Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (33 page)

The margarita Claire drank before dinner had gone to her head. Or perhaps it was the
altitude, or the travel that had left her fatigued, or all three. Regardless, she didn't dare take a
sleeping pill until the tequila wore off.

No, I will not take another sleeping pill, period.

Fine, stay up all night and be a wreck tomorrow.

I will not depend on pills.

The telephone interrupted her argument with herself. "This is the front desk. I'm sorry to
bother you at this hour but there's a young woman here who wants to talk to you. I told her it was
too late to disturb you, but she insists."

"Can I speak to her?"

A brief rustling was followed by a whispered, "It's Phoenix. I have to talk to you."

"I'll be right down."

"No, he might see us. I'll come up. Please. What's your room number? Tell the desk clerk it's
okay."

Phoenix slipped into the room, pushed the door shut and engaged both locks. "You have to
get out of here," she said. "If he finds you, he'll kill you."

"Who will kill me?" Claire knew the answer. Melissa had said Frank's daughter was deeply
disturbed, and it looked as if she was right. Considering what had happened, how could Annalisa be
anything else? She probably saw her father as an all-powerful monster who couldn't be
destroyed.

"Don't play games. You know who I'm talking about."

"I understand how you feel. I've been looking over my shoulder all day, but it's only nerves.
Frank is dead. His boat burned miles out in the Gulf. There were witnesses. People on nearby boats
went to the rescue. The Coast Guard said it would be unusual to find a body. There are sharks..."
Claire offered all the reassurances Mike had given her.

"There was no body because he's not dead."

Nothing she could say was going to convince Annalisa that her father was dead, and maybe
he wasn't. Claire had her own doubts. "If he is still alive," she said, "he's living under a new name in
some foreign country where he's stashed lots of money. He bragged to me about the millions he'd
stolen."

"He's right here in Taos, probably staying at this hotel. He might have seen you already."
Annalisa eyed the walls as if she expected Frank to crash through from an adjoining room. "After I
read that newspaper, I tried to call, but the desk wouldn't put me through because it was too late. I
drove back to town as fast as I could. Please, you have to leave. You're here because of me, and I
don't want your blood on my hands."

"Thank you, but--"

"Listen to me." Annalisa grabbed her shoulders. "He showed up last month, told me he was
leaving the country. He promised he'd never bother me again, but first, he wanted the pictures." Her
mouth turned down in disgust. "He photographed himself with girls. He'd make me look at them. Do
you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes." Claire wanted to hug Annalisa, but she didn't dare.

"Before I left New Orleans, I hid some pictures in a safe place. He's in them, and if anything
bad happens to me, a friend knows where to find them. She'll give them to the New Orleans
police."

"You don't need the pictures anymore. Either Frank died Monday night, or else he's
somewhere like Thailand."

"He came into the shop yesterday morning. I didn't recognize him until he spoke to me. He
was dressed like a cowboy, wearing a hat and sunglasses. He needed a shave."

During her few hours in Taos, Claire had seen dozens of men dressed like cowboys, most
wearing a hat and sunglasses and most needing a shave. She hadn't really looked at any of them, but
if one had been Frank Palmer, he would have recognized her. She sat down on the bed.

"You're starting to believe me, aren't you?" Annalisa said. "I can see you getting scared.
Now, will you leave?"

"You're right, I'm scared. But I came here to give you a letter." Annette Fulton waited alone
with the dog that used to belong to this young woman, praying for a word that would say she was
forgiven. Claire took the envelope out of her pocketbook. "It's from your grandmother. She asked
me to be sure you read it."

"I don't need to read it. I know what it says." Annalisa brushed the letter aside. "She's been
asking me to come back ever since she found out where I was living."

"You're all she has left, you and Caesar. Do you remember Caesar? He lives with her now.
He's a nice dog, but he's getting old. So is your grandmother."

"You should never have come here." Annalisa paced, head down and face invisible behind a
curtain of hair.

"That's what I thought when I went to see your grandmother. I felt guilty because my visit
upset her. I should have left her alone. But then she helped me, and I promised to help her. I can't
just give up and leave because I'm scared."

Heavy footsteps approached in the hall. They stopped talking and stared at the door until
the sound died away.

"I don't want your blood on my hands," Annalisa repeated.

"You warned me. It's all on me now." She stood up, prepared to escort her visitor to the
door. "I'm not leaving until you read the letter. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Annalisa closed her eyes and then opened them, as she had done in the store.

"I'm still here," Claire said.

Annalisa expelled an exasperated breath. "If I read the letter right now, will you
leave?"

"You read the letter, and I'll leave tomorrow morning, not tonight. It's late, I'm tired, and I
don't have anywhere to go." Her return flight wasn't until Wednesday, but she could spend the time
in Santa Fe. Or she could change her flight.

"Early tomorrow morning, like sunrise." Annalisa picked up the envelope.

"Deal." She walked over to the window to give Annalisa some privacy and put her hand on
the drapery pull.

"Get away from the window! Keep the drapes closed."

She jumped back in surprise. "You really are nervous."

"You should be too. You know what he's capable of. This letter isn't worth getting
killed."

"I'll leave first thing in the morning."

"And I'll read the letter." Annalisa leaned against the wall and opened the envelope. When
she finished reading, she looked up, eyes bright with anger. "If you expect me to be moved by this,
you're mistaken." She crumpled the paper and threw it in the wastebasket. "Did you know that my
mother killed herself?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"My grandmother's sorry too, and she ought to be. Mom told her that Frank was a bad man
and we needed to leave him. But Grandma said a woman's first duty was to be a good wife to her
husband. She refused to help us!"

Claire nodded. Annette Fulton had said that she failed her daughter.

"Of course, Mom didn't tell her the whole story. It was too ugly, and my mother tried to
avoid ugly. When life got ugly, she escaped by getting drunk. When drinking wasn't enough, she
made her escape permanent." Annalisa walked around the room as she spoke, picking things up and
putting them down--the pen and pad by the telephone, a magazine about Taos, the remote control
for the television. "I was barely fourteen years old, and she abandoned me. To him."

"I don't think that's what she intended."

Annalisa dismissed the excuse with an angry wave of her hand. "It's what she did." She
stood hands on hips as if challenging the world. "But there's no point in being mad at a dead person,
is there? It's a waste of emotion, bad karma and all that."

Claire wanted to speak, but paralyzing dread silenced her. Her breathing grew shallower
and shallower until each inhalation was a frantic gasp for air. The bubble tightened around her, and
fear filled her throat, choking her from the inside. She couldn't move; she couldn't see. A woman's
voice faded away, leaving nothing but the suffocating bubble and the disgusting smell of burned
plastic.

* * * *

Claire opened her eyes. Annalisa was bent over her, wiping her face and neck with a cold
washcloth.

"I'm okay," Claire said. "That was just a panic attack. It looks worse than it is."

"I didn't know if you'd just fainted or if you were having a heart attack. If you hadn't come
to so fast, I would have called for help." She shuddered. "Frank might have seen us."

"Usually I can keep it under control, but tonight, I lost it. I really am okay now. Don't worry.
My doctor promises me that no one ever died from a panic attack."
It just feels like you're
dying.
"I have pills if I need them." Exhaustion rolled over her in waves. She was so tired. Every
word took effort, but she had to reach this young woman.

Annalisa laid the damp cloth across her forehead. "I can see why you'd have panic attacks
after what you just went through. I was in pretty bad shape after mom died."

"It has nothing to do with that." This was the worst panic attack she had experienced, and
for the first time, she knew precisely what had triggered it. "You mentioned being angry with
someone who has died. My husband died a little over a year ago."

"Did he kill himself, too?"

"He didn't intend to. He ran into a burning house to rescue two little children. He threw
them to safety, but he didn't get out."

"I'm sorry."

"I am too. I loved him very much." Then she said out loud what she had never before
admitted, not even to herself. "But I'm also angry. He didn't choose to die, but he chose to risk dying.
Running into that house was heroic, and it was reckless." The children's own mother had been
afraid to go back inside. She'd stayed on the sidewalk, and she was still alive. "In his own way, he
abandoned me, and I was furious--with him and the world."

Tom's death had left her without a reason to live. From freshman year in high school until
the day he died, everything in both their lives had revolved around his dream of becoming a
pediatrician. She'd switched her college major from architecture to accounting because accountants
can always find work, and she'd be supporting both of them while he finished his studies. She'd
worked in the university accounting office while he was at Johns Hopkins. When they moved to
New Orleans for his residency at Tulane, she'd taken the actuarial job at the insurance company.
She had hated the hours spent staring at a computer, but it paid well. They needed the money
because Tom wanted to specialize in childhood cancers, which meant another two years of study.
Everything she did was for him, and then he died.

"I understand," Annalisa said. "At Mom's funeral, everyone was pitying me, whispering and
shaking their heads. I almost exploded every time someone looked at me. I wanted to scream
curses, spit in their faces." She was back to walking around the room picking up loose objects.

"I felt the same way." There'd always been anger mixed in her grief, and she had panic
attacks because she was afraid, and deeply ashamed, of that anger. Condolences had infuriated
her.

"Then you should understand why I didn't want to read the letter, why I don't want to see
my grandmother, why I'm never going back."

"I also understand that we both have to--forgive isn't the right word, but it's close. We each
have to move on, find our own path through the ashes."

Annalisa froze. "Move past being abandoned by my own mother because she was too weak
to face the truth? She married that man. What happened wasn't my fault, but she punished me." She
walked over to the door. "I read the letter. You leave in the morning."

Her anger was directed more at the mother who abandoned her than the father who
abused her. Annie Lewis had blamed herself as well. It struck Claire as an incredible injustice.

"There's another letter you should read. It's the last letter your mother wrote to your
grandmother." She had tucked the letter into her dresser drawer, unsure what she was going to do
with it but unable to throw it away.

"Where is it? That's what I'm supposed to ask, isn't it?" Annalisa leaned against the door,
her hand on the knob, she sounded more tired than hostile.

"It's back in New Orleans, but I remember every word. Your mother told your grandmother
the whole truth, but it was too late. By the time she got the letter, you were gone."

"You want me to read my mother's suicide note?"

"I want you to know that your mother loved you very much and that she didn't intend to
abandon you."

Claire glanced over at the other bed and the tangle of dark blonde hair on the pillow. She no
longer thought of this young woman as Annalisa or Frank's daughter or even Annette's
granddaughter. Certainly not as the troubled teenager Melissa Yates had described. Her name was
Phoenix, and she was living proof that a person could build a new life for herself. Like her
namesake, she had risen from the ashes.

Nothing could erase the past, but its burdens could be eased. Claire believed that once the
police caught up with Frank, Phoenix would feel a weight lift, dared hope she would soon contact
her grandmother. The letter had been retrieved from the hotel wastebasket.

She dressed and packed as quietly as possible. If Phoenix said Frank was in Taos, he was.
She had promised to leave and she would. She left a brief good-bye note with her phone number in
New Orleans and tiptoed out of the room. When the elevator door opened, she scanned the lobby
before stepping out, making sure Frank didn't lie in wait.

"Happy Halloween." The same woman was working at the reception desk. This morning,
she sported a multi-colored fright wig and a nametag that said
Bad Hair Day
.

"Happy Halloween to you too." Claire paid the bill but didn't check out. "I ended up having
company last night. She'll be leaving later this morning."

The parking lot attendant wore his version of a Playboy bunny costume with an enormous
overstuffed bra and a nametag that said
Bad Hare Day
. In spite of everything, Claire had to
laugh. Someday, when she was absolutely sure Frank was in jail or dead, she'd come back to Taos,
but for now, she wanted to be miles away. She hoped with all her heart that Phoenix was right
about the hidden pictures guaranteeing her own safety. They had for five years.