by Sharon Sala
“Yeah, okay, Dad,” Clay said. “And thanks for helping out.”
“No problem,” Winston said.
Moments later, they heard the front door slam and then the sound of a car driving away.
Frankie was still waiting for Clay to answer, but he seemed overly concerned with washing the coffee cup his father had used. Finally her patience ran out. “Clay, don’t ignore me.”
He turned. His expression was blank, his posture stiff and unyielding.
Frankie sighed. “What’s this all about?”
Water dripped from his hands as he stared at her from across the room. Long moments passed as Clay struggled with an answer. Finally, it was the truth that came out.
“I’m afraid to leave you alone.”
Her face paled and she jerked as if she’d been slapped. “Why?”
He swallowed, hating the fear in his voice. “What if it happens again? And before you get mad, you have to be honest. You’ve already voiced the same fear.”
She kept staring at him. Although her accusation was silent, his belly knotted, all the same. He knew what was coming, but so help him God, he didn’t know how to stop her from asking.
Finally she shuddered and then blinked. A single tear slid down her cheek.
“You weren’t talking about kidnappers, Clay. You were talking about me…walking out on you again.”
“I wasn’t…I mean, I don’t think you…”
She covered her face with her hands, but before he could get to her, she looked up, and the fire in her eyes stopped him cold.
“I won’t say it again,” she said quietly. “There’s no need to defend myself to a man who doesn’t trust me. So call your mother. Call the neighbors. For the love of God, Clay, call the police for all I care. I don’t know what more I can say.”
Then she walked away, and Clay knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that it was going to take more than making love to make this go away.
Steam rose from the heat of the water as the shower jets pelted on top of Frankie’s head. Twice she worked her shampoo into a lather and then rinsed, each time taking care not to rub too hard on the sore spot. Finally, with her hair squeaky-clean and her body tingling from her bath, she turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. Without thought, she wrapped her wet hair turban-style, and began to dry off with another towel.
The mirror was foggy, the room warm and filled with mist, and yet she felt chilled. Without Clay, she felt weightless and empty. Yes, he was still in the house, but not in her heart. They’d made love, but they had yet to make up. He might love her, but he didn’t trust her. That was a fact she had to accept. A part of her almost understood—but there was another part of her that knew if the situation had been reversed, she would have been down on her knees thanking God for his return.
Quickly she toweled herself off and reached for her robe. The thick, pink terry cloth swaddled her body as she tied the belt in a knot. Then she turned to the mirror and gave it a swipe with the hand towel so she could see to comb out her hair.
As she did, something scratched against the back of her neck. She felt inside the collar of the robe, trying to find the source of irritation, but nothing seemed evident. Then she turned sideways and looked in the mirror, pulling at her collar and still trying to see what was poking her skin.
Suddenly her gaze shifted from the robe to her neck. There, just below her hairline, was a fleck of something gold. Frowning, she rubbed at the place, wondering if she’d missed some shampoo, but nothing came away on her hands. She looked again. Whatever it was, was still there. She could just see the bit of color.
Curious, she got a hand mirror from the drawer and turned her back to the mirror. Her gaze focused, then her heart skipped a beat.
My God! It was the tattoo. Although she remembered Clay mentioning it before, she’d completely forgotten about it.
Suddenly her vision blurred, and in her mind she saw the same golden image on a man’s bare chest. Fear hit with a gut-wrenching gasp. The mirror fell from her fingers and onto the floor. As it shattered, she screamed.
Clay was in the living room when he heard her scream. He bolted from the chair and dashed down the hall into their room, hitting the bathroom door with the flat of his hand, ready to fight. But the only thing that escaped as he entered was the steam from her shower. He saw her first, then the broken glass, then yanked her off her feet before she could move. He carried her into the bedroom, then sat down on the mattress with her in his lap, his hands shaking as he checked her for cuts. There were none.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
She looked up, her expression blank. “Clay?”
His heart skipped a beat. Oh God. Where had she gone?
Then her focus shifted, and he saw recognition returning. Her chin quivered as she reached toward the back of her neck and began digging at the surface of her skin as if something foul was stuck there.
“That thing on my neck. Get it off. Get it off.”
Startled by her panic, he grabbed her hand before she could do herself harm.
“Easy, baby,” he said gently. “It’s just a tattoo.”
She shuddered, then moaned. “Who did this to me?”
Her fear shamed him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
“I don’t know, Francesca. I wish to God I did, but I don’t.”
She began to sob. Clay pulled her closer, rocking her where they sat.
“It will be all right,” he said gently. “One of these days we’ll have the answers, but until then, we have each other, okay?”
“I don’t have you,” she kept sobbing. “Not anymore. Not anymore. He ruined it all.”
Clay froze. Did she realize what she’d just said? He took a slow breath, anxious not to upset her further. But he couldn’t let the remark go unchallenged.
“Who, baby?” he asked softly. “Who ruined it all?”
Suddenly quiet, she caught her breath on a sob. Slowly she sat up, staring at him. “The man,” she muttered.
“What man?” Clay countered.
She closed her eyes, trying to look at his face, but as hard as she tried, her inward eye could not move past the tattoo on his chest.
“Frankie?”
She shook her head as she opened her eyes. “I can’t see his face.”
“How did you know it was a man?” Clay asked.
“Because I saw his bare chest.” Then she shuddered. “There was a tattoo, just like the one on my neck.” She moaned. “I don’t want it there. Get it off.”
Clay gritted his teeth. He would like nothing better, but short of laser surgery, which he didn’t think she was up to yet, he didn’t know of a way.
“We will, baby, when you’re stronger, okay?”
She kept shuddering, her voice shaking with every breath. “Promise?”
He hugged her close. “Promise.”
Finally she began to relax. Minutes later, her eyes closed, and Clay knew she was drifting off to sleep. He removed the wet towel from her hair and then laid her down and covered her up.
For a moment he worried about the damp tangles on her pillow, then shrugged off the idea of drying her hair and hung the wet towel on a hook. She needed to sleep. Besides, he was afraid that his wife had endured far worse things than going to bed with wet hair.
It was almost morning when the dream began, but time had no meaning for Frankie. There was nothing but a numbing fear and the knowledge that she was going to die…
The floor beneath her feet began to roll. Outside the window, trees were dipping and swaying, while others tumbled to the ground. As she watched, the ground beneath the window split, like cracks in hot chocolate cake. The earth was coming undone. She clutched at the bars on the windows, screaming for help, but there was no one to see. No one to care. Everyone here worked for him.
Behind her, an onyx statue suddenly toppled from its pedestal onto the floor, shattering with a sound like a gunshot into thousands of pieces. She s
pun at the sound, staring at the falcon’s head that had separated from the form of a human body. She shuddered. Horus, the ancient Egyptian god of light and heaven, was in pieces on the floor.
Another rumble of earth against earth sent her scrambling for the door. This place had been her prison, but it wouldn’t be her tomb.
Frantically, she began to hammer her fists against the surface, screaming aloud over and over.
“Help! Somebody help me! Let me out! Let me out!”
Suddenly the door opened. Just for a moment she thought it was Horus himself, right down to the hawklike eyes. And then Pharaoh grabbed her wrist, yanking her from her gilded cage into the magnificence crumbling down around them.
“Run, Francesca!” he shouted. “Run for your life!” he cried, and pulled her after him.
She ran, but not with him. In her mind, she was running to Clay.
Frankie sat up abruptly, Clay’s unspoken name on her lips. Sweat was pouring down her face, and her heart was hammering as if she’d been running. He was asleep beside her, his arm stretched out toward the place where she lay. Still shaken by the dream, she pushed the hair from her face and crawled out of bed. Almost instantly, Clay sensed her exit.
“Frankie?”
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said quietly, and tiptoed into the other room.
Once inside, she closed the door and turned on the lights, staring at herself in the mirror over the sink. The woman looking back was a stranger. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know why, but she knew now that for the last two years she’d been living with someone else. Not willfully, but she’d been living with him just the same.
“How could you do that?” she whispered to herself.
As soon as she gave life to the question, the answer was already in her mind. She’d hadn’t been living, she’d been enduring. And she’d done it for Clay. For the chance that somehow—some way—she would find a way to get back to him.
Well, she’d done it. She was home where she belonged. But the question remained, was she safe? Or were her fears going to prove her right? Would that hawk-man come after her again? The urge to run away was strong. They could move. They could hide. They could…
She stopped, disgusted with herself for letting panic take control. That wasn’t the way she intended to live her life. Until Clay, her whole life had been uncertainty. She wanted her world back the way it had been before she’d disappeared. She refused to live life on the run.
As she stared, struggling with the turmoil in her mind, an idea began to emerge. If the man came again, she would not be the victim. The hunter would become the hunted, and she would be waiting.
Betty LeGrand smiled at her daughter-in-law over her Caesar salad. They were having lunch at one of Betty’s favorite downtown restaurants.
“Is your chicken good?” she asked, pointing her fork at Frankie’s grilled chicken and pasta salad.
“Mmm,” Frankie said, smiling and nodding around the bite in her mouth.
Betty forked another bite of salad, chewing thoughtfully as she watched Frankie’s face. The girl was thinner, but that was to be expected. Betty prayed for the day when Frankie’s memory would come back. It was the devils you didn’t know that plagued you the most.
Frankie chewed thoughtfully as she reminisced over the past morning. True to her word, Betty had been at their house by eight o’clock. Clay had been out the door about thirty minutes afterward, and, except for trips to the bathroom, Frankie had yet to be alone. But after last night’s revelation, she no longer cared. She had bigger fish to fry than fussing over being smothered in love.
“Betty, I want to thank you for showing me the clippings.”
Betty laid down her fork. “I wondered about bringing them, and then I put myself in your place and knew that if it was me, I’d want to know.”
Frankie nodded. “You were right. Reading the reports of my disappearance and the hell that Clay went through afterward has put an entirely different spin on understanding his behavior now.”
Betty’s gaze was solemn. “I wasn’t trying to take Clay’s side in all of this. I just wanted you to know what we all went through.”
Frankie sighed. “If only I knew what I’d gone through, as well, we’d all be a lot better off.”
Before Betty could respond, the cell phone in her purse began to ring. She rolled her eyes. “That’s either Winston or Clay.”
Frankie’s eyes suddenly sparkled. “A hot-fudge sundae says that it’s Clay.”
Betty grinned, well aware that she was probably going to lose the bet, but it didn’t matter. Lunch was on her anyway.
“You’re on,” she said, and answered the phone. “Hello. Oh, hi, hang on a minute, will you?” Then she waved at a passing waiter. “Two hot-fudge sundaes, please, and put them on my ticket.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said, and slipped through the crowded tables to place the order.
Betty winked at Frankie and then returned to her call. “Sorry, son, I was just making good on a bet. Now, what was it you were saying? Yes, she’s fine. Here, you ask her. I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
Betty handed Frankie the phone and winked as she left the table.
“Clay?”
He sighed. Just hearing her voice took the angst out of his gut. “Hi, baby. Having a good time?”
“Oh sure,” she said. “We’ve done lunch, and we’re going to do a little more shopping before we head home.”
“Just don’t overdo, okay?”
“I won’t.”
There was a moment of silence, then she heard him sigh again. “I love you, Francesca.”
Her heart tugged. “I love you, too,” she said softly.
“I’ll see you this evening.”
Her heart hurt for the doubt she heard in his voice, only this time she knew it wasn’t her he didn’t trust. It was fate.
“I’ll be waiting.”
She disconnected, then laid down the phone. There were tears in her eyes when she looked up, but she quickly blinked them away. This wasn’t a time for self-pity.
Moments later, Betty returned. No sooner had she sat down than the waiter appeared with their desserts.
“Dig in,” Frankie said. “When we’re through, there’s someplace I need you to take me.”
“Sure thing,” Betty said, taking her first bite. “Mmm, good.”
“It sure is,” Frankie said. “Thanks.”
Betty dug her spoon into the chocolate-covered mound. “My pleasure, believe me.”
Frankie giggled.
“By the way, where do you want to go?” Betty asked.
Frankie shrugged. “Wherever they sell guns.”
Betty paused, staring at Frankie as ice cream dripped from her spoon onto the table.
“Excuse me? I misunderstood you. I thought you said guns.”
Frankie’s expression hardened. “You heard me right. I’m going to buy one, then learn how to shoot.”
Betty shuddered. This was so unlike the tender-hearted girl her son had married. “But, Francesca…a gun?”
Frankie’s gaze never wavered. “I was a victim once. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you going to tell Clay?” Betty asked.
“What do you think?” Frankie asked.
Betty sighed. “I think not.”
Frankie tensed. “Are you going to tell him?”
Betty hesitated, then, against her better judgment, took another bite of her sundae. When she looked up, Frankie was still staring at her from across the table.
“What?” she asked around a mouthful of ice cream.
“Well, are you going to tell him?” Frankie asked.
Betty never blinked. “Tell him what?”
Frankie sighed, unaware how tense she’d been until Betty had spoken. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Betty’s lips firmed. “Just don’t make me sorry.”
“Hey, Dawson.”
Detective Avery Dawson looked up. H
is partner was waving at him from across the room.
“Long distance for you on three,” Paul said.
Dawson picked up the phone. “Denver Police Department, Dawson here.”
“Detective Dawson, I’m Captain Paul Fornier, L.A.P.D.”
Dawson sat up from his slump. “Captain, how can I help you?”
There was a slight pause. Dawson could hear papers shuffling.
“Hello? You still there?” Dawson asked.
Fornier cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said shortly. “I was trying to find my notes. Yes, here they are. As you know, things have been in a hell of a mess out here, what with the earthquake and all.”
“Yes, we’ve been keeping up through the national news,” Dawson said. “Were you hit bad?”
“The department didn’t suffer as much damage as my home, but we’re all still standing,” Fornier said. “However, that’s not why I called. A flyer for a missing person came across my desk yesterday that matches the description of a Jane Doe we have in the morgue.”
Dawson frowned. “And how does that pertain to us?”
“Your name and department were listed as the point of contact. I’m calling to check on the status of the case as part of a process of elimination.”
“Oh, right,” Dawson said, and reached for a pen and a clean piece of paper. “What’s the name?”
“Francesca LeGrand.”
Dawson tossed down the pen and kicked back in his chair.
“Well, I can answer your question on that one real quick. Throw the flyer away. Francesca LeGrand is no longer missing.”
“Oh? What happened, did her body turn up?” Fornier asked.
“Nope. Like the proverbial prodigal son, she came back on her own.”
“Alive?”
“And breathing,” Dawson added.
“Well, now, in our business, that doesn’t happen every day, does it?” Fornier said. “Okay, then, that’s one down for me and only a couple hundred more to go.”
“Yes, sir, I know what you mean,” Dawson said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
