Mommy, May I

by A. K. Alexander

  “You’re welcome. See? I’m not such a bad guy.”

  The movie seemed to last for hours. Frankie laughed whenever he did. She didn’t want him to think that she was frightened.

  He ejected the movie and turned off the VCR. “I’d love for us to watch another, but it’s getting late. I’ve made you a sandwich. I set it on the nightstand in your room. That way, you can eat when you get hungry. Okay?”

  Frankie nodded, wondering where he worked. Did he have a wife and child? Was he one of those sickos that seems ordinary to his neighbors and lives a double life? He reminded her of the kind of people she saw regularly on the news, the ones the neighbors always thought were such nice guys before they murdered their entire family out of the blue and then committed suicide.

  He unshackled her feet and held onto her tightly as he escorted her back to her quarters. “Okay, Francesca, I’ll be nice and leave your hands unrestrained for now, so that you can eat. But I have to shackle your feet again. There are rules around here. If you abide by them, you’ll be fine and we’ll have a lot of fun. First, don’t try to escape or yell out. No one lives nearby, so no one can hear or help you, anyway. I’d hate to see you waste your energy. If you ever try to leave me, Francesca, then I’ll regretfully have to kill you.

  “Finally, it is imperative that you be grateful for everything I do for you. Therefore, when I offer you something, I want you to take it, indulge yourself, and learn to love it. I trust you won’t disappoint me. I have a feeling you are of a different caliber than your mother, and will be grateful for all I have done and am doing for you. Please do not disappoint me. Do you understand?” He got right in her face so she could smell his foul breath.

  Frankie wanted to cry, but instead responded with a meek, “Yes.” She wanted to ask him why he’d mentioned her mother. It startled her. Was Helena also in danger from this man?

  “Good. Oh, and there’s also a bucket for you next to the bed. I’m sure you can figure out what that’s for. I’d prefer you to hold it though.” He left the room.

  Frankie heard a sound of several locks being turned outside the door. She didn’t let her guard down until she heard the gravel crunching under his car tires as he drove away. She stared at the tuna sandwich he’d made her. She wanted to hurl it against the wall.

  The comment he’d made about her mother terrified her. She had to escape this dungeon and get to Helena before he did. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, enraged at this psycho who got off on calling himself Poe. She missed her mom and dad who must be worried sick about her by now. More than anything, she longed to be with them. She had to get out of here and back to her parents—to her family.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Helena couldn’t sleep, eat, or even cry any longer. Tyler Savoy was at least of some comfort. He’d assured both her and Patrick that he believed in their innocence. He’d gotten Collier off their backs, but Helena was certain she hadn’t seen the last of the sneering detective. Tyler had also been sensitive and seemingly understanding when she’d told him about the incidents leading up to all this. Though he didn’t accuse her of hiding anything, he also didn’t indicate whether or not he thought the man’s phone calls and the fire had anything to do with Frankie’s disappearance. He did promise to speak with the inspector in charge of the arson team leading the investigation into the fire at Shea House. She was grateful to him for that.

  In her mind she kept re-playing the events of the last two weeks, wondering where she could’ve done something differently.

  Her head ached so badly that she really wanted something much stronger than an aspirin to relieve it. Her despair was immeasurable. Her child was missing, possibly hurt, or worse—although she refused to accept that; her dear friend was lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life; the recovery center she’d invested her heart and soul into had literally gone up in smoke just when it was ready to open; she was suspected of murder; and the public had already tried and convicted her, making her a complete outcast.

  She silently repeated the Serenity Prayer over and over again to no avail. She walked back into Patrick’s bathroom to clean up. Looking for his toothpaste, she found a bottle of Valium inside the medicine cabinet. Her hands shook as she held it, staring at it. It was half-empty. She set it back inside the cabinet and quickly shut the door. But her demons kept saying, Go ahead, it’s all right. Just take one. Maybe you can relax, feel better, and focus on finding Frankie. It’s just one. You’ll be fine. Go on, take it.” She really did need some sleep, so she could think more clearly. But if she took one, what would it mean? She was so tired, and her head hurt so badly, and damn the world for turning its back—and now Frankie was gone. Without trying to justify it any further, Helena took out the pills and poured a few into her hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  She abruptly turned around to see Patrick.

  He took the pills out of her palm. “This won’t help. Dammit, how could you think this would help us right now? Will a pill bring her home? My God, Helena, have you lost your mind?”

  “I, oh, I . . .”

  “Don’t try to give me an excuse. I won’t have you here if you can’t be sober. I’ll send you back home, and you can face the wolves on your own. You can’t weaken, not now. If you fall now, you’ll be hurting her even more.”

  “You bastard! Just when I thought you’d changed, that you even cared!” She heard how shallow and selfish her own voice sounded.

  “That’s why I can’t let you do this. Our daughter is missing. I can’t have you clouding everything up by using drugs.”

  The hurt overwhelmed her. He was right, she had weakened and that was no way to bring Frankie back. “I was scared. I’m not coping well.”

  “And you thought these would help?” He held up the bottle.

  “No,” she whispered, sinking to the floor, her back against the wall. He sat down next to her. Her body shook as she sobbed for all the loss and helplessness she felt.

  Patrick’s voice softened, “I do care,” he said. “Very much. I’ve never stopped caring. I may have made some serious mistakes in the past, but I’ve always cared, Helena. So please don’t do this. You’ve got to pull yourself together. Our little girl needs both of us.” He looked kindly into her eyes and gave her a warm, supportive smile. “Savoy wants to see us. Come on.”

  She took his hand as he helped her to her feet and followed him like a small child, ashamed of what she’d almost done.

  Patrick’s home was like a police headquarters—all manner of equipment was set up everywhere, and the media had been warned not to call the house. That, however, did not keep them from gathering outside the gates; at least Savoy had cordoned them off.

  Savoy took the two of them into the library. “Listen, I think Detective Collier is right about one thing.”

  Oh, no. Helena thought. Here it comes. He’s ready to level the boom on me.

  “I think foul play was involved in Frankie’s disappearance. I believe someone took her, and that whoever did it is connected to the Leeza Kiley murder and may have started the fire at your recovery house. I think we’re looking for this man who’s been making the phone calls, taunting you. I don’t think Rachel Winters was his intended victim at Shea House. I think he wants to hurt you, Helena. First he burned your work. Then murdered someone you have reason to hate and set you up as the primary suspect. Now he’s made his ultimate move. He’s taken your child.”

  “So this is about some kind of revenge?” Patrick asked.

  “Possibly,” Tyler said. “I’m inclined to lean that way, only because he doesn’t follow the typical MO of a serial killer. They usually choose victims by type. For the most part, the victims are people the perpetrator doesn’t know. They often choose upper-middle-class victims, to achieve some celebrity status. In many cases, they envision themselves in a kind of avenging angel role, purging the world of evil. I can go on, but you don’t need a textbook definition of a serial killer. Although I don’
t feel this kidnapper falls into that category, he does have some of these traits. Nothing seems to fit quite yet, but this looks like a vendetta. As I said, I do believe this man is a killer—and that he killed your ex-wife—but I don’t think he’s killed Frankie. He wants to punish you, Helena, for some reason. He’s taunted you, framed you, and now taken away what you hold most dear. He is systematically trying to destroy you.”

  “This is insane,” Helena replied.

  “I know, but please trust me. I don’t think your daughter is a runaway or that she fell off the cliffs. I believe she’s been abducted. Somehow, someone got to her, which means, given both the security precautions at this ranch and your recent arrival here, that they’ve been following you and planning this for some time. What I need from you is a list of possibilities—people who might have a personal vendetta against you.”

  “I’ve made a few enemies, I suppose,” said Helena. “But I never thought any were psychopaths.”

  “I want to look around again, go back through Frankie’s room, just to see if we’ve missed anything. While I do that, I’d like you to think about people, even people from years ago—go back to your childhood and think about who might feel the need to get even with you, for any reason. I don’t care how farfetched it may seem. Psychopaths carry grudges for a long time, for the most ludicrous reasons. I’ll be back after I go through her room again.” Tyler left the room as Patrick and Helena tried to digest what he’d told them.

  “I’ve never been so scared,” said Helena. “We may have messed up in our pasts, but does it warrant this? I can’t imagine that either of us ever made anyone this angry.”

  “It does sound bizarre. I just have to believe that Frankie’s still alive.”

  “Me too. But how long before this bastard hurts her?” Helena asked.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The psycho was back again. Frankie closed her eyes, trying to shut out the footsteps approaching her. Painful stomach cramps combined with a major headache made her ache all over. He tapped on her door. Frankie didn’t reply. She shut her eyes tighter, still hoping she would wake up from a bad dream. No such luck.

  “Lovely child,” he cooed, “it’s me, your knight in shining armor.”

  “Go away, please?” she begged, thinking maybe he’d have the decency to leave her alone.

  “What? What is this?” He came to the side of her bed and stroked her hair. “Are you asking your great friend Poe to leave? Never!” He smelled of musk and something she didn’t recognize—like cinnamon, but not. “Don’t you want, more than anything, to see your dear friend, my angel? Open your eyes when I favor you with my presence.”

  She reluctantly did as she was told, as the fear of death overtook her once more. “I’m sorry,” she felt compelled to say, understanding that he was growing angry. “I don’t feel very well.”

  “Such a shame. And I’ve planned quite a lovely evening, one in which we’ll really get to know one another.”

  Frankie didn’t like the sound of this. Maybe if she told him she was starting her period it might turn him off. But then again, it might turn him off completely, and then he’d hurt her, or worse. She decided to keep her feminine problem to herself. With her manipulative guile, she tried to sound interested in his offer. “I’d like very much to know you better.”

  “Good,” he cut her off. “However, since you’re feeling under the weather, maybe you should go a few days without food or water. I’ll bet your bladder would hurt if I left you here for a few days all by your lonesome without a pail even to dispose of your waste in. Wouldn’t it? You know, I really have gone out of my way to make sure you’re comfortable here. And this is the gratitude I get? I thought I talked to you about appreciation, and what might happen if you failed to show it. You’re no different than your selfish bitch of a mother!” he yelled. “I think you need a lesson in gratitude.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s just a little stomachache. I’m fine really. I’d love to have dinner with you. Please don’t be angry.”

  He abruptly sat down next to her, and stroked her hair again. “So silky,” he murmured. “So beautiful.” He pulled her hair tight, locking it around his thick fist, then pulling tighter. It felt like he might rip it out. “Please, don’t be angry with me,” he mocked her. “It’s my itty-bitty tummy. Don’t be angry?” He let go of her hair, ripping some out of her scalp as he did. He stood and began pacing. Frankie tried to pull her bound feet underneath her.

  “Don’t be angry with you?” He slapped her across the face, and she winced. He unlocked her handcuffs from the bed, then dragged her by her hair to the bathroom where he shoved her head into the toilet.

  This was it, the end. Let it be over quick, please, God. She prayed for her mother, her father, her sins, anything and everything she could think of. Just do it. Just do it. Get it over with.

  He pulled her head up yelling, “You don’t understand, do you?! You have a chance to be my Princess, yet you refuse to cherish my gift. Well, you’ll learn appreciation here, Francesca. I’m beginning to see that manners are not your strong point, but that’s your mother’s fault. Don’t worry though, I’ll teach you all you need to know.”

  Then he shoved her head back into the toilet where she gagged on the water, choking and struggling to get her face back up.

  Suddenly, he pulled her head back up again. “All right, now, take a shower for God’s sake! That toilet is filthy! I hope you’ve learned something here, Francesca. Have you learned something?” His face was as red as a hot ember.

  “Yesss,” she stammered.

  He locked the door to the bathroom while she took her shower. The water actually felt good, something normal in a house of horrors. He ordered her to get out and get dressed, then locked her to the bed with the handcuffs once more.

  “You know, I’m not so hungry, either. Suddenly I’m feeling like a night out on the town without you! Maybe the next time I come back, whenever that might be, you’ll be a little more gracious. I think by then you’ll have completely understood today’s lesson. Goodbye, Francesca.” He walked out the door, bolting it as he left.

  Frankie lay there in the darkness, not knowing whether to feel relieved or not. She cried softly until she heard his car drive away, then she started to sob. He was so awful, and she was so scared and alone. For all Frankie knew, she might be left for days or weeks, to die in this hell. Now she wished he had drowned her, because in her heart, she was sure she wasn’t leaving this place alive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The long day turned into evening with no news about Frankie. At least James had contacted the DA and arrangements had been made for Helena’s arraignment. James said that he thought the DA was softening and wising up, considering the events of the past twenty-four hours. The reporters and television crews, however, hadn’t let up at all. All sorts of speculation and accusations were being reported—hurtful, derogatory untruths. Although this hell had only begun a few days before Leeza’s murder, it felt like an eternity had passed.

  Helena’s main concern was her child. She was also very worried about Rachel. She picked up the phone on her bedside table and called Tim, thinking that a connection to the outside world would help. She called him at home, letting it ring several times until she heard his voicemail. She decided not to leave a message. It was nearly eight, so she called him on his cell phone, and he picked up on the third ring.

  “Hi, it’s me.” Helena could hear commotion in the background, as if he were at a restaurant. She felt guilty for disturbing him, especially since he was holding down the fort, making sure her business didn’t fall apart.

  “Oh, sweetie, I was hoping you’d call. I didn’t want to call you at the ranch, so I decided to wait to hear from you. How are you?”

  “Honestly? Terrible.”

  “Have the police heard anything? Have they found her?”

  “No, nothing—not a trace.”


  “I’m so sorry. If there’s anything that I can do, I will.”

  “You’re already doing plenty. Everything okay at work?”

  “Sure. A little slow, but good. Clients are calling worried about you. All this business about you murdering Leeza is so ridiculous! I tell you, the corruption in the DA’s office, not to mention the LAPD, is hideous!”

  “They’ve questioned you?”

  “Oh yes, that bastard detective, what’s his name?”

  “Collier?”

  “Right. He’s been by twice, snooping around. I finally told him that without a search warrant, he had no business being there.”

  “I’m sorry. I sure didn’t want you dragged into this. You’ve been so good to me.”

  “Please, don’t worry about a thing. We’ll all get through this, rest assured.”

  “Thank you.” She heard a male voice call for Tim, so she said goodbye and hung up. She didn’t want to intrude any more than she already had. He was such a wonderful friend. He was even staying at her place, attempting to keep the media away.

  She closed her eyes, trying to use the meditation techniques she’d been taught in recovery, but they were no help now. A knock at her door brought her quickly back to reality. She motioned Patrick in. He sat on the end of the bed and took her hands in his. They sat quietly for a long time.

  Patrick finally broke the silence, “I love your hair,” and Helena understood his need to escape their current troubles.

  She too, wanted to forget that a dozen men were in the other room concerned with getting Frankie back. “You always did.”

  “Do you know that I’ve missed you?”

  Helena didn’t know how to respond. Her emotions in part were numb. All she could say was, “Me too.”

  He touched her cheek. She closed her eyes and let him trace the outline of her cheekbones with his fingers. He placed his hands on either side of her face, and she opened her eyes. They communicated an entire conversation in that silence. Each could read the affection, hurt, and loneliness in the other’s face.