Six … two … one … a distant deep voice whispered. I recognized the voice from the other day. Only this time it was speaking in numbers. Seven numbers, repeating over and over.
On impulse, I punched the numbers into the keypad. My eyes widened in shock when I heard the lock release. How?
It didn’t matter right now. I was free.
8. Reconnaissance
I studied the throngs of people as I crossed Fifth Avenue. There wasn’t a single person who could ever be mistaken for a protester. That seemed to favor my conspiracy theory.
I passed through one of the park gates and stopped to take in the gardens and paths of the famous landmark, exhaling heavily. Where do I begin? The aroma of a hot dog cart wafted my way. My stomach growled. Start with lunch.
Foot long and Coke in hand, I searched out a park bench and gingerly sat down, recalling the sharp metal seats of the benches around the fire the night before. This bench’s wooden seat was intact, definitely not one of their props. I scanned the other benches in the area to confirm that all of their seats were also wooden. I’m like Nancy Drew, I thought proudly as I took a big bite of my hot dog. A gob of mustard dripped onto my lap. A slovenly version.
I couldn’t help but feel discouraged, sitting there. It didn’t feel like the same forest. I didn’t remember autumn foliage. But it had been dark and, if they were drugging me, I couldn’t trust my instincts, I rationalized. Still, something didn’t add up.
I scrutinized the people hurrying along the various paths and sidewalks around me, hoping to catch a bubbly blonde skipping by. Or better yet, Caden. My heart began to race at the thought.
It was sunny but the gusting wind carried a bite, enough to warrant a thick jacket and mitts. My hands—ungloved while I handled my messy lunch—were turning red.
“So many people about, all in a rush, aren’t there?” a petite, elderly woman in a blue wool peacoat remarked as she slowly eased herself down beside me on the bench, a bag of dried bread in her frail, wrinkled hands.
I smiled politely at her. “People prefer the warm weather.”
“And you? What are you doing out on a day like this?” she asked, turning to face me as she leisurely tossed a few pieces of bread out to some eagerly waiting pigeons. She had to be in her late eighties, judging by her heavily creased face and her stark white, curly bob. Oddly though, her eyes were not clouded and bland with age but an intense hazel, speckled with dark green flecks.
Looking for evidence that I’m being drugged and dropped off in Central Park at night, I replied mentally. She’d likely keel over dead if I shared that. “Oh, just taking in the sights. I’m visiting from Maine,” I said instead, drawing a big gulp of soda through my straw.
“Oh, isn’t that lovely,” she replied. A typical old lady response.
We spent the next twenty minutes idly chatting about the differences between Portland and New York as the old lady fed the hungry birds and I finished my lunch. She was a sweet, grandmotherly type, eager to ramble on about her ten grandchildren and three great–grandchildren.
With the last chunks of bread devoured by the scavengers, she rose. “Well, it was nice to meet you …”
“Evangeline.”
“Evangeline. What a lovely name. Evangeline, I must be heading home now. It’s too cold out here for these old bones.”
“Goodbye,” I said, smiling.
“Are you going home now too?”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, crumpling up my hot dog wrapper. “I don’t think I’ll find what I was looking for.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
I hesitated. “A statue.”
She paused. “Anything in particular, dear?” she asked, her eyes squinting in query.
I described the white woman in detail to her. Those unusual hazel eyes widened. “Yes! I know the one you’re talking about. Just take the paths through Shakespeare Garden and you’ll find it.”
“Really? Thank you!” I said, feeling a mixture of distress and relief.
With that, she shuffled away, moving surprisingly quick for such an old lady.
I followed her directions and soon found myself deep within the park, surrounded by trees of all varieties, their leaves turning the colors of autumn. I was surprised how wooded and quiet it was with the city bustle so close by. It still didn’t look like my dream, but …
On and on I walked, searching. I wondered if Leonardo had discovered that I had snuck out yet. I hoped he wasn’t too worried. If I could just find this statue soon, I’d have the proof I need, I thought. It has to be around here somewhere.
Leaves rustled, stopping me dead. My head whipped toward the noise and I saw a stout, round–faced man walking a scruffy gray mutt of medium size. He had well–groomed, salt–and–pepper hair and a tidy mustache, and he was smartly dressed in a blue tweed coat and a matching plaid wool cap. A perfectly respectable–looking gentleman, I concluded, relaxing.
The dog’s front legs were practically off the ground as it pulled its owner toward me. When it reached me, the mutt sniffed my pant leg, let out a low growl, then lunged upward, snapping at my arm.
“Badger! Sit!” the man yelled, tugging the dog back sharply before its fangs could sink into my skin. Badger sat back on his haunches.
If only Max were here, I thought spitefully, glaring down at him. You’d be shaking in your hairy paws.
“I apologize, miss. Badger has issues with other dogs. He must have caught the scent of one on your clothing. He’s seeking therapy,” the man joked in a gentle voice, patting the dog’s head. I noticed a small tattoo of an angled cross on the fleshy part of his thumb.
I laughed along with him, keeping one eye on the mutt’s ugly face.
“Are you lost? You look lost,” he inquired.
“Oh, I’m looking for a statue that’s supposed to be around here …” I described the statue, hoping he could redirect me.
“Oh yes. This way,” the man said, smiling as he began moving off the path.
That’s right! There hadn’t been a path the night before. That, I would remember. I followed him with renewed excitement.
“Are you a tourist?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?” I said, giggling.
“What brought you to the city?” he asked, veering into a more densely wooded area.
“Visiting friends.” Friends who paid someone to bite me and make me think I’m crazy.
He held a branch back for me to pass. “Friends … hmm … and have you known these friends long?”
“No.” I frowned. Why would he ask that?
“But you’re visiting them?” His eyes darted to our left, as if searching for something. Or someone.
Warning bells began sounding in my head. Get out of here. “Thanks for your help. I think I need to get home,” I squeaked.
It was too late, I realized, as I turned to see two scruffy men closing in behind me, one holding a gun.
9. Attacked
The two thugs smiled crookedly at me, one of them revealing a brown tooth. A pretty, young, round–faced woman of perhaps twenty–five, with shoulder–length auburn hair and rosy cheeks, stepped out from behind them.
Cold sweat trickled down my back as panic set in. I’m such an idiot! I was trapped and it was my own fault. I was that stupid, gullible girl from Maine, wandering through Central Park. A big, shiny target for any lowlife. My eyes darted about, frantically searching for an escape route. There wasn’t one. Either by flying bullet or flying mutt, I’d be stopped.
I swallowed. “I have money. Lots of money. Here, you can have it all,” I quavered, thrusting my purse forward.
No one made any move toward it.
“Evangeline, correct?” the man with the dog asked.
A chill ran down my spine as I ran our brief conversation through my head. I hadn’t given my name, had I?
He chuckled. “You really should be more careful, sharing information with strangers. Even sweet old ladies. Looks can be deceiving.” His smile sent a chill through me.
I managed a small gasp, shocked that the bird–feeding lady could be in league with them.
“When we saw you leave the leech house alone, we were intrigued. So we followed you here.” I remained silent but my bewilderment at their “leech” reference to Viggo and Mortimer’s place must have been evident, because the round–faced man cocked an eyebrow. “So they’ve kept their secret from you … interesting. They’re very good at it, aren’t they? And there aren’t as many telltale signs as the stories would have you believe.” He paused. “I can’t believe they allowed you out on your own, though … Why are you with them?”
I swallowed hard several times, struggling to form words. “I’m just visiting … I don’t know what they’ve done to upset you, but I have nothing to do with it.” I started trembling.
“On the contrary, we believe you have everything to do with it,” the woman interjected, her voice cold and detached. “You are here with Sofie, correct?”
I blinked. How do they know so much?
The woman closed the distance between us. Those eyes … hazel eyes with dark green flecks, like the old lady’s eyes. She must be a granddaughter. A grandmother–granddaughter criminal team—that had to be a first.
The woman paced around me slowly, like a cat circling its prey. “You’re human; I would know, otherwise.”
I fought hard to stave off tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps you don’t; it wouldn’t surprise me that Sofie didn’t inform you of her designs for you. She’s cunning, that one,” she mused. Her eyes darted to my pendant and she reached up, but her hand hovered over the stone, not touching it. “Incredible,” she murmured. Her mouth crooked in a smile of realization. “Do you know what she’s done to you?”
I noticed her eyes flicker toward the bushes; they narrowed suspiciously, and she started backing away. “So sorry, if you are indeed guiltless,” she said in a rush, nodding to the man with the gun.
He answered by raising the weapon to point at my chest.
I heard the click of the trigger.
Once, I had wondered what a bullet would feel like, tearing into my flesh and organs. I expected it would involve a considerable amount of pain. I didn’t expect that the impact would send my body flying as if hit by a train.
But it did. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back some distance away, with a crushing weight in my chest. The bullet must have punctured my lung because I couldn’t inhale. This is what drowning in your own blood must feel like. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long. It was painful.
I was lying on a cushion of brittle leaves, staring up at the overcast sky as I made my peace with God, when the tightness in my chest began to subside. I found I could inhale again—small breaths at first, then increasingly normal ones. Maybe I would be okay. If I could get to a hospital. If I could get away from here.
I closed my eyes and remained still, feigning death until I was sure they were gone.
A wet nose poked against my cheek. Badger, checking to see if I’m dead yet. That mutt would surely give me away, I realized, fighting panic. I kept my eyes closed, trying to calm myself.
Another, more forceful nudge against my cheek— followed by a familiar whine. I dared to peek through one eye to see Max’s large snout. He was lying beside me. Three other massive black bodies surrounded us, on guard. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The dogs must have scared off everyone.
“Oh, thank you, Max!” Propping myself up on one elbow, I reached over to stroke Max’s shoulder. I felt something warm and slick. I pulled my hand back, gasping when I saw the blood.
Examining Max’s fur, I found the tiny hole where a bullet had entered. The bullet that was meant for me, I realized then, checking my chest to see that I was unscathed. Well, almost unscathed. Max nosed my left hand, growling. It was covered in my own blood from a deep gash across my palm. I must have cut it on a rock when I fell. When Max crashed into me to take the bullet.
“I have no idea how you guys found me, but let’s get out of here before they come back,” I whispered, staggering to my feet.
My stomach lurched.
No one had left.
They wouldn’t be going anywhere, except in body bags.
Body parts were strewn everywhere, heads practically decapitated, necks torn wide open. And blood—pools of it. So much blood that it stained the forest floor bright crimson. I spotted Badger’s head lying three feet away from me, his lifeless eyes staring vacantly up at the sky, his tongue lolling out. His body was nowhere in sight.
The trees began whirling around me. I was unconscious before my body hit the ground.
Sitting on the leather couch in the library, I watched in silence as a diminutive, elderly woman cleaned and stitched the three–inch gash on the palm of my hand with skilled precision, her slender fingers weaving the needle in and out of my flesh. It should have been painful. Instead, I felt nothing.