The next morning, despondent despite the fact that she could move a bit easier without the waves of pain flooding her, Alexa had no appetite for the watery oatmeal the nurse had brought her.
“You must eat, madame,” Marie admonished. “You won’t get stronger unless you do.”
Alexa nodded. What was the point of getting better if it meant she would be back under Richard’s thumb? It would take months, maybe even years, before she could escape again. If there was a God, why didn’t he let her die on the floor of that convenience store? That would’ve been the merciful thing to do.
She sighed. The one thing she’d never understood was why her mother had refused to fight at the end. The cancer could’ve been beaten if she’d just been willing to try. Instead she’d given up, refused her meds, and slipped away in her sleep. Now Alexa understood only too well. Losing a second husband and being alone once more wasn’t a life worth living for—not even her daughter could make her want that. If she could will herself to die right now, Alexa would.
A light knock pulled her out of her musing.
“Come in.”
A white-haired, heavyset man in his late fifties, wearing gold tone glasses and a police uniform, entered the room. A young woman similarly attired followed him inside. If Alexa had to describe her, she would use the word bland. She had no distinguishing features, nothing to call attention to her. Her hair was a dull brown as were her eyes. The only color on her face was from the blood-red lipstick she wore.
“Bonjours. Tu parles français?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, no,” Alexa answered.
“I’m Chief Inspector Maurice Doucet and this is Florence St. Jean, my administrative assistant. She’ll make any notes necessary. Your name, please?”
“The nurse and the doctor called me Madame Dupont, but as far as I know, my name’s Alexa O’Brien.” She hadn’t planned to give her real name, but what choice did she have now?
“Jeanne Dupont is a place holder, like Jane Doe, for people without identification, or for those we want to keep hidden. There was no wallet with you. You are either a very lucky woman or a very foolish one. What were you doing in L’hibou noir that night?”
“Getting gas and a cup of tea.”
Leaving out the reason she was on her way to Newfoundland, Alexa explained why she’d been in Dorion and what she’d seen. Florence took notes.
“That’s all I remember until I woke up yesterday. Did they find my car?” she asked. “It belongs to a friend, Eileen Larson. There were personal items in it I would like.”
He spoke rapidly to the woman who pulled out her cell phone and made a call.
“If they did, it will be in the impound lot. We’ll know soon enough,” he said, shrugging.
Was that a genetic trait among the Quebecois? Everyone seemed to shrug and gesture wildly when they spoke.
“You were severely injured,” he said, his silver eyebrows furrowed. “The 9mm bullet lodged against your spine, pinching the spinal cord. A few millimeters more to the right, and it would have severed your spine. The bullet didn’t mushroom like the others. Still, the hospital had to call in one of the country’s best orthopedic surgeons to remove it. You were lucky. Le bon Dieu didn’t want you yet.”
She swallowed. God might not have wanted her, but the devil did.
“Did you recognize any of the men?” he asked, dragging her back to the conversation.
“The ones who were kneeling faced away from me, but I saw the other four quite clearly.”
“Well enough to identify for a sketch artist?” Florence asked, interested for the first time since she’d arrived.
Alexa chuckled. “Well enough to draw them for you myself. I’m an amateur artist with an excellent visual memory.”
The woman’s lips twitched. Didn’t she believe her?
“Give me a couple of days to get stronger, and I’ll sketch them for you.”
“Would you be willing to testify in court?” Doucet asked, the wrinkles around his eyes increasing as his cheeks lifted, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He rubbed his palms together.
Alexa swallowed. Would she? Those men could be trained assassins. Might that fulfill her death wish?
“Wouldn’t that put me right back in their sights? From what the doctor said, I’m lucky to be alive.”
“We could offer you protection,” the woman answered.
“What do you mean?” Alexa asked, hope fluttering inside her.
Doucet nodded. “No one knows exactly what happened in the store that night. We made up a story for the press and simply identified you as a tourist who was hurt. We could announce that you died from your injuries. While you would have to leave your old life behind, we could give you a new one with an identity to match and enough money to get you started, a clean slate so to speak.”
Alexa’s mouth gaped open. This was exactly what she’d wanted when she’d fled Toronto. Testifying was dangerous, but if it meant freedom . . .
“That’s a very tempting offer. I want to help put those animals away. Let me think about it,” she said. The deal sounded too good to be true, and she’d learned the hard way that when that happened, it usually was. This arrangement could be a godsend, but considering her current condition, it could be the biggest mistake of her life. Legally dead, she would be free of Richard once and for all, but until she was on her feet again, she would have to rely on strangers and that was a bitter pill to swallow. “Right now, I’m exhausted.” She yawned once more.
The inspector stood. “Then, I suggest we let you rest. I’ll be back tomorrow for your answer. I realize we’re asking a lot, but it’s your chance to see the men who committed this crime punished. It would be a very good deed to do.”
He followed the woman out of the room.
Alexa chuckled wryly. From what she remembered, good deeds rarely went unpunished. Look at where she was. This had happened because she’d thought to do the right thing. If she’d minded her own business, she would be safe in Newfoundland by now.
Several hours later, the light came on in her room startling her awake, but she was dopey, her vision blurred. She couldn’t seem to wake up, but her gut told her she needed to. A man approached the bed. There was something about his size, his gait, his face . . . When he was no more than a few feet away, she saw he wore a Halloween mask, and terror filled her. The bathroom door opened and a nurse came out. It wasn’t Marie or one of the others she’d seen today.
Before Alexa could grasp what was happening, the man turned to the nurse. Two muffled thumps sounded in the room followed by a scent she vividly remembered. Not again! Waiting for the burn of a bullet, she gasped as the killer neared the bed with a syringe in his hand, sneering and speaking to her in French.
Leaning forward, needle poised to inject her, the man jumped back when a security guard burst into the room and shot him. She had to get up. She had to get out of here.
Struggling to escape the confines of her bed, trapped by her own body, a beached whale stranded on the shore, she was restrained by two men in uniform.
“No, please. You have to let me go. They’re going to kill me.”
The sharp prick in her arm brought on darkness once more.
Chapter Three
Eight months later
“Rise and shine, mon ami,” Henri Thibodaux said, flipping on the ceiling light. “You’ve been lazing around long enough. It’s time you earned the big bucks they pay you undercover boys.”
“Ferme ta gueule, maudit toton! And shut that damn thing off,” Mike Delorme said, covering his eyes at the sound of his partner’s voice, fighting the knives of pain stabbing into his brain. What time was it?
“I’ll shut up,” Henri answered, “but as far as idiots go, have you looked in the mirror lately? I’m not the one who looks like he’s gone ten rounds as Muhammad Ali’s punching dummy. How are you feeling?”
Mike sighed and blinked his eyes to adjust to the light. While most times he would be happy to see his mentor and best f
riend, this wasn’t one of them.
“How the hell do you think I feel? I’ve got to learn to stop meeting someone’s fist with my face and letting them use my head for batting practice.” He sat up on the side of the bed, the draft slipping through the open back of the johnnie gown he wore, making him shiver. He sure as hell wouldn’t complain when the temperature soared next summer. “Since you asked,” he continued, his voice laced with sarcasm, “I ache all over, a hive of bees has settled in my ears, and the base drummer from some invisible metal band has decided to rehearse inside my skull. Added to that, my frostbitten toes burn, you’re uglier than ever, and every time I suck in a deep breath, I want to scream.”
“That good, eh?” Henri laughed. “You’ve been worse.”
Shaking his head, wincing at the additional pain, Mike chuckled dryly. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”
At five-foot-five and well over 230 pounds, Henri was in danger of becoming as wide as he was tall, but he was still a damn fine detective. It was too bad he hadn’t been working Zabat’s case with him. Those goons would never have gotten the drop on him if Henri had been there, and the bastard wouldn’t have gotten away again, although how he did was a mystery. Zabat was in that warehouse. Mike had seen him there just before he’d been jumped.
“It’s snowing,” Henri said, moving closer to the bed. “None of the damn roads have been plowed. Don’t ask me why we pay so much in taxes.” He shook himself like a dog, sending icy water droplets all over Mike and the bed.
“Stop that,” Mike cried, the cold water making him cringe. “What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night anyway?”
“Damned if I know,” Henri said. “Beaudoin called, told me to get my ass over here. I expected to find the priest administering last rights. You might look like shit, but you don’t appear to be dying.”
“Thanks for the prognosis, Doctor Thibodaux.”
Mike frowned. This had to be some sick prank, but as much as he enjoyed horsing around with the guys on the squad, this time, it was different. In his fifteen years as a member of the Sûreté du Québec, the province’s provincial police force, he’d endured more than one beating, had been shot twice, and while having someone turn him into an icicle had been a new experience, it wasn’t one he cared to repeat. He could still feel the bone-numbing chill of that refrigerated truck. This was the closest he’d ever come to dying. For the first time ever, his gut had let him down. How had he misread the situation so badly? He should’ve called for backup, but he’d been so sure he could take Zabat by himself. And then to find out the man had a rock-solid alibi?
Failure, coupled with a near-death experience, stayed with a man, changed him, got him thinking about his priorities, but most of all, it made him aware of his own screw-ups and the price he’d paid because of them. He’d let his need for revenge trump his common sense. Cops died in the line of duty all the time; he just hadn’t planned on being one of them.
Henri tossed his wet jacket onto the chair, yanking him away from the morbid thoughts.
“Mireille missed you at Christmas. You’ll have to come to dinner and reassure her that you’re alive and well.”
“And give your wife another chance to try her hand at matchmaking? No, thanks.”
“But, Mike, a man needs a family, a legacy.”
“I had it until Zabat took it away from me,” he said, his fists clenched. “What I need to do is get that bastard, and that’ll be all the legacy I need.” But now that his undercover days were over, now that he’d faced his mortality and realized he might not be able to trust his own instincts, how the hell was that going to happen?
Before Henri could comment, Luc Beaudoin entered the room, his face red, his eyebrows tightly knit together, and his upper lip pulled up in one corner.
In the ten years he’d been working for him, Mike had never seen his captain so pissed. Someone’s head was on the chopping block.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Beaudoin barked. The ridges on the captain’s forehead deepened. “You’ve looked better.”
“I didn’t think you cared,” Mike mocked. “Why the hell should I be dressed? It’s four o’clock in the morning. The doctor said something about an MRI, and I’ve got a couple more days of fluids and antibiotics before I can leave.” He indicated the IV line running into the back of his hand.
“Drink more water and take pills like the rest of us,” Beaudoin retorted. “The test will have to wait. Doucet’s arranging your release right now.”
Mike coughed and flinched. Bruised ribs hurt almost as badly as cracked ones.
“Excuse me? When did the chief inspector get his medical degree? I must’ve missed that memo.”
“Cut the crap, Mike,” Beaudoin said, huffing out a breath. “This isn’t the time.” He shook his head, the corners of his mouth dropping down as his eyes drooped.
Sadness or fatigue? Maybe a little of both. It was hard to tell.
“I’m sorry,” Beaudoin said. “It’s been a rough night. I don’t like this anymore than you do. For what it’s worth, I only found out about this whole mess a few hours ago. I’m still trying to process it. Damn the brass and their ‘need to know’ philosophy. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know Doucet.” The captain ran his hand through his wet, salt-and-pepper hair, leaving tufts sticking up here and there. “When he gets an idea in his head, no matter how farfetched, he starts talking about his big picture, and there’s no stopping him.”
“A lot of the men think the chief inspector is out of touch with reality,” Henri said, shoving his coat aside and dropping into the chair. “He clings to his ridiculous notion of being the man to do what no one has ever done—clean up Montreal once and for all, regardless of the number of bodies he leaves in his wake. That man’s got political aspirations. If he wants to run for office, I have no problem with it, as long as he doesn’t try to do it over my dead body.”
Henri was right. Better men than Doucet had tried to end the corruption and get rid of the forces controlling Montreal’s underworld, and Mike would gladly help him, but with his cover blown, there was a bull’s-eye on his back. Soon, some young punk looking to make a name for himself would grow a set of balls and come looking for him. He needed to lay low for a few months and watch his back. Maybe he should take a leave of absence and travel. Hell, since he hadn’t even recognized danger when it stared him in the face, it was probably time to quit this job and get out of Dodge while he still could. But that meant Zabat would win, and Mike couldn’t let that happen.
Chief Inspector Doucet opened the door, scowling like a vicious pit bull, his gaze scanning the room as if he were looking for an opponent to fight.
Force of habit brought Mike to his feet, the cold floor adding to his discomfort.
A nurse entered, and in the heavy silence, she quickly removed Mike’s IV line, slapped a Band-Aid on the spot of blood on the back of his hand, and left the room as if the hounds of hell were after her.
“For God’s sake, Delorme, cover your ass and sit down. I don’t need you towering above me like some goddamn Grim Reaper,” Doucet said as soon as the door closed behind the nurse.
Mike shook his head and dropped onto his bed. At six foot six, he was a foot taller than the man. Did the guy suffer short man’s syndrome? Over the years, he’d had more than one run-in with his by-the-book superior officer, and that could account for some of his animosity.
“Nice of you to visit, sir,” Mike answered, hiding his confusion behind sarcasm. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have spruced myself up.”
“Cut the bullshit. You’re no happier to see me than I am to be here, but believe it or not, I follow orders, too. I don’t like you, Lieutenant. You view the rules as suggestions that may or may not apply to you. So far, you’ve been lucky, but mark my word, everyone’s luck runs out sooner or later. For the record, as far as I’m concerned, bringing you in on this is a mistake, but in this case, the RCMP have the upper hand.”
&nbs
p; Mike’s frown deepened. Doucet’s words were too close to his own thoughts. He blinked. Since when did the feds call the shots for the SQ?
“Bringing me in on what?”
The chief inspector tossed the duffel bag he carried onto the foot of the bed. “You’re going back into the field this morning.”
“Are you frigging nuts?” The words were out before he could stop them. “There’s a goddamn price on my head by now, I’ve got a concussion, bruised ribs, and mild frostbite. The only place I’m going is back to sleep.”
“I don’t think so. You claim you want to take Zabat down. Well, this is your chance, and if you do it right, you just might end up a hero. Now, shut up and listen, or is that too much to ask?”
Gritting his teeth, Mike clamped his mouth shut. If whatever Doucet had in mind brought Zabat down, he was all for it, but this had better be good because, given the shape he was in, if he was going to be a hero, it would most likely be a dead one.
• • •
Mike drove his borrowed SUV and trailer into the church parking lot, which, unlike the roads to Saint Sauveur, had been given a cursory plowing a couple of hours ago. It was just after nine, and judging by the dozen cars in the lot, a few of the town’s sinners had decided they couldn’t miss Sunday Mass. He’d given up believing in God when his wife Thea had been killed, but to each his own.
What the hell was he doing here? Agreeing to this assignment, even if it was essentially a babysitting job, was tantamount to a suicide attempt. His eyes were still screwy, and while the buzzing in his ears was almost gone, the headache showed no signs of easing. Given the near whiteout conditions, half the time he hadn’t known where the road was. As Henri would’ve put it, he’d used the “Force” to get here, but he was no Jedi.
Learning C-4 had been found in last week’s drug raid had unsettled him. Zabat might be a son of a bitch, but he dealt in drugs, guns, alcohol, and cigarettes, not high-yield explosives. Then to have the stuff essentially walk out of the evidence locker?
The story Doucet had fed him about some woman witnessing an execution had been a little hard to swallow. Until he’d seen the sketches, he’d been ready to tell him to shove this assignment, but now Mike would descend into the jaws of hell itself to discover the truth.
No Good Deed Page 3
