Born of Illusion (24 page)

The woman whispers something and I strain to hear her voice again, but it’s too low. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll recognize it?

I’m not sure how long we drive. Time slips away as I vacillate between heart-pounding terror and an eerie calm. I keep my eyes squeezed shut even though my captors can’t see me with the hood on. Finally, after an eternity, the milk truck stops.

“What should we do with her?”

“We can’t move her right now. People are still out. Someone will see for sure.”

“I’d like to just dump her in the river,” the woman snarls. My blood freezes. Again, I recognize the voice but can’t quite place it. Could it be the Lindsay daughter? I’ve only heard her voice that one time, so I can’t be sure.

“Remember who you’re working for. She’s just bait.”

“Yeah, crab bait.”

“Not a hair on her head can be hurt,” the man warns.

They’ve hurt a hell of a lot more than my hair, but I remain silent.

There’s movement in the front of the truck and then the sound of doors opening and closing. I make myself count to one hundred before my fingers slowly begin to work on the bindings that hold me. My fingers are numb from shock and cold, and it takes me far longer than it should to undo the rope. Once my hands are free, I reach up and slip off the hood.

I let my eyes adjust to the darkness but can only make out dim outlines.

Quickly now, fearing they’ll be back for me, I reach down and undo the ropes around my legs. Inching my way over to a window, I peer out, afraid someone will see me and knock me senseless again.

The milk truck is parked in an alley and there’s nothing but brick walls on either side. My first instinct is to throw open the door and make a run for it, but I hold myself back and consider my options. If they catch me now, I won’t get another chance. I wonder briefly if Owen has called the police, but they would have no way of finding me.

I see no movement outside and the windows looking out into the alley are dark and still. Slowly, every muscle in my body protesting, I search the back of the milk truck for my purse. At least then I’d have a weapon. But I find nothing. Either they’ve taken it or I dropped it when they first grabbed me.

I crawl to the front to open the door. Surely they’ll be watching the back? I inch the door open, my nerves screaming as the hinge squeaks. When nothing happens, I open it farther, just wide enough to slip through. My head throbs with every heartbeat and I lean against the truck for a moment, fighting off nausea. Then I crouch, moving along the side until I reach the front. Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, I wait for the longest second in history. If they’re going to see me, it’ll be now. Then in a flash I take off for the street ahead.

Fear clutches my throat as I strain to hear the sound of pursuit behind me. Nothing. I round the corner and keep running, trying to find a place with enough people that I can get lost in the crowd.

My heel swivels on an uneven patch of concrete, twisting my ankle beneath me. I don’t slow. One block, then two. Metal buildings loom on either side, but the few stores are closed. I press on. Shadows assail me from all sides, dark and terrifying. I pant, fighting for air, wondering how long I can run. Coming to a corner, I finally slow down, my heart drumming in my ears.

I double up, gasping. Blazing pain sears my chest with each breath of air I take in. When I finally straighten up, I squint at the street sign, but the words blur into dancing blobs. I reach up to wipe my eyes and my hand comes away with a combination of blood and tears.

I take stock. I’m hurt, lost, and possibly being hunted like an animal at this very moment. Nope, it doesn’t get much worse than this. I draw in a deep breath and wipe my face on my scarf. After looking at the street sign, I hurry west, keeping my eye out for a store where I can call my mother. Every time an auto passes I cringe, waiting for the shout that means I’ve been found.

I finally spot an all-night grocer on the corner. I dart across the street and into the brightly lit store.

The woman inside takes one look at me and screams. I must be worse off than I thought.

The clerk hurries over to me. “What happened? What happened?” he asks with a thick German accent.

“Do you have a telephone?”

He frowns for a moment and then nods. “Yes, yes.”

“May I use it?”

The woman, recovered from her fright, clucks over me. “Poor
Liebchen
. Come sit first.”

I’m more than happy to move away from the windows toward the back of the store. The woman sits me in a chair next to an old-fashioned potbellied stove and wraps a scratchy wool blanket around my shoulders. I shiver. My stole must have come off in the milk truck or during my run.

A mug of hot coffee is placed in my hand and I sip gratefully. I hear the clerk yelling into the phone but can’t make out what he’s saying.

The woman keeps patting my head and murmuring words in German. Shelves of cans with names I can’t read are stacked around me and bins of vegetables give off a sharp, pungent odor.

The clerk comes back and gives me a look so sympathetic, a lump rises in my throat. “I have called the law. They are on their way.”

I start to shake and he puts more coal in the stove. Policemen. Of course they’d call the police. Most people like the police.

The woman reappears with a bowl of steaming water and a clean cloth. She wipes my face, clucking in sympathy. I wince but say nothing. What can I tell them? That I was taken by unknown people for reasons equally unknown?

My heart thumps as I remember my vision. I picture myself being trapped underwater, knowing Mother was in danger. What if they go after her now? Who were my captors and what did they want? And why was the woman’s voice so familiar?

An image of Mrs. Lindsay’s contorted face comes to mind. She’s crazy, but crazy enough to try to kidnap me? For what purpose?

A little bell in the front of the store rings and I nearly leap out of my chair. The woman lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Is okay now. The police have come.”

I’m not comforted.

Questions and more questions. First from the police officers, then from the doctor, and then from my mother, Jacques, and Owen, who were all waiting for me at the hospital when the police took me there, just as the sun was coming up.

Now, after hours of sitting and waiting, I’m finally home. I’ve left them all in the front room and gone directly to the washroom.

Nothing is more important right now than this bath. Steam rises around me like a reassuring shroud, keeping me safe from the outside world. The hot water soothes the aching in my legs and back. I squeeze the sponge over my head, allowing the water to trickle down my face and neck. Even the stinging as it runs over my scrapes feels good, like it’s eating away all the bad.

I sink into the water up to my neck.

I draw in a deep breath, until my lungs are almost bursting, then gulp down just a little more. Then I slip my head underwater and begin counting. Houdini can hold his breath for more than four minutes. I’m up to just under three. Usually, I blank out my thoughts while I count, but today that’s almost impossible. A sudden image from my nightmare pops into my head. Me, trapped underwater, knowing that my mother’s safety depends on my ability to get free.

I bolt straight up, water sloshing violently over the edge of the tub. I remind myself that it’s not real, but my bath is ruined. Gingerly, I get out and pull the plug, watching the water swirl down the drain.

After toweling off and climbing into my cotton nightgown, I pad down the hall to my bedroom and slip into bed, reveling in the feel of fresh linens against my skin.

Moments later, my mother appears in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hand. Dark circles ring her eyes, and I realize that she must be as exhausted as I am.

She hands me the cup. “I figured you might need this. Owen and Jacques left a bit ago.”

She picks up my silver-plated brush from off the desk.

“Here, let me brush out your hair while you drink.”

Her voice is gentle and I relax, leaning my head back. I raise the mug to my lips and sigh as the creamy taste of warm milk, nutmeg, and rum hits my tongue.

“Are you sure you don’t know who it was?” my mother asks, her tone velvet over steel.

I struggle to remember the woman’s voice, but everything is fuzzy, and a tremor ripples down my back. “No. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course.”

I take another sip of my drink, the alcohol and exhaustion making the world soft and downy at the corners.

“What would you like to talk about?” she asks.

I lean my head into the rhythmic feel of the brush against my scalp. Warmth radiates through my chest. Tired. I’m so tired. I remember something. “Mama, what’s a four-flusher?”

I turn my head to look at her as she answers. The corners of her lips turn down in disapproval. “Someone who acts like they have a lot of money but mooches off other people. Why?”

I frown, trying to think.

Another thought floats through my head. “Why don’t you tell me about how you met my father?”

The brush falters for a moment before resuming. “You’ve already heard that one.”

“Tell me again,” I demand like a child.

She keeps brushing. “I was working as a magician’s assistant. Houdini came backstage after one of the magician’s shows. I didn’t pay him much attention at the time.”

She stops brushing and takes the mug out of my heavy hands. I lay back against the pillows, my body too tired to stay upright.

“Then what?” I prompt.

She smoothes my hair away from my face. Nice. She’s being so nice. “Then I looked into his beautiful brown eyes and fell in love,” she says simply. “Now sleep, my girl, sleep,
édesem
.”

I frown, struggling for a moment against the slumber descending over me like warm, dark fur. Something is wrong. It comes to me just before everything goes black.

Houdini’s eyes are blue.

Twenty

I
awaken, groggy and disoriented. My shade is closed, but the light filtering through is the artificial yellow of the streetlight. I must have slept all day. The show! I bolt straight up, every muscle in my body protesting.

“Mother?” I call, but even before I do, I know the apartment is empty. I snatch up my wrap and struggle to get my arms into it as I dart from room to room.

Pain shoots up my foot as I smack it on the doorjamb on my way into the kitchen. “Blast it!” I pull my foot up and, standing on one leg, stare at a small flap of skin hanging from the tip of my big toe. Blood oozes from it and I hop over to the counter to grab the dish towel. As if I weren’t hurting enough already.

Then I notice a note propped up against the teapot.

Went to do the show. Will bring back food.

I frown, the pain making me slow and stupid. How can she do the show without me? “Blast it,” I repeat. Hopping over to the icebox, I chip out a sliver of ice, then limp over to the table.

I rub the ice across the tip of my toe, remembering how sweet my mother had been to me just that morning. She’d tucked me in, for God’s sake, something she hadn’t done in years. But now she’s off doing the show, leaving me bruised and alone with a potential kidnapper out to get me.

The rational part of me knows she had no choice—the show must go on and all that—but still resentment gnaws at my stomach. One moment I have a real mother and the next she’s been snatched away from me, as if she never existed.

I wrap the towel around my foot and tie it before hobbling over and lighting the stove. Teatime. I spot the flowers Cole brought me just the day before sitting on the counter. Something in my chest catches as I remember kissing his cheek, but then I remember him standing with Mrs. Lindsay and I’m more confused than ever.

A sudden knock at the door shoots my heart into my throat and I freeze. What if the kidnappers have come to finish the job? I slide open a drawer and snatch out a knife before silently limping down the hall. Just as I reach the door, the knock sounds again and I jump. Then I’m furious with myself for being afraid. This is my home. I’d like to see someone try to take me now that my guard is up. I grip the knife tighter in my hand, liking the solid weight of it. Just let them try.

“Anna, it’s Cole. Are you all right?”

Cole? Relief courses through me at the sound of his voice, sending my pulse skipping. Suddenly, in spite of everything, I want to see him more than anyone else in the world. “Just a minute.” I look around wildly for somewhere to put the knife and finally settle on sticking it behind the fake rubber plant sitting next to the door. I tie my robe more firmly in place and open the door.

Cole’s standing there, rumpled and tired, looking so different from his normal tidy self that I can’t help but gawk. Well, that and the fact that I’d forgotten how he fills up a doorway.

“Can I come in?”

To my complete surprise, I launch myself at him, tears forming in my throat. His arms wrap around me and I feel, rather than hear, his whole body sigh in relief.