by Niki Savage
Louis sighed. “You have it all worked out, chéri.”
“Will you help me? Please.”
“How can I refuse?”
She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him until his ribs creaked in protest. “You won’t regret it.”
“I hope not,” Louis murmured.
~ . ~
Louis shook Marcelle’s shoulder where she lay on the second twin bed.
She woke with a start, her gaze immediately focusing on Stefan, who no longer wore the oxygen mask. “Is he okay?”
“He’s doing fine,” the doctor replied, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.
She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ll make us breakfast. Then you can sleep while I watch him.”
The kitchen was large and modern, situated next to the dining room at the head of the long passage. Decorated in yellow and white, it was a chef’s delight. Marcelle was an excellent cook, and when she had time, she cooked in bulk, freezing meals in the two huge refrigerators.
She filled the coffee machine, and while the coffee brewed, made breakfast, treating them to eggs, bacon and toast, foregoing her usual healthy breakfast.
After readying a large tray with mugs, milk and sugar, she added the plates of food. When the coffee was ready, she put the glass jar on the tray, and carried it through to the bedroom.
~ . ~
After breakfast, Doc Louis went to sleep in another bedroom.
Marcelle pulled a chair up to her patient’s bedside. She remembered sitting with Jean-Michel for seven torturous days while he lingered in a coma. Selfishly, she had been unwilling to let him go, though she had known he wouldn’t have wanted to live in a broken body, unable to pursue his obsession.
Stefan’s lighter skin and pale hair contrasted with her memories of her husband’s dark features against the white hospital sheets. She remembered from the passport photo that in health the German was remarkably handsome. Now a day’s dark stubble shadowed lean cheeks and a strong chin, and silky blond hair spilled onto the pale green pillow cover. His mouth looked as if it could smile often, his parted lips revealing regular white teeth. It was a perfect face, she had to admit, sinister in its beauty, like a mask that served to conceal something hideous. A shiver passed through her. Perhaps when he woke and she could see his eyes, she might feel reassured that she had made the right decision.
Doc Louis had asked her to wash their patient, so she fetched two basins from the kitchen, stopping at the linen cupboard for towels and face cloths. She filled both basins with warm water, and dropped soap into one. She carried the basins from the bathroom to the bedroom one at a time, and placed them next to the bed.
As she washed Stefan’s inert body, she tried her best to preserve his dignity, uncomfortable with his nudity. Though she had been a married woman, two years had passed since she’d confronted male sexuality, and her patient had visibly received more than his fair share, even in repose. She felt uneasy, wondering what Jean-Michel would think if he saw her now.
She noticed the scars Louis had mentioned. Some were small and puckered, and she guessed they were old bullet wounds. Several raised white scars crisscrossed his tanned upper body, as if someone had repeatedly slashed the smooth skin of his chest a long time ago. These had to be the scars of battle, and she wondered at the kind of life Stefan Ziegler had been leading until now.
The mercenary’s build and height closely resembled that of her late husband, so when she had finished, she dressed him in a pair of Jean-Michel’s sleeping shorts.
“There,” she said, standing back. “Isn’t that better?”
She received no answer as she ran an appraising glance over the still body. The German had the body of a dedicated athlete, and she could appreciate the work required to maintain such a standard of physical fitness. His arms and shoulders were muscular, though without a trace of bulk, and a fine sprinkling of golden hair covered his strong forearms. His hips were narrow and lean, and his legs had the fine muscular definition of a marathon runner.
She worried about his continuing vulnerability. He could still die, just like Jean-Michel. Perhaps he too would never again speak to the woman he loved, or use his body to please her. Jean-Michel’s body had been beautiful too, and she had delighted in it, never tiring of the sight of him, the feel of him, or the smell of him. But in the end...
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the still shape of her husband in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines. Then, it had all been in vain.
Perhaps it was somehow symbolic that fate had singled her out to take care of this helpless man. This would be a time of healing, for her patient as well as herself, until he opened his eyes for the first time.
She covered him with the top sheet and blankets before tucking them into the side of the mattress. Deep in thought, she kissed him on his smooth forehead, forgetting time and place as she found herself next to Jean-Michel’s bed once more.
Stefan remained unconscious for three days, while they watched him around the clock.
* * * *
Chapter Four
It was late on Wednesday afternoon. Marcelle had just taken over from Doc Louis, and stood at the window, watching the gathering storm. Dark clouds jostled each other, their occasional rumble warning of rain to come. The wind had increased in strength, and trees shimmered as their leaves danced in the breeze.
She sighed, turning from the window to stare at Stefan. He slept on, unaware of the glare she directed at his perfect features. Her body ached with the need for strenuous exercise, but while sleeping beauty remained asleep, she couldn’t resume training. She sighed again, throwing herself onto the unoccupied twin bed, scowling at the white ceiling in frustration.
~ . ~
A mighty crack of thunder startled Marcelle awake. She jumped to her feet. Doc Louis wouldn’t be impressed if he knew she had been sleeping on the job. But all thoughts of guilt and blame fled when she noticed movement from her patient. His long fingers fluttered restlessly as he moaned, flinching every time jagged lightning split the sky to the accompaniment of crashing thunder.
She ran to the window and closed the curtains, trying to keep the madness out of the room. But it was no use. Torrential rain lashed the windows, driven by a howling wind. On the bed Stefan’s moans had turned to cries of distress as he tossed restlessly, trying to escape the nightmare. She stepped closer, her heart racing as she watched him for a few moments. Should she call Doc Louis?
His eyes opened without warning, and she stepped back to escape his intense blue gaze. He stared at her, an expression of horror forming on his face as his eyes widened in recognition.
Marcelle wasn’t used to this kind of reception, but put on her best smile as she addressed him in German, one of several languages she spoke, “Don’t worry, it’s just a storm.”
He didn’t respond, so she stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. This galvanized him into immediate action. He shrank back as he whispered, “No, not you, anyone but you.”
Marcelle froze. She switched to English, the language he had spoken. “What do you mean?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, and seemed shocked to find her still there when he opened them again. “No,” he whispered, “don’t look at me like that. He was my friend.” His eyes burned with fever as he tried to convince her of something only he understood. “Leave me alone,” he continued, rising hysteria in his voice. “I can’t stand it anymore.” He kicked his legs free from the bedclothes as he scrambled backwards, clearly desperate to escape. “Get away from me!” By now, he was hysterical, the veins bulging in his neck as he lost all control. “GET AWAY!” He tumbled from the bed, bringing the drip stands crashing down as he hit the carpet with a hard thump. His screams came to an abrupt end as he lost consciousness.
Doc Louis stormed into the room. “Mon Dieu! What did you do to him?”
“Nothing, I did nothing!” She fled the room, feeling the ice smotheri
ng her, cutting off her breathing.
~ . ~
Louis found Marcelle in the gym an hour later, dressed in her cycling gear, exercising on a racing bike held stationary in a frame. Sweat dripped from her flushed face, but still she pedaled the bicycle like she was possessed, not acknowledging his presence. She had a desperate look in her eyes, as if she was trying to outrun her own shadow.
The doctor put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and handed her a towel. “Don’t feel bad, chéri. He’s back in bed. No harm done.” When she didn’t answer, he continued in a soothing tone, “At least the storm is over.”
Marcelle sat up, slowing her pedaling rate. She used the towel to wipe the perspiration from her face. “The storm drove him crazy.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She told him, reciting what Stefan had said. Afterwards they were both silent for long minutes, the only sound the whirring of the bike’s back wheel as she increased her pedaling rate again.
“Perhaps he had a nightmare, induced by the storm,” Louis volunteered. “Perhaps he wasn’t even seeing your face. You don’t know him, so how could you have been tormenting him?”
“Yes, that might be true,” she said, a little out of breath, “but he spoke English to me, when I had spoken German. English, not French even. How did he know I speak English?”
“Only time will tell,” Louis said. “I have sedated him, but when he wakes up, I want you to stay out of sight until I’ve spoken to him.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me,” she said with a wry smile. “Can you manage without me for a while? I need to do another hour or two over here.”
“Sure, see you later.” Doc Louis left, wondering what demons tormented Marcelle again.
* * * *
Chapter Five
Stefan drifted to the surface, woken by a soft drumming sound. He felt crisp sheets against his skin and the cool slither of silk when he moved one leg experimentally. A quick physical inventory revealed the plaster on his left temple, and searching fingers found the dressings on his shoulder and side.
He opened his eyes to a light and airy room, tastefully decorated in shades of green. An open door led to a passage, and through another doorway, he could see a bathroom. On the far side of the room, he saw a cream-colored sofa and a coffee table. Next to him was another bed.
He tried to sit up, but vicious stabs of agony radiated through his body. He stifled a gasp, and fell back onto the pillows, breaking out in a cold sweat.
Minutes passed before he opened his eyes again. A glance at the windows told him it was day, and that the steady drumming noise he had heard was rain.
What had happened to him? The luxurious surroundings suggested he was in somebody’s house, rather than a hospital. How did he get here? Images spilled into his mind like the uncontrollable torrent of a river. The intended meeting with an important informant had been a trap from the start, he realized in retrospect.
Hans and Friedrich were dead. Their bodies had slumped lifelessly to the ground as the first shots rang out. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder, and another in the body. He remembered falling and hitting his head on the edge of a metal drum.
He had regained his senses behind the drums, dragged away from the deadly machine guns by Karl, his second in command, who was also his cousin. A furious gun battle had followed, leaving them outnumbered and desperate. Karl had covered for him to allow him to escape, knowing they would never survive together. He had found his way to the deserted post office, hoping to evade detection.
With a stab of regret, he wondered if Karl had managed to escape. Though he had great respect for his cousin’s fighting skills, the cards had been stacked against him. How would he explain things to Kris, Karl’s twin brother? The thought filled him with terror as he imagined the pain his words would inflict on the surviving twin. Karl and Kris had shared, or still shared, an uncanny bond. So if something had happened to Karl, no doubt his brother already knew.
He needed his cell phone, but couldn’t see it anywhere. His men would be worried when they didn’t hear from him. His watch wasn’t on his arm, leaving him to wonder how much time had passed since Sunday.
Just then, he heard footsteps approaching. Before he could begin to worry about the identity of the caller, a middle-aged man entered the room. He looked friendly, and Stefan instinctively knew he had nothing to fear from him.
The man smiled, and approached the bed, addressing him in English. “You are awake at last. My name is Louis Gautier, and I have been your doctor for the past four days.”
“Four days?” Stefan whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, it’s Thursday afternoon,” the doctor glanced at his watch, “and the time is three o’clock.”
Stefan closed his eyes, absorbing the information, trying to decide what his next move should be. Was he a prisoner? If so, it would be pointless to ask for his cell phone.
“Do you have any pain?” Louis asked.
Stefan nodded, and instantly regretted it. It felt as if his brain was floating inside his cranium, and every movement sent it crashing into the sides of his skull. He groaned, shutting his eyes wearily.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the doctor said sympathetically.
After administering the painkiller, Louis examined him, taking blood pressure readings and using a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs. Stefan tried to answer the Frenchman’s questions as best he could. He followed the finger Louis held up, and allowed him to shine a small torch in his eyes.
“I believe you’ll recover fully,” the doctor said when he had finished. “You’re very lucky, young man.”
Stefan didn’t feel lucky. He licked dry lips, and accepted a sip of water from the glass Louis held for him. “Doctor, am I a prisoner here?”
Louis stared at him in amazement. “No, of course not. You are in the home of Marcelle Deschamps. She found you unconscious at a post office, and called me. I told her to take you to a clinic of a friend, where he and I operated on you to save your life. You had lost a lot of blood, and for a while, it looked like you could go either way. But you survived, and we brought you here later that night. We did it in the utmost secrecy, so nobody knows you’re here.”
“Thank you for helping me. But why all the secrecy?” He fought to keep his eyes open.
“Madame Deschamps is...umm...quite famous. If she had taken you to a normal hospital, it would have been all over the newspapers the next day. She seemed to...umm...believe your life was in danger, so she wanted to avoid the publicity.”
“She was right. I’ll thank her personally for saving my life.”
“Yes, I want to speak to you about that.” Doc Louis cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Do you know Madame Deschamps at all?”
“I know who she is, but we have never met.”
“I see,” the doctor said thoughtfully.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, yesterday, you woke up during a storm, and you were most distressed when you saw Madame Deschamps. You fell off the bed, and knocked yourself out.” Louis sounded ill at ease.
Stefan closed his eyes for a few moments before dragging them open again. “I can’t remember anything. Maybe it was just a bad dream.”
“That’s what I told her, but she was upset.”
“I will apologize to Madame Deschamps. Where is she?”
Louis was a bad liar. “She’s ...um... sleeping. I think you should do the same. I’ll call her when you wake up again.”
Stefan decided not to argue, and closed his eyes gratefully. Experience had taught him sleep was the best healer of all.
~ . ~
Doc Louis had indeed lied. Marcelle was in the study, busy sorting out the German’s possessions. Gingerly she picked up the wicked-looking knife she had taken from a scabbard around his right ankle. There were several clips of ammunition, and two identical Glock pistols, their grips crusty with dried blood. The black money-belt contained around three hundred thous
and francs. She removed the money, planning to wash the bloodstained belt later. Due to her South African background, she was familiar with guns, so she set about disassembling and cleaning the two weapons. When she had finished, she put the two guns, the money, the knife and scabbard into the wall-safe of the study.
Afterwards she cleaned the blood off the expensive diver’s watch and put it next to the cell phone. The phone was off, or perhaps the battery had gone dead. Curious, she examined it, trying to work out how to switch it on again, but there didn’t appear to be a conventional on/off switch. Lightweight, black and slim, the phone didn’t have a brand name, and didn’t resemble anything she had ever seen. In addition to the normal keypad of a cell phone, there were a couple of extra keys with strange symbols on them. Pressing one experimentally brought no result, and trying the other keys confirmed her opinion that the instrument was dead.
Marcelle decided to leave the phone alone before she broke anything. She took it and the watch back to her patient’s room, finding him asleep. She opened the closet and placed his possessions on a shelf next to his handmade Italian boots. His washed clothing hung in the closet, except for his leather jacket. The beautiful garment had not survived all the blood and she had cut it to shreds before burning it.
She ran into Doc Louis in the passage, and he accompanied her to the kitchen.
Marcelle made coffee while he told her about the conversation between Stefan and himself. “Well, we’ll have to take his word for it. Maybe he really doesn’t remember anything,” she commented as she carried the filled mugs to the table.
They drank coffee in silence.
“Did he say what he does for a living?”
“I didn’t ask,” Louis replied. “He’s still weak, and he looked quite upset when I told him what he had done to you.”
