by Nina Bruhns
* * *
Creole stood by as Grace extracted the contents of Muse's safety deposit box and spread them out on a polished wood table in the small room provided by the bank. They'd made it there in ten harrowing minutes, running the whole way, and spent another five talking the manager into breaking the no-Saturday-access rule and also letting him in with her—he'd had to show his badge—so they had just fifteen minutes left to examine the things Muse kept safe there. It was a piece of luck that Muse knew the manager and he recognized her. Or thought he did.
In the short stack of items, Creole spotted a birth certificate, a college diploma, which Grace gaped at in open surprise, a stack of savings bonds, a few pieces of jewelry which appeared old and valuable and which earned a misty smile from Grace as she laid them carefully aside. At the bottom lay a sealed envelope with "For Grace Summerville" written on the front of it in a slanting scrawl.
And a video cassette tape.
"Louisa, June 23," Grace murmured as she gingerly picked it up and read the hand-printed label.
Louisa?
He slipped the cassette from her trembling fingers. Both excitement and alarm zipped through his body as questions assailed his mind a mile a minute. Louisa was a hamlet on the Intracoastal Waterway, the one where they'd found Luke's body. If this tape had anything to do with James Davies or Gary Fox, it could be the break he was looking for. He sent up a desperate prayer on behalf of his brother's fate.
She reached for the envelope on the table. "Feels like a letter. What can it be?"
"Only one way to find out," he said as calmly as he could, to ease the obvious fright in her eyes. Dealing with his own was bad enough. "Let's go back to Muse's. You can read it there." He picked up the cassette and slid it into her purse. "Then we can see what's on the video."
* * *
The phone was ringing when they got back to the apartment. Grace ran to answer it while he slid the new lock home on the door behind them. He grabbed her purse from her and pulled the video out with two fingers. Until it proved different, he was treating the tape as evidence.
"Hello?" he heard Grace say, pause for a few seconds, then, "Um… " He glanced over and she silently mouthed "It's Morris. What should I say?" and shrugged uncertainly.
He pointed at the tape and shook his head in warning. If Muse had chosen not to share its existence with the FBI, Creole wasn't about to tip them off until he'd heard her reasons. Besides, it could turn out to be just an embarrassing home movie that had nothing at all to do with the case.
"I just needed some money," Grace said into the phone. "I lost my ATM card." She looked at him and made a what-was-I-supposed-to-say face. Then a frown creased her brow. "Of course," she said, glancing up at him in surprise. "Well, I, uh… Okay." She hung up, looking perplexed. "That was very odd."
"What did he say?"
"That he wanted to meet me. Alone. He said to watch for him and make some excuse to you so we could talk privately."
Creole stared at her, a thousand possibilities going through his mind, none of them good. "Don' even think about it."
"Of course not. But what do you think he's up to?"
"That, I would truly like to know." He extended his hand for the phone, and when she gave it to him he punched in the three digits for Information. "I'd like the number for the FBI field office in New Orleans, please." He let the operator dial it, and when it was answered he asked for Agent Morris. He wasn't sure if he felt relief or trepidation when the man himself answered.
"Morris."
"This is Detective Levalois. Just wanted you to know I'll be taking Grace to Ralph and Kakoo's for dinner tonight at nine."
The agent sounded surprised to hear from him, but not particularly guilty. "Okay, thanks. Anyone show up yet?" Morris asked.
"No, nobody," he answered, and after a few more exchanges hung up.
Something was not quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"What was that all about?"
"Something I should have done right away. Make sure he's really with the FBI. He is. Are you certain it was him on the phone?"
She bit her lip. "He didn't exactly say, but it sounded like him. And who else could it have been? He asked about our run to the bank. His men must have reported we made them stay and watch the apartment."
It made sense, so he shook off the suspicious feeling and led her into the bedroom, where the VCR was situated, along with the TV. He carefully placed the tape in the machine but didn't start it just yet.
"Why don't you read the letter first?"
"Okay." She sat on the bed and broke the seal, extracting the letter.
"'Dear Grace, If you're reading this letter, I'm either dead—'" Her eyes widened, she gave a little mewling sound, and looked up in utter panic.
He sat down next to her on the bed and put his arm tightly around her. "She's not dead, Grace. She's with the FBI." He hoped to God.
She gazed up at him with such trust in her eyes that it almost shocked him into retreat. He remembered that look. On Luke's face, the last time he saw him, bailing him out of jail for the dozenth time. When he'd told his brother he'd always be there for him, whenever he needed him, no matter what Luke had done. In the end Creole's reassurances had meant nothing. He hadn't been there when his brother needed him most. And he'd died because of it.
"I trust you," she whispered, and his heart wrenched. That's just what Luke had said.
"Go on," he choked out, pointing at the letter, before she noticed his agony.
She nodded and read, "'…either dead, or I've disappeared, and you've come to rescue me, as always, dear sister.'" Her voice wobbled as she went on: "'Try not to worry. Unless something has gone wrong, I'm with the FBI—check with an Agent Morris. He was the blond man who was following me, by the way. But I don't quite trust them, so I am hiding this tape and the key, and trusting you, dearest Grace, to make sure it, and me, stays safe. I stole the tape from my ex-boyfriend Gary Fox, who stole it from his boss, James Davies, as insurance. Davies is a devil of a man, worse than anything you can possibly imagine. He must be stopped.
"'Do not watch the tape, and keep away from them both, sugar, or they will surely hurt you to get to me and the tape. The FBI doesn't know about it. I fear there is someone inside who has been bought off by Davies. If the tape is discovered, I'm afraid for my safety, as I will no longer be useful to either side. Reveal its existence only if there is no other choice.
"'Take care of yourself, sweet Grace, and give my love to Mama.
"'Love, your devoted sister, Muse.'"
A tear plopped onto his forearm as he held Grace close, and he dragged in a ragged breath, silently vowing to keep her safe from these monsters. He only hoped the FBI agent taking care of Muse was doing the same for her.
"Don't cry, sweetheart, she's safe, I promise you."
Grace wiped her eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. "God, I pray it's true."
"Muse seems like a smart lady. She'll be fine." He rocked her in his arms for a few minutes, feeling inadequate. Not knowing what he could do to ease her mind. He was so bad at this sort of thing. Comfort and solace. He had no experience at it.
Finally she looked up and said. "She didn't want us to watch the tape. I wonder why."
Instinct had him answering, "She didn't want you to watch it. She said nothing about me. It's probably not very pleasant. You should—"
"No. If you're going to watch, so will I."
He debated the wisdom of arguing with her. "All right, but if you close your eyes even once, I'm sending you into the next room and shutting the door."
She sat up straight and pushed out a breath, visibly gathering herself for the coming ordeal. "Agreed."
He walked to the VCR, pushed in the tape with a fingernail and pressed the start button.
But even he wasn't prepared for what he saw when the picture came on the screen.
His body froze in horror. Pain razored through his soul, slicing it to red, screaming
ribbons.
There, beaten and bloody, sat a man, bound hand and foot to a chair and staring defiantly into the camera.
It was Luke, his brother.
Chapter 12
Grace's mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of the poor man on the TV screen. He was thin and rangy, his face clearly pinched with pain. His light-brown skin was covered with sickeningly large patches of black and blue, especially around his neck and shoulders, as well as with varying shades of crusted crimson. But his eyes were filled with a haughty disdain, directed at whomever was controlling the camera—and no doubt his suffering as well.
Grace gasped when a fist came out of nowhere and slammed into the man's jaw.
Suddenly Creole leaped to his feet and lunged to turn off the tape.
The screen went blank, and she turned to his stalled form, hovering over the VCR. She saw he was trying to punch the eject button, but his hands were shaking too much and missed at every stab. Dismay sang through her. What was wrong with him? He should be used to witnessing violence in his line of work.
"What is it? Creole?"
He didn't answer. With an anguished oath that sent chills down her spine, he gave up on the eject button. Hunching his shoulders up to his ears, he ducked his head between them and folded his arms up over his head, as if protecting himself from the blow that had struck the man on the video.
She slid to her knees and crawled to his side, wanting more than anything to throw her arms around him and hold him close, as he'd held her moments ago. She laid her forehead against the tense, bunched-up muscles of his biceps and just sat with him. And realized who the man in the video must have been.
After a long while, his fingers uncurled from the fists he'd made, and raked through his hair. His shoulders lowered a couple of notches and he dragged in a deep breath.
"It was your brother, wasn't it?" she said. "It was Luke."
He flinched, taking that imaginary blow to the face.
"Yes," he confirmed, his voice stronger than she could credit. "It was Luke." He turned to her, his handsome face stony and expressionless. "And no way are you watching that tape."
She only nodded. She had no desire to see what she knew the video contained. "You shouldn't, either."
His jaw set, and once again he amazed her with his unholy ability to shed all appearance of the emotions she knew for certain raged through him.
"I have to," he stated, and reached out with a steady hand to eject the tape. It wasn't rock steady, but close enough. "Get me a plastic bag, would you?"
Reluctantly she did as he bade, and he slipped it over the cassette as he extracted it, zipping it in safely. "I'm going to my place. I'll tell the men downstairs. Will you be okay alone for a while?"
No, she wouldn't be okay. Not knowing what he'd be going through. "You shouldn't do this," she quietly urged. "Call your captain or someone else. Don't put yourself through this, Auri."
"I made a promise," he simply said, and walked out the door, leaving her alone and in misery.
* * *
She watched him.
From her bedroom as he perched himself on the edge of a chair and started the tape. From her balcony as he sat for the first hour like a vulture ready to pounce on the man who was torturing his brother. From the living room and back to the bedroom while she hung Muse's curtains to stay busy for the second hour, and to keep herself from running to him the thousand times his body jerked up as if being struck. And as he sank farther and farther back in the chair, defeat and hollowness claiming his posture by the end of the ordeal.
She wanted to yell and scream and throw things in a tantrum that rivaled her worst-behaving student. It was so unfair. He'd been through so much already. Why must he go through something like this, too? It would surely break him.
He was so damned stubborn. Taking this need for revenge on himself, instead of leaving it to the officers in charge of the case. Making himself view something so heinous and vile that it would live with him, like a serpent eating at his insides, for the rest of his days.
What would it do to him?
To them?
Would it drive him back to hide deep inside himself, alone and guilt ridden, shutting her out forever? With a blinding clarity, she knew she couldn't let that happen. If he shut her out, he'd surely shut out everyone else, too. His difficulty with letting people close had been obvious from the first. If she let him retreat now, he might never find his way out of the pain again.
But there was more to it than that, she reluctantly conceded. Another reason she didn't want him to withdraw from her.
She was in love with him.
Completely and seriously in love with the man.
Even though she knew so well that he was wrong for her. Totally wrong. She didn't need another project—like her kids—another wounded soul to try to heal and bring back to the world of trust and love. A man who had told her outright he would never be the kind to fall in love and settle down, raise a family. He was a traveling man. No, not one like her father who literally packed his bags and left when things got too involved for comfort, but a man who did his traveling with his body, in physical reserve, and in his heart, with emotional distance.
When she fell in love, she'd always wanted it to be with someone warm and loving, supportive and giving. Someone she could come home to from her emotionally draining job and relax with. Someone she could share an ordinary, comfortable life with. A family with. Her heart with.
Someone who valued all those things, and wanted them as much as she did.
Not a half-crazy Cajun bad-boy cop who was bound to shred her heart to pieces and walk away without looking back.
But he was so needy, so vulnerable in his fortress-like strength and isolation, so very good deep inside, that she had not been able to keep herself from caring in a way she'd never felt before.
More than anything she wanted to break through that formidable reserve and close the endless distance between them. To show him that physical and emotional closeness were not something to be feared. Not if you were careful and picked the right person.
But to do that she had to believe it herself.
Was she willing to put her own heart on the line to teach him that powerful truth?
She gazed over at him, startled to see he'd finished viewing the tape, and was now out on his balcony, rolling a cigarette. It took him a long time and five tries to light it.
As he stood at the rail, smoking, staring down at the riot of green in the courtyard, she was seized with a tenderness, a protectiveness, that threatened to overwhelm her.
She had tried to convince herself that her desire to make love with him this afternoon had just been physical, a result of her irrational sexual attraction to a dark, dangerous man. Nothing to do with her growing feelings for him. She'd been so sure she had those feelings, and herself, under control.
But now she realized her desire went way beyond superficial fascination. Oh, yes, she was still attracted to him physically. More than ever. Her insides nearly melted at the sight of him. But now she knew, despite the impossibility of their situation, and the inappropriateness of her love for him, that she wanted to make love to him with all her heart.
Really make love to him. To show him loving emotion was good and right, and didn't have to be hurtful or lead to betrayal. So someday, when he met the right woman, he'd be able to commit to her totally and without reservation.
The thought of that illusive "someday" stabbed at her heart like a dagger, knowing it would never, could never, be her he committed to. But she saw it as her personal quest, her sacred duty to her unfulfilled, unrequited love for this man, to show him the way out of his unearned suffering. If she ended up suffering a little herself, she knew it would be just a fraction of what he'd been through in his life. He deserved every bit of light and joy she could give him, and more.
And she deserved a chance to know the touch of the man she loved with all her heart, if just one time, before she left.
&
nbsp; She smoothed her yellow dress down her thighs and walked onto the balcony, going to the rail.
"How are you?" she quietly asked across the chasm that separated them.
Wordlessly he looked up. The hardest face she'd ever seen gazed back at her, bleak and bitter. Anger permeated every inch of his expression. She wanted to take a step backward, stunned by the seething intensity of his fury.
She leaned forward and whispered, "Come back to me, Auri. Come home."
He winced and shook his head, still saying nothing. She wondered if he was unable to speak.
"Please, baby. Let me help you."
Maybe it was the "baby" that got through to him, or the sincerity in her eyes. Or just plain desperation on his part. But he swallowed, dropped his cigarette to the balcony and ground it out with his shoe, and nodded once.
When she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she opened her door before he could knock—or change his mind. She considered it nothing short of a miracle that he'd come this far.
Opening the door wide, she backed away, giving him some space. Even so, he hung in the doorway, holding the bagged video in front of him like a shield.
"Come in," she urged. "Please?"
He did, with reluctance, closing the door behind him and backing up against it, regarding her closely, not unlike a cornered animal.
"How are you doing?" she asked softly.
"Bad," he said. "I'm angry. Real angry. I shouldn't be here." Still, he didn't make a move to leave. She took that as a good sign. "I definitely shouldn't be here."
She dared a step toward him. "What can I do to help?"
His eyes were fierce, almost savage, as he narrowed them on her. A muscle ticked wildly in his cheek. He didn't answer.
She took another step. "Tell me what you need."
He slashed up with a hand. "I need too much," he said, his voice raw and gritty. "Too much for you to give."
