Fran Jonas hesitated in the doorway. She looked up and down
the corridor before she slipped from the private hospital room.
With a glance at the "No visitors" sign on the door,
she twitched her lips in a grim smile before she began to creep
stiffly away. Neither sign nor privacy would keep her safe much
longer, anyway.
Her heart fluttered, as if seeking release from the cramp
of her tightly taped ribs. Sweat moistened her cold hands. Now
I know how a prisoner feels, trying to escape.
Her skin shrank from contact with her clothes. The dirty,
disheveled jeans and sweater still bore traces of grime and blood.
Her blood. Given a choice, she would never have put them on again,
but she had to. She had no other clothes and no one she dared
call to bring her any.
Lying in that hospital bed for three days, recovering from
the brutal beating, she'd realized she had no friends. Plenty
of acquaintances, but no friends. True, as Francesca, often prefaced
by "super model", she'd worked with many other models
and photographers. She had an agent, several men who squired her
to various events, and others she'd met in New York who she'd
casually described as "friends". But not one of them
was someone you'd call when you were in desperate need of help.
That's what a real friend was--and she didn't have a single one.
Mercy Hospital's evening visiting hours were nearly over.
A few people still came and went, but the nurses hadn't yet begun
their bedtime checks. If she could walk steadily enough, perhaps
she'd draw no undue attention. Although she hadn't ventured as
far as the lobby since her admission, she made it. Her legs felt
wobblier than hospital Jell-O, but she made it.
A cab waited, right outside the door. Pure luck. She eased
into the seat, breathing in careful little pants that didn't strain
her bound ribs.
"Where to, Lady?"
After debating with herself a moment, Fran acknowledged she
was too weak to walk any more. She'd have to risk going straight
to her apartment. "River Front Towers, please."
"River Front and Seventy-Ninth, right?"
If the cabbie wondered why someone so unkempt wanted to go
to that swank address, he didn't show it, didn't even look at
her. He'd probably seen it all, she reasoned, and no longer cared.
"Yes. Make it the east door."
Trembling with strain and the exertion she hadn't healed enough
to handle, Fran shut her eyes a moment and leaned her head back
against the cracked vinyl seat. Even the cloying odor which permeated
the cab, cigar smoke mixed with stale perfume, didn't rouse her.
The trip took too little time.
"Here y'are. That'll be $7.75."
When the driver spoke, Fran's eyes snapped open. She didn't
respond immediately. This time he turned around.
"Lady, are you all right?"
She gathered her wits by sheer dint of will. I can't let him
get too curious. "Yes, I'm okay. I just visited a really
sick friend." She had to struggle to force the words out.
Her hands shook as she drew out the oversized wallet which
had been jammed in one pocket of her jeans. Was that ten still
hidden behind the note pad? It was.
After they roughed her up, Salvatore Gambruzzi's thugs had
taken her obvious money, about $110.00 as she recalled, enough
to make it look like a typical mugging and robbery. Was she the
only person in the world who knew it wasn't? The evening news
had reported the attack, said the police had no leads, and thankfully
had not named the hospital to which she'd been taken. So at least
the press had not descended in full force--yet.
She tugged out the bill, handed it to the cab driver. Although
it felt awkward, she took pains to keep her head down, shadowing
her face. At least they'd left her face alone.
"Keep the change." Her voice sounded raw, rough-edged,
even to her. Her throat was still sore, too. An instant flashback
of one thug's hands, tightening around her neck, made her gasp.
She scrambled from the cab, turning away as quickly as she
could. The doorman glowered at her, doubt clear in his expression.
After she showed her key, he let her in, but with clear reluctance.
She felt sure he didn't recognized her. She seldom used that door,
anyway, and never appeared in public less than perfectly groomed.
Some four hours later, near midnight, Fran slipped back out
of the building. Again, she tried to be sure no one noticed her.
Beneath a drab raincoat, she wore her oldest, faded jeans and
a plain gray sweat shirt, but they were clean, at least. She'd
twisted up her trademark, hip-length ebony hair, and carried only
an old gym bag and her largest purse. Makeup, applied with artful
clumsiness, made her look older and plainer.
She used a service door from the basement to emerge into the
shadowed alley. If Sal did have a watch on the place, they wouldn't
be likely to guard this out-of-the-way exit. Francesca would never
use a service door. She limped for two blocks before she dared
hail another cab. By then she felt so shaky and weak she could
barely stand unsupported, let alone continue walking.
If only neither cab driver would recall her, much less connected
her with the mysterious disappearance of Francesca from Mercy
Hospital. That event would no doubt make all the papers and newscasts
tomorrow, but by then she'd be far away.
Adopting the slouch she'd forgotten years ago, she visualized
herself simply another colorless, anonymous woman, traveling alone.
She took comfort in knowing that pale and drawn as she now was,
she hardly resembled her glamorous alter-ego.
The cab left her at La Giardia. Before the hospital pain killers
wore off completely, she made her way to the gate for the earliest
departing flight.
Moments later, she dropped into seat 22-A on the red-eye to
Atlanta. She released her breath in a ragged sigh, as her tired,
achy body seemed to sink through the upholstery. She wasn't sure
where she'd get the strength, but from Atlanta, she'd take another
plane to Des Moines or Baton Rouge or Houston. Then on to El Paso
or Orange County or Salem, Oregon, and eventually home. For the
first time in years, she thought of the InDinay Reservation in
Arizona as home, a refuge rather than a miserable place from which
to flee.
Weariness, pain and relief blended, leaving her feeling slightly
giddy. This is like an absurd hopscotch game - but it's not fun
and I don't dare step on the lines.
"Whadda ya mean she ain't here?" Sal Gambruzzi leaned
forward, resting his bulk on the nurse's station counter. Behind
it, the pale young nun cowered, clinging to a lower shelf as if
for support.
Her lips moved for a moment before any sound emerged. "Ms.
Jonas checked out, er, last night. I mean she must have, but there's
been a mix-up, the records . . . one of the doctors . . . I'm
sorry, sir, but she's really not here."
"What kinda joint you runnin' here that people can just
walk out? What about the bill?"
"I . . . you'll have to go to the financial office about
that, sir. I can't access that information from this computer."
Sal swung around and stalked away, swearing to himself as
he went. He wrinkled his brow, digesting what he had just heard.
This couldn't be happening. Francie was too weak, too cowed to
walk out on her own. She'd seen what they did to Margie, the cocktail
waitress who got caught pulling change. Dumb broad oughta know
she'd got off easy--this time.
This half-assed hospital--first they put up that damn 'no
visitors' sign and watched so he wasn't able to get in and talk
to her and now they'd let her disappear. One of her pansy boyfriends
must 'a come and got her. Well, they could be made to regret it,
too. Damn, she couldn't be gone. Had to be a mistake, like maybe
they moved her to a different room.
Twenty minutes later, Sal had to acknowledge the unpalatable
truth. Francie Jonas--Francesca--whatever you chose to call her,
was well and truly gone. She'd slipped out and even left him the
bill to pay. Stalking to the door, he glared up and down the parking
lot.
There was his car, halfway down the lot. Why'd the stupid
kid have to park a block away? Well, he wasn't about to walk.
A man had to keep some dignity, and his had suffered enough for
one day. Wait til he caught up with that sneaking bitch. This
time he'd slap her around himself, for a start.
He whistled sharply. His driver, jumping guiltily at the sound,
glanced around. The kid hastily backed the old Lincoln out and
came around to where Sal waited. As Sal watched impassively, the
younger man hopped out and held the door, clearly trying to ignore
his boss's grim expression.
"Drive over to River Side," Sal growled, as the
youth slid behind the wheel.
"Maybe she just went home."
But she wasn't there either. A quick look through the apartment
didn't tell him much. Her clothes still filled the closets. A
purse sat on the marble-topped foyer table by the door, still
jammed with her credit cards and makeup. What kind of crazy broad
would leave all that behind?
A shiver passed through him. What if Lefty and Joe had gotten
her first? They were trying to win favor with The Man too. Had
he bragged too much about how he was going to use her famous face
and gorgeous body as his final step into the big time? A sick
cramping pain bit at his gut.
He grabbed a delicate vase from the foyer table and slammed
it to the floor. It shattered into a million bright slivers. He'd
rather do that to her, damn bitch. Where had she gone?
A man held onto what was his. That was the code. No stupid
slut could outsmart Sal Gambruzzi. He'd find her, and when he
did, she'd be real sorry.
Pulling that virgin act on him, as if she was too good to
sleep with the ward boss or the lieutenant over at Precinct Headquarters,
like he wanted her to. Everybody knew models were no better than
hookers, showing off their bodies for money, getting their pictures
taken in next-to-nothing. If he hadn't helped things along for
her, she'd never have gotten anywhere. She owed him more than
she could ever repay and so did that wimp kid of Angela's. A sister
married to a kike; what a thing to have to live down. And a pansy
nephew. Angela's kid was dead now, but the girl wasn't, Francie.
So she'd pay for it all, one way or another.
* * *
Some forty-plus hours later, Fran's sixth flight since leaving
New York circled over the bright fingers of Anasazi Lake. The
calm water reflected the parfait of sunset colors. Fran pressed
her face to the small window, eager to see it all. Although she'd
managed a few naps on the various planes, and grabbed an occasional
coffee or a bite to eat, exhaustion and pain still dogged her.
Yet the sight of so much forgotten beauty briefly energized her.
Along the lake's south shore, the town of Plateau straggled,
a town much larger than the Plateau she recalled from childhood.
Ten years brought many changes.
The plane wove a route among the towering thunder heads to
make its way down to the airport where it settled lightly to the
ground. In a dim corner of her thoughts, Fran recognized the landing
as the smoothest of her long journey.
The other six passengers were on their feet and shuffling
impatiently as soon as the plane halted beside the terminal. Fran
waited, too exhausted to jostle and rush. Finally, when everyone
else had disappeared through the cabin door, she dragged herself
to her feet and tottered up the short aisle.
The pilot and the flight attendant waited near the door. She
glanced at them with a nod, barely registering the once- familiar
cast of their InDinay features. At the top of the stairs, she
paused.
Home! Awareness sang through her, momentarily eclipsing all
else. Emerging from the sterile interior of the plane, she drew
a deep breath of cool, damp air, redolent of juniper, sage and
afternoon rain. Her gritty eyes absorbed the stark outlines of
bluff and butte silhouetted against the blazing sky. In the comfortably
familiar scene, she found a moment's respite from the drugging
constancy of pain and fear.
She'd stayed away much too long. If any place in the world
held safety and healing for her, she'd find them here, in the
stark, harsh simplicity she had once so eagerly fled.
Before she could fully enjoy the sensations, she sensed someone
approaching, coming up close behind her. Logic told her it had
to be the pilot, but her over-stressed mind succumbed to imagination.
A chill danced along her spine as she hurried down the short stairs
from the plane, but the tribal pride Grandma Jonas had instilled
in her years ago still remained.
"You must never let the enemy see your fear," the
old medicine woman always said. Now, as in the past, Fran trusted
her grandmother's wisdom.
Although she both wanted and dreaded to look back, she drew
herself up straight and walked evenly. The other passengers had
already vanished, leaving her alone in the dusk. Except for the
unseen someone behind her. She felt exposed and vulnerable, as
if she stood out, radiating fear like a beacon, with "victim"
tattooed on her brow.
* * *
Although Ben Yazzie could no longer count the times he'd landed,
everything from the first Piper Cub to the Harrier on the U.S.S.
Contender, he never ceased to feel a thrill of accomplishment
in a completed flight.
To be not only a professional pilot but a founding partner
of the fledgling Fifth Corner Airline still seemed a miracle.
Now, if he could only make it grow, expand into a real regional
airline, that would prove an Indian could be more than another
ignorant failure.
Twelve years ago, he'd graduated from Red Gap High School,
a thin notch above the bottom of the class. At that point, no
one would have voted him "most likely" to be anything
but another drink-sodden bum lying in a Flagstaff or Gallup gutter.
Still, after a tough drill instructor and a couple of good Marine
officers pointed the way, he'd managed to fulfill the potential
no one had previously recognized. His success amazed everyone,
him most of all.
Deep in thought, Ben moved out of the cockpit, stooping to
accommodate the low overhead. He paused, waiting as his passengers
disembarked. Only seven today. Maybe that was why his attention
settled on the last one.
The slender woman looked tall, not much under his own six
foot one. Her faded jeans hung rather than clung, barely hinting
at her shapely derriere. Her bulky sweater, in colors and patterns
that brought to mind the traditional hand woven rugs his grandmother
used to make, hid most of her body. Caught back in a silver clip,
straight, thick hair fell past her waist. Hair blacker than a
spill of oil on a clean hangar floor, with the same iridescent
highlights.
At first glance, he saw little to distinguish her from the
local girls who'd gone off to college. His second look hinted
her story was different. She moved with wary caution. A furtive,
fearful intensity molded her features--like his uncle and other
InDinay Marines who'd come home from Vietnam with key pieces of
themselves missing. The wounds weren't always physical, but that
didn't make them any less real.
She stopped just outside the plane at the top of the stairway.
When she straightened her shoulders as she raised her head, her
hair shifted and shimmered in the fading light. He saw something
familiar in her profile, but full recognition teased and evaded
him.
He waited and watched, appreciated, wondered. Her grace and
striking, distinctive beauty contrasted with the wounded air surrounding
her. Although he didn't want to notice or intend to care, something
about her refused to be ignored. She presented him with a living
paradox, an intriguing mystery.
When she moved on, he ducked out and followed her across the
asphalt to the terminal. He stood aside to observe, driven by
curiosity. Although she seemed naturally graceful, she moved as
if every step pained her. Approaching the ticket clerk, she spoke
with peculiar hesitancy.
"Excuse me. Can I catch a taxi here to go into town?
I don't have a reservation, but I suppose there'll be some vacancies
in the motels in the middle of the week, won't there?"
Her low, soft-toned voice pleasantly tickled Ben's ears, although
it carried a hint of an unfamiliar accent. He paused, waiting
to see what would happen next. Kerry Begay, the clerk, didn't
impress him as a good ambassador for either the airline or the
area, but maybe she was learning.
Kerry looked up from her magazine. "Reservations for
the Reservation, huh? That's a laugh. Yeah, there's rooms in town,
but no taxi. Last one we had went outta business two months ago.
Tourists usually rent a car in advance, and local folks have someone
meet them. This is the Rez, you know, not Phoenix or Santa Fe."
"No taxi? Oh dear, that presents a problem."
"Well, there's the shuttle bus, but the last one left
a few minutes ago, so it's walk or hitch, I 'spose. It's only
a mile to town. I walk it all the time since my brother wrecked
the truck." The clerk snapped her gum and closed the conversation
by turning away.
Irritation flashed through Ben. He'd have to speak to the
terminal manager about that girl. She had no call to be rude to
customers, even if they weren't familiar with the local scene.
Dismay etching her face, the strange woman stared at the girl.
"A mile? In . . . in the dark?" Her unsteady voice held
shock, near horror.
Before he quite realized what he was going to do, Ben approached
her. "I can give you a lift to town, ma'am."
She whirled around. When she came face to face with him, she
backed sharply away. Her dark eyes widened. He could see the pulse
pounding in her throat.
He smiled, trying to ease her obvious fear. "You trusted
my flying. My pickup's no taxi, but the idea's the same. Can't
you trust my driving?"
She drew a breath and let it out slowly, catching her full
lower lip between even white teeth. He saw in her eyes the moment
she recognized his uniform.
"Yeah," Kerry put in. "You hardly ever bite,
do you, Mr. Yazzie?"
Ben darted a chastening glare at the pert girl, but didn't
reply. Finally the woman nodded. "I guess--er--of course.
Thank you."
"Wait right here and I'll bring my truck around. Do you
have any bags?"
She shook her head, hefting a gym bag in one hand. "Just
this. I'm traveling light these days." Her attempt at flippancy
sounded brittle. As he walked back outside, he felt her troubled
gaze follow him.
She didn't step out of the flagged entry until he drove into
the pool of light beyond the door. He jumped down and circled
the truck, reaching to help her into the four-wheel drive's high
cab, but she twisted away to scramble up unaided. When they started
off, she pressed tightly against the passenger door, hands knotted
in her lap.
Hoping to put her at ease, Ben tried to draw her into a conversation.
"You live around here?"
"No."
"Been away in school for awhile?"
"No." Her single-syllable answers held no willingness
to confide, no warmth, barely even courtesy.
"Maybe on vacation?"
"Not really."
With a glance, he took in her drawn face and the exhaustion
etched in every line of her body. Yet she still held herself defensively
erect.
"Lady, what is your problem? Are you in some kind of
trouble?" When a hint of irritation crept into his tone,
he tried to soften his approach with humor. "Am I risking
arrest for aiding a fugitive or something?"
She looked at him sharply, then shook her head, indignation
lending brief animation to her face. "No, I'm not a fugitive!
I haven't done anything wrong."
"Well, you could've fooled me. I'm usually pretty good
at reading people." He took his attention off the road long
enough to flash her another quick, intent glance. "Or is
it that you need help?"
She shook her head even more vehemently. "No! Everything's
fine. I just needed--a break, a little time away."
Ben eased down on the brake. As the truck rolled to a stop
at the junction of the airport road and the highway, the engine
sputtered once and died. He turned the key twice but it wouldn't
fire again. Great way to end the day. He muttered a curse under
his breath. Perfect timing.
"It's that damn distributor. Cap's cracked. Knew I needed
to change it, but thought it'd wait til tomorrow."
Sensing her tense up even more, Ben turned to his passenger.
"No big deal--I can change it in five minutes. Got the new
one in the glove box."
He reached across, jabbing the button to open the box. While
he pulled out a small cardboard box, a screwdriver, and a flashlight,
she shrank back as if to insure he wouldn't touch her by accident.
"If you'd get out and hold the light, it'd help a lot."
She hesitated a moment, perhaps weighing her options. "All
right," she said finally. She slid down and circled the truck
to stand beside him, poised and wary. Before he raised the hood,
he handed her the light. She took it in a wobbly hand, jerking
back as if the touch of his fingers would burn her.
The wind picked up suddenly, whipping a few strands of her
hair across his face. Hair that felt like silk, sending a streak
of lightning-bright heat slashing through him. Even carrying the
stale, recycled air and dust of her travels, it held a faint sweet
floral scent. He brushed at the tickling wisps impatiently, but
they clung like cobwebs, teasing him. For a moment, he visualized
burying his face in that silky hair while he . . . .
No! He wasn't going to fall prey to this spooky woman, even
if she was undoubtedly gorgeous when she wasn't sick, scared or
whatever was wrong. And sexy as hell. Women only brought him trouble,
and the gorgeous, sexy ones were the worst.
Struggling with his irritation, he reached out and steadied
her hand, directing the flashlight's beam where he needed it.
When their shoulders brushed, he heard her gasp.
He tried then to speak calmly. "I don't know how to convince
you, but I swear I won't hurt you. My name's Ben Yazzie. I've
lived here in Plateau for eight years, since I left the Marines.
Everyone knows I've got too much at stake to do anything as stupid
as attack a woman I just met."
In the flashlight's reflected glow, he saw her turn slightly
toward him. She still looked strangely familiar. Her mobile lips
twitched in a slight smile before she spoke, both actions catching
him by surprise.
"I'm Fran, Fran Jonas. Since I used to come here with
relatives years ago, it seemed like a good place to come--for
a visit. I'm not really afraid, just tired. It's been a long trip,
and I've been ill."
She spoke so softly he had to lean towards her to under-stand,
but at least she spoke, something beyond monosyllables. That had
to be progress.
"Cold? You're shaking like an aspen. The wind is kinda
brisk. I'll have this fixed in a minute and we'll be on our way."
He worked fast. Loosening the clips, he pulled the old cap off
and set the new one in its place, inserting in order the wires
from each of the eight spark plugs. She didn't flinch when he
took the light back, and this time she let him help her into the
truck. As he circled the vehicle to get in, he grinned.
"If the motel's out of your way, I'll be glad to pay
you."
When Fran spoke, Ben jumped.
"No." His frustration slipped again, sharpening
the one short word.
"No, it's not out of your way or no, you don't want my
money?"
"No both. Out here we call it being neighborly, but it's
not out of my way."
As he spoke, Ben turned off the highway and pulled in at the
Lake View Motel, the newest and nicest in Plateau. A neon vacancy
sign blinked beside the office door.
Ben glanced across at his passenger. She sat hunched and silent,
withdrawn like a desert tortoise into its protective shell. Every
instinct told him something was wrong, and he trusted his instincts
completely. In spite of himself, he was still curious, more than
casually interested. He could never resist a puzzle, and she was
certainly that.
Her features and tall, slender build hinted at InDinay blood,
but her voice and mannerisms denied it. The nagging sense of familiarity
taunted him. Could she be someone he'd met, maybe in California?
Surely, he'd remember.
She had fine, classic, Native American features, chiseled
with perfect delicacy, high cheekbones, square jaw line, a narrow,
high-bridged nose, almond shaped eyes of clear, dark amber with
just a hint of tilt, and full but finely shaped lips. Her face,
with its strange mixture of defiance and vulnerability, piqued
his interest. No, he wouldn't have forgotten her.
In contrast to her appearance, her tension and clipped speech
were all city, perhaps Boston or New York. He didn't know much
about the eastern tribes. She might belong to one of them. Yet
the desert seemed to enfold her comfortably, as if it recognized
and accepted her.
He couldn't let this riddle alone. Who was she? What was she
running from?
