by Sheryl Lynn
“He’d come up with a theme like Summer Sounds or How Much I Love You, then record songs and commentary off the radio. Splice it all together. Mix and match.” He grinned as if amazed. “Kind of like storytelling. Some of his tapes were actually interesting.”
Frankie found it disturbing to imagine Julius with a hobby. The picture she held in her mind was of a debauched alcoholic who seduced and discarded naive young women. Knowing he had a creative side made him all too human. She wondered if McKennon had a hobby. His hands were large and muscular, but supple-fingered and graceful. She envisioned him carving intricate sculptures or playing a piano. “What does his hobby have to do with anything?”
“The FBI identified the owner of the cell phone and the voice on the recording.”
She gasped, partially rising. How dare Agent Patrick keep such a vital clue from her!
He placed a hand on her arm. “It isn’t time to celebrate. Sorry. The kidnappers used Julius’s telephone.”
She sagged on the chair. “They stole his cellular phone.”
“Nice touch, eh?”
“But the FBI identified the caller. That’s a lead.”
“It’s David Sams.”
“I know that name,” she said. She racked her memory cells.
“David Sams is a radio talk show host.”
She cocked her head first one way then the other, unable to fathom why a radio personality would get involved in a kidnapping. “Isn’t he the guy who’s always spouting off about crooked government and liberals? I’ve never listened to him, but I’ve read about him in the newspaper. My God, why would he kidnap Penny?”
Lowering his eyelids to half-mast McKennon slowly shook his head. “Stay with the program, Frankie. David Sams didn’t kidnap your sister. The kidnappers recorded his voice off the radio.”
“Oh, like Julius’s hobby.”
“Exactly. Tape the commentary, extract individual words, then splice them together to make the tape.”
The cleverness sickened her. “We’re dealing with really smart people.” She closed her eyes and prayed they weren’t smart enough to realize Penny was a potential witness.
“Smart people don’t become criminals,” McKennon said. “These guys are slick, but they’ll get caught.”
“Before or after they kill Penny?”
He caught her hands, enfolding them within his own. His strength warmed her. “Don’t go there,” he said.
“I can’t help it. A million things can go wrong. Ross could get snowed in. The kidnappers can realize the FBI guy isn’t Julius.”
“Ross will get through. The FBI knows what they’re doing.”
“What if Max is behind all this? Is he still here?”
McKennon nodded and lifted his gaze to the ceiling to indicate that the Caulfields still resided upstairs. “He wants to make sure his wife doesn’t have a heart attack on the way back to the city. I think he’s arranged for an ambulance.”
Max was making sure of other things, she mused darkly, such as ensuring he’d covered his tracks.
“Okay,” he said, “worst-case scenario, Julius was deliberately murdered and the kidnapping is a cover-up. There’s still no reason to hurt Penny.”
“She’s a witness.”
“No sign of a struggle, remember? They’re probably keeping her drugged. All they want is money.” He stuck the pencil in his shirt pocket and picked up the legal pad. “I can’t think of any more names. Let’s drop in on the command center and see if they’ve learned anything new.”
“Agent Patrick hates me.”
He chuckled as if she’d made a joke. “Come on.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I like you.”
Her heart did a funny little hop-skip. Fearing if she opened her mouth she’d say something stupid, she fiddled with the hem of her sweatshirt.
“Besides, I’m a sucker for a pretty lady.”
“I’m no lady.” She meant it as a joke, a feeble attempt to distract herself from the horror of the situation, but it fell flat. It sounded like dead-on truth. A real lady, such as Aunt Elise or her cousin Janine, never would have pushed Penny into sneaking around with a jerk like Julius. A lady wouldn’t have fallen for Max Caulfield’s sleazy charm. A lady wouldn’t be feeling like death warmed over and looking far worse, while wishing McKennon would take pity and kiss her again.
In silence, she followed him to the dining room.
Agents and law officers, grounded from searching by the storm, gathered in the dining room. They drank coffee and busied themselves with maps and paperwork. McKennon guided Frankie to Agent Patrick.
McKennon handed over the list he’d made. The agent perused it and twisted her lips. “Short list,” she said.
“Visitors with business concerns signed in and out, but personal friends weren’t noted. Mr. Bannerman had a private entrance.”
“Mr. Caulfield claims his wife is a stickler about security.”
Frankie tapped an impatient foot on the floor. With every word out of the agent’s mouth Frankie disliked the woman more.
“She is,” he said, “to a point. I discussed with her on numerous occasions that guarding the front gate made little sense if the back gate stood wide-open. Julius continuously forgot to set the alarm system and often left the driveway gate standing open. She made it clear that I was not to interfere in her son’s life.” He indicated the list of names with a lift of his chin. “Those are people I’ve witnessed visiting Mr. Bannerman.”
“Maybe I can help, Ms. Patrick,” Frankie said.
The woman smiled, but it looked forced. “How so?”
“Let me study the ransom note. McKennon can give me details about Julius’s friends. Age, sex, occupation, general temperament.” She actually wanted to study the writing to see if anything indicated Max was the author, but she managed to keep that tidbit to herself. “I’m a professional graphologist. If nothing else I might be able to narrow your list of suspects. Or even come up with a profile of the author.”
“Thank you for the offer, but it isn’t possible. The note is in the hands of our experts.”
“You must have a copy. I can work from a copy.”
“We don’t have a copy.”
“Liar.”
McKennon took her arm. “Frankie,” he warned.
She wrenched away and held up her hands, palms outward. “Yeah, yeah, fine. I’m just a piece of dirt in the bureaucratic gears.”
“Miss Forrest—”
“Don’t bother. I’m leaving.” She stomped out of the dining room. Her anger faded quickly into dismay and self-loathing. She knew the FBI agents were doing exactly what they should be doing. She knew her requests to examine crucial evidence were out of line. She walked quickly, but aimlessly, uncaring where she went. She was trapped and helpless and unable to accomplish the one thing that mattered—protect Penny.
She ended up in the rear of the lodge at the employee’s entrance. A small window in the mudroom gave her a view of the outdoors. The snow had stopped and the wind had died. A thermometer mounted on a pole outside showed the temperature holding at sixteen degrees Fahrenheit. A thin beam of pallid sunshine illuminated the edge of the forest. She wondered if the sun would ever come out for her again.
“Frankie?”
The sound of McKennon’s voice made her back muscles tense. I like you, he’d said. She couldn’t imagine why. Holding on to the windowsill she continued staring at the landscape. Misty sunlight pierced the thinning cloud cover.
“Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. She was scared. “Agent Patrick is one cold fish. I could set her toes on fire, and the only thing she’d say would be ouch.”
“She’s a pro. She’ll get Penny back.”
Sarcasm climbed her throat. Except, McKennon didn’t deserve it. He deserved a whole lot better than anything she had to offer.
“I know this is hard for you. I know what it’s like to have somebody...lost.”
He spoke of his child. A coma, surely, was akin to being lost. She turned from the window. “How do you stand it? The waiting. The not knowing. Not having any control. How do you keep from going crazy?”
“Sometimes I do go crazy.”
“I’ve never seen you lose control.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “You don’t know me that well.”
She wished she knew him better. As if sensing her deepest desire, he held his arms open. She walked into his embrace and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“As long as there is life, there’s hope. As long as I can hope, I have faith. That’s what keeps me going.” He rubbed her back in slow circles, easing away the tension. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
She lifted her head to reply. He kissed her lips. A soft and tender kiss, the barest press of flesh to flesh. It touched her deeply. She wanted to weep. She lowered her head quickly and squeezed her burning eyes shut.
“Are you coming on to me, McKennon?”
He stroked her hair, his fingers separating thick curls. “Yes.”
His answer pleased her, but deepened her guilt. With Penny in danger she could afford herself no pleasure. “Bad timing.”
“In more ways than you know.” He pressed a finger to her chin and urged her to look at him. Feeling suddenly shy and strangely vulnerable, she resisted. “When we get Penny back, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
She stiffened in his arms, stunned by the invitation and again pleased. Ensuing guiltiness made her belly ache. “Serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not my type.” She cracked a weak smile. “My men tend to be the fickle, cheating, low-down, dirty-dog type.”
Chuckling, he curled his hand around the back of her head and drew her forehead-to-forehead with him. His embrace accomplished what reason could not—some of the tension drained away. Her thoughts stopped roiling and cleared. Hope feathered upward from deep in her belly.
“I’d like to get to know you better.” He kissed her again.
She couldn’t have resisted him if she’d tried. She explored the texture of his lips and tasted the sweetness of his mouth. Sweet oblivion. Sweet yearning. She touched her fingertips to his face, feeling the faint rasp of beard bristles and the strong bone underlying firm skin.
Then, ashamed of herself for kissing him when Penny was in danger, she pulled back and stepped away from his arms. She studied the toes of her boots. Old boots, as comfortable and ratty as the Frankenstein coat.
“Is it a date?” he asked.
She peeked, finding his eyes warm with kindness. She sensed in him the power to make her believe in faith and loyalty and goodness for the sake of goodness again. “Sure,” she whispered. “It’s a date.”
FRANKIE FINALLY FOUND A JOB. She guessed Aunt Elise finally realized her niece was ready to crawl out of her skin so took pity on her. On her knees behind the front desk, she cleared shelves and drawers one at a time, being careful not to disorder the contents. She used a rag and polish to clean away dust and debris.
She watched a nearby doorway for McKennon. He’d promised to help her after he made some telephone calls. He hadn’t said who he was going to call, but she gathered by his eagerness to achieve some privacy that it had to do with his son.
The front door opening caught her attention. Ross, she prayed, returned with the ransom money. She peered over the top of the counter.
Two uniformed men wheeled a gurney into the lobby. Max Caulfield met them. Knowing they’d come for Belinda, Frankie resumed her task. The sound of Max’s voice distracted her. She peeked over the counter again and watched until the men were out of sight.
After several minutes they returned. The uniformed men carried Belinda, bundled as if for a sleigh ride, on the gurney. An FBI agent and the Colonel accompanied Max.
At the sight of the older woman strapped down and staring blankly at the ceiling, Frankie felt pity. The few encounters she’d had with Belinda had always left her on edge and feeling outclassed. An intimidating woman, she moved through life like an elephant queen, confident that no one dared mess with her. Frankie saw nothing intimidating about the shrunken woman on the gurney. Max rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. His lips moved.
Along with pity, Frankie experienced an anger so deep and hurtful it left her light-headed and heavyhearted. Belinda had more wealth than she could spend in a lifetime. Yet, what did she have to show for it? Comfort, ease, more possessions than any one person could possibly use, and a son who was causing as many problems dead as he ever had alive. Where was the charity, altruism and great good that could come from such great wealth? Belinda could pay the ransom. It would barely make a ripple in her bank accounts. She could save the life of her daughter-in-law and the life of her soon-to-be grandchild.
The Colonel spoke briefly to the FBI agent before he headed for the guest quarters. The remaining men maneuvered Belinda out the door.
Anxiety prickled in Frankie’s chest. Unpleasant wetness filled her mouth. Could Max plant evidence implicating her in Julius’s murder? She didn’t see how. She’d moved into a cheaper apartment, so he no longer had a key to her place. She no longer associated with any of their mutual friends. He didn’t know she worked at Martha’s Pie House. Or did work, she thought. Bob had probably already replaced her.
Troubled, she resumed dusting. She eyed a nearby telephone. She should call Sally and find out if anything unusual had been going on in their apartment complex.
The front door shut. She peeked. Max had a cellular telephone pressed to his ear. His dark face was angry and intense. She hoped the ambulance carrying Belinda hadn’t gotten stuck in the snow. She strained to hear what he said. He slammed the telephone unit shut. He stalked toward the doorway leading to the private quarters. Frankie ducked behind the counter and cringed, praying he didn’t catch her spying. He strode past without a glance her way.
Curious, she hurried to a window. The Colonel’s crew had efficiently cleared the road leading to the highway. The late-day sun was stronger now, and snow melted where it had been plowed thin, revealing reddish patches on the gravel road. The vehicle carrying Belinda was long gone.
“What are you up to, Max?” she muttered.
She wished the FBI would let her examine the kidnapper’s note. Max knew exactly how traceable typewritten and computer-generated printing could be. Every typewriter had its own signature, its own unique typeface. Computer technology and the hundreds of fonts available on bubblejet and laser printers made tracing a particular print-out to a specific machine difficult, but not impossible.
Frankie didn’t believe Max understood exactly how handwriting analysis worked. No one, not even the most highly skilled forger, could completely disguise his handwriting. Writing didn’t originate in the hand, but in the brain. An untrained eye saw penmanship, but she saw the workings of a person’s mind.
“Graphology is voodoo,” he’d told her when the subject first came up. “But it might be profitable voodoo.” Her training, study and experience had proved to her it wasn’t voodoo or pop psychology, but was indeed a valid tool. If Max had written the note, then he’d made a fatal error.
Irony pinged her. She’d analyzed Max’s handwriting many times for practice and for fun. His handwriting was large, heavy, dark and closed, a trait called pastosity. It indicated overindulgence in sensual gratification. His word spacing indicated selfishness with little openness toward others. He left the bottoms open on the letters O and A, indicating dishonesty. Once madly in love, she’d dismissed the negative traits she’d discovered. Graphology had applied to everyone, but not to him.
If she’d listened to what common sense told her about Max, she’d have quit working for him long before the Bannermans ever entered their lives. Penny never would have met Julius. No wedding. No kidnapping.
No threat to Penny from a cold-blooded megalomaniac who used people as if they were paper towels.
Wondering how to prove Max was behin
d the murder she resumed dusting. A flashing red light caught her attention. She sat back on her heels and watched the telephone. It didn’t ring, but the light indicated an incoming call. The light turned steady. Max adored gadgets. A week didn’t pass without him buying a new computer program or some high-tech toy. He could have easily made the tape from the so-called kidnappers. He knew all about voice identification. Leave it to him to figure out a way to circumvent it. He’d probably figured out a way to reroute the call through Julius’s telephone, and had made the call from right here inside the lodge.
Agent Patrick had to listen to her. Be cool, be professional , she counseled herself. She straightened her shoulders and assumed a serene expression. She would present her argument as if she outlined a case for a client. Here are the facts, here are the conclusions.
Forcing herself to walk calmly, to breathe deeply and slowly, she made her way to the dining room. She sorted her points in her head: why Max would handwrite the original note as opposed to using a computer; why and how Max would create the kidnapper’s tape; how Max never went anywhere without a telephone, sometimes two of them, and kept abreast of all the latest technological advances such as Call Forwarding and diverting phones through various numbers.
When she reached the dining room the first person she saw was Max. She ducked out of the doorway, then carefully peeked around the jamb.
Max leaned over Agent Patrick. One hand on the table, the other on his hip, he spoke with his mouth very close to her ear. The woman smiled. All traces of the ice-for-blood bureaucrat who so easily tossed Frankie out of the command post were gone.
A touch on her back nearly made Frankie scream. She whirled about. McKennon lifted a questioning brow. She sagged against the wall and clutched the fabric over her pounding heart.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she whispered.
“What are you doing?”
She spotted an open door down the hall. She hustled McKennon into a storeroom. She checked behind her to see if anyone emerged from the dining room before she shut the door. The storeroom was ringed by floor-to-ceiling shelving containing staple goods and paper supplies for the kitchen.