An Arm and a Leg (10 page)

“What kind of papers?

“Nothing specific. Just notes.”

“That’s it?”

“So far. She apparently has no clue about what her brother was involved in.”

“Good. We’re going to be too busy tomorrow to speak to you, but we will expect an update the day after. And by the way, if you ever again leave a message on our office answering machine you will force us to do something uncharacteristically dramatic.”

“I thought you’d want to know her movements.”

“That’s the trouble, you did not think at all. What if someone else had listened to the message? We cannot afford one iota of suspicion at this point. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.”

“We’ll give your regards to your grandmama. It seemed for a bit that she was going to need medical attention, but perhaps that can be put on hold.”

“If anything happens to her—”

“Now, now. No reason for alarm, at least not yet. It’s all up to you.” Bellamy broke the connection, cutting off whatever the other person was saying. He glanced at his wristwatch and stood. It was time to check on his Pretties.

Bellamy’s drive home was made in a state of eagerness. This was the highlight of his day—a part of his schedule he fiercely protected.

He pushed the automatic garage door opener clipped to the visor above his head. Excitement sizzled through his body as the door silently opened.

As was his custom, once inside the kitchen he made himself a tall gin and tonic. To prolong the exquisite torture of anticipation, he took exactly two leisurely sips then headed toward the basement and the part of his collection he thought best to keep away from prying eyes.

Nothing in his life gave him more joy than being in the presence of his specimens—all human, though many of them appeared to be anything but. He’d seen some fairly extensive collections in museums of natural science around the world, and although he’d been overbid for the testicles of one of the last castrati—still preserved in their original wine-filled pottery jar—to his knowledge, no other individual had amassed a collection comparable to his.

The ice clinking merrily in his drink, he ambled over to the object that had started his collection: a foot with seven toes. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished the clear, vacuum-sealed glass dome, pleased to note hardly any deterioration in the mummified flesh beneath.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” He smiled and nodded, as if the thing under the dome was whispering the secrets of the universe to him. “We’re so glad you like the latest addition. No, we’re not done. We’ve bid on a torso with six arms. Marvelous, don’t you agree? A four-armed fetus was just auctioned, but a six-armed adult is a record.” He raised his glass in a toast toward the dome. “Cheers.”

In near-worshipful silence, Bellamy walked among the bits and pieces the rest of the world would view as monstrosities. No matter where he was or in what activity he was engaged, his Pretties were never far from his mind. But this was more than a collection—it was an extension of him. Not because of any malformation of his own person, but because of the rarity of his carefully selected pieces.

An image of Frankie O’Neil sprang into his mind. She of the tiny hands and feet. She of the striking eyes. Rare eyes, glowing at him from the picture frame in which O’Neil had kept her photo.

How best to preserve those eyes—one sky-blue, the other amber-yellow? Formaldehyde? No, that didn’t prevent decay, it only slowed it. And alcohol would alter the cell structure such that bits of flesh would loosen and peel away, destroying the face’s loveliness. No, no…that would be unacceptable.

Cryonics was the answer—a complex procedure ending in the head’s being submerged in liquid nitrogen and maintained at absolute zero. He’d have to create an insulated, clear glass repository attached to an electric motor capable of switching to battery power in the event of an electrical outage, but that was easily done.

He’d be the proud owner of the only known example of that rare condition called heterochromia iridium. It would be the crowning glory of his collection.

Bellamy threw his head back and drained his glass before heading up the stairs. Whistling a melody from one of his favorite arias, Bellamy locked the basement door and headed for the kitchen, where he put together a chef salad. Then he pulled a dinner roll from a white enamel breadbox atop the gray granite kitchen counter, and poured a glass of dry white wine. He carried everything to his dining table and started to eat.

Of course, he’d have to devise a plan for dealing with Miss O’Neil. An accident would work. Or perhaps a grief-stricken suicide? The possibilities were endless.

Bellamy rubbed his hands together gleefully. What fun.

Chapter Twelve

“She plays the piano in the dark,” Larry said into his phone. “She makes up pretty stuff like I’ve never heard before.”

Mel’s snort shot across the connection and burrowed into Larry’s ear like a boll weevil looking for a home. “Are you getting soft on her? I thought you said she’s our main problem. Besides, she’s way too old for you.”

“She can’t be more’n thirty-five or so.”

“That’s still nearly old enough to be your ma.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’ll bet you’re getting excited right now just talking about her. I’ll bet you watch her undress and stuff.”

“It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain nothing to me. I’ll bet you haven’t had a woman in over a year. Seems like you’d want to find someone willing to share instead of mooning over some uppity slash that wouldn’t look twice at you.”

“At least the women I’ve dated have all been conscious and willing.”

“Aw, man. You promised never to bring that up. Besides, it was just the once.”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want anyway?”

“Bellamy’s pissed. He says he’s been trying to reach you, but you aren’t answering your phone.”

“Tell him O’Neil’s sister hasn’t done anything suspicious.”

“You’d better tell him yourself. He said for you to call him right now.”

Larry broke the connection and keyed in his employer’s number while his stomach cranked bile up his throat.

“Ahh, the Prodigal deigns to call in.” Bellamy’s voice hissed through the ether. “What’s the story?”

Larry repeated what he’d told Mel.

“Our songbird indicates the investigation into O’Neil’s death has stalled due to lack of leads. Right now the only potential threat seems to be from the sister herself.”

“I’m telling you, she doesn’t know anything, and she doesn’t have the stuff.”

“She may know more than she realizes, or she may indeed not know anything at all. But she’s digging into O’Neil’s affairs, and there is always the possibility she’ll stumble upon our property.”

“She’s never out of my sight. I’ll know if she finds anything.”

Bellamy’s
tsk-tsk
sounded loud in Larry’s ear. “You aren’t by any chance developing a dangerous fondness for our little Miss O’Neil, are you?”

“No sir.” Larry’s face heated up and he swallowed hard. “It’s just that I’ve been watching her real close, and I’d know if she found anything.”

“That’s good to know. However, we have decided upon a different course of action. Your watchful presence at her house will no longer be necessary.”

“But how’ll we know—”

“Go to the farm and stay there with Mel. We’ll be in touch.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Not to worry, this no longer concerns you.” Bellamy broke the connection.

Larry’s stomach clenched into a ball. If whatever happened next had nothing to do with him, it most likely had something to do with Mel. And that concerned Larry a great deal. A window in his memory opened. Sights, sounds and smells came into sharp focus as he remembered a scene at Bellamy’s chicken farm, just outside the city.

He’d needed help at the loading dock and gone to find Mel. He found him in the barn, stuffing chunks of meat into the chicken feed grinder. Mel’s hands and arms were covered in red, his face speckled with red dots. The machine was vomiting out pulverized pink, white, and gray stuff into a tin bucket, the air heavy with a coppery smell Larry knew all too well.

For the next several days, local news reports focused on a missing local woman, her photo and pleas from family members splashed across the television and newspaper. A woman who’d worked for Bellamy.

At least Larry’d had the sense to hide the rifle Mel used on O’Neil and that hunter. His ace in the hole. If push came to shove, he’d give it to the police and cop a plea.

Frankie’s silhouette suddenly appeared against her sheer curtains, the sight pushing away every other thought. Something old as life itself stirred in Larry’s midsection, and an almost physical pain drew a groan from his lips.

“What would you do if you knew the chances I take just to be close to you?” he said to Frankie’s image. “Would you let me love you if you knew?”

****

It was late by the time Frankie got home from Tim’s apartment. Too tired to eat, she made her way to her in-home office, where she had a computer and digitized keyboard, along with the software to interface them.

For the next several hours she wrote music dedicated to Tim. It would become her theme song, and she’d play it at the beginning of all her concerts.

She emailed the music to herself and closed down the computer before showering and slipping into her pajamas. Humming Tim’s song, she sat on the edge of her bed and brushed her hair.

A furtive movement slid along the edge of her peripheral vision. She jerked her head toward the window, her pulse instantly skyrocketing. As in every horror movie she’d ever seen, she half expected a misshapen face to peer back at her from the other side of the glass. But no face appeared. Nothing except her wild eyed reflection stared back at her from the black rectangle made semi-opaque by sheer curtains.

A sense of dread ran tentacles across her scalp. She jerked the blinds closed, her hands shaking and clumsy. Whoever demolished Tim’s apartment not only knew he had a sister, but knew personal details about her. It seemed ludicrous to think they wouldn’t know where she lived.

She thought of Stephen and his little family—of that special softness in his eyes, now focused on his woman and child. And she remembered how safe she’d always felt with him. He may have been trouble, but at least he’d been her trouble. And he’d have known what to do about a peeping tom.

Frankie slid into her bed. She turned off her bedside lamp and pulled her comforter up to her chin. She shivered in spite of its downy warmth.

*****

At the sight of Frankie moving toward the window, Larry scurried back into the shadows. His heart pounded and his head felt light. His body hummed with excitement.

He prided himself on being a self-educated man. Before he started watching Beauty, he’d spent nearly every evening online, asking his laptop questions on every topic from medicine to philosophy. He’d read everything he could find about the subconscious mind, and learned that people got into relationships, ate certain foods, and even read specific books without really knowing why.

That meant Frankie might sense his presence at some level. She might have avoided confronting him because she actually welcomed him. Maybe it made her feel safe to know he watched over her. And maybe she knew that when the time was right he’d come for her.

He smiled into the darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

Once on the road to Eagle Nest, Frankie loaded the CD player with her favorite organ concerts and allowed her mind to float on the waves of sound. Even as she watched for any sign she was being followed, the virtuosity of the contemporary artists poured over her and the miles flew by.

A couple of hours later, she pulled in to the Eagle Nest Café parking lot. She parked next to Nick’s patrol vehicle, retrieved the bag containing Kate’s clothes, and went inside. The smells of coffee, baking bread and various spices welcomed her.

Kate was wiping the already spotless counter when Frankie walked through the door. The older woman smiled, dropped her cleaning cloth somewhere under the counter, and walked toward her with outstretched arms.

Slender and athletic, Kate was all whipcord and boot leather. Where she’d obviously once been pretty, she’d matured into a sun-wrinkled and handsome woman.

“I can’t thank you enough for your help.” Frankie held the clothes toward Kate.

Kate accepted the bag and gave the younger woman a big hug. “I’m glad you’re okay. Sit, sit. I’ll get menus and the necessary
accoutrements
.”

Nick Rollins sat at a table near a window. As Frankie walked toward him, he removed his hat and stood, an old fashioned courtesy rarely seen nowadays. She clamped her lips down on a budding smile as unwelcomed warmth began to spread through her mid-section.

“Thanks for meeting me.” She took the seat across the table.

Deputy Rollins’ welcoming smile lit up his handsome face. Frankie’s lips stiffened at the way her treasonous body reacted to the deputy. She gritted her teeth and reminded herself that sooner or later all relationships suck, that people die, or they just stop loving the ones they vowed never to leave.

“This was good timing,” Rollins said. “I often come here for meals. Do you think we could have lunch before we get down to business?”

Kate returned with silverware, napkins and menus. Frankie decided on the Parris Island Cobb salad, while the deputy ordered the Semper Fi sirloin burger.

Once their food arrived, the two fell to eating. Rollins talked about his service in the Marine Corps, and Frankie surprised herself by telling him about the extraordinary years she and Tim spent being raised by their Uncle Mike and his housekeeper, her nanny Alma.

As Frankie spoke, the deputy’s eyes never left her face. The gentleness of his demeanor set off a warning claxon in her head, and she fought down the urge to bolt for the door. What was happening to her? She was acting like a virgin about to be sacrificed to a volcano god. As if assuring herself of its location, she glanced toward the exit.

“I’ve never met anyone raised by a Special Forces operative,” Rollins was saying. “Your uncle sounds like quite a man.”