The hyoid bone in the adult neck, unlike an infant’s, is ossified and not so easy to break, but she suspected the man choking her was fully capable of throttling her to death. She panicked, forgetting every trick of self-defense she’d ever learned, everything her father had taught her in her early teens when he was her best friend.
I’m going to die, right here, right now, she thought, unless I do something. She relaxed and dropped her purse from her shoulder, slumping back against a thick, solid wall of chest. Her attacker was tall, beefy, and very strong. She stood no chance against his superior height and weight.
Her languid body must’ve boosted the man’s confidence, or perhaps he’d never intended to kill her at all. He bent his mouth to her hair, fetid smoker’s breath making her queasy as he growled low in her ear.
“Best you learn a lesson, bitch. Quit sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m letting you go, now, but if you even make a squeak, I’ll snap your pretty neck.” He loosened his hold. “Nod if you understand.”
Shaking like a wet puppy, Frankie jerked her head in assent.
He stepped back from her. “Don’t turn around,” he instructed. “Wait five minutes and then go home. This is your last warning.”
Dead silence reigned in the prison parking lot. How had no one seen the man assault her? Where were all the employees who got off shift when she did?
None, she thought, with a tremor of renewed panic. The correctional officers didn’t work the same kinds of shifts as the medical staff, and the nurses staggered their hours so at least two medical personnel were on call at all times.
The night was cold and she’d forgotten her coat. Her mind raced with adrenaline-fueled indecision. How long was five minutes? An eternity had passed since the man released her. Was her attacker gone now?
Her legs shook so much she thought she’d lose her balance and sink to the ground. She had to remain steady until she could seek refuge in her car.
Her keys! Where were her keys?
She ventured a glance down at her feet. The car keys lay right beside her shoes and next to them lay the briefcase. It looked intact. Her assailant hadn’t thought to rifle through the bag. The files were safe.
Her mind started to clear.
That meant he didn’t know how much Frankie had figured out about the deaths of the Norte?o gang member and Henry Fader, and Cole Hansen’s debriefing. Her attacker didn’t know about the coded message on the note Cole had passed her.
Long minutes later she retrieved her items, opened the car door, and sank onto the comfortable seat of her old familiar Toyota, slamming the locks on the doors. She’d parked in a remote area of the lot out of sight of the tower guards with their rifles and binoculars. She’d always felt safe here, surrounded with officers and guns, men who were trained to secure the prison.
Now she didn’t know who she could trust. Her assailant was either a civilian or a correctional officer. It wasn’t easy to loiter in the parking lot without detection.
Who was so concerned about what Frankie knew?
Not Walt, she thought frantically. Please not Walt Steiner.
Whoever was threatening her, clearly she was no longer safe at Pelican Bay.
Twenty minutes later at her remote house in Crescent City, Frankie slumped limply against the front door. Henry Fader’s medical file had scared her, but the attack in the parking lot had been terrifying. Her first thought was flight.
She needed to take personal leave and contacted the assistant warden immediately. She was sorry for such late notification, she claimed, but her aunt had just been diagnosed with stage four Hodgkin’s lymphoma. After giving a vivid, if false, account of the aunt’s prognosis, she was granted time off, a week, possibly longer.
Three hours after her shift had ended, she was packed and on the road to Rosedale, in Bigler County, where Cole Hansen had been paroled to. Ironically, it was where she’d gone to high school. If she found Cole Hansen – hopefully alive – she might get some answers about the bizarre note he’d bequeathed her. And why she was in danger.
She didn’t dare return to the prison.
Chapter 22
Staying after hours at the parole office to finish up some paperwork, Cruz glanced up from his desk to see a woman standing in the open doorway, her hand lifted to knock on the open door. Damn, he’d thought the front door was locked.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
He took in her clean but worn jeans and a plain jacket tossed over a white shirt, and wondered if she was one of his. Her clothes looked the part, rumpled and worn, but her face didn’t have the uncertainty of someone who’d just gotten out of jail or lived on the street very long.
He tried again, clearing his throat. “Can I help you?” He glanced pointedly from the leather-strapped watch on his wrist to the mound of paperwork on his desk.
The woman suddenly turned, as if in a daze, to examine the empty lounge behind her.
Damn, he was always a sucker for a damsel in distress.
Frowning, she looked awkward, as if she didn’t know how she’d gotten here. “I’m looking for someone.”