Page 24 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
From my position high above, I could see everything: Anya suspended between safety and death by the backup rigging, Volkov fighting his way toward the stage with his remaining men, and Robert leading the charge to reach him before he could fire again.
But I also saw something else—Cooper's anguished face as he realized that saving Anya might have doomed his own daughter. Volkov's network would certainly kill the child now that their plan had failed.
"Cooper!" I called out. "Where is she? Where is your daughter?"
"The basement!" he shouted back. “In a room beneath the stage, kept a prisoner by Volkov’s men."
Of course. Volkov had kept his insurance policy close at hand, hidden in the very theatre where his plan would unfold. While the police battled his men in the wings, his associates would eliminate the evidence of his coercion.
I scrambled along the fly gallery toward the ladder, knowing I had to reach the basement before Volkov's men silenced Cooper's daughter forever. Behind me, I could hear the sounds of gunfire echoing through the theatre as the performance collapsed into chaos.
The basement beneath the King’s Theatre was a maze of storage rooms, workshops, and forgotten spaces dating back to the building's construction. I'd never been down here before, but Cooper's directions had been clear—a room near the old furnace, accessible through the scene dock.
I found the narrow staircase and descended into darkness, using the small electric torch Robert had given me to navigate the cramped corridors. The sounds of the battle above were muffled here, replaced by the drip of water and the scurrying of unseen creatures.
Then I heard it. A muffled sobbing coming from somewhere ahead.
The door to that room was locked, but the wood was old and the frame was loose. A few sharp kicks with my heel, and it splintered open to reveal a small girl, perhaps eight years old, tied to a chair with tears streaming down her face. Thankfully, she was alone.
"Are you Mr. Cooper's daughter?" I whispered, kneeling to untie her bonds.
She nodded, too frightened to speak.
"It's all right. Your father sent me to get you. We're going to take you somewhere safe."
But even as I freed her from the ropes, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Volkov's men coming to finish what their boss had started.
I looked around desperately for another exit, but the room had only one door. We were trapped, with armed killers approaching and nowhere to run.
Then I remembered the torch in my hand. The old basement was full of stored scenery, costumes, and props—all highly flammable. If I could create enough smoke and confusion . . .
I grabbed a pile of old fabric and held the electric torch's bulb against it until it began to smolder. The smoke was immediate and thick, creating the diversion we needed.
"Fire!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Fire in the basement!"
The effect was immediate. Heavy footsteps turned to running as Volkov's men realized they might be trapped in a burning building. In the confusion, I grabbed Cooper's daughter and led her through the smoke toward what I hoped was another staircase.
We emerged into the scene dock just as theatre staff came running, buckets of water in their hands. Not far behind them,Cooper himself appeared. His face streaked with tears as he gathered his daughter into his arms.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Miss Worthington, thank you."
But our reunion was brief. I needed to know what had happened to Anya, to Robert, to Volkov himself.
We climbed back to stage level to find the theatre in controlled chaos. The audience was being evacuated while the fire brigade was making its way into the theatre.
But most importantly, Anya was alive and unharmed.
“Thank goodness you’re safe,” I said, embracing her. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”
Anya stiffened slightly, then pulled back, her brow furrowed. “I . . . I saw you at my dressing room door. I remember your face, but I don’t know who you are.”
Before I could reply, Monsieur LeClair stepped forward, his voice gentle. “This is Miss Worthington, Anya. She’s the one who found your letters and the photographs. She’s the reason you’re safe now.”
Anya’s gaze found mine, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know who to trust,” she whispered. “I was so afraid . . . I felt completely alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” I said softly. “You have many friends who care about you, Anya—including me.” I took a close look at her face, seeing the exhaustion and fear she'd endured. Still, I had to ask. “Where is Volkov?"
Her expression showed a mixture of relief and lingering fear. "I don't know. When the shooting started, the stage turned into a madhouse. One moment he was there, and then . . .” She shuddered. "I was so frightened, I could barely think."
