Powerful Medicine

Chapter 1New York City, summer 1995 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 creeping 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 other models and many 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 struggled 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 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 sweatshirt, 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 painfully 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 weary, 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 Guardia. Before the hospital painkillers 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 aching, weary 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. Any route that would be very difficult to trace—each ticket bought with cash and a forged ID, clumsy but it seemed to pass. For the first time in years, she thought of the InDinay Reservation in Arizona as home, a refuge rather than a miserable trap 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 the bill for him 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 b***h. 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. The porcelain shattered into a million bright slivers. He’d rather do that to her, damn b***h. 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 could bring many changes. The plane wove a route among the towering thunderheads 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.