A Rip Through Time(117)

We’re still on the move, scouring the ground for the next mint. How many more before she runs out? And where the hell would he be taking her?

I voice that last question aloud, adding, “Is there someplace private nearby? A park?”

Gray’s long strides have already carried him ten paces ahead. “About a half mile away, yes. As for where he is taking her, the answer is obvious, is it not? To his apartment. We have wasted time circling the block. I do not wish to leave you behind, Catriona, but I am going on ahead. Your skirts and your stature hamper you, and my sister is in danger.”

I bite back the ridiculous urge to take offense at the comment about my “stature.” He’s already broken into a run.

“You’re wrong, Duncan,” I mutter under my breath. “If he was taking her there, he’d have gone the other way around. And he’s not going to drag her into a house full of people.”

I find another mint at the corner Gray just rounded. When I pick it up, I rise to see him fifty feet away, looking from me to the darkened mew lane. He strides back.

“Blast it,” he mutters. “I cannot abandon you.”

“Thanks…”

He continues as if not hearing me. “You are clearly Findlay’s target, and I cannot leave you behind.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I can look after myself. But he didn’t take her to his apartment.”

I jog to the next mint. This one is along the walkway into the gardens behind a town house. I stand over it and peer up at the dark house.

“Why are the shutters all closed?” I ask.

He looks at me as if I’m asking why the moon is out at night. “Because—” He curses and breaks into a run, heading for the back door. I lunge and grab the back of his jacket.

“Careful,” I say. “If Findlay is here, you can’t let him know we’re here.”

“Maintain the element of surprise. Yes.”

“The shutters?”

“They are closed because the owners will have gone away for a lengthy period of time.”

“And anyone who sees closed shutters knows that. Bit of an open invitation to burglars, isn’t it?”

Or serial killers looking for a place to torture their victims.

“The door is over there,” I say, pointing. “Same layout as his place, presumably. He’s broken in and been using it. Probably the basement.”

Better soundproofing.

I continue, “I can open the door. I’ll ask you to stand guard there. Look for light through the shutters. Also listen for noises. Let me know if you hear any.”

It’s a testament to his state of mind that he no longer questions his housemaid giving him orders. He just nods, his gaze focused on the house, and then moves into position.

I wait, gaze on that window, looking for any change in color. It stays dark, no light escaping through the shutter slats. Has he blacked it out even with the shutters, taking no chances? That would seem to suggest that this is where the imposter took Isla—the mint at the top of the steps confirms it.

Is this where he tortured Evans? Pretended he was taking his friend to his apartment and brought him here instead? It’s not as if Evans would know one town house basement from the next. He’d have followed Findlay right inside.

Once Gray is ready, I creep to the stairwell. I was careful before. Now I am ten times more cautious. The worst thing that could happen earlier was that he could have attacked me. Now he has Isla. If I screw up, she’ll pay the price.

I check the lock. It’s the same as the other one. I take the metal rods from my pocket to pick it. Then I pause at a thought, reach a gloved hand out, and turn the knob. The door opens.

Findlay didn’t lock it. Why would he? He managed to get Isla—possibly semiconscious—inside, and that would be a struggle when she’s as tall as he is. Bothering to latch the door afterward would be the last thing on his mind. I’m not sure he’d even see the point. Who’s going to come creeping around? Surely not his victim’s brother and housemaid?

I motion to Gray that the door is unlocked. He comes down the stairs. I don’t need to tell him to move quietly. He’d had that down pat when he crept into Findlay’s apartment, which makes me think he’s done more than help McCreadie with forensics.

I ease open the door so slowly it’s painful, and I swear Gray’s teeth grind in frustration. I strain to listen. A muffled voice sounds. Findlay’s muffled voice, which means it’s coming through a door or wall. I nod and open the door the rest of the way, and we slide inside.

As I shut the door behind us, Gray moves past me. I wildly wave for him to hold up, and to my relief, he does. I tiptoe over and, without me needing to say anything, he bends so I can speak into his ear.

“He’s talking to her,” I whisper. “That means she’s all right. We need to proceed with caution. We have time.”

Gray’s jaw sets. He doesn’t like that. This close to him, I feel both his fear and a coiled energy, a taut spring. He wants to charge in there and free his sister. Yet he knows I’m right, and so he only gives a curt nod.

I squint down the hall. The setup is the same as Findlay’s place, though since it’s a single-family dwelling, the basement seems to be mostly storage. Except his voice comes from our right, from what was the owner’s storage room in his apartment. Both doors along that wall are shut. Light emanates from the second one. I point it out for Gray and get another of those curt nods. He’s already noticed.