Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (44 page)

     Fallon shrugged and said, "I have no idea where your child is," enjoying the moment as he wondered how far he could take this. To what extreme would this woman go for the information? It was like playing a fish on a line. Toy with her until he reeled her in. Then gut her and throw her into a frying pan.

     "A man who worked with you, Spencer Boudreaux, told my investigator that you had once bragged you were keeping a record of the adoptions. Insurance, you called it."

     He tugged at the starched French cuff of his four-hundred-dollar shirt.

     "I want those records," she said.

     Fallon picked a speck of lint from the sleeve of his dark suit. "This so-called information that
supposedly
connects me to baby trafficking, Miss
Tyler—you realize that when you expose that information, you only expose your own involvement—a convicted murderer giving birth in prison. An escaped felon wanted by the FBI. You'll be arrested."

     Now Abby knew who had sent the threatening "You're next" article. It alarmed her to think Fallon had an agent working for him inside The Grove and she had not known about it.

     When he saw the look on her face, he said, "Yes, I know who you are."

     "I want those records, Mr. Fallon," she said, undaunted.

     Vanessa shifted nervously. She would die before she went back to prison. And Jack stiffened, suspicious of the man with Fallon. He looked like a lawyer or an accountant, but he could also be Law.

     Fallon savored his next words. Watching a woman beg for mercy could be a real turn-on. "You said I bragged that those records are insurance. I have insurance, all right. But not the kind you are thinking of." Reaching into his breast pocket, he brought out a white envelope. "I have here a federal warrant for your arrest. I am here, Miss Tyler—or should I say Miss Emily Louise Pagan?—to take you back to prison."

     "Grove ground control!" Francesca shouted into the radio. "This is Cessna 1277 X-ray. Can you read me?" She mentally kicked herself. She knew better! She had grown up in the desert, had taken her first flying lessons in the desert. It was the discovery of an unknown grandmother—Why had her father kept Lucy Fallon a secret?—that had clouded her judgment. Now she was flying into a sandstorm with no way out. She tried another frequency. "This is Cessna 1277 X-ray calling The Grove resort. I am five miles south. Request landing instructions!"

     The winds whipped up to 40 miles an hour. Visibility dropped to a brown-out. Francesca turned on her landing light but could not see the ground. "Grove, this is Cessna 1277 X-ray. I need help!"

     She turned on her taxiing lights and looked for the landing strip. But it was as if she flew through a brown sea. The plane bucked and shuddered. A heavy object struck the front of the plane. Francesca saw flames. She lost control. "May day! May day! I'm on fire! I'm going down! Grove control, can you hear me? Grove—"

     The wind shrieked past Abby's private bungalow, the lights flickered,
trees thrashed in the garden. Abby said to Fallon, "Arrest me then." And she held out her arms, wrists together.

     All eyes turned to Fallon. He was unfazed. "I mean, it," he said, not taking her bluff seriously.

     "And
I
meant it," she said. "All those names, dates, places, data on birth mothers and adoptive families. Hundreds of them. All leading back to you, Mr. Fallon," she said, pointing to the photocopies. "I will expose them."

     He laughed. "Who would believe you, a woman on the FBI's wanted list?"

     "It doesn't matter who believes me. I will deliver the data to newspapers around the country. To
60 Minutes.
To organizations that are dedicated to reuniting children who were wrongfully taken from their birth mothers. They don't need to believe me. They have only to look at the data."

     Fallon pursed his lips. "You realize that Texas has the death penalty. It means the electric chair for you."

     But she spoke with passion. "You stole my baby from me and sold him to strangers. You victimized women all over the country. You treated children as merchandise. If I cannot be reunited with my own child, then I will see to it that others are. If I am executed, at least I will know that some good came out of my own victimization."

     He blinked. Cleared his throat. "You must think I'm stupid. Either way, I lose."

     "Give me your records," she said, "I will combine them with my own, and I will delete all mention of your name, as well as Karl Bakersfelt, Spencer Boudreaux and any others that could ultimately implicate you."

     Fallon studied the ruby ring on his right hand, adjusted his Montblanc cuff links. He thought of the Vandenbergs, Fallon's doorway into the world of politics. No longer satisfied with just being a businessman, Michael Fallon had his eye on the governor's chair. "Your baby was the fourth one in the May 17th shipment," he said matter-of-factly. "But it died,"

     "Bastard," Vanessa whispered.

     "I want proof," Abby said, standing firm, although a tremor run through her body. "Show me the record from that night."

     "I have a better idea," Fallon said, thinking of the agent he had planted
here at the Grove, who had been ready all week for the signal to take this woman down. Fallon would give the hit order the minute he and Uri left. "Give me the originals of these photocopies and I won't have you arrested."

     She tipped her chin. "Give me
your
records and I won't tell the world about you."

     His eyebrows arched. "You would risk going back to prison, to face the Texas death penalty, for a bunch of strangers you don't even know?"

     "I might not know those children, the adoptive families, the birth mothers, but I know what they have gone through. I know their anguish. If I can never hold my own child in my arms, then at least I can help other mothers to hold their children in their arms."

     Fallon glared at her. This was not something he had anticipated. As they stood deadlocked, each waiting for the other to back down, with Vanessa and Jack and Uri watching, the wind rose and howled and rattled window panes and sent debris flying against the outer walls creating a hellish cacophony, and when the door flew open, everyone jumped. Zeb stood there, a handkerchief to his face. "Abby! A private plane just went down near Indian Rocks. The pilot identified herself as Francesca Fallon."

     "What!" Pushing Abby aside, Fallon bolted out into the wind

     "Wait!" Zeb called after him, but the wind had swallowed him up. "Abby, he'll get lost in that sandstorm."

     "Where in relation to Indian Rocks did the plane go down?"

     "We don't know."

     "Okay. Zeb, send search teams north and east of the rocks. You and Vanessa take the west. I'll go south."

     "You can't go out there," Jack said, putting his hand on Abby's arm.

     "I am the
best
person to go out there. I know the terrain like the back of my hand. And I've been in sandstorms before. Besides, if anyone is hurt on my property, it is my responsibility."

     "I'm going with you," Uri said. When Abby started to protest, he said, "Francesca Fallon is my god-daughter."

     Zeb gestured to him. "All right, you can come with me."

     Jack and Abby made their way through the storm-battered resort to where the vehicles were parked, jumping into an SUV and plunging into
the sandstorm. As Jack drove through the brown-out, Abby unpacked the emergency supplies that all Grove vehicles came equipped with.

     "Can't see a damn thing!" Jack shouted as rocks, grit, sand and fragments of cactus flew into the windshield.

     Abby broke open a box of paper surgical masks—the desert survival kit included food rations, packets of water, and medicine—and prayed Francesca Fallon was still alive.

     "Listen, Abby, that man is dangerous. He's known for making people disappear. He's especially known for keeping his past a secret. Rumors a while back of a pit boss who had made a reference to Fallon's connections with Murder Inc—" The SUV hit a boulder, flew into the air and landed with a crash. "A month later they fished his headless body out of Lake Mead."

     The vehicle slammed into another rock and spun out of control. When it came to a rest, the front wheels were buried in a sand drift while the storm howled around them.

     "I'll go on foot!" Abby shouted as she reached for the first aid kit. "Jack, you'd better stay here. I know this terrain."

     But he grabbed a face mask and a flashlight and jumped out after her.

     They held onto each other as they headed into the storm, but within minutes they were separated. "Jack?" Abby turned in a circle, trying to see him in blowing sand. She could barely breathe. Grit found its way under her sun glasses and stabbed her eyes.
"Jack!"

     She pressed on, going against the wind that nearly knocked her off her feet. The storm blew hot and cold and pelted her with sharp grit and debris. When she tripped over a rock, the first aid kit flew out of her hand. She could not see beyond a few inches, and a moment later the metal box was buried.

     Abby struggled to her feet, calling, "Hello?" only to have the wind snatch the word from her mouth.

     Finally she saw a dense shape ahead, and when she reached the downed Cessna, she saw a young woman lying half out of the charred, smoldering aircraft, her forehead bleeding. Abby helped her up, tried to assess her condition, but the sandstorm was so thick it was like nighttime and Abby's flashlight provided little illumination. But she heard the young woman moan and say, "Where am I?"

     "You're all right, Ms. Fallon," Abby shouted above the wind. "I'll get you to shelter."

     Helping Francesca from the plane, Abby stopped to feel the wind. She saw which direction it was coming from, where the grains were flying, listened to the gusts whistle past her, and knew where Indian Rocks lay.

     They staggered together through the storm, Abby supporting the younger woman. The wind howled and shrieked, pulled at their hair and clothing, and sucked the breath from their lungs. When they reached a stone wall, Abby frantically felt along with her hands until she found an opening and dragged Francesca inside just as the young woman collapsed.

     The cave provided little shelter. It was too shallow and cramped, and then Abby's flashlight beam caught on something that made her blood freeze. Small animal bones, scraps of fruit and berries.

     They were in a coyote den.

     Fallon plunged blindly through the sandstorm until he stumbled upon the wreckage of the plane, finding the door flung open, blood on the windshield. Where was Francesca? Then he saw the FedEx envelope on the seat. As the wind howled around him, buffeting the small aircraft, threatening to bury it and Fallon with it in a sand drift, he could just make out the inscription on the envelope. And he knew why Francesca had flown here.

     Handkerchief covering his mouth, he squinted through the blowing sand. In the near distance, the flicker of a flashlight. Pulling out his gun, he threw himself into the storm.

     Thinking of coyotes, hungry and threatened, Abby said, "We can't stay here. There is a small tunnel leading into the rocks. Can you walk?"

     Francesca pressed a hand to her bleeding forehead. "I'm dizzy...but yes...I can walk."

     Abby put her arm around the young woman's waist and helped her over the cluttered floor. "Am I at The Grove?" Francesca asked. "Is my father here?"

     Abby didn't respond as she kept her flashlight aimed at the floor, thinking of snakes and scorpions, forced out of their dens by the storm. The passageway was narrow and low, they had to push through with their heads down, rocky walls scraping their arms, sand sifting down onto their hair.

     "Wait," Francesca said when they came to an open space, coughing and fighting for breath. "I must sit down. My head..."

     Abby helped her down, then pulled off her face mask and sunglasses, and surveyed their shelter with the flashlight.

     They were in a small cave with tunnels branching off. She tried to think. Years ago, she and Sam had explored these caves with an Indian guide. There was a way out of this subterranean warren, but which way? The wrong direction would lead them to abandoned mines that had been declared hazardous decades ago.

     Suddenly she saw a circle of light sweep over a far wall. "In here!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the cavern walls. "Jack? Zeb?"

     But it was Fallon, holding a small flashlight from the Cessna. He ran to Francesca and gathered her into his arms. "Baby, thank God! Are you okay?

     "Daddy, I am so sorry!"

     He dabbed at the blood on her face with his silk handkerchief, then he looked at Abby. "Do you know a way out of here?"

     She had been listening to the drafts, feeling the ebbs and flows of the cool breezes shifting through the caves, sniffing the air, feeling the walls for dampness. Indian Rocks stood over an earthquake fault line, which was the reason for the artesian wells that fed The Grove. But the water could be both beneficial and deadly. One of these tunnels led to an underground lake.

     Finally she said, "That way."

     They had to stoop at times when the ceiling grew low, tripping over the uneven floor as they followed Abby's frail flashlight beam. The air grew heavy. Their ears popped.

     Hearing a sound, Abby brought her companions to a halt.

     "What is it?" Fallon snapped, Francesca leaning heavily against him. He was worried about her head wound.

     "Listen!" Abby said. "Is that—?"

     Then it came more clearly, someone calling out, "Hello?"

     "Jack! Here! We're in here!"

     Footsteps approached and suddenly the chamber was flooded with light brighter than sunlight. Francesca cried out and covered her eyes. Jack turned down the power on the fluorescent lamp he had taken from the SUV.

     "Thank God!" Abby said, running to him. "I was terrified when I lost you in the storm." She looked past him. "Where are the others?"