The Bodyguard

“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.”