Vanishing Point (Circle of Spies Novella) (4 page)

She eased the door shut and crossed the room on silent feet. She ran her fingers over the bookshelves and the straight-back chairs, and was about to sit at the piano and pretend to play when the doorknob jiggled.

Marisa crouched behind the piano. She bit her lip to distract herself from the pain she was in due to the extreme need of peeing and closed her eyes. Why didn’t she find the restroom straight away? What about keeping an eye on Rottingham?

The intruders moved to the back of the room. Right in front of the piano. Their voices were unmistakably clear in the quiet room.

“Have you found the kid?” asked a man with a deep, accented voice. Russian, maybe?

“Somewhere on the third floor. I’ll find him,” a female responded with the same guttural accent.

Marisa shivered. This didn’t sound good. Not good at all. Guests shouldn’t be searching for kids on higher-level floors or talking about them in private rooms. Was the kid in danger?

“You know what to do,” said the man. “Let’s get it done and get out of here.”

“What about the dad?” the female asked.

The man spoke quietly, his menacing tone penetrating to Marisa’s core. “I’ll take care of Rottingham.”

Four

Marisa held in her gasp. What? These men wanted to hurt Rottingham’s son?
 

The kind gentleman, the only man who’d taken the time to chat with her and make her feel welcome? The one who’d swept her around the room to some waltz she couldn’t name while she felt like she was dancing on air?
 

She bit her lip and waited until the men left the room, then she jumped to her feet. Relieving her bladder would have to wait. Picking up her skirts, Marisa rushed through the halls and back into the great room. She ignored the strange looks from other guests. Nothing else mattered.
 

As a mother, knowing that a child was in peril pushed her forward. Just the thought of Savvy being in harm’s way wrenched her heart in her chest.
 

She had to find Will. He would know what to do. After all, he was only here to investigate and he had the skills to intervene. He could protect Edward and his son.
 

She ducked around a waiter holding a tray above his head as he maneuvered the crowds. She wove in between gossiping ladies and broke through a pair of lovers holding hands. In the middle of the dance floor, she stopped and scanned the crowds for Will.

 
There he was. Dancing! With an absolutely gorgeous younger woman with the highest slit and lowest cut dress she’d ever seen. He whirled her around the floor like they were one globular mass, meant to be together. Every time she went to tap his shoulder, he whirled in the other direction.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. But as she plowed through the waltzing couples with the intent to yank Will away, he whispered in his partner’s ear, kissed her cheek, then slipped out the side door of the room.
 

Probably off to do his investigating.

Before Marisa could tail him, a man and a woman strolled past with Edward Rottingham in their grip. They both had dark hair and bushy eyebrows, probably brother and sister. They tried to make it look casual, but Marisa noticed Edward’s pale face and his tense body. The breeze as they passed sent goosebumps across her arms.
 

She watched, helpless and frozen to the spot, as they escorted him outside. The music, the sounds, the colors all whirled around her. The guests continued dancing without a care. Edward disappeared through the front door. What would the brother and sister team to do him? And what about his son?
 

She didn’t give it another thought. With a whoosh of her skirts, she strode across the dance floor and the great room. After a nod to the butler at the front door, she stepped outside. The night air bit into her skin and the darkness leered at her.
 

Which way did they go?
 

She faced the butler, who stood with his arms behind his back. His mustache was trimmed to perfection, his hair gelled to the side. She threw in a Southern accent for good measure. “Did you see which way my gentlemen friends went? Lordy, those tricksters.”

The butler pointed to the right, then returned to his stance.
 

Marisa was a pretty smart cookie, even if she rarely admitted that to herself. The idea of approaching the brother-sister assassin team dressed in an evening gown, armed with nothing but her purse and possibly some pointy lipstick didn’t make much sense, but she took off in the right direction with as much femme fatale as she could muster.
 

The meticulously landscaped gardens surrounding the mansion were filled with perennials and bushes that she couldn’t name without a book. Hedge bushes were trimmed and sculpted. She rounded a corner of the house and listened.
 

Voices carried on the evening breeze. She followed them.
 

The voices grew louder.

Marisa paused, hiding in the shadows of a hedge trimmed in the shape of a bucking horse. She needed a weapon.
 

She scanned the gardens, the flowerbeds, the stone walkways for anything with a hard and possibly pointed edge. And there it was.
 

A garden shovel.
 

Leaning against the side of the mansion. She rushed over and picked it up. “Thank you!” And then she kissed the handle, ignoring the bit of grit left behind on her lips.

Time to kick some bad guy butt.
 

On tiptoe, she ran back to the hedge and peered between its prickly branches, but the branches were so thickly entwined she couldn’t see a thing so she crept to the edge and peeked around the side.
 

The man stood beneath a tree at the side of the lawn with Edward. Where was the woman? Looking for Edward’s son?

Thanking the gardener who planted nice soft grass between the gardens and the trees lining the side yard, she ran. Her feet flew across the carpet as if she were Cinderella fleeing the castle.

Closer.
 

Closer.

The man’s voice came through loud and clear and threatening. Edward Rottingham seemed to be arguing, possibly for his life.
 

Marisa didn’t have time to think about anything but charged ahead with the shovel above her head.

The man lifted his arm and jabbed Edward in the side of the neck.

Marisa ran faster than she’d ever run in her life, not counting the trip to the ocean when a wave had pulled Savvy underwater.
 

Edward fell to his knees.

In a blind wave of panic and rage, Marisa whacked the man in the side of the head. The shovel made a dull thud. She cringed, because at heart, Marisa detested violence.
 

He crumpled to the ground. Had she killed him? Her heart raced and her body filled with heat. She pressed her fingers to his neck, grateful to feel the pulse of life.

Within seconds, Marisa was kneeling by Edward’s side and took his head in her lap. She checked for blood. Nothing. Only the strong scent of pine floated in the air. She brushed his hair to the side.

“Are you okay? What happened? Talk to me.” She brought her face flush with his. “Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?”
 

Edward opened his eyes but he looked drunk. “Why Ms. DeWilflower,” he slurred.

“What have they done to you?” Then she spied the empty vial and needle tossed in the grass.
 

He tried to lift a hand to her but it fell limp. “You’re my guardian angel. Help—” But before he could finish his thought, Edward Rottingham fell under the influence. His head lolled to the side and his mouth gaped open, looking a bit like a codfish.
 

Marisa knew exactly what he would’ve said. Help his son. She gently laid his head in the soft grass, patted his shoulder, and said, “Don’t you worry about a thing, Mr. Rottingham.”

She sprinted back across the grass and through the gardens. At the door to the house, she pulled at the butler, gasping for air. “There’s a man. Out by the trees.”
Wheeze
.
Gasp
. “He needs help.”
 

Will was probably digging through papers in Edward’s study while his hired thugs were doing the dirty work. She took the stairs two at a time in the most ladylike fashion she could manage in a long green evening gown.

And yes, she still had to pee.

Five

Bits and pieces of scattered light made the dark hallway look a bit like a Checkers board. Marisa leaned against the wall, careful not to knock off any of the framed pictures of dead relatives.
 

There was no sign of either the man or the woman. Marisa expected the woman to close in on the boy. Unless she’d already committed the deed.
 

Panic squeezed Marisa’s heart. She needed to find him. How old would he be?
 

Room after room was empty. There were guest bedrooms galore all decorated with lavish curtains and colors. If she weren’t trying to save a boy’s life, she’d lie down on a bed and possibly snooze a bit.

 
Where might a boy’s room be? Instinct told her that a father might place his son toward the end of a hallway. Maybe across from a nanny’s room. But not near the stairs where a child might take a tumble in the middle of the night while innocently looking for a drink of water.
 

She reached the last doorway, praying he’d be inside. She twisted the knob.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

No time to waste. Inside, she gently shut the door. She drew a breath at the bedroom decorated straight from a Pottery Barn catalogue. Not one extravagance held back. The wooden rocking horse. The toy trains and track. And the four-poster bed made from cherry wood.

A boy lay sleeping. The moon streamed in, lighting up his angelic face. Possibly about eight years old. She hated to wake him up and give him a fright.
 

She gently shook the poor boy. After what seemed like forever, he stirred and rubbed his eyes then sat up quite startled.
 

“Shh.” Marisa put her fingers to her lips. “I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m here to play a little game with you. Want to play?”

“I’m not supposed to be up at night. Are you from the party?”

“Why yes I am.” She pulled on his arm. “Now come along with me. The game is called, um, let’s hide in the closet and see how quiet we can be.”

He stared at her for a bit. “You’re pretty. You look like my mum.”
 

“Come along.” She half dragged him to the closet and pushed him inside. She yanked shirts and coats from the closet and stuffed them under the boy’s bedding making it look lumpy and hopefully like a young boy sleeping. Then she rushed back to the closet and sat on top of shoes and under dress shirts.

Marisa shut the door, then placed a finger on his lips. He nodded.

The door to the bedroom opened with a squeak. The boy’s eyes grew round like saucers and Marisa pulled him close. She held her breath, grimacing as the boy leaned against her bladder.
 

Someone padded into the room.
 

Muffled pings sounded, almost like a gun with a silencer, but Marisa shook those horrific thoughts off. Moments later, the woman cussed up a storm then left. She didn’t hear much else. Even so, Marisa didn’t dare move.

Finally the boy said, “This isn’t a game, is it?”

She cracked a smile. “Not really. There’s a bad person outside.” She pondered this. What if the man and woman weren’t working alone? Who could she really trust here? She knew no one, not their history or relationship to the family.
 

“Do you know of a place you can hide?” she asked.

The boy nodded.

“Where?”

He whispered, “There’s a secret passageway in the next room. I discovered it with my cousins last summer.”

Ah yes, the secret passageway, of course, every mansion had one. “Can you hide there for a bit until your daddy comes for you?”
 

He nodded, trembling a bit.

“You’ll be okay. I promise, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He puckered his lips. “I can be brave.”
 

Marisa led the boy out from the closet. They tiptoed across the floor and listened at the door. When absolute certain she heard no heavy breathing or footsteps, she whispered, “I want you to go hide in the secret tunnel. Okay?”
 

The boy nodded. The moonlight drew attention to his long eyelashes. Marisa squashed her jealousy. Thick eyelashes and gorgeous hair were wasted on the young.
 

Before leaving, he asked, “What about you? Where are you going to hide?”
 

“I’ve got to find your father.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “I know of a way. Go down the laundry chute. It’s great fun.”
 

“Thanks for the tip.” She nudged the boy into the hall. “Go hide now like a good boy.”
 

She waited until the boy had closed the door to the other room and then turned back. A sob escaped.
 

Bullet holes riddled the bed covers.
 

All she could picture was Savvy as a child, asleep in her bed, safe and sound. Just the other day she was out at the county fair with Stephen and Savvy. The magnitude of what happened, the entire night, saving Edward, hitting a man with a shovel, seeing a bed filled with shots crashed down. Her body shook.
 

“No one can hide from me.” The woman appeared with the boy in his grip. “I always get the job done.”

After letting out a frightened gasp and processing that she hadn’t quite saved the boy yet. When playing Trivial Pursuit with friends she was always known for her quick thinking and recall but at this particularly moment not one bit of historical detail from the Civil War could help her.

“You might want to look to the side, because it might not be pretty.” She chuckled. “But you’re next so you might want to know what’s coming.”