Exposure (29 page)

Ella had been taken. Ella was missing.

I felt panic bubble up inside me once more.

Calm. Breathe.

I glanced at the light blue pill resting in my trash can. Maybe I should’ve swallowed it.

No. I need a clear mind to be of any use.

I knew I was barely keeping it together. Could feel the shrieking desperation, just below the surface, that threatened to engulf me. To blind me. To turn out the lights a second time.

Ella
has been taken.
Ella
was missing.

I grabbed my phone. Still nothing.

On the Francises’ porch—as three EMTs were guiding me from the property—Shelton had whispered he would gather the pack. Hi had waved from across the front yard, where he was sitting between two officers, waiting for his mother to arrive. Apparently he’d body-blocked the first cops to chase me through the house. The police were none too pleased.

I owe you one, Hi. You bought enough time.

That strange, unnerving playing card. Its ghastly image was seared into my retinas.

A golden sea monster. Some horrid snake-fish hybrid, all sharp teeth and vicious claws. Hi’s intervention had given me precious seconds to examine the clue.

The
link,
I should say. There was no doubting that whoever kidnapped Lucy and Peter Gable had also abducted Ella. The snake-fish card was a smoking gun.

No one could compare it to Ophiuchus and
not
see a connection. The items were clearly of common origin.

A madman’s signature.

The twisted calling cards of a psychopath who steals children from their homes.

On its own volition, my mind leaped to Rex Gable. The man seriously gave me the creeps.

But would he really imprison his own children? Did he grab Ella, too? Why?

I was forced to admit it didn’t make sense.

What would Rex Gable have to do with Ella Francis?

Yet . . . Rex Gable
was
at the art show. He’d have seen Ella there with me, radiant in her rebellious green cocktail dress.

And the black BMW. The type of car Rex Gable might own.
It
was at the opening, too.

My hands found my face. Rubbed slowly, up and down.

I didn’t know what to think. My brain felt like scrambled eggs.

Against my will, I pictured Ella, locked in that awful dungeon with the Gable twins.

Or worse, all alone.

Cracks in my calm resurfaced. Anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.

Coop popped onto the bed and curled up beside me. He rested his giant head on my knee. I dove forward and hugged his body close.

Knew that someone was looking out for me, always.

The tide of dread receded, but didn’t fully disappear. Disturbing thoughts about Ella kept exploding inside me, like popcorn on a hot stove. But Coop’s warm, solid presence helped keep the demons at bay.

I hadn’t felt like this since losing Mom.

Stop it. Ella’s missing, not . . .

I shook my head to dispel the terrible thought.

Do something. Work the problem.

Go to the police? With
what,
exactly? My suspicions? A few wild theories?

We had next to nothing concrete. Not really.

A bleach-stained area in an otherwise spotless house. No help there.

The authorities had surely identified the Ophiuchus card by now. No sense revealing Hi’s sticky fingers just to pass along stale info.

And how could I possibly convey the feeling I got from watching Peter Gable’s eyes?

The writing on the steel bar. That’s
definitely
intel the police could use.

Moving to my desk, I powered my MacBook and googled “Philip Simmons Ironworks.”

Dozens of hits. The links momentarily distracted me from my grief.

Philip Simmons was a renowned African-American blacksmith and ironworker. Scrolling Wikipedia, I discovered he’d recently passed away at age ninety-seven. He began his career at a small shop on Calhoun Street, before moving into the specialized field of ornamental wrought iron in the 1930s. All told, Simmons fashioned over five hundred decorative pieces—gates, fences, balconies, and window grills—many of which still grace the area’s richest mansions and estates.

I clicked a few more sites, impressed. In 1982, the National Endowment for the Arts awarded Simmons its National Heritage Fellowship, the highest honor the United States can bestow upon a traditional artist. The South Carolina legislature gave him a “lifetime achievement” award, and commissioned several public sculptures for museums and the city of Charleston. Simmons was inducted into the SC Hall of Fame in 1994, and received the Order of the Palmetto—South Carolina’s highest award—in 1998. Some of his pieces are displayed in the Smithsonian.

I leaned back in my chair. “Not bad.”

This man was no common grunt. Though Simmons began his career making penny nails and horseshoes, he became a world-famous artist. A
real
one—not like that fop Jean-Paul Delacourt and his horrible interpretations. Philip Simmons was a true master at shaping metal.

So how did steel bars bearing his name end up forming a dank prison?

I surfed a bit more. Late in life, Simmons had been in extremely high demand. His works literally blanket the Lowcountry. Without more to go on, his mark was useless for locating the twins’ dungeon.

Still, I knew the CPD had more resources than Google. This was a tip they could use.

But how would I explain having a copy of the ransom tape? Impossible. Commissioner Riggins would have a stroke.

In all honesty, I doubted they’d even let me through the door. Who was going to trust a high schooler’s video analysis? The silly girl who’d fainted while contaminating a crime scene.

I’d get handed a second blue pill. And this time, they’d check under my tongue.

Fine. No police. Then
what
?

The card from Ella’s room. Find out what it is.

I reached for my iPhone. Ran a search. Placed a call.

“Yes?” The same melodious voice.

“Miss Gordon?”

“Speaking.” A tad hesitant. “May I help you?”

“This is Tory Brennan. We met the other day in your shop. You told me and my friends about Ophiuchus, and the zodiac?”

Silence.

I forged ahead. “I have another question, about a different symbol. Would it be possible to pay for a session over the phone?”

No response. But I heard breathing on the line.

“Miss Gordon? Hello?”

“Now’s not a good time.”

I felt the brushback pitch sail by my chin. Ignored it.

“I know it’s after business hours, but I’d appreciate if we could just talk. I’m willing to pay double, if that helps.”

“It’s not the money. Look, why don’t you—”

“Clara?” My voice shook. I was suddenly on the brink of tears. “I’d really,
really
like to do this now, if you don’t mind. I’ve had a horrible day. Can you please help me?”

There was another pause. Then, “What would you like to know?”

“Thank you. How should I send payment?”

“Never mind that.” Brusque. “Ask your question.”

“I’ve encountered another symbol, similar to the first one we showed you.”

I described the card from Ella’s room in exacting detail.

“That is Cetus,” Clara said. “Known as the Sea Monster in Greek mythology, he was slain by Perseus while saving Andromeda from Poseidon’s wrath. He’s commonly referred to as The Whale today. Cetus is in the same boat as Ophiuchus—omitted from the zodiac.”

“There’s
another
missing sign?”

“Yes. Cetus is located in a celestial region known as the Sea, because of the many water-associated constellations nearby. Pisces. Aquarius. Capricornus. Others as well.”

“Is Cetus a sign, though?”

“He has claim to be. The constellation passes
very
close to the ecliptic. Once a year—at the boundary between Cetus and Pisces—a sliver of our home star strays into Cetus for not quite a full day. March fourteenth. The planets also appear in Cetus on rare occasions. Thus, his inclusion in the zodiac is arguable, though not as clear-cut as Ophiuchus.”

I thought a moment. “What does Cetus mean to people?”

There was a sigh on the other end. “It’s hard to say. What you describe is a seventeenth-century depiction of Cetus, that of a dragon fish. In other times, Cetus has been portrayed as simply a large fish, or whale, or shark.”

“But who would care about him now?” Frustration tinged my voice. “Who would follow Cetus
today
? Who would carry his symbol around in their pocket?”

“I’m not sure, Tory.” Gordon sounded disappointed that she couldn’t answer. “Sailors, maybe. Cetus is often a ship’s name, chosen to express a lack of fear of the sea. But he’s usually viewed as a bad omen, or a bringer of misfortune. Superstitious mariners associate him with bad weather, pirates, lost cargo, pretty much anything negative. On some ships, merely saying his name can trigger reprisals.”

Sailors? What?

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I pressed.

Another pause. I could almost see Gordon debating whether to say more.

“Clara, please.”

“Just this.” She spoke quickly, as if wishing to dispel a bad taste. “In most legends and myths of the ancient world, Cetus is associated with wickedness and ferocity. Some believe his sign represents pure evil. Unrelenting depravity and corruption.”

Her words jarred me. What kind of monster were we dealing with?

Click.

“Hello?”

The line was dead. Surprised, I hit redial. The call went straight to voicemail.

She hung up. Without getting paid.

Why would Gordon do that?

Flopping back against my pillows, I replayed the conversation in my mind.

She’d been hesitant to speak. So unlike her friendly demeanor when we’d first entered Fairy Dust. Upon reflection, Gordon’s reticence seemed more than annoyance at the late hour.

Why did I get the sense she’d been frightened?

A gong sounded on my computer.

“Finally!”

I leaped for my desk, startling Cooper from the bed.

Entering the Virals chat room, I found all three boys present.

Uh-oh.

They’d met there ahead of time, before alerting me. To
discuss
me.

“I’m fine.” Wanting to nip any sympathy in the bud. “What I’d like is to focus on this case. No emotion. No distraction. We need to help Ella,
now,
in any way we can. And the Gable twins. Will you help me?”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Prepared speeches seemed poised on their tongues.

“Okay,” Hi said simply.

“I can do that,” Shelton promised.

“Anything you need.” Ben’s voice crackled with anger. “Let’s get this bastard.”

“Then listen up.” I gave a quick summary of what I’d learned.

When I’d finished, Hi piped up. “I also learned something that might help.”

“Please.” Nodding encouragingly. “Anything.”

“I know where Ella was snatched from.” Hi rubbed his left shoulder. “After I
accidentally
tripped those officers inside the Francis house—”

“Thank you for that.”

“No problem. Anyway, the police took me out on the lawn. They were probably all so terrified of me, they couldn’t concentrate. Who can blame them?”

I made get-on-with-it gestures into my webcam.

Hi’s voice grew serious. “The cop assigned to babysit me was a talker, said that Ella was last seen at her job the night before. She took a break, went outside, and didn’t come back. Never got home.”

A surge of adrenaline. This was useful information. Ella waitressed two evenings a week at a pizza joint called the Flying Tomato.

“Great job, Hi. That’s our next move. We’ll turn that place upside down.”

“Tonight?” Shelton asked. Though this time, his voice carried no reservations.

I considered it. Wanted to agree. But police would be swarming that restaurant right now. Plus, there was no way I’d get past Kit and Whitney in the next few hours.

“No. But let’s go early tomorrow morning, before they open. Agreed?”

Shelton nodded.

“You got it,” said Hi.

“In.” Ben jiggled his keys. “I’ll be there first thing.”

I logged off and lay down on my bed. Coop jumped up beside me. As I tussled his scratchy chin, some of the weight lifted from my shoulders.

For the first time since waking, I felt a measure of control.

Lying there in the dark, the panic began to recede. Transform. Become something else.

Anger.

A slow-boiling rage filled me inside, head to toe.

I captured the feeling. Harnessed it. Enslaved it to my purpose.

Someone out there had attacked my friend. Stolen her. Put her life in danger.

That person is going to pay.

Coop’s head rose from his paws.

He regarded me with lidded eyes, then gave a low, dangerous growl.

“That’s right, boy.” Stroking his head. “That’s damn right.”