by Sheryl Lynn
The front door slammed open. Bo stomped inside. Clots of snow dropped onto the rug and wooden floor. Paul cringed. Bo reminded him of a movie he saw once. A little kid in a wheelchair had to fight a werewolf. When the werewolf busted into the kid’s house Paul had nearly wet his pants. He almost wet his pants now.
Bo was mad.
Chapter Twelve
Frankie stared out the window and studied the traffic on Platte Avenue. Mountains of snow reflected headlights, traffic lights and neon. The rumble of engines was accompanied by tires crunching through slush. Colorado Springs had dug out of the blizzard and now it was business as usual.
She paced the confines of the tiny motel room. The harvest-gold shag carpeting scratched her bare feet. The striped bedspread and matching draperies in muddy colors never seen in nature depressed her. Heat chugged from a vent set high in the wall, carrying musty old smells that enhanced the faint ammonia odor permeating the walls. She peeked out the window again. The little tourist motel, which also offered rooms with kitchenettes by the week, sat on a busy street corner. Platte Avenue used to be a main drag. Now it was a cheesy collection of 1950s buildings—kitschy bars and coffee shops, tourist motels and stark little strip malls—slowly being replaced by fast-food restaurants. She and McKennon hid in plain sight.
Sally’s wig perched like an animal atop a lamp shade. Frankie tugged its strands and wished for a comb. No telling how long she’d need it for a disguise. The way her luck was running, it might be years.
She looked out the window again. She searched the traffic at the intersection for any sign of McKennon’s ear. He’d gone to purchase supplies, but doubts nagged her. Now was the perfect time for him to be the hero in Max Caulfield’s eyes. He acted like her hero, but she didn’t know how to tell if he acted for real or just plain acted.
Max had acted as if he loved her, but all he wanted was for her to pump his ego while he scouted around for the woman of his dreams. Penny had acted like a college student, but in reality sneaked around with a loser twice her age. McKennon had acted like her friend and lover, then betrayed her and now acted like a friend again. She no longer knew what was real.
Her belly growled. She hadn’t eaten anything today. Hunger-weakness fueled her anxiety. A burger joint across the intersection from the motel tempted her, but that would mean leaving the relative safety of the room. Her height and curly red hair made her too easy to remember. The mere thought of pulling on that blasted blond wig made her head ache. She pawed through the purse she’d borrowed from Sally in the hopes of finding a stray mint or candy bar. Nothing.
She turned on the television set. Sitcoms played on every channel. She left it on for an illusion of company and to drown out some of the traffic noise.
Every instinct told her to leave. Chances were McKennon would return accompanied by Max or the cops, or both. She had nowhere to go, no money, no transportation and nobody safe who could take her in. She feared the telephone. By now every person in a position to help her had probably been contacted by the police and their phones were tapped.
Soft knocking startled her. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move at all.
“Frankie,” McKennon called. “Open the door.”
This was it, showdown time. Either he was alone or he wasn’t. In either case she had no way to escape. She forced herself to open the door.
He hurried inside and kicked the door shut behind him. He slung plastic shopping bags on the bed. No Max, no police, only McKennon who appeared happy to see her.
“I made a call,” he said.
Braced for the worst, she sank onto the edge of the bed.
“There’s a warrant out for your arrest. The police know you’re with me.”
She wasn’t surprised, but was curious about what else the cops had found in her apartment. She sought any sign of deception, any sign of impending betrayal on his face. A heavy beard shadow gave him a scruffy, dangerous air—sexy, too, a wayward part of her mind chimed in. She frowned at herself and turned her gaze away. A soft spot ached below her heart. “Who did you call?”
“Ross.”
The unexpected answer made her cock her head. “My cousin? Why?”
“He knows people. He has connections everywhere. And he’s safe.”
She agreed. “What exactly did he say?” Fear drained away, and her belly growled again. She glanced at the shopping bags. One of them must contain food.
“The man the police picked up is definitely one of the kidnappers. The car was stolen, he was carrying Julius’s telephone, and he had a map indicating the same route the kidnappers demanded. It’s not confirmed, but rumor says his shoes match prints found at the scene.”
“Did he say where Penny is? Did he name Max?”
“He isn’t talking. Or, if he is talking, the cops are keeping the information to themselves. Once they positively ID him, they may get some leads.”
“What about me?”
He grinned, his gaze going far away. “That’s us, baby. The cops have been calling my cell phone. I have Caller ID so I avoided speaking to them. I haven’t checked my voice mail yet, but I imagine there are some interesting messages.”
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“I got myself into it.” The full force of his disarming smile and bright eyes focused on her. Her joints threatened meltdown. “No question anymore about Caulfield trying to frame you. But he’ll have to get through me first.”
Her mood lifted. “What else did Ross say?”
“Your family is in an uproar. They’re madder than hell about the arrest warrant. The Colonel is calling every congress person he knows. Ross is hiring an attorney for you. The attorney will advise you to turn yourself in.”
“Not until we have Penny.”
“With any luck the attorney can buy us some time.” He produced a coffeemaker and a bag of coffee. Frankie’s mouth watered at the sight. “I brought some rolls and sandwich fixings. Hungry?”
“Starving.” She pounced on the nearest bag. It contained a dark blue sweat suit, heavy socks and toiletries. She clutched a plastic hairbrush in one hand and a sweatshirt in the other. He had thought about her. Not just food for her belly, but the other necessities of life: clean teeth, brushed hair and comfortable clothes. Wretched tears filled her eyes with grit.
Glad he was busy making coffee in the bathroom, she snuffled and scrubbed her eyes and swallowed until her throat loosened up. Don’t be a dope, she chided herself. It’s only a cheap sweat suit.
She set the bag of goodies aside and found the food. Within minutes she’d transformed the fixings into a picnic which she then attacked like a marauding bear. Bolstered by ham and cheese sandwiches, chips, cookies and coffee, some of her brain fuzz subsided.
She wiped crumbs off her mouth and gulped a slug of coffee. An ember of warmth kindled in her belly. For the first time today she didn’t feel as if she were made of ice. “We need to turn in that vial of Butunal right away,” she said.
McKennon regarded her. He sat on the opposite side of the bed. The room had a tiny desk but no chair. She wondered about the sleeping arrangements.... Now fed, other hungers clambered to the fore. No matter how angry she was, or had been, she desired him. She yearned for his skin against hers. She craved the peace she’d found in his arms.
She roughly shoved such thoughts from her head. No time for that right now.
“It has to be the murder weapon,” she said. “The cops can trace it. Maybe it was prescribed to Belinda.”
He grabbed a handful of corn chips and held one up as if it might contain answers. “It’s dangerous.”
“Tell me what isn’t dangerous.” She glanced at the bag remaining on the bed. It contained the supplies she’d requested: a powerful lamp, magnifying glass, ruler and note pad. “I have to keep the notes, but there isn’t anything we can do with the drug.”
He chewed the remains of a sandwich, his expression thoughtful. “You’re ri
ght. I’ll make arrangements with Ross. He can handle the delivery. We’ll write up affidavits about finding the vial.” His eyebrows rose. “Have you been hospitalized at any time in the past six months?”
Bemused, she shook her head.
“Visited a doctor? An emergency room?”
“No. Why?”
“Is there the remotest possibility you had any opportunity to acquire the drug?”
She saw his point. She guessed the Butunal was kept locked up in hospitals and pharmacies. If the slightest chance existed she could have stolen it or been prescribed the medication, giving the vial to the cops would drive a nail into her coffin. “There’s no way. I even skipped my annual checkup this year.”
They reached for the corn chips bag at the same time. She bumped his hand. He jumped as if she’d burned him. He shook his left hand hard and the bandaging gleamed in the wan light.
“I forgot!” she exclaimed, embarrassed all over again about her cat. “Did you get some more antibiotic cream?”
“It’ll be all right. It’s in a weird spot, that’s all.”
“Cat bites can be nasty.” She scooted across the mattress and held out her hand in demand. “Let me see.”
He obediently laid his left hand on her palm. She peeled the bandage strips away from one side of the wound. The bite marks were inflamed, but looked clean. “Wash this again and put a fresh strip on it. I’d hate for you to lose your thumb.” She smoothed the Band-Aid strips back in place. She lightly kissed the wound.
Realizing what she’d done, she froze. McKennon grinned at her. “It’ll be all right,” he said, his voice gentle.
She wondered if he meant his wounded hand or her wounded heart.
“I’m going to shower and change,” she said. She grabbed the bag containing the sweat suit and toiletries.
By the time she finished in the tiny bathroom, she felt a little bit better, but no less exhausted. She wanted to examine the ransom note drafts, but her eyes were so tired they burned and watered. She poured a fresh cup of coffee.
McKennon had stacked supplies on the tiny desk. He stretched out on the bed, his feet crossed. One hand was behind his head, and the other, his wounded hand, rested on his chest. On the television a late-night talk-show host made jokes about global warming.
“McKennon?” she whispered.
He didn’t move. She noticed his telephone hooked up to a portable charging unit. Must have been a Boy Scout, she mused, always prepared. She looked between him and the cup of coffee she carried and the desk. A few hours sleep, that’s all she needed. She dumped the coffee in the bathroom sink, turned off the pot, left on the television with the volume just high enough to offer a foil against the traffic noise, then slid under the covers. McKennon stirred, but didn’t awaken. She wished he were holding her again, loving her, making everything all right.
She wished he could snap his fingers and make Penny safe. Grief rose and she jammed her fist against her mouth as a barrier against sobs. Tears soaked the thin pillow beneath her head.
She suffered ugly dreams of drowning and pitiful three-legged dogs she couldn’t help because she was dying herself.
“It’s okay, baby,” a gentle voice soothed against her ear. “Just a nightmare. I’m here. It’s okay.”
She startled awake with a loud “Huh!” A heavy weight prevented her from bolting upright. It took several seconds for her groggy brain to realize McKennon held her. His warm breath caressed her neck. The nightmare imagery faded, and her heart slowed to its normal beat. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness. A news show played on the television. Sunshine highlighted the frayed edges of the shabby draperies.
“You were groaning,” he said. “Bad dream?”
She rolled to her back. McKennon lay atop the covers, but had pulled some of the bedspread over himself. She felt squeezed in a sausage casing. “I hate waking up in strange places.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
She no longer remembered anything except the sensation of dying. “Doesn’t matter. Just a dream.” She tried not to smell him. His scent intoxicated her and made her feel hot from the inside out. “What time is it?”
He left the bed and turned on a light. “Nearly seven-thirty.”
Joints creaking, muscles thrumming as if she’d run a marathon in her sleep, Frankie extricated herself from the tangled covers. Seated on the edge of the bed, she bent over and rested her face on her hands. The bathroom door shut. The shower began to run.
“Bannerman” caught her attention and she sat up straight. On the television a reporter was saying, “Police sources have identified the alleged kidnapper of Mrs. Julius Bannerman.” A mug shot of a round-faced man with light hair and nondescript features appeared on the screen. “Charles Cashorali was released this morning from Memorial Hospital and is now in custody in the El Paso county jail.”
An off-camera voice asked, “What is the link between Cashorali and the Bannermans?”
“Thus far—” the camera returned to the perky faced reporter “—no official sources are answering questions.”
“And what about Mrs. Bannerman?”
“Well, Tom, she may prove to be the biggest mystery of this entire affair. Belinda Bannerman Caulfield denies a daughter-in-law even exists. Official sources have confirmed that Mrs. Bannerman married the murder victim only hours before the crime occurred. The FBI is currently investigating her disappearance, but will not confirm whether or not she’s been kidnapped or if a ransom has been demanded.”
The camera switched to a male reporter in a studio. “Thank you, Jane. We’ll return to you as events unfold. Now let’s go to the weather.”
Why, she wondered, did television reporters even bother. They were talking heads broadcasting how much they didn’t know about anything. She wished for a newspaper.
McKennon came out of the bathroom, clean, shaved and dressed in fresh clothing. She told him about Charles Cashorali.
He shook his head. “Never heard the name.”
“Damn,” she breathed. She’d hoped for a solid link between the kidnapper and Max. “They showed his picture, but I didn’t recognize the face.” Disheartened, she trudged into the bathroom. McKennon had started a fresh pot of coffee. For a long moment she stared at the gurgling pot. Steam curled from the edges of the filter basket. The aroma made her mouth water.
McKennon was so solid and dependable. He demonstrated his goodness in countless little ways. She crunched the sweatshirt in her fingers. The fleecy insides comforted her skin. A pair of socks tumbled to the floor, and the sight of them nearly reduced her to tears. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of her. Or when she’d allowed anyone to care for her. Troubled by her pathetic longings, she took a quick shower, brushed her teeth and worked her hair into a semblance of order.
McKennon had sandwiches ready and the desk set up for her to go to work on the ransom note drafts. He’d turned the sound off the television and had a radio playing.
“David Sams’s morning show,” he said.
While eating a sandwich, she listened to the radio talk-show host. His topic was police incompetence. The jumping off point appeared to be Julius Bannerman’s murder. As she listened to him rant about the chief of police and the county sheriff, she decided he was a kook and completely uninformed. Callers who mimicked his sentiments were encouraged to ramble; callers who disagreed were called rude names then disconnected to the sound of a toilet flushing. She wondered what made him so appealing that he was on the radio five days a week.
“The kidnappers used his voice to make the tape. Do you think they’re listening to him now?” she asked.
“You have something in mind?”
“Wouldn’t Mr. Sams love the scoop of the century? If I call him maybe the kidnappers will hear. They’ll know I’ll do anything to get Penny back.” She glanced at his telephone. “They can’t trace our location. Can they?”
“If by ‘they’ you mean the radio station, I doubt it. It
’s worth a shot.”
She’d finished a cup of coffee and was working on a second before the radio station gave out its number and invited listeners to call. McKennon handed her the telephone. She punched in the number. After three rings a woman answered and cheerfully asked if she wished to speak to David Sams.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I’m Frankie Forrest. The police think I murdered Julius Bannerman.”
Silence filled the phone line. Frankie feared the woman had hung up on her. She almost disconnected when the woman asked, “Is this a joke?”
Commercials played on the radio.
“I wish it were,” Frankie said honestly. “I didn’t kill Julius, but I’m being framed. Only that doesn’t matter. What matters is my sister has been kidnapped and I need to get her back.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Fear fluttered in her chest. McKennon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. His long fingers squeezed. “Just put me on with Mr. Sams. I’ll tell him everything I know.”
“Can you hold?”
Frankie envisioned the screener calling the police and arranging for a signal search to trace the location of the cellular phone. “I’ll hold.”
Over the phone she could hear the radio show happening live. A delay caused a mismatch between what she heard on the phone and what came through the radio.
“How much should I tell him?” she asked.
“Tell him anything he wants to know.”
Radio promos were playing when Frankie heard a click and David Sams said, “So you’re Frankie Forrest. Give me a reason to believe.”
His smug tone irritated her. “You can believe what you want, Mr. Sams. The fact is, I’m Frankie and my sister, Penelope Ann Forrest married Julius Bannerman. Whoever killed him also kidnapped her. Penny is still missing. I’m trying to find her.”
“Is your radio on?”
She motioned for McKennon to turn down the radio. “Look, Mr. Sams, you don’t know the whole story. Belinda Caulfield is making headlines, but it has nothing to do with police incompetence. She doesn’t care what happens to my sister.”