “Surely you would not choose to be in this situation with me, the girl who broke your heart.”

  He didn’t answer at first, just cupped a hand to her cheek and pressed his lips to her temple. “Being with you has allowed me to resolve a few things.”

  “What things?”

  “Plans for the future, for one.” His senses were dizzied by her proximity, and for a moment, he wanted to believe that they were still in love. He longed for it with an intensity he hadn’t realized he possessed, but his heart, even in its battered condition, would not accept the untruth. Sarah did not love him. They were two people who shared a history, thrown together in desperate circumstances, struggling to survive. He read it in her stiffening posture, the way she subtly drew away from him.

  Though he wanted to keep her close, he let go and she sat back, breaking his hold on her.

  “I’ve resolved a few things, too,” she said. “I really am going to take a break from nursing if we live through this. I was doubting my decision, but I think it’s the right one. I feel like God’s telling me to start a new chapter in my life. My father’s gone, I’ve been drifting around, afraid to begin again without him, but now I know it’s time.”

  A new chapter. New life. He found it hard to swallow. High school’s over, Jett. His hard-earned wisdom had come too late. He was a part of the past she was trying to put behind her. He cleared his throat. “When we get out of this, I’m going to make a few changes, too.”

  “So sure we’ll make it through?” she said shakily.

  He nodded. “One hundred percent.”

  “What will you do?”

  “We don’t need to go into it now.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Talk to me about something besides clues and paintings and death waiting on the other side of that door. Tell me about the future, your future.”

  He gave voice to the plan that had sparked in his mind those long hours lying on his cot. “Gonna go back to college. Get a degree in business and open my own dive company.”

  She smiled. “Perfect. A life on the water just like you always wanted.” She paused. “Where will you set up shop?”

  “Not sure. Got any suggestions?”

  “Maybe near Laguna Beach, where your mom is.”

  “Yeah,” he said, something heavy settling in his heart. “That might be good.” He realized he’d desperately wanted her to suggest he stay in Coronado, where she lived. Stupid of him. He’d resolved the past, so he could move on to another future. One without her. It was what she wanted. What was right for them both, and he’d expected nothing else. He wondered why it felt like there was an anchor inside him. Had he thought for a fleeting moment that she still wanted him? That there might be some ember left between them that could be fanned to life? No way, Jett. You threw away a future with Sarah long ago. Any feelings you might have imagined between you are due to this ridiculous scenario you’re ensnared in.

  “So you’ll be a detective, and I’ll be a dive master. Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, funny.” She looked as though she wanted to say something else, but instead she picked up the paper. “We have to get back to business.”

  Yes, he thought, the business of survival. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and stood, pacing again, ignoring the various aches and pains that flared up in his body. “Del Young must have another place farther south, because he spent plenty of time with Mary Ellsworth. I’m going to guess he’s stashed the painting somewhere nearby.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense, since it would be risky to fly or drive it anywhere until he was ready to hand it over to Beretta. Lookout, vacation, spotting. What do they have in common?”

  “Lookout and spotting.” Jett puzzled it over. “Vacation? Fire lookouts? Whale spotting?” He shook his head. “You could go on a whale spotting vacation, I suppose. I have no idea what that would have to do with hiding The Red Lady.”

  Sarah’s frame went rigid. She bolted to her feet.

  “What?”

  “I just thought of something.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Let’s have it.”

  “Jett,” she said, eyes sparkling with wonder. With the pencil she’d stuck behind her ear, she crossed something out and wrote on the paper. “What if he didn’t say vacation? What if he said ‘station’?”

  “Lookout, spotting, station.” Jett’s pulse flickered. “A spotting station, as in a World War II spotting station? The kind that looks out across the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Yes, there were many sprinkled along the California coast.”

  “Uh-huh. I read all about them when I was a kid. The men who manned the stations would use azimuth scopes to take the bearings of enemy ships. They were experts on identifying the ships’ silhouettes.”

  “You know,” she said slowly, “there’s a spotting station in Santa Barbara. It’s been boarded up to keep out the vandals and teens looking to party there. My father took us once years ago, before they closed off the place. I remember it was set on a bluff away from everything, no houses or buildings nearby.”

  “A World War II spotting station,” he repeated. “The perfect place to hide something.”

  “And someone? Could Mary be there, too? Camped out and waiting for him to return?”

  “Unlikely, after all this time, but they may have arranged to meet there when he messaged her the deal with Beretta was done.” Jett heard footsteps in the hallway. “Are you sure about this, Sarah?”

  He heard her swallow. “No, I’m not, but I don’t think there’s time for a plan B.”

  “Then we go with plan A,” he said, taking her hand and squaring his shoulders. “Sarah Gal, it’s time to solve this mystery one way or another.”

  She clung to his hand. “I’m scared, Jett.”

  “We’ll finish this together,” he said, kissing her temple.

  She pressed her trembling lips together and gave him one brave nod.

  Miguel opened the door for Beretta. He stepped inside. The gun was not in his hand, but Jett saw it holstered at the belt.

  “So what is it to be?” Beretta said. “You solved the case or you are to be shot?”

  Jett smiled. “She solved the case. She knows where The Red Lady is.”

  “But I want to confirm it with Marco and Candace, when they call.”

  He looked at an expensive gold watch on his wrist. “And with five minutes to spare? Let us not wait any longer. Tell me what you have discovered.”

  “I might be wrong. My family can confirm and—”

  “They’re lying,” Miguel growled. “You see?”

  Beretta silenced him with an upheld palm. “Tell me. Now.”

  “How do we know you aren’t going to kill us as soon as we tell you?” Sarah said.

  “You don’t,” he said, “but my painting is worth thirty million dollars and change. We did not capture Tom and Ellsworth, so if they have figured out the clues, they might be headed for the same location. You will lead me to it first, and then, perhaps if I am feeling gracious, I will let you go.”

  “And if we don’t?” Jett said.

  “You will.” Beretta’s smile was wolfish. “Because you do not wish to see this lady grievously hurt. I am correct, no? I saw the rage in your eyes when I shot at her earlier. I know that you will do anything to keep me from putting a bullet into her for real, won’t you?”

  Jett fumed, the blood in his body turning to lava. If she wasn’t standing next to him, he’d have thrown himself at Beretta, gun or no gun. He’d taken on plenty of tough guys in his day, and Beretta was no better than your average street-corner thug.

  Miguel stood nearby, daring him to act.

  “All right,” Jett said, tamping d
own on his anger with an extreme effort. “We’ll take you there, tomorrow. It’s on the mainland, but the channel is treacherous at night.”

  “Not to worry,” Beretta said. “We have a boat and we are experienced in navigating difficult waters, so to speak.”

  “We should wait until morning,” Jett said firmly.

  Beretta turned to stare at Jett. It was not the look of a man who was accustomed to waiting.

  And if they delivered on finding the painting, would Beretta actually let them go?

  He did not have the look of a man who was accustomed to mercy, either.

  As they were escorted from the room at gunpoint, Miguel’s burner phone began to ring. “Let me speak to them, just to be sure.”

  With a snicker of laughter, Miguel tossed the phone on the bed where Del Young’s body lay and closed the door behind them, the phone ringing in the empty room.

  TWENTY

  Alex was sent to prepare Beretta’s boat for departure. Jett felt as if time was slowing down, the minutes dragging by in slow motion. He knew Marco and Sarah’s sisters would find them soon. The police would have to come also, when the downed chopper was discovered or the pilot’s family filed a missing persons report. It was a matter of time, a cat and mouse game to see if they could survive until help arrived.

  His idea of deciphering Young’s note had bought them some precious minutes, and what’s more it would get them off the island, which might open up another avenue of escape. Jett eyed the list Sarah still clutched in her hand. If Miguel would just divert his attention for a minute, one of them could write a note with their intended location and a message incriminating Antonio Beretta and his men. It wasn’t much of a bread-crumb trail, but it was something.

  But Miguel watched them closely, even as Beretta whispered something into his ear.

  “You can’t just leave Mr. Young here,” Sarah was saying as he led them down the stairs.

  Miguel snorted. “He won’t care one way or another.”

  She gaped and shook her head as if she could not think of anything further to convince these men to behave like civilized beings.

  When they reached the bottom floor, Miguel motioned for them to follow, his pistol in his hand.

  They were marched down the hallway. Jett was surprised and alarmed when they stopped at the entrance to Ellsworth’s art gallery. Beretta stepped inside and motioned for them to join him in the softly lit room.

  They were stopping to appreciate Ellsworth’s collection? Something felt very wrong. Jett stayed close to Sarah, virtually shoulder to shoulder with her as they shuffled across the plush carpeted floor.

  The gallery was pristine except for the pile of papers dumped in the middle of the room. Jett’s nerves prickled. Beretta walked close to several of the pictures, his nose inches from the canvas.

  “Do you have an appreciation for art?” Beretta asked. When they remained silent, he continued. “You think of me as a thug, a lowlife, yet I know more about art than either one of you.”

  “Knowledge isn’t what you’re lacking,” Jett said.

  “Ellsworth has some fine pieces,” Beretta continued as if he hadn’t heard, absorbed in his study of the artwork, “but none as excellent as mine.” He neared a small abstract of waves thundering against a rocky coastline. “Except for this one. It is a Joseph Turner, an artist I do not possess. He was an English landscape painter. His mother was mad, apparently.” He lifted it from the wall, studying the rich wood frame and the bold colors. “Genius. Truly a master.”

  “So you’re going to steal it?” Jett said. “Just like Ellsworth arranged to steal The Red Lady?”

  “Exactly. I will take what is his and punish him tenfold.” Gazing at the painting, he moved it so the light would play on different parts of the work. “I will give this to my wife for her birthday.”

  “Nothing says love like giving your sweetheart a stolen painting,” Jett muttered. He saw Sarah smile, a hard-won prize.

  Beretta laughed. “And nothing says revenge quite like this.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it to life. The little orange flame reflected in Beretta’s dark eyes.

  Jett’s breath hitched as he understood. “Don’t. These pieces are one of a kind. They were meant to be seen.”

  “And I have seen them. Ellsworth, however, should he live to return to his island, will never enjoy them again.”

  “No,” Sarah cried. “You can’t destroy them.”

  “Watch me,” he said as he touched the lighter to the piece of paper atop the pile. It caught, a little flame flaring up and spreading to engulf the paper next to it. The glint of the orange fire leaped up and painted his skin in garish light.

  Madness, Jett thought. This is what madness looks like, or maybe addiction. He thought of his father, so hopelessly addicted to alcohol that he could not be the man, the husband, the father he was meant to be. Jett was now standing face-to-face with another man who was so addicted to power that he would destroy wondrous treasures simply because he could not possess them. Ellsworth, abducting people and ready to torture others over The Red Lady. Beretta, crazy with rage at being bested. How could Jett have ever figured he could make it through this broken world without God?

  Thanks, Lord, he said silently. However it goes, thanks for helping me see the truth.

  The flames were devouring the papers and reaching outward to the carpet now, but Beretta did not seem inclined to leave. He watched, transfixed, as the fire licked toward the walls, creeping inch by inch upward, feeding like hungry serpents.

  Some of the frames caught. With a crackle and pop, the fire ate away the nearest portrait of a young boy standing on the bow of a ship. His golden hair blistered, charred and peeled away in sooty flakes before the twisted mass fell to the floor and became part of the bonfire. Sarah turned and pressed her face to Jett’s chest.

  He stroked her hair, turning his own gaze away from the sickening destruction, focusing on the treasure he held in his arms as the others incinerated around them, the fire fueled by anger and avarice.

  “Mr. Beretta?” Miguel said, shifting uneasily as smoke began to fill the room. “The fire will attract attention.”

  “I hope so,” Beretta said. “I hope Ellsworth can see it from wherever he is holed up.”

  “We should leave,” Miguel insisted.

  Beretta seemed to snap back to reality. “I will package my new Turner, and we will go get The Red Lady.”

  Sarah tensed in his arms.

  Such a simple plan, Jett thought. Would there really be a priceless painting hidden in the abandoned spotting station? Or were they wrong, hopelessly wrong?

  More importantly, he thought, as he led Sarah out of the room, would there be an opportunity for them to escape once they were off the wretched island? Resolved to stay alert for the slightest opportunity, Jett kept his arm around Sarah as they were marched toward the dock.

  * * *

  Sarah’s coveralls were damp with fog and the spray of the waves as Miguel piloted the boat to the Santa Barbara coast. The cold stiffened her body and brought every scratch and contusion groaning to life. She wished they had been able to keep the yellow rain slickers, because she was now doused to the skin. They tied the boat up, and Beretta sent Miguel to obtain a vehicle. They were kept in the front, while Beretta held a gun on them from the back, smoking his cigarettes until Sarah wanted to retch from the acrid smell.

  Miguel returned a half hour later with a green SUV. Sarah only hoped he had not killed someone when he’d stolen it.

  They got in, and Jett was forced to drive with Miguel in the passenger seat and Sarah in the back with Beretta. They drove through the empty streets of Santa Barbara. She directed Miguel toward a steep road at the edge of town that led up the cliffs, praying her long-ago memory would not fail her. The night was cris
p and clear, the sky washed with a faint veil of clouds.

  “Where?” Miguel demanded when the road forked off in two different directions.

  “To the right,” Sarah said, more confidently than she felt.

  He complied, guiding the vehicle up the steep trail.

  Sarah had a vivid memory of hiking up to the spotting station with her father. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen, sullen over having to miss a day with her friends, grumbling over the exertion of climbing the steep hill on foot with their picnic lunches stowed in their backpacks. But the sweeping panorama wasn’t what she remembered from that day. They’d encountered an old man in stained clothes and dirty shirtsleeves there in the spotting station. Sarah had been afraid of the man with the wrinkled face and the missing front tooth, but her father had promptly sat down next to the man and invited him to share their picnic lunch, handing over half of his own sandwich to the stranger. By the time the meal was done, Bruce Gallagher found out the homeless man was a Vietnam vet with a drinking problem and nowhere to go. Her father passed along the name and address of their church, the local homeless shelter and the offer of a ride if it was desired. Bruce also left the man his jacket and another sandwich when they departed.

  Sarah remembered looking at her father differently after that day. Before then, Bruce Gallagher was her father. After that, he was a man who would literally give someone the shirt off his back. That day, a moment at the spotting station had changed her life. Now, it seemed, her life would once again be forever changed by what happened at the old stone bunker.

  Jett stopped the car when he reached a barrier in the road. A metal railing was drawn across to prevent vehicles from passing, but Miguel took care of the padlock by shooting it. The rail surrendered with a shrill squeal as he shoved it out of the way.

  Returning to the car, Miguel rolled down the window. Cold air blasted her face, leaving it stiff with the chill. Outside the wind scoured the rocks, which shone bald and blunt in the moonlight. The night was silent save for the sound of the waves, the moaning of the breeze and the pounding of her own heart in her ears.