by Sharon Sala
And then it came, hitting her with the power of a fist to the gut and shattering every inhibition she’d ever had. She wrapped her legs around his waist and let go with a cry that echoed eerily within the small stall. Moments later, she felt him shudder, then heard him groan. Two final thrusts and Clay collapsed on top of her, trembling in every muscle and struggling to catch his breath.
“Sweet mercy,” he mumbled, and tried to get up, but Frankie pulled him back down.
“Wait,” she said softly. “Don’t leave me yet.”
He slid his arms around her body, and rolled until he was on the bottom and she was reclining with her back against his chest, her head beneath his chin. He shuddered, then took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart.
“My God, Francesca…”
She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed her lips against the palm. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
A minute passed, and then another. The air began to chill as the steam dispelled. When Frankie shivered, Clay wrapped his arms closer around her.
“I’m sorry, baby, are you getting cold?”
“A little.”
He frowned, loath to turn her loose, but aware that the last thing she needed was to get sick.
“Here,” he said gently, starting to help her up. “I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner, and you need to get into some clothes before you catch cold.”
Frankie turned in his arms and leaned forward, brushing her lips against one side of his mouth and then the other. Then she pulled his shirt and jeans from the bottom of the tub. After wringing them out as best she could, she tossed them on the floor and reached for the faucet.
“What are you doing?” Clay asked.
“Running your bath,” she said quietly. “And then I might be persuaded to scrub your back, too.”
He grinned. “Why all the special treatment?”
Her smile was taunting as she stood, well aware that she was enticing him all over again. She reached on the shelf above for a clean washcloth and grabbed the shower gel on her way back down. She knelt before him, pouring a dollop of the soap in her hand, then reaching for his belly.
“Don’t you think you deserve it?”
When her fingers encircled his manhood, he closed his eyes and groaned.
“I don’t know if I deserve this or not,” he whispered. “But I’ll wring your sweet neck if you stop.”
It was already morning, and Clay was reluctant to get up. He eyed the clock, willing the alarm not to ring. But the closer the hand moved toward six, the more he had to face the inevitable.
He turned off the alarm and then slipped out of bed, taking his clothes with him to the living room to dress so he wouldn’t wake Frankie. As he reached the doorway, he looked back. She had always slept with the abandon of a child, one arm outflung, sometimes a foot hanging off the bed. It was something he had teased her about. But ever since her return, she slept in one place with the covers wrapped around her like a shell. He frowned. If only she could remember what had happened. She wasn’t just his wife. She was his life—his reason for living. And she was asleep in his bed. Just as he’d left her before.
Something in him recoiled; then he shrugged off the fear, angry with himself for the thought. It had been almost a week since he’d felt this much panic. It was probably because of last night. Making love to Frankie was wonderful, but it also underlined what a number her disappearance had done to his own sense of self.
Disgusted with himself for such negative thinking, he headed for the living room to dress. A short while later, he was in the kitchen, pouring water into the coffeemaker and planning his day. When he reached for the coffee filters, there were none. Never one to let details get in his way, he wrote them down on the grocery list, then reached for a paper towel. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d substituted like this. He poked it down in the well, and reached into the kitchen drawer to his right, where a pair of scissors was kept. With a couple of deft snips, the excess paper was removed.
Humming to himself, he spooned the coffee into the filter, shoved the well back in place and turned on the pot. Absently, he tossed the scissors back in the drawer and had started toward the refrigerator when the skin suddenly crawled on the back of his neck. He turned, his heart pounding as he retraced his steps and opened the drawer.
The envelope.
It wasn’t there.
His heart tightened, then skipped a quick beat.
He opened the next drawer, then the next, and the next, until every drawer was pulled out. The blood slid from his face, and for a moment he felt sick. He didn’t like what he was thinking, but there was an indisputable fact that couldn’t be ignored. Fifteen hundred dollars was missing, and he wondered how long it had been gone.
“Clay, what on earth are you doing?”
He turned, staring at the laughter on Frankie’s face and thinking to himself how much she had changed. There had been a time when she couldn’t have kept such a secret—when he would have known by the look on her face that she’d been telling a lie. But now? He shuddered.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Where’s what?” she asked.
“The money.”
Instantly, her expression closed. His heart sank. It was instinct that made him look at her arms, where the needle tracks had been. When he did, Frankie caught the look and exploded.
“Damn you, Clay, I thought we’d come further than this.”
His eyes turned cold; his voice deepened with disappointment and anger.
“Yes, Francesca, so the hell did I.”
An angry flush spread across her cheeks. “I didn’t sniff it up my nose or shoot it in my arms, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He crossed the room and grabbed her by the shoulders, all but shaking her.
“I don’t know what the hell to think,” he muttered. “The woman I married didn’t keep secrets and lie.”
She flinched. The pain from his accusation was as great as if he’d just struck her. She lifted her chin, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“That’s just it, Clay LeGrand. I’m not the same woman you married. My naiveté is gone—forever. Something happened to me that I don’t understand. But whatever it was, I know one thing for certain. I will never be the same.”
Then she grabbed Clay by the arm and began dragging him down the hall.
“What are you doing?” Clay asked.
“You wanted the money.”
His heart stopped. Oh God. What if she’d just moved it? And, like an ass, he’d jumped to every conclusion but a logical one.
“Look, Frankie, I’m sorry if—”
She spun, her eyes brimming. “Shut up, Clay. Just shut up.”
Heartsick, he paused at the doorway to their bedroom. When she walked into the closet, he followed, completely unprepared for what she slapped in his hand.
“Here,” she said. “This is what I bought, and this is what’s left of the money.”
Repelled by the feel of the gun in his hand, he stared at it, then at her, as if he’d never seen her before.
“Why?”
Her chin quivered, and she started to shake.
“Because I’m afraid, Clay. I’m afraid every waking minute and even when I sleep. Just when I think everything is going to be okay, bits and pieces of faces and places slide through my mind like small, ugly ghosts. When they do, I feel as if I’m going to choke.”
Clay’s hands were shaking as he laid down the gun and the money. He cupped her face, his words colored with regret.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were beginning to remember?”
Her expression crumpled. “Because I don’t know what it is that I see. Sometimes it’s only a picture on a wall, or the view from a window. Sometimes I wake up imagining that the floor is rolling beneath my feet. I jump at sounds, and sometimes even an odor can undo me.” Finally her tears spilled over. “Most times I just think I’m going crazy.”
He took her in his arms, pulling her close and rocking her where she stood.
“You’re not crazy,” he muttered. “And I promise that I will never doubt you again. Just trust me enough to tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to face this alone. Somehow, we’ll find out what happened.”
“But how?”
Clay’s expression hardened. “The private investigator. I should have called him sooner. His number is at the office. I’ll call him as soon as I get to work, and I’ll call Detective Dawson, as well. Maybe he’ll have something new to tell us.”
Frankie nodded, but when Clay started to pull away, she clung to him, loath to let him go.
“Come here,” he said softly. “Let’s get you into something warmer, then you can keep me company over a bowl of cereal.”
“I feel like such a baby,” she muttered as he dug out a pair of sweats and tossed her one of his shirts.
Clay glanced at the gun. “You aren’t acting like one,” he said. “Can you shoot that thing?”
Her jaw set. “I’m learning.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I’ve been taking lessons at the Foothills Shooting Center in Lakewood.”
He looked at her with renewed respect. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious,” she said, and then pulled the sweatshirt over her head.
It was almost noon when the doorbell rang. Frankie laid down her paring knife, rinsed the tomato juice from her fingers and grabbed a towel on the way to the door. Through the window, she could see a dark blue sedan parked at the curb. She pulled back the curtain, recognizing the detective assigned to her case. Her heart skipped a beat. Clay had promised to call him. This quick response gave her hope that there would be news. She opened the door.
“Detective Dawson, this is a surprise,” she said. “Come in.”
Avery Dawson stepped inside, closing the door behind him. This woman looked nothing like the woman he’d interviewed in the hospital. Her skin was glowing, and there was a smile on her face. Her clothes were casual, and there was a scent of home cooking in the air. She didn’t look like a woman about to go over the edge, but the fact still remained that she had bought a gun, and that his chief wanted some answers before the permit was signed.
“Thank you, Mrs. LeGrand. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” Frankie said. “May I take your coat?”
Dawson shook his head. “No, I won’t be long, I promise.”
“At least come into the living room. It’s chilly here in the hall.”
Dawson followed her, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her chair.
“When Clay told me this morning that he was going to call you, I never expected this quick a response. Do you have any news?”
Dawson frowned. “I haven’t spoken with your husband, Mrs. LeGrand.”
Her smile slipped. “Oh?”
“No, ma’am. Actually, I’m here at the request of my chief. You applied for a carry permit?”
She frowned. “Yes, I did.”
“Which I take to mean you recently purchased a gun?”
There was something in the tone of his voice that offended her. All of a sudden she felt as if she was being interrogated, when she was the one who’d been victimized. She leaned forward, draping the towel she carried across her lap and resting her elbows on her knees.
“Yes, I recently purchased a gun. I wasn’t aware that such purchases were routinely investigated like this.”
Dawson resisted the urge to fidget. “Normally, they’re not,” he said.
“I see,” Frankie said. “Please continue.”
Dawson was at a loss for words. Suddenly he felt awkward, and he didn’t like the feeling. He was used to being the one in control.
“Look, Mrs. LeGrand, I’m just following orders.”
She remained silent, although her eyes were accusing.
Dawson searched for a question that might make some sense.
“What were you thinking…you know…your state of mind…when you decided to buy a gun?”
Frankie shook her head in disbelief. It was all she could do not to scream.
The tone of her voice rose an octave. “Tell me something. Is this the kind of detecting you normally do? Because if it is, then no wonder no one could find me.”
Dawson flushed. “Look, Mrs. LeGrand, I—”
Frankie stood abruptly. “No, you look, Detective. Someone stole two years of my life from me. I don’t know where the hell I’ve been, or how I got home, therefore I have no way of recognizing danger should it return. Yes, I bought a gun because I don’t feel safe. And after this conversation, my confidence in the Denver Police Department is nil. I am taking lessons from an instructor at Foothills Shooting Center. I am not crazy. I am afraid.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can understand that. But surely you can see the chief’s position. In the wrong hands, guns can do great harm.”
She smiled sarcastically. “Well, sir, that’s a great public-announcement slogan, but it’s certainly not news. Why don’t we just be honest with each other? You people have convinced yourselves that I’m some sort of a nut who abandoned her husband, then, for reasons of her own, pulled a con to come back. Is that about right?”
Dawson flushed again. It was close enough to his original opinion that he had trouble looking her in the eyes.
“No, ma’am, that’s not what I said.”
“Oh, no, I heard what you said,” Frankie said. “It was the way you said it to which I take offense. I did nothing wrong, Detective Dawson, and yet I’m the one under scrutiny. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
It was all he could do to meet her gaze. “Like I said before, I’m just following orders.”
“Fair enough,” Frankie said. “And since you’re here, you won’t mind if I ask you some questions?”
He stood, suddenly uncomfortable with her cold, angry stare. “Ask away,” he said.
“Do you have any new leads on my case?”
He thought of the phone call, then the gun, and shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not since the cabdriver who picked you up at the airport.”
She nodded. “Then get out your notebook. For the past few days, I’ve been remembering things. Nothing that makes any sense, but still things, just the same.”
Dawson scrambled for his pen as Frankie began to pace.
“Wherever I was, there was an earthquake. I don’t know for sure, but I think it was the reason I got away. And everything was green. Lots of grass and trees—even palms, like California,” she added.
Dawson’s heart skipped a beat as he remembered the phone call from L.A.
Then she stilled, and the animation on her face all but died.
“Sometimes I can almost see his face.” Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping as she gave Dawson a quick glance. “But I can’t. However, I did see a tattoo on his chest.”
Dawson looked startled. “What kind of tattoo?”
She lifted her hair and turned. “Like this one,” she said. “Only it was in the center of his chest.”
Dawson leaned forward, staring intently at the small ankh tattoo.
“How long have you had that?” Dawson asked.
Frankie turned. “I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that it wasn’t on me when I disappeared.”
Dawson was making furious notes.
“And once I had the impression that there were bars on the windows in my room. Do you think I could have been in jail?”
“Not with the scenery you’ve described. Besides that, if you’d been in jail and escaped, your description and picture would have gone out on the wire.”
She relaxed slightly. “Good. I couldn’t imagine why I would be there, but it makes me feel better to hear you say that.”
“Is there anything else? Anything at all? Even the most inconsequential thing could be a key to something important.”
A
frown creased her forehead as she thought. Finally, she shrugged.
“Not that I can remember.”
He put his notebook in his pocket, and at that moment he made the decision not to tell her about the phone call from L.A. He wanted to talk to Clay instead. “I’ll be going now. If there’s anything else—anything at all—don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
She nodded and led him toward the door. She started to open it when he stopped her.
“Mrs. LeGrand, there’s something I want to say.”
She waited.
“Off the record,” he added.
She nodded.
“For what it’s worth, I believe you.”
She almost smiled. “For what it’s worth, I thank you.”
Moments later, he was gone, leaving Frankie with the impression that her world was more complicated than ever. It occurred to her that she hadn’t ask him about the carry permit. She shrugged. It didn’t matter to her whether it was signed or not. She had the gun. She knew how to use it.
Ten
Clay flipped through the Rolodex on his desk, searching for the name and number of the private investigator he’d hired once before. A couple of minutes later, he was on the phone to Harold Borden, P.I. It rang once, then twice, then a half-dozen times. He kept waiting for Borden or the answering machine to pick up, but nothing happened.
It had been more than a year since he’d talked to the man, and there was always the possibility that he was no longer in business, although the idea was vaguely surprising. Harold Borden had struck Clay as the kind of man who would die of old age on the job, not puttering in his garage or out on the golf course killing time between meals.
Just when he was about to hang up, the call was finally answered. Clay could hear the short, gasping breaths of someone who’d been running.
“Borden Investigations.”
“This is Clay LeGrand. I’d like to speak to Mr. Borden, please.”
Borden put down his coffee and sack of doughnuts and sat with a thump.
“You’re talking to him. And hello to you, too, Clay LeGrand. It’s been a while, boy. How the hell are you doing?”