Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (32 page)

"Are you okay? I heard the news, but it can't be true. It just can't be. Frank would never do
anything to hurt you. I remember what you told me. I know you didn't love him, but he said he
loved you, and I believed him." Her words dissolved in sobs that continued until a beep ended the
message.

The next message was a continuation. "It's me again. Time ran out before I finished. I feel
so bad if anything I did was wrong. I would never... But Claire, I just don't believe... Frank would
never... I only did... I'm so upset..." The sobs resumed. "I'll call back when I can talk."

Her third message was brief. A more composed Jeanette said, "Please, call me," and left her
home phone number.

Poor Jeanette. She'd worked for Frank for years. Her life revolved around her job and her
identity as Frank's Girl Friday. She had no other life, no real life.

No real life, that phrase summed up the thoughts that had been whirling around in her
head all morning. Since Tom died, she'd had no real life, nothing outside her job. Her only non-work
relationship was with her mother, who wouldn't let herself be pushed away. She'd cut herself off
from the rest of the world.

If she'd met Frank at his cabin, his plan would have worked. No one would have missed her
until long after the badly burned woman's body found there was identified as Melissa Yates.

"You'd miss me wouldn't you, Dorian?" She scratched behind his ears, and he purred.

People would have missed her. Eventually. If she didn't show up for work, Jack would
wonder where she was, but he knew that she had bad times, and he respected her privacy. He'd
wait a few days before calling, a few more before realizing that she had disappeared. If she didn't
call for a couple weeks, her mother would worry. If she didn't pay her rent on the first of the month,
her landlord would stop by. Isolated by sorrow, she would have been a perfect victim.

She escaped. Others had not.

Frank was responsible for three deaths--no, four--he drove his wife to suicide. He'd abused
who knew how many young girls, including his own daughter. Melissa, seduced at fourteen, was
also a victim, whether or not she knew about Frank's plan.

Mike meant well, but she didn't want counseling. She'd had months of counseling after Tom
died, but she still hadn't uncovered the fear behind her panic attacks. And this was different. This
time, she needed to fight back. She couldn't undo the damage Frank had done, or change history,
but she could comfort Jeanette. She could return her call, listen as a sympathetic friend and
reassure Frank's girl Friday that no blame fell on her. Talking to Annalisa would be more difficult,
but she'd deliver Annette Fulton's letter to her granddaughter or die trying.

That night her mother called. "I can't stop thinking about you and what you've been
through. It would do you good to get away. Come home, Claire. Let me pamper you."

"I'd love to, Mom, but not this weekend. What if I came for Thanksgiving? It's only a month
away."

"Thanksgiving is a terrible time to travel." There was a long pause. "Are you hurt and not
telling me?"

"No. I'm going to New Mexico." She explained the situation.

"You shouldn't be running around trying to solve someone else's problems. You need to
take care of yourself. Rest, give yourself time to recover."

"I am recovering, and I'm getting plenty of rest. Promise. I'll call when I get back, and we
can plan a visit then."

Claire didn't fully understand herself, and so she couldn't explain why extending a hand to
Frank's other victims was so important. It just was. Part of it went back to her mother, the woman
who was always there for her. Annalisa hadn't been that lucky, and neither had Annie Lewis. The
lucky ones owed the others a hand.

Once again, Claire glanced over her shoulder. Nothing had changed. No snake coiled around
the potted plant in the corner, no alligator slithered across the carpet, and none of the people
waiting in line to rent a car looked anything like Frank Palmer. If anyone was watching her, it was
simple impatience. She'd given her driver's license and credit card to the agent several minutes ago,
but he continued to frown and peck away at his keyboard.

"I have a reservation," she said.

He nodded.

She checked one more time to be sure Annette's letter was in her purse. She'd also brought
the front section of Wednesday's Times Picayune with its stories about her kidnapping and rescue.
The newspaper might come in handy when she found Annalisa. The agent finally looked up.

"I see you're from New Orleans," he said. "Where are you going?"

His curiosity heightened her unease. "I don't plan to leave New Mexico."

"No problem going to another state. Just don't cross into Mexico." His frown returned.
"Those border towns are nowhere you want to be, but that's not why I asked. You reserved a
subcompact."

"I did." It was the cheapest option and plenty big enough for her and her one suitcase.

"If you're hanging around Albuquerque or going down into the desert, you're fine. But most
people who fly in from the East are driving up to Santa Fe and Taos. We're talking seven thousand
feet above sea level, uphill all the way."

"Yes?"

"Your subcompact won't go forty up those hills. You'll drive everyone behind you nuts. And
heaven help you if you need to accelerate quickly. You need a bigger car."

"How much would a bigger car cost?"

"Where're you headed?"

She leaned across the counter and whispered, "Taos."

The agent gave her a funny look, and she straightened up, feeling like an idiot. There was
nothing to worry about. Frank was either dead or he'd escaped, but he wasn't in the Albuquerque
Airport.

"I can let you have a Ford Taurus for another six dollars a day. It should be twenty, but I'll
upgrade you at cost because I don't want to rent you an unsafe car." He resumed typing, all the
while muttering to himself about the irresponsible idiots taking reservations.

He lived here, she didn't, and so Claire heeded his advice. She picked up one of the maps
stacked on the counter and studied it while he revised the paperwork. "What's the road like?"

"The road's good. Just take it easy on the curves until you get used to the front-wheel drive.
It says here that you're returning by 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday November 3. Is that correct?"

An hour and a half later, Claire parked the Taurus and went looking for a place to eat lunch
in Santa Fe, a city she'd long wanted to visit. She walked around a large plaza, admiring the adobe
architecture and lingering on the shady side where vendors sold crafts from blankets spread on the
sidewalk. She selected a silver bracelet for her mother and remembered that Annalisa sold jewelry.
Buying something might be a good way to approach the girl. Maybe her mother would get two
bracelets.

The vendor recommended a place where the locals ate lunch, a small café several
blocks from the square. Claire sat at a table on a patio shaded by a vine-covered trellis and took the
waiter's advice about what he promised were the best chile rellenos in New Mexico but decided
against the state's finest margarita. So far it had been an easy drive, uphill all the way as promised,
but on a wide and straight highway. According to her map, the road between Santa Fe and Taos was
two lanes with lots of curves.

She was traveling into the mountains, not to a border town, but that term stuck in her head.
Nowhere to be, the rental agent had said, and he was right. She'd been living in her own border
town since Tom died. Fifteen months spent going through the motions on the edge of normal
existence, alive but not really living. That was no way to honor Tom, and it was going to change. In a
perverse way, she had Frank Palmer to thank.

On her way out, she flipped through the brochures stacked on a table by the door. One
featured the art galleries and outdoor sculpture gardens of Canyon Road. Another described the
Georgia O'Keefe Museum. A local church had a miraculous spiral staircase, built without external
support, and legend said Saint Joseph was the carpenter. She took a copy to show Jack. If she had
time, she'd spend at least one night here on the way back and see the staircase for herself.

North of Santa Fe, the road narrowed and the countryside changed. On her right, tan and
gray, ochre and burnt sienna colored vast hillsides dotted with shrubs the gray-green color of slate.
Wire cages, twice the height of her car and filled with rock, lined the roadside, and heavy mesh
blanketed the slopes, all of it restraining huge boulders poised to plummet downward. The subtle
hues and huge scale created a landscape as exotic as the moon.

On her left, the ground fell off abruptly. Far below, a small river burbled bright blue around
more rocks. Claire imagined enormous boulders crashing down the hillside and landing in the river
with an earthshaking splash. A sixteen-wheeler, barreling downhill, rocked her car as it passed. She
tightened her grip on the steering wheel and thanked the rental car agent for questioning her
choice of vehicle.

Going north, she was next to the cliff. The drive back would be more daunting. Only a
narrow shoulder and an intermittent guardrail separated the southbound lanes from that long drop
down to the river. White crosses beside the road marked where someone had gone over.

Claire pulled off to use the facilities at a national recreation area. A browse through the
displays revealed that she'd driving beside the Rio Grande. It didn't look very grand, but then it was
a long way down.

Back on the highway, she resumed her climb until one last hairpin curve swooped down
and then up to a broad expanse of flat land ringed by an arc of distant mountains. Roadside
buildings became more frequent, traffic increased, and a sign welcomed her to Taos. The
architecture here was like Santa Fe, only more so. Low adobe buildings seemed to grow from the
earth. She spotted the Mesquite Inn, where she'd reserved a room, down the street and to the
right.

Her room was large, with two queen beds and a small sitting area. The windows offered a
view of distant mountains turning lavender in the fading light.

She wasn't hungry for dinner, not after the late lunch, and so she decided to locate the store
where Annalisa worked. According to the detective's report, Dream Catchers was on the first floor
of an enclosed mall at the west end of the plaza. She put on a warm sweater and headed out,
stopping at the reception desk to ask directions to the plaza.

"Turn left at the corner and walk fifty feet," the receptionist said. "You can't miss it. Taos is
not a big place."

"Thank you."

"It's usually a busy place, but we're in a lull right now. The summer tourists have gone
home, and the skiers don't show up until Christmas."

Claire ignored the unspoken question about what brought her to Taos in the off-season.
"I'm going to walk around a bit, maybe get a bite to eat."

Several minutes later, armed with three recommendations for dinner, she set out to
explore the plaza. She still hadn't decided how to approach Annalisa. Pretending to be a customer
and then revealing her real reason for being there would be too devious. If she just introduced
herself and handed over the letter, that would be too abrupt. One of Davidson's detectives had tried
a direct approach and been thrown out of the shop. Annette Fulton had told her that she'd know
what to do. Claire wished she had that much faith.

The mall was small and she easily located Dream Catchers, which was still open. She
hesitated at the door, and then stepped inside to look around. A chime sounded, and the person
she'd traveled a thousand miles to see walked in from the back.

"Hello. Can I help you?" Annalisa's smile was pleasant and impersonal. The nametag pinned
to her blouse said Phoenix
.

"Yes." Claire told the simple truth. "I've come to see you."

"Why?" Annalisa said. A furrow appeared between her brows. "Do I know you from
somewhere?"

"No. My name is Claire Marshall. Your grandmother sent me."

"My family is here." She folded her arms across her chest, and the furrow became a
full-fledged scowl.

"You have a grandmother in Alabama."

"What do you want?"

"I just want to talk to you."

"We've talked. You've earned your money. Now you can leave." The young woman closed
her eyes and opened them again as if hoping that would make Claire vanish.

"No one's paying me." Just the opposite. This trip with its the last minute airfare was
costing plenty. "I'm trying to help your grandmother because she helped me."
And because I need
to.
"I'm sure Paul Gilbert has told you that your father's dead."

"Frank Palmer is not my father, and he's not dead." She spoke without emotion but with
complete certainty.

"He faked his death two weeks ago, but a lot's happened since then." Claire pulled the
newspaper out of her pocketbook. "Here. It's a complicated story. The easiest thing would be if you
just read this."

Annalisa glanced down at the headlines. "Fine. I'll read this. Later. But he's not dead."

"Can we meet tomorrow? After you've had time to read the newspaper and think it over?
I'm staying at The Mesquite Inn."

"I'll call you if I want to talk to you." It was a curt dismissal.

"Good night. See you tomorrow." Claire backed out of the shop, berating herself for being
so clumsy.

The sun had gone down while she was in the mall. On the western horizon, the mountains
shadowed deep purple, while gold rays streaked upward, passing through orange to scarlet, then
violet. It was the most spectacular sunset Claire had ever seen, and she'd forgotten to bring a
camera. Not forgotten, it had never occurred to her. This wasn't a pleasure trip, and she was making
a mess of it.