“You knew we lied?” I ask.
“I know more than you give me credit for. I knew you’d eventually come crawling back to me. And I knew you’d eventually give up this fight and join forces with me.” I turn to face him, and he smiles. A proud smile. “There’s a lot we can accomplish together, Chloe.”
He really thinks I’m here to help him. I’m wondering if I should be embarrassed or proud of my ability to trick a killer. “Looks like we’re going to be friends, boys,” I say to the three men. They all uncomfortably shift their weight around, adjusting their jackets and clearing their throats. I walk up to the first one and offer a handshake. “Chloe,” I say, introducing myself, even though they know who I am.
“John,” the first one says in a deep growly voice. His brown eyes study me, trying to see through my confidence. He’s the shortest one, stocky, but built. His black hair is buzzed and faded, blending into his dark skin. I can’t help but wonder what his story is. I can usually figure people out by looking into their eyes, but his eyes are empty. They’re cold and mean. I wonder what all of these men’s stories are. Who would want to work with Franco? I wonder what’s at the other end of the deal for them. You just have to be somewhat deranged to work for a murderer. Nevertheless, here I am, trying to win these professional assholes over.
I move back to the second man. He doesn’t look as tough as John. He has lighter eyes, greenish blue. They look brighter than they are because of the contrast to his jet-black hair. His nose is large, but it fits his face. I watch as he swallows hard, almost seeming nervous. I guess I have that affect on people. “Chloe,” I say again.
“Tony,” he says. His handshake is weak and clammy. Kind of gross.
I move to the third and last one, the largest of the three. His eyes are black and his dark brown hair is shaved into a military cut, high and tight. The speckles of facial hair glisten around his chiseled jawline, giving him a threatening facade.
I swallow my growing apprehension. I must remain solid. I can’t let them see my weakness. But if I saw this guy walking down the street, I’d cross to the other side just to avoid his menacing glare. He looks crazed, like a rabid animal looking for its next prey. His neck muscles bulge from his collar and the seam of his jacket looks tensed over his large muscles. I wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy. I think I need to do a better job of convincing him that I’m here for the right reasons. Even though my reasons are only right for me.
As reluctant as I am, I force my hand out to him. He doesn’t hesitate before gripping his hand tightly around mine, squeezing a little harder than I appreciate. “Jacko,” he says, not giving me a chance to introduce myself for a third time. He leans his head down toward mine. “You might have the other three convinced of your innocence, but I know what you are doing.” His husky words are whispered into my ear.
My chest tightens, and my pulse quickens. He’s just trying to scare me. I can’t let him get to me. That’s what he wants. He wants to break me. I will not be broken. Anymore than I already am, anyway. I pull my head away from his mouth and jerk my head backward. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I say.
A deep gravely laugh escapes his throat and he grits his teeth together. He regains his straight posture and realigns his suit jacket over his perfectly creased pants. “Sir,” Jacko says. “Ready?”
Franco holds onto the wall for support as he pulls himself closer to where the three men are standing. When they notice his struggle, they rush to his side, helping him down to the exit. “Follow us, Chloe,” Franco says.
I turn back to the cell door and rip the keys from the lock. I’m not leaving these out. I hear the exit door creak open, and in the midst of the loud noise, I shove the keys back into the locker I had taken them from.
“Chloe!” Franco yells from the exit.
I run toward them. “Coming,” I shout.
We’re ushered into a black limousine, and I see that there’s a fourth blue suit who’s their designated driver. These men better stop multiplying.
I clamber into the car and slide along the back bench. The scent of leather and alcohol fills the surrounding stuffy air. Franco sits across from me on the opposite side, leaving a large gap between us. John sits on the right side, Tony sits on the left, and Jacko sits down right next to me. My discomfort reemerges as the material of his suit rubs against my arm. We’re seated on a large enough seat that sitting this close is unnecessary. But if I move, he’ll know it’s because I’m uncomfortable. And I don’t want him to know that. I cross my hands over my lap and tilt my chin up with confidence.
“Where will we be heading first?” I ask, my question directed at Franco.
A smile grows across his lips. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen my dear sister.” He scratches the scruff under his chin.
“Sir, wouldn’t you prefer to—“ John clears his throat. “Freshen up first?”
Franco tilts his head, seeming confused at his suggestion. He twists his face over to his shoulder, and his nostrils flare. He turns back to John and nods. “Yes, let’s swing by the house.” House? He actually occupies one of those here?
***
As the thought of his house swirls around my head we pull into a long winding driveway at the end of a thickly wooded street. The house is enormous. Tall privets cover the dark wood shingles, which conceal the old age of the colonial home. I bet ghosts reside here, probably ghosts of Franco’s victims. Maybe that’s why he wanted to live in the cell. Maybe it’s a place where the ghosts don’t haunt him.
There are only two windows on the front of the house, both small and tinted black. I’m not exactly surprised by the look of his house. Franco enjoys living in darkness.
I somewhat expect Franco to go in alone, but the blue suits follow his lead. “I’ll wait here,” I say.
Jacko grips his hand around my forearm. “Let’s go.”
Or not.
I pull my arm from his grip. “Take it easy,” I say. “I’ll come.”
He gestures for me to go first, and I climb out of the car with him following closely behind. I follow the others up to the tall black door. Franco wraps his hand around the doorknob and holds it there until the door chimes. “Fingerprint detected,” a computerized voice chimes from above the door. I hear bolts unclick and Franco pulls the door open, revealing a large dark wooded living room. Wooden panels cover the walls and flow right into the hardwood floors. It looks kind of cavernous and depressing. Again, shouldn’t be a surprise.
I step in, greeted by a rich scent of mahogany and burning wood. Framed pictures cover the walls. I can’t imagine what they could be images of, but I’m intrigued.
Franco hustles up the stairwell, pulling his jacket off on the way. Each of the blue suits takes a seat on one of the various hard wooden chairs that are scattered around the living room. There is no sofa, loveseat, or recliner. The room is very uncomfortable and cold. Again, not surprising.
I move toward the longest wall, the one containing the greatest number of framed pictures. The first picture is an old sepia coated image of what appears to be my mother, her parents, and James. They all stand erect, without a smile, without an emotion. Their pose looks forced.
The second picture is of James, or whoever he was at the time, holding a baby girl in a pink dress. He’s looking down at her with a slight smile. Next to them is a beautiful woman—long blond hair, large brown eyes, and a proud smile. That must be Melanie, Kiera’s mother, and Kiera of course. I feel a strike of pain run through my chest remembering when I’d first realized Franco had probably killed Kiera’s mother. She’d lived through misery too.
I move to the next picture, and a pit forms in my stomach. It’s Franco, my mother, and me. It’s in an old office, one that looks like a doctor’s office, kind of. I’m not posing in the picture like he and my mother are though. I’m sitting behind them on a metal chair. My eyes are stale, zombie-like, staring at the wall in front of me. My legs dangle from the chair, and my arms
hang low by my side. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to hold down the sob that’s fighting its way up through my throat. This must be when they drugged me, or hypnotized me to forget about my childhood. Part of me wants to ask who would hang a picture of this. But the other part of me knows the answer.
“Shit, get down,” John says softly. Tony and Jacko move to opposite sides of the front window.
“What’s going on?” I ask, oblivious.
“Cops. Get. Down.” Jacko says with an intimidating scowl. “I’m sure you can imagine how many warrants are out for Franco’s arrest.”
How do they know he’s here? He’s only been out of hiding for twenty minutes.
I peek out of a side window and see that the limo is gone, meaning we’re all now trapped here in this house with no mode of transportation to leave.
“Clear,” Tony shouts. “The driver led them away.”
“I’ll call another one,” John says.
Well, this is fun. I look at the three men who look as though they go through this multiple times a day. They’re unfazed.
“This happen often?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. They all respond with silent laughter.
“Ever heard of Most Wanted?” Jacko asks with a smirk.
“Obviously.” I shrug. I know where this is going.
“Franco is number two on the list.” Of course he is. Why wouldn’t my uncle be number two on the most wanted list?
I have to try my hardest to look unimpressed by this news. “Hmm. Cool.” They all look a little surprised by my lack of response.
Franco descends the stairwell, clean-shaven, well dressed, and greased hair. He looks at me, seeing the picture I’ve been looking at. He smiles, looking proud of his work. “Water under the bridge?” he asks, shooting his arms out to his sides.
I want to hurt him. I want to do things I’ve never considered. I want to act like him, torture him, and make him wish he were dead. I try to keep my eyes from narrowing, from looking angered, from looking affected in anyway. I clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze tightly, trying to release some of my building aggression and pressure. I shrug and look away, unaffected. He releases a slight laugh as he continues down the remaining steps, clasping together the cuffs of his shirt.
John greets him at the bottom step with his coat. “Ready, sir?”
Franco nods and heads for the front door. Jacko stands and walks over to me. I hold my hands up to him. “I can walk myself,” I say, keeping my voice stern. He presses two fingers into the center of my back and pushes me forward. I shrug him off and continue after Franco.
“Sir, one with two drove by five minutes and thirty-two seconds past the hour. Cleared now. Jason K. is the new driver,” Tony updates him on what I’m assuming is the information on the police who drove by.
We settle into the limo and my nerves prickle over my arm with the thought of what’s to come. I can’t imagine how the next hour will play out.
Franco seems unaffected by our current situation as he shoves a sandwich into his mouth, swallowing it nearly whole. I can’t help but to curl my lip at him. He’s disgusting.
We pull into the driveway of my mother’s house. John, Tony, and Jacko depart from the car first, meeting around back near the trunk. Their muffled voices sound like their arranging a plan of some sort. I wish I could hear clearer, but Franco is keeping me hold in here. Once the three men reemerge in view of the car door, Franco urges me out and follows behind. “Do not speak. Do not act. Do not do a thing,” he says to me. He pulls on my arm and turns me around. “Do you understand?”
I nod my head with understanding. “I want the same thing you want.” I do. I want the exact same thing he wants.
“Very good, then.” He grins. “Shall we?” He lifts his palm toward the house.
I walk ahead of the others, approaching the front door. I twist the knob, checking to see if it’s unlocked. It is. I nod my head to Franco and the men to follow. I have a good suspicion as to why the door is unlocked. I glance into the living room, and I see that the pillow from the couch is still lying on the ground where I left it the night before.
“I believe she is in the basement, restrained,” I say, turning back to them.
“Making our job easy?” Franco asks with a cunning grin.
I turn back around, heading for the basement door. When the floorboard complains below me, I hear my mother shift around. “Chloe?” she shouts, her voice is strained and nervous.
I don’t respond. I open the door that leads to the basement and walk down the steps, slowly. When I reach the bottom step, she gives me an incredulous look. She has large dark bags under her eyes. Her skin is pale and her shoulders are hunched forward.
“You came back?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
I smile.
A shadow darkens the light behind me, and my mother’s eyes grow large.
“Sister.” Franco brushes by me. “It’s been too long.” His long strides close the gap between them quickly. Her chest heaves in and out and her chin trembles. Am I deranged if I enjoy seeing fear in her eyes? Have I become someone like her? She has no words. And it’s a first. “My dear sister, Marie.” He places his hand over her shoulder, and she shudders as if his hand were a lit flame. “Where is the locket?”
I can hear the struggle in her throat, as she swallows hard. “I do not know,” she says.
Franco clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Marie.” He looks down at her as if she were a child. “You know better than to lie to your big brother.” He squeezes his fingers around her shoulder blade. “Let’s not do this.”
Her head bobs left to right. I can see the terror in her eyes. And I love it. “I don’t know where it is.” Her eyes are still large, and by the look on her face, you’d think she was staring down the barrel of a gun.
Franco pulls his hand from her shoulder, swings it backward, and slaps her across the face. The noise sounds like a ruler hitting a chalkboard. The visual gives me an odd high. It’s as if I’m living vicariously through Franco’s lucky hand. The hand that was able to cause her the same kind of pain she’s caused me over the years. She recoils from the pain, twisting her face to the side and lets out a small cry.
“I—” she clears the gurgle out of her throat.
Franco winds his hand up again and releases the wrath across her face once more. This time blood sprays from her mouth. Her lip is dripping. It’s split open.
“Simon,” she cries through the pain.
Franco drops his hand down by his side. Jacko and Tony look at each other, mouthing the word Simon as if they were consulting each other for more knowledge on who he might be.
But I know who he is.
John separated from the speculation between Jacko and Tony, walks over to Franco and places his hand over his still shoulder. “Simon, sir?”
Franco looks up at John with a complacent look in his eyes. “I. Am. Simon.” His words sound weak compared to the meaning. “Simon.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is who I am.”
Jacko and Tony appear at John’s sides. “Elaborate,” Jacko says.
The lost look in Franco’s eyes is perturbing, but only to those who know what is going through his mind—my mother and I apparently being the only two.
Franco looks up at the three men, who suddenly don’t look as domineering anymore. “I am James, as well,” Franco says.
“James?” Tony asks.
A smile inches across Franco’s lips. “I am Tomas, too.” Franco throws his head back as a laugh erupts from the depths of his throat. He wraps his arms around his stomach and hunches over from his own hilarity.
His psychotic laugh throws the men for a loop. For the first time all day, I feel as though I might have an advantage in this situation—a leg up on these three unknowing men. They have no clue what they have gotten themselves involved in. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what could have convinced them to join forces with Franco.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
FO
UR
“I TAKE IT you are all unaware of Franco’s multiple personality disorder?” I say, feeling a sinful smile creep over my cheeks.
Jacko walks over to me and seems to look at me more as an ally rather than an enemy now. He places his hand around my elbow and pulls me across the basement behind a beam. “What’s going on?” he whispers.
I stare at him for a moment, still angered by his behavior toward me all day. “Hmm,” I say.
“Look, Chloe, I’m sorry for being a little…rough with you earlier. Franco pays us good money to do as we’re told.”
“A person who will do anything for money—torment the innocent for a few dollars. You sound like a noble man, Jacko.” I can feel my eyes glinting at him. Why should I let him in on Franco’s hidden secrets? “Don’t you know money can’t buy you happiness, Jacko?” I speak as if I’m trying to teach him a life lesson, but by the look on his face, I can’t quite figure out if it’s happiness in which he seeks.
Jacko releases his hand from my elbow and his head drops. He drags in a long breath and looks back up at me. “My happiness is long gone. You don’t know a thing about me. All I care about is the money. That’s it.”
“Well good for you. I commend you on murdering for cash. That’s noble.” I roll my eyes.
He clears his throat and lets his eyes roll up to the ceiling. His jaw swivels back and forth and his tongue glides over the front of his teeth. “I was a member of a special ops team with John. After a three-year deployment, I had plans to end my military career, excited to live a normal life with my wife and two children. When I arrived back home, my wife was waiting for me with open arms and a smile.”
I smile a bit, imagining the reunion scene. “I’m glad you made it home all right. And I thank you for your service, but clearly, you still have some unresolved issues. You might want to seek help, rather than joining the no special forces with Franco. Probably not your brightest move.” I shove my hands into my pockets and lean my back up against a beam.
He ignores my comments and his eyes seem to be burning through my head. “Her open arms were frail and half the size they were when I left for Afghanistan. Her head was shaven clean. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were missing. Her face was gray, and her eyes had lost almost all of their blue pigment. Instead of a happy homecoming, I arrived to learn that my wife was battling a rare form of cancer.”
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