Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "No, it wasn't." Mike jumped on her words. "What happened in no way reflects on you."

  "Frank saw me as insignificant. He called me a pawn." Frank was a predator, and predators select the weak, the wounded and the isolated as their victims. The woman she'd become after Tom's death was all of those things.

  "Don't let Palmer define you," Mike said. "Criminals are egotists. To them, everyone else is insignificant. That's what allows them to kill."

  "Give yourself credit," Jason said. "You escaped from Palmer. You made your way through the marsh at night. That took real courage."

  "What if he escaped too?" She was afraid the police were underestimating Frank.

  "I was skeptical," Mike said, "but we've received additional details from the Coast Guard. Three boats saw the fire and raced to the rescue. By the time they arrived, Palmer's boat was engulfed in flames. The dinghy was still attached. They searched the water but found no one."

  "They still haven't found a body, have they?"

  "After twenty-four hours, they stop looking," Jason said. "Sharks. No one's going to find anything."

  "He could have arranged for another boat to meet him. Frank always had a plan B." On a rational level, she could be convinced that Frank was dead, but on an emotional level, she needed reassurance.

  "Someone would've seen that boat," Mike leaned forward as if getting closer would give his words more weight. "Every question you're asking me, I asked the Coast Guard. They're adamant. No one survived."

  Lieutenant Breton stopped by the door to say Superintendent Vernon waited for them in the third floor conference room. For a moment, Claire wished Felix were there. He'd offered, but Mike had told her she didn't need a lawyer unless she wanted one.

  As they walked to the elevator, he took her arm. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll be fine."

  The meeting was easier than she'd anticipated. A typist and a tape recorder captured her words as she described the events of Monday night. Although she hadn't taken any extra meds, the new regimen, she was able to talk about what happened without reliving the terror. When Jason described finding her in the marsh, he made her sound like a heroine instead of the frightened woman she'd been.

  Afterwards, Mike escorted her to the front door. "Before you go," he said, "I want to ask if there's anything we can do to help you get your life back to normal. The Department offers counseling."

  "No, thank you."

  He persisted. "Victims of violent crimes frequently blame themselves. It's perfectly normal, but it's self-destructive. Counseling addresses this."

  "I don't need counseling." She spoke more sharply than she intended.

  "Please don't be offended, but I think you should consider it."

  "Thank you, but no. This is between me and me." As she walked down the steps, she felt his gaze on her back, but she didn't turn around.

  A uniformed officer stood at the end of her driveway and kept the reporters away as her cab drove through the gates. Thank you, Mike. She walked in her front door and collapsed on the sofa. Dorian jumped up immediately, no playing hard to get this morning. She stroked his soft fur and let his purring soothe her. She was going to be fine; she could cope, one day at a time.

  Her answering machine was flashing again. She checked her messages to be sure none were important. The first two were from reporters wanting interviews. She erased them and then listened in surprise to Jeanette's voice.

  "Are you okay? I heard the news, but it can't be true. It just can't be. Frank would never do anything to hurt you. I remember what you told me. I know you didn't love him, but he said he loved you, and I believed him." Her words dissolved in sobs that continued until a beep ended the message.

  The next message was a continuation. "It's me again. Time ran out before I finished. I feel so bad if anything I did was wrong. I would never... But Claire, I just don't believe... Frank would never... I only did... I'm so upset..." The sobs resumed. "I'll call back when I can talk."

  Her third message was brief. A more composed Jeanette said, "Please, call me," and left her home phone number.

  Poor Jeanette. She'd worked for Frank for years. Her life revolved around her job and her identity as Frank's Girl Friday. She had no other life, no real life.

  No real life, that phrase summed up the thoughts that had been whirling around in her head all morning. Since Tom died, she'd had no real life, nothing outside her job. Her only non-work relationship was with her mother, who wouldn't let herself be pushed away. She'd cut herself off from the rest of the world.

  If she'd met Frank at his cabin, his plan would have worked. No one would have missed her until long after the badly burned woman's body found there was identified as Melissa Yates.

  "You'd miss me wouldn't you, Dorian?" She scratched behind his ears, and he purred.

  People would have missed her. Eventually. If she didn't show up for work, Jack would wonder where she was, but he knew that she had bad times, and he respected her privacy. He'd wait a few days before calling, a few more before realizing that she had disappeared. If she didn't call for a couple weeks, her mother would worry. If she didn't pay her rent on the first of the month, her landlord would stop by. Isolated by sorrow, she would have been a perfect victim.

  She escaped. Others had not.

  Frank was responsible for three deaths--no, four--he drove his wife to suicide. He'd abused who knew how many young girls, including his own daughter. Melissa, seduced at fourteen, was also a victim, whether or not she knew about Frank's plan.

  Mike meant well, but she didn't want counseling. She'd had months of counseling after Tom died, but she still hadn't uncovered the fear behind her panic attacks. And this was different. This time, she needed to fight back. She couldn't undo the damage Frank had done, or change history, but she could comfort Jeanette. She could return her call, listen as a sympathetic friend and reassure Frank's girl Friday that no blame fell on her. Talking to Annalisa would be more difficult, but she'd deliver Annette Fulton's letter to her granddaughter or die trying.

  That night her mother called. "I can't stop thinking about you and what you've been through. It would do you good to get away. Come home, Claire. Let me pamper you."

  "I'd love to, Mom, but not this weekend. What if I came for Thanksgiving? It's only a month away."

  "Thanksgiving is a terrible time to travel." There was a long pause. "Are you hurt and not telling me?"

  "No. I'm going to New Mexico." She explained the situation.

  "You shouldn't be running around trying to solve someone else's problems. You need to take care of yourself. Rest, give yourself time to recover."

  "I am recovering, and I'm getting plenty of rest. Promise. I'll call when I get back, and we can plan a visit then."

  Claire didn't fully understand herself, and so she couldn't explain why extending a hand to Frank's other victims was so important. It just was. Part of it went back to her mother, the woman who was always there for her. Annalisa hadn't been that lucky, and neither had Annie Lewis. The lucky ones owed the others a hand.

  CHAPTER 36

  Saturday, October 30, 1993

  Once again, Claire glanced over her shoulder. Nothing had changed. No snake coiled around the potted plant in the corner, no alligator slithered across the carpet, and none of the people waiting in line to rent a car looked anything like Frank Palmer. If anyone was watching her, it was simple impatience. She'd given her driver's license and credit card to the agent several minutes ago, but he continued to frown and peck away at his keyboard.

  "I have a reservation," she said.

  He nodded.

  She checked one more time to be sure Annette's letter was in her purse. She'd also brought the front section of Wednesday's Times Picayune with its stories about her kidnapping and rescue. The newspaper might come in handy when she found Annalisa. The agent finally looked up.

  "I see you're from New Orleans," he said. "Where are you going?"

  His curiosity heightened her unease. "I do
n't plan to leave New Mexico."

  "No problem going to another state. Just don't cross into Mexico." His frown returned. "Those border towns are nowhere you want to be, but that's not why I asked. You reserved a subcompact."

  "I did." It was the cheapest option and plenty big enough for her and her one suitcase.

  "If you're hanging around Albuquerque or going down into the desert, you're fine. But most people who fly in from the East are driving up to Santa Fe and Taos. We're talking seven thousand feet above sea level, uphill all the way."

  "Yes?"

  "Your subcompact won't go forty up those hills. You'll drive everyone behind you nuts. And heaven help you if you need to accelerate quickly. You need a bigger car."

  "How much would a bigger car cost?"

  "Where're you headed?"

  She leaned across the counter and whispered, "Taos."

  The agent gave her a funny look, and she straightened up, feeling like an idiot. There was nothing to worry about. Frank was either dead or he'd escaped, but he wasn't in the Albuquerque Airport.

  "I can let you have a Ford Taurus for another six dollars a day. It should be twenty, but I'll upgrade you at cost because I don't want to rent you an unsafe car." He resumed typing, all the while muttering to himself about the irresponsible idiots taking reservations.

  He lived here, she didn't, and so Claire heeded his advice. She picked up one of the maps stacked on the counter and studied it while he revised the paperwork. "What's the road like?"

  "The road's good. Just take it easy on the curves until you get used to the front-wheel drive. It says here that you're returning by 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday November 3. Is that correct?"

  An hour and a half later, Claire parked the Taurus and went looking for a place to eat lunch in Santa Fe, a city she'd long wanted to visit. She walked around a large plaza, admiring the adobe architecture and lingering on the shady side where vendors sold crafts from blankets spread on the sidewalk. She selected a silver bracelet for her mother and remembered that Annalisa sold jewelry. Buying something might be a good way to approach the girl. Maybe her mother would get two bracelets.

  The vendor recommended a place where the locals ate lunch, a small café several blocks from the square. Claire sat at a table on a patio shaded by a vine-covered trellis and took the waiter's advice about what he promised were the best chile rellenos in New Mexico but decided against the state's finest margarita. So far it had been an easy drive, uphill all the way as promised, but on a wide and straight highway. According to her map, the road between Santa Fe and Taos was two lanes with lots of curves.

  She was traveling into the mountains, not to a border town, but that term stuck in her head. Nowhere to be, the rental agent had said, and he was right. She'd been living in her own border town since Tom died. Fifteen months spent going through the motions on the edge of normal existence, alive but not really living. That was no way to honor Tom, and it was going to change. In a perverse way, she had Frank Palmer to thank.

  On her way out, she flipped through the brochures stacked on a table by the door. One featured the art galleries and outdoor sculpture gardens of Canyon Road. Another described the Georgia O'Keefe Museum. A local church had a miraculous spiral staircase, built without external support, and legend said Saint Joseph was the carpenter. She took a copy to show Jack. If she had time, she'd spend at least one night here on the way back and see the staircase for herself.

  North of Santa Fe, the road narrowed and the countryside changed. On her right, tan and gray, ochre and burnt sienna colored vast hillsides dotted with shrubs the gray-green color of slate. Wire cages, twice the height of her car and filled with rock, lined the roadside, and heavy mesh blanketed the slopes, all of it restraining huge boulders poised to plummet downward. The subtle hues and huge scale created a landscape as exotic as the moon.

  On her left, the ground fell off abruptly. Far below, a small river burbled bright blue around more rocks. Claire imagined enormous boulders crashing down the hillside and landing in the river with an earthshaking splash. A sixteen-wheeler, barreling downhill, rocked her car as it passed. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and thanked the rental car agent for questioning her choice of vehicle.

  Going north, she was next to the cliff. The drive back would be more daunting. Only a narrow shoulder and an intermittent guardrail separated the southbound lanes from that long drop down to the river. White crosses beside the road marked where someone had gone over.

  Claire pulled off to use the facilities at a national recreation area. A browse through the displays revealed that she'd driving beside the Rio Grande. It didn't look very grand, but then it was a long way down.

  Back on the highway, she resumed her climb until one last hairpin curve swooped down and then up to a broad expanse of flat land ringed by an arc of distant mountains. Roadside buildings became more frequent, traffic increased, and a sign welcomed her to Taos. The architecture here was like Santa Fe, only more so. Low adobe buildings seemed to grow from the earth. She spotted the Mesquite Inn, where she'd reserved a room, down the street and to the right.

  Her room was large, with two queen beds and a small sitting area. The windows offered a view of distant mountains turning lavender in the fading light.

  She wasn't hungry for dinner, not after the late lunch, and so she decided to locate the store where Annalisa worked. According to the detective's report, Dream Catchers was on the first floor of an enclosed mall at the west end of the plaza. She put on a warm sweater and headed out, stopping at the reception desk to ask directions to the plaza.

  "Turn left at the corner and walk fifty feet," the receptionist said. "You can't miss it. Taos is not a big place."

  "Thank you."

  "It's usually a busy place, but we're in a lull right now. The summer tourists have gone home, and the skiers don't show up until Christmas."

  Claire ignored the unspoken question about what brought her to Taos in the off-season. "I'm going to walk around a bit, maybe get a bite to eat."

  Several minutes later, armed with three recommendations for dinner, she set out to explore the plaza. She still hadn't decided how to approach Annalisa. Pretending to be a customer and then revealing her real reason for being there would be too devious. If she just introduced herself and handed over the letter, that would be too abrupt. One of Davidson's detectives had tried a direct approach and been thrown out of the shop. Annette Fulton had told her that she'd know what to do. Claire wished she had that much faith.

  The mall was small and she easily located Dream Catchers, which was still open. She hesitated at the door, and then stepped inside to look around. A chime sounded, and the person she'd traveled a thousand miles to see walked in from the back.

  "Hello. Can I help you?" Annalisa's smile was pleasant and impersonal. The nametag pinned to her blouse said Phoenix.

  "Yes." Claire told the simple truth. "I've come to see you."

  "Why?" Annalisa said. A furrow appeared between her brows. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

  "No. My name is Claire Marshall. Your grandmother sent me."

  "My family is here." She folded her arms across her chest, and the furrow became a full-fledged scowl.

  "You have a grandmother in Alabama."

  "What do you want?"

  "I just want to talk to you."

  "We've talked. You've earned your money. Now you can leave." The young woman closed her eyes and opened them again as if hoping that would make Claire vanish.

  "No one's paying me." Just the opposite. This trip with its the last minute airfare was costing plenty. "I'm trying to help your grandmother because she helped me." And because I need to. "I'm sure Paul Gilbert has told you that your father's dead."

  "Frank Palmer is not my father, and he's not dead." She spoke without emotion but with complete certainty.

  "He faked his death two weeks ago, but a lot's happened since then." Claire pulled the newspaper out of her pocketbook. "Here. It's a complicated
story. The easiest thing would be if you just read this."

  Annalisa glanced down at the headlines. "Fine. I'll read this. Later. But he's not dead."

  "Can we meet tomorrow? After you've had time to read the newspaper and think it over? I'm staying at The Mesquite Inn."

  "I'll call you if I want to talk to you." It was a curt dismissal.

  "Good night. See you tomorrow." Claire backed out of the shop, berating herself for being so clumsy.

  The sun had gone down while she was in the mall. On the western horizon, the mountains shadowed deep purple, while gold rays streaked upward, passing through orange to scarlet, then violet. It was the most spectacular sunset Claire had ever seen, and she'd forgotten to bring a camera. Not forgotten, it had never occurred to her. This wasn't a pleasure trip, and she was making a mess of it.

  CHAPTER 37

  The margarita Claire drank before dinner had gone to her head. Or perhaps it was the altitude, or the travel that had left her fatigued, or all three. Regardless, she didn't dare take a sleeping pill until the tequila wore off.

  No, I will not take another sleeping pill, period.

  Fine, stay up all night and be a wreck tomorrow.

  I will not depend on pills.

  The telephone interrupted her argument with herself. "This is the front desk. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour but there's a young woman here who wants to talk to you. I told her it was too late to disturb you, but she insists."

  "Can I speak to her?"

  A brief rustling was followed by a whispered, "It's Phoenix. I have to talk to you."

  "I'll be right down."

  "No, he might see us. I'll come up. Please. What's your room number? Tell the desk clerk it's okay."

  Phoenix slipped into the room, pushed the door shut and engaged both locks. "You have to get out of here," she said. "If he finds you, he'll kill you."

  "Who will kill me?" Claire knew the answer. Melissa had said Frank's daughter was deeply disturbed, and it looked as if she was right. Considering what had happened, how could Annalisa be anything else? She probably saw her father as an all-powerful monster who couldn't be destroyed.