The wind picked up and Erika pulled her coat collar closer to her ears. She'd go back now, and when Connie returned she'd ask to call Michael.
Erika turned, then gasped. Pointed at her heart was the barrel of a black gun. Holding it was Frank Mason.
***
Where was she? Michael paced the office. She hadn't come here, and Connie hadn't called. At least he knew they left together. Connie was good. She could take care of her. But Erika was headstrong, and she'd fought Connie since she arrived. They weren't in the limo with bulletproof glass, but in the Mercedes, which had regular windows.
Calm down, Michael, he told himself. You're in love, but you have to remain rational. He picked up a letter opener, then dropped it. The phone rang and he snatched it up before it completed the first ring.
Shouting into it, he said, "Lawrence."
"Michael, it's Connie."
"Where the hell are you?" His voice was angry, but he was relieved to hear her.
"We're in Strasburg at my mother's house. Erika's fine. There's no cause for alarm. She just needed some space."
Michael knew Connie well enough to know she'd held her tongue over why Erika needed space.
"I told her we'd stay the night and return in the morning. Is that all right?"
"Do you think that's wise?" He didn't want them staying overnight. He wanted Erika back so he could talk to her, make love to her, know she was safe. If she didn't want to get married, they didn't have to. If she couldn't have children, they could adopt. He didn't care. All he wanted was her.
"No, I don't," Connie replied. "I'd much rather be at the estate with the added guards, but I kept a close check on the drive up here. We weren't followed."
"Where's Erika now?" Michael played with the letter opener. "I'd like to talk to her."
"She went for a walk. I'm calling from a local grocery store. We left so fast, I left my cellular unit in the limo."
"Is there a number where you can be reached?"
"I'm afraid not. My mother was a Quaker, remember. She didn't believe in telephones."
Michael sighed.
"Do you want me to tell her anything?" Connie offered
"Yeah," he said. "Tell her I love her."
Chapter 18
"Where are you taking me?" Erika asked.
"Shut up and drive."
Frank Mason sat next to her in the jeep. She drove according to his directions. Her heart hammered and she could hardly control the Jeep. He'd forced her to go with him. Connie hadn't returned, and Erika didn't even get to go into the house. They'd immediately climbed into the black Cherokee and taken off.
Friday afternoon traffic was light and Erika couldn't count on it to give her any time to get away or at least call for help. They bypassed Philadelphia and headed north along Route 1. A heavily trafficked route that ran from Maine to Florida, it was sometimes a four-lane highway, sometimes a normal city street. When they connected with it they were on a highway, but soon it would go through the business district of central New Jersey.
Frank had her switch to Route 95, then the New Jersey Turnpike. They got off at Route 18 in East Brunswick and went to a quiet neighborhood with manicured lawns. She stopped in the driveway of a pretty yellow house on a cul-de-sac with vinyl siding.
"Don't try anything stupid," he told her. "If I have to I'll shoot you here and now."
She believed him. Michael had told her how he killed his children. The man was psychotic. He'd kill her in a minute. Still, Erika checked around her for an escape route. She found none. Inside, he tied her hands and feet to a chair. Erika's breaths came too fast. She forced herself not to hyperventilate.
"What are you going to do?"
"Don't worry, Sister," he said. "Your time isn't right, yet. I need Michael Lawrence. You're the bait."
"Why?" she asked. "What do you want with Michael?"
"I want him dead."
"Why?"
"No more questions," he said, and tied a scarf around her head, cutting her mouth and forcing her to remain quiet. She nearly gagged on it. It tasted of perfume and powder. "I have to go out now," he said. "You wait here."
Erika didn't move until she heard the jeep drive away. Then she tried to free her hands. The knots were too tight and the more she moved, the more they seemed to tighten.
She wondered what Connie had done when she came back and found her gone. Had she called Michael? Were they looking for her? Tears sprang to her eyes. They would have no idea where to look. Connie didn't even know where she was.
Think, Erika, she told herself. You're alone for the time being. How can you get away? Phone? She needed to call someone, the police, 9-1-1. There was a phone on the wall in the kitchen. She could see it from the chair he'd tied her to. It was too high. She'd never reach it to get it off the wall. There had to be another one.
Trying to stand, she found that the ropes cut into her ankles and wrists. It hurt to move. She couldn't walk with the chair tied to her, but maybe she could scoot along in it. She tried only to find pain shooting up her legs and arms. Still, she had to try. There had to be a phone in the other room. Inch by painful inch she moved the chair until she got to the door of the room.
If Erika could have made a sound she would have screamed at the top of her lungs. All she could do was suck on the wet scarf in her mouth. Lying on the floor, in a pool of blood, was a man of about sixty. His eyes were blank and staring at the ceiling. One side of his head had been bashed in, and near him was a bloodstained baseball bat. Tears formed in Erika's eyes and she cried, making guttural noises and choking on her own saliva.
A key stuck in the door and Frank came through the kitchen. "Going somewhere, Ms. St. James?" He grabbed the back of her chair and pulled her back into the dining room. The shades were down in all the rooms except the living room. The house looked lived in, especially with Frank coming and going as if he lived there.
"Getting to the phone would have done you no good," he told her. "The line is as dead as Mr. Thompson." He glanced at the doorway. "Now all we have to do is wait for Michael to come to the rescue."
Erika couldn't speak. She could only use her eyes to question him.
"I sent him a message," he answered. "Your purse."
Erika looked blankly at him. Her purse had been inside Connie's house. They hadn't gone in.
"I got it while you were enjoying the morning air. Black bag, with a gold clasp. Inside was a wallet with your initials on it, a comb, lipstick, more credit cards than any one person ought to have, a checkbook, and a set of keys. I sent him everything. . .but this." He pulled the Christmas picture of Carlton and her from his pocket and showed it to her.
Fear caught in Erika's chest. What would Michael do? Would he come to save her? Did he love her enough to risk his own life?
Oh God! she cried silently. love him. Don't let him come.
***
Michael spent the worst twenty-four hours of his life in the last day. He was helpless. All he could do was wait. He couldn't seem to be still, calm down. He'd paced the library practically all night, waiting for the phone to ring, willing it to ring to give him some relief. He needed to know Erika was alive, that Frank had not done anything to her yet. He'd thought seeing the Mason children killed and Abby's suicide had been enough traumas for a lifetime, but now Erika missing was driving him insane. What had Frank done to her? Michael's stomach was tied up in sailor's knots. His imagination formed pictures of Erika killed in grotesque ways. His nightmares spilled over into the day. What could he do? What could the police do? He hadn't heard a word. Was she all right?
Connie came in looking as bad as he did. "Has there been any word?"
"Nothing," he said.
"Michael, I'm sorry—"
"It's not your fault, Connie," he cut her off. It was his fault, Michael told himself. He'd been the one to make her angry. He was the one she wanted to get away from. If he'd kept his thoughts to himself she'd be here now. But he hadn't. He couldn't know a marriage pro
posal would cause her pain and anger. He hadn't thought about the effect her mother had had on her. Alva Redford had abused her, never giving her the complete love she needed, and even though Michael offered it, Erika was too afraid to accept that he wouldn't break her heart the way men had done in past. If she'd just stayed home or gone to the office, he'd have had a chance to explain. But she'd gone off in a rage and now he might never see her again.
Michael wrung his hands, wishing he had Frank Mason's neck between them. His back ached with pent-up tension. What should they do now?
"Michael," Connie said. "She'll be all right. The police are looking for Frank. You've got an agency tracking him, and now the FBI is involved. They'll find her."
Michael squeezed Connie's shoulder. They had to find her. He felt helpless. The room had been full of people for the entire day and most of the night. The only person who hadn't arrived was Alva Redford.
"This package was just delivered," Adrienne said, coming into the room. She carried a familiar purple and orange Federal Express box. "It has a return label bearing Abigail James as the sender."
Michael shot across the room, heading straight for her.
"Wait," Connie stopped him. She had to physically restrain him from taking the box and ripping it open. "Has it been swiped?"
"Yes," Adrienne said. Then looking at Michael, she asked, "Do you know her?"
“That’s Frank Mason,” Michael said. “He wants me to know he has her.”
Both Adrienne and Connie joined the team of agents in staring at Michael. All of them waited for him to explain what he meant.
“He’s used his wife’s first name and Erika’s last.”
Michael had sudden images of finding an ear or a finger inside the box. "Open it," he said, clearing his throat.
Adrienne pulled the paper tape. A rough, ripping sound exploded in his head. She dumped the contents on the desk. Erika's purse fell out, its clasp striking the polished surface. For a moment no one moved. Then Michael grabbed the bag and opened it. "It's hers," he said. He let his breath out slowly, not wanting to reveal that he'd expected a body part to roll out of the box. Looking at Connie, he saw that her face was as pale as his own. She must have had a similar thought.
"What's this?" she asked, picking up computer jump drive.
"I don't know," Michael answered.
The label read "Play me."
"Where is there a computer?" Adrienne asked.
“Here,” one of the agents said before Michael could lead them to Erika’s office. The agent was already opening the lid.
Connie inserted the key which automatically opened an audio file.
He led them to the salon. There was more music equipment than he'd had as a college student there. Slipping the cartridge into the deck, he turned on the many switches and a voice boomed into the air. Connie reached around him and turned the sound to a more comfortable level.
"No police, Lawrence," the voice said. Michael hadn't heard Frank speak for over a year, yet he immediately recognized the inflection in his speech patterns. "If you want to see your little heiress again, do exactly as I say." There was a pause. "First, no police or she'll be the first one to drop. Second, no bodyguards. If you're not getting this. . .I'm saying I want you, and you alone."
Michael understood. He'd constantly had to school Frank on being precise, leaving no interpretation for his words except the ones they intended. The man had learned quickly.
"Now, you're to go to the old Rutgers boathouse along the Raritan River. The one near the tennis courts off Route 18, just before you get to Commercial Avenue. You know where they are. You played there as a child."
Connie looked at Michael, and he nodded. He knew where it was.
"The boathouse used to be new, but like all things that age it's rundown and boarded up now. There will be a package for you there near the back door. Lawrence, don't try to cross me on this. Come alone. If I even think I see a cop, Erika St. James won't live out the day." He paused again. Michael heard him take a breath. "According to Federal Express, this package should arrive before ten thirty Saturday morning. You've got until two this afternoon to get to the boathouse, or her death will be slow and painful."
The file ended there. The three of them stood in the salon staring at the machine watching the black and white registers cycle down to zero and leave a black screen in its place. Michael checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. The delivery had been late. He started for the door. Adrienne's hand on his arm stopped him.
"Michael," she began. "Don't even consider going alone."
"I don't have a choice," he said. "The area he picked is across from a high hill, with the old Douglass College sitting at the top. The boathouse and tennis courts are open. Nothing covers them. Any place you could think to hide is visible."
"We need to call the police."
"We can't do that," he said too fast, too forcefully. "Adrienne, he's in New Brunswick, not here or New York. The New Brunswick Police Department might be good for traffic tickets and breaking up a student party, but they're no match for Frank. if there's any chance of getting Erika back, I have to go alone."
He pulled loose from her hand.
"Then we call the FBI," she said.
"There isn't time," he told her. "It's Saturday, nineteen days till Christmas. The day is sunny and warm for this time of year. The roads will be mobbed. I'll be lucky to get there on time, and I'm not waiting around for the FBI to come blundering in and get her killed."
"Michael!" Connie shouted. Both women followed him as he started for the front door. He stopped to get a coat and put it on. "Think about what you're doing. You don't want to be the cause of getting her killed, do you?"
That stopped him. "What are you talking about?"
"What are you planning to do when you get there?"
"I don't know. Follow his instructions, I suppose."
"And if he's on that hill with a high-powered rifle pointed at your head, what will you have accomplished?" Connie stopped for a breath. "How will that help Erika? All you'll do is provide him with the ability to kill both of you on the same day."
She got through to him. Michael dropped down on one of the chairs in the hall. "What do you suggest?"
"First, we call the FBI. We can do that from the car. And then we let them take it from there. They're the experts in this. Let them do what we pay them for."
"All right," Michael agreed after a moment. He wasn't sure they should completely put Erika's life into the hands of strangers, but he had to admit Connie's plan made more sense than his.
The two women pulled on jackets. "We can't leave together," Adrienne said. "We don't know if he's watching the house or not. If he sees us all together, he'll know something is up."
"Michael—"
"I'm going to drive myself," he said, not accepting an argument. Michael knew the streets of New Brunswick. They could be small and narrow. If he needed to maneuver, he wanted something small and fast.
"Use the front entrance. Connie and I will go out the back. He can't watch them both at the same time. When you get to New Brunswick, pass it and meet us at the beginning of River Road in Highland Park. I want a good look at that area before we let you go into it."
Michael nodded. "I know where it is." He remembered the interchange well. Twenty years ago River Road had been the easiest method of accessing one of New Jersey's highways. It sat on one side of a two lane bridge spanning the Raritan River. Traffic backed up into the center of Highland Park and the heavily traveled Albany Street on the New Brunswick side. In recent years the roads around it had been redone. A bypass had been added on the New Brunswick side, leading to Route 287 and relieving the small towns of snarling traffic jams.
"Ready?" Michael asked.
"Ready," Adrienne said.
At the garage Michael got into his Porsche. It was small and maneuverable, and he'd once compared its hidden power to Erika's underlying passion. He started the engine. It roared to life at the slight turn of
the key. He hoped that before this day ended they would be reunited.
Connie came over to his window. He lowered it. "We're going to find her, Michael," she said. "All we have to do is keep a cool head and remember our purpose."
"Connie, I'm playing your way." He wanted her to know he wasn't planning any cowboy tactics. Erika's life was the one thing he was concerned about.
"Then we're going to put this bastard away where not even his mother could find him."
Connie was angry. Frank had ruined her perfect record and she really wanted him. Michael saw it in her eyes. Yet, she was cautious, and not apt to overplay the role. He understood that she wanted to make sure he didn't either.
***
The food on her plate smelled delicious, and Erika was weak with hunger. Frank had kept her tied up all night. Her arms and legs were numb. He'd only allowed her up one time, to go to the bathroom.
This morning he'd cooked her breakfast—bacon, scrambled eggs, fried apples, rolls, and coffee. He'd untied her and brought her to the table, then tied her left arm to the chair. Erika ate with her right hand. The food tasted as good as it smelled. Her mouth was sore from the scarf, but she ate anyway. She still looked for an opportunity to escape. She hadn’t found one yet, but when she did she wanted to be prepared to take it without being hampered by hunger. Briefly she thought he could have poisoned the food, but if he wanted her dead he wouldn’t go through the trouble of cooking when he could just shoot her.
Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5) Page 27