by Mary Burton
Richard pinned Christina’s hands down over her head as his heavy body pressed her into the mattress. She could feel his erection pressing against her skin and knew what would come next. His breath smelled of stale cigars and whiskey. She felt dirty and so unclean when he touched her.
She didn’t want his idea of lovemaking. She didn’t want him.
But she was careful to hide her revulsion and fear. The last time she’d tried to resist him, he’d slapped her hard across the face, and after he’d raped her he’d locked her in a dark closet all night long.
Richard thrust inside her, using as much force as he could.
She couldn’t suppress a wince.
He smiled and pushed into her again and again until tears spilled down her cheeks and stained the silk pillow under her head.
He slipped his hands under her buttocks and gripped hard. He was enjoying her suffering.
‘You love this, don’t you?’ he whispered against her ear.
Christina swallowed. She couldn’t bring herself to respond.
He straightened and slapped her hard against the face. ‘Say you love this.’
She tasted blood. ‘I do.’
Richard smiled, satisfied. He cupped her full breasts with his large hands. ‘I want us to have a child, Christina. I want a child to bind us together forever.’
Fear burned inside her. She begged God not to give her a child.
How had her life gotten so messed up? How had she slid from independence to this?
He moved inside of her, faster and faster. He fisted his fingers in her long dark hair and pressed his cheek to hers. His beard scratched her skin. His breath was hot against her face. Sweat dripped from his body.
‘Say you love me,’ Richard commanded.
She didn’t speak. Saying the words always made her ill.
‘Say it!’ he urged. He tightened his hold on her hair and pulled until sections started to come out.
Pain seared Christina’s scalp. She started to weep again. ‘I love you.’
He grunted, satisfied. Even in his own twisted way, he needed assurances. He released her hair and kissed her lips. ‘I love you, Christina. We’ll be together forever. Until death do us part.’
The words were heartfelt. He did love her. And at one time she had loved him.
Richard found his release. He collapsed on top of her, his body damp with sweat. Tenderly he stroked her hair.
‘We are destined to be together forever.’
Nicole Piper awoke with a start. Her mind was still clouded by the dream and for a moment she was confused and afraid.
She didn’t know where she was as she swung her legs over the side of the overstuffed couch. A book that had been in her lap fell to the floor. Sweat dampened her brow. Her heart raced.
Drawn window shades bathed the room in near darkness and added to her disorientation. Overwhelmed by the sensation that she wasn’t alone, she frantically searched the living room’s shadowed corners for any sign of her husband, Richard.
A chill prickled her skin. ‘Who’s there!’
No one answered.
‘Richard, are you there?’
Still nothing. And yet the feeling that someone watched lingered.
Seconds passed. No phantoms appeared. Her heart slowed.
Nicole’s mind cleared. ‘He’s far away, three thousand miles away. Richard is in San Francisco. Christina is dead. I’m Nicole now.’ She was in Virginia and living with her friend Lindsay O’Neil.
‘I’m safe. It was a dream.’ Nicole switched on the lamp by the faded floral couch. As she hugged a colorful pillow, her gaze traveled over the living room’s hodgepodge of antique and modern furniture. An assortment of clocks ticked and chimed on the mantle. A large area rug warmed the scuffed parquet floor. The room should have looked disjointed, but Lindsay had united the salvaged pieces and given them a new life and purpose.
She’d done the same for Nicole.
Without question, Lindsay had taken in Nicole when she’d fled her abusive marriage. She’d given her safe harbor and was helping her to regain control of her life.
Nicole curled trembling hands into fists and said aloud, ‘He can’t find me. I’ve covered my tracks well. I’m safe.’ But the helpless fear still remained.
A clock chimed four times. Other clocks joined in, creating a symphony of sounds. Four o’clock.
It was time to get ready for her evening shift at the studio.
Just a week ago, Nicole had told Lindsay she had to get back to work. Lindsay had tried to convince her to just hang out for a while and give herself time to heal, but Nicole had refused. She needed to work so that she could push the past from her mind. Lindsay had understood and had gotten Nicole a new Social Security number. Nicole wasn’t sure how Lindsay had accomplished the feat so quickly but she hadn’t asked.
Within two days, Nicole had gotten a job at a mall portrait studio. She’d only been on the job about a week and knew that snapping photos of babies and high school graduates was a far cry from the artistic photography she’d done in San Francisco. But right now she didn’t have the luxury of being a snob. This job was about making money, which equaled the means to run if Richard found her.
Nicole moved through the dimly lit apartment to the kitchen and got a soda from the fridge. She popped it open and savored the cool liquid on her dry throat and uneasy stomach.
She was afraid all the time and that made her angry with herself. She’d been a fool to love Richard, a man who had ruined her life.
Richard.
He’d been the man of her dreams and she’d loved him so much in the early days. But behind the kindness and flowers lurked a man who was evil incarnate.
Two years ago when he’d burst through the front door of her San Francisco photography studio, he’d been dodging an onslaught of rain. Dressed in jeans, a white linen shirt, and Gucci loafers, he had immediately captured her attention with his dark good looks. They’d hit it off. He’d been so charming. She’d been enthralled. They’d married less than two months later in a sunset ceremony on the beach. Her parents had passed away by then but she’d had a collection of friends to stand by her side. She’d worn a silk halter dress that had shimmered in the light of a hundred torches. Flowers had adorned her head. She’d worn no shoes.
Richard had held her hand as they’d stood before the minister. His hand had been cold and she knew he was nervous. She’d been charmed that such a sophisticated man could be nervous. He’d sworn that they’d be together forever.
Forever.
The word haunted her now.
They’d been married less than six months when the problems started. She’d been late coming home one night because she’d spent extra time in the darkroom, burning and edging the print of a mother and child until it was perfect. When she’d left the studio, she’d felt so proud of the work. She was finding her voice as an artist. And commercially, she was on the brink of something big in her career.
When she’d arrived home, Richard had accused her of seeing someone else. The idea was so ridiculous, she’d laughed. His temper had snapped. He’d called her a whore. A cunt. He’d said he despised the sight of her.
The words had cut through her like knives. She’d started to cry.
Instantly contrite, Richard had begged for her forgiveness and poured her a snifter of brandy to settle her nerves. He’d sworn he’d never lose his temper again.
Stunned and shaken, she’d allowed him to hug her. And God help her, she’d clung to him.
Each day for the next month, he’d sent her flowers: large and lavish displays of roses, tulips, rare orchids. Slowly, she’d dropped her guard. She’d believed his words of love.
But as her success grew so did Richard’s resentment. He didn’t like the demands her work made on her time. And like a fool, she’d confused his need to control with love. And so she had tried to appease him. She’d downplayed her successes and awards. And when that didn’t work, she’d cut back her hours. Se
en her friends less so she could be with him more. Each time she gave up a piece of herself, he seemed to be mollified. But he was never content for long. She realized she could never sacrifice enough to make him truly happy.
Nicole began to despise her marriage. Increasingly, she’d felt trapped. Angry. Alone. She’d even gone to a local community center to hear a woman, Claire Carmichael, speak about abuse. But at the time, Nicole just couldn’t believe that her marriage was that bad.
Then, almost three weeks ago, Richard had lost his temper because he’d not liked the dress she’d chosen. It had looked cheap to him and in his eyes a poor reflection of his standing.
She’d tried to explain it was the latest fashion. But she had been silenced by the anger and venom that had erupted from him. He’d beaten her so badly that she couldn’t leave the house for days. He’d told her if she ever tried to leave him, he’d kill her. With great relish, he’d spoken of drugs that could keep her alive for days as he’d slice away at her flesh with a knife.
She’d been terrified, knowing he would do exactly what he’d threatened to do.
Confident that he’d totally trampled her spirits, he’d given her a lavish display of roses and then left their San Francisco home for an overnight business trip to New York.
Nicole had known, as she’d stared at the roses, that if she didn’t get out, he would eventually beat her to death. The next flowers she’d receive would be placed on her grave.
Her body still aching, she’d packed what clothes could fit in a large purse. She couldn’t leave their home without his driver, Jimmy, who was always there watching. Donning dark sunglasses, she had asked Jimmy to take her across town and drop her near the waterfront. She had vanished into a restaurant bathroom and climbed out the window.
Near the restaurant was Claire Carmichael’s small New Age bookstore. She’d raced to Claire’s and told her she needed to be hidden. Claire had remembered her and offered her a bed at the local shelter. Nicole had known she had to get farther away from San Francisco than a local shelter. So, Claire had given Nicole $200 cash and the keys to a beat-up Honda. In gratitude, she had given Claire her wedding bands and told her to hawk them.
Grateful and terrified, she’d headed east, not sure at first where she was going. In Denver, she had bought a hat and tucked her hair up inside it. She also had calmed enough to sit and think where she’d go next. She had remembered Lindsay. They had been roommates at the University of Southern California but had lost touch over the years. Nicole had remembered a notation in the USC alumni magazine. Lindsay had returned to her native Virginia. She worked with battered women.
So, Nicole had called information from a pay phone and gotten the number of the abuse hotline in Lindsay’s area. She’d begged the counselor to find Lindsay and have her call Nicole at the pay phone. The counselor hadn’t made any promises, but five minutes later the pay phone had rung. It was Lindsay.
Lindsay hadn’t hesitated. She’d given Nicole directions to her house, and when she’d arrived two days later, Lindsay had opened up her home to Nicole.
Sunlight peeked around the edges of the shaded kitchen window. Nicole set her soda can on the counter and opened the blinds. Afternoon light made her squint, but the sun warmed her face. The rain had stopped.
Men like Richard didn’t have the right to walk this earth. They stole dreams and lives. They nurtured humiliation and fear. They all deserved to die.
Somewhere along the way, she’d lost herself. But she’d corrected the mistake. She was in control now.
San Francisco, 1:00 P.M. PST (4:00 P.M. EST)
Jimmy Quinn had endured a lot of pain during his career in the boxing ring, weathering split lips, broken bones, and bruised knots the size of goose eggs. Long after a damaged right hand had forced him from the ring, the boys on the street respectfully called him Iron Jim, because he could take a licking better than anyone. He was the toughest of the tough.
However, never during his sixty-four years had he ever, ever, hurt so bad that he wanted to die.
Now, the pain ravaging his body made him wish he were dead.
Someone splashed ice water on his face and his head snapped up. But he couldn’t see so well. Both his eyes were swollen shut.
‘One last time, Jimmy. Where is Christina Braxton?’ The calm, even voice came from the shadows. Jimmy couldn’t see the speaker’s face anymore, but he knew it was Vincent Malone.
‘I don’t know,’ Jimmy whispered.
He tried to flex his swollen fingers, now numb from the too-tight ropes that secured his hands behind his back. Blood caked his well-lined face and stained the white button-down shirt he’d pressed himself this morning. Or was it yesterday? The beatings had robbed him of any sense of time.
His last clear memory was of entering the waterfront warehouse to meet his former boss, Richard Braxton. Only, Mr Braxton hadn’t been there. His right-hand man, Vincent, and a couple of his goons had been waiting for him. There’d been no conversation as the goons had strapped him to a chair. To set the tone, Vincent had taken a billy club and smacked it hard against Jimmy’s knuckles. And then the questions about Mrs Braxton had started.
‘Don’t make me hurt you, Jimmy. I don’t like hurting you,’ Vincent had said.
‘I don’t know where she is. I ain’t seen her in two weeks.’ Pain had burned every muscle in Jimmy’s body.
Jimmy didn’t want to give Vincent Mrs B. He had liked her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. Pretty didn’t come near to describing her. She was a stunner. And Mrs B. was a kind soul. She’d treated him with respect from the get-go, always calling him ‘Mr’ Quinn. No one had called him ‘Mr’ anything in his entire life.
This past year Mrs B. had been his responsibility. It was his job to drive her where she wanted to go, wait for her until she finished whatever it was she was doing, and then take her home. And it was his job to report to Mr Braxton every move she made. The boss wanted to know everything his wife did, who she saw and even what she read.
Jimmy hadn’t been proud of the work but he’d done his job, figuring it didn’t hurt anybody. Who was he to say what went on between a man and his wife?
Two months ago, everything had changed. Mrs B had gotten into the black Lexus wearing a vicious shiner. She’d said it was an accident. He’d accepted the excuse, because he liked the pay his job brought in and didn’t want any trouble. But more bruises followed. He wasn’t so punch drunk or stupid not to see what was happening. Braxton had started to beat his wife.
Jimmy had begun to hate Mr Braxton.
Through it all, Mrs B. had been nice to him, always calling him Mr Quinn. But he could see the light in her eyes was fading, bit by bit. He’d have quit the job, but Mrs B. needed him and he needed the money.
‘Remember the last time you saw her, Jimmy? You dropped her off somewhere. Where was it?’ Vincent now leaned close to his ear. ‘Tell me, Jimmy, and I’ll make the pain stop. She isn’t worth this kind of trouble. She’s a lying whore.’
Rough hands shoved his head back against the chair. A sharp blade pressed against his cheek. It cut into the tender flesh under his eye.
Jimmy screamed. Blood streamed down his face.
‘Next come the eyes, Jimmy.’
‘I dropped her near the water at a restaurant.’ He gave the address. ‘I think she slipped out the bathroom window.’
‘Where’d she go?’
The blade slid over his eyelid. ‘The restaurant owner said north.’
‘Did you see anyone else? Did she meet another man?’ He jabbed his thumb into the fresh cut under Jimmy’s eye.
Jimmy screamed. ‘I didn’t see no one, I swear.’
‘That’s all?’
Jimmy figured he’d burn in hell for what he was about to say. But what could Satan do to him that Mr Braxton hadn’t already done? ‘He hurt her. Made her cry. She had bruises on her face.’
‘I believe you, Jimmy.’ The voice he heard now was Richard Braxton’s. Terror
flooded his broken body. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. God, but he hurt. ‘You got to believe me, Mr B. I didn’t know she was planning to run.’
He heard a cigarette lighter snap open, then smelled the scent of a freshly lit cigarette. Braxton liked his smokes when he was tense. ‘You shouldn’t have let her get away.’
‘I know.’
The tip of a gun pressed against his temple and fired.
Chapter Nine
Monday, July 7, 4:02 P.M.
The law offices of Turner and Barlow were located in a suburban office park twenty miles west of Richmond. The five-story building had a shiny, reflective exterior and was nestled next to a large lake surrounded by pristine park benches and tree-lined jog paths. Tall front doors led to a foyer capped with skylights that magnified sunlight down on polished black marble floors.
Zack and Warwick checked the business directory posted on the wall and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. The elevator door dinged opened to muffled shouts. It was impossible to make out what was being said, but the tone was unmistakably angry.
Wordlessly, the detectives bypassed the stunned receptionist and cut around the maze of cubicles toward the corner office on the building’s south side. The name on the office door read Quinton Barlow.
‘I want to see my damn attorney! Where is he?!’ the male voice thundered behind the wood paneled door.
Zack hesitated. ‘That sounds like Ronnie T.’
Warwick nodded. ‘He’s either one damn good liar or he doesn’t know what happened to Harold.’
‘My money’s on one damn good liar.’
Ronnie T. had built a drug empire that stretched up and down the I-95 corridor. He’d evaded arrest on drug-trafficking charges; however, thanks to Zack’s undercover work, the Feds had been able to make a case for income tax evasion.
Without announcing himself, Zack opened the door and strolled into the plush office. ‘I thought I heard a familiar voice.’
Warwick was a step behind him. ‘What’s got everyone so upset?’
Ronnie T. stood in front of Quinton Barlow’s desk, his right hand clenching an ornate walking stick that coordinated with his white jumpsuit and custom Nikes. He sported a ball cap cocked at a jaunty angle and wore a thick gold chain worth more than most cops made in a year.
