"Don't play games. You know who I'm talking about."
"I understand how you feel. I've been looking over my shoulder all day, but it's only nerves. Frank is dead. His boat burned miles out in the Gulf. There were witnesses. People on nearby boats went to the rescue. The Coast Guard said it would be unusual to find a body. There are sharks..." Claire offered all the reassurances Mike had given her.
"There was no body because he's not dead."
Nothing she could say was going to convince Annalisa that her father was dead, and maybe he wasn't. Claire had her own doubts. "If he is still alive," she said, "he's living under a new name in some foreign country where he's stashed lots of money. He bragged to me about the millions he'd stolen."
"He's right here in Taos, probably staying at this hotel. He might have seen you already." Annalisa eyed the walls as if she expected Frank to crash through from an adjoining room. "After I read that newspaper, I tried to call, but the desk wouldn't put me through because it was too late. I drove back to town as fast as I could. Please, you have to leave. You're here because of me, and I don't want your blood on my hands."
"Thank you, but--"
"Listen to me." Annalisa grabbed her shoulders. "He showed up last month, told me he was leaving the country. He promised he'd never bother me again, but first, he wanted the pictures." Her mouth turned down in disgust. "He photographed himself with girls. He'd make me look at them. Do you know what I'm saying?"
"Yes." Claire wanted to hug Annalisa, but she didn't dare.
"Before I left New Orleans, I hid some pictures in a safe place. He's in them, and if anything bad happens to me, a friend knows where to find them. She'll give them to the New Orleans police."
"You don't need the pictures anymore. Either Frank died Monday night, or else he's somewhere like Thailand."
"He came into the shop yesterday morning. I didn't recognize him until he spoke to me. He was dressed like a cowboy, wearing a hat and sunglasses. He needed a shave."
During her few hours in Taos, Claire had seen dozens of men dressed like cowboys, most wearing a hat and sunglasses and most needing a shave. She hadn't really looked at any of them, but if one had been Frank Palmer, he would have recognized her. She sat down on the bed.
"You're starting to believe me, aren't you?" Annalisa said. "I can see you getting scared. Now, will you leave?"
"You're right, I'm scared. But I came here to give you a letter." Annette Fulton waited alone with the dog that used to belong to this young woman, praying for a word that would say she was forgiven. Claire took the envelope out of her pocketbook. "It's from your grandmother. She asked me to be sure you read it."
"I don't need to read it. I know what it says." Annalisa brushed the letter aside. "She's been asking me to come back ever since she found out where I was living."
"You're all she has left, you and Caesar. Do you remember Caesar? He lives with her now. He's a nice dog, but he's getting old. So is your grandmother."
"You should never have come here." Annalisa paced, head down and face invisible behind a curtain of hair.
"That's what I thought when I went to see your grandmother. I felt guilty because my visit upset her. I should have left her alone. But then she helped me, and I promised to help her. I can't just give up and leave because I'm scared."
Heavy footsteps approached in the hall. They stopped talking and stared at the door until the sound died away.
"I don't want your blood on my hands," Annalisa repeated.
"You warned me. It's all on me now." She stood up, prepared to escort her visitor to the door. "I'm not leaving until you read the letter. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Annalisa closed her eyes and then opened them, as she had done in the store.
"I'm still here," Claire said.
Annalisa expelled an exasperated breath. "If I read the letter right now, will you leave?"
"You read the letter, and I'll leave tomorrow morning, not tonight. It's late, I'm tired, and I don't have anywhere to go." Her return flight wasn't until Wednesday, but she could spend the time in Santa Fe. Or she could change her flight.
"Early tomorrow morning, like sunrise." Annalisa picked up the envelope.
"Deal." She walked over to the window to give Annalisa some privacy and put her hand on the drapery pull.
"Get away from the window! Keep the drapes closed."
She jumped back in surprise. "You really are nervous."
"You should be too. You know what he's capable of. This letter isn't worth getting killed."
"I'll leave first thing in the morning."
"And I'll read the letter." Annalisa leaned against the wall and opened the envelope. When she finished reading, she looked up, eyes bright with anger. "If you expect me to be moved by this, you're mistaken." She crumpled the paper and threw it in the wastebasket. "Did you know that my mother killed herself?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"My grandmother's sorry too, and she ought to be. Mom told her that Frank was a bad man and we needed to leave him. But Grandma said a woman's first duty was to be a good wife to her husband. She refused to help us!"
Claire nodded. Annette Fulton had said that she failed her daughter.
"Of course, Mom didn't tell her the whole story. It was too ugly, and my mother tried to avoid ugly. When life got ugly, she escaped by getting drunk. When drinking wasn't enough, she made her escape permanent." Annalisa walked around the room as she spoke, picking things up and putting them down--the pen and pad by the telephone, a magazine about Taos, the remote control for the television. "I was barely fourteen years old, and she abandoned me. To him."
"I don't think that's what she intended."
Annalisa dismissed the excuse with an angry wave of her hand. "It's what she did." She stood hands on hips as if challenging the world. "But there's no point in being mad at a dead person, is there? It's a waste of emotion, bad karma and all that."
Claire wanted to speak, but paralyzing dread silenced her. Her breathing grew shallower and shallower until each inhalation was a frantic gasp for air. The bubble tightened around her, and fear filled her throat, choking her from the inside. She couldn't move; she couldn't see. A woman's voice faded away, leaving nothing but the suffocating bubble and the disgusting smell of burned plastic.
* * * *
Claire opened her eyes. Annalisa was bent over her, wiping her face and neck with a cold washcloth.
"I'm okay," Claire said. "That was just a panic attack. It looks worse than it is."
"I didn't know if you'd just fainted or if you were having a heart attack. If you hadn't come to so fast, I would have called for help." She shuddered. "Frank might have seen us."
"Usually I can keep it under control, but tonight, I lost it. I really am okay now. Don't worry. My doctor promises me that no one ever died from a panic attack." It just feels like you're dying. "I have pills if I need them." Exhaustion rolled over her in waves. She was so tired. Every word took effort, but she had to reach this young woman.
Annalisa laid the damp cloth across her forehead. "I can see why you'd have panic attacks after what you just went through. I was in pretty bad shape after mom died."
"It has nothing to do with that." This was the worst panic attack she had experienced, and for the first time, she knew precisely what had triggered it. "You mentioned being angry with someone who has died. My husband died a little over a year ago."
"Did he kill himself, too?"
"He didn't intend to. He ran into a burning house to rescue two little children. He threw them to safety, but he didn't get out."
"I'm sorry."
"I am too. I loved him very much." Then she said out loud what she had never before admitted, not even to herself. "But I'm also angry. He didn't choose to die, but he chose to risk dying. Running into that house was heroic, and it was reckless." The children's own mother had been afraid to go back inside. She'd stayed on the sidewalk, and she was still alive. "In his own way, he abandoned me,
and I was furious--with him and the world."
Tom's death had left her without a reason to live. From freshman year in high school until the day he died, everything in both their lives had revolved around his dream of becoming a pediatrician. She'd switched her college major from architecture to accounting because accountants can always find work, and she'd be supporting both of them while he finished his studies. She'd worked in the university accounting office while he was at Johns Hopkins. When they moved to New Orleans for his residency at Tulane, she'd taken the actuarial job at the insurance company. She had hated the hours spent staring at a computer, but it paid well. They needed the money because Tom wanted to specialize in childhood cancers, which meant another two years of study. Everything she did was for him, and then he died.
"I understand," Annalisa said. "At Mom's funeral, everyone was pitying me, whispering and shaking their heads. I almost exploded every time someone looked at me. I wanted to scream curses, spit in their faces." She was back to walking around the room picking up loose objects.
"I felt the same way." There'd always been anger mixed in her grief, and she had panic attacks because she was afraid, and deeply ashamed, of that anger. Condolences had infuriated her.
"Then you should understand why I didn't want to read the letter, why I don't want to see my grandmother, why I'm never going back."
"I also understand that we both have to--forgive isn't the right word, but it's close. We each have to move on, find our own path through the ashes."
Annalisa froze. "Move past being abandoned by my own mother because she was too weak to face the truth? She married that man. What happened wasn't my fault, but she punished me." She walked over to the door. "I read the letter. You leave in the morning."
Her anger was directed more at the mother who abandoned her than the father who abused her. Annie Lewis had blamed herself as well. It struck Claire as an incredible injustice.
"There's another letter you should read. It's the last letter your mother wrote to your grandmother." She had tucked the letter into her dresser drawer, unsure what she was going to do with it but unable to throw it away.
"Where is it? That's what I'm supposed to ask, isn't it?" Annalisa leaned against the door, her hand on the knob, she sounded more tired than hostile.
"It's back in New Orleans, but I remember every word. Your mother told your grandmother the whole truth, but it was too late. By the time she got the letter, you were gone."
"You want me to read my mother's suicide note?"
"I want you to know that your mother loved you very much and that she didn't intend to abandon you."
CHAPTER 38
Sunday, October 31, 1993
Claire glanced over at the other bed and the tangle of dark blonde hair on the pillow. She no longer thought of this young woman as Annalisa or Frank's daughter or even Annette's granddaughter. Certainly not as the troubled teenager Melissa Yates had described. Her name was Phoenix, and she was living proof that a person could build a new life for herself. Like her namesake, she had risen from the ashes.
Nothing could erase the past, but its burdens could be eased. Claire believed that once the police caught up with Frank, Phoenix would feel a weight lift, dared hope she would soon contact her grandmother. The letter had been retrieved from the hotel wastebasket.
She dressed and packed as quietly as possible. If Phoenix said Frank was in Taos, he was. She had promised to leave and she would. She left a brief good-bye note with her phone number in New Orleans and tiptoed out of the room. When the elevator door opened, she scanned the lobby before stepping out, making sure Frank didn't lie in wait.
"Happy Halloween." The same woman was working at the reception desk. This morning, she sported a multi-colored fright wig and a nametag that said Bad Hair Day.
"Happy Halloween to you too." Claire paid the bill but didn't check out. "I ended up having company last night. She'll be leaving later this morning."
The parking lot attendant wore his version of a Playboy bunny costume with an enormous overstuffed bra and a nametag that said Bad Hare Day. In spite of everything, Claire had to laugh. Someday, when she was absolutely sure Frank was in jail or dead, she'd come back to Taos, but for now, she wanted to be miles away. She hoped with all her heart that Phoenix was right about the hidden pictures guaranteeing her own safety. They had for five years.
She drove as fast as she dared, any thought of lingering in New Mexico gone. If she couldn't get to New Orleans today, she'd fly to Dallas or Atlanta and spend the night at an airport motel. She'd taken her morning pill, but still felt edgy. A rational emotion if Frank Palmer was in Taos. She made herself check the rearview. A red dot on the road behind her disappeared when she went around a curve. The next time she looked, it wasn't there. She was alone with her thoughts.
Last night had been emotionally exhausting and cathartic at the same time. She and Phoenix shared the sad knowledge that loss is irrevocable. There's no going back and no do-over. They both knew the emotional confusion of being angry at what had been done to you and heartbroken by what you had lost. They had talked about moving beyond anger and guilt, while acknowledging that some wounds are so deep they can only heal slowly. A scar may never disappear, but it can fade.
Last night, she'd learned that what she feared most was her own buried anger. That knowledge had opened the door to resolution. Her starting point was to accept the inevitably of what had happened and take responsibility for her response. She had every right to be angry, but the person who was Tom Marshall couldn't wait until the fire department arrived, and that was why she loved him.
She'd been dazzled by his conviction--as a teenager--that he could make a difference in the world. No one made her hitch her wagon to Tom's star. It was her choice. If it was a mistake, it was her mistake. She'd been too young to know better, and too stubborn to listen to her parents when they suggested she date other people and explore things that interested her.
She had no life after Tom died because she'd had no life of her own before. Everything she had done was in support of his dreams. Because she'd had none of her own. That didn't mean she couldn't live a full life now. It might take a while, and there'd be bad days, but she was on her way. Next week, when she and Dr. Bennett discussed cutting back the meds, she could tell him that she'd discovered the cause of her panic attacks.
The road twisted steeply downward, and she lightened her pressure on the accelerator. An oncoming car went by, only the second car she'd seen since leaving Taos. She glanced in her rearview and saw the red dot, bigger now and coming closer. For a moment, it reminded her of the car in her nightmare, but she shook it off. She wasn't driving across the Louisiana swamps in her little Miata. She was driving through the high desert of New Mexico in a rented Taurus and, no doubt, driving more slowly than the locals.
She passed the national recreation area, closed this early on a Sunday morning. By the time she reached Santa Fe, something would be open. She'd call Mike Robinson, tell him what Phoenix said and see how he responded. Last night, she'd been ready to ask him to contact the Taos police, initiate a nationwide search, but Phoenix had been adamantly opposed. She'd left her past in New Orleans, and she wanted it to stay there. Now, in the cool light of morning, Claire realized that Mike might not find her story convincing. She hadn't actually seen Frank. Phoenix had convinced her. Could she convince the New Orleans police?
The road resumed its twisting descent. Behind her, the red dot had become an SUV. Again, Claire felt a shiver, which she dismissed. The SUV was closing the gap because she was barely going the speed limit. She wasn't comfortable going any faster, not in an unfamiliar car on this winding highway with its narrow shoulders and steep drop-off.
The SUV closed in until it was tailgating. She looked for a wide spot where she could pull over and let it by, but there was none. The SUV tapped her bumper. Jolted, she looked in the rearview. The driver was wearing sunglasses and needed a shave. He stuck his left hand out the window and poin
ted his index finger at her like a little boy pretending to shoot a gun.
Frank Palmer had followed her from Taos, and he'd picked this spot to make his move. On her right, an intermittent low guardrail separated the highway from a sheer drop to the rock-strewn river. Across the road, the hillside rose, nearly vertical, its rugged surface covered with wire mesh holding back enormous rocks. He'd chosen well.
Claire pressed the accelerator to the floor, and her car leapt ahead, sliding out of her lane on the curves and returning on the brief straightaways. She gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle tight and on every curve prayed there'd be no oncoming vehicle. Her sedan was lower to the ground and more nimble than Frank's big SUV. She opened the distance between them, but then they came to a straight stretch, and he had the advantage. He caught up and pulled into the other lane as if he intended to pass her.
Like the dark sedan in her nightmare, Frank rode alongside, pinning her in her lane. He edged closer and she moved over. Any more and her right wheels would be on the shoulder. If her car went over the cliff, she was dead. She eased her right hand onto the gearshift and her left foot onto the brake pedal, all the while watching Frank from the corner of her eye. When he turned the steering wheel toward her, she threw the Taurus into neutral and pumped the brakes.
He slid across in front of her, and his back bumper caught on her front grill. She wrenched her steering wheel to the left and slammed into the side of his SUV. They spun around and around, like manic dancers, before breaking apart.
Momentum carried her across the oncoming lane onto the far shoulder. The Taurus screeched along the wire mesh cages, metal on metal sending sparks into the air. A huge rock loomed dead ahead. She tried to steer back onto the highway but couldn't gain traction on the uneven ground. The world exploded.
Claire opened her eyes. The windshield was intact, but the hood had crumpled like an accordion. Hissing steam billowed upwards. She moved her arms and legs and felt her face. Everything worked; nothing was bleeding. The driver's side of the car had jammed against the rock, and the passenger door was smashed in. She twisted around to see if either back door looked as if it would open, and a sharp pain pierced her chest. She pressed her hand against her ribs and unfastened the seat belt. Wincing with each movement, she crawled into the back seat and climbed out of the car.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 25
