No Good Deed

by Matthews, Susanne

  “Sounds great,” Alexa said. “And a whirlpool would be heavenly.”

  “How are you feeling?” Mike asked.

  “I’m okay. Tired and sore, but that could be left over from yesterday. Right now, I’m starving and I need to go.”

  “Can you hold it another ten minutes?” Andy asked. “There’s a coffee shop coming up.”

  “Of course. Actually, I’ve got a question for you. Can you tell me why Mike and I aren’t going straight to that resort north of Quebec City?”

  “Lucien. You’ve got to get used to using that name. A slip of the tongue is all it takes to ruin the best of plans,” Andy said, his tone stern. “As for the resort, there’s no secret to that. The Lune De Miel doesn’t have a room for you until January 22. The honeymoon resort is owned by Alain Clermont, one of my closest friends, but it’s managed by his sister-in-law, Monique. She’s old-fashioned and a stickler for little details like marriage licenses. The resort is listed as one of the top ten secret honeymoon getaways. You’re booked for the standard two-week period. By the time that’s up, I’ll have found a long-term location for you. In the meantime, you have to move around. You can’t stay in one place too long. We have to assume whoever’s after you has spies everywhere.”

  “So that’s where Al disappeared to,” Mike said. “I knew he’d retired from the business. Why didn’t you tell me? The last thing I want to do is put him and his family in danger. He’s suffered enough because of me.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. He never regretted what happened other than the fact that he couldn’t save her when he pulled you out of the wreckage. When I said you needed a place to hide, he offered. He’s got connections even I can’t access.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alexa said. “What wreckage?”

  “It isn’t important,” Mike answered. If only he could go back and erase this part of the conversation, but at least he’d be ready when he saw Al. The man had saved his life once; maybe he could do it again.

  “Stop it,” Alexa said, her teeth gritted. “I’m sick and tired of being lied to. I can tell from the tone of your voice that it is important. If you don’t want to tell me about him now, you can do it later, but you will tell me. That’s not negotiable. What I want to know is why Andy’s making all these plans without your—I mean our—input. I thought we’d agreed to discuss this.”

  “We did, but that was before I realized exactly how much trouble we’re in,” Mike answered bitterly. “He’s doing it because he’s all we’ve got. I should’ve realized this on Sunday when I found that damn surveillance equipment. I’m out of my league, Lex. The mole knows all about me. Don’t you get it? I can’t keep you safe. I can’t even keep myself safe.”

  “I see,” she answered softly, but her eyes reflected her concern. “Then, I guess we both have to trust Andy.”

  The old man chuckled. “And I’ll make sure no one gets close enough to either of you to hurt a single hair on your heads. I may be old, but I’m still very much in the game.”

  “How do we know your friends are mole-proof, for lack of a better word? I mean, if they know all about Mike, they must know about you.”

  “They know what I want them to know. André Gaudin is a retired civil servant who lives in Sainte Adèle with his wife. He’s a boring old man who walks his dog regularly and likes to travel. C’est tout. The real Andy Gaudin and his friends, like the X-men, don’t exist. We work far behind the scenes; our only goal is to keep this country safe from all threats, foreign and domestic. Here we are.”

  He signaled, moved into the exit lane, and, minutes later, pulled into a lot and parked at the far end, next to the dumpster, away from prying eyes. Colette was right behind him.

  “This is where we part company,” Andy said, handing Mike Colette’s extra set of keys. “As soon as you reach the hotel, Scott will have another vehicle waiting for you, and he’ll return this one to the dealership in Gatineau. When we step into that coffee shop, we’re strangers. I’ll keep in touch through the e-mail, using the cipher your uncle Paul taught you. Be careful. I’ve done everything I can to cover our tracks.”

  “What does he mean by that?” Alexa asked.

  “I’ll explain when we’re on our way,” Mike answered. “Andy, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Stay alive and get the bastard.” Andy opened the door and got out of the vehicle.

  “Here,” Mike said, handing her the rings. “This is the final part of your disguise. I’ll carry you in. Might as well start the way we intend to continue.”

  She slipped on the engagement ring and wedding band.

  He got out and rounded the car, surprised when she put her arm around his neck without arguing and let him lift her out of the Jeep.

  Colette materialized beside him. “You’ll need to stop for gas before you get on the highway. Use that station across the street. All of your luggage is in the trunk,” she said, handing the crutches to Alexa. “Take care of yourselves.” She stepped in front of them, put her arm through Andy’s, and entered the restaurant.

  Mike looked down at Alexa and saw the worry in her eyes. “For what it’s worth, Andy and Al are the best there are in this world. I’m staking my life on them, too.”

  He closed the Jeep’s rear passenger door, cradled her more tightly to him, and crossed to the entrance.

  Alexa pushed the handicap panel, and the door swung open.

  He smiled as he set her on the floor. “Can you manage, ma cocotte?”

  She frowned slightly. “I’ll be fine. If this lady can open the door for me . . . Get me a large steeped tea and one of those pumpkin muffins if they still have them. If not, I’ll take a cranberry one.”

  “You’ve got it.” Mike watched her move away. Andy’s plan had to work. He couldn’t let anyone hurt her again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Less than an hour later, Alexa sat on the front seat next to Mike, the lap quilt covering her legs, both hands wrapped around the paper cup she held. He’d gassed up, accepted a free road map the gas station attendant offered him, and then followed the signs to the 416. Traffic was remarkably light for a Wednesday morning. In Toronto, the highways were busy day and night, seven days a week.

  Sipping her second cup of tea, she looked over at him.

  “Now can you tell me what you’ve learned that’s made our situation even worse?” She might have to let someone else make the decisions, but she had a right to know everything they did.

  “Andy got some information from one of his CSIS contacts last night,” he began, repeating what Andy had told him.

  “That’s unbelievable,” she said, her voice barely loud enough to hear. “They changed everything? How could they do that? But it won’t matter in the long run, right? They can’t get to all the staff at the hospital or the nuns. Sister Gabriella knows exactly who I am.”

  “Most likely a lot of people will recognize you, but it’ll probably be as Jeanne Dupont. There’s no sign of that convent or your Sister Gabriella either. But there’s another problem. As it sits, there’s no case against Zabat. We’ve got nothing now.”

  “Don’t be silly, you still have me,” she said, her voice unsure. “I drew the sketches last night for Andy, and I’m alive. They just need to take my fingerprints and examine my DNA.”

  He shook his head. “And compare your DNA to what? Open the folder.”

  The woman pictured was dead.

  “All the records say that woman is Alexa O’Brien. Do you know her?”

  “No,” she said softly, her teeth biting into her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She examined the driver’s license and health card photocopies. “This isn’t right. I mean, that’s my date of birth, my address, but this isn’t me. I’m not dead.”

  “Lex, proving you aren’t dead isn’t the problem. Proving you, and not that woman, are Alexa O’Brien is. Andy says that for all intents and purposes, Alexa O’Brien no longer exists. Her passport, health card, and social insurance n
umber have been rescinded; her bank accounts closed; and her pension and any money she had coming to her have gone to her estate. To further complicate matters, the executions you witnessed never happened. Those four men apparently died from carbon monoxide poisoning—barbecuing inside during the rain. You weren’t there and neither was Zabat or anyone else. The drug raid I was involved with happened, but no C-4 was found. There’s no mention of a terrorist plot either.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. If that’s the case, there wouldn’t be a need for me to testify.” She frowned. “Then why am I still alive? I did walk in on that execution. I was shot. I didn’t imagine that. If I could get my hands on Callaghan . . . ” She blanched even more. “I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but why keep me in that chalet?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right and Richard’s behind all this, but Zabat’s involved. I feel it in my gut, but I was right about one thing. Your Sergeant Callaghan wasn’t with the RCMP. They have no files on you.”

  “What are you saying?” Her voice trembled. She gripped the quilt in one hand, afraid she’d crush the coffee cup if she didn’t release part of her hold on it.

  “I’m saying they lied to me, too. Sergeant Callaghan with the RCMP is alive and well in Regina. Either the man you knew as Callaghan double-crossed whoever’s behind this, or he isn’t the floater. He usually arrived on Wednesdays, but we left before that. Andy still has the sketch and will try to identify him.”

  “So, if I tried to tell someone what I saw, I would come off as delusional. Richard threatened to have me institutionalized. This would be all the evidence he would need. I don’t understand how official records can be changed like that.”

  “They were hacked by a pro, one who had top access and could get around firewalls and all the rest of it,” Mike explained. “Now that we suspect that’s what happened, Andy’s guru is going to try to backtrack it. Today, just about everything is computer generated. A good hacker can change the system to say whatever he or she wants, and if the hacker’s on the inside, it’s easier than ever. But an even better hacker can find his or her trail and follow it out.”

  “What about the woman who took my statement? She can attest to what I saw, or you. You can testify to the truth.” She was grasping at straws. Surely, there was some way to prove she wasn’t imagining this.

  He shook his head. “Since you don’t even know the woman’s name, she’s no help, and there’s nothing I could say that would be beneficial either. I never saw any of those records, Lex. I only know what I was told, and that’s hearsay and won’t hold up in court. As for you, I only have your word that you’re the real Alexa O’Brien and saw what you did. The fact you were eager to disappear fell right in with someone’s plans. I’m sorry.”

  “But I am Alexa O’Brien. You believe that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he answered, but she heard the hesitation in his voice.

  Could she blame him? Looking at the evidence, she would find it hard to believe, too.

  “Andy is going to find a way to prove you’re who you say you are.”

  “That’s why you asked me all those questions, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Andy’s going to Toronto to do some hands-on investigating. He’ll try to identify the woman in the photo and verify what you told us.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do what I set out to do. I’m going to keep you alive. Alexa O’Brien may have been erased, but you haven’t been. You’re still my best shot at getting Zabat. It won’t be easy, but now that Andy’s on this, we’ll find out exactly what’s going on. By the way, who would’ve inherited your estate?”

  “Richard. I made a new will when I moved in with him. I didn’t have a lot—my mother’s life insurance, a couple of bank accounts, an RRSP, my teacher’s pension, the jewelry he gave me. He knows that woman isn’t Alexa O’Brien, but if he’s part of this . . . I don’t see how anyone can help me now, least of all Colette and Andy.”

  “Don’t count them out. Old spies have quite a few tricks up their sleeves. No matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe. You have my word on it.”

  She sighed. “What if all this is about one of the other men I identified? You know, one of the unknown ones?” She glanced over at him. “What if one of them is more important than Zabat? What if one of them is that magician you mentioned?”

  Mike focused on the road and passed a slow-moving car, but from the way he worked his jaw, she knew he was mulling over what she’d said.

  “That could mean the execution was some kind of blood oath, and if you can identify the magician, then wanting to discredit you makes a lot of sense, as does keeping you alive and forcing Richard to work for him. He would need a new face. I mentioned your comment about hearing the word visage to Andy. Who better than a top plastic surgeon to put one man’s face on another? It’s certainly something to consider.”

  “It’s hard to believe someone can just erase me like that.” She fought the tears prickling at her eyes and fiddled with the map she’d picked up. “No wonder it was free,” she said, anything to change the topic. “It’s someone else’s map. There’s a route highlighted in yellow.”

  “Where does it go?” he asked. “Colette did insist we use that station.”

  “The line starts in Cornwall, and then goes through a place called Valleyfield, and below Montreal. There are six other places highlighted. The last one, Tadoussac, has a huge circle around it.”

  “I have a feeling that’s our map. Tadoussac is the town closest to Lune De Miel. Look in the index and see if there’s anything else.”

  She turned the map over. “Yes. Some of the entries have words or letters highlighted.”

  “Good. Those highlights will indicate the safest places for us to stay. It helps a little to know we’ve got a destination in mind. How are you holding up? I know what I told you was a hell of a shock. There’s a restaurant just before we get on the 401 in case you have to go. Cornwall’s about forty minutes from there.”

  “That might be a good idea,” she answered absently. After a few minutes, she turned to him again.

  “What does ma cocotte mean? You called me that back in Kanata.”

  “Directly translated it means ‘little chick,’ but in Quebec French slang, it’s ‘darling,’ I think. Colette uses it when she talks to her granddaughters.”

  “Would someone from France say that?”

  “Good point. They probably wouldn’t, but you didn’t give me time to fill you in on our backgrounds last night. If anyone does talk to us and asks questions, we need to know the same answers. How’s your memory?”

  “I used to think it was pretty good, but now I’m not so sure. You caught me off guard last night. I suppose I should know a bit about my undercover identity.”

  “It makes sense to talk about something useful right now rather than something that can’t be changed or fixed. I hope your auditory memory is as good as your visual one because we can’t write any of this down.”

  “If I go into information overload, I’ll stop you.”

  “I’ve used cover stories in my line of work, but I’ve yet to come up with one as flawless as this . . . of course, we are working with bona fide secret agents.”

  She giggled. “Sorry, but secret identities didn’t help James Bond. The bad guys always knew exactly who he was. I’d rather think we’re like Superman and Wonder Woman. All they had to disguise themselves were different hairstyles and glasses.”

  “You could be right, but unlike Superman, bullets won’t bounce off my chest, and unfortunately, you don’t have any magic bracelets or a lasso that demands the truth.”

  “I suppose that is a bit of a drawback.”

  “Lex, none of this will be easy, and we’ll really have to watch our backs. We both know what Zabat looks like, and I can finger some of his goons, but you’re the only one who can recognize Richard, and as for the magician, unless he’s one of the guys in you
r sketches, we’re both blind.”

  “I know. We’ll be fine,” she said, but she wasn’t convinced they would be.

  “For the record, your name is Laura Sykes, no middle name. You’re thirty-two years old and were born in Brooklyn. You’ve lived there all your life. Your parents died on 9-11, and you have no other close family relatives. You’re a receptionist for a small law firm in Manhattan. Last summer, you went on vacation to France, which is where we met. It was love at first sight, and we were inseparable. When you returned to New York, we stayed in touch through the Internet. I asked you to marry me, and we tied the knot on New Year’s Eve.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard to remember, but wouldn’t stuff like that be easy to verify?”

  “It should be. I’m pretty sure Andy has whatever proof someone would be looking for available out there somewhere. Hell, apparently there’s a hospital record to prove you broke your ankle in a skiing accident in Vermont. When this is over, maybe you can keep the identity and get a job working as a secretary.”

  “Only if the boss wants the world’s slowest hunt-and-peck typist on his staff.” She chuckled wryly. “What about you?”

  “Me, I’m just an ordinary guy. My name is Lucien Raoul Gravelle. I’m thirty-five. I was born on Saint Pierre-Miquelon, a French province off the coast of Newfoundland, and spent a lot of my early years in New Brunswick with my mother’s family, which is where I picked up the slang. My mother and grandparents died several years ago. My father worked for the French government, so my education in France was a given, but I opted to stay in Canada and attended college in New Brunswick where I learned English. I was a plumber, but five years ago, my father passed away and left me some property in Lyon. I decided I was tired of fixing other people’s toilets and went to France. The property turned out to be a beautiful bed-and-breakfast that catered to tourists, including you. That’s how we met.”