by Sharon Sala
“Don’t fight me, Francesca. You’ve always been mine.”
Frankie looked up at the man towering above her on the bed. His eyes were wild with frustrated lust, his nostrils flared. Rage painted a flush on his cheeks as he struggled to hold her in place. Pinned down by the weight of his body, it was all she could do to breathe.
“No, let me go…please let me go,” she begged.
Fury was evident on his face. “You belong to me, not him!”
“You’re wrong! I belong to no one except myself,” she screamed. “I give myself to whom I choose, and I chose the man who is my husband! You have no right to any part of me.”
He tightened his hold on her wrists. As his face came closer, Frankie gasped.
“What do you mean, I have no right? I have every right,” Pharaoh whispered. “Look at my face. Look into my eyes. Remember the past? Remember everything that we shared? No matter how long you try to forget, you have to remember me.”
Slowly, Frankie quit struggling, facing the inevitability of the moment. Her heart was breaking for Clay and for what was about to happen to her. But she would die before she would give Pharaoh the satisfaction of thinking he’d won.
The expression in her eyes went flat, as if her soul had suddenly been sucked from her body.
“The fact that you can overpower me does not change the fact that I despise the sight of your face. You have stolen me away from my home. You can take me, but know that it will be by force. You will never have control of my heart. That belongs to Clay. He’s who I remember. He’s who I love.”
Pharaoh exploded in a white-hot rage. Frankie winced, preparing herself for the blow.
She woke up screaming Clay’s name and for a moment was startled by the echo of her voice within the house.
“Oh God, oh God,” she muttered, and crawled out of bed.
Staggering to the bathroom, she stripped off her gown and stepped into the shower. The water came out cold before it ran warm, but Frankie didn’t care. Her hands were slick with soap as she scrubbed at her skin. She felt worthless and dirty. For weeks she’d been in denial, telling herself that while she’d been missing, she hadn’t been used. But this changed everything. Unspent tears hung at the back of her throat, too painful to let go. How was she going to face Clay, knowing that the man who’d taken her had raped her, too?
And then it hit her so swiftly that she almost slipped and fell. She’d remembered something valid. She’d remembered begging for mercy—and she remembered his face. Surely this would be something the police could act on. Rinsing off the rest of the soap, she quickly dried and dressed, anxious to tell Detective Dawson about the dream. But when she called, his reaction wasn’t quite what he’d expected it to be.
“Look, Mrs. LeGrand, you said it was a dream.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then how can you be sure it isn’t a manifestation of your fears? You told us earlier that while you had remembered some things about your abduction, you still couldn’t remember your abductor’s face.”
Frankie felt sick. This was hopeless. No one was willing to believe her. She thought Dawson did, but obviously he’d been wrong. That was just wishful thinking. Clearly he thought she was as crazy as everyone else did.
“Yes, but—”
“And now, after being shown a picture of a man you grew up with, you’ve decided he’s the man who took you.”
Frankie wanted to scream. “I didn’t just decide it,” she muttered. “I just remembered it.”
“No, ma’am,” Dawson said quietly. “You dreamed it. There’s a world of difference.”
Frankie dropped into a nearby chair, her shoulders slumping, her expression as dejected as a woman could be.
“What’s it going to take, Detective? Can’t you see that I’m still in danger?”
His hesitation was her answer, and with it came anger.
“So, now we finally have the truth,” Frankie said. “All of you think I just ran away…and then, for whatever reason, came back on my own.”
“Now, Mrs. LeGrand, I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” And then she continued. “Before we end this futile conversation, I want to ask you a hypothetical question.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“What if I’d turned up dead in another state? Would you have arrested Clay, or would you have assumed that I died while on a little journey of self-discovery?”
Dawson flinched. The sarcasm in her voice was impossible to miss.
“That’s impossible to say without examining all the clues.”
“Why?” she asked. “You haven’t let any of the clues influence you thus far. Besides, you were willing to blame Clay the first time. You were wrong then. Why can’t you admit that you might be wrong on this, too?”
Dawson was still struggling with an answer when she interrupted herself.
“Never mind. I think you’ve stated your position rather succinctly, and, I might add, without saying a word. You know something, Detective? If you ever decide to leave law enforcement, you should think about going into politics. You have the knack for it.”
The click in Dawson’s ear left him with no illusions as to how much he’d failed Francesca LeGrand. Even after it was time to go home, he couldn’t quit thinking of what she’d said. Were they wrong? It had happened before. Why was everyone dragging their feet about investigating Pharaoh Carn? This woman had all but declared war on the man and no one wanted to believe her—including himself.
Then he snorted beneath his breath as he dug his keys from his pocket. Why wouldn’t they be dragging their feet? Pharaoh Carn was as dangerous as they came, and as elusive. Besides, it was impossible to interrogate a man you couldn’t find.
Late that night, Frankie was still struggling with her conscience. She hadn’t told Clay what she’d remembered. It wasn’t a clue to where she’d been kept. Telling him would serve no earthly purpose except to give him more pain. Besides that, Frankie didn’t think she could face him again if he knew. She felt guilty for surviving. Some women would have taken their own lives rather than submit to another man’s touch.
Then she frowned. No. That kind of thinking was just plain stupid. She owed it to herself, as well as to Clay, to survive by any means. She bit her lip to keep from crying and turned over in bed. Instinctively, Clay gathered her to him as he slept, and she made herself relax. Her decision had obviously served her well. She was back in Clay’s arms, where she belonged.
Simon Law circled the house for the third time, each time taking careful note of the elaborate security system that was now in place. Angling his penlight toward a series of wires that fed into a box, he frowned. The boss wasn’t going to like this. It would take a better man than him to bypass it without triggering an alarm.
A car suddenly turned the corner, its headlights illuminating the area with an indiscriminate sweep. Simon dived into some bushes only moments before the car sped past. Mentally cursing the snow that had gone down his neck, he crawled to his feet and headed toward the sidewalk. He’d gone several steps before he realized that his penlight was missing. He cursed again and started to turn back, when a light came on inside the house. Without thinking, he bolted for the street.
Within seconds he was in his van and speeding away. There was no danger of Francesca LeGrand escaping his watch tonight. Not when they were safely in bed. Besides, there was another little matter that he had to take care of—the removal of an obstacle from Pharaoh Carn’s path.
Harold Borden parked at the curb, then killed the engine. For a moment he just sat, savoring the silence and mentally withdrawing from the work of the day. He glanced toward his house and the Christmas lights bordering the eaves. He frowned, making a mental note to change a couple of bulbs near the southwest corner and then reached for the sack on the seat. The scent of egg rolls had ridden with him all the way home, and he was more than ready for a midnight snack.
When he was on stakeout, he didn’t often spend ni
ghts at home. But this business with the LeGrands was different. When Clay came home, Harold went home, too. He grinned to himself, thinking he could get used to a job like this, and then rescinded the thought. The disappearance of Francesca LeGrand had driven him nuts. Not being able to help Clay had been worse. Now that he had a second shot at the problem, he was giving it his all. They were close, he could feel it. Things were starting to fall into place.
He reached for the handle and then opened the door. Immediately, the interior of the car was invaded by a cold swath of air. He gathered the sack a little closer to his chest and got out of the car in one quick motion. The scent of egg rolls dissipated some in the cold night air as he aimed his key ring at the car. The distinct click of the automatic locks sounded sharply in the silence of the street.
He inhaled deeply, then turned toward his house. Alice was probably asleep on the sofa, but she always waited up. He smiled. She was a fine woman and a wonderful wife. He considered himself a very fortunate man.
Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared to his right. A car had just turned the corner of the street. He dropped the keys toward his pocket as he began to circle the car, then cursed lightly as they clattered to the street. He bent over to pick them up.
The impact of flesh against metal was a loud, solid thud, accompanied by the squeal of tires and the sound of an engine swiftly accelerating. It woke Alice Borden from her nap on the sofa. She looked out into the darkness and saw her husband’s car parked at the curb. And then she looked further and saw his body crumpled in the street.
She let out a wail, then started to scream.
Simon Law carried his pizza and beer up the steps, then paused at the door to his apartment, juggling his keys until he found the one that went to the door.
Moments later, he was inside. He peeled off his coat and wolfed down his first piece of pizza in only three bites. Night work always made him hungry.
He picked up a second piece, then strode to the window, peering through the binoculars. The LeGrand house was just as he’d left it. As he took another bite, his gaze suddenly slid to the circle of footsteps he’d left in the snow around the house. His heart started pounding as he traced the path with his gaze.
“Son of a holy bitch,” he muttered. Damn the snow for stopping before it had covered up his tracks.
His thoughts scattered. Should he pack up and run, or should he hang tough? And if he ran, could he get far enough to escape Pharaoh’s wrath? Everyone in the organization had heard about Stykowski. It wasn’t healthy to bring Pharaoh bad news.
He lowered the binoculars, staring out into the darkness in shock. And then, the longer he looked, the more he realized he’d missed one obvious fact. Granted his footsteps were still there, but they stopped at the curb. The streets were clear. There was no way of tracing where he’d gone.
Breathing a slow sigh of relief, he finished his pizza, then flopped down into an easy chair and laid the binoculars in his lap. He needed to rest, but just for a minute.
When he woke, it was morning.
Fourteen
Clay was swallowing his last bite of toast as Frankie came into the kitchen.
“Do you have everything you need?” she asked. “Even though the snow has stopped, it’s bitter outside.”
He grinned and swallowed. “Yes, Mother. My gloves are in the truck, and I’m wearing long johns under my jeans.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “Okay, so I fuss.” Then she took away his coffee cup and set it down on the counter. “Hug me,” she said.
The poignancy in her voice tugged at his heart.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said softly. “Come here, baby.”
Frankie settled within his arms, cherishing the strength with which he held her and storing away the feel of his blue flannel shirt against her cheek.
“You going to be all right today?” Clay asked. “I can easily drop you off at Mom and Dad’s, or Mom would probably come over and stay here with you.”
Frankie sighed. The urge to hide was so strong, but she couldn’t let this fear control the rest of their lives. Besides that, she didn’t feel very well, and coping with someone else’s presence wasn’t very enticing.
“I’d rather not,” she said, giving him an apologetic smile. She loved her in-laws but didn’t feel like being the center of their attention. “Besides, I have my gun, and Harold the snoop should be lurking not very far away. I’ll be fine.”
Clay resisted the urge to frown. The fact that she had felt threatened enough to buy the damned gun still bothered him. They were ordinary people. This shouldn’t be happening in their lives. And while her reference to the private investigator was a little sarcastic, after what she’d been through, he could hardly blame her. Then he glanced at his watch. As she’d said, Borden should be arriving almost any time.
“Okay, then, if you’re sure.”
She grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down for a kiss.
“Kiss me, Clay, and quit fussing.”
He grinned. “Well, since you put it like that…” And he dipped his head as she melted against him.
Moments later, they separated, although reluctantly.
“I’d better go now, while I can still focus,” Clay said. He gave Frankie a considering look. “Do you feel okay? You look pale.”
She didn’t doubt it. Her tummy was beginning to roll. “I’ll go back to bed as soon as you leave, okay?”
He touched her forehead, then the side of her face. “You don’t have a fever.”
“Clay…”
“Look, sweetheart, I can call Dad and—”
“Go to work,” Frankie said.
He shrugged. “I’m out of here. Call me if you need me, okay?”
She nodded, then followed him to the door, locking it behind him as he dashed toward his truck. Seconds later, her stomach lurched and she made a dash toward the bathroom.
Clay sat in the truck with the engine running, waiting for it to warm up. As he sat, his thoughts were already in gear. Except for a trail of footprints, the snowfall on the yards and trees was pristine. He grinned, thinking that if he’d still been a kid, he would have found a good excuse to stay home from school and make snowmen all day.
Twice he looked around for a sign of Harold Borden’s car, then glanced at his watch and shrugged. It was still early, and there was always the possibility that some of the side streets were bad. But the snowplows would be out again soon, and he had to get to work. He put the truck in gear and began to back up.
Moments later, he was in the street. He shifted the truck into four-wheel drive and started forward, glancing one last time at his house in the rearview mirror. As he did, something in the reflection caught his attention. He slowed, then stopped in the middle of the street, staring intently into the rearview mirror and trying to figure out what was bothering him about his house.
Suddenly it dawned on him. The flesh crawled on the back of his neck as he slammed the truck in reverse, the tires spinning on the ice-packed street as he began backing up. Moments later, he slid to a stop at the curb. When he got out, his legs were shaking. The longer he stared, the more frightened he became.
There in the snow was a perfect set of footprints circling his house. Just thinking of someone watching their every move, listening to their every word, watching them sleep, was obscene.
He pivoted, his gaze sweeping the neighborhood, trying to spot something out of order. Nothing jumped out at him. In fact, since the snowfall, the houses on the street were picture-postcard perfect. Then he looked back at the tracks. There was a knot in his belly as he took out his key and started to run.
Warmth enveloped him as he bolted into the house. With shaking hands, he locked the door behind him and started through the rooms, looking out every window and tracing the path left in the snow. It wasn’t until he was on his way out of the kitchen that he realized Frankie hadn’t appeared. Surely she hadn’t gone back to sleep this quickly.
�
�Francesca? Are you all right?”
As he started down the hall toward the bathroom, he heard water running.
“Frankie, where are you?”
She appeared suddenly, standing in the doorway and holding a wet cloth to her face. Her eyes were round with worry, her face pale and drawn.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Did you forget something?”
“No.” He hesitated, but only briefly. “Look, Frankie, we need to talk, but first I’ve got to make a couple of calls.”
Before he could explain any further, she suddenly spun and darted back into the bathroom.
He was startled by her abrupt departure, but the reason soon became clear as he heard the sound of her nausea. He went running after her.
“Sweetheart, you really are getting sick.”
Frankie leaned against the sink, wanting the room to stay still.
“It just hit me,” she said. “I think I need to lie down for a minute.”
“Bless your heart,” he said gently, and helped her into their room, and then into bed.
“I’m feeling a little better already,” she said as Clay pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Good, and you’ll feel even better if you stay where you’re at,” he added.
She gave him a weak, shaky smile, and then closed her eyes, willing that tilt in her belly to settle. She could hear Clay moving around in the room. When she looked, he had taken off his coat.
“Won’t the truck start?” she asked.
He hesitated. Finally, he answered. “It’s not the truck.”
She frowned. Reticence was not one of Clay’s normal traits. “Then what is it?”
He started out of the room. “Let me make the calls, then we’ll talk.”
There was something in the tone of his voice that was making her uneasy. And he wouldn’t look at her when he talked. It occurred to her that this was more than dead batteries and snowpacked streets. She struggled to sit up.
