Remember Me (15 page)

Finally the car pulled up to the main gates. Beneath the security lights, the driver's red, curly hair and goatee were a giveaway to his identity. Stykowski.

Pharaoh reached for the intercom. “Let him in,” he snapped.

The gates opened inward, making way for the car to come through. Pharaoh watched Stykowski park. He saw the bravado in his walk. Only after the man had been given entrance to the house did Pharaoh turn his back on the window.

He rolled his rabbit's foot back and forth between his fingers like worry beads as he strode to his desk. They would be here soon. Duke had his orders. The minute Stykowski arrived, he was to bring him in here.

Pharaoh tossed the rabbit's foot onto his desk and then opened a drawer just as the knock sounded on his door.

“Enter!”

Marvin Stykowski sauntered inside.

Pharaoh stepped back from the desk and fired without aim. Luckily for Duke, who was only a few feet away, he was a good shot. The bullet ripped through Marvin Stykowski's brain before he could register fear. Blood spattered across Duke's face, like blowing rain against a window.

Duke gasped and then froze—afraid to move, afraid to breathe. The look on Pharaoh's face was terrifying. Never, in all the years that he'd worked for this man, had he seen him in such a rage. Duke took out a handkerchief and began wiping his face.

“Get rid of that puke,” Pharaoh muttered, then tossed his gun back in the drawer and pushed it shut.

Duke stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his suit and went for the phone.

Within minutes, the body was gone.

Pharaoh was standing at the window with his hands behind his back, again contemplating the Las Vegas skyline as if he'd never seen it before.

“This is a powerful city,” he mused.

“Yes, sir, that it is,” Duke muttered.

“I should have waited to ask him what he'd learned in Denver,” Pharaoh said.

“If you say so, boss.”

Pharaoh turned, then frowned, as if looking at Duke for the first time.

“Your clothes are ruined. Tomorrow, go downtown to my tailor and get yourself a new suit. I like my men well dressed.”

Personally, Duke was just happy to still be breathing, but he would certainly do as the man said.

“Yes, sir. I will. Will there be anything else tonight?”

Pharaoh frowned. “I need someone I can trust to go to Denver. Who do you suggest?”

Duke shrugged. “I don't know, Mr. Carn. Everything has been so messed up since the quake, I don't know who's where, or if they're even alive.”

Pharaoh sighed. “And therein lies the problem, right, Duke? It's the fault of that damned quake. Oh well, I suppose we'll have to make do. See if Simon Law is available. He's done work for me before.”

“Yes, sir. I'll get on it right away.”

Pharaoh waved his hand and gave Duke a benevolent smile.

“It can wait until morning. Get yourself a good night's sleep. God knows we can all use one.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir,” Duke said. And even though he knew the gun was still in the desk drawer, the flesh tightened in the middle of his back. Later, as he took off his bloodstained clothes and stepped beneath the shower, he wondered which would be worse—knowing you were going to die, or getting it in the back, completely unaware.

T
he motel television was playing softly in the background. Frankie was smiling at the cheese string hanging from Clay's second helping of delivery pizza when the telephone rang. She jumped, watching anxiously as Clay dropped the slice back in the box and reached for the phone. Frankie hit the mute on the remote as Clay started to speak.

“This is LeGrand.”

Avery Dawson shifted the receiver to his other ear.

“Got your message,” he said. “What's up?”

It's Dawson,
Clay mouthed to Frankie, then reached for his notepad. He didn't want to forget anything.

“Plenty,” Clay said.

“Where are you?” Dawson asked.

“Still in Albuquerque. We found out some stuff you might find interesting.”

“I'm listening,” Dawson said.

“We spoke to Adeline Bell, the administrator at Kitteridge House, which is the orphanage where Frankie grew up. It seems that there was a young man who was obsessed with Frankie, from the time of her arrival at the age of four up to the time he got sent to prison.”

“Obsessed, huh?”

Clay frowned. “That wasn't my word, it's the term Adeline Bell used. I'll give you her number. Talk to her yourself. She didn't paint a very healthy picture of their friendship, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay, I'm still listening. So he went to prison. What for?”

“I don't know for sure,” Clay said. “But Miss Bell said by the time he got out, Frankie had turned eighteen and was already gone. She said he raised holy hell when he found out he'd lost touch with her.”

“And that was how long ago?” Dawson asked.

“Frankie's been out of Kitteridge for a little over eight years. I'm not sure about when he got out of prison. All we know is he came back looking for her.”

“Yes, but…”

“There's more,” Clay said. “Frankie claimed she didn't remember any such person, which seemed to surprise Miss Bell. Yet when Frankie saw a picture of the young man, she fainted.”

Now Dawson was paying attention. “Damn. Did she identify him as the man who abducted her?”

Clay hesitated. “No, she hasn't remembered anything that detailed. All she's been able to say about her abductor is that he has a tattoo on his chest, remember?”

“Yeah, that Egyptian thing.” Then Dawson sighed. “Look, Clay, I know this sounds promising, and I will certainly check it out. But you do know that we can't make a case like this without some actual physical evidence.”

Clay wouldn't look at Frankie. He knew that she would be able to tell that Dawson wasn't all that fired up about what he'd just said, and after the way her day had gone, he hated to disappoint her again.

“Yes, we're aware of that,” he said shortly. “However, we would appreciate it if you would check the man out. He has a record. It shouldn't be all that difficult to locate him.”

“Sure, what's his name?” Dawson asked.

“Pharaoh. Pharoah Carn.”

Avery Dawson rocked back in his chair.

“Not
the
Pharaoh Carn.”

Clay frowned. “You know him?”

Frankie gasped, then leaned forward, her own pizza quickly forgotten. “What?” she whispered.

Clay pulled her forward, then held the receiver so that they could both hear what Dawson was saying.

“No, I can't say that I know him personally,” Dawson said. “But I certainly know
of
him. However, it remains to be seen if the Carn you're talking about is the same one I'm thinking of.”

“What's so special about your Pharaoh Carn?” Clay asked.

Dawson snorted beneath his breath. “I wouldn't call him special. More like notorious.”

Frankie's fingers curled as her pulse reacted. She glanced at Clay, her eyes wide with shock.

“What has he done?” Clay asked.

“Nothing the law could prove,” Dawson said. “But in certain circles it's a well-known fact that he's Pepe Allejandro's number-one man.”

Clay's gut tightened. “Allejandro…as in the California crime family?”

“One and the same,” Dawson said. Then he added, “Jesus Christ, LeGrand. If we're dealing with these people, neither one of you will be safe.”

“There's something else,” Clay said. “A couple of weeks before Frankie disappeared, the AP ran a picture of her. It didn't amount to anything except a pretty girl laughing in the rain, but it ran in papers all over the United States. She thinks that might be how he found her.”

“Well now, why didn't this ever come up before?” Dawson asked.

“It wasn't me who thought of the connection, it was Frankie,” Clay said. “So how soon can you find something out?”

Suddenly, Frankie bolted out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Clay was torn between following her and needing to finish this conversation.

“I'll do some checking,” Dawson said. “We need to know where this Pharaoh Carn grew up. And where he's been for the past two years, and, even more to the point, where the hell he is now.”

“Okay,” Clay said. “We're heading back to Denver tomorrow.”

“Call me the minute you get in. If any of this pans out, we might need to discuss some other options. That gun your wife bought won't solve anything if the Allejandro cartel is involved. It would be like throwing peanuts to try and stop a raging elephant.”

“Yeah, right,” Clay muttered as his hopes continued to drop. In the next room, he could hear water running. He got off the bed. “Hey, Dawson,” he added.

“Yeah?”

“Hurry…okay?”

“I'm on it now,” Dawson said.

The line went dead in Clay's ear. He laid the pizza box on the table and headed for the bathroom.

Frankie was sitting on the side of the tub with her elbows on her knees and her hands over her face. There was a wet washcloth dripping water on the floor next to her feet.

“Baby…are you okay?”

She looked up. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

“Are you okay now?”

She nodded.

“Come lie down,” he urged, and helped her back to the bed, then stretched out beside her. She was trembling uncontrollably, but every time he tried to hold her, she kept pushing him away.

“Francesca, don't fight me,” Clay begged. “I'm on your side, remember?”

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Clay…oh my God.”

“Don't cry, honey. It's going to be all right.”

“How can it be?” she wailed. “You heard him. The man is dangerous.”

“But we don't know that the boy who was infatuated with you is the same man involved with Allejandro. And even if he is, that doesn't mean he's the one responsible for kidnapping you.”

She laughed bitterly. “Please, Clay…just how many Pharaoh Carns do you think there are in the United States?”

He sighed. There was no denying that the uniqueness of the name certainly lessened the odds. And the fact that she had not been physically harmed during her two-year absence leaned toward the theory that, however twisted the reasoning, whoever had taken her had cared about her welfare. That fit the profile of the young man Addie Bell had described.

“I want to know the truth, don't you?” Clay asked.

Frankie stilled, her face streaked with tears, her eyes glittering with anger.

“Do you think you can face the truth?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” he said.

She rolled away from him and sat up in bed, unable to look him in the face. “What if I was his…what if he…?”

Clay's voice deepened with anger. “You mean, what if he had sex with you? Goddammit, Francesca, do you think I haven't thought about that a thousand times since your return?”

“I don't know,” she whispered. “We haven't talked about it, and I just—”

“Do you think I'm so shallow that I'd judge you by circumstances beyond your control?”

She didn't answer.

“Look at me, dammit.”

She did.

His voice softened. “If you'd been attacked on the street and raped, do you think I would not love you anymore?”

“No, but—”

“There are no buts,” he whispered. “It's the same thing. Whatever happened to you was not by choice. We just need to make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“I'm scared,” she whispered.

“I'm scared, too,” Clay said. “But as long as we have each other, we'll get through.”

Her voice was still shaking. “If this criminal
is
the same man I knew as a child, and if he's the one who kidnapped me, then we're in a lot of trouble, aren't we?”

Clay sighed. “I won't lie to you, Frankie. If that's the case, it won't be easy to protect ourselves. But we'll do it. Remember, if it's him, we have an advantage this time that we didn't have before.”

“What's that?”

“We know what he looks like.”

“But, Clay, people like him hire thugs to get things done. He wouldn't come himself. We have no way of protecting ourselves against strangers. It could be anybody.”

“Then we'll hide, Francesca. At least until your memory comes back, or until the police get enough evidence to arrest him.”

She frowned. The idea of hiding didn't sit well with her. “I don't know,” she muttered. “What if neither happens?”

“But it will, and in the meantime, trust me to take care of you.”

Frankie reached for him then, falling into his arms and burying her face against his chest.

“Make love to me, Clay. Make all of this ugliness go away.”

“Abracadabra,” he whispered, and lowered his head for a kiss.

And it was magic indeed.

It went on and on and on, until Frankie's head was spinning and her heart was on fire. She was gasping for breath and begging him to take her, and still Clay wouldn't give in. His touch was tender, his skill at hitting all her pulse points maddening.

“Clay…”

“Not yet, Francesca.”

She sighed.

Then he moved away, and for a fraction of a second the abruptness of the motion left her stunned. Before she could object, he gently rolled her from her back to her stomach, leaving her facedown on the sheets.

“What are you—”

Suddenly, the question became moot. Clay was kissing the bottoms of her feet, then the backs of her legs. When he got to the bend of her knees, she moaned.

“Clay.”

“Shh.”

She closed her eyes and gave herself up to his demands.

Sometimes it was a nibble, sometimes a caress, once she felt the imprint of his teeth, and then it was gone. The weight of his body came next as he straddled her legs, then stretched out on top. He should have been heavy, but all she felt was the love. His hands slid beneath her rib cage, cupping her breasts, then stroking the nipples until they were hard, aching nubs. Her breath came in short, jerky gasps as she struggled to focus, but she was coming undone.

And then his hands were in her hair and he was moving it aside. She felt the warm, wet stroke of his tongue against her neck, then her cheek, and then he centered his mouth on that damnable tattoo.

She groaned, and heard him chuckle.

With one hand across her breasts and the other on the flat of her belly, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Before Frankie's world had stopped rocking, the hand on her belly slipped lower, stopping at the juncture of her thighs.

She jerked, and then gasped as his voice vibrated against her ear.

“Easy, baby, just follow the feeling, it'll take you where you want to go.”

He started to move, stroking gently at first, and then harder and faster until Frankie was lost. Everything shattered, including her mind.

 

Duke Needham breathed a sigh of relief as he hung up the phone. Finding people who were not only willing, but able, to follow his orders had not been easy. But Duke had persevered. He had no intention of being the bearer of bad news and winding up like Stykowski, with a hole in the middle of his forehead. He headed for the exercise room, hoping the news he had just gotten would change Pharaoh's attitude for the better.

 

Pharaoh's hair was wet with perspiration, as were his T-shirt and sweats. The muscles in his legs were burning, weak from enforced inactivity. His heart was pounding as if he'd been running for miles, when in fact he had yet to walk two. He kept staring at the treadmill's digital readout, certain that it was not registering correctly, and getting more and more pissed by the minute. He did not tolerate weakness—not even in himself.