The Bodyguard

Chapter Three

Frankie meant to give McKennon a noisy smack on the lips. Then she would shove him and hope he slipped on the icy gravel and fell on his butt so he would end up looking like the big jerk he actually was. Then she’d laugh in his face and prove his idiotic kidding around had absolutely no effect on her whatsoever.

That’s what she’d meant—

Electricity sparked from his lips to hers, melding her to his heat. He wrapped both arms around her shoulders and hugged her to his chest. Breath deserted her; thought deserted her. She clung to his shirtfront as if she drowned and only he could save her. Mingled aromas of soap and shaving cream and healthy male swirled through her brain like an intoxicating drug. He smelled so good. His lips were so supple, so warm. When he slid a hand through her hair and grasped the back of her head in a possessive hold, she became lost in the erotic feeling of his fingers against her scalp.

This kiss superseded all other kisses in her life. She’d kissed him a thousand times in her dreams, but this was better. McKennon touched her soul. She parted her lips and greedily accepted the thrust of his tongue. Noises slipped away one by one, the rustle of her jacket, their boots crunching gravel, the faraway whisper of a breeze through the pines, until all she could hear was her pounding heart. She kissed and kissed him, tasting, testing, no longer present, but lost in her dreams, submersed in the solidity of his big body, entrapped and enthralled by the power of his embrace.

When he broke the kiss, a cry rose in her throat. A cry of protest, of yearning. Her eyelids flew open, and she stared into his eyes. They were black, fathomless, smoldering. His hot breath fanned her cheeks.

Dizzy now, she tried hard to muster outrage. Unable to do that, she settled for indignation, but even that wan emotion failed her.

He slid his hand from beneath her hair. Released from his hold, if not from his spell, she dropped her hands from his shirt. In her head she saw herself flinging her hair in a haughty gesture and sniffing in disgust; she swiped her mouth; she laughed in his face.

In her head.

In reality she backed a step and lowered her face. Her cheeks burned, but she shivered inside the parka. A single kiss had never set her on fire before. She’d never lost her head like that. Bemused and troubled, she peered warily at him.

“Cabin B,” he said, and pointed. His voice sounded suspiciously gruff.

Oh, yeah, Penny, she thought. She took a step in the direction he indicated and paused. She half expected him to take her arm, to stop her and kiss her again. He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and hunched his shoulders. Annoyance tweaked her.

Resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at him, she strode determinedly to Cabin B. She knocked softly on the door, then listened. She raised her hand to knock again, but hesitated. All night long she’d rehearsed conversations with her sister. Angry words, loving words, forgiving words and spiteful words. She doubted now that anything she said could change the situation.

Forget speeches and arguments, then. She would assure Penny that no matter what happened they were still sisters, but she’d never be able to accept Julius. Then she’d say goodbye.

She knocked a rapid tatoo Penny should recognize from the countless mornings Frankie had awakened her to get ready for school. After a few seconds she knocked again. The knocks echoed behind her in a fading swirl.

“No answer?” McKennon asked.

His nearness startled her. She hadn’t heard his approach.

“Something’s wrong,” Frankie said. She knocked harder. Her cold knuckles ached with every blow.

“She’s probably been up most of the night.”

She flinched. No way, no how, did she want a picture in her head of her baby sister and that creep Julius having sex. “She’s a college student. Or was. She doesn’t need sleep. There’s something wrong.”

He lifted his gaze to the star-studded sky. “Even if I could open the door, which I can’t, I wouldn’t. Let them sleep.”

“She has to talk to me.” She pounded on the door with her fist, ignoring McKennon’s whispered warnings about disturbing the other guests. She grabbed the doorknob. It turned easily, startling her. “The door’s unlocked.”

McKennon glided up the steps on silent feet.

She pushed the door open. Thin pink-tinged light formed a rectangle on the floor. The rest of the interior was pitch-black. And quiet.

Too quiet. Every nerve in her body went on alert. The atmosphere stifled her with its tomblike silence.

“Penny?” she called softly. “It’s me, Penny. Hello?”

“Step back,” McKennon whispered in her ear. He found a switch and flipped it. A wall-mounted lamp filled the cabin interior with a golden glow.

Frankie blinked, momentarily blinded. As soon as her eyes adjusted she saw the bed. The king-size four-poster bed practically filled the room. The posters looked like Roman columns carved with twining leaves. A canopy frame made of wrought iron echoed the leafy bower theme. Julius lay squarely in the center of the bed. A thick comforter was drawn to his chin. His mouth gaped and his eyes were open. Creepy claws skittered up and down her spine.

Not right, not right, this is bad, this is very bad, intuition screamed in her head. “Penny?” Moving only her eyes, she searched for her sister. “Penny!”

“Don’t move,” McKennon said. “Don’t touch anything.” He hurried to the bed and leaned over Julius.

This is not happening, Frankie thought, watching the big man press two fingers beneath the bridegroom’s jaw. A weary-sounding curse husked from McKennon’s mouth, and she knew. Julius Bannerman was dead.

Frankie clamped her arms over her chest. She planted her feet at a stubborn angle and glared at her brother-in-law. She willed him to rise, to speak, to breathe. The creepy claws ran races along her spine. “What is wrong with him, McKennon?”

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, and his eyebrows nearly touched in the middle. “Dead.”

“He isn’t dead,” she insisted. “He’s faking it. Shake him. Give him CPR. Do something.”

McKennon tossed her a gee-you’re-dumb look. “Raising the dead isn’t in my job description.”

She strode to the opposite side of the bed. Julius’s face was a peculiar mottled gray color. Dried saliva crusted on the corners of his mouth. His eyes were as dull as dirty china. Stomach churning, she poked Julius’s cheek. His skin felt like wax and she jerked her hand back and scrubbed it on her parka.

“Leave him alone. I told you not to touch anything. Especially him.”

She held up her hands, showing empty palms. “Okay, okay. Where’s my sister?” She sidled away from the corpse. “Penny? Penny!” Ignoring McKennon’s orders to stop, she jerked open a closet door. Penny’s bridal gown hung from the rod with the skirt and train stuffed into the closet like a massive wad of cotton candy. But no Penny. Fighting down panic, Frankie rushed for the bathroom.

McKennon snagged her parka hood, jerking her backward. She gagged and stumbled. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her still. “Stop, or I will throw you out. This is possibly a crime scene. You cannot touch anything.”

Her heart tripped painfully, making breathing a chore. Blood rushing in her ears made thinking difficult.

“Take a deep breath,” he soothed. He rocked her gently, back and forth. “Calm down. We’ll find Penny. She’s okay. Settle down.”

“I am okay now,” she muttered.

He maneuvered her about to face him. Like a stiff doll, she allowed the manhandling. She knew him well enough to know that if he said he’d throw her out of the cabin, then he would do so.

“Stay right here. I will check the bathroom. Do not move.”

He entered the bathroom. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. Frankie could almost see the tension vibrating from his body. She finally found something that rattled him—and she didn’t like it one little bit.

“She isn’t here,” he announced. He unhooked a slim cellular telephone from the holster affixed to his belt.

Frankie’s gaze fell on an envelope propped against a lamp on the bedside table. “Julius Bannerman” was written on the front in bold, block lettering. She snatched up the envelope and tore off the end before he could stop her.

“I told you not to touch anything!”

She hunched protectively over the envelope. She shook out the paper inside. She fumbled the folded paper open. “It might tell me where Penny went.”

“That does it, you’re out.”

It said: “Dear Mr. Bannerman, we have your wife—”

Frankie gasped. McKennon grabbed the paper from her hand, but she had seen that first horrible sentence. “She’s been kidnapped!”

“Don’t jump to con—” His mouth clamped shut and his eyebrows rose. Eyes wide, he stared at the note. “Ah, hell.”

Strength drained from Frankie’s knees; her heart constricted in her chest. “You liar,” she growled. “You said she wasn’t in danger. Now she’s gone.”

“Be quiet.” Some of the color faded from his cheeks, leaving him gray. He rattled the sheet of paper.

Thin, college-ruled notebook paper, she noticed, the same kind she used at home because it was cheap and hole-punched. It heartened her. Surely real kidnappers would use twenty-pound bond or newsprint covered in letters clipped from magazines, not common, loose-leaf notebook paper. Her throat felt full of cement and she swallowed hard. “What does it say?”

He cleared his throat and read:

“Dear Mr. Bannerman,

We have your wife. This is nothing personal, we have no hard feelings toward you personally. This is strictly business. We know you are a good person and your wife is a good person. We will not hurt anybody as long as you do exactly what we say. All we want is money. You and your family are very rich and will not miss the paltry amount we demand. We demand three million dollars for the return of your beautiful wife. You and your family have forty-eight hours to raise the money. We are not unreasonable people. As long as you give us the money, we will not harm your wife. Do not call the police. We will know if you do. If you call the police, we will have no choice except to kill your wife. We do not want to do that. Do not leave Elk River Resort. We will know if you do. We will contact you in forty-eight hours to instruct you about where and how to give us the money. As soon as we have the money, we will give you your wife. Do not act stupid in any way. We mean everything we say.

McKennon exhaled heavily. “That’s it.”

She blinked stupidly at Julius’s body. He looked like a little kid tucked in snug and cozy for the night. “If they don’t want to hurt anybody why did they kill him?”

“An accident?” he offered. Head cocked, he studied Julius. “Stay,” he warned her and began to prowl the room. He searched, his eyes quick and alert as a cat’s, but touched nothing. He leaned over a small wastebasket next to the wet bar. “Here we go.”

Holding her elbows with her hands, in order to resist touching anything, Frankie peered inside the wastebasket. It contained several empty minibottles of scotch, foil candy wrappers and two syringes.

“Looks like they came prepared,” he said. “One for Julius, one for Penny.”

“Some preparation,” she muttered. “The idiots OD’d him.” A horrifying thought occurred to her. “You don’t think they overdosed Penny, too?”

He shook his head in firm denial. “She’s young and strong. She hasn’t been wrecking her health with bad living for the past thirty years, either. I doubt very much they meant to kill him.” He held the note out to Frankie. “Are you one hundred percent positive this isn’t Penny’s handwriting?”

Offended by his implication, she bristled. “Watch it.”

“If she and Julius were partying with drugs and she got scared—”

“Even if she weren’t as straight-up as they come, she’s vain about her body. She doesn’t eat sugar or red meat or drink liquor. She certainly won’t risk fooling around with drugs. Besides, if Julius conked out she’d call for help. She wouldn’t write a stupid note!”

He patiently held out the paper.

To prove her point she perused the handwriting. Her analytical mind kicked in. The block printing was even and smooth, and the note contained no misspellings or cross outs. She focused on the letters K, M and N. Penny always added feminine little curlicues, even while printing. The letters were light textured, but soldiers-at-attention straight.

She noticed the writing nearly hugged the pale blue line of the right margin, indicating a personality that clung to the past and security. The left margin wavered, swooping in and out, almost hesitant in contrast to the rigidly upright lettering. A criminal who feared taking chances?

“Penny definitely did not write this.” She wanted to jump on the bed, jerk Julius upright and scream in his face. She jammed her hands into her pockets. Threads snapped.

McKennon placed the note on the bed, face-up. He brought out his telephone again.

“Who are you calling?”

“The police.”

“Like hell you are!”

“This is a murder, accidental or not. We can’t keep it quiet.”

“Oh, yes we can!” She hurried to the control panel for the heat inside the cabin. She turned the switch to Off. “It’s like fifteen degrees out there. We open the windows, keep him cold. He’ll be okay.” She struggled with a wooden window sash.

“Frankie.”

“Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

“Stop it, Frankie.”

That he used her nickname rather than the more formal Miss Forrest gave her pause. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and closed her eyes.

“Think about it,” he urged gently. “We can’t pretend nothing is wrong. Your aunt and uncle love Penny, too. And what about Mrs. Caulfield? Julius is her only child. We can’t keep his death a secret from her. It’s not only wrong, it’s cruel.”

If he’d said anything else, she’d be able to argue. But concealing a son’s death from his mother was worse than cruel, it was evil. “We can’t let them hurt Penny,” she pleaded. “If they find out they killed Julius, they’ll kill her, too.”

“We have an advantage.”

Eager for any tidbit of good news she lifted her eyes hopefully.

“Elk River is fairly isolated. We can manage the media and keep news of this off television and the radio. The kidnappers are bluffing. They aren’t watching.”

“You don’t know that.”

“This ransom note is straight out of Hollywood. Don’t call the cops, blah-blah-blah. It’s a bluff.” He pointed his chin at Julius. “He hasn’t been roughed up.”

“You don’t know that. Look under the covers. Maybe he’s been shot or stabbed.” She knew she argued an invalid point. Other than being dead Julius appeared perfectly fine.

“Fetch your uncle. I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t call the police.”

“I won’t do anything except wait.”

“Penny is my responsibility. I won’t let you do anything that can harm her.”

His green eyes gleamed. “You have my word, Frankie. I will do everything in my power to get Penny back safe and sound.”

INSIDE HONEYMOON HIDEAWAY Cabin B, Colonel Horace Duke stood with his hands locked behind his back. He studied Julius’s corpse. The Colonel was shaved and groomed and dressed in a dark blue sweatshirt, pressed-and-creased blue jeans and a fleece-lined denim coat. Despite having left the army years ago, the old man still rose every day at 4:30 a.m. His mind was always as sharp as his appearance.

“Might I see the note, Mr. McKennon?”

McKennon placed the paper on the bed in a position where the Colonel could read it. “The fewer people who touch it, the better, sir.”

“Understood.” He scanned the note. His mouth compressed into a thin, unyielding line. “Humph. We shall assume, then, these miscreants are both serious and dangerous.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have we any indications as to the identity of the miscreants? Or where they may have taken Penny?”

“Not yet.” McKennon pointed at the floor in front of the door. “There’s no sign of a struggle. Frankie and I stayed on the gravel, so we didn’t track mud. The tracks belong to the kidnappers. They come in, they go out. No smearing. They left the door unlocked.”

Frankie took a good hard look at her surroundings. The cabin was as luxurious as any five-star hotel, with plush carpeting, wallpaper, antique furnishings, flower arrangements and romantic art hanging on the walls. McKennon’s observation made her realize it was quite neat as well. Julius and Penny had obviously used the wet bar, and their luggage and clothing were tossed about in untidy stacks. Still, other than a few muddy footprints—and a dead groom—the kidnappers had left no sign of themselves.

“No sign of forced entry,” McKennon added.

Frankie easily imagined Julius cringing and cowering before even the mildest threat, but Penny? She looked as fragile as a fairy child; but she didn’t have a timid bone in her body. She’d have fought back. Except, nothing in the room indicated a fight.

“They must have gotten in while Penny was asleep,” Frankie said. “If she opened the door and saw strangers, she’d scream or something. She’d have fought back.”

She crouched and laid her hand lightly atop a muddy footprint. She couldn’t tell if the print was still damp or not, and feared destroying evidence by brushing the nap. “You know this country, Colonel. We can track them down.” She jumped upright and clamped her hands on her hips. “You’ve taken part in search and rescue operations. You have equipment, right? Four-wheel drive vehicles, horses, spotlights. They couldn’t have gotten far—”

“Francine, this is not a search and rescue mission.”

“Penny needs to be rescued!”

Some unspoken communication passed between the men. Frankie wondered if she sounded as panicky as she felt. She gulped in great draughts of air in an attempt to calm herself.

You will not break down, she counseled herself. You will not crack.

“A heinous crime has been committed,” the Colonel said. “We can’t ignore Mr. Bannerman’s murder and go traipsing willy-nilly into the mountains on a wild-goose chase. There are procedures.”

“If the kidnappers find out they whacked Julius, they’ll kill Penny, too. We have to find them first.”

“Ill-advised and dangerous. I must inform the sheriff.”

She resisted pacing, though she wanted to do more than merely pace. She wanted to shout, scream and throw things. “This isn’t some abstract war game. If you call the law, you’ll kill Penny.”

McKennon grasped her arm above the elbow. He faced her impassively. His powerful fingers twitched on her elbow. She tightened her jaw and listened. “These mountains look well populated, but they aren’t. Finding people who don’t want to be found is nearly impossible. Especially since we don’t know who they are or what they look like.”

“Turn me loose,” she gritted through her teeth. As soon as he relaxed his hold, she jerked her arm away and rubbed her tingling elbow. In reply to her furious look, he arched his eyebrows. The expression in his eyes said he’d do it again if she lost control.

The Colonel didn’t seem to notice the way McKennon had manhandled her. He stood ramrod straight, but in his icy blue eyes she read fear. “The sheriff is a personal friend of mine and a man of discretion.”

Frankie wished Julius were alive so she could kill him again.

CHUCK PICKED UP THE COFFEEPOT. Heat seared his palm. Yelping, he dropped the pot. It clattered on the rickety camp stove.

Without looking up from his magazine, Bo Moran said, “Use a pot holder, dummy. It’s hot.”

Chuck suckled a stinging finger and glared at the speckled blue coffeepot. His only experiences with coffee came from restaurants and automatic coffeemakers. The strange percolator gave him the creeps, along with this ramshackle old cabin. A gust of wind made the walls creak and groan. Despite a wood fire blazing in a stone hearth and the camp stove, the place felt like a refrigerator. He shivered.

“I never been camping before,” he said.

Bo chuckled and turned a page. He sat on a bench seat torn from a ’76 Dodge, the only furnishing in the tiny room other than a card table with a ripped vinyl top and a pair of folding stools that sat too low to be used at the table. He had his feet toward the fire and a striped blanket slung around his scrawny shoulders. A Glock 9mm pistol lay on the seat beside him. “This ain’t camping, man. Camping is tents and fishing poles and eating beans out of cans.”

“Sounds like it sucks.” He used a pot holder to lift the coffeepot. He poured a cupful, then wrinkled his nose at the tarry brew. It smelled like coffee, but it didn’t look like any coffee he’d ever drunk. He wished for some milk to cut it.

Cradling the cup to warm his hands, he circled the confines of the room. Outside, the sun glared—a fool’s-gold sun, all brightness, no warmth. Wind battered the tiny cabin, and occasional gusts sliced through the unpainted, plank walls. He couldn’t wait until this was over. He envisioned himself in Vegas—hot, dry, lively, lit-up Vegas, where the sunshine was warm and the air was thick enough to actually breathe.

“So what’s next, Bo?”

“You’ll know when I tell you. Relax.”

Relax... Chuck bit back laughter. He’d robbed liquor stores, run drugs, mugged doofs in parking lots and stolen more cars than he could count. He’d never kidnapped anyone before. It surprised him how scared he felt. The caper hadn’t seemed real until they’d actually entered that fancy cabin. He’d been shaking ever since.

The grab had gone down easy. Too easy. A knock on the door, the doof answered and the girl had been asleep on the bed. Shoot up the doof with dope, then pack the girl to the car. Nothing to it.

Chuck kept playing the grab over in his mind, looking for bungles and wrecks. The whole thing had gone down as sweet as candy. No witnesses, no noise, and they hadn’t left behind fingerprints. It looked like Bo was right, and he was about to make the easiest ten grand of his life.

Except, he’d never done anything easy in his life. Something always went wrong.

He sipped the coffee. It burned his tongue, soured his mouth and slid down his throat like bubbling acid. It hit his gut with a thud and a jolt. He shuddered. Bo had resumed reading his magazine. A travel magazine, the only kind Bo ever read. Bo Moran’s big dream was to buy a monster RV complete with toilet, shower, microwave oven and satellite TV. He wanted to travel the highways and byways.

Chuck paused at a window. Thin curtains printed with yellow flowers and teapots were held back by bits of twine from the grimy glass. He’d covered an ancient Buick, swiped from an old lady too blind to drive, with tree branches. Once they ditched the car nobody could ever trace it to him. Bo’s Bronco glinted in the sun and looked misshapen with its oversized tires and steel bumpers. Trees grew right up to the house, reminding Chuck of the grisly old fairy tales he read to Paul. He half expected to see wolves slipping through the shadows.

Or FBI agents.

In and out, sweet as candy, he thought, trying hard to make himself believe it. Nobody gets hurt, nobody gets caught. In the movies the FBI always caught the kidnappers—usually by gunning them down. The Feds had helicopters, dogs and fancy electronic equipment. Bo said no way would the FBI get involved. Not a chance.

“They always call the cops,” he said.

Bo turned a page.

“How long till the doof wakes up? What if he calls the FBI? They’ll tap the phone. They can trace the call.” He stepped away from the window, with his back to the wall.

“Sit down. You sound like a herd of elephants.”

“He’s gonna call the cops.”

Bo rested back against the cushion and sighed. “I ever tell you a lie, man?”

Always, Chuck thought. He sipped the bitter brew.

“You ever hear the saying, If it looks good, then it is good?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s one of them down-home truths. As long as we look good, we do good. Get it?”

Chuck didn’t get it, but he was stuck. “I’m gonna check on the girl.” He turned for the doorway covered by a sheet of striped cotton. He pulled the curtain aside.

Paul sat next to the bed, hunched over, industriously filling in the designs in a coloring book with a crayon. Chuck grinned. Give Paul a coloring book and he could amuse himself for hours. The kid was a true artist. Maybe instead of a trip to Vegas when this was over, Chuck would get a bigger refrigerator for the apartment. That way he’d have more room to display Paul’s pictures.

The girl appeared to be sleeping. Paul had covered her to the chin with quilts, concealing the duct tape binding her arms and feet. A black-satin sleep mask covered her eyes.

Chuck’s gut tightened. He’d done a lot of crappy things in his life, but he’d never hurt a girl. Easy in and out, sweet as candy. They’d collect the money, give the doof directions, then split. No problem. But Bo hurt people—men, women, girls, even kids if it suited his purpose. Chuck let the curtain fall and wished he’d never met Bo Moran.

A brush of air tickled Paul’s cheek. He stopped coloring the round table of Camelot and noticed the curtain swinging over the door. Wind hammered the thin walls, and he could feel the floor thrumming under his feet. Goosebumps itched his arms. He turned his gaze on the girl. Penny was her name—Penelope. He liked the feel of her name rolling through his brain. Penelope. It made her sound like a princess in a fairy tale, like she belonged in his King Arthur coloring book.

He eased strands of silky pale hair off her cheeks. Pretty girl, Princess Penelope.

She made a small noise. Startled and guilty, he jerked his hand off her face. She moaned and struggled weakly under the covers. She said something he couldn’t understand.

“What?” he whispered. He set the book and crayons on the floor beside him. The dark corners and buckled floorboards housed mice, he felt certain. He hoped they didn’t like the taste of crayons.

Penny groaned, loudly.

Little retching noises bubbled in her throat. Paul understood that sound. Chuck liked his booze even when it made him sick. When he was sick, Paul knew not to let him sleep on his back where he could swallow his own vomit. He eased an arm around her narrow shoulders and helped her upright.

Her retching stopped and he grinned at having done a good job. “It’s okay, Miss Penelope,” he whispered.

He glanced up to see Chuck in the doorway. His brother looked kind of sick himself. “What are you doing?”

“She’s sick. I was helping.”

Bo shouldered Chuck out of the way. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Paul tightened his hold on the girl. She sagged in his arms and whimpered deep in her throat. He petted her soft blond hair.

“Chuck, you better get it through that dimwit’s head.” Bo’s eyes blazed animal fury. “If that mask comes off I’ll cut her throat and his.”