The Dollmaker. Amanda Stevens

the irony even as his conscience continued to berate him. He’d flown under the radar of the local authorities and even the FBI for so long, he’d become too complacent, even a bit reckless at times. It had all been so easy until now, and he wondered if he should regard this as a test. How he conducted himself could be crucial.

      “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I know where she is. I’ll get her back.”

      By this time tomorrow she would be home where she belonged. In the meantime, he had plenty to do to keep busy.

      With an effort, he relaxed his grip on the knife. Everything would be okay if he just kept his cool. After all, there was no way now that she could be traced back to him. He’d seen to that. And even if someone came sniffing around, he wouldn’t draw attention. He’d learned at an early age the advantage of maintaining a low profile. Nothing in his appearance or lifestyle would ever arouse suspicion. He even wore contacts in addition to his glasses to subdue the color of his blue eyes so they wouldn’t be remembered. He was the very epitome of decorum.

      Everything was fine. The party would go off without a hitch. All he had to do was close his eyes and remember Maddy’s face.

      If only it were that simple. But even with the old photograph he’d squirreled away years ago, he’d always had a difficult time reconstructing her winsome features.

      Not that he wasn’t talented enough. He was quite gifted, in fact, and he’d learned from a master. But for the Maddy doll and for the others in his private collection, each and every detail had to be perfect. Such precision could be maddening without a live model, but he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. For Maddy’s sake, he had to keep trying. He owed her that much.

      Closing his eyes, he waited for the shivering to pass, and then, wielding the sculptor’s knife as precisely as a scalpel, he set to work remolding the delicate features one sliver at a time until the lovely little face seemed to take on a life of its own.

      “You’re in there,” he whispered. “I can feel you….”

      He kept at it for a long time, refusing to stop even when his fingers became so cramped that every stroke of the blade was agony. Clay molds and sketches cluttered the studio, and as the evening hours turned into early morning, the disorder subtly wore on his nerves. Even the orchid he’d placed on the corner of his worktable drooped from neglect, and that wasn’t like him.

      Ever since the doll had been stolen, his regimen had been severely disrupted. Normally he nurtured his orchids just as he pampered himself. He was accustomed to showering several times a day when his schedule permitted, and he kept his clothes pristine, his hair trimmed just so. He strove for nothing less than perfection in his personal appearance and in his surroundings. But until he had her back—one way or another—he wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep, much less indulge himself in his time-consuming routine.

      He stepped away from his workbench and studied the doll’s features yet again. Better. Almost there…but not quite…

      Something was missing.

      He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the wall across the room, and froze, arrested as he always was by the sight of his own reflection. The man who stared back at him still seemed a stranger. Brownish-blond curls. Blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. A rather weak jawline, but the mouth was good and the complexion was to die for. Not a single blemish or mole to mar his smooth skin. No morning shadow, either. He almost looked airbrushed.

      But his new glasses would take some getting used to. They gave him a bookish air that wasn’t to his liking, but for now the look suited his purposes.

      Unable to resist, he walked over to the mirror for a closer scrutiny. Turning first one way then the other, he frowned. His nose was still not right, but the cartilage was too weak for another surgery. He supposed he would have to make do with what he had.

      He removed his glasses because his eyes looked bluer without them, and when he smiled a certain way, his dimples flashed sweetly. He’d practiced that smile for years.

      Yes, when he smiled in just that way, he could almost catch a glimpse of her….

      “You’re in there,” he whispered to his reflection. “I can feel you.”

      He lifted the blade to his face, the compulsion to peel away the flesh until he found what he needed almost irresistible. After all, he was no stranger to the knife. His body had been carved and mutilated so badly that his distaste for his own appearance sometimes forced him to use a sponge and gloves to clean himself in the shower. But no matter how often he washed, he couldn’t scrub away the scars. He couldn’t rinse away the memories.

      “Why did you have to die?” he whispered.

      Because you let me.

      His voice became petulant. “But I was just a child.”

      You should have found a way to stop him.

      “I’ve stopped him now.”

      Too late.

      “It’s not too late. You’re not dead. You’re just…hiding.”

      Then come and find me.

      He leaned closer, searching and searching his reflection until the ringing of his cell phone jarred him. He didn’t want to answer it. He hated disturbances while he worked, but his concentration was already broken. Fetching the phone from his jacket pocket, he checked the caller ID and, recognizing the number of the nursing home, didn’t bother to answer.

      Tossing the phone aside, he returned to the unfinished doll and placed a gentle hand on her sculpted head. “I have to go out for a while, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

      Leaving the door to the studio open, he hurried up the steps to the kitchen to fix a tray. He toasted bread and poured a bowl of cereal, then, once he had the dishes and silverware arranged just so, carried everything back down the steps and placed the tray on his worktable while he unlocked and slid open a hidden compartment in one wall. He bent down to peer inside.

      The lights were out. He couldn’t see anything in the shadowy room, but he knew she was already awake because he could hear her whimpers. The sound irritated him. So did her persistence.

      I want to go home.

      She must have said it a hundred times already. They all did. And his answer was always the same.

      You can’t go home. Not until after the party.

      Slipping the tray through the opening, he waited a moment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but when she didn’t appear, he shut the compartment and locked it without a word, then hung the key on a peg near the door.

      If he’d learned anything in the past seven years it was that even the most stubborn girl would eventually eat when she got hungry.

      Three

      The dark clouds piling up over the Gulf of Mexico brought an early twilight to the city, but Claire Doucett barely noticed the sporadic raindrops that splashed against her cotton blouse as she hurried along the sidewalk. Her gaze was fastened on a group of teenage girls in front of her, and as they stopped to admire something in a shop window, she paused, too, her heart beating a painful staccato inside her chest. Their backs were to her, but when the one in the middle turned just so…dear God, she looked like Ruby.

      At least the way Claire imagined her daughter would look at fourteen. The way she appeared in the age-progressed photo created by a forensic artist at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

      She would be tall like her dad, but with Claire’s thin stature and her grandmother Lucille’s golden ringlets.

      The girl in front of her shook her head and her blond curls shifted against her narrow back. She wore shorts and flip-flops, and her legs were long and tanned and gorgeous. Her laughter drifted back to Claire, sending a fine chill along her spine, and her heart started to beat even harder. There