Remember Me (24 page)

C
lay opened his eyes to find himself staring straight up at the sky. There was a fire in his back that even the snow couldn't put out, and he struggled to remember why he would hurt.

Memory hit, like a fist to the gut. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been lying here, but the last thing he remembered was seeing Pharaoh's face and shouting Frankie's name. Had she heard? Did she have time to get away? Or, dear God, did he take her? Was she already gone?

A deep groan slid out from between his clenched teeth as he rolled onto his side, then up on hands and knees. It was only after he looked down at where he'd been lying that he saw all the blood.

That was when he knew he'd been shot. The thought of Frankie and their baby at the mercy of a man like Pharaoh Carn was enough to get him past the nausea that pushed up his throat.

God…help me.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a clump of a nearby hedge and pulled himself up.

 

Frankie moved silently down the hall with her back against the wall. Her hands were steady, her focus clear. All the hours she'd spent at target practice came back to her in a rush. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't panic. And don't jerk the trigger.

It never occurred to her that she would not be able to shoot. She'd felt the kick of the gun in her hands too many times to get squeamish now. Not when she knew Clay was stretched out in the snow only a few feet beyond these walls.

The low, urgent undertones of men's voice came from somewhere off to her left. They were in the utility room. Obviously, when they'd heard the washing machine come on, they'd thought that she was there.

She paused, her heart pounding. There was a sudden metallic taste in her mouth. Fear.

Her resolve deepened even further. There was no way she would let herself be taken again. The boy who'd been her friend had turned into a devil.

Then she heard a soft chuckle, and her heart skipped a beat. With the sound came a flood of childhood memories, coupled with two years of hell.

Of dark eyes and a smiling face.

Of gentle hands braiding her hair.

Of tying her shoes and pushing her high—so high—in the schoolyard swings.

Of hugs and toys and extra pieces of candy that the other kids didn't have.

Of locked doors and barred windows, of opulence and neglect.

Of knowing that there was no escape from a man with this kind of power.

Then of running without looking back.

“Francesca…I know you're in here.”

She shuddered as the images faded. Panic shafted. The front door was too far away. All she could do was pray that the 911 dispatcher would send her some help before it was too late. Gathering her courage, she aimed her gun at the doorway leading into the kitchen.

 

Avery Dawson was at a stoplight when his cell phone rang. He answered, a bit surprised to hear the downtown dispatcher's voice.

“Detective Dawson, we have a message for you that we didn't want to broadcast. A woman called 911 a few minutes ago, identifying herself as Francesca LeGrand. She said to tell you that her husband had been shot and that the people had come back to get her.”

Oh damn.
“Have officers and an ambulance already been dispatched to the residence?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. About two minutes ago.”

“Send backup, as well,” he ordered. “And tell Emergency Services that we're on the way.”

He ended the call, then tossed the phone on the seat.

“Francesca LeGrand just made a call to 911. Clay's been shot and, according to the dispatcher, at the time of the call, intruders were in the house.”

Ramsey slapped the light on the dash and hit the strobe as Dawson hit the siren.

Dawson made a U-turn at the intersection and headed back the way they'd come. His gut was in knots at the thought of what was going on at that house. After all the city of Denver had put Clay LeGrand through, he couldn't be dead.

Ramsey checked his revolver, then slid it back in his shoulder holster as Dawson skidded around a corner.

“Careful, buddy,” Ramsey said. “There are still some patches of ice on the streets.”

But Dawson just kept on driving without slowing down. Ice be damned. The system had let this couple down once before. He wouldn't let it happen again.

 

The silhouettes of two men suddenly appeared, framing the arched doorway leading into Frankie's kitchen. She slid a few feet to her right and shifted her stance, taking care to stay between them and the front door. She took a deep breath, focusing first on the man with the gun. He was familiar, right down to his size 52 shoulders and the graying ponytail that hung down his back.

Duke Needham, Pharaoh's second in command.

After a moment of hesitation, she kept her gun aimed on him.

When Pharaoh saw her, his heart skipped a beat. So beautiful. But then his gaze slid from her face to the gun in her hand. He frowned. This was something he hadn't expected. He took a step forward, and she instantly shifted her stance, aiming the gun at him instead. He paused in shock. The look on her face seemed so…

He shuddered. For lack of another word, all he could think was that her expression was deadly. He tried smiling, speaking to her in a soft, chiding voice, as a father would to a child.

“Francesca…what are you doing? Put down that gun.”

Her gaze never wavered, but she didn't respond.

A skitter of nerves momentarily shook his concentration.

“Come on, Francesca, you can't shoot me. Remember me? I'm the one who held you when you cried. I taught you to tie your shoelaces. I braided your hair and read stories to you when you were sick. I love you, Francesca. You belong to me.”

Frankie's eyes began to tear. “I trusted you…once. But look what you did. You took me from my home…from my husband. You stole two years of my life and my innocence. That's not love. That's obsession.”

She inhaled a shaky breath as Duke suddenly separated himself from Pharaoh.

“Don't move!” she screamed, and took deadly aim at Duke Needham's head again.

Duke froze. With less than twenty feet between them, being a good shot was immaterial to the fact that, at this range, she could hardly miss.

Pharaoh took a deep breath. This was more complicated than he'd imagined. He held out his hand and took a step forward. At the motion, Frankie's aim once again shifted to him. As it did, Duke made a lunge toward her.

Before Pharaoh could blink, Frankie squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. Duke's legs buckled, first his right, then his left, as the bullets entered and exited his knees, shattering bone and muscle. The gun he was holding went sliding across the floor. Frankie kicked it out of the way as she held her aim.

Duke's agonized screams suddenly filled the room, making coherent speech impossible. Stunned, Pharaoh could only stare in disbelief at what Francesca had done to his man. There was no fear on her face, only fury. He thought of her husband, lying dead in the snow, and it occurred to him then that his own life might be at stake.

“Francesca, don't,” he said, holding his hands out to his sides to show he held no weapons. “I would never hurt you,” he said.

Duke's screams had shut down to low moans. In the far distance, Frankie thought she could hear the faint sound of sirens, but she couldn't be sure.

The blood…it was everywhere.

No one had warned her about blood when she'd bought the damned gun.

“Francesca…listen to me,” Pharaoh said as he took a step toward her.

She tightened her grip and took a couple of steps backward toward the door.

“You raped me, you son of a bitch!”

Pharaoh froze, horrified by what she'd just said. “Never.”

“You did! You did! I remember the weight of your body, holding me down. I saw the look in your eyes. I knew, Pharaoh, I knew!”

Pharaoh groaned. “No, Francesca, no. I never touched you that way. Only once did I…did we…but you cried.” He drew a deep, shaky breath. “I stopped when you cried.”

“I don't believe you,” she muttered. Frankie swayed. Her endurance was waning. “Two years you kept me locked in that cage of a room.”

“I gave you everything,” he argued “The best clothes, the best food, the best of everything.”

“Without free will, there is nothing,” Frankie said.

Pharaoh's expression began to crumble. He, too, could hear the approaching sirens. He was torn between wanting to make things right and the need to escape while he still had time.

His life flashed before his eyes. As a child, always being the last one picked in a game. Of never belonging, never knowing the feel of being loved—always fighting to stay alive.

And then Francesca.

He shuddered, cursing himself for the weakness that loving someone could bring. He thought of Allejandro and of Colombia, and of the wealth and power that awaited him there. With a heartfelt sigh, he swiftly reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, aiming it straight at Francesca's chest.

Frankie gasped and took a quick step back. But the bore of the barrel followed her movements.

“You can shoot,” she said, “but so will I. At worst, we'll both die. At best, we'll both be wounded. Either way, you won't get away. You're caught, Pharaoh. It's over. Let it go. Let
me
go.”

He shook his head, like a wounded animal trying to stay on four legs.

“But you don't understand. You are my love…and my luck. Without you, it's over anyway.”

“Then so be it,” Frankie said, and took aim.

Suddenly the front door crashed inward, slamming against the inside wall. Clay's voice was faint and breathless as he stumbled between Frankie and the barrel of Pharaoh's gun.

“Don't!” Clay groaned. “For God's sake, don't shoot her. She's going to have a baby.”

Frankie screamed. The back of Clay's coat was covered in blood.

The gun in Pharaoh's hands wavered, as did his voice. “Baby?”

Clay slid to his knees, then onto all fours. “Please,” he begged. “Just don't hurt her.”

Frankie dropped the gun as she went down beside him. Her hands were on his face, then his back, then his face again, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

“Don't you die on me, Clay LeGrand. Dear God in heaven, don't die.”

Clay groaned as he slumped on his side. From where he was lying, he could see the shock on Pharaoh Carn's face.

Frankie bolted to her feet and started out of the room to get something to stem the flow of Clay's blood.

“Stop!” Pharaoh shouted, and instinctively tracked her movements with his gun.

Frankie paused, her expression set with determination.

“Either shoot me or get the hell out of my life,” she shouted. Then she pointed to the man on the floor. “He's who I love. When I lost my memory, I didn't forget him. I forgot you.”

Sirens were louder. Pharaoh knew it was only a matter of moments now. His finger twitched on the trigger. He had everything he'd ever wanted in life.

Power.

Money.

Respect.

And then he sighed.

Everything except her.

He looked at her belly. Within months, it would be round with child. Another man's child. He tried to feel rage. It wouldn't come.

His voice was sharp, even bitter with recrimination. “You're giving him a child.”

It was at that moment that Frankie realized Pharaoh's indignation was real. If he felt cheated—if he felt anger—then that meant the baby she was carrying could not be his. So he'd been telling the truth all along. He hadn't raped her. Relief flooded her.

“I would always have stayed your friend,” she whispered.

Pharaoh's arms suddenly went limp. “You mean…if I—”

“Remember that day…two years ago…when you came into my house?”

Pharaoh blinked.

“All you had to do was just say hello.”

Pharaoh groaned. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt a need to cry.

He shuddered. “I didn't rape you.”

In that moment, Francesca's heart broke—for the boy that he'd been and for the man that he'd become, for the friendship she'd lost, and for the horror she'd endured at his hands.

She looked down at Clay and then back at Pharaoh. There were tears in her eyes as she pleaded for his life.

“Please…let me help my husband. I couldn't bear life without him.”

A bitter smile twisted the corners of Pharaoh's lips.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said softly, and then made a run for the door.