Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Erika ventured to talk. She wanted to try to reason with him. "You move about as if you live here."

  "I do live here," he told her. "This is my house. Mine and Abby's."

  She stared at him. Frank ate normally. Nothing seemed out of place to him. Suddenly, Erika knew this was his house, at least it had been before the divorce and his wife's death. He knew his way around, but Erika had attributed that to his being there for a while.

  He seemed in a rational mood, and Erika might not get another chance to question him. Frank could appear normal. Last night he'd talked to her about politics, what was happening in the East Brunswick area, how global warming was affecting life on earth. If Erika's hands hadn't been tied behind her back and her ankles fastened to the chair she sat in, and if she hadn't known there was a dead body only a few feet away, she would have had to rethink her decision about his sanity.

  "How long are you going to keep me here?" she asked.

  He stopped eating and looked her directly in the eye. "If I'm lucky it should all be over today."

  The intensity of his gaze sent a chill down her back. How long did she have? What had he done?

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  "I'm going to kill you."

  Erika shivered. Every part of her trembled. She could feel every organ, every cell, every nerve and blood vessel vibrating. Frank continued to eat as if he'd told her they would take in a movie after breakfast.

  "Why?" she asked when she could find her voice. It was breathy and weak.

  "So Abby and I can live without enemies."

  "You and Abby?" Erika asked. Unconsciously she tried to raise her left arm. The restraint forced her to remain where she was.

  Frank nodded.

  He was crazy! Didn't he realize Abby was dead?

  "Where is Abby, Frank?"

  Frank looked up, and lightning seemed to flash in his eyes. Suddenly, his glass sailed across the room. Erika had only enough time to shift to the side before it flew past her. Orange juice splattered her as the glass clipped her shoulder and shattered on the floor.

  "You don't care about Abby. You don't even know her. But he does, and he'll pay for what he did to her."

  "Frank, Abby's dead."

  Erika knew she'd stepped over the line. Frank stood up slowly. He glared at her, towered like a giant over his kingdom. Every line of his body was granite hard, menacing. She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. Fear choked her. He was going to kill her now. She tried to stand, but the chair restrained her. She couldn't run, couldn't get away from him.

  Erika had nothing to protect her. If she was going to stay alive, she had to convince him not to kill her. She racked her brain, trying to think of something to say. How do you talk to a crazy person? she asked herself.

  He moved away from his chair and started for her.

  "Frank," she said. "It's Abby. What are we going to get the children for Christmas this year?"

  Frank stopped. He stared at her, but she knew he wasn't seeing her. She breathed heavily.

  "I've looked in the malls and I can't find anything for . . ." Who? she thought. What were the children's names? She'd never heard anyone call them anything except the Mason children. "For them," she finished. "I thought a doll for our baby."

  She gauged his reaction. He stopped, but she didn't know if the rational Frank had returned or the crazy Frank was standing in front of her.

  "Melissa would like a doll," he finally said. "She told me when I put her to bed last night."

  Erika let her breath out. Frank's anger seemed to be going. He turned away from her and checked his watch. "I have to go out," he said.

  "Where?" she asked before she could stop herself. He'd told her it would be over today. Had he called Michael when he left her yesterday? Had they agreed to meet somewhere? Was Michael coming here? She had to know.

  "I won't be long," he said, ignoring her question. He didn't move, but stood facing the hall door. Erika followed his gaze. The dead body still lay on the floor. She wondered who the man was, and why no one came by or called him. Frank had said the phone was dead. Wasn't there anyone who knew this man? Did he live alone? He wasn't that old. Did he still work? Why hadn't the people from his job called to check on him? Why didn't the neighbors think it strange that the jeep came and went at will?

  Frank turned back to her and Erika froze. He came toward her. She pushed herself back in the chair as far as she could go. Her hands and feet went dead cold. Frank grabbed her free arm and pulled it behind her. Her back hurt from the strain of sitting in an unnatural position. He untied her other hand and pulled it behind her, securing the two together.

  "I'll be back. . .with Michael," he added.

  Chapter 19

  The Raritan River spanned about two hundred yards at the point from the boathouse to the opposite shore. A string of apartment buildings that had been converted to condominiums sat above a run of trees hugging the shoreline. Michael crouched on the ground with a pair of binoculars. The area was teeming with FBI agents. Michael agreed that they were concealed, and even if Frank was looking from the other shore he'd see nothing.

  Michael panned the hilltop, the busy roadway, and the boathouse. From his position he saw no sign of Frank. The day was cold and while there was a sidewalk few people ever walked on this part of Route 18. Cars pulled in and out of the gas station at Commercial Avenue and the one just across from where Michael lay on the ground.

  Frank knew what he was doing when he picked this place. There was nowhere to hide, to conceal himself from attack. Frank could pick him off from a number of places and he'd never know from where the bullet had come. Michael checked his watch. He had only half an hour left. He had to go now to get over the bridge and into the yard before the two o'clock hour.

  "It's time," one of the agents he'd met, but couldn't remember, said next to him.

  Michael pulled back and stood up under the cover of the leafless trees.

  "Are you sure you want to do this? We can still put a double in your place."

  "He'd know in seconds I wasn't there, and we don't know what he'd do to Erika," Michael said. "I'm going."

  "You have the vest?"

  Michael touched his chest. Under his coat he wore a bulletproof vest, but he didn't think it meant much if Frank wanted to kill him. Frank's history called for bullets through the head, and they had no vest that would protect him there.

  "We have the car bugged, and we can track you through the vest."

  Michael nodded. They walked through the trees to the condos and into the parking lot beyond. Michael got in his car and started the engine.

  "Good luck," the agent said. "You'll be picked up by our people on the other side."

  "Thanks," Michael said, and drove away. He'd never felt so alone in his life.

  ***

  Frank saw him coming. He recognized the car. It was the same one Michael had driven day in and day out during Frank's trial. Small, sleek, powerful. It wouldn't help him today. Neither would the FBI. Kidnapping was a federal crime. The local police would have little to do with it if he were caught. Frank had no intention of being caught.

  Checking around him he saw no one anywhere, but he didn't expect to. Michael was a letter-of-the-law man. He'd follow directions. The two women guards were a different story. They would call the FBI no matter what he'd told Michael. Frank was prepared for that.

  Michael came across the Highland Park Bridge and took the ramp for Route 18 South. He stopped at the light and waited for it to turn green. He was going to have to pass the boathouse and go to the Paulus Boulevard jughandle to turn around and get on the north side of the highway. That's where Frank would make his move.

  He saw him coming. He drove fast and took the curve at an easy angle. The light was red when he got to it, and he stopped. Frank had concealed himself in the branches that hung from the top of the hill. The ground beyond the rough vines was a ten foot drop to the ground. He took it easily, landing directly next
to the car. His gun pointed at the glass, he said, "Open it."

  The automatic door locks clicked and Frank got in the car. "Run the light. Make a right," he said, pressing the cold steel against Michael's neck. "Now!"

  Michael did as asked.

  "Take the ramp to 1 South," he commanded.

  The first exit took him down to Route 1, heading toward Trenton and South Jersey. At the bottom of the hill, they immediately exited into the Sears parking lot. Frank directed him to the back, where he'd parked his jeep. He estimated they had about three minutes before the FBI agents scrambled and converged on them.

  In moments they were out of the car. He pushed Michael to the jeep, grabbed his coat and pulled it down his arms, restraining any movement.

  "I know they're on their way. You got one minute to strip to your shorts." Michael didn't move. Frank jabbed the gun into his throat. "Fifty-nine seconds," he growled close to her ear. "Do it as if you were trying to get to Erika as fast as you could. Or I'll put a bullet through your head and save myself the trouble of dragging you home."

  ***

  The FBI offices had been set up a building at George and New Streets, across from The State Theater. Connie stared out of the window at the main street of the City of New Brunswick. The agent assigned to Michael and Erika was a tall, blond man of about thirty, but looked younger. He had a cellular unit pushed up against his ear, listening. "Did they get him?" she asked, looking anxiously at the FBI agent.

  "I'm afraid not," he said. "They found Mr. Lawrence's car, but it was empty."

  "What about the bug in his vest? Can't you track him?"

  "His clothes were lying in a heap next to the car, including the vest."

  Connie rarely swore, but she did today. This psycho was smart. They all underestimated him. What could they do now? There was no way to determine where Frank had gone. Leaving that lot by the back gave Mason access to all four directions, and they had no idea what kind of vehicle he was driving.

  "What about the transmission before they left the lot? Did they say anything that could help us?"

  "They weren't close enough for a clear recording. We'll have to send it to the lab for amplification."

  "I want to hear it," Connie commanded.

  "It's garbled. You won't be able to make out anything."

  "Look," Connie told the blond man, "I know more about Frank Mason than his father does. Let me hear the tape. I might understand something you don't."

  The agent turned on the machine and she listened. The first time through she heard nothing but background noise. Connie hit the rewind button and listened again. This time she heard something that sounded like "men" but it was too fast. When it ended she played it again, and again and again.

  "If only we could filter out the background noises."

  "I cleaned it as much as I could here," the agent said. "The sooner we get it to the lab, the faster we'll get an answer."

  "We don't have time for that. The closest lab is in Newark. Frank Mason has both of them now. He isn't going to wait around for us to analyze. We have to do something now."

  "I'm open to suggestion," he told her, spreading his hands.

  Adrienne, who had been quiet to this point, spoke. "Give it to me. I can filter the noises."

  "You can?" the agent asked. "How? We need equipment we don't have."

  "We have the equipment," she said. She pointed to the window.

  Connie and the agent looked out. Then Connie looked at Adrienne and smiled.

  "Let's go," she said.

  "Where?" the agent asked.

  "The State Theater. They've got sound equipment."

  ***

  The automatic garage door mechanism closed the door completely before Frank got out of the car. He unlocked the cuffs on the jeep door and cuffed Michael's hands behind him.

  "Get out," he commanded.

  Michael stepped barefoot onto the cold concrete floor. Debris and small pebbles cut into his skin. Frank pushed the gun into his bare back and urged him forward. They went into the house. Michael knew where he was. He'd never been here before but he recognized the street address. This was the house Abby had received as part of the settlement, where the couple had lived as man and wife, and where Abby had committed suicide. Frank had told him he was taking him home.

  A jab to his kidneys had him stumbling forward. Michael went through the kitchen and into the dining room. Erika sat tied to a chair. A decorative column separated the living and dining rooms.

  "Erika!" he called and rushed to her. "Are you all right?"

  She had a gag in her mouth, but she grunted his name. Tears formed in her eyes and spilled down her face.

  "Don't," he said, dropping to his knees. He moved his hands, but they were confined. Unable to touch her, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  Erika dropped her head to his shoulder and sobbed.

  "Take the gag off her," he ordered Frank.

  Frank went behind her and untied the scarf. Her mouth was bruised when he saw it, and he wanted to kill Frank. Erika kissed him as soon as she was free.

  "I love you, Michael," she said. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

  Michael didn't want to tell her how much that fear had weighed on his mind. He kissed her again. "Are you all right?" he asked a second time.

  She nodded and leaned to kiss him, her wet face brushing against his.

  "This is a sweet reunion," Frank sneered. "Too bad I'm going to have to break it up." He got Michael a chair and put it next to Erika's, keeping him in line with the gun in his hand. "I got you some clothes," he told him. "Put them on."

  Michael looked at the neatly folded pile of clothes on the living room sofa. "Whose are these?" Michael asked.

  "The man who owned them no longer has a need for them," Frank said.

  "Michael, there's a dead man in the hall." Erika looked over her shoulder at the doorway to the center hall. Michael followed her gaze.

  "His wife's upstairs," Frank explained.

  Michael stepped into the pants. Everything was there, down to the socks. Only shoes were missing from the pile.

  "What was their crime, Frank? Why did you kill them?"

  "This is my house," he said. "They tried to say it was theirs."

  Erika groaned. "Frank, I need to go to the bathroom."

  "Not yet," he shouted. "First I do him, then you."

  Michael pulled on a white shirt and buttoned the front buttons. The shirt fit, but the pants pooled at his ankles

  "Sit down."

  Michael did as he was told. Frank bound his arms to the chair back.

  "Frank, please," Erika pleaded. "I can't wait any longer."

  He looked at her. "You're as bad as one of the children," he scolded.

  "Please, honey."

  Michael stared at her, but said nothing. What was she up to? Frank also looked different. His mood swung like a fast pendulum. He went to Erika and untied her legs, then her arms. She pulled them around the chair and massaged the flesh. Michael saw the bruise marks the ropes had left on her skin.

  She tried to stand, but fell.

  "Let me help you, Abby," Frank said. He pulled her arm around his shoulder and supported her while she limped across the room. What had happened here, Michael wondered. What kind of game was Erika playing, and would it get her killed?

  Erika used the toilet, then massaged her wrists and ankles. She couldn't stand like this—her circulation had cramped long ago and her feet and hands were numb—but she wasn't going to get another chance. She'd discovered Frank's weakness. She could keep him thinking she was Abby, and everything would be all right. If he lapsed back into normalcy, he'd kill them.

  Wiggling her toes hurt, but it was the only way to get the blood back into her feet. Pins and needles the size of ten-penny nails felt as if they were sticking into her feet. Her wrists weren't as bad. She ran cold water over them to slow down the rush of blood, giving her fingers the effect of the bends.

  Gingerly
she tried to walk in the confined space. She could do it. Buying herself time to let her body repair itself, she stayed in the bathroom for as long as Frank allowed. Which turned out to be just a moment more.

  "Let's go," he said from outside the door.

  Erika opened it and walked out. He grabbed her arm the moment she came out. He knew she was Erika again. He pushed her back to the chair and sat her back down.

  "Frank, no," she cried. "Please let me have a little exercise. My skin is red from the ropes, and my fingers are so swollen I can't open and close my hands."

  "Too bad," he said, yanking her hands behind her. He set the gun on the floor next to him while he tied her up again. Erika looked at Michael. On the floor next to his chair was the rope that Frank had used. He hadn't taken the time to tie him as tightly as he had her, and he'd gotten free, or almost free.

  "Frank," Michael said. "Why are you doing this? It doesn't make sense."

  "It doesn't have to make sense," he told him.

  "Why do you want to kill us?"

  Frank stood up when he'd tied her hands. He left her ankles free.

  "You killed her," he accused.

  "Killed who?"

  "Abby. . .my wife."

  "Frank, Abby committed suicide."

  Erika didn't like this. When she'd confronted Frank with Abby's death he'd acted as if he was going to kill her right then. She tried to get Michael's attention, but Frank stood between them.

  "Why Erika, Frank? She didn't even know Abby."

  "Erika?" He said her name as if he didn't remember who she was.

  "I'll do what you want, Frank. Let Erika go and you can do anything you want with me."

  "Michael!" Erika said.

  "Why should I let her go? I have you both. I have all the power now. I'm the judge."

  "This isn't a court."

  "This is your court, Counselor." Frank glared into Michael's face. He swung the gun nonchalantly in his right hand. "This is the last court you'll ever see."