Meet Me in Barcelona (30 page)

Jim Sawyer hung up the phone. He didn't know what to do. Jake couldn't talk long because he didn't want someone to notice his phone was missing, so he just said that they shouldn't come. He'd explain the rest later. Now Jim had to break it to his wife. There was a chance she wouldn't even remember they were supposed to take a trip. He wanted to get on a plane himself and rush out to save his little girl, but he wouldn't have a clue where to start. Instead, he had done as Grace had requested and made up that flyer, then sent it American Express to someone named Rafael in care of Stefano at the address where Grace had been staying.

When Jim walked into the hospice room, Jody was dressed, sitting on the bed with her travel bag by her side.

“Where's your bag?” she said.

“You remembered,” he said.

“Of course I remembered. I've been good about taking my medication for this trip. I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

Jim was filled with a sense of hopelessness and powerlessness that was debilitating. Not only was his little girl in trouble, but now he had to break that news to his wife. And it was no exaggeration to say that it could kill her.

“Sit down,” Jim said. “I have something to tell you.”

“I am sitting down,” she said.

“We can't go to Barcelona,” Jim said.

After over three decades of marriage, Jody must have picked up on the seriousness of the situation. “Start talking,” Jody said.

Jim reluctantly filled her in. He told her everything. Jody sprang from the bed and grabbed her suitcase.

“Let's go,” she said.

“But I just told you—”

“Our little girl is in trouble. It's even more reason to go.”

“The stress won't be good for you.”

“I'm not dead yet—and my daughter needs me. If you think I'm passing that opportunity up, then you might as well kill me yourself.”

Three hours later, they were on a flight to Barcelona.

 

The car ride from Cadaqués to Barcelona was filled with a thick silence. Whereas he'd been chatty on the way to Port Lligat, “Jean Sebastian” was now spending most of his time staring out the window. Several times Grace had almost slipped and called him Stan. She prayed her father had been able to send the flyer and that it had made its way to Rafael. Hopefully Jake would be wearing the eagle costume. She could find him, and the two of them could decide what action to take against these three. Or maybe they would just slip away. They could talk to an attorney when they were safely back in the States.

Grace still wasn't sure about Carrie Ann. Part of this was totally something she would do. But Carrie Ann was more of a pomp and circumstance girl. Carrie Ann's grand schemes usually involved everything revolving around her. Was Stan really the mastermind behind this? If so, he had changed. Come out of his shell, so to speak.

“It looks like our plan is working,” Grace said.

“How so?” Stan said.

“Well, ever since I texted Carrie Ann to meet us in Barcelona, she stopped playing hangman.”

Stan turned, and his eyes bored into Grace's. “Hangman?” he said.

Had she just made a horrible mistake? She was trying so hard to say whatever she would have honestly said to Jean Sebastian. But she'd kept the fact that the clues were looking like a game of hangman to herself. Because she hadn't wanted Jean Sebastian to be drawn into all the psychodrama. How ironic.

“I forgot to tell you,” Grace said. “The couple times I got the answer ‘Lydia' wrong, Carrie Ann—or Stan—replied with a circle and then with a stem coming off the circle. It looked as if they were playing a game of hangman.”

“That's bizarre,” Stan said.

“You don't know the half of it,” Grace said.

Stan gestured to the countryside. “We've got time.”

Grace hesitated. Did she or did she not tell “Jean Sebastian” all the details about Stan's father? It was a tightrope. If she angered Stan, or touched on too many painful memories, wasn't there a very real chance he'd break character? And then maybe he'd call off meeting at the concert, and she'd never find Jake and Carrie Ann.

“You'll hear it in the song,” Grace said.

“Why not both?”

“It's too personal,” Grace said.

“But you're going to sing it in front of a festival full of total strangers?”

“It's different when I'm on stage. Playing for a crowd. Then the music takes over, as if it's performing, and I'm just the vessel.”

“You're lucky,” Stan said. He went back to looking out the window. “I've never had anything like that.”

He was lying. Stan used to be terrific at doodling. It sounded silly, but jaws would drop at the things he would sketch in his schoolbooks. He could have been a great cartoonist, or a book illustrator, or a freelance artist. Why did some people ignore their talents and get sucked into the dark side? His obsession with Grace had really nothing to do with her. It was too bad she couldn't get him to realize that.

“It's almost over,” Grace said. “I'm going to go to this thing, apologize publicly to Stan, make sure Jake is okay, and then . . .”

Stan slipped his hand into hers. “Then you and I can get the hell out of here. Maybe Italy?”

“Only if Carrie Ann brings my ID.”

“Right. We'll have to make sure of it.” They were nearing Stan's hotel. Grace wondered how Stan had come into so much money. She'd heard his father had had a hefty insurance policy. And maybe it was just in her head, but it seemed as if he was slowly dropping the “Jean Sebastian” act, and the real Stan was once again shining through. Unfortunately, the real Stan made her just as uncomfortable as ever.

And really—did he truly believe she was now in love with him and wanted to leave Jake? She wasn't an expert on the Stockholm syndrome, but surely it took people longer than a few days to fall for their captors. Because that's what Stan was, wasn't he? Her captor? She never would have stayed with him, traveled with him, or showered with him nearby, if she had known he was Stan. As soon as they got to the concert and she found Jake, the two of them would get away. As long as Jake was wearing that costume and had figured out how to deter Rafael, they would find each other.

Grace was relieved when they finally arrived at the hotel and they stepped into Stan's suite.

“Do you want to shower first?” Stan asked. At least he was pretending to be a gentleman and hadn't tried anything. Thank God for small miracles. But she felt odd, once again, knowing she'd be showering with him in the other room. She felt a deep shame at her earlier fantasies about and attraction to him when she had thought he was a Belgian man who headed up rescues in the Congo. What an idiot she'd been.

“Are you okay?” Stan said.

“Yes,” Grace said. “Sorry, my mind is racing.”

“Well, a nice shower should help it slow down. After all, you're going to be on stage tomorrow. Have to look good for the fans.”

“Right you are,” Grace said. She hurried to the bathroom and shut the door. How dare they? Was this all a game, a manufactured drama, just to mess with her mind and get her on stage? Why would they care about her singing?

Because of what she'd said in one of her interviews after the Marsh Everett review.

“Do you have any painful songs?” a reporter had asked her as a follow-up to Marsh Everett's comment about singing her pain.

“I have one,” Grace said. “It's about something tragic that occurred in my childhood.”

“Why haven't you sung it? Shown the country world some pain like Mr. Everett suggested?”

“Because it's personal, and it involves other people, and it was just something I had to write to work through the truth.”

Well, if they wanted to hear her take on the past, they were going to get it.
Maybe shaming them in front of an international audience was exactly what was called for next. And then she and Jake would get the hell out of here.

There was a knock on the door, startling Grace out of her memory. “Yes?”

“I'll order room service,” Stan said. “Should I choose for you?”

God, he was such a pompous ass. Now that she knew it was fake, she wanted to choke that phony accent out of him. Grace forced herself to sound cheery. “Too nervous to eat. But thanks.” Grace slipped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. She needed a razor. She hadn't cared about it the past few days, but if she was going to sing, she wanted to look her best. Stan had a small leather bag on the sink. Maybe he had a razor in there. Grace stepped out and opened the bag. Lying on top was a small sketchbook, and underneath it were mounds and mounds of circular tins. At first she didn't know what the round tins were, but at the moment she didn't care. It was the top sketch that was rooting her to the spot in horror. It was of a cat. Her cat. It was Brady. His body lying on the steps of her house, his eyes open and glassy. The sketch clearly showed a scarf strangling his neck. Stan had even colored the scarf pink. Grace slapped her hand over her mouth. Above the sketch of Brady it said: DIE. Grace felt her insides turn to ice. On the next page he'd tacked a newspaper article. It was Lionel Gale's obituary, the one that had run in the newspaper after his death. In the photo, Stan had drawn a rope around Lionel's neck in red marker. He'd also sketched in the rafters of the barn from which Lionel had hung. Across his forehead Stan had written: DIE.

The next page was a picture of Carrie Ann. Dead. From a stabbing. Tears welled in Grace's eyes. Jake was next. It appeared Jake had been beaten to death with a baseball bat. The last page held an actual photo of Grace. The one Rafael had taken of her on La Rambla that second morning. She'd had good reason to be paranoid. Above her head someone had drawn a question mark.

Grace heaved and rushed to the toilet. Thankfully she hadn't eaten anything, but the reflex continued, so she grabbed a towel and held it over her mouth to mask the noise.

Carrie Ann had been out to play a prank. Stan had other plans for all of them. Grace looked around the bathroom for a weapon. Anything to arm herself with. That's when her eyes landed back on the leather case. And that's when it hit her. The round tins. She approached them slowly, and then, filled with dread, picked one up. Shoe polish. Stan's leather bag was filled with shoe polish.

Grace and Stan sat on the roof deck. When Stan poured her a glass of wine, Grace tried not to down it all in one go, but she needed enough in her to stop herself from shaking. It had taken so much concentration to zip closed the leather bag, terrified the whole while that Stan was on the other side of the door, that he could hear it zip, that he would see drops of water near it, although she meticulously wiped the area with a towel and prayed she hadn't moved the bag or otherwise drawn any attention to it. Her heart was hammering so loudly when she emerged from the shower. She hadn't wanted to wash and condition her hair after that or shave, even though she did manage to find a razor tucked into her own bag. If she had found her razor in the first place, she never would have made the horrific discovery.

Killing animals. Drawing a noose around his father's neck and writing the word
die
. And shoe polish. Lionel hadn't shined his shoes before he hanged himself—which had never sat right with Grace; Stan had. Lionel hadn't killed himself. Stan had murdered him. Grace didn't know how it all had gone down, but she knew she was right. Stan was keeping the shoe polish as some sort of sick memento so he could relive the thrill. She was in the company of a true sociopath. And she would have to spend one more night with him. The festival was tomorrow night.

Did Carrie Ann know? No, Grace thought. Carrie Ann wasn't evil. She was immature and self-centered and manipulative. But not cold-blooded. She was just as much a victim of Stan as Grace and Jake.

Grace wondered what had happened. How had Stan killed Lionel and why?

Stan had gotten away with the perfect murder. So why was he coming after Grace like this?

Was this all because he had some secret obsession with Grace that she had never picked up on?

Or was he trying to find out if she suspected? Because of what she'd said to him at his father's funeral?

 

Lionel Gale's funeral was the last place on earth Grace Sawyer wanted to be, but guilt had drawn her there. She didn't know what to say to Stan, and quite frankly she didn't want to talk to him at all. He was skulking in the corner of the room, and he had worn jeans and a heavy-metal shirt. To his own father's funeral. Lydia seemed so out of it that Grace wasn't even sure Lydia noticed. Or maybe she just didn't care. Not many people were in attendance. By the time of the funeral Lionel Gale was one of the most talked about and detested men in town. But Grace had to show up. If she had managed to keep Carrie Ann with her, none of this would have happened. Or if she had told her mother the rumor that had begun on Carrie Ann's lips. So here Grace was. But she still didn't know what to stay to Stan.
I'm sorry for your loss
. It seemed so trite.
Your father was a good man
. She hadn't known Lionel, and she didn't want to lie. Instead, it just popped out. As she and Stan stood at the back of the funeral home. “Why do you think he polished his shoes?” Grace asked.

She'd never forget the look Stan gave her. “What?” he said.

“Never mind,” Grace said. It was a stupid thing to blurt out. “I'm sorry.” She turned to go. Stan grabbed her arm. It really hurt. She was forced to turn back to him.

“You noticed?” he asked.

“Yes. I just—I wondered why,” she said.

“Did you tell the police?”

“No. But I'm sure they noticed.”

“Are you kidding me? They're complete idiots. They noticed nothing.”

“So was he like—a stickler for having polished shoes?”

“He had a shoe-polishing obsession,” Stan said. “I hated that smell.”

“I'm sorry,” Grace said.

Stan stepped closer. “That's just it, Grace. I'm not.”

“What?” She couldn't help it; she stepped back again. He was so intense. She wished she'd never come.

“I thought it was quite fitting. You're pretty smart, Grace. You noticed.”

“Thanks,” Grace said. Of course it was odd that she said “thanks,” and it was even odder that Stan had said it like he was proud of her, and it was odder still that he thought it was quite fitting that his father had shone his shoes before he strangled himself to death.

I thought it was quite fitting
.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Stan had asked.

“Do about what?”

“The things you noticed.”

“I just—wanted to say I'm sorry. That's all.” And then Grace did turn and practically run away. So creepy. What was that conversation about, anyway? At the time she had no idea.

 

Now that exchange took on a whole new meaning.
So what are you going to do about it? The things you noticed?
Had Stan thought they were sharing a secret back then? The secret that he had killed his father? Was he worried she was going to say something about it in her song? If that was the case, then he had no intention of letting her sing at the festival.

Carrie Ann was here to play games. Grace was sure about that. Carrie Ann wasn't a cat killer. Which meant Grace's mother had sent Carrie Ann away for the wrong reasons, and she had sent her directly to the boy who had actually done the cruel deed. Stan was the sociopath. Carrie Ann was just the drama queen. And if he picked up on everything Grace had just put together then she was going to be in real trouble.

Stan topped off her wine and then he held her gaze until she smiled and looked away. She was still shaking, so she was keeping her hands underneath the table as much as possible and doing everything to hint about how exhausted she was. “Cheers,” Stan said, holding up his wine glass. Grace had no choice but to reach for hers and clink glasses. Stan's eyes bored into hers. “Why are your hands shaking?”

She thought she saw a flash of distrust in him, as if he was just waiting for her to slip. Did he know that she knew? He had to at least suspect. She tried not to think about the sketch he had done of her with the grotesque question mark hovering above her head. Or Carrie Ann stabbed and bleeding, Jake beaten to death.

Maybe he'd left the leather bag there on purpose. Maybe he wanted her to find it because he never intended to let her go. She had read that people often had a deep psychological need to confess. It was how a lot of evil people had been caught. They couldn't keep their mouths shut. Maybe all of this was Stan's idea of a game. Maybe the clues weren't meant to lead her anywhere but to the inevitable truth. Maybe the man hanging at the end of his game was going to be none other than her.

They were still playing the game. And there was no denying that her hands were vibrating like they had been electrified.

“I have a confession,” Grace said.

“A confession,” Stan repeated. “Does anyone else know?”

“Not a soul,” Grace said.

“Tell me,” Stan said.

“I'm an alcoholic.” Grace drank the rest of the wine and then put it down. “I haven't been drinking much the past few days with you, so I'm going through withdrawal.”

“I never would have known,” Stan said. “That doesn't seem like you at all.”

“I know, right? It's the music business. The pressure. The late nights. The fact that I work in a bar. I didn't even realize it myself until recently.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean—I haven't even admitted it to Jake. I know it sounds silly, but I was going to wait until after this trip to deal with it. What with coming to Spain, and my birthday, and my mom, and Marsh Everett—it just didn't seem like the right time to quit.”

“And then here comes Carrie Ann to push you over the edge,” Stan said.

“Right? Just makes me want to drink even more. But I'm looking forward to quitting. It's just not worth it. The hangovers, the cravings, the huge memory gaps—”

“Memory gaps?”

“Oh yeah. I mean I think I blocked out half my childhood. I mean half of that is probably because I don't want to remember it, but really—everything is just one big blur.”

“Maybe you blocked out something traumatic.”

“I think that probably applies more to you than to me.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you're the one with the dangerous job, aren't you? Kidnapped twice in the Congo. Now that's traumatic.”

“I don't like to talk about that.”

“I don't blame you.” Grace picked up her glass again. “Let's toast again. To not talking about our pasts,” she said.

 

There was a stage set up on the beach for the carnival and music fest. Grace searched the throngs of attendees, praying she would see the eagle costume sooner than later. The rest of the day and night with Stan had been torture. Grace told Stan she had a severe headache and after the roof deck she'd pretty much stayed curled up on the couch. Much to her surprise, when Grace left for the festival the next day, Stan had stayed back at the hotel and told her he would follow later. Of course it worried her, and she wondered what he was up to, but there wasn't any way she could find out. The desire to get away from him outweighed all curiosity. Besides, it would give her a chance to find Jake and Carrie Ann and get the heck out of Dodge.

It was too bad she wasn't here just to enjoy; the sun was warm on her shoulders and a band was already playing on stage. It was a block party–like atmosphere, and Grace wasn't going to be able to enjoy any of it. She had just worked her way to the middle of the crowd, when suddenly a hand clapped over her eyes from behind. Whoever it was had a tight grip, and he or she was tall. She knew, even before she put her own hands over the one that covered her eyes, that it was Carrie Ann.

“Let go or else,” Grace said. She could feel Carrie Ann behind her, shaking with laughter. All doubts at what she was going to do flew out of Grace's head. She lifted her boot and brought it down on Carrie Ann's foot. She made contact. Carrie Ann screamed, and her hand immediately sprung off. Grace whipped around to find Carrie Ann doubled over in pain. When Carrie Ann's eyes met Grace's eyes, Carrie Ann smiled through her pain, threw open her arms, and said, “I forgive you. Surprise! Happy birthday!”

Grace stood still as Carrie Ann enveloped her in a hug. Grace placed her hands on Carrie Ann's shoulders and pushed her back. She made sure to make eye contact.

“I'm furious with you, Carrie Ann, but now is not the time to hash it out.”

“I know,” Carrie Ann said. “Jake wanted me to hit Rafael over the head with something, but I just couldn't. But I did handcuff him to the bedposts. As soon as Jake gets here, I'll have to go and set Rafael free.”

“Where is Jake? We have to get out of here before Stan gets here.”

“Aw, you figured it out! Stan was right.”

“What did you just say?”

“Stan thought you were on to him.”

“Look at me, Carrie Ann. When did Stan say that?”

“Why are you freaking out? The drugs and kidnapping weren't my idea, okay? I was supposed to disappear. But I have to admit, it was rather dramatic.”

Grace grabbed Carrie Ann's shoulders. “When did Stan tell you he thought I knew?”

“I don't know. Right before you came back from Cadaqués.”

“Oh, God.” So that's why he had been quiet in the car. If he suspected she knew, why had he let her come here alone? Worse, what was he planning next?

“What is the matter with you? It's over!”

“I don't have time to explain. Where is Jake?”

“Probably getting into costume—”

“Where?”

“At Rafael's apartment. He'll be here soon. Let's dance, or get a drink.”

“He's in serious danger, Carrie Ann. We all are. We've got to get to the apartment.”

Carrie Ann grabbed Grace's arms. “I really just wanted us to have an adventure. Like old times.”

“We have to go, Carrie Ann. Now.”

“Aren't you going to sing? Haven't we at least cured your phobia of facing scary things?”

“Stan wasn't pulling a prank, Carrie Ann. Stan is unhinged.”

“Well, he's always been a bit off.”

“No. He killed—”

“There he is!” Carrie Ann pointed past Grace. Grace turned around to see the giant eagle coming toward her.

“Jake.” Grace ran to him, threw herself at him, nearly knocking them both to the ground. He squeezed her back, then lifted her off the ground and twirled her around. His face was covered with white paint, and he was even wearing the eye mask.

“You went all out,” Carrie Ann said.

“There's no time,” Grace said. “We have to find a safe place now.” She grabbed Jake's hand, and then Carrie Ann's, and began to pull them as quickly as she could through the crowd. She found a taxi and ushered them in. Stan knew where the apartment building was, so that was out.

“Carrie Ann, where can we go that's out of the way?”

“I don't understand what's going on.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Old Barcelona?”

“Tell the driver,” Grace said. “I'll explain everything when I feel we're safe.” Carrie Ann repeated Grace's request to the driver, and they pulled out into traffic.

“Grace, it was a joke,” Carrie Ann said.

“Not for Stan,” Grace said. “He's a true psychopath.” She dug into her purse and brought out the sketches. She showed them to Carrie Ann. She turned to Jake. “I wish you could take that makeup off.” Jake reached up with his hand and rubbed. Only a little came off his cheek. “It's okay. As soon as we're safe we can get to a sink.”

“What is this?” Carrie Ann shrieked. “What is this?”

Jake leaned forward, trying to have a look. The taxi pulled up to a small alley. The driver pointed down the length of it and spoke.

“He said there is a private little courtyard down there,” Carrie Ann said. Her voice was shaking. Thank God she understood the seriousness of the sketches.