The Collector

As they approached the intersection of the road that would lead them to Martin Fowler’s property, Alan saw a police car parked with it’s emergency lights on. The chief slowed down and pulled up to where an officer was standing in the middle of the road.

  “Anybody see anything yet, Chip?”

  “Nothing, sir. We’ve set up roadblocks like you ordered and been questioning the drivers of all the vehicles traveling in either direction. But so far none of them have seen any sign of either Fowler or the girl.”

  “Has the fire department arrived yet?”

  “Went by around five minutes or so. They should be up there by now.”

  “Okay.”

  The chief pulled away and made a left onto the road. As the chief sped toward the entrance to Fowler’s property, Alan wondered if Martin Fowler was really stupid enough to think he could escape along this road without somebody noticing him. Not only would the man be travelling on foot, odds were that practically everyone traveling this relatively obscure road were locals who would immediately recognize him. There was of course a slim chance that he could get lucky and flag down a stranger and ask for a ride, but that seemed unlikely.

  And if he had Polina with him, Fowler’s odds of escape were even slimmer. Not only would he have to explain why the girl was with him but he would also be running the risk of Polina either spilling the beans to somebody or giving him the slip. Of course there was always a possibility that he had a weapon, which would help him keep the girl under his control.

  Alan had a funny feeling about all of this. Something didn’t seem right. He finally decided that one of two things had to have happened the more he thought about it. Either the fire was not set by Fowler intentionally and both he and Polina may still in the house—which was the least likely case—or Fowler had intentionally set the fire with some sort of elaborate backup plan in place. The man seemed too intelligent and exacting to have risked everything on the single hope that he could run away from this without getting caught. He was virtually trapped on his own property with no way out by vehicle with cops guarding the only entrance. That left him with only way to travel: by foot. Unless . . . A thought suddenly occurred to him.

  “How far do the woods go beyond Fowler’s property, Chief?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I’ve gather, access to Fowler’s property is only from this road. But how much further beyond his property on top of the hill do these woods go?”

  “Hmm. I’d say as far as the hill runs east, which is for a few miles at least. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m just thinking that if he were to flee along the top of the hill, is there a possibility that somebody could land a chopper somewhere up there and pick Fowler up—theoretically?”

  “There’s a possibility, I reckon. I’ve never been very far past his land up there to be honest so I don’t really know what the terrain is like. Good thought, though. But who in the hell could he contact that would be able to do a pickup on short notice?”

  “Who knows? All I know is that Fowler has money and connections, which makes anything possible. In theory, if he knows somebody who lives nearby that is capable of flying a chopper, he could have called and offered to pay him handsomely if he picked him up. I mean, it’s not inconceivable is it?”

  “No, it’s certainly not. And even if that isn’t the case, I should get somebody up there to investigate from the air. And I think I know just the man who can do it.”

  The chief grabbed the microphone. “Taylor?”

  “Yes, chief,” the dispatcher replied.

  “Give Tom Wiltshire a call and see if he’d be willing to help us out by doing a flyby around Fowler’s place, ten-four?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Better yet, tell him to give me a call on my cell phone as soon as you reach him.”

  “Will do, chief.”

  The chief glanced over at Alan. “Tom Wiltshire is a friend of mine who freelances as a traffic helicopter pilot for one of radio stations in the city. He also owes me a favor or two.”

  “That sure can’t hurt. I just hope he gets up here pretty damn soon.”

  They were not far from the entrance to Fowler’s property and Alan could smell smoke from the fire. He opened his window and stuck out his head. Even in the darkness he could see thick smoke as it rolled and billowed through the breaks of the trees at the top of the hill. He recalled the image of Elena’s little sister in her tutu on Fowler’s website and made a silent prayer that she was not at this moment trapped inside the madman’s “time-out room,” burnt beyond recognition. This very real possibility suddenly made his blood turn to ice water.

  If Fowler left Polina there to die, he would personally see that he suffered once they caught him. That was a promise he made both to himself and Elena.

  When they arrived at the entrance to Fowler’s estate, there was a police cruiser blocking the road. Off to the side was the iron gate that had been totally extracted from the ground, its concrete supports still attached. The chief pulled up to one of the officers standing by and lowered his window.

  “How many men working the road, Tom?”

  “Three, chief. Everybody else is up there searching the grounds.”

  The chief nodded and pulled away. As they ascended the road, Alan noticed how the smoke got heavier the higher they climbed the hill. They hadn’t gone very far before they could see the eerie orange glow of the fire in the night sky. After several turns, they reached Fowler’s estate and both men let out a simultaneous gasp.

  Fowler’s entire mansion was a blazing inferno. The firemen had cordoned off the perimeter as two of them stood fighting the blaze from a safe distance. Alan knew that there was only so much water in the two fire trucks, making the firemen’s efforts seem all the more hopeless. Flames licked the sky from the caved-in roof and belched out from the windows, the stone structure still standing defiantly despite the obvious destruction to its insides.

  Alan recalled what Jacobs had said and knew he was right. No one caught inside this place had any chance of survival.

  His heart sank. Polina might very well be dead.

  He simply refused to believe that, though.

  The chief pulled up behind one of the fire trucks and parked. Alan let Pan out of the back and followed him over to where the fire chief was standing, a middle-aged man named Caruthers.

  “How bad is it, Sam?” Chief Myers said.

  The other man shook his head. “About as bad as it gets, Bill. This structure is a like a damn tinderbox. When Robert Fowler designed this place, little effort was made to use flame retardant materials in its construction. Instead, he insisted on using imported hardwood—not only for nearly all of the floors but for most of the interior walls too, in place of sheetrock. But what have really helped fuel the flames are those oil paintings hanging all over the place. The combination of wooden walls and oil-laden canvases mounted in wood frames equals excellent fuel for a blaze. You’re looking at the outcome of this dangerous combination.”

  “Any theories yet of how it started?”

  “No. All I can say for sure is that it started on the west side near where the courtyard is. Then it spread like crazy in this breeze that’s coming out of the west. No sign of any accelerant being used so far, but it’s too early to rule it out. We’ll need to get in there to investigate once the fire’s been contained.”

  “How long before that happens?”

  The fire chief stared at the scene and let out a long sigh. “Not until it burns itself out, I’m afraid. About all we can do at this stage is try to keep it from spreading to the surrounding vegetation and the guesthouse. There’s no damn water up here to speak of—another oversight on Fowler’s part—and by the time we get enough water flowing to do us any good, most of the damage will have already been done.”

  At the mention of the paintings, Alan said, “What kinds of paintings are they?”

  Chief Myers answered. “Works by several famous painters, accordi
ng to Martin. I’m not much of an art person but I’d say that at least some of them were originals—I guess you could call them masterpieces. You know, like really valuable old things.”

  The fire chief added, “My daughter Jenny was an art student at the university and told me that Martin once bragged to her about having an original Matisse in his collection. When she asked him if he owned anything else, she said he suddenly clammed up and didn’t want to talk any more about it.”

  “How come you never told me about the paintings before, Chief?” Alan asked.

  “I didn’t think it was of any importance, Alan. What difference does it make if Martin Fowler has an art collection or not? He is, after all, an artist.”

  “It is of importance, Chief. Because it suggests that Martin Fowler would never have started this fire himself and deliberately destroyed all of his valuable art. I don’t think any serious artist could do that, no matter how crazy or desperate he may be. Which means that this fire may very well have been an accident. And maybe nobody got out of there in time.”

  “I see what you’re getting at. Well, the only way to know for sure is to comb the area and see if we can find any signs of either of them.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Bill. I’ve go to see how the men are doing,” Caruthers said.

  Alan followed the chief over to where one of the police cars was parked. There was an officer getting something out of the trunk.

  “Find anything yet?”

  “Nothing, sir. We went over every inch of the guesthouse like you suggested but didn’t find a thing. Not much inside the place to begin with. We’ve been scouring the grounds ever since and fanning out all the way to the road and quite a ways into the adjoining woods. So far, it’s been a complete bust.”

  The chief’s cell phone suddenly rang. Alan gathered that the caller was the man who the chief wanted to fly over the area in his chopper.

  After he disconnected the chief said, “That was Wiltshire. He told me he could be here in about half an hour or so.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So where do you want to start looking, Alan?”

  “I don’t care. Just tell me where to go and I’ll start.”

  The chief handed him his flashlight. “Okay then, I’ll head out toward the woods and keep an eye out so I can flag down Caruthers. Why don’t you start here and work down past the guesthouse to the road? Just in case my men have missed something.”

  “Will do,” Alan replied.

  With Pan now panting eagerly at the prospect of a long walk, Alan turned on the flashlight and began moving slowly in the direction of the guesthouse. He was still reeling from just learning that Martin Fowler evidently owned a large collection of famous artwork. The moment he had heard this, he felt he had a little clearer picture of what Martin Fowler was about. But this knowledge only managed to raise more questions about him.

  Here was a guy who came from a wealthy family that virtually owned this small West Virginia town. A man who had been pampered most of his life and seemed to thrive on being perceived as a loner type—a bit of an outcast. An eccentric man who had decided to study art perhaps with high hopes of some day becoming an artist of note himself. Fowler clearly admired and perhaps even worshipped Edgar Degas, the French Impressionist. This was evident in his unabashedly copying of the artist’s work and then attempting to make it his own. What was it about Degas that apparently fascinated him—that would make him want to emulate him?

  And what about his procurement and exploitation of six young East European girls? Why had Fowler used these girls instead of girls he could have hired legally? Why would he go to all of that risk just to shoot a series of photographs? And then take over six months to do something that could certainly have been done in a fraction of that time? Why did Fowler keep those girls for so long, and in the process take an even greater risk of being caught—just to stage and photograph images originally created by another artist?

  What did Fowler expect to achieve as a result of his odd actions? What did he expect to gain from any of this?

  And what was the connection between Martin Fowler and Yuri Popov? Besides serving as the source for providing Fowler with the girls, was there more to their relationship than just business?

  All of this nagged at him as he walked along slowly, head down, eyes peeled on the ground as if expecting the answers to these questions to leap out at him. He thought about Martin Fowler and Yuri Popov, wondering what the two men might have in common. Something that would explain why the two men did the things they did. Fowler, the eccentric master artist wannabe and Popov the human trafficker/exploiter of women.

  What did Fowler’s and Popov’s occupations have in common? Not money—Fowler would never stand to make a cent from his studies of the Degas copies. He clearly didn’t need the money, anyway. Fame? No, neither man stood to become famous in the classic sense of the word. Sex? There was undoubtedly a sexual angle of some kind for what Popov did. But from what he could gather, Fowler’s actions didn’t include any sort of sexual motive.

  So what, if anything could be the common denominator between Fowler and Popov?

  Control.

  This was certainly something both men thrived on. In Yuri Popov’s case, the evidence was crystal clear. He literally had control of every person he had ever bought and sold in the human sex trafficking game. He literally had their lives and futures in his hands. He played God, in a sense, as he proceeded to rob them of their self worth and forced them into a life of utter despair. And in some cases, resulted in permanently damaged goods that were beyond repair.

  Martin Fowler’s situation was more subtle but not any less obvious. Like Popov, he thrived on having control over somebody—specifically the six young girls. In obtaining them from Popov, he had become their only source for food and shelter, the overseer of their day-to-day activities, the absolute ruler of their very existence. He had become their Master—the term the girls had used when addressing him—no doubt at his insistence.

  So profound, that title. Fowler fancied himself the master and the girls his slaves. He was in essence trying to make up for his lack of this or that by ordaining himself lord and master of young impressionable girls who had no choice but to become sheep in his fold.

  Fowler, the girls and Branson had all been living in a world that Fowler himself had created and reigned supreme over.

  Absolute power.

  As Alan considered these things, he came to realize something that until just now hadn’t fully crystallized: There was no way on God’s green earth that Martin Fowler would have set fire to his own home and given up his beloved art collection. Nor would he have left Polina behind to perish in the fire to be found by the authorities. Because both of these actions would suggest total lack of control on his part. Fowler wanted it all—he wasn’t about to give anything up.

  This theorem gave Alan new hope that Polina was still alive and could still be rescued. His pace quickened and his senses sharpened proportionally.

  He was only twenty yards or so from the guesthouse. He wondered how far the chief had travelled into the woods by now and how much longer it would be before Wiltshire showed up in his chopper. If he were to place any bets on where Fowler had fled, they would be on the broad expanse of woodland adjoining his property. It was the only option that made any sense.

  He estimated how much of a lead Fowler had on the search party and figured not much more than thirty minutes. That wouldn’t give him much time to travel very far, especially if he had taken Polina along to slow him down. But it would give him plenty of time to run into the woods and hide out somewhere.

  Pan had been trotting a few yards ahead to his right, nose to the ground like a bloodhound. Although he hadn’t had much time to think about it, he was well aware that his new pet had been invaluable to him since leaving Columbus. Not only had she saved his life by equalizing Mick, she had been a tireless companion through it all—an unconditional partner. He promised himself
when this was all over that he would he treat her to something special as a reward—like a rawhide bone or something like that.

  Alan arrived at the guesthouse and swung open the thick wood door, anxious to see what the place looked like. The lights were turned on and the moment he stepped inside, he immediately recognized the three floor-to-ceiling windows seen in one of the images Fowler had recreated. It was the shot of the dance studio, with the spiral staircase off to the left in the foreground and the solitary ballerina positioned in front of the center window in the arabesque position.

  He pulled out his iPhone and checked the battery and signal strength. He had about a quarter battery power and one bar of AT&T’s signal. He opened Safari, located the bookmark for Fowler’s website and waited for the page to load. The page filled the tiny screen as Alan scrolled down to the image in question, and used it as a reference to estimate where Fowler would have been standing in the room while taking the photo of the ballerina, who he now recalled had been Polina. Viewing the girl in the photo at that moment and knowing that she was still missing sent a chill down his spine. He zoomed in on the Photoshopped image of the girl and studied it closely. He peered at her auburn hair, pulled back and tied with a pink ribbon that matched her slippers and the ribbons flowing from around the waist of her white tutu. Her long thin arms were each outstretched in front of and behind her respectively as she stood on the toe of her slipper with her left leg outstretched behind her. She looked so young, so pure, so innocent. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them again and looked over at the same window she had been standing in front of, imagining her standing there again now, this time with a big smile on her face.

  “Thank-you for saving me,” she would say.“Please, may I go back home, now?”

  A lump came to his throat and Alan swallowed hard. Nobody deserved to be treated like these girls had been. Each one had lost a healthy slice of her childhood—all because of the self-serving bastard who wanted to play God and the greedy bastards who had abducted them in the first place.

  Alan slipped his phone into his pocket but the image was still in his mind. He sat there for a moment, trying to imagine what had been going through Fowler’s head as he stood there with his camera, studying the scene, directing Polina how to pose. How demanding had Master been? Had he shouted at her when she didn’t do exactly as he said or was he gentle and patient with her?

  What went on in Polina’s head? Was she afraid, mortified of Fowler? This man who had taken her freedom away, forced her to live in his home, to perform for him on demand? Was she able to block out all of the bad things from her mind long enough to do as he said, to keep him from getting angry at her—her young smiling face a mask that hid the terror and sorrow she was feeling inside?

  He walked around the relatively barren guesthouse that Fowler had evidently modified for the sole purpose of providing a dance studio for his Degas project. He checked out the small bathroom and then the storage closet. There was nothing inside but painting supplies—no photo equipment, which seemed odd. Perhaps Fowler simply carried his lighting gear back and forth between here and the main house?

  He went through the hall to the kitchen, noting that with the exception of a table, two chairs, an old gas stove and a coffee maker, there were no other furnishings or appliances. He checked out the empty utility room and then went over to the side door. Through the window he could just make out the edge of the tree line that skirted the grounds in the darkness.

  Alan returned to Fowler’s studio, took one final look around and then decided to move on. He noticed Pan sniffing around the bathroom door.

  “C’mon girl, let’s get out of here.”

  Pan glanced over at him then resumed sniffing along the woodwork running adjacent to the doorframe. The dog was so intent that she ignored Alan altogether after he beckoned her a second time.

  Wondering what was so important for Pan to get this excited, Alan went over and crouched down beside her.

  “What is it, Pan? I don’t see or smell anything that would get me this worked up! You sure you—”

  Pan suddenly pulled out a small length of yellow silk ribbon with her teeth from the wall molding where it joined the hardwood floor. She continued to tug at the ribbon until she had pulled several inches out from under the woodwork.

  Alan nudged Pan off to the side and gently took hold of the piece of ribbon between his thumb and finger. He pulled until a few more inches came out from under the molding, like a magician pulling a scarf from his pocket. He continued to pull until he had collected nearly a yard of ribbon in his hand.

  He stopped pulling as he realized this wasn’t making sense. How could a piece of ribbon of this size have gotten stuffed into this tiny crack between the baseboard and the floor? The crack was only a fraction of an inch—it would be impossible for anyone to stuff anything that long into it and out of sight.

  There was really only one way he could think of that the ribbon had gotten there. He stood up and walked the length of wall between the bathroom and storage closet, a distance of about ten feet. He wanted to tap on the wall to see if it sounded hollow but thought better of it. Instead, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the baseboard, examining the area where the floor butted up against the molding. A crack between the molding and floor that was approximately one-eighth-inch wide ran the entire length of the wall.

  When he reached the area where the molding running up along the closet doorframe met at a perpendicular to the baseboard, he noticed a slight gap between the wall and the molding all the way up to the ceiling. It was then that he realized there was a solid piece of ornately etched wood located between the top edge of the doorframe all the way to the crown molding that ran along the entire perimeter of the studio.

  He went over to the closet door and saw a gap running the length of the doorframe there as well. There was also a similar piece of etched wood joining the top of the closet door to the crown molding.

  Was it possible that this entire section of wall could slide up? That would explain how the ribbon had gotten inside the tiny crack. Instead of being stuffed into the crack—which was virtually impossible—it may have been caught under the section of wall molding after the wall panel had been lowered to the floor. The hidden room Nina had told him about suddenly came to mind. The timeout room. The secret room in Fowler’s basement that could only be accessed by way of a remote control device located somewhere in the furnace room.

  What was to keep the builder of Fowler’s mansion from adding some kind of hidden room to the guesthouse as well?

  Alan entered the bathroom. He looked around for any kind of lever or device that might control the wall section. He searched inside the medicine cabinet, under the sink, behind the door, along the ceiling and the floor but saw nothing suspicious.

  He went over to the storage closet and began removing the contents, searching for any sort of suspicious control device of some kind. After five minutes, he gave up the search. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here.

  He went back over to the wall and put his ear up to it. He couldn’t hear anything unusual. He crouched down and listened through the floor. Nothing.

  He stood up and made his way through the hallway to the kitchen. He went over to the wall that would serve as the rear wall of the mysterious hidden room if it indeed existed, realizing that the length of the hallway could provide the depth needed to comprise a hidden room. Glancing around the kitchen, he noted that the only molding in the entire kitchen besides that which ran around the side door was the baseboard. Crouching down, he examined the area where the floor and baseboard met. There were no cracks or gaps. This wall was solid as a rock—secured to the foundation. So the only way into the secret room was on the other side of this wall.

  Alan returned to the studio and motioned for Pan to follow him over to the front door. He opened the door, stepped outside and pressed the button for recent calls on his iPhone. After locating Chief Myers cell phone number, he hit the call
button.

  “Myers,” the chief said.

  “Chief, this is Alan. I’m at the guesthouse now and you’d better get some men over here on the double. I think I know where they are.”

  “What are you saying—that they’re somewhere in the guesthouse? But they’ve already been through that place with a fine-toothed comb.”

  “Not fine-toothed enough I’m afraid, if my hunch is right. I think there’s a hidden room in the guesthouse that Fowler and Polina is holed up in. It’s between the bathroom and the closet. I actually think the entire wall panel moves up and down somehow. Please, chief. I’ll stand by until you send me some troops to check this out. What do you say?”

  “Alright, I’ll send somebody right away. Hold on a minute.”

  Alan could hear the chief on his radio talking to someone. A moment later he got back on the phone. “Jacobs is nearby and will be there in a couple of minutes. I’m about a mile away on the hillside now, waiting for Wiltshire to show up. Stay where you are, Alan, until Jacobs gets there.”

  “Okay, Chief. Thanks.”

  Alan stared in the direction of the burning mansion, expecting Jacobs to show up any minute. He thought about his theory and realized how ludicrous it must have sounded to the chief at first. But he sensed that once the chief recalled the hidden room the girls had told them about, the possibility of another hidden room didn’t seem that much of a stretch after all.

  If there was indeed a hidden room inside and Fowler and Polina were in it, this situation was still far from being over. Fowler could have a gun or another weapon of some kind and threaten to kill Polina. Even if he didn’t have a weapon, it was doubtful that he would give up without some kind of fight.

  Alan felt a bead of sweat on his brow. He knew there was no guarantee that Polina was even with Fowler now, which was a sobering thought. She could still be trapped inside somewhere in that house, presumably dead. The thought made him feel queasy. He tried to push it out of his mind.

  Suddenly he saw a policeman emerge from around the corner walking at a quick pace toward him, backlit by the glow of the burning mansion. Jacobs, no doubt. Not far behind was another cop catching up with him. The two officers were walking side by side when they approached him.

  “You must be Mr. Swansea,” the taller cop said. “I’m Officer Jacobs. And this is Officer Carter. The chief says you think that you may have found something here.”

  Alan nodded. “I think Fowler and Polina are inside. It looks like there’s a hidden room of some kind between the bathroom and the closet.”

  Jacobs shook his head as if this were impossible. “No way. We checked this place out thoroughly about a half hour ago. There wasn’t anything in there that looked like a secret room.”

  “I know, the chief already told me that. But how well did you check things out? I found a piece of ribbon that was stuck between the floor and the baseboard that’s at least three feet long. That made me wonder how it could have possibly gotten there. And the only way I can figure is that it got caught under the wall after it was lowered down to the floor.”

  Jacobs glanced at Carter before replying. “We didn’t find any ribbon.”

  “My dog actually found it while she was sniffing around the woodwork. She managed to get a hold of the end of it in her teeth and pulled it out.”

  “I see. And you think this ribbon belongs to Fowler?” Carter said.

  “Not Fowler but the girl! She was probably wearing the ribbon when Fowler forced her into the room.”

  Carter’s face flushed. “Oh, right.”

  “Will you go in there with me so I can show you what I’m talking about? According to the other victims, Fowler had a hidden room in the mansion and its entrance was controlled by some sort of remote device. I was hoping you could help me find it.”

  “Okay, Mr. Swansea,” Jacobs said. “The chief gave us our orders and we will carry them out. But don’t be too surprised if this “hidden room” you’re talking about is nothing more than your imagination getting the best of you.”

  “Fine. And if that’s the case, I’ll be more than happy to eat humble pie.”

  “Let’s go in, then. But first we’d better plan this out in case Fowler is actually in there and can hear us. John, why don’t you help Mr. Swansea look for this control device? I’ll go back up into the attic again to see if I can find anything. It shouldn’t be very hard to locate where that wall is attached to the floor joist in the attic. And if this wall really moves up and down like you say it does, there has to be some space there in the attic for it to travel.”

  “Good idea, Jacobs,” Alan said. “We should check out the crawl space, too. There may be something there as well.”

  “Okay, then. We need to keep our conversations to a minimum once we’re inside. Let’s go.”

  Jacobs went over to the door and opened it. Alan followed the two policemen inside.

  Alan motioned the others to follow him over to the wall and showed them the length of ribbon spread out on the floor. Then he pointed out the gaps between the woodwork and the walls and the sizable crack between the baseboard molding and the floor. After he examined the entire perimeter of the wall, Jacobs looked directly at Alan and nodded.

  “I see what you mean,” he whispered.

  Jacobs motioned that he was going to go up into the attic and headed toward the spiral staircase. Alan got Carter’s attention and pointed toward one of the windows.

  “I’m going outside to go check the crawlspace while you look for the device, okay?”

  Carter nodded and then Alan led Pan through the kitchen to the side door.

  Alan walked around to the back of the house and located the entrance to the crawlspace. He turned a piece of wood nailed to a board that was keeping the door from swinging open clockwise and pulled on the door handle. It was dark as pitch in the musty space. He trained the flashlight’s beam inside, trying to see past all of the massive thick cobwebs. All he saw were sections of old insulation sagging down everywhere from the floorboards. The place was virtually obscured and the only possible way he could imagine being able to examine the crawlspace would be to take a machete and start whacking away at all of the obstructions—something he was not about to do at this juncture.

  Alan closed the door and led Pan back into the house. When he entered the studio, Jacobs was descending the spiral staircase with a look of determination. He came over to where Alan was standing.

  “You were right—this wall moves. I found a pair of motors mounted on either side of it concealed under the plywood floor. It looks like there’s some kind of rack and pinion gear system that moves the wall up or down. Judging by the height of the pitched attic ceiling, it looks like it can only go up as far as three or four feet before it hits the ceiling.”

  “That’s great, Jacobs,” Alan said. “But how do you control the thing?”

  “Not sure, but I followed the wires running from the motors to where they run down between the wall studs. My guess is that they terminate somewhere in the kitchen or utility room from the way it looked.”

  “Let’s go case them out,” Alan said.

  The men went into the kitchen and spread out. Jacobs went over to the sink. Carter took the utility room while Alan chose the wall with the side door. He pulled out the table from the wall and looked around but saw nothing. He had just gotten down on his knees to check out the electrical outlet when he heard Carter from the utility room.

  “I think I found something!”

  Alan and Jacobs ran into the utility room.

  “What do you make of this?” Carter said. He had opened the fuse box and was pointing at something. Alan and Jacobs went over and peered inside the box.

  “I noticed that one of the fuses was screwed out a bit, so I removed it. And this is what I found behind it.”

  Alan looked at empty fuse socket and saw what appeared to be a small plastic push button where the brass contact for the fuse would normally be. “Definitely a switch—let’
s see if it works!”

  Jacobs said, “Wait a second. Before you push that button, Carter and I will stand outside the wall so we’ll be ready. Give us a little time to get there.”

  Alan nodded. “Okay.”

  The two men left the kitchen, drawing their guns along the way.

  “Okay,” he heard Jacobs call from the other room.

  Alan pressed the button, half expecting to hear the sound of the wall moving from the other room. But there was nothing but silence. He pushed it again. Nothing. He ran out to the studio and saw Jacobs and Carter standing on either side of the wall, which hadn’t moved an inch.

  “Did you push it?” Jacobs mouthed when he saw Alan. Alan nodded. He started to ask Jacobs if there had been any sound at all coming from the wall when he suddenly thought of something. He held up his hand as if to say, “wait a second,” then ran back into the utility room.

  He realized that each time he had pushed the button he had immediately released it—he hadn’t kept it pressed for any length of time. He stuck his finger into the fuse socket again and pressed the button but this time didn’t release it. Ten seconds later, he heard a resounding click as if a circuit had suddenly closed. Then he heard a low droning sound come from the direction of the studio. He wanted to run out of the room but decided to continue pushing the button until the droning sound ended. Once it stopped, he removed his finger and ran out into the studio.

  Instead of seeing Jacobs and Carter pointing their guns at Fowler, he saw the wall raised four feet or so and the two cops standing on the other side of it. The hidden room was totally empty—nothing but its walls. The men were staring at the floor as he ducked under the wall and joined them. He noticed the piece of yellow ribbon in Jacob’s hand.

  “They must be down there,” Carter said, pointing to a trapdoor set in the floor.

  “But there’s nothing but a crawl space under this place,” Alan said. “There isn’t even enough room to stand up down there.”

  “That doesn’t mean they couldn’t be squatting down or standing on their knees,” Jacobs said.

  “Yeah, that’s true. But something tells me that isn’t the case,” Alan said.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

  Jacobs motioned for Alan and Carter to stand back. Then he crouched down, grasped the thick metal handle with both hands and pulled up on the door. It swung open with relative ease before coming to rest against the nearest wall.

  All three looked down and saw a stairway that descended into the darkness a lot further than two or three feet. Jacobs switched on his flashlight and pointed it down the stairs. Carter gasped.

  “They must go down a good twelve feet or more!”

  “And there’s a floor at the bottom—this is freakin’ crazy!” Jacobs cried.

  Alan felt his hopes soar. There was light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Let’s go down,” he said.

  “I’m going to check in with the chief, first,” Jacobs said.

  He pressed the button of his radio. “Chief, are you there?”

  “Yes, Jacobs.”

  “We found a hidden room, just like Swansea said. And now we’ve found a door that leads down some stairs to God only knows where.”

  “I thought there was only a crawlspace under that house.”

  “Apparently this was dug out when they originally built the house. It looks like this may have been designed as some kind of underground hiding place or something. Anyway, I just wanted to bring you up to speed before we investigate any further.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and check it out but keep someone outside just in case this is some kind of trap or the place caves in. Is Carter with you?”

  “Yes. We’ll have Swansea wait up here while we go down.”

  “No way—I’m going with you.” Alan said.

  “Let Swansea go with you, Jacobs and have Carter stay put. I want somebody there unless we lose radio contact while you’re down there. You copy?”

  Jacobs wanted to argue, but didn’t. “Ten-four, Chief.”

  “Let me know what you find ASAP.”

  “Ten-four, Jacobs out.”

  “Why is the chief letting him go?” Carter whined.

  “Because I’m the only reason we are standing here right now and the chief knows it,” Alan replied. “You might say he owes me one.”

  Jacobs sighed. “You’ll get over it, Carter. Just wait here for us.”

  Jacobs stepped down and Alan followed behind, Pan bringing up the rear. When they reached the bottom, both men were stunned at finding themselves in a narrow tunnel that ran for ten yards or so and then terminated at another door.

  “Looks like that could be some kind of bomb shelter,” Alan whispered.

  Jacobs brandished his pistol and moved forward slowly, his flashlight trained on the gray metal door at the end. They arrived at the door and stopped. Jacobs took hold of the doorknob to see if it would turn. He glanced back at Alan and nodded, then slowly pushed the door open.

  A shaft of light spilled out into the tunnel, growing longer as Jacobs continued inching the door open. Once it was open far enough, Jacobs peered around the door. Suddenly Alan heard someone shout something and then heard the cry of a female, followed by the thud of a muffled gunshot.

  Jacobs flung the door open and took cover off to the side. “Police, drop your weapon!” he shouted. “Drop it now!”

  “You shoot at me and I’ll kill the girl!” Fowler shouted back.

  There was another shot and Jacobs jumped back from the doorway. He looked at Alan and said, “That son of a bitch has the girl locked under his arm!”

  “Don’t hurt her, Fowler!” Alan cried. “Please just let the girl go!”

  “And why should I do that?” came the reply from inside. “What are you offering in return?”

  “Less prison time, Fowler,” Jacobs shouted. “So far, you haven’t killed anybody that we know of. And if you cooperate, we will see that leniency is given at your sentencing.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you will. And in the meantime, you’ll sell off my home or somebody will loot it. No, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Officer.”

  He doesn’t know his house is on fire! Alan thought. He shouted, “I hate to break this to you, Fowler. But nobody is going to be interested in your house while you’re doing your time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because your house is toast! Totaled!”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it! You’re trying to trick me somehow.”

  “I’m serious, Fowler! The fire started on the west side and spread like wildfire. There’s nothing left but the foundation!”

  Fowler fell silent. Surely they were joking. Some kind of ruse to get him to give himself up. There was no way a fire could have started—

  Suddenly he remembered something and his gut began to heave: the wax! He had been heating up wax in a large cook pot before the cops had shown up at the gate. He was preparing the wax so he could pour it over the girl in order to create a mold of her. He had thought it over and the temptation to create a bronze statue similar to Degas’ masterpiece had been too much for him to resist!

  While the wax was heating up, he had ordered Polina to model the cream-colored bodice and gauze tutu he had hastily created, closely resembling what Degas had used for The Little Dancer of Fourteen Years. She had looked absolutely perfect for the sculpture, right down to the yellow ribbon in her hair! She would of course have to be nude for the actual wax application and the clothes added later after the bronze statue of her was cast. But he wasn’t going to inform her of this or her tragic fate until the wax was ready to go.

  But then he had gotten distracted by the sound of the cops’ voices coming from the video monitor. He had just locked up Polina in the basement and cranked up the heat to high on the stove burner to speed up the melting of the wax in the pot.

  But could the wax have started a fire? At first he thought not since wax w
asn’t flammable—or was it? Then he recalled reading somewhere that although wax melted and evaporated at relatively low temperatures it became highly flammable at high temperatures. In fact, once it reached its flash point it burnt like gasoline!

  Please, God, tell me it isn’t so! Not my collection! Tell me they are lying!

  “Hey Fowler!” he heard the same person shout.

  Could that be the investigator who had been tracking him down and started this whole nightmare—that fucking Swansea?

  “You want proof that your house is burning as we speak? I’ve got a photo here on my iPhone!”

  “I want to see that photo now! Show it to me!” Fowler shouted.

  Alan looked at Jacobs for his consent to go inside. Jacobs shook his head. “I can’t let you go in there while a suspect is armed, Swansea. You know that. Let me try a little bargaining here.”

  Jacobs moved in closer to the door. “If you put down your weapon, we will show you the photo.”

  “No way! Listen, Officer—I’m the one holding all of the cards here, not you! So we do things my way. Bring up the image on the phone and hold it up where I can see it.”

  Alan looked at Jacobs and waited for his decision.

  “I’ll do that if you promise to let the girl go. That’s the best I can offer.”

  “If my house has truly burnt down like you say it has, Officer, you might as well just go ahead and shoot me. Because my reason for living will have gone down with it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Alan took out his iPhone and located the best of the four shots he’d taken earlier of Fowler’s burning mansion. Jacobs reached for the phone, looked at the image and said, “I’m going to hold the phone where you can see it now, Fowler.”

  Jacobs was careful to hold Alan’s phone close to its base so the screen would be visible just past the edge of the door.

  There was silence for a moment. Then they heard the shuffling of footsteps as Fowler came closer to the door. Then, a gasp.

  “This can’t have happened! You have manipulated this image to make it look like my home is on fire!” Fowler cried, his voice now coming from just inside the door.

  “Sorry Fowler, but this is the original—not Photoshopped!” Alan said.

  “But my paintings! My priceless collection! They—they must be—”

  Suddenly, a young girl bolted through the doorway. Jacobs quickly pushed her toward Alan and jumped into the shelter, gun drawn. Alan embraced the sobbing girl in his arms. There was the sound of a brief struggle and a moment later the sharp metallic click of handcuffs.

  As Jacobs read Fowler his rights, Polina continued embracing Alan in a bear hug, somehow knowing that her nightmare had ended but not truly believing it yet.

  “I know somebody who is going to be very happy to know that you are safe now,” Alan said gently.

  She pulled away from him and looked up into his eyes. “Who?”

  “Your big sister.”

  “You’ve found Elena? You know where Elena is?”

  “Yes, I do. And if things work out the way they should, she will be taking you back home some day soon.”

  Polina smiled broadly before suddenly breaking down and sobbing. But they were tears of joy.