even me."
"Don't say that," he muttered, and took her in his arms. "I never once blamed you. You did what you had to do."
"I will forever blame my parents for the lies they told me about you."
"And they did what they thought was right, too. Let it go, Cara. I'm here now."
She buried her face against the curve of his neck. "I'm scared."
His arms tightened around her. "I'm scared, too, but not of Frank … only what he can do if he isn't stopped. You understand, don't you?"
Her voice was shaking, her face streaked with tears. "Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I do. I promise I won't talk about this again. We have now and we have each other. And when you come back, we'll have the rest of our lives."
Now David felt like crying. Instead, he laid her down and began to kiss her. Gently at first and then with desperation, until they were lost in the passion.
* * *
After a day of traveling in his new disguise, Frank Wilson was comfortable in his skin as he tossed a handful of bills onto the counter, picked up the sacks containing his new wardrobe and sauntered out of the Denver, Colorado store. The day was almost balmy. One of those clear, robin's-egg blue skies that made a man feel as if he could take on the world. He paused at the curb before swaggering down the street. More than one woman gave him a second look as he passed, and in spite of his scars, and his long ponytail wig, he knew it was not in disgust. There was a bad-boy air of danger about him that never failed to attract the women. Granted, they were always the wrong kind of women, not like his beloved Martha, but they were always there just the same.
He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the red light to change, and thought of what he had lost. His identity was unimportant. He'd lived so long in the shadows that another assumed name would be a small price to pay for peace of mind. After his confrontation with David was over, maybe he'd find himself a good woman and settle down again. Despite the fact that his sixtieth birthday had come and gone, he had the body and constitution of a much younger man, and he knew it. It wasn't too late to make a new life for himself. He would have the time, and he already had the money.
The light changed, and he started across the street, losing himself in the crowd of pedestrians. By the time he got back to his hotel, he'd made up his mind to head south after he rid himself of David. Maybe the Florida Keys. He liked the sun. It was why he'd settled in Australia, but he'd had enough of the outback. This time, he wanted to be where there was water. A whole lot of water.
Inside his room, he tossed the bags with his purchases onto the bed and began to go through them, searching for certain items. A few minutes later, he had changed into khaki-colored cotton shorts and a navy blue T-shirt. He put on a baseball cap with the Denver Broncos logo and then transferred a number of items into a medium-size fanny pack, patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and room key, as well as some other identification, and headed out the door. He had an appointment he didn't want to miss.
A half hour later, a cab dropped him off at a public firing range. He sauntered inside as if he owned the place.
The clerk at the front desk looked up. "Can I help you?" he asked.
Frank nodded, flashing a badge. "Detective Ferraro out of New York City. I'm here on vacation. Thought I'd get in some target practice while the little woman spends all my money."
The clerk grinned. "Yeah, I can identify with that, buddy," he said. "Sign in here. I'll get an escort to take you into the range. He'll get you all set up."
"Great," Frank said, signing his fake name with a flourish.
A few minutes later, he stood within his cubicle, safety glasses and headphones on, his 9mm Glock loaded and waiting for the first target to appear. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.
"Are you ready, sir?"
Frank nodded, took aim and waited. About fifty feet in front
"Don't say that," he muttered, and took her in his arms. "I never once blamed you. You did what you had to do."
"I will forever blame my parents for the lies they told me about you."
"And they did what they thought was right, too. Let it go, Cara. I'm here now."
She buried her face against the curve of his neck. "I'm scared."
His arms tightened around her. "I'm scared, too, but not of Frank … only what he can do if he isn't stopped. You understand, don't you?"
Her voice was shaking, her face streaked with tears. "Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I do. I promise I won't talk about this again. We have now and we have each other. And when you come back, we'll have the rest of our lives."
Now David felt like crying. Instead, he laid her down and began to kiss her. Gently at first and then with desperation, until they were lost in the passion.
* * *
After a day of traveling in his new disguise, Frank Wilson was comfortable in his skin as he tossed a handful of bills onto the counter, picked up the sacks containing his new wardrobe and sauntered out of the Denver, Colorado store. The day was almost balmy. One of those clear, robin's-egg blue skies that made a man feel as if he could take on the world. He paused at the curb before swaggering down the street. More than one woman gave him a second look as he passed, and in spite of his scars, and his long ponytail wig, he knew it was not in disgust. There was a bad-boy air of danger about him that never failed to attract the women. Granted, they were always the wrong kind of women, not like his beloved Martha, but they were always there just the same.
He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the red light to change, and thought of what he had lost. His identity was unimportant. He'd lived so long in the shadows that another assumed name would be a small price to pay for peace of mind. After his confrontation with David was over, maybe he'd find himself a good woman and settle down again. Despite the fact that his sixtieth birthday had come and gone, he had the body and constitution of a much younger man, and he knew it. It wasn't too late to make a new life for himself. He would have the time, and he already had the money.
The light changed, and he started across the street, losing himself in the crowd of pedestrians. By the time he got back to his hotel, he'd made up his mind to head south after he rid himself of David. Maybe the Florida Keys. He liked the sun. It was why he'd settled in Australia, but he'd had enough of the outback. This time, he wanted to be where there was water. A whole lot of water.
Inside his room, he tossed the bags with his purchases onto the bed and began to go through them, searching for certain items. A few minutes later, he had changed into khaki-colored cotton shorts and a navy blue T-shirt. He put on a baseball cap with the Denver Broncos logo and then transferred a number of items into a medium-size fanny pack, patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and room key, as well as some other identification, and headed out the door. He had an appointment he didn't want to miss.
A half hour later, a cab dropped him off at a public firing range. He sauntered inside as if he owned the place.
The clerk at the front desk looked up. "Can I help you?" he asked.
Frank nodded, flashing a badge. "Detective Ferraro out of New York City. I'm here on vacation. Thought I'd get in some target practice while the little woman spends all my money."
The clerk grinned. "Yeah, I can identify with that, buddy," he said. "Sign in here. I'll get an escort to take you into the range. He'll get you all set up."
"Great," Frank said, signing his fake name with a flourish.
A few minutes later, he stood within his cubicle, safety glasses and headphones on, his 9mm Glock loaded and waiting for the first target to appear. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.
"Are you ready, sir?"
Frank nodded, took aim and waited. About fifty feet in front
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