Remember Me (13 page)

When she had not returned those feelings as he'd expected, he'd chalked it up to her youth. When she grew up, things would be different, and until then, he would bide his time.

And then he'd screwed up. He called it his five years' worth of stupid. By the time he'd gotten out of prison, Francesca had turned eighteen and left the orphanage for parts unknown. He still remembered the panic of knowing that, like everyone else, she had disappeared from his life.

By the time the plane landed in L.A., Pharaoh's mind was set on going after her. But first things first. Pepe Allejandro would be waiting to know the outcome of the trip. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting.

Four hours later, Pharaoh was on his way home, still trying to digest his windfall. Pepe had been extremely pleased with Pharaoh's performance—so pleased that he'd just promoted him to a district all his own. That it was in a seedy section of L.A. rife with gang wars didn't bother Pharaoh a damn. This was his chance to prove himself, and he wasn't going to blow it.

And there was another fact that he couldn't ignore. All of this had happened after he'd found Francesca again. He started to grin. It was just like before. The teachers at the home had viewed him as nothing but a troublemaker doomed to failure—and then she'd come along. After that, it had been harder for them to judge him as bad when that sweet-faced baby had given him her devotion. That was when he'd known she was more than his friend. She was his luck.

He rubbed the palms of his hands on the fabric of his slacks, smiling with inward glee as he looked down at the newspaper again. If Francesca thought getting rained on was fun, she would be delirious when she saw his face. And he
would
find her. In his mind, success depended on it…

But that had been then, and this was now, and Pharaoh was philosophical enough to know that the things worth having never came easy. His body protested as he shifted in his chair. He didn't want to think of his disappointment again, but finding her hadn't been all he'd imagined it would be. He hadn't expected such violent objections from her. He hadn't planned on keeping her under lock and key, but one day had turned into another and then another, and before he knew it, she'd been with him for months. The months had turned into years, and she still turned her face from him—pleading to be let free, begging to go back to her husband. Ironically, it was nature, rather than man, that finally thwarted him. He hadn't counted on an earthquake rocking his carefully laid plans.

He turned toward the window, staring out at the gray, cloudless sky. Something was wrong, he knew it. Stykowski was way overdue to check in, which made him nervous. But then, he reminded himself, since the earthquake, everything was still a mess. Two of Allejandro's best men had been killed in a car on a crumbling piece of freeway, several had been injured and one was still missing. The infrastructure of the entire organization was in disarray. The men Pharaoh often counted on were being used in other capacities, and he had been forced to use second-rate men like Marvin Stykowski for his personal business.

Pharaoh tossed the rabbit's foot onto the desk and cursed. His mistake had been not in keeping Francesca locked up, but in letting her husband live. And yet, as often as he thought about letting her go, his greed would not permit it. With her, the wealth he had amassed was staggering. His power within the cartel was only less than that of Allejandro himself.

But he was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of waiting for his carefully orchestrated world to start coming undone. He needed Francesca. And he needed to rest. He glanced toward the bookcases against the east wall. He would rest, but later. There was something more important he needed to do.

With a halting step, he moved toward the books, running his fingers along the shelves, counting down the titles until he reached the eleventh one from the end. He pulled, and as he did, the wall opened soundlessly. He stepped inside the passageway as the door slid shut behind him.

The passageway was narrow and winding, with false turns and dead-end halls, meant to confuse an intruder. But Pharaoh knew where he was going, and the closer he got, the more rapid his steps became. He likened the feeling within these walls to being inside a womb. The massive cinder blocks were reminiscent of the great blocks of stone from which the pyramids had been made, and the narrow hallway down which he was walking was not unlike the passageways inside the tombs of ancient Egyptian kings. The closer he came to the light, the more rapid his heartbeat became.

A faint odor of incense greeted him as he reached the entryway. Instinctively, his gaze moved toward the pair of dark marble statues against the wall. Their majestic features were etched in stone, capturing the godlike quality that had marked them throughout the centuries. He inhaled deeply, drawing strength from their images. His legs were shaking from exertion, and his rest was well past due, but the discomfort was unimportant compared to what he derived from being here.

He moved, stopping only inches from the statues. Deep within the bowels of this house, the silence was almost deafening. The sound of his heartbeat, the exhalation of each breath, each served as a reminder that he alone was still among the living. His gaze moved across the first statue, separating the high, noble forehead from the large, sightless eyes, measuring the cut of her cheekbones against his own—envisioning the touch of her lips upon his brow.

Isis.

If he'd had a mother, she would have been like this—noble and magnificent.

He exhaled slowly. The sound was like a wail within the small, cloistered walls. There, in the shadows, he waited for a sign. Somewhere within him, time ceased. Unaware of the cold, hard marble on which he stood or the weakness within his bones, he listened with his heart, knowing that an answer would come.

And when the image of Francesca's beautiful face suddenly flashed before his eyes, he shuddered. The need to hear her voice, to feel the texture of her skin, was a visceral ache. But he had his answer. He knew, as certainly as he knew his own name, that Francesca LeGrand would be with him again.

 

Only after the plane lifted off from the Denver airport did Clay breathe a slow sigh of relief. Detective Dawson's phone call had put a rush on his plans like nothing else could have. He glanced at Frankie, who was sitting in the aisle seat beside him. Her knuckles were white, her jaw tensed. He slipped his hand over hers and leaned sideways, whispering in her ear.

“It's okay, we're off the ground,” he said softly.

Her eyes were wide and filled with fear as she met his gaze. “I've done this before,” she muttered.

He frowned. “I thought this was your first—”

Suddenly he understood. She was remembering.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“I feel sick,” she whispered.

He glanced up. The Fasten Seat Belt sign was still on, and the plane was still climbing. Getting her to a bathroom wasn't going to be easy.

“Hang on, Frankie, I'll ring for an attendant.”

“No,” she muttered, grabbing at his hand before he could follow through. “Not sick like that.”

His frown deepened as he cupped her face, tilting her chin until she was forced to meet his gaze.

“Sick how, baby?”

She shuddered again. “With fear. I feel sick with fear. When we left Denver, we left in a plane.” Then she closed her eyes. “The ground was so far below. There were clouds…we were flying through clouds. The engine sounded different—smaller, I think. I could see the man's hands on the controls—the instrument panel was all lit up in front of us.”

“Can you tell where you are?” Clay asked. “What do you see below? Is it green? Is it—”

“Mountains! I see mountains—and there's a huge city below.”

He patted her hand. “This is good, Frankie, real good. This means that more of your memory is coming back.”

Her joy began to fade. “But it doesn't tell us a damn thing about where we landed.”

“All in good time,” he promised. “All in good time. Right now, let's just concentrate on going back to Kitteridge House. You're bound to have left some friends behind.”

“Yes, of course you're right,” she said.

He grinned. “Always.”

She snorted softly beneath her breath and then gave him a wry grin. “You are such a man.”

He leaned even closer, whispering softly against her ear, “And don't you forget it.”

She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “As if you would ever let me.”

His grin widened. “Hey, I'm only doing what I can to justify my existence.”

She laughed, and the sound warmed his heart. A few moments later, the tension had passed. Even after Frankie had drifted off to sleep, Clay kept a close, anxious watch. He couldn't quit thinking that the more she remembered, the more desperate their situation would become.

 

It was sunny in Albuquerque when they landed, but there was a chill in the air. Frankie pulled her jacket a bit closer around her and hastily took her seat on the passenger side of their rental car, while Clay loaded their bags in the trunk. A security guard nodded at her as he passed. She smiled back. Nothing out of the ordinary there. If only her life was as uncomplicated as that.

Clay slammed the trunk shut, then, moments later, slid behind the wheel, giving her a quick wink as he put the key in the ignition.

“Okay, baby, we're loaded. I think we should get a motel first. We'll call Kitteridge House from our room, make an appointment to see the administrator and then find a good restaurant. How does that sound?”

“Like a plan,” Frankie said. “I'm starved.”

A short while later, Clay carried their bags into their room while Frankie searched the phone book for the number to the orphanage. Her heart skipped a beat as she found it.

“Clay?”

He paused at the door to the bathroom and looked back. “What, honey?”

“This feels weird.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“I don't know. It's almost as if I'm coming back home under false pretenses. How much am I going to tell the administrator about what happened to me? Whatever I tell, it's bound to sound crazy.”

“No, I don't agree,” Clay said, and sat down on the bed beside her. “Look at it this way. They've been in the business of helping children for years, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, just because you've grown up, that doesn't mean they won't help you again. They fed you and clothed you, and, I would suppose, there were some there who even loved you.”

A boy's laugh suddenly echoed inside her mind. She shuddered.

Clay saw the shadow cross her face. When she shivered, he took her in his arms. “What is it, baby?”

She wiped a shaky hand across her face. “I don't know. I had a flash of something, but it's gone.” She sighed. “Just another teaser, I suppose.”

“Want me to make the call?” Clay asked.

Frankie hesitated, then straightened. “No, I'll do it. Just don't go far, okay?”

“I'm with you, Francesca—all the way.”

F
rankie leaned back in the seat, bracing herself for the flood of memories as Clay drove onto the grounds of Kitteridge House. The first time she'd come through these gates, she hadn't been tall enough to see out of the car window. She could remember the bare branches of the trees, angling toward heaven with skeleton-like arms—and being afraid. Everything that had confirmed her identity was gone: her parents, her home—even her own toys. All she'd been allowed to bring were her clothes, a small teddy bear and her blankie.

She sighed. As she remembered, even the blankie hadn't lasted long. One day it went to the laundry and never came back. As she'd grown older, she'd often wondered if that had been their way of weaning her from her past, or if it had truly been lost, as they'd claimed.

“Are you okay?” Clay asked.

Frankie nodded. The concern on his face was touching.

“I'm fine,” she said quietly. “Just a lot to absorb.”

He nodded, remembering himself at the age of four and trying to put himself in her place. He couldn't imagine the devastation of losing his mom and dad, and he felt like crying for the little girl that she'd been.

The driveway began to circle, and he slowed to take the turn. It hit him then that Frankie was coming back to Kitteridge in somewhat the same manner she'd arrived. Then she'd lost her parents, now she'd lost the past two years of her life. But the trauma was still the same.

“It's really big,” Clay said, seeing it through the eyes of a contractor.

“And old,” Frankie added.

The carefully kept grounds were somewhat Southwestern in style, although large shade trees with ornamental benches beneath were interspersed about the grounds. Along with some decorative borders, the occasional cactus garden could also be seen. Clay knew that whatever grew green in Albuquerque came from irrigation and vast sprinkler systems.

The buildings, while large, were lacking in ornamental design. A two-story edifice, without benefit of awnings or porches, served as the hub, with other wings angling out from the main entrance like spokes in a wheel.

Kitteridge House had been founded by Gladys Eugenia Kitteridge in 1922, for the safety and preservation of motherless children. Over the years, the guidelines had changed some, allowing in children who had been abandoned, as well. Although they weren't all orphans, which meant they were not all adoptable, they had one thing in common: they had nowhere to go except here.

As they passed a groundskeeper, Frankie turned to stare. She didn't recognize him, but it stood to reason. It had been eight years since she'd been here. A lot of things would have changed.

“It seems smaller than I remember.”

Clay smiled. “No, baby. Your world just got larger, that's all.”

She laid her hand on his thigh, taking comfort from his strength. “
You
are my world.”

An ache hit his gut.
Please, God, let me keep her in mine.
He parked in front of the main entrance, then killed the engine. Francesca was waiting for him to make the next move. He gave her a wink.

“I love you, too,” he said softly. “And just for the record, we'll continue this discussion later—back at the motel.”

“Sounds marvelous. Now, let's get this over with.”

“Are you still scared?”

She looked out the windshield. There was a small group of children walking from one building to another. She glanced at her watch and knew where they were going. Since this was Saturday, chances were they were going to the gym.

“No, I'm not scared—at least, not of this place or these people. It's what I don't know about myself that's making me crazy.”

Clay opened the door and then grabbed her by the hand. “Come on, baby. We'll slay the dragon together.”

As they exited the car, a gust of wind hit, running chill, breezy fingers down the back of her neck. She shuddered.

“Cold?” Clay asked.

“A little.”

“Then let's run,” he said, taking her by the hand.

By the time they reached the entrance, they were laughing and her dismal mood was over. Clay opened the door, the smile still on his face, and almost bumped into a tall, gray-haired woman who was standing in the doorway.

“Oops, sorry,” he said quickly.

She smiled politely, but her smile widened as her attention focused on Frankie.

“Francesca Romano, I knew it would be you.”

“Miss Bell!” Frankie cried, and gave the tall woman an impulsive hug.

Clay began to relax. If this was any indication, at least the visit would not be traumatic.

Addie Bell looked over Frankie's shoulder. “This would be your husband, I presume?”

Frankie smiled. “Yes, ma'am. Clay, Miss Bell is the administrator of Kitteridge House. Miss Bell, this is my husband, Clay LeGrand.”

Addie extended her hand, taking note of his firm handshake and the straightforward look in his eyes. He just might do, she thought.

“My name is Adeline,” she said shortly. “But you may call me Addie.” Then she looked back at Frankie. “When the secretary told me that a Francesca LeGrand had called for an appointment, something told me it would be you. Where do you live now?”

“Denver,” Frankie said.

Addie nodded. “I hear it's a lovely city, although I've never been there myself. So, what brings you to Albuquerque, dear? Business or pleasure?”

The knowledge that Addie Bell had never let her down made Frankie feel safe. Suddenly the embarrassment she'd been feeling was gone. All she wanted to do was get her story told and let someone else share the burden. She bit her lip, but it was not enough to stop a sudden sparkle of tears in her eyes.

“I don't know how to categorize what's happened to me, but we're in trouble,” she said.

Addie's smile slipped.

“Let's go to my office, where we can be comfortable. I'm sure we can straighten everything out. But first, I want to hear everything, from the moment you walked out of our doors until this very minute.” Then she glanced at Clay and almost winked. “Well, maybe not everything, but you know what I mean.”

With one backward glance at Clay, Frankie let Miss Bell take her by the hand and lead her down the hall, just as she'd done so many times before. He followed behind, watching the way the tall, elderly woman leaned down, so as not to miss a word of what Frankie was saying. For a moment he couldn't put his finger on what he was thinking. And then it hit him.

Trust.

Frankie trusted this woman in a way she trusted few others. At that point, the last of his reservations about bringing her here disappeared.

 

To say Addie Bell was stunned by their story would have been putting it mildly. Yet Francesca was here, and if Addie was any judge of character, as afraid as a woman could be.

“Good Lord! Are you serious?” Addie asked.

Frankie felt weak with relief. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Two years—and you have no idea where you were taken?”

Frankie's shoulders slumped. At that point, Clay felt obligated to join the conversation.

“No, she doesn't. Except she thinks there was an earthquake right about the time that she got away.”

Addie gasped. “There was one in southern California only a short time ago.”

“We know,” Clay said.

Addie leaned forward, staring intently into Frankie's face.

“Francesca, you truly believe that you were held all that time against your will?”

Frankie glanced at Clay, taking comfort in the way her heart always settled when she looked at his face, then turned back to Addie.

“Oh yes, ma'am. There is no way on God's earth that I would have willingly left Clay. He's my life.” She sighed. “So you see how lost we are. Besides the police, who I have learned spent most of that time trying to prove Clay had murdered me, there was a private investigator Clay hired trying to find me, as well. In fact he's in California now, following up on the little I remember.”

“And he found nothing?”

Frankie shook her head. “Not yet. Whoever took me didn't do it for money. There was never a ransom note.”

She hesitated, knowing what she said next would hurt Clay, but she was sure it wasn't something he hadn't already considered.

“When I first came back, everyone thought I'd been doing drugs. There were a lot of needle marks on my arms. But it turned out that the only drugs in my system were sedatives.”

She took a deep breath, wishing there was another way to say the ugly truth, but there wasn't. “I don't think I was physically abused. Except for the injuries I'd suffered in the wreck, I was physically sound. But I can't say the same about sexual abuse, because, God help me, I can't remember.”

Addie looked horrified. “And yet you came back.”

Frankie shook her head. “Yes, but I don't think I was turned loose. I think I escaped. And because of that, I have no way of knowing if I'm still in danger.”

At this point, Addie Bell circled her desk and took Frankie in her arms. “My dear! My dear! I don't know what to say.” She glanced at Clay. “It must have been difficult for you, as well.”

Clay shrugged. “I have her back. Nothing else matters.”

Addie nodded approvingly and gave Frankie a quick pat on the cheek as she turned back to business.

“Obviously you didn't come here just to tell me this. How can I help? What do you want to know?”

Frankie looked to Clay for help.

Clay stood, and then began to pace.

“When I hired the P.I. the first time, we were looking for clues in Frankie's current life that might give us some answers. You know, like people she'd come in contact with at work—people who might hold a grudge against me. Even the random nut who just crossed her path—things like that. But the fact that she'd been taken from home led us to believe the random aspect of her disappearance was less likely. Someone had to have known our habits—to know that I left for work early each morning and didn't come home until dark. To know that I wouldn't panic if I called home during the day and got no answer.”

“And the investigator found nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Clay said, then put his arm around Frankie's shoulders as she slid beneath his embrace. He gave her a quick hug before he continued.

“This time, when I contacted the P.I., he suggested we start from the beginning, which means as far back as Frankie can remember. That's why we're here. Is there anything—any instance, any person—you can think of who would have instigated something this bizarre?”

“Oh my, no,” Addie muttered. “Nothing untoward ever happened here at Kitteridge House. Unlike some of the other children, Francesca didn't have any family left. And she was so small when she came to us, I doubt she has many memories of her life before.”

Frankie sighed. “It's true. I vaguely remember what my parents looked like, but I'm not even sure where we were living when they were killed.”

“Why wasn't Frankie adopted?” Clay asked.

Addie shrugged. “Who knows? Several times we thought it would happen, but each time we would get close, the people decided on a baby instead.”

“I remember one couple who had another daughter,” Frankie said. “That little girl didn't like me at all. I remember they brought me back.”

“And we were happy to get you,” Addie said. “Francesca was such a sweet child. Everyone loved her.” Addie's mouth suddenly twisted in a disapproving slant. “Even that strange boy. Hmm…at the moment, I forget his name. Anyway, before Francesca's arrival, he was intolerable. Such a troubled, angry young man. But they formed a bond, you know. It was quite a sight. She was just four. He was almost in his teens. Francesca's affection changed him somewhat, even if he didn't have the epiphany we all hoped for.”

Something stirred in the back of Frankie's mind. Almost a memory, but not quite. She waited, focusing on the feeling and hoping that more would come.

Clay saw her grow quiet. Almost too quiet. He leaned over and touched her shoulder.

“Honey, are you okay?”

She jumped. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He frowned. “Miss Bell was talking about your friends. Is there something specific you remember?”

“No. Oddly enough, I don't remember any boy like that.”

Addie Bell stared at Frankie as if she'd suddenly grown warts.

“You aren't serious?”

Frankie shrugged. “I don't remember being special friends with any boy.”

Addie's frown deepened. “This doesn't make sense. In fact, as you grew older, we all began to worry about the relationship. He became so persistent, almost obsessive. I used to fear for your safety.”