Swept Aside

by Sharon Sala

  Amalie wanted to believe him, but she finished the rest of her sandwich in silence.

  Frustrated with the situation, Nick pushed away from the table and strode to the door. Lou was coming back toward the house carrying some tools.

  “Looks like he found a couple of saws,” Nick said. “Maybe we’ll be out of your hair by nightfall.”

  “When you leave, are you going to kill me?”

  Nick spun, his expression hard and angry. “Hell, no.”

  Amalie stood, her voice still trembling. “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want, but I meant what I said. I won’t let them hurt you. You just have to trust me.”

  Amalie’s chin quivered as she struggled to maintain her emotions. “I want to believe you.”

  Nick felt sick for what their presence was doing to her.

  “I know.” Then he glanced back out the window. “I need to go out and help. Please come sit on the porch where we can see you.”

  The request was all the proof Amalie needed that she was a hostage. Whatever story they tried to spin about how they’d come to be at her house, it was obvious they didn’t want her to get away and reveal their whereabouts. But who were they running from, and why?

  She followed him outside, then took a seat in one of the old wicker chairs as he moved down the steps and toward her car.

  Shadows were creeping across the yard. In a couple of hours it would be dark. What would happen to her then? She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, then focused her attention on the men. If something happened to change the status quo, she didn’t want to be taken unaware.

  When Lou saw Nick coming, he handed him a handsaw, then chose the chain saw and started it up. Without caution, he swung it wide, then aimed it toward the debris on top of the car.

  “Careful,” Nick said.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Lou insisted, and lowered the spinning chain onto a minor limb jutting down toward the ground.

  He was still exerting pressure on the chainsaw when it severed the limb. Before he could pull back, the saw cut into the toe of his boot, spitting out bits of leather and then a shower of sparks.

  “Son of a bitch!” Lou yelled, and let go of the switch, shutting down the saw.

  Amalie jumped up from the chair, expecting to see a gush of blood.

  Nick’s heart was racing as he rushed forward. “Did it go all the way through? Are you bleeding?”

  “I don’t know!” Lou screamed, and dropped to the ground to examine his foot. Within seconds he was grinning. “These boots I lifted got steel toes. Who knew?”

  Amalie gasped. Lifted? That meant he’d stolen them. Her opinion of these men continued to slide into the toilet. What else were they capable of—besides home invasion and theft? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Nick eyed Lou’s boot and the shiny metal beneath the layer of leather that had been removed, then shivered. It could just as easily have been someone’s arm or leg.

  “I’ll saw, and you drag away the debris, okay?”

  For once Lou wasn’t arguing. “Whatever.”

  Nick looked back toward the house. Amalie had curled up in the seat of an old wicker rocker with her knees beneath her chin, hugging her legs. From where he was standing, she appeared to be battling a fresh set of tears. He wanted to make it all better, but the best thing he could do for her was get them off her property. And the best way to do that was to free this car.

  He was about to restart the chainsaw when Lou looked up and pointed.

  “Chopper coming over the trees!”

  Nick stopped. His first thought was, thank God. Logically the smartest thing they could do was get themselves caught, get Tug in a hospital and finally face arraignment. The judge would set bail, and his troubles would be over.

  But his agenda was not on Lou’s radar. When Lou started running toward the house, Nick had no choice but to follow. He could hardly stand out in the yard and wave down the pilot. Way and Lou would kill him and the woman before the police could ever arrive.

  When Lou grabbed Amalie’s arm and yanked her into the house, she was more confused than ever.

  “Why are you running? What’s wrong? We need to flag down that chopper and let them know there’s an injured man in here.”

  Lou shoved her up against the wall. “You ask too many fucking questions, bitch.”

  Amalie’s heart began to hammer as her legs went weak. She tried to push him away, but her arms felt like lead. Suddenly his hands were on her breasts, then her belly—pulling at her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

  “Oh, God…stop…don’t!” she begged.

  When Lou’s hand cupped her crotch, she felt the room tilt beneath her feet.

  She didn’t see Nick come flying into the room, or know when he grabbed Lou by the back of the neck and yanked him halfway off the floor. She had already fainted.

  “What?” Lou yelled, and pulled away angrily. “You don’t have any claim on her, and I want a piece of tail.”

  Nick shoved his forearm under Lou’s chin and pushed him against the wall.

  “If you touch her like that again, I’ll kill you.”

  Lou wanted to argue, but the matter-of-fact tone in Nick’s voice caught him off guard.

  “Go to hell,” Lou muttered, and stomped out of the room.

  Nick turned back to Amalie. She was lying in a crumpled heap, right where she’d fallen. He scooped her up and carried her into the living room, then laid her on the sofa. Outside, the chopper had passed over the house, but he could still hear it and knew it had not left the area. If it was part of a search party, they would be flying a grid, which meant he couldn’t go back out side. Time was wasting.

  He quickly turned his attention to Amalie. Although he saw no new injuries on her, he was overcome with guilt. He’d promised they wouldn’t hurt her, and then the first chance Lou had, he went at her like the animal he was.

  Nick touched her cheek, then her forehead, making sure she wasn’t feverish. She was thin—almost too thin—likely because of the trauma she’d suffered. Her skin was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes—yet another symptom of suffering.

  Her eyelids began to flutter. She was waking up. He took a couple of steps back, making sure he wasn’t too close when she woke. He watched as her eyes began to open, then saw her cognizance shift to panic as she remembered what had happened.

  “You’re okay. He’s gone.”

  She sat up, grabbing at her clothes as if someone was still trying to tear them off.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” Nick said. “I promise you it won’t happen again.”

  Amalie stood abruptly, then combed her fingers through her hair. Her chin was quivering and her vision kept blurring, but it was building anger that kept her from breaking down.

  “You can’t promise me anything I’ll believe,” she spat out.

  Her words were sharp and uncompromising, but Nick understood. Before he could answer, Wayman came running.

  “Nick! Tug’s awake. He wants to talk to you.”

  Nick nodded, then pointed at Amalie. “After you.”

  She took off down the hall with an angry stride and didn’t look back.

  Sunday afternoon—Washington, D.C.

  It was his day off, and he was supposed to be relaxing at home with his family, but Stewart Babcock’s life as deputy chief of the DEA was anything but relaxing, and today was no exception.

  He was worried. One of his best agents, a man named Nick Aroyo, was five days late checking in. When any of his undercover people broke routine, it was time to worry.

  The last time they’d spoken, Nick had been both antsy and elated, claiming that within a week he would have all the evidence they needed to take down the gang he’d been running with. But that had been twelve days ago, and Babcock’s gut was in knots. He wanted the goods on the pushers, and he wanted his agent. So far, he had neither.

  He gla
nced out the library window, pausing to watch his two grandsons playing catch with a football. Just as he was telling himself to go out and join them, his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and grunted when he saw the caller ID. “Babcock.”

  The agent on the other end of the line cleared his throat, then delivered the message.

  “Sir…just checking in. Nothing yet on Aroyo.”

  Babcock sat down with a thump. “Damn.”

  “We’ve been running his name through hospitals and morgues, as well as arrest records.”

  “Morgues?”

  “Just being thorough,” the agent replied.

  Babcock sighed. “Right. If you get a hit, get back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Babcock was just hanging up when he heard a cry from outside and turned to see his youngest grandson bleeding profusely from his nose.

  “Oh, shit.”

  He dropped the phone in his pocket and hurried out.

  It was after dark before he and his wife left the emergency room. The boy was sporting a broken nose and working the pity party for all it was worth, while his older brother continued to feel guilty for having thrown the football too hard.

  It was nearing midnight by the time they got home. Worn-out and worried, Nick Aroyo’s whereabouts had finally slipped his mind.

  Candlelight was supposed to be romantic, but for Amalie, the scene around Tug French’s bed was like something from a horror movie.

  She kept thinking it was like sitting at a wake, keeping the deceased company until the body could be interred. Only the man in the bed had yet to die; he was only drifting in and out of consciousness. The shadows cast by the weak flickering lights gave the other men’s faces a skeletal appearance, adding an eerie note to the scene. As she sat, she realized it was raining again—a sign that the hurricane-spawned weather pattern wasn’t over yet.

  Wayman kept pacing the floor, moving from one side of the bed to the other, wiping his brother’s face with a wet cloth and asking the same questions over and over.

  “Nick. What should we do? Do you think he’s getting worse?”

  “I’ve already told you what I think,” Nick said. “If it was my brother, I’d have him in a hospital.”

  “But Tug said—”

  “Tug’s got a hole in his head,” Nick said. “His judgment is not the best.”

  Wayman frowned, then moved to the other side of the bed. “Tug’s the boss. We do what Tug says.”

  Amalie frowned. That didn’t make sense.

  “Why doesn’t he want to go to the hospital?” she asked.

  Lou snorted, then laughed loudly.

  “Shut up,” Nick said softly.

  “I didn’t say a fucking thing,” Lou snapped.

  Amalie glanced from one man to the other. It was obvious they didn’t like each other, so how had two people with so much animosity toward each other wound up together?

  Lou caught her watching them and blew her a kiss.

  She shuddered.

  “If it quits raining, maybe we could try to saw that tree off her car,” Wayman suggested.

  Nick shook his head. “We’re not starting up a chain saw in the dark. Not after Lou sawed the toe of his boot in broad daylight.”

  Lou glanced at his boot. For once, he had to agree.

  Conversation lagged.

  Lou drifted off to sleep sitting up, and began to snore.

  Wayman left Nick in charge and, rather than use a toilet that wouldn’t flush, went outside to relieve himself, leaving Amalie and Nick the only two people in the room who were still awake.

  She was exhausted, and her shoulder was throbbing.

  “I need to take a pain pill,” she said.

  Nick stood. “As soon as Wayman comes back, I’ll go with you.”

  “But there’s a problem,” she said.

  Nick frowned. “Like what?”

  “I won’t be able to stay awake.”

  “So?”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she pointed at Lou.

  “You’re not seeing this situation from my perspective. I can’t even turn my back on him without fearing for my safety. What do you think is going to happen if I fall asleep?”

  “Oh.”

  Exhaustion prompted her to beg. “Please…just let me go up to my room. The windows are two stories high. I can’t fly, so there’s no way I can get out from inside that room. I just need to rest.”

  When Wayman came back, Nick stood up and pointed to Amalie.

  “She’s in pain. She needs to take a pain pill and go to sleep. I’m going to walk her up to her room.”

  Wayman frowned. “We need to stay together.”

  “No, we don’t,” Nick said. “But if you’re that concerned, I’ll bunk down outside her door.”

  Lou had roused when he heard the words “go to sleep.”

  “If she’s going to bed, I’m—”

  “Don’t say it,” Nick warned. “She’s off-limits.”

  Lou’s voice got louder as he began spoiling for a fight. “You just want her for yourself.”

  All of a sudden Tug French rose up on one elbow.

  “Shut the fuck up! All of you. Nick, take the woman up to her room and stand guard. Lou, shut the fuck up. It’s your damn fault we got arrested in the first place.”

  Then he lay back down and closed his eyes.

  Amalie was quietly absorbing the latest bit of news. It was just as she’d feared. They’d been in jail. And since they were so desperate to get a ride and get away, it stood to reason that they had escaped—probably during or just after the tornado. It was hard to believe, but this day had just gotten worse.

  Five

  Nick watched shock spreading across Amalie’s face. The proverbial cat was finally out of the bag. Now that she knew they’d been arrested, she also knew they were on the run and why they’d rushed to hide from the police helicopter. This mess kept getting worse and worse, and the only thing he could do about it was try to keep her in one piece until they were gone.

  Amalie stifled a new set of fears as she made herself look at Nick. To her relief, he didn’t seem any more dangerous than he had before.

  “I still want to go to my room,” she said.

  He nodded.

  But Lou couldn’t leave it alone.

  “I don’t see why Aroyo gets the woman to himself. She’s here. She should be available to anyone who’s interested, and I’m—”

  Tug sat back up. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his hand was shaking as he pointed it at Lou, but the words coming out of his mouth were loud and clear.

  “Wayman. Get yourself a blanket and a pillow, and bunk out at the foot of the stairs.” His gaze shifted to Lou as he continued. “If anyone tries to get past you, kill him. I mean it. I’ve heard all the crap I want to hear over who fucks the woman. Do I make myself clear?”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Then he looked at Amalie.

  “Get the hell out of my room so I can rest.” Then he eased himself back down and closed his eyes.

  For Amalie, it was the last straw in a day of hell.

  “It’s not your room or your house,” she snapped. “It’s mine, and no one wants to be out of this room more than me.”

  Her chin was up and her hands curled into fists as she strode past the foot of the bed.

  Tug rose back up on his elbow. A woman with the guts to talk back could cause trouble. “Nick, if she runs…get rid of her. Understand?”

  Nick hesitated, then nodded. No need to mention the fact that he’d already made Amalie a promise that he would keep her unharmed and alive.

  Amalie swallowed a spurt of panic at Tug’s threat and pretended she didn’t care. She just kept walking toward the door, where Nick waited with a flashlight.

  “Lead the way,” he said, and then took her by the elbow.

  Amalie flinched at his touch, but when she realized it was nothing more than a steadying gesture in a darkened house, she led th
e way upstairs.

  The beam from the flashlight was pencil thin, but it didn’t matter to Amalie. She knew the place by heart—from the hole in the floor of the entrance hall made by a mini-ball, when a Yankee soldier had made the mistake of thinking he could come in without an invitation, to a rafter in the attic where a servant had supposedly hanged himself. She also knew that the left newel post at the foot of the stairs was not original to the house. The original had to be replaced during the mid 1800s, when the Pope in residence at the time came home drunk, rode his horse into the house and tied it to the newel post before going up to bed. Early the next morning, a slave came through the house to begin her chores, saw the horse and the manure it had dropped on her gleaming cypress floors and screamed. The scream spooked the horse, who reared up, ripping the newel post from the staircase, before racing off down the hall at a frantic clip.

  Amalie sighed, remembering how she’d loved to hear Nonna retelling those stories, and realized that it was now up to her not to let that history die. But there was a lot more than the possibility of lost history riding on the next few hours.

  “Watch your step,” Nick said, and angled the flash light down onto the stairs so they could see where they were going.

  Amalie didn’t bother to look down. She knew the depth and width of each step, from the first floor to the third. She knew that the fifth step squeaked no matter where you put your foot, and that under the carpet runner on the eleventh step was a bloodstain that no amount of time and scrubbing could remove.

  When they reached the landing on the second floor, she reoriented herself by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock at the far end of the hallway. She wasn’t afraid of the Vatican, or of the dark. Only those who had come in unannounced.

  As they paused in the dark, she played with the notion of escape. All she had to do was knock the flashlight out of his hand and slide back down the banister. In a matter of seconds she could be out of the house and making a run for it in the dark. It was what came afterward that left her in doubt.

  Where could she go should she actually make it outside? With nothing to drive, and the swamp less than a half of a mile behind the house, that left the wide-open space between the road and the front of the house as her escape route, and with his long legs, he would eventually catch her.