by Sharon Sala
“Why don’t you make your calls in here?”
He stopped in the doorway and turned. When she saw the look on his face, her heart lurched.
“Talk to me, Clay.”
“There’s a trail of footprints circling our house.”
“You belong to me—only me.”
The memory screamed through her mind, leaving her weak and speechless. All she could do was moan as she covered her face with her hands.
Clay cursed beneath his breath and then sat down beside her. Moments later, Frankie crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“It’s him, isn’t it, Clay? Oh God, oh God, he came back.”
“We don’t know that,” Clay said, but he held her close just the same. “Sit tight, baby, I’m going to call Borden and then the police.”
Another feeling of sickness swept over her, but it wasn’t the same as before. It passed, leaving behind nothing but despair.
Clay shifted her to a more comfortable position in his lap, and dialed, waiting for the private investigator to answer his phone. When a woman answered instead, Clay hesitated, thinking he had dialed a wrong number.
“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I think I misdialed.”
“No, I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t think to answer correctly. It’s just that this morning has been so awful. This is Borden Investigations.”
“So, Harold finally broke down and hired some help.”
“Um, not really,” she said.
“Look, ma’am. I need to talk to Harold. Is he in?”
The woman hesitated. “Sir, are you a client or a friend?”
Clay frowned. “A client, although we’ve known each other for the better part of two years.”
Then Clay heard her sigh.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Borden is dead. He was killed in a hit-and-run accident last night as he got out of his car in front of his house.”
Clay’s expression went flat. Oh hell. “Did anyone see how it happened?”
“I don’t think so. His wife found him lying in the street.” Then she added, “If you’re a client, Mrs. Borden has asked me to refer his active cases to Rocky Mountain Investigations. They are a reputable group, and Harold held them in high regard.”
“Thank you,” Clay said. “And please give Mrs. Borden my condolences.”
He hung up, then sat, staring at a small tear in the wallpaper near the corner of the bedpost.
Frankie had been silent until she’d heard Clay’s last words. At that, her heart dropped. They could only mean one thing.
“Clay?”
“Harold Borden is dead. Hit-and-run last night, in front of his house.”
“Oh no! How awful! Do they have any idea who did it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Frankie shuddered, holding on to Clay a little tighter.
“Poor Mrs. Borden. I can only imagine how she must feel.”
“Yeah,” Clay muttered, and then dialed another series of numbers, all the while telling himself that this was just a horrible coincidence, and that the trouble they were in had nothing to do with Borden’s death. A few moments later, his second call was answered.
“This is Dawson.”
“This is Clay LeGrand.”
“Hey, boy, you’re up and at ’em a little early this morning. What can I do for you?”
“Someone was outside our house last night.”
Dawson laid a half-eaten bagel on a stack of files and sat up a little straighter.
“A peeping Tom?”
Clay thought of the houses all along the block. Not a yard had been walked in but theirs.
“You tell me,” Clay said. “The yards of the other houses are untouched. Not even a dog track.”
“Still, you know how kids are when it snows. They just have to stomp it all up.”
“They didn’t stomp anything,” Clay said. “It’s just a neat, single trail, circling the house and leading right back out to the street.”
“Yeah?” Dawson said. “So don’t you have a private dick on your payroll? Maybe it was just him checking to see if you were both okay?”
“Not unless it was his ghost,” Clay said. “He was killed in a hit-and-run last night.”
This time, Dawson took notice. “The hell you say.” He started shuffling papers. “That’s quite a set of coincidences you have going there.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Clay said.
“Okay. Sit tight. It’ll take Ramsey and me about fifteen minutes to get there.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Clay said, and then hung up the phone.
Frankie’s eyes were wide, her expression almost shell-shocked.
“Francesca…”
She didn’t answer.
Clay shook her slightly. “Frankie?”
Her head wobbled on her neck, like a broken doll’s; then she looked at him and shuddered.
“He came in through the front door. I was smiling. I thought it was you. When he laughed, I started to run.”
Anger hit Clay’s gut first. “Son of a bitch.”
She blinked, her gaze refocusing on Clay’s face. “I knew him, Clay. It was Pharaoh. Pharaoh Carn.”
Smoke from the burning incense drifted across Pharaoh’s vision as he paused before the statue of Osiris. He’d lost track of how long he’d been in the cryptlike room, but he had to admit, his heart felt lighter, his purpose clear. He blamed his earlier lack of focus on the fact that he had not fully healed. But those days were over. Being among these relics had reminded him of a fact he’d almost let slide. Kings were omnipotent. They set the rules, they didn’t follow them. Like his ancient namesakes, he would destroy his enemy and take back what was rightly his. It had been done before. It would be done again. He turned his back on the dim, sunless room and the effigies of ancient gods. There were things to be done and little time to do them.
A short while later, he exited the sauna to find Duke waiting for him. Unconcerned with his nudity, he strode forward, thrusting his arms into the robe Duke was holding and wrapping it around his hot, sweaty body.
“Simon called,” Duke said.
Pharaoh paused.
“That little matter of the hired snoop has been taken care of,” Duke said.
“How?” Pharaoh asked.
“Hit-and-run.”
A smile of satisfaction settled on Pharaoh’s lips. “You know, it’s too bad, but people should look both ways before crossing the street,” he said softly.
Duke smiled. “Yeah, boss, you’re right about that.”
Pharaoh’s stomach growled. “I’m starving,” he said suddenly. “Tell cook to fix me a mushroom omelet. I have a few calls to make, so have it sent to the library.”
“Yes, sir,” Duke said. “Anything else?”
Pharaoh thought of the task ahead of him. “Yeah. Get me a barber.” Then he added, “And a manicurist, too. My nails look like hell.”
Duke hurried away as Pharaoh strolled toward the showers. For the first time since the earthquake, he felt good. Real good. He was back where he belonged—in total control.
Detective Ramsey was outside the LeGrand home with a man from forensics, taking pictures of the trail left behind in the snow. Inside, Avery Dawson sat nursing a cup of hot coffee and listening intently to what Francesca LeGrand had to say. Every so often, he put down his cup to make a note. At one point, he stopped her to ask, “So, what you’re saying to me is that you’re beginning to remember?”
She nodded, glanced at Clay, who was sitting beside her, and turned back to Dawson. “It’s happening more and more with each passing day.”
“And so you are naming Pharaoh Carn as the man who abducted you two years ago?”
She clenched her hands into fists and scooted a little closer to the edge of the chair. Her voice quivered, and she began to rock back and forth where she sat.
“The door was locked. Clay always locks it when he leaves. They must have pic
ked the lock. I was in the kitchen. I heard it open. I thought it was Clay, coming back for something he forgot.”
“What happened then?” Dawson asked.
“I was smiling when they came in the room.”
Dawson interrupted. “They?”
Frankie looked startled at her own words, then started to frown as she pictured them in her mind. “Yes, two others. They were shorter, but very muscular. They looked alike.”
“As in dressed alike?” Dawson asked.
“No, like brothers.”
Dawson nodded and kept on writing. “Then what happened?”
“He laughed…Pharoah, I mean. Said he’d been looking for me for a long time.” She shuddered. “I screamed, then started to run.” She shut her eyes, remembering the feeling of being yanked off her feet and slammed against the wall.
“And?”
She looked up, her face devoid of expression. “And he caught me.”
“How did he get you out of the house unobserved?”
Frankie started to shake and reached for Clay’s hand. Immediately, he had his arm around her, holding her tight. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, then took a deep breath.
“I don’t know. The last thing I remember is being held down, and then a sharp pain in my arm. I suppose they drugged me.”
“What do you remember next?” Dawson asked.
Her focus shifted as her gaze went blank.
“I’m not sure. There was a plane. I remember waking up in a plane.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. My mind is just a jumble of images.” Then she straightened. “But the few things I do remember, I know are true. Pharaoh Carn took me from my home. I think I was kept somewhere within the confines of a large estate. The grounds were vast but well kept. There were bars on the windows of my room, and I think if it wasn’t for that earthquake, I would still be there.”
“Okay,” Dawson said. “If we press charges, are you going to be willing to testify against him?”
Just the thought of facing the man again made her sick. She clenched her jaw as she looked up at the man who was her husband, staring intently at the strength in his face and the love in his eyes.
He nodded.
It was a silent affirmation that whatever she decided, he was behind her all the way. When she looked back at Dawson, her fear had turned to resolve.
“Yes, I’ll testify. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I’ll start the ball rolling,” Dawson said. Then he glanced at Clay. “I’ll pass your theory on Borden’s hit-and-run to homicide. It’s a long shot, but it never hurts to cover all the bases.”
“Thanks,” Clay said.
Footsteps sounded on the porch, and they all turned toward the door as Paul Ramsey came inside.
“Did you get the pictures?” Dawson asked.
“Yes,” Ramsey said. “Along with frostbite and a penlight someone dropped.” He held up a plastic bag with the small flashlight inside. “Does this belong to either of you?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“Didn’t think so,” he said, and dropped it into his pocket.
Frankie stood abruptly. “Would you care for some coffee?”
Ramsey smiled. “Yes, ma’am, if you can make it to go.”
“Come with me,” Frankie said. “I think I’ve got some disposable cups.”
“Bring me one, too,” Dawson said. “I’ll have one more for the road.”
As soon as they were gone, Clay stood. “What are our chances of making this stick?” he asked.
Dawson shook his head. “I won’t lie to you. They’re slim, damned slim. A man like Carn will have a dozen alibis and people who’ll back him up. Unless we can come up with some physical evidence, it’s going to be tough. And that’s if we can find him to charge him.”
Clay cursed beneath his breath and strode to the window. He stood for a moment, squinting against the glare of sun against snow. A couple was walking down the sidewalk, laughing and talking. Mrs. Rafferty was out in her front yard with a broom, searching for her morning paper in the snow. Their neighbor to the south was up on the roof, hanging Christmas lights. Everything looked so normal, and yet it was all so wrong. Somewhere out there a madman was hiding, watching their every move. But where had he gone? Even more frightening, when would he be back?
“This is a real nice neighborhood,” Dawson said. “It’s hard to imagine any suspicious characters lurking about here.”
Clay stuffed his hands in his pockets as he turned away from the window.
“I know. I grew up in this house. When Frankie and I got married, my mom and dad bought a new house and moved, renting this one to us. I’ve known these people for the better part of my thirty-three years. Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.”
Dawson nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But familiarity is good, you know. Even if it gets a little monotonous, it still feels safe.”
“What feels safe?” Frankie asked as she came back into the living room with Dawson’s coffee to go.
“This street—this neighborhood,” Clay said. “We were saying how nothing ever changes.”
She shrugged. “It’s true. Except for Mrs. Rafferty’s renters, of course.”
Clay froze, then spun toward the window again, staring intently at the small, gray van parked across the street.
“What?” Dawson asked.
“A new renter moved in only a couple of days ago.”
“So?” Dawson prompted.
“So the only thing he moved in was a couple of small suitcases and a box.”
Dawson frowned. “No furniture?”
“It’s furnished,” Frankie said.
“We’ll check him out,” Dawson said. “But it’s not against the law to travel light.”
“You’re right,” Clay said. “I guess I’m jumping to conclusions.”
“No, son. I’d say you’re just being careful,” Dawson said. “And under the circumstances, I can’t say as I blame you.”
A few minutes later, they were gone.
Clay took one look at the wan expression on Frankie’s face and frowned. “Back to bed with you, my love.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I won’t argue with you,” she said. “But I don’t feel sick. Just weird.”
“So take your weird self to bed,” Clay said, teasing a grin from her as he tucked her in. “Maybe you can sleep. I’m calling Mom and Dad. There are some things I need to do, and I’m not leaving you alone.”
Frankie didn’t argue. She couldn’t. She was already drifting toward that place where thought ceased and limbo began.
Simon Law was pacing the floor. Ever since he’d awakened this morning to a clear sky, he’d been nervous. He cursed aloud and strode to the window, peering through a small gap in the curtains. The cops were still there.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. Pharaoh wasn’t going to like this. He’d told him to stay put. To remain unobtrusive. But Simon had wanted to get an idea of the layout of the house. Using the cover of darkness had seemed like a good idea. How could he have known that the damned snow would stop?
He peered into the street and made himself relax. The footsteps ended at the sidewalk in front of the LeGrand house. There was no way they should suspect him. His gaze shifted to his van. It was clean as a whistle. He’d made sure of that. The car he’d used for the hit-and-run last night was hot. He’d heisted it about a half hour before he’d done the deed, then dumped it across town, near an all-night bar. Everything had been going as scheduled. If that damned snow hadn’t stopped falling, none of this would be happening.
Then he sighed. There was no way Pharaoh could blame him for this. Who could predict the forces of nature? He tried to relax.
Yet when he saw the two cops hesitate at their car and point to his apartment, his heart skipped a beat.
Easy, he told himself, that means nothing. But when they started his way, he panicked. Without thinking things through, he grabbed his coat and cell phone and darted ou
t a small door that led to a fire escape on the back side of the property. Seconds later, he was over the fence and in the alley, running for all he was worth as Dawson and Ramsey knocked on his door.
Dawson waited for an answer, then knocked a second time, only louder.
“I don’t think he’s home,” Ramsey said.
Dawson looked back at the street. “His vehicle’s still here, and it’s a little cold for a stroll. Why don’t you go talk to his landlady while I look around a bit?”
Ramsey nodded and headed down the stairs. Dawson followed, but instead of going across the driveway to Mrs. Rafferty’s house, he circled the garage. When he saw the footprints in the snow leading away from the house, he thought little of it. But when he realized that the man had jumped a fence and gone down an alley, rather than take the sidewalk as a normal route, he began to frown. He’d been a cop too many years not to know when something didn’t add up.
He went back around the front and down the drive to the van, jotted down the number of the license tag and headed for his car. He was calling it in when Ramsey joined him.
“What did she say?” Dawson asked.
Ramsey shrugged. “Nothing that will help. She ran an ad in the paper. The man answered and rented it on a month-to-month basis. She said he calls himself Peter Ross.”
“Did she say what he does for a living?”
“He didn’t say, she didn’t ask. She said she needs the money to make ends meet, and as long as her renters are quiet and prompt with their payments, she has no quarrel with them.”
Dawson nodded. “I called in the tag and vehicle description. The info will be on our desk by the time we get back to the office.”
“What do you think?” Ramsey asked.
Dawson rested his elbows on the steering wheel as he looked from the LeGrand house to the apartment across the street and then back again.
“I think it would be almost too easy to assume that the new man in the neighborhood is the one who spied on them.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Ramsey said.
“But, I was also thinking,” Dawson added, “that I assumed too much before and look what happened. I would have bet my retirement that Clay LeGrand killed his wife.” He cocked an eyebrow at his partner as he started the car. “Thank goodness I never made that bet. I would be kissing my old-age pension goodbye.”
