by Feliz Faber
“I’ll see to it. Can you manage? I’ll be back soon.”
Will waved him off. “Yeah, go ahead already. Look by the outer door.”
He sat cradling his arm, looking after Francis. He saw him bend over in the stall, root through the litter. First he picked up Will’s cell—hopefully the device had survived—and then Francis straightened, holding up a half-full subdermal syringe with a crooked needle. He used a handkerchief to pick it up, like the detectives in a cop show did with a piece of evidence, and only then it occurred to Will that he might actually qualify as a crime victim.
All he’d thought about before was stopping Louis from riding a possibly doped horse, but of course he was looking at a crime scene here. What kind, he wondered. Criminal mischief? Bodily harm? Whatever this mess qualified for, security would’ve picked up on it by now. Police would get involved. And Trevor would have a field day with Will’s report.
At Will’s nod, Francis disappeared outside. Will closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back, sighing. Louis and Nic were going to be confronted with a major breach of faith and perhaps a substantial financial loss. A few feet away lay an injured man, possibly even in agony, and the horse who’d brought him there was currently busy wreaking havoc outside, given the noise. He himself had a damaged arm, and his mind felt as if it was on the spin cycle of an industrial washing machine. And yet, all he could think of was what a great article he could write about this day’s events. Damn, he should be thinking about a career change. Weren’t war reporters supposed to be cold-hearted bastards like this?
The tack pegs digging into his back made him sit upright again soon enough. Sitting still, he didn’t feel so dizzy anymore, and if he kept his arm steady, the pain was bearable. The ring finger and pinkie of his left hand were pulled tight to the palm; tentatively he tried to straighten them, gritting his teeth when the small movement sent an electric shock up his arm. Fuck Collins and his fucking cane.
He glared at the ex-jockey’s supine form, noting that Nic was still with him, kneeling now, bowed deeply over Collins. Nic had his back half turned to Will, so he couldn’t see much, except that Nic’s face was very close to Collins’s. What the—were they kissing? As he leaned in for a closer look, Nic sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. He’d helped Collins breathe, Will realized, but he stopped now and just looked down at the other man, hanging his head. After a moment, his shoulders begun to shake, and he buried his face in his hands, startling Will into getting up from his bucket yet again. Had Collins died? But no, he writhed on the ground. Will could even hear him speak, halting, single words that sounded painfully forced out of a too-tight chest.
Serves him right, Will thought, immediately feeling bad about his grim bout of glee about something that had Nic in tears. But why? He took a step closer, and this was when Louis stalked in through Minuit’s empty stall, fists clenched at his sides, thunder and lightning seething behind his frown. He spat a few sentences in clipped French at Nic, who dropped his hands and looked up. The grief and pain in Nic’s features made Will’s chest tight. He took another step that brought him close enough to overhear Nic’s answer, low and half-choked as he spoke.
“Je l’ai su,” Nic said. I knew. He said more, but Will was too riveted by the expression on Louis’s face to pay any more attention to Nic.
He’d heard the expression “his face closed like a fist,” but he had never been able to picture it until now. All life, all emotion fell from Louis in a heartbeat. Nothing was left of his face but a dead mask of stone, beautiful and horrible to look at. Wordlessly, Louis turned and left in chilling calmness. Scrambling to get up, Nic called after him, but he didn’t turn back, didn’t even flinch as Nic’s voice broke on the sound of Louis’s name.
Right then, the yellow door flew open, and Dr. Maricheau swept in, two SAMU men with a folded scoop stretcher trailing behind her. Will stepped aside, out of the way of her purposeful efficiency, and she cast a glance around and assumed control.
It took Dr. Maricheau all of five minutes to examine Collins and the paramedics another five to strap him onto the stretcher and cover his face with an oxygen mask. As they carried him out, she stood in front of her brother, speaking to him in a low voice. This close, Will could see the family resemblance and the concern on the doctor’s face. At first, Nic wouldn’t meet her eyes, until she put both hands to his face and forced his head down. He closed his eyes and said something that had her suck in a surprised breath. She opened her mouth for an answer, but Nic stopped her with a few soft words and a headshake. He took hold of her wrists, gently pulling her hands away, and nodded his head toward Will.
“You’ve got another patient here, Sisi,” he said, loud enough for Will to overhear. “And I’ve got a horse to take care of.”
She prodded and poked at Will’s arm for a while, bowed and stretched, asking How and where did he hit you? and Does it hurt when I do this? in perfect English.
“How long ago did this happen, you said?” she asked then, supporting his arm with one of her hands at his upper arm, the other around his wrist. She had big hands for a woman, and her grip was firm but gentle. It barely hurt.
Will shrugged, flinched, and settled for, “’Bout half an hour ago, I guess.”
She gave him a slow once over and nodded. “Okay. It’s not broken.”
Will relaxed with relief, and he saw the determined flash in her eyes too late for him to tense up again. A quick turn-and-pull, a grinding noise, and a flare of blinding pain later, he was gasping for the air that escaped him on an anguished cry, blinking tears away as he gawped at her. “Hold this,” she said, took his right hand and placed it under his left forearm.
Stunned into obedience, Will just nodded, noting in passing that his left hand now closed to a perfect fist again. “I advise you to have this properly braced—it’s more comfortable,” she said as she wound an elastic bandage round his elbow with quick, practiced ease. “We are taking Mr. Collins to the polyclinique in Criqueboeuf. You should come too. Have this X-rayed, just to be on the safe side.”
Right then, Francis came running in. Dr. Maricheau fastened the end of the bandage and, ignoring the questions Francis fired at her, gave Will a parting nod and left. Likewise ignoring his fussing for now, Will sank into Francis’s embrace, just happy to finally be back where he belonged.
Should’ve just stayed there this morning. I could’ve done without the whole mess.
Eighteen
WITH a sigh, Will switched his cell back on, squinting at the small screen. The thing still worked, thankfully. “Damn time-consuming business, hospitals,” he remarked, pocketing the device. He’d been poked and prodded at, X-rayed, and dosed with painkillers, and was now the proud owner of a black Velcro contraption that prevented him from bending or stretching his left arm fully. However, even though the drugs started to wear off by now, he didn’t feel any pain at the moment, so the brace probably had some merit.
Will pulled the passenger side sun visor down against the setting sun and relaxed into his seat as Francis steered the Benz smoothly through the Saturday evening rush-hour traffic. Another car cut in on them, blaring its horn, and Will flinched. Yep, still in France.
After a mere touch to the brake, Francis unblinkingly continued driving. “We can consider ourselves lucky that the police took your statement already,” he said. “As such, it’s a good thing they were there for Collins anyway. That bastard, he really got off too easy.”
They’d overheard two doctors discuss Collins’s injuries, learning that he had some broken ribs but his spine was unhurt; the doctors’ main concern had been for Collins’s kidneys, which apparently had borne the brunt of Minuit’s kick. There’d been talk of airlifting him to a special facility in Paris.
“Too right,” Will said. “However….” He broke off, considering.
The past afternoon’s events had played over and over again before his mind’s eye during the long wait at the hospital. Especially after he and Francis had g
iven their statement to a quiet, potbellied St. Bernard of a French comissaire de police and a lean, young miniature pinscher of an inspecteur. The pinscher had worn a constant sneer during the interview—whether it was their being American that had him so disgusted or the fact that Francis never took his arm off Will’s shoulder was anyone’s guess. Will hadn’t cared, leaning even closer into Francis, but he couldn’t deny that it’d made him even more reluctant to volunteer anything. Like Nic’s cryptic words and Louis’s strange reaction to them. St. Bernard apparently sensed that Will was holding something back, but he said nothing about it. He only eyed with a red-rimmed, hangdog look the syringe Francis handed him, and, with a sigh worthy of the animal he bore such a striking resemblance to, asked for their contact information.
“Why’d he do it? What do you think?” Will asked. “Collins, I mean. It’s clear to me that Rémy only acted on Collins’s instigation.”
“You’re likely right about the groom,” Francis said. “Collins, though…. Back when Ms. Collins-Desmin accepted that settlement, I thought they’d be both out of the picture for good. However, Collins must’ve borne a serious grudge against Louis and Nic. Remember what Nic and I talked about this morning, the strange incidents? Now I’m more convinced than ever that it was in fact sabotage. I think it justifiable to assume Collins was behind it.”
Will nodded. “But why’d he dope Minuit? ’Cause I reckon that was what I blundered into.”
“Well, as Nic said, the French Jockey Club tends to take doping rather seriously. What if Collins got wind about Nic’s past? If your Mr. Sampson could find out about that Derby, someone else could have, too, especially if they had connections, like Collins.” With a thoughtful hum, Francis drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s say Collins knew but had no proof. Couldn’t that have given him ideas? If Nic got convicted of doping, he’d lose his license, particularly if someone put out word about certain… antecedents.”
“Sounds likely,” Will said slowly. “But, Francis, why now, of all times?” A thought hit him, and he flinched with it. “God almighty, do you think…. Could it be my fault? What if…. Oh, fucking hell. Say it isn’t true.”
Francis took his eyes off the road long enough to answer Will’s plea with a reassuring smile. “Could’ve been coincidence or not, we’ll likely never know. Whatever triggered Collins—perhaps he’d have arrived at that point all on his own sooner or later. Perhaps he’d have done worse, like burning La Thillaye down or something. If you want to go there at all, it’s my fault just as much as it’s yours since I brought you here in the first place. Put the blame on that goddamn madman, okay?”
Not entirely convinced, Will still felt solaced.
Francis continued, “Collins deserves to have the living daylights sued out of him, I say. Although I’m afraid Nic and Louis won’t be too eager to take the matter to court. They’ve got other things on their minds right now, obviously. I’ve never seen Nic about to come apart at the seams like this. And nobody has seen or heard from Louis since I told him about that syringe.”
While at the hospital, Francis had swapped several updates on the phone with Nic. Prix CODE had taken place without its sponsor or its red-hot favorite. Rémy had been caught by racetrack security, questioned by the stewards—apparently, the groom had been only too eager to foist off any responsibility to Collins—and was in police custody for now. An impromptu hearing with the stewards had largely cleared La Thillaye of misconduct for both Collins’s injury and for the attempted doping. Minuit had endured two blood samples, one taken by Dr. Oriel and one by a veterinary official, and was on his way home to La Thillaye’s pastures.
“Louis isn’t back yet?” Will asked.
“Last I know, no, and I’m of half a mind to hold that against him even though Nic said to let him be,” Francis said. “I can’t believe he just left Nic high and dry.”
“Perhaps he had his reasons,” Will said so softly he wasn’t sure Francis actually heard him over the sound of the Benz’s engine. It haunted him, the picture of how Louis’s face had just turned to stone. He could only pray he never gave his beloved reason to look at him like this.
His beloved. His lover. He put a hand on Francis’s knee. “Thank you.” For coming for me. For staying with me at the hospital. For standing by me when you clearly wanted to support your friend in such trouble.
Francis didn’t ask what for. He just covered Will’s hand with his own for a moment.
After a while, he said, “I was surprised how closemouthed you were with that colleague of yours.”
A handful of media folks who’d gotten wind of something going on at the La Thillaye barn had trailed the ambulance with Collins in it to the hospital. One particularly ambitious newsie even managed to sneak past the front desk and sounded out enough hospital staff to catch on about Will’s involvement in the case.
Will made a face. “That obnoxious hack? Please.”
The guy had pestered Will with questions, by all appearance deaf to the statement “no comment” until the dragon of an ER head nurse had thrown him out.
Francis laughed. “True. Sorry for calling him your colleague. But I still think Collins deserves his face smeared across as many tabloids as possible.” He gave a thoughtful hum. “Actually, I think we should do a press conference, and soon—I can have someone organize that. Or if you wanted to write something up by yourself, I can have it at the press agencies by tomorrow morning.”
They stopped at a red light, and Francis turned to face him, his eyes burning. “It almost killed me, listening to you tell the police what happened. To think what damage Collins could’ve done to you, if not for that horse…. It made me so furious. I wanted to go after the bastard and finish what Minuit started. I want to see him exposed. Can’t wait to see him in the dock. I’d put him there in person if I could.”
Touched at the passion in Francis’s words, Will hesitated. “I… thank you. I appreciate the thought. But don’t you think we should take things a bit slower? At least wait until we have a chance to talk to Nic and Louis. Isn’t it likely that whatever Collins did will affect them in some way?”
“Most probably. That’s why I want to throw Collins at the vultures, preferably with a nice red bow tied around his sorry ass. Distract public attention away from them to where it belongs.” He raised a curious eyebrow at Will. “What’s up with you, sweetheart? Shouldn’t what you have here be a newsperson’s wet dream?”
Of course it was. Will could almost see the headlines scream about scandal and violence at the racetrack, and he’d been right in the thick of things. Perhaps this was why Francis’s comment stung enough to make him bristle.
“And what if something about Nic’s past gets out in the course of this? Ever think of that? It’s green.”
Francis focused ahead as he resumed driving. “That’s past any statute of limitations anyway.”
“Nic doesn’t think so!” Will flared up. “What if this French Jockey Club views it the same way and pulls his license? Me cooking up a big stink now could stir up things they’d rather keep hidden. What happened to ‘I’ll protect my friends at all costs’?”
“That’s precisely what I’m doing.” Francis’s voice had turned chilly. “Please note that we’re moving within my field of expertise here. I’m experienced at presenting matters in the proper light. If you won’t take public action, I’ll do it myself. I know what I’m doing.”
Will huffed a mirthless laugh. “Your way or the highway, is it? That’s good to know.” The glove compartment lid had the Mercedes star edged into it. Will spoke to it. “You know what you’re doing. Right. Just like you knew I was a lying, two-timing bastard and you had to kick my ass six ways to Sunday.”
Immediately, he felt the impact his words had on Francis, even without looking up. The Benz accelerated, and Francis cut across two lanes without indicating. His only answer to the resulting honk-fest was a raised fist, index and pinkie finger extended.
Will couldn
’t help it, he had to grab the door handle as he threw Francis a distraught glance. Francis continued to stare ahead, jaws clenched tight, but at least he eased off the gas a bit.
“I’m sorry,” Will said, carefully keeping his voice low and even. “That was…. I was out of line here. I….” He broke off. “I’m sorry,” he repeated helplessly.
Francis didn’t react. Nothing indicated he’d heard Will at all. Will waited. After a few excruciating minutes, Francis veered right into a picnic area, stopped, and shut off the engine. He didn’t take his hands off the wheel and didn’t look at Will. The ticking of the cooling motor was loud in the silence.
“Yes, it was a low blow, and you were out of line to deal it,” Francis finally said. He turned to face Will. But instead of the hard stare Will had expected, he received a shaky smile. “Please feel free to continue to do so whenever you think I need it.” And with that, he leaned in and kissed Will.
It took a moment for Will to recover from his surprise. Then he cupped Francis’s neck with his good hand and took control of the kiss, deepened the gentle brush of lips on lips to a full-on, hands-in-your-hair, tongues-fighting smooch. They were both breathing hard by the time the kiss ended, and not only from lack of air.
“You’re welcome, Prince Valiant,” Will whispered.
Francis gave a surprised little laugh. “What? How’d you come up with that one?”
“Always on a crusade.” Will grinned. Francis nodded. One hand around the back of Will’s head, he pulled until their foreheads rested against each other. He didn’t say anything, but it mattered none. Will heard him anyway.
Nineteen
THE kitchen smelled of food, but no one was eating. Mme. Kim sat on the bench, reading by the light of a lone wall lamp. She looked up from her book when Francis and Will entered, a hopeful expression on her face that fell immediately upon recognizing them. However, she recovered just as fast.
