An Arm and a Leg (29 page)

He unloaded lumber, bags of concrete, nails, insulation and other building supplies, which he stacked beside a staked-off area. He pulled a wheelbarrow, hammer, hand saw, and two saw-horses from the pickup, placed them atop the lumber, and covered it all with a tarpaulin.

The finished building would be big enough for a twin bed, wash basin, and table. A Bunsen burner would do double duty for cooking and warmth. And a green, plastic bag-lined five gallon bucket would serve as a latrine.

It took two more trips to the lumber yard before Larry had everything he needed. With only a couple of hours of daylight left, he pulled a shovel from the pickup bed, headed to the marked-off area, and began digging out the foundation trench.

When it grew too dark to work any longer, he removed his cap and leather work gloves. He dusted off his brown nylon wind breaker and blue jeans and climbed into the pickup. He pulled a can of baked beans, a can opener, and plastic fork out of a paper bag, cut open the can, and began shoveling great gobs of the smoky sweetness into his mouth.

A bit of syrup dripped from his chin onto his jeans, but he didn’t mind. Here he was, sitting on his own land, eating a can of cold beans. But an inch thick, prime rib steak wouldn’t have tasted as good.

After Larry scraped the last drop of syrup from the can and licked the fork clean, he put them both into a plastic trash bag. He kicked off his boots and unrolled a brand new, down-filled sleeping bag. The flannel lining smelled a mite musty, but it was soft and warm. It’d do him just fine.

Larry slid into the bag until his feet butted up against the passenger door. He pulled the flannel fabric up to his chin. Although he’d have to sleep on his side to avoid the floor-mounted gear shift, he heaved a sigh of contentment. The warmth of his cocoon seeped into his muscles and he dropped off to sleep, visions of the future swimming in his head.

****

When the doctor pronounced Frankie alert enough for questioning, Blinquet and a homicide detective entered her room. Nick looked on as both men took turns questioning her. They asked many of the same questions over and over, squinting into her face as if trying to divine some deep, inner secret.

Frankie told them about her trip to the chicken farm. She described her fight with Mel and how she’d found Mina’s body. She told the officers about awakening tied to a gurney in the hospital, and Mel’s subsequent death at Larry’s hands. She explained how the leg came to be in her freezer and about Tim’s journal.

“And I found medical records for someone named Esther Emory in Tim’s safe deposit box. There is a discrepancy between her original medical records and the spreadsheet that I copied from Tim’s laptop. One indicates she had diabetes, and the other indicates heart trouble. I don’t know which is accurate.”

“We’ll need those records,” the homicide detective said.

“They’re in the tote bag in my car. Unless someone moved it, it’s still at the chicken farm.”

Blinquet and the detective exchanged glances. The detective left the room.

Frankie’s body felt as if Gulliver’s Lilliputians had sneaked in and tied her down with thousands of constricting bands. Even the smallest movement required all the energy she could muster.

She pushed the button on a small pump and medication flowed through a clear plastic intravenous tube and into her arm. The throbbing pain in her shoulder lessened slightly as she answered Blinquet’s last questions.

“No, sir, I didn’t know what was in the duffle. Yes, I was curious. I asked Tim about it, and he brushed it off, so I didn’t push.”

The tone of Blinquet’s voice, the stare he leveled at her and the way he pursed his lips when she spoke left little doubt as to how he felt about her story.

“The Medical Examiner confirms that you wounded Bellamy with the barrette found at the scene,” Blinquet said. “But that’s not what killed him. His throat was slashed so violently, he was nearly decapitated. Can you tell us about that?”

“Nearly decapitated with a barrette? That’s ridiculous.” Frankie sat up straighter. “Wait a minute, are you insinuating I murdered him?”

Nick, silent until then, got up from the reclining chair in which he’d slept and taken meals for the past few days. He walked to the bed and stood beside Frankie.

“If she cut Bellamy’s throat, what did she do with the knife? Did you find it at the scene?”

Blinquet pursed his lips again. “Not yet, but we’re still investigating.”

“Miss O’Neil was so weakened from loss of blood she wouldn’t have had the strength to inflict the kind of wound you’ve described. Besides, Bellamy had to be twice her size.”

“I chased him into the parking lot,” Frankie said. “He was bleeding, but not bad. Next thing I know, I’m here.”

“What about this Larry guy?” Nick asked. “Have you talked to him?”

Blinquet puckered his lips. “Nowhere to be found. But we’ve put out an APB.”

Nick looked at Frankie. “It’s only a suggestion, but I recommend you not answer any more questions until you’ve spoken to an attorney.”

Blinquet frowned, reiterated his order for Frankie to stay in town and left.

Frankie slept for the next eighteen hours, waking only when her shoulder pain forced her to surface. Each time she roused, her eyes went to the uncomfortable-looking reclining chair in which Nick tried to sleep, his eyes flying open at her every movement.

All the female nurses developed an obvious crush on the handsome deputy who kept watch over their charge. One brought him a hospital blanket and pillow, another brought a disposable razor, and still another brought him visitor meals from the hospital cafeteria.

Hector and Imelda Cordero brought flowers and a note from Anna—a page torn from a coloring book. Under the brilliantly-colored picture of a unicorn, Anna had written the words
Get Well Soon
in purple crayon.

Kate dropped in with goodies from her café a couple of times.

Pastor Dan and Frankie’s choir members all came to visit, leaving the hospital room awash in flowers and stuffed animals.

Lola came to repeat her offer of room and board, and to assure Frankie that Collette was fine and living the high life in her house. “Nothing’s too good for Collette. She saved your life, Dear One.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Larry nailed the final piece of plywood into place and moved his eyes around the living space he’d just completed. Without windows it might be dreary, but it was low-ceilinged and well insulated. It would offer good protection from the harsh winter common to these parts. And later, if everything worked out according to plan, he could add on a room or two.

He pulled a mattress, card table, and two molded plastic chairs from the pickup, which he carried into the shed. Next, he retrieved several bulging shopping bags, the contents of which he lined up on a shelf he’d built along one wall.

Baked beans, soup, spam, sardines, and a box of crackers sat next to two plates and coffee cups. A small, square pan held two cheap stainless steel spoons. It would be wise to keep the forks and knives in the pickup—at least for a while.

A wide smile creased Larry’s face as he placed a small, square tin on the shelf beside the dishes. Jasmine tea. Exotic, just like his Beauty.

For the umpteenth time that morning, he examined the eyebolt affixed to one heavily reinforced wall. He grabbed the heavy eight-foot chain hanging from it, yanked as hard as he could, and smiled when it held fast. Its attached leg iron sounded a solid
thunk
against the wood flooring when he dropped it.

He’d have to figure out some way to pad the inside of the iron. Otherwise, it’d injure the leg to which it was bolted. And he had no desire to hurt that precious leg.

Larry pushed open the door and stepped outside. In the spring he’d replace this door with one that had knobs on both sides. By then, if all went according to plan, he’d be an expectant papa.

He slipped the padlock’s retractable bar through the u-bolts on the outside of the door, slid the key into its slot, and turned it. Metal-striking-metal sent birds flying from the surrounding trees, twittering their fright to each other.

No one was getting past all that reinforcement. At least, not without some heavy duty metal cutters.

“Tick tock, the game is locked. Nobody in, nobody out.” Larry hadn’t spoken for several days, and his voice sounded strange.

He headed for the pickup. His body taut with excitement, he hummed a happy tune.

It was finally time.

****

Dressed and ready to leave the hospital, Frankie was sitting on the edge of the bed when Nick returned from the cafeteria.

He plopped down in the chair and rubbed his belly. “I had scrambled eggs, ham, pancakes, and coffee for breakfast. What about you?”

Frankie pointed toward the rolling tray-table she’d moved against the wall. “I always thought jokes about hospital food were cliché. I think the brown stuff is supposed to be an egg, but I don’t know what the sticky gray stuff is. I ate the toast and applesauce.”

Nick chuckled. “I just met someone you know.”

“Who?”

“A man by the name of Flatte. He said he’s your attorney.”

“He was Tim’s attorney, but I might wind up needing him if Blinquet doesn’t let up. What’s he doing here?”

“A hit-and-run driver nearly killed him a couple of weeks ago.”

Frankie gasped. “Is he okay?”

“Now he is, but I gather it was touch and go for a while. He said it happened right after he took you home from your dinner date.”

“It wasn’t a date. Do the police know who did it?”

“No, but they have a description of the car. Someone told them they saw an old Mercedes speeding away.”

The blood drained from Frankie’s face. “That’s what that guy Larry drives.”

Nick was suddenly all business. “I’ll call the APD and ask them to beef up patrols through Lola’s block. At least until he’s caught.”

The look in Nick’s eyes right then, the straight lips, the square jaw, all reminded Frankie of the pictures in one of Uncle Mike’s illustrated books of warriors throughout the ages. The men and women in those paintings, sketches and photos, were from all over the world and different centuries. But they all had that same look—the look that meant bad news for their enemies.

For the first time in months, Frankie felt safe.

The doctor arrived for one last examination. He warned Frankie not to lift anything heavier than two pounds or to do anything strenuous, wrote out a couple of prescriptions and pronounced her well enough to go home.

The duty nurse came in for one last smile at Nick. She offered some additional advice about shoulder wound care, and after an eyelash flutter in Nick’s direction, she left.

“I’ll bring the pickup around to the exit,” Nick said. “The nurse said she’ll take you downstairs in a wheelchair and wait with you there.” He headed for the door, stopped, and swiveled his head over his shoulder. “Lola says she’ll have a nice brunch and plenty of hot tea waiting for you. She said you’d probably be ready for a good meal.”

After Nick left, Frankie walked to the window, pulled up the blinds and looked out at the Albuquerque skyline. With only two or three nurses working the floor, she figured she had several minutes to wait. She was surprised when only a couple of minutes had passed before her door opened and someone came in.

“Hello, Beauty.”

Frankie spun around. Larry stood just inside the door, holding a revolver pointed at her. The ribbon-bracelet still encircled his wrist, but its edges were frayed into tiny scallops and stretched out of shape. Its faded color was barely discernible beneath a layer of grime.

“I come for you, like I promised.”

If it hadn’t been for Larry’s voice, Frankie would not have recognized him. Even more slender than he’d been the last time she saw him, a patchy red beard now mottled his gaunt face and his hair hung in greasy strings over his collar. In grimy blue jeans and a filthy windbreaker, he smelled of dirt and old sweat. Scratches and cuts crisscrossed his hands and black dirt outlined his jagged-tipped fingernails.

But it was his eyes that caught Frankie’s attention. Something had shifted in his eyes. She shivered.

“I’m sure enough glad to see you’re all well and stuff. You’re tougher than you look.”

Frankie’s eyes darted around the room. Her ears strained to hear anyone in the hall who could help. “The nurse is bringing a wheelchair.”

Larry nodded his head. “You won’t be needing it. I’m your ride, especially now that Cowboy’s pickup has developed a few problems.” Larry giggled, the sound strange and ugly.

He strode toward Frankie, grabbed her bandaged arm and jerked her toward him. Pain shot through her shoulder and she cried out, but Larry only squeezed her arm tighter. “I thought you were a lady. But real ladies don’t take up with every man that looks at them twice. First Rich Boy, now Cowboy. You and I are going to come to an understanding.”

“Larry, I—”

“Shut up. I killed Bellamy for you, and that means you belong to me. You’ll do as I say.”

Frankie tried to tug free from Larry’s grip, but the intensity of the resulting pain made her vision go gray. She fell into step beside him.

As they moved through the door of the hospital room, Larry stuck the hand holding the revolver into the pocket of his windbreaker. He made a point of pressing its barrel against the fabric so Frankie could see it was aimed at her mid-section.

“I don’t want any trouble. But I’m sure enough ready for it. Come on now, we got to make tracks.”

Larry pulled Frankie into the hallway and toward the stairwell. She allowed herself to be towed, her mind a fury of activity. When the two began the descent down the three flights of stairs, Frankie feigned weakness and stumbled. Larry automatically made a grab for her at the same time she placed her foot in front of his legs and shoved. Waves of pain shot through her wounded shoulder.

Larry made a frantic but futile grab for the handrail and tumbled head over heels down the concrete steps. He rebounded off the gray cinder block wall at the bottom of the stairs and lay on the landing, his legs crumpled underneath his body. Blood seeped from under an old scab on the side of his head.