Remember Me (10 page)

With a sigh, she headed for the kitchen, telling herself that she would do the dishes and start some laundry. There was still time to think about the gun. She could always change her mind.

She loaded the dishwasher, then wiped off the table and countertops. As she hung up the dishcloth to dry, her gaze fell on the small corner drawer where Clay had stashed the money they'd found in her clothes. In spite of last-minute nerves, she opened the drawer and took out the bills, staring at them as if at any moment they were going to explain their presence.

But nothing happened.

No flash of memory.

No revelation.

Frowning, she thrust the money back in the drawer. There was laundry that needed to be done. That was what she should be concentrating on, not complicating their lives even more by deceit.

As she separated the clothes, her gaze fell on Clay's Harley-Davidson T-shirt. It was old and faded and all but in rags, and it was her favorite nightshirt. She smiled and lifted it to her chest, hugging it to her and thinking of the man who was her husband.

When she'd worked at the library, she'd almost been jealous of the way her co-workers had acted when he would come to pick her up. Usually wearing clothes he'd worn on the job, the soft, faded denims and blue chambray shirts had molded themselves to his tall, muscled body like the fig leaf on Adam—covering what mattered, but leaving little to the imagination. His nose had been broken once in high school and had a slight bump on the bridge. His eyebrows were thick and dark and had a tendency to arc when he was intrigued. His chin was strong, with a stubborn thrust, and his eyes were a dark, brooding blue. But his bad-boy looks were deceiving. He was sexy as hell, but as faithful and honest as they came.

She sighed, then dropped the shirt into a pile with dark clothing and finished her task. A few minutes later, the washing machine was churning and the dishwasher was beginning the rinse cycle. She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking for another task. Again her gaze fell on the kitchen drawer. She bit her lip and turned away.

“Focus,” she muttered, and moved into the living room and switched on the TV.

A talk show and seven commercial breaks later, she was no more settled than she'd been when she sat down. She glanced at the clock on the wall over the mantel. It was almost ten. Two hours before lunch. At least six hours before Clay would be home for dinner.

As the program ended, a brief news update came on the air, mentioning the possibility of snow before morning and then segueing into a report about the continuing cleanup of the devastating earthquake in southern California.

As the newscaster began to speak and the pictures flashed onto the screen, the skin on her body began to crawl. Blood drained from her face as she stared at the broken buildings and the devastation on the people's faces.

“Run, Francesca, run!”

She jerked and turned, certain that someone was behind her, but there was no one there. She bolted from the sofa and ran to the door, making certain that it was securely locked, then went all through the house, repeating the procedure on all the other doors and windows until she was positive she was still alone.

As she stood in the hallway, listening to the quiet and waiting to see if the voice would reappear, something in her memory began to resurface.

She was running—running. There was a long flight of stairs. Windows shattered like gunshots. She frowned, trying to see beyond the door standing ajar. There was green, lots of green. And many, many trees. And they were falling. Everything was falling. She shuddered and closed her eyes as the image solidified in her mind.

Then someone grabbed her. Pain shot up the back of her neck as she was slammed against a nearby wall.

She heard herself scream, “I want to go home!”

She could see his dark eyes, blazing with anger as he held her fast.

“But you
are
home, Francesca. You belong to me now.”

She could feel herself fighting, struggling without success against the hold he had on her throat. She was choking. She couldn't breathe.

“Let me go,” she had begged. “I don't want to die.”

And then she pushed and he fell. Down the rocking staircase, head over heels, landing facedown on the floor in the foyer. Blood seeped from beneath his head, spilling onto the dark-veined marble and mixing with the falling plaster and broken glass.

The floor rocked. She pitched forward, skinning her knees and hands as she slid down the top three steps before she could stop. Dust was thick in the air now. Something exploded beyond the walls of the house, and as it did, all the lights went out. Ignoring the pain, she bolted down the stairs just seconds before they came undone, only to trip and fall over the man's prone body. When she looked up, she was nose to nose with the unconscious man.

And then everything began to fade.

“No,” Frankie muttered, trying desperately to get back the memory she'd been in. She closed her eyes, trying to make herself concentrate on his features. She needed an identity before she could she go to the police. But the image wouldn't come. All she could see was the cut of his lapel as she rolled him over on his back and took the wallet from his body.

Then she gasped and opened her eyes. The money! That was how she'd gotten the money!

She headed toward the kitchen on the run, telling herself if she could touch it, maybe the answers would come. But when she took the bills out of the drawer, all she got was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she didn't need the gun now. In her vision, the man had looked dead. But something kept pushing at her, refusing to give her ease. At that last moment at the top of the stairs, had he tried to kill her or save her?

She closed her eyes. “Please, God, help me remember,” she whispered, but nothing more came.

Clutching the money with both hands, she held the bills against her stomach as if they were some sort of shield. Her thoughts kept jumping from one scenario to another, but what she kept thinking was little more than supposition. All she remembered was just enough to keep her scared. But as she stood, her fear began to morph into a cold, angry purpose. She headed for her bedroom to change.

A short while later, she exited the house, giving the neighborhood a cursory glance as she headed for the car at the curb.

Mrs. Rafferty from across the street waved at her as she retrieved her morning paper. Frankie waved back and smiled. So one thing hadn't changed. Mrs. Rafferty still liked to sleep late. She was obviously just starting her day.

As she opened the car door to get in, Mr. Davidson, who lived one block over, came by with his dog. He didn't wave. But it wasn't because he was unfriendly. The white cane that he carried before him said it all. He was blind.

Frankie slid behind the steering wheel, and it was only after they had passed that she realized the guide dog he was using was not the same one he'd had before. She watched in the rearview mirror as Mr. Davidson and the dog turned the corner. It was one more sign of how life had gone on without her.

Just before starting the car, she rechecked the address of the gun shop. It occurred to her as she drove away that part of her memory might be gone, but the part of her that mattered most—her will to survive—was strong. Wherever she'd been, she'd still found her way back to Clay.

 

“Here you go, Mrs. LeGrand. Sign here, and we'll have you ready to go.”

Frankie signed the receipt, carefully counting out seven one-hundred-dollar bills as the clerk put her gun in its case and slipped it into a sack.

“How much extra ammo are you going to want?” he asked.

Frankie looked up. “I don't know. Enough to learn how to shoot, I guess.”

He reached for a handful of boxes and dropped them into the sack with the gun. “This will get you started,” he said. “But it's going to add to your cost.”

She took another bill from the envelope and laid it with the others. The money meant nothing to her. Wherever it had come from, she was going to put it to good use.

“If you plan on carrying this, you'll have to apply for a permit,” the clerk said.

She looked startled. Another hitch in her plans. This was getting complicated.

“How do I do that?” she asked.

“You apply through the chief of police.”

“Where do I get the form?”

He took her money from the counter. “I might have one,” he said. “Let me get your change, then I'll look.”

He disappeared into his office, leaving Frankie alone out front. The bell jingled over the door. She spun, suspiciously eyeing the man dressed in camouflage clothing who'd just entered. He paid her no mind, but went straight to a shelf and began going through some magazines there.

She turned, looking nervously toward the place where the clerk had gone. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be free of this place and everything it represented.

Then she looked down at her package, and her shoulders slumped. By taking the responsibility of her own freedom and safety onto her shoulders, she would never feel free again. She glanced up as the clerk reentered. It still wasn't too late.

“Here you go,” the clerk said, handing Frankie her change. “And here's the form you need. Fill it out, send it to that address. After that, it's up to them. Okay?”

Her hands were shaking as she stuffed the change in her purse. By the time she got to the car, she felt nauseated. She opened the door, slid behind the steering wheel and closed the door. The solid thump and the ensuing silence were deafening.

The air felt close as she glanced down at the package on the seat beside her. All she could think was, what had she done?

Suddenly the need to hear Clay's voice was overwhelming. She took her cell phone from her purse and dialed.

“LeGrand Construction, this is Joe.”

“Joe, this is Francesca, Clay's wife. If he isn't too busy, may I speak with him?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. LeGrand. Hang on a minute. I'll get him for you.”

Frankie closed her eyes, concentrating on the background noises she could hear through the receiver. The rapid fire of nail guns was loud and steady. The roar and grind of heavy machinery in constant motion, as well as the boisterous banter of men at work, reminded her that this was Clay's world. Once it had been so familiar to her. Now she felt like an outsider. But before she could dwell on the fact, Clay's voice was on the phone. She went limp with relief.

“Frankie…baby…is something wrong?”

His sympathy was her undoing. She bit her lip as tears slid out from beneath her lids. “No, nothing's wrong.”

“Joe said you sounded upset.”

She glanced at the package again. The urge to tell him was strong—so strong—but he'd borne the burden of her disappearance for too long as it was. She couldn't burden him with the depth of her fears. So instead of telling him the truth, she lied.

“I'm not upset. I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all.”

“You sure you're okay? You sound like you're crying.”

She choked on a sob, hoping it would pass as a laugh.

“You're a worrywart,” she said. “Are you going to be late coming home?”

“I don't think so,” he said.

“Good, that will give me time to make something special for dinner.”

“Don't overdo,” he warned. “Anything will be fine.” Then he lowered his voice. “The only thing I'm really hungry for is you.”

This time Frankie managed a real laugh. “Like I said, I'll make something special.” Then she added, before he could hang up, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Francesca—more than you will ever know. See you later, baby.”

“Yes, see you later,” she echoed, but the line was already dead in her ear.

She tossed the phone aside and looked at the parcel again, only this time the glitter in her eyes wasn't tears. She started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Within minutes, she was on her way to Lakewood to the Foothills Shooting Center. Maybe she was wrong in not telling Clay, but she'd set this in motion. The least she could do was follow through.

If she'd looked back just then, she might have seen the customer from the gun shop come running out of the store. But she was too focused on the traffic in front of her to worry about what might be coming behind.

A
t the tap on her shoulder, Frankie lowered her gun and turned, lifting the headpiece from her ears to hear her instructor's remarks.

“You're still jerking the trigger, Mrs. LeGrand. Just relax and squeeze it, remember?”

She nodded, then readjusted the headpiece as she turned to face the target once more. Mentally reviewing the set of instructions she'd been given, she gripped the gun with both hands and took aim.

Focus.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Squeeze.

The scent of gunpowder was strong in her nose as the handgun bucked in her hand, but this time something within her felt different. When her instructor mouthed “good job” and gave her a thumbs-up, she knew that she'd hit the target.

Smiling with satisfaction, she took aim again and repeated the steps.

Again and again and again.

 

“Hey, Dawson, the chief wants to see you.”

Glad for a reason to abandon the endless paperwork, Avery Dawson tossed his pen aside and got out of his chair. Even if the reprieve was only momentary, it was welcome. A couple of minutes later, he walked into his superior's office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The chief handed him a piece of paper.

“This just came across my desk. I want you to check it out.”

Dawson frowned as he glanced at it.

“A request for a carry permit?”

“Not just
any
gun permit. Look at the name.”

Dawson's mouth dropped. “Son of a—! Francesca LeGrand?”

“My sentiments exactly,” the chief said. “I want you to find out what's going on in her head. I'm disinclined to sign something like this for a woman with her history.”

“But what do you want me to do? There's no law against her owning a gun, or, for that matter, applying for a permit to carry.”

“Aren't you the investigating officer on her disappearance?”

Dawson nodded. “Yeah, although that's pretty much hit a dead end since she's back.”

“Still, there are her claims of being taken against her will,” the chief reminded him.

“I know, sir, but short of some new leads, we're right where we've been for the past two years—with nothing to go on.”

“What about the phone call you got the other day about the identification of a Jane Doe?”

Dawson's conscience pricked. “I told the captain, but so far, we've been unable to turn up any answers.”

“What does your gut tell you?” the chief asked.

Dawson hesitated, then said what he thought. “That it was more than a coincidence.”

“Have you contacted the LeGrands about the call?”

“No, sir. Captain said there was no need to worry them unless we had something solid.”

The chief frowned. “A phone call is solid. They have a right to know. Tell them.”

“Yes, sir,” Dawson said.

The chief stood, then walked to the window, looking out into the streets and the dusting of snow that was falling.

“She still has nothing to say about her disappearance?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

The chief pointed toward the permit. “Something tells me she's keeping secrets. And I don't like secrets on my watch. She obviously feels threatened or she wouldn't be arming herself. I don't like vigilantes, Dawson. Check it out. I don't want someone turning up dead because she went paranoid. Do you get my drift?”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the chief added, “Let me know what she says.”

“Yes, sir. I'll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

 

Marvin Stykowski stepped off the sidewalk and slipped behind a tree as Francesca LeGrand came out of the shooting center. He'd been tailing her for a day now and knew it was past time to check in with his boss.

It had taken him the better part of two days to locate the house, then another half day to see if she was there. He was pushing his luck in not calling Pharaoh, but there were things that he'd had to attend to before he'd been able to begin the search—like finding a supplier and getting a stash. After he started the stakeout, he wouldn't have time to run and make buys. And going cold turkey on the job wasn't a smart way to fly.

No one in Pharaoh's organization knew Marvin was an addict, and it would have gotten him in very deep shit had the fact ever become known. To Stykowski, Pharaoh's rule of no dope was a joke. They bought and sold the stuff. The fact that he was one of his boss's best customers should have been a plus for him, not a thing to hide.

He watched as Frankie drove away before he headed back to his own car. There was no need to hurry. He knew where she was going. All he had to do was find a phone and call home.

And it would have happened, if he hadn't run a red light. The cop on the corner nailed him before he'd gotten halfway down the street. When he heard the short burst of a siren and saw the red lights, his heart took a nosedive. Frantic that the blow in his glove box not be detected, he did a stupid thing. He hit the accelerator instead of the brake.

Twenty blocks and five minutes later, he was facedown on the ground, with handcuffs being snapped on his wrists.

“Hey, man, that's too tight!” he shrieked.

“Then lie still, sir,” the policeman said.

Marvin groaned. Pharaoh was going to kill him.

 

Frankie was taking the roast from the oven when she heard Clay's truck pulling into the drive. Hastily, she set the roast aside, and checked the stove, making sure that all the burners were off. With only moments to spare, she dashed down the hall, disappearing into their bedroom just as Clay came in the front door.

“Hey, baby, I'm home.”

“In here,” Frankie yelled, tossing the last of her clothes on the bed and heading for the shower.

Hot water came quickly, sending a billow of steam into the air. She stepped inside, moving under the water jetting from the showerhead. Quickly she grabbed the shower gel from the shelf, squirted it all over her body and rubbed it into a lather. Minuscule bubbles now covered her skin, lingering on the edge of her chin, on her breasts and on the tips of her fingers.

“Something sure smells good,” Clay said as he walked into the room and began unsnapping his work shirt. He was cold and tired and glad to be home.

“Hey, Frankie, are you almost through in there?” he yelled.

She stepped to the back of the shower and quietly undid the latch on the door.

“What did you say?”

Clay set his work boots near the closet as he headed for the bathroom.

“I said, are you almost through in there?”

She stifled another giggle. “I'm sorry, I can't hear you.”

He was reaching for the shower door when it suddenly came open. Frankie's hand came out, and she grabbed him by the shirt. Before he knew it, he was standing beneath the spray, his clothes plastering themselves to his body.

Frankie laughed and pushed his shirt farther open, running her fingers across his bare belly. He groaned. One hunger was forgotten as another took its place.

“You're gonna be sorry,” he warned, grabbing at her arms, but she was soap-slick and slipped out of his grasp.

She laughed and pulled at his shirt, trying to get it off his shoulders as he took her in his arms.

“You little witch.”

“You have on too many clothes,” she taunted, and slid her arms around his waist.

When her breasts flattened against his chest, he lowered his head with a groan.

“My God, Francesca, you take my breath away.”

“Take mine, too,” she begged, lifting her face for a kiss.

Their lips met, his hard and demanding, hers soft and yielding. Play moved to need, and they both began tearing at his clothes, pulling off the sodden shirt and tugging at the jeans clinging to his legs.

Erect and aching, Clay reached for the water, turning it off and leaving them isolated in the steam-filled enclosure.

Droplets clung to her skin like miniature jewels. Clay's eyes glittered hungrily as he began to cup her breasts. Before Frankie knew it was coming, his hand was between her legs and her knees were threatening to buckle. Her head lolled back against the wall as she grabbed for him to keep from falling.

Within seconds, she was on her back in the bottom of the tub and Clay was driving himself into her. A snap from his shirt was rubbing against her shoulder, and his jeans were wadded up near her feet, but she didn't feel them. All her senses were focused on the precision-like motion of their water-slick bodies.

Time ceased. There was nothing that mattered but the pounding of flesh to flesh and the end that was drawing near. Tighter and tighter he wound her, pushing past boundaries to a point of detonation.

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.