Remember Me (18 page)

He lowered the binoculars, staring out into the darkness in shock. And then, the longer he looked, the more he realized he'd missed one obvious fact. Granted his footsteps were still there, but they stopped at the curb. The streets were clear. There was no way of tracing where he'd gone.

Breathing a slow sigh of relief, he finished his pizza, then flopped down into an easy chair and laid the binoculars in his lap. He needed to rest, but just for a minute.

When he woke, it was morning.

C
lay was swallowing his last bite of toast as Frankie came into the kitchen.

“Do you have everything you need?” she asked. “Even though the snow has stopped, it's bitter outside.”

He grinned and swallowed. “Yes, Mother. My gloves are in the truck, and I'm wearing long johns under my jeans.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Okay, so I fuss.” Then she took away his coffee cup and set it down on the counter. “Hug me,” she said.

The poignancy in her voice tugged at his heart.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said softly. “Come here, baby.”

Frankie settled within his arms, cherishing the strength with which he held her and storing away the feel of his blue flannel shirt against her cheek.

“You going to be all right today?” Clay asked. “I can easily drop you off at Mom and Dad's, or Mom would probably come over and stay here with you.”

Frankie sighed. The urge to hide was so strong, but she couldn't let this fear control the rest of their lives. Besides that, she didn't feel very well, and coping with someone else's presence wasn't very enticing.

“I'd rather not,” she said, giving him an apologetic smile. She loved her in-laws but didn't feel like being the center of their attention. “Besides, I have my gun, and Harold the snoop should be lurking not very far away. I'll be fine.”

Clay resisted the urge to frown. The fact that she had felt threatened enough to buy the damned gun still bothered him. They were ordinary people. This shouldn't be happening in their lives. And while her reference to the private investigator was a little sarcastic, after what she'd been through, he could hardly blame her. Then he glanced at his watch. As she'd said, Borden should be arriving almost any time.

“Okay, then, if you're sure.”

She grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down for a kiss.

“Kiss me, Clay, and quit fussing.”

He grinned. “Well, since you put it like that…” And he dipped his head as she melted against him.

Moments later, they separated, although reluctantly.

“I'd better go now, while I can still focus,” Clay said. He gave Frankie a considering look. “Do you feel okay? You look pale.”

She didn't doubt it. Her tummy was beginning to roll. “I'll go back to bed as soon as you leave, okay?”

He touched her forehead, then the side of her face. “You don't have a fever.”

“Clay…”

“Look, sweetheart, I can call Dad and—”

“Go to work,” Frankie said.

He shrugged. “I'm out of here. Call me if you need me, okay?”

She nodded, then followed him to the door, locking it behind him as he dashed toward his truck. Seconds later, her stomach lurched and she made a dash toward the bathroom.

 

Clay sat in the truck with the engine running, waiting for it to warm up. As he sat, his thoughts were already in gear. Except for a trail of footprints, the snowfall on the yards and trees was pristine. He grinned, thinking that if he'd still been a kid, he would have found a good excuse to stay home from school and make snowmen all day.

Twice he looked around for a sign of Harold Borden's car, then glanced at his watch and shrugged. It was still early, and there was always the possibility that some of the side streets were bad. But the snowplows would be out again soon, and he had to get to work. He put the truck in gear and began to back up.

Moments later, he was in the street. He shifted the truck into four-wheel drive and started forward, glancing one last time at his house in the rearview mirror. As he did, something in the reflection caught his attention. He slowed, then stopped in the middle of the street, staring intently into the rearview mirror and trying to figure out what was bothering him about his house.

Suddenly it dawned on him. The flesh crawled on the back of his neck as he slammed the truck in reverse, the tires spinning on the ice-packed street as he began backing up. Moments later, he slid to a stop at the curb. When he got out, his legs were shaking. The longer he stared, the more frightened he became.

There in the snow was a perfect set of footprints circling his house. Just thinking of someone watching their every move, listening to their every word, watching them sleep, was obscene.

He pivoted, his gaze sweeping the neighborhood, trying to spot something out of order. Nothing jumped out at him. In fact, since the snowfall, the houses on the street were picture-postcard perfect. Then he looked back at the tracks. There was a knot in his belly as he took out his key and started to run.

Warmth enveloped him as he bolted into the house. With shaking hands, he locked the door behind him and started through the rooms, looking out every window and tracing the path left in the snow. It wasn't until he was on his way out of the kitchen that he realized Frankie hadn't appeared. Surely she hadn't gone back to sleep this quickly.

“Francesca? Are you all right?”

As he started down the hall toward the bathroom, he heard water running.

“Frankie, where are you?”

She appeared suddenly, standing in the doorway and holding a wet cloth to her face. Her eyes were round with worry, her face pale and drawn.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Did you forget something?”

“No.” He hesitated, but only briefly. “Look, Frankie, we need to talk, but first I've got to make a couple of calls.”

Before he could explain any further, she suddenly spun and darted back into the bathroom.

He was startled by her abrupt departure, but the reason soon became clear as he heard the sound of her nausea. He went running after her.

“Sweetheart, you really are getting sick.”

Frankie leaned against the sink, wanting the room to stay still.

“It just hit me,” she said. “I think I need to lie down for a minute.”

“Bless your heart,” he said gently, and helped her into their room, and then into bed.

“I'm feeling a little better already,” she said as Clay pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Good, and you'll feel even better if you stay where you're at,” he added.

She gave him a weak, shaky smile, and then closed her eyes, willing that tilt in her belly to settle. She could hear Clay moving around in the room. When she looked, he had taken off his coat.

“Won't the truck start?” she asked.

He hesitated. Finally, he answered. “It's not the truck.”

She frowned. Reticence was not one of Clay's normal traits. “Then what is it?”

He started out of the room. “Let me make the calls, then we'll talk.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that was making her uneasy. And he wouldn't look at her when he talked. It occurred to her that this was more than dead batteries and snowpacked streets. She struggled to sit up.

“Why don't you make your calls in here?”

He stopped in the doorway and turned. When she saw the look on his face, her heart lurched.

“Talk to me, Clay.”

“There's a trail of footprints circling our house.”

“You belong to me—only me.”

The memory screamed through her mind, leaving her weak and speechless. All she could do was moan as she covered her face with her hands.

Clay cursed beneath his breath and then sat down beside her. Moments later, Frankie crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“It's him, isn't it, Clay? Oh God, oh God, he came back.”

“We don't know that,” Clay said, but he held her close just the same. “Sit tight, baby, I'm going to call Borden and then the police.”

Another feeling of sickness swept over her, but it wasn't the same as before. It passed, leaving behind nothing but despair.

Clay shifted her to a more comfortable position in his lap, and dialed, waiting for the private investigator to answer his phone. When a woman answered instead, Clay hesitated, thinking he had dialed a wrong number.

“I'm sorry,” Clay said. “I think I misdialed.”

“No, I'm sorry,” the woman said. “I didn't think to answer correctly. It's just that this morning has been so awful. This is Borden Investigations.”

“So, Harold finally broke down and hired some help.”

“Um, not really,” she said.

“Look, ma'am. I need to talk to Harold. Is he in?”

The woman hesitated. “Sir, are you a client or a friend?”

Clay frowned. “A client, although we've known each other for the better part of two years.”

Then Clay heard her sigh.

“I'm very sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Borden is dead. He was killed in a hit-and-run accident last night as he got out of his car in front of his house.”

Clay's expression went flat.
Oh hell.
“Did anyone see how it happened?”

“I don't think so. His wife found him lying in the street.” Then she added, “If you're a client, Mrs. Borden has asked me to refer his active cases to Rocky Mountain Investigations. They are a reputable group, and Harold held them in high regard.”

“Thank you,” Clay said. “And please give Mrs. Borden my condolences.”

He hung up, then sat, staring at a small tear in the wallpaper near the corner of the bedpost.

Frankie had been silent until she'd heard Clay's last words. At that, her heart dropped. They could only mean one thing.

“Clay?”

“Harold Borden is dead. Hit-and-run last night, in front of his house.”

“Oh no! How awful! Do they have
any
idea who did it?”

“I don't think so.”

Frankie shuddered, holding on to Clay a little tighter.

“Poor Mrs. Borden. I can only imagine how she must feel.”

“Yeah,” Clay muttered, and then dialed another series of numbers, all the while telling himself that this was just a horrible coincidence, and that the trouble they were in had nothing to do with Borden's death. A few moments later, his second call was answered.

“This is Dawson.”

“This is Clay LeGrand.”

“Hey, boy, you're up and at 'em a little early this morning. What can I do for you?”

“Someone was outside our house last night.”

Dawson laid a half-eaten bagel on a stack of files and sat up a little straighter.

“A peeping Tom?”

Clay thought of the houses all along the block. Not a yard had been walked in but theirs.

“You tell me,” Clay said. “The yards of the other houses are untouched. Not even a dog track.”

“Still, you know how kids are when it snows. They just have to stomp it all up.”

“They didn't stomp anything,” Clay said. “It's just a neat, single trail, circling the house and leading right back out to the street.”

“Yeah?” Dawson said. “So don't you have a private dick on your payroll? Maybe it was just him checking to see if you were both okay?”

“Not unless it was his ghost,” Clay said. “He was killed in a hit-and-run last night.”

This time, Dawson took notice. “The hell you say.” He started shuffling papers. “That's quite a set of coincidences you have going there.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Clay said.

“Okay. Sit tight. It'll take Ramsey and me about fifteen minutes to get there.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Clay said, and then hung up the phone.

Frankie's eyes were wide, her expression almost shell-shocked.

“Francesca…”

She didn't answer.

Clay shook her slightly. “Frankie?”

Her head wobbled on her neck, like a broken doll's; then she looked at him and shuddered.

“He came in through the front door. I was smiling. I thought it was you. When he laughed, I started to run.”

Anger hit Clay's gut first. “Son of a bitch.”

She blinked, her gaze refocusing on Clay's face. “I knew him, Clay. It was Pharaoh. Pharaoh Carn.”

 

Smoke from the burning incense drifted across Pharaoh's vision as he paused before the statue of Osiris. He'd lost track of how long he'd been in the cryptlike room, but he had to admit, his heart felt lighter, his purpose clear. He blamed his earlier lack of focus on the fact that he had not fully healed. But those days were over. Being among these relics had reminded him of a fact he'd almost let slide. Kings were omnipotent. They set the rules, they didn't follow them. Like his ancient namesakes, he would destroy his enemy and take back what was rightly his. It had been done before. It would be done again. He turned his back on the dim, sunless room and the effigies of ancient gods. There were things to be done and little time to do them.