Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (34 page)

She drove as fast as she dared, any thought of lingering in New Mexico gone. If she couldn't
get to New Orleans today, she'd fly to Dallas or Atlanta and spend the night at an airport motel.
She'd taken her morning pill, but still felt edgy. A rational emotion if Frank Palmer was in Taos. She
made herself check the rearview. A red dot on the road behind her disappeared when she went
around a curve. The next time she looked, it wasn't there. She was alone with her thoughts.

Last night had been emotionally exhausting and cathartic at the same time. She and
Phoenix shared the sad knowledge that loss is irrevocable. There's no going back and no do-over.
They both knew the emotional confusion of being angry at what had been done to you and
heartbroken by what you had lost. They had talked about moving beyond anger and guilt, while
acknowledging that some wounds are so deep they can only heal slowly. A scar may never
disappear, but it can fade.

Last night, she'd learned that what she feared most was her own buried anger. That
knowledge had opened the door to resolution. Her starting point was to accept the inevitably of
what had happened and take responsibility for her response. She had every right to be angry, but
the person who was Tom Marshall couldn't wait until the fire department arrived, and that was
why she loved him.

She'd been dazzled by his conviction--as a teenager--that he could make a difference in the
world. No one made her hitch her wagon to Tom's star. It was her choice. If it was a mistake, it was
her mistake. She'd been too young to know better, and too stubborn to listen to her parents when
they suggested she date other people and explore things that interested her.

She had no life after Tom died because she'd had no life of her own before. Everything she
had done was in support of his dreams. Because she'd had none of her own. That didn't mean she
couldn't live a full life now. It might take a while, and there'd be bad days, but she was on her way.
Next week, when she and Dr. Bennett discussed cutting back the meds, she could tell him that she'd
discovered the cause of her panic attacks.

The road twisted steeply downward, and she lightened her pressure on the accelerator. An
oncoming car went by, only the second car she'd seen since leaving Taos. She glanced in her
rearview and saw the red dot, bigger now and coming closer. For a moment, it reminded her of the
car in her nightmare, but she shook it off. She wasn't driving across the Louisiana swamps in her
little Miata. She was driving through the high desert of New Mexico in a rented Taurus and, no
doubt, driving more slowly than the locals.

She passed the national recreation area, closed this early on a Sunday morning. By the time
she reached Santa Fe, something would be open. She'd call Mike Robinson, tell him what Phoenix
said and see how he responded. Last night, she'd been ready to ask him to contact the Taos police,
initiate a nationwide search, but Phoenix had been adamantly opposed. She'd left her past in New
Orleans, and she wanted it to stay there. Now, in the cool light of morning, Claire realized that Mike
might not find her story convincing. She hadn't actually seen Frank. Phoenix had convinced her.
Could she convince the New Orleans police?

The road resumed its twisting descent. Behind her, the red dot had become an SUV. Again,
Claire felt a shiver, which she dismissed. The SUV was closing the gap because she was barely going
the speed limit. She wasn't comfortable going any faster, not in an unfamiliar car on this winding
highway with its narrow shoulders and steep drop-off.

The SUV closed in until it was tailgating. She looked for a wide spot where she could pull
over and let it by, but there was none. The SUV tapped her bumper. Jolted, she looked in the
rearview. The driver was wearing sunglasses and needed a shave. He stuck his left hand out the
window and pointed his index finger at her like a little boy pretending to shoot a gun.

Frank Palmer had followed her from Taos, and he'd picked this spot to make his move. On
her right, an intermittent low guardrail separated the highway from a sheer drop to the
rock-strewn river. Across the road, the hillside rose, nearly vertical, its rugged surface covered with wire
mesh holding back enormous rocks. He'd chosen well.

Claire pressed the accelerator to the floor, and her car leapt ahead, sliding out of her lane
on the curves and returning on the brief straightaways. She gripped the steering wheel
white-knuckle tight and on every curve prayed there'd be no oncoming vehicle. Her sedan was lower to
the ground and more nimble than Frank's big SUV. She opened the distance between them, but then
they came to a straight stretch, and he had the advantage. He caught up and pulled into the other
lane as if he intended to pass her.

Like the dark sedan in her nightmare, Frank rode alongside, pinning her in her lane. He
edged closer and she moved over. Any more and her right wheels would be on the shoulder. If her
car went over the cliff, she was dead. She eased her right hand onto the gearshift and her left foot
onto the brake pedal, all the while watching Frank from the corner of her eye. When he turned the
steering wheel toward her, she threw the Taurus into neutral and pumped the brakes.

He slid across in front of her, and his back bumper caught on her front grill. She wrenched
her steering wheel to the left and slammed into the side of his SUV. They spun around and around,
like manic dancers, before breaking apart.

Momentum carried her across the oncoming lane onto the far shoulder. The Taurus
screeched along the wire mesh cages, metal on metal sending sparks into the air. A huge rock
loomed dead ahead. She tried to steer back onto the highway but couldn't gain traction on the
uneven ground. The world exploded.

Claire opened her eyes. The windshield was intact, but the hood had crumpled like an
accordion. Hissing steam billowed upwards. She moved her arms and legs and felt her face.
Everything worked; nothing was bleeding. The driver's side of the car had jammed against the rock,
and the passenger door was smashed in. She twisted around to see if either back door looked as if it
would open, and a sharp pain pierced her chest. She pressed her hand against her ribs and
unfastened the seat belt. Wincing with each movement, she crawled into the back seat and climbed
out of the car.

Where's Frank? Why didn't I take Felix's gun?

She crouched behind a rock and peered out, looking for the SUV, but saw no sign of it. Her
eyes followed the path of damaged wire mesh back to where she'd left the pavement. Skid marks on
the other side led to a break in the guardrail. She crossed the highway and looked over the
edge.

Yellow flames rose like a torch from the blue river. At their center was the red SUV,
impaled on a large rock. No one could have survived that crash. Could they? She scanned the water
for a rhythmic splash or a bobbing head, any sign of a person in the water. She searched the banks
for any movement that might be Frank pulling himself to safety.

* * * *

The Steelers had a bye, so Mike had watched the Saints game. The home team eked out a
win over Phoenix, and according to the post-game wrap-up, could be on their way to the Superbowl.
New Orleans would go nuts if that happened. When the phone rang, he expected it to be Corlette
calling to gloat over the Saints' victory. The deputy didn't have much use for the city of New
Orleans, but he was a big fan of their football team. Instead, it was the desk sergeant.

"Some sheriff in New Mexico wants to talk to you, Sir. I told him you were off this weekend,
but he asked me to contact you. He'd appreciate a little help with a serious matter. The surviving
participant referred them to you."

Mike didn't know anyone in New Mexico, and none of the homicide files on his desk had a
New Mexico connection. But twenty plus years in the military had embedded a sense of duty that
wouldn't let him ignore the sheriff's request.

"What's his number?"

Sheriff Oscar Flores thanked Mike for getting back so quickly. He explained that the Taos
Sheriff's Department and the New Mexico Highway Patrol were trying to sort out a fatal accident,
possibly vehicular homicide. One driver, a man, was dead. It appeared he had been alone in a
vehicle that went off a cliff into the Rio Grande. The emergency room doctor was refusing to let
them question the second driver, who was suffering from shock. They were reasonably sure she'd
also been alone in her car.

"She told the officer on the scene that her name was Claire Marshall, and that's the name on
her driver's license and credit cards."

"Is she all right?" Mike interrupted. What the hell was Claire doing in New Mexico?

"A couple broken ribs, scratches and bruises, but no serious injuries, which is amazing
when you look at the car. But..."

"But what?"

"When the Highway Patrol arrived, she was standing on the edge of the cliff like she was in
a trance. The officer approached her as a potential suicide and pulled her back. She tells him she's
fine, just, quote, making sure he's really dead this time, unquote." Flores sighed audibly. "The
doctor's keeping her in the hospital under observation, which is okay with me. I can use the time to
sort things out. From the looks of the skid marks, they were playing bumper cars. Which might
account for her attitude.

"The only other information she gave the officer was your name. She said you'd explain
everything."

"Have you identified the other driver?"
Could Claire have believed it was
Palmer?

"We're working on it."

The sheriff described their so-far fruitless efforts. The other car was a rental, and the
company had faxed over a copy of the rental form filled out by a man who gave his name as Lewis
Fulton and his address as Atlanta, Georgia. A deputy called the phone number Mr. Franklin
provided, looking for a next of kin, and talked to a woman who swore she'd never heard of any
Lewis Franklin and thought New Mexico was a foreign country. Next, the Atlanta Police said the
address Franklin used didn't exist. By that point, no one was surprised when the Georgia DMV said
the driver's license was a phony.

Mike hadn't been one hundred percent convinced Frank Palmer was dead. The mystery
man's fake name, a combination of the maybe not-so-dead man's first name and his wife's maiden
name, sealed it.

"You still with me, Captain?" Sheriff Flores said.

"I'm here, and I'm trying to sort it out myself."

"Any insights would be appreciated."

"Claire Marshall: white female, early thirties, five-eight, slender, green eyes,
shoulder-length auburn hair."

"Sounds right, but she's not the question mark."

"A man named Frank Palmer has a history of faking his own death. He supposedly died
several days ago--a boat fire out in the Gulf--but no one recovered his body."

"We have a body looking for a name."

"White male, mid-forties, six feet, two hundred pounds, brown hair, brown eyes."

"The body was badly burned, but the size is right and the rest matches the description on
the phony driver's license."

"
Déjà vu
all over again."

"What's that?"

"If Claire says Palmer was trying to kill her, believe it. He's tried before. Give me your fax
number."

He went into the office to fax Palmer's dental records, the real ones this time, plus a copy of
his most recent memo to Vernon. It would give Flores more details about the events he'd
summarized over the phone. Then he called Jason Corlette and brought him into the picture.

"What were they doing in New Mexico? What else did the Sheriff say about her condition?
Did you get the name of the hospital?"

"Jason, I've told you everything I know. I'm waiting to hear back from Flores. If I could
think of something else to do, I'd be doing it."

"Have you told that jackass you work for?"

"He's my next call."

Claire had been home for almost a week, but this afternoon was her first venture back to
work. She parked in front of the Laurens house and slowly pulled herself out of her car. Even taped,
her ribs hurt when she moved from sitting to standing.

Jack was in the kitchen talking to a building inspector. "Aren't you supposed to be taking it
easy?"

"Sitting around gets boring." She nodded hello to the inspector. "How's it going?"

"I'm doing your structural."

"I've already sworn by everything holy that we only removed new additions--no
supporting walls, nothing structural," Jack said, "but he wants to see for himself."

"Show us both." She smiled at her partner. "I want to see how my favorite project's coming
along."

After the inspector left, Jack fetched a couple Cokes from a cooler in his truck. They sat on
the staircase that curved up from the foyer.

"It looks really good," Claire said. "I can already see Brian carrying his bride over the
threshold."

"But not up these stairs." Jack laughed. "She's a big girl, and I counted twenty-six steps.
These are sixteen foot ceilings." The foyer walls were scarred ten feet up where the lowered ceiling
had been. Four feet higher, ornate woodworking girdled the room.

Claire pointed to it. "This molding's intact, but I noticed chunks missing in the living and
dining rooms where new walls had been attached."

"I've already ordered the millwork. I'm way ahead of you."

"As usual. And you're probably already worried about what we're going to do when this
project's finished."

"Have you talked to the lawyer about Palmer's cottage?"

"I have, and we're through. The estate doesn't have the money to finish up. They're going to
sell it as is." Paul Gilbert had told her to submit invoices covering any work for which they hadn't
been paid and to do it quickly so that they could be registered as liens against the property. That
way they should receive what they were owed. Implicit in his explanation was the statement that
not everyone would fare as well.