The Girl with the Golden Gun

by Ann Major

  Early this morning Gigi, her best friend, had called and screamed, “Mia is alive! It’s all over the Internet!”

  After she’d hung up the phone had started ringing off the wall.

  Now that Mia’s whereabouts were known, if the ranch were on fire, there couldn’t have been more hysterical excitement. Distant family members and friends wouldn’t stop calling. Nor would the press. Everybody wanted to know how Mia had survived the crash and how she’d been kidnapped and what was going to be done to get her back. The incessant chorus of the phones alone had become more hubbub than Joanne could handle.

  Her brain felt like it was buzzing. She wanted to know more about her daughter, too, but Terence Collins wouldn’t answer his phone. She was sure Mia was still in terrible danger.

  Cole and Lizzy had been fielding all the calls from friends, family, the ranch’s corporate headquarters and the press as best they could. But even they were overwrought.

  Near panic, Joanne raced toward the library clutching her cell phone against her breast. When she opened the tall doors, the vast room was hushed. Her heart, however, was beating so loudly, thundering in her ears, she thought she might be having a heart attack.

  Joanne had to sit down. Touching the newsprint likeness of her daughter one more time, she scurried past the tall cherry bookcases in the library toward the deep leather couches.

  Switching on a table lamp, she sank onto the couch nearest the massive fireplace. She was so agitated she could barely hold a coherent thought in her head. Frowning, she placed her mobile phone, which had an unlisted number, on the table beneath the lamp. Then she leaned back against the leather.

  Why wouldn’t Mr. Collins call her back on her cell? She’d read his stuff in the past and found him so brilliant she’d been sad when he’d been passed over for the Pulitzer. Now she was angry and disappointed in him because he’d irresponsibly broken this story that could get her child killed without even notifying her or the ranch first. Worse, having written the piece, he’d gone underground, refusing to answer his phone or return her messages.

  Exasperated she’d finally demanded to speak to his boss at the Border Observer but had been given his voice mail, as well. She’d called back a second time, demanding to speak to a real person. Ramos’s secretary had sounded tense and frightened when she’d told her Juan Ramos was in a meeting. A hellish half hour had passed since then.

  Joanne thrummed her nails on the table. The windows were open because of the mild, spring temperatures. How she loved the sight of open vistas and the smell of wet grass as well as the murmurings of the rain still pouring off the roof and misting along the verandah railings.

  She took a deep breath and put her hand over her racing heart. She’d prayed for so many miracles in her forty-eight years. But the answer to this one was pure torture.

  Mia was alive, but for how long—thanks to Terence Collins?

  When she’d been young and pregnant and in love, she’d prayed for Jack, her fiancé to be found alive when he’d ridden off and had failed to return. But he’d been bucked off a half-wild horse he never should have tried to ride in the first place and had died of a broken neck.

  When Caesar, Jack’s brother, the husband who’d never really loved her, had had his stroke last year, she’d prayed for him, too. Before his murder, she’d learned he’d cheated on her with Electra and that he’d had two secret daughters, twins, in addition to Lizzy, and that they were out there in the world somewhere. Lizzy had asked Leo Storm, the ranch’s CEO to hire a detective to find them, but so far they’d discovered nothing.

  Joanne had prayed for Cole to get his memory back, and lately he’d started getting better, but that had caused a few problems between him and Lizzy. They had old issues, the worst of which was that he’d married Mia first instead of her. So, Mia’s return could fan old sparks of resentment back to life.

  Oh, it was all too much.

  When her housekeeper’s hushed steps sounded in the doorway, Joanne looked up and tried to smile, but her face felt too stiff to answer to her command.

  Like many of the people who worked at the Golden Spurs, Sy’rai had been with her so long, she was more like her sister than an employee.

  “Can I get you anything from the kitchen?” Sy’rai asked in a kindly tone.

  “Maybe a cup of tea.”

  Sy’rai nodded. “Oh, goodness, this is happy day!” Her olive, fiftysomething face lit with an encouraging smile.

  To still the tremors in her hands, Joanne clasped them in her lap. “If we get her back after what that horrible man wrote…just to increase his fame.”

  “She’ll be home in no time. Cole and Mr. Storm will think of something. You’ll see.”

  Leo had called Cole repeatedly from the Golden Spurs’ corporate offices in San Antonio this morning. Leo had been contacting hostage negotiators in Mexico as well as high-placed U.S. officials, anybody who might be persuaded to bring pressure on the government authorities in Mexico, who in turn could turn the screws on Morales.

  “I’m going to go downstairs and make you some tea,” Sy’rai said.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Joanne didn’t want tea. Why did everybody think one always needed to eat or drink in times of crisis?

  When Sy’rai had gone, Joanne picked up her cell phone, and then set it down. Why didn’t Ramos call? Why didn’t Leo and Cole do something besides talk on the phone?

  If only Caesar were alive! He would have stormed hell itself, to bring a daughter, even Mia, home.

  When her cell phone suddenly rang, she answered it instantly.

  “Juan Ramos. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Kemble.”

  Before he could say anything, she launched an attack. “Speaking,” she said coldly. “How could you publish an article about my daughter without even notifying the Golden Spurs? And now Collins won’t even do me the courtesy of phoning me back.”

  “I’m very sorry about your daughter, but as for Collins…” The sorrow in his low tone sent a chill through her. “I’m afraid he’s ‘disappeared.’” He drew a long breath. “I was being interviewed by the police about the matter when you called.”

  Her pounding heartbeats quickened, roaring in her ears now.

  “The police have reason to suspect Octavio Morales is involved. There are no witnesses nor many clues, but they have informants. Collins’s roommate was struck over the head and Collins’s computer was smashed. There were signs of a struggle. But the police think they took him alive.”

  “Oh, my God.” What would Morales do to Mia now?

  “I warned Collins repeatedly not to take so many unnecessary risks. But he was headstrong and fearless. He’s had close calls before. He moved constantly, so at least he wouldn’t be a sitting duck.” Ramos paused. “A lot of mummified bodies turn up in our desert and garbage dumps. Mostly they remain unidentified. Life is precarious down here, Mrs. Kemble, and not just for poor people. I won’t be surprised if we find Collins’s body in the desert.”

  “What about my daughter?”

  “We can only speculate.” He sounded weary. “Morales is highly unpredictable. It’s part of his genius. He’s kept her alive all this time. Who knows what he’ll do? I wish I could be more hopeful, but I’m afraid we don’t find too many of Morales’s kidnap victims alive, Mrs. Kemble. In fact I can’t remember a single time…We’ll probably never know what happened to Collins. He’ll be missed.”

  When they finally hung up, she felt worse than ever. Joanne’s mind felt as shaky as her body. She could barely hold a coherent thought as she scanned the photograph of Mia on the black Arabian again.

  Mia looked thinner, especially in the face. Her eyes were enormous but sunk deep in their hollow sockets. She wasn’t smiling. Everything about her was more subdued somehow. And yet the strong-featured Octavio Morales with the scar across his cheek looked smitten.

  Were they lovers? That was what everybody would think from this picture. The man definitely eyed Mia as if he consi
dered her his property.

  “I don’t care what you have to do,” Joanne whispered. “Just stay alive.”

  The tears that coursed down Joanne’s cheeks went unheeded until Jay, the sheriff’s deputy, came inside with a stack of newspapers.

  “I was just going over a few things with Cole, but I wanted to say hi. I had my men pick these up in case you wanted more copies.”

  She dried her eyes. “Thank you, Jay,” she said, turning to face him.

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  She shook her head. Not long after she’d showed him to the front door and returned to her couch in the library, Sy’rai reappeared, quickly setting three cups of tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table. Joanne, who’d begun to have to watch her weight a few years back, was about to say she didn’t want cookies or tea when Cole and a distraught Lizzy entered.

  “Leo’s on the phone again,” Cole said, handing her his cell as he sat down beside her.

  “Joanne!” Leo’s deep voice was abrupt and gruff. “I’ve got a top hostage negotiator, Pablo Cisneros from Mexico City, flying into Ciudad Juarez, as I speak. I’ve talked to a lot of important people in Texas and Washington, anybody who can pull the right strings. They’re all talking to influential people, too. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but Collins being kidnapped was a major break for us. Not only is he famous and apparently a darling of the press, but he comes from a powerful, well-placed family with all the right connections. His father is a longtime friend of the president’s father. Maybe it won’t be too long before we get some major results.”

  When Leo went on enumerating the complexities of the various politics involved in dealing with two countries, her mind wandered. It was increasingly hard for her to focus.

  “I have to warn you, though. Working all this out won’t be easy,” Leo said. “Nothing about Mia’s ‘disappearing’ or kidnapping by Morales is normal.”

  Leo went on to warn her that Morales and Gonzales, his Colombian connection, were believed to be behind many “disappearings” in Mexico, and never once had any of these “disappeared” people turned up alive.

  “Usually Mexican kidnappers are quick to demand ransom,” he said. “Morales is a major trafficker with high-placed connections of his own. But he’s not in the business of kidnapping Americans to ransom them. So what does he want with her?”

  “I—I can barely think right now, Leo.”

  “If we do get her back,” he persisted.

  “Please…don’t say if.”

  “When…there will be major problems for the ranch,” he continued. “But first things first. For now keep the phone lines open. Whatever you do, don’t talk to the press. If Morales calls demanding a ransom, act scared and let him do the talking. Cisneros’s top man is on his way to the ranch to give you the right prompts if Morales calls. But no press. They’ll pressure you, but there’s too much at stake.”

  She sucked in a breath. “It won’t be hard to sound terrified.”

  “Let me repeat. Collins is a hero of the press, and Mia is well known. This is a big story. As for the rest—big name reporters are already bugging me about the details concerning Lizzy’s and Mia’s marriages to Cole.

  “Out-of-state newsmen, who don’t understand South Texas can’t comprehend how Caesar and Cole could declare Mia legally dead so fast without her body. Most of all they want to know who he’s really married to. I can see the headlines now—Cole Knight Married To Both Kemble Sisters.”

  “That doesn’t matter right now. We’ve just got to get her back.”

  “Right. But I like to stay one step ahead of the jackals. I’ve consulted our legal team, and they’ve done some research. Since Caesar had your local J.P. declare Mia legally dead without a body…”

  “I don’t want to hear about any of that.”

  “But every other Texan will.”

  Always, always, the Golden Spurs’ reputation had to come first.

  “I know how hard this is,” he said.

  She wanted to scream, No, you don’t!

  “After all the negative publicity concerning Cherry Lane’s murder as well as Caesar being killed by his favorite nephew, I’d like to have some control of this situation when we do get her back.”

  Last year her husband, Caesar, had had a notorious affair with Cherry Lane, a Houston stripper. They’d even become engaged and then Caesar had suffered a stroke in Cherry’s bed. Leo had been frantic because the scandal had been horrendous for the ranch from a business perspective. But when had he or the board ever worried about her?

  “I just want Mia back in one piece!” she said, her nerves shredded.

  Leo kept on. “Under Texas law, since Mia was legally dead, Cole’s marriage to Lizzy will be the one to stand. Mia is single again.”

  “All right. All right. Just get her back.”

  When Joanne hung up, she couldn’t look at Cole or Lizzy together. Even so, she was aware of how still and silent they were.

  Lizzy loved her sister and Vanilla, but the two girls had always been rivals. Whatever one had, the other had always wanted—apparently, including Cole.

  What if Mia was still in love with Cole?

  “I hope I wasn’t rude to Leo, but nothing matters except bringing Mia home,” Joanne said aloud.

  Cole lifted Lizzy’s hand to his lips. “You’re right, Joanne. We have to get her back.”

  “But how?” Lizzy threw herself into his arms and buried her face against his shoulder.

  “I don’t know yet.” Loosening Lizzy’s arms, Cole stood up. “For now, the phones are ringing, and I’d better get back to my desk.”

  When Cole excused himself, and Lizzy trailed after him like a lost puppy, Joanne felt desperate and lonely in the immense library.

  Joanne was numb as she got up and went to the window and watched the tall green grasses that stretched to the horizon sway in the damp wind. When she’d first looked at Mia’s picture and learned Mia was alive, she’d been exhilarated.

  Now she felt nothing, nothing at all, not even fear.

  She was simply numb and too drained to think. Then slowly as she watched the grass, memories of Mia’s birth, of Mia’s first ride on a pony, of other firsts flooded her tired mind. Mia had been such an energetic, eager child, so anxious to please Caesar, who had never bothered to notice.

  Joanne closed her eyes, and as her lips began to move, she felt as if every defense, her wealth, her position, her rigid nature had been stripped away. She was naked to the bone as she sank to her knees and begged God to spare her daughter’s life.

  “Let me hold her again—please!”

  Comandante Guillermo Florentino Gonzales was a big fan of the American gangster movies. Particular favorites were Scarface and por supuesto, all the Godfather movies, but especially the first one.

  Guillermo was known for his jolly temperament, especially with pretty, young señoritas. Still, like a lot of men in stressful, violent professions, there were times when he had darker urges. He liked to tie women up as his stepfather had once tied him up. He liked to see their big dark eyes grow huge with fear when he unzipped himself and began to stroke his big pink pipe fondly before forcing them to do it for him.

  He liked to hit them, to strip them, to plunge into them when they were dry and didn’t want him. At such times he felt as big as a bull. He liked to flip them on their backs and take them in perverted, animalistic ways. Sometimes their screams were enough to satisfy him. And always the last thing he did was extinguish his cigar in their left butt cheek, so that other men would see his mark and know he’d been there first. Because he was the comandante, there were plenty of opportunities to enjoy his pretty prisoners when such urges struck him.

  Still most of the time he was jolly. Although he was short, he was big where it counted. Like Sonny Corleone from The Godfather Guillermo found inordinate pride in his endowments. In any case, he was always ready to show off these gifts to willing lovers or to unwilling ones. />
  He had girlfriends all over Ciudad Juarez. He had a few in El Paso, too. In fact, he’d been planning to quit early to take his latest to a new gangster flick when Enrique dashed in, damn his hide, and slapped an official looking envelope on his desk.

  “This has been sent to every Customs enforcement office along the U.S. Side of the border, Comandante. Ancera is on the phone, too.”

  Ancera was his superior in Mexico City.

  As Guillermo pulled out a single sheet of vellum and saw that the letterhead was indeed U.S. Customs, a ripple of unease traced through him even before he took Ancera’s call. Once he read it, his bushy black brows drew together in a lengthy, pronounced frown. He reread the official memorandum a second time before wadding it up and pitching it at a trash can.

  The Americans! Siempre los norteamericanos! Piss on the Americans! Who gave them the right to run the world?

  Finally he took Ancera’s call, which began with Ancera screaming about Terence Collins’s most recent article and kidnapping, reciting the Americans’ outrageous demands for his return and the return of a woman named Mia Kemble.

  “Idiota! Estúpido!You think you are this trafficker’s friend. You mishandled everything! You let him get out of control!”

  When their conversation ended, Guillermo was white and shaking.

  He made a fist. Then he pressed the buzzer that summoned Enrique. The little sneak must have been waiting by the door because he appeared instantly.

  With a frown Guillermo scribbled pretty Marisol’s phone number. “Call her and tell her something’s…er…come up…police business, and we’ll have to put off our meeting for today.”

  When Enrique dashed back to his phone, Guillermo sighed. He should have known the city had been too quiet, his life too easy. He should have expected trouble.

  Well, here it was—like a venomous snake, only hand-delivered. The Americans were threatening to close the border from San Diego to Brownsville if Terence Collins and Mia Kemble-Knight weren’t delivered to them within forty-eight hours. Ancera was going to have his ass if he didn’t take care of this problem.