Remember Me (23 page)

“Boss, I just got a call from a buddy in L.A. He said the L.A.P.D. has a warrant out for your arrest, and they're turning the city upside down.”

Pharaoh dropped the pen in his hand and stood abruptly. Francesca! He'd waited too long.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Pharaoh strode from behind his desk and headed for the window overlooking the front of the estate. The day was clear but cold. In the valley below, he could see the ribbon of traffic along the strip and the ever-flashing lights of the casinos. Everything looked normal, although he was the first to admit that looks could be deceiving. He thrust his hand in his pocket, worrying the rabbit's foot as his mind began to race. Suddenly he pivoted.

“Have one of the maids pack a bag. No more than a couple of changes, and all for the tropics. I can always buy more clothes when we get to where we're going.”

“Where are we going?” Duke asked.

A muscle jerked in Pharaoh's jaw. “Allejandro has been trying to get me down in South America for months. I've just decided to take him up on the offer.”

“Yes, sir,” Duke said. “I'll have the chopper sent in.”

“Tell the pilot to chart a course for Denver first.”

Duke inhaled sharply. This obsession the boss had with that woman was going to be the ruin of them yet.

“Considering what we've just learned, do you think it's safe?” he asked.

Pharaoh took a sharp breath, then his voice lowered ominously. “Don't question my decisions. Don't question my authority. Get the hell out of my sight and do as you're told.”

Duke had one moment of remembering Stykowski's blood splattering all over his face and jacket and bolted for the door.

As soon as he was gone, Pharaoh picked up the phone. This move would open the door on a whole new life for him, but there was another door he needed to close first. The door on Francesca's past. He punched in the numbers, then sat down on the edge of his desk, waiting for the call to go through. Moments later, the smooth, baritone voice of Pepe Allejandro vibrated in his ear. Pharaoh took a deep breath and tried for a positive approach.

“
Patrón!
This is Pharaoh.”

“Pharaoh, my friend, I have been expecting your call. You are in serious trouble, I think.”

Pharaoh winced. The tone of Allejandro's voice made him nervous.

“No, Pepe, I have the situation under control.”

“What are you going to do about this?” Allejandro asked.

“I'm making plans accordingly. I've decided to take you up on the Colombia deal, but first, I have a favor to ask.”

“I'm listening,” Allejandro said.

“There's a thing I must do before I can go. I want to—”

“I know what you want,” Allejandro snapped. “It is that woman again. She's the reason you are in this mess. I must tell you, Pharaoh, that I do not like my men bringing personal concerns into the business, so you listen to me! You get out of Nevada today. Head straight for the border. Miguel will have a plane waiting for you in Tijuana. From there, you will be flown to South America. We will have no further contact until you are at the estate.”

“But, Pepe, you don't understand. This woman is my luck. Without her I—”

Pepe Allejandro's baritone deepened warningly. “No, Pharaoh. You are the one who does not understand. These are my orders.” There was a moment of silence, then Allejandro added, “Do
you
understand?”

Pharaoh tensed. He knew all too well the consequences of disobeying Allejandro's orders, but he left his answer vague.

“When I get to Tijuana, I will call Miguel.”

“That is what I wanted to hear,” Allejandro said, then abruptly disconnected, leaving Pharaoh with no misconceptions as to how pissed the man was.

His belly rolled at the thought of what he was about to do. But he wasn't leaving the country without Francesca. When he had her again, he would find a way to make her come around to his way of thinking. He wouldn't accept that she hated him, as she'd so often claimed during the past two years.

When she was small, he'd been her best friend—the family she no longer had. All he needed to do was get rid of her husband and it would happen again.

He ignored his conscience as he hurried up to his room to oversee his packing. Allejandro would not like what he was about to do, but if he pulled it off, it would be okay. Pharaoh kept telling himself there was no way Francesca would be expecting him to come back. Not with a warrant out for his arrest. Surprise would be his ace in the hole.

 

Soup bubbled in a pot at the back of the stove. The homey scent of baking corn bread wafted throughout the house as Frankie carried a load of clothes toward the utility room to wash. As she passed a window, she glanced outside. Clay was still shoveling snow off the backyard path that led to the alley where their garbage was picked up. Her favorite CD was playing in the background. She hummed along with it, every now and then letting her voice rise in accompaniment to a familiar verse in the song. Just as she was putting soap in the machine, the phone rang. She slammed the lid and punched the control, taking absent note that the water had begun filling as she ran to answer.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Hello?”

A dial tone suddenly clicked in her ear.

She hung up and shrugged. Some people certainly needed a good dose of telephone manners. The least they could do was say sorry, they'd dialed the wrong number.

She moved toward the stove, gave the soup a quick stir, making sure nothing was sticking to the pot, then checked the corn bread. A few more minutes and it would be done.

She looked out the window again. Clay was nowhere in sight. She shrugged. He'd probably moved to the front walk. Partly out of curiosity, and partly from a need to know where he was, she went to the living room to look out. He was there, at the corner of the house, knocking icicles off the roof. She grinned to herself and started to wave, when suddenly the lights flickered, then went out.

She waited a moment, hoping they would come right back on, but when she heard the washing machine suddenly stop filling, she groaned. The food would finish cooking with no problem. The oven was gas-powered, but there would be soap caked all over the clothes. She darted toward the kitchen to check the breaker box just as a gray sedan turned the corner and started down the street. And because she did, she missed seeing it slowing, and then seeing it stop.

 

Shoveling snow was not one of Clay's favorite tasks, but as a native of Denver, it was something he'd certainly done all his life. By the time he had finished the back walk and moved toward the front, he was sweating beneath the layers of his clothing. Every time he exhaled, the warmth of his breath created a small white cloud of condensation.

The front walk loomed, snowpacked and appearing longer than its thirty or so feet to the curb. He swung at some icicles hanging from the eaves of the house as he passed, then watched them shatter and fall, only to be swallowed silently by the snow.

He moved a step to the right and took another swing at a fresh set of icicles. They tinkled like broken glass as the shovel connected, then flew through the air. Like the others, they disappeared into the snow's depths. He couldn't quit thinking that this time next year, there would be a baby in the house. The notion tugged at his heart. My God. A baby. Would it be a girl or a boy? Did it matter? Hardly. Not when the name of the father was more in question.

Then he shook off the thought. He'd told Frankie the truth when he said it wouldn't matter. He'd spent two years praying for a miracle to happen. As far as he was concerned, it had. And whether she had brought this baby with her, or they'd made it after her return, nothing could alter the fact that she was his life. What came from her could be nothing but pure, no matter what the circumstances of the conception.

His focus shifted from the icicles hanging from the roof to his reflection in the window before him. Suddenly he became aware of something else—the reflection of a car pulling up to the curb behind him.

He turned as two men were getting out. One was tall, with broad shoulders and a graying ponytail hanging down the back of his coat. He'd never seen him before, but the other man looked familiar. Clay frowned. Where had he seen—
oh Jesus.

He grunted, like a man who'd been kicked in the gut, and bolted for the house, yelling Frankie's name. The shot was little more than a pop, but it hit him in the back, shoulder high, spinning him around and dropping him in his tracks. He disappeared from sight, hidden by the snow, like the icicles he'd knocked from the roof.

Duke paused above Clay's inert body. “Do you want I should—”

“Leave him,” Pharaoh snapped as they made their way up the walk through the unshoveled snow. “We're not going to be here long enough for it to matter.”

Duke glanced nervously over his shoulder. The neighborhood looked deserted, just as it had before, but in a place like this, you could never tell for sure if they'd been unobserved. He kept thinking, damn Pharaoh to hell for pulling this off in broad daylight, but all he managed was a frown as he pulled his collar up around his ears and headed for the front door. He started to knock, when Pharaoh grabbed his hand.

“No,” Pharaoh said.

“But, boss, they got a security system,” Duke said, pointing at the sticker on a nearby window.

“It won't be on, and the door won't be locked. Not when Mr. Fix-It was outside shoveling snow.”

Duke glanced at the man Pharaoh had just shot and then reached for the knob. As Pharaoh had predicted, it turned without a hitch.

The scent of baking bread hit him face first. Pharaoh took a deep breath, and then reality surfaced as his heart skipped an anticipatory beat. Within seconds, they would be together again. And this time, it would be forever.

“Got the stuff?” he asked.

Duke slipped his hand in his pocket, fingering the loaded syringe.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let's get this over with,” Pharaoh muttered. “I've got a date with a chopper down in Tijuana, and I don't like to keep my dates waiting.”

 

Frankie was halfway to the kitchen when she heard Clay shouting her name. She stopped and then turned, and in that moment, something skittered across her mind like a passing ghost. As she stood, a memory came flooding back—of being in this very place and hearing the click of the latch as the front door opened, then hearing footsteps coming across the living-room floor and thinking it was Clay.

Only it hadn't been Clay.

Her heart began to pound, and her hands began to sweat.

“Clay?”

No one answered.

“Clay?”

The silence was deadly.

Panic hit with the force of a blow to the gut, and it was all she could do to make herself move. Without giving herself time to think, she darted out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the bedroom, as fast as she could go.

Seconds later, she was yanking open the drawer to the nightstand and pulling out her gun. One quick look told her it was loaded. She moved to the window. The front end of a dark gray sedan was just visible. And then a bright bit of color in the snow caught her eye. She looked closer, squinting to see between the shards of frost covering the glass. A low moan slid out from between her lips as she realized she was looking at Clay's coat—and Clay's hand—in the snow.

Stifling a sob, she made a run for the phone. With shaking fingers, she dialed 911. Just as the dispatcher came on the line, she heard the front door opening.

“Help, I need help,” she whispered. “Tell Detective Dawson that this is Francesca LeGrand. Tell him that I think they've come back for me again.”

“Ma'am. Ma'am. What is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

Frankie stifled a moan. “I think my husband has been shot and the people who did it are coming in my house. I've got to go. They're going to find me,” Frankie whispered, and started to hang up the phone.

“Ma'am, don't hang up,” the dispatcher said. “I've got help on the way.”

“You don't understand,” Frankie said. “I can't let them find me again. Tell Detective Avery Dawson. He'll know.”

She laid the phone down and slipped to the door, all but holding her breath as she listened to the footsteps moving through the house. Suddenly the lights began to flicker as the power came on. The sudden whoosh of water as the washing machine began to fill sounded loud in the silence of the house. She heard something hit the floor with a crash, then the sound of muffled curses.

With one backward glance, she slipped out of the bedroom and into the hall. The last thing she wanted was to get trapped inside the house with the intruders. Clenching the gun with both hands, she began to move.