After a time Remy scowled—the first resemblance to Valery Michael had found, other than the obvious blond hair and blue eyes. "All right. I swear I'll keep it to myself."
All too aware that Remy's promise meant more than his own, that Remy would die before breaking a confidence while he was about to easily—but not guiltlessly—do just that, Michael took a deep breath, then flatly betrayed both Valery and himself. "Valery is safe."
Remy took a moment to process that information before cautiously asking, "You've … seen her?"
He was referring to the visions. Michael shrugged. "Seen her. Talked to her." Touched her.
Emotion, dark and vital and carefully controlled, crept into Remy's eyes. "Where is she? How did you find her? How long have you known…?"
"She found me. Friday night."
"And you're just getting around to telling me?"
Anger. That was the emotion. He had so rarely seen Remy angry that he hadn't recognized it. But he made no effort to placate him. His friend was entitled to his anger. "Her terms, Remy, not mine."
"Where is she?"
Aware of what was coming, Michael stalled. "She won't turn herself over to you," he warned. "She doesn't want to be in protective custody. She doesn't trust the FBI any more than she trusts Falcone."
"Where is she, damn it?" Remy's voice rose, growing sharp enough to catch his partner's attention, softening before Wilson could react. "Where?"
"I tried to talk her into turning herself over, but the minute I mentioned the FBI, she panicked. She tried to leave. The only way I got her to stay was by promising I wouldn't tell anyone about her."
Remy walked a few feet away, stopping in a puddle that splashed over his shoes. Michael had always both admired and detested his friend's tremendous reserve of patience. If he weren't wet, cold and uncomfortable all the way from his soaked clothes to way inside his soul, he would have found it interesting watching Remy lose and seek to recover that patience. But he was miserable. He just wanted this over with.
Finally, as the rain continued to stream down, to soak the already-waterlogged ground, Remy turned to face him again. He was calm again. In control. "You said that she found you. You mean she just came to you? To a total stranger?"
Michael didn't reply. If Remy and Valery had been close, as two people who'd grown up the way they had should be, he would know about her premonitions. Her feelings. Her insight.
"She just came to you," he murmured. "Not to the police, not to me, but—" Abruptly he broke off, and his calm cracked as his gaze shot upward, seeking out the third-floor balcony that was Michael's. "She's at your apartment, isn't she?" he demanded. "All this time we've been out searching for her, and she's been at your damned apartment!"
Remy turned away, heading toward the gate, toward the building, but Michael caught his arm, forcing him to stop. He moved around, positioning himself between Remy and the gate—between Remy and Valery—and vented a little anger of his own. "You wanted her safe, and she is. You wanted her protected. I can protect her. You have to trust me, Remy."
He stared off into the rain, dark and bristly. "Does she?"
"As much as she can." Releasing his hold, Michael combed his hair back, then moved his hand in a futile swipe across his eyes. "She doesn't trust easily. It seems she's learned that's a good way to get hurt."
"Yes," Remy quietly agreed, and that quickly the anger was gone, replaced by bleakness. Michael recognized it immediately, because he'd lived so intimately with it. "She has."
On the street a horn sounded, and the squeal of skidding tires ended in the crunch of metal on metal. Neither of them even glanced in that direction. They just looked at each other.
"Damn." Remy shivered as rain trickled down inside his collar. "I'm going to have to go home and change before I can do any work today." He pulled the collar tighter, then sighed. "Does she know you're a cop?"
"Yes."
"Does she know that we're friends?"
"No. She wouldn't stay around if she knew … and knowing the extent of the plans she's made, if she takes off, she'll wind up in even more trouble." Michael glanced up at his apartment. He'd left only a small lamp in the corner burning; now other lights were on, giving the sheer curtains a luminescent quality in the morning gloom. "Give me some time, Remy. Let me talk to her. Let me see if I can help her." Trust me. He heard his silent plea for the very thing he'd recently decided was too big a burden to bear.
"All right. I'll give you time. But I can't promise how much. It might be a few days, it might be a little longer. But sooner or later, Michael, she's got to come in. Sooner or later, this has to be settled." With that, he walked away. After only a few feet, though, he turned back. "Thank you, Michael."
Michael waited until Wilson joined Remy, until the two of them—Wilson sheltered under the umbrella, Remy's head down against the rain—had crossed the park and exited through the Decatur Street
gate. He waited a moment longer, until they had crossed the street and passed out of sight, before slowly heading toward his apartment.
When he let himself in, he found Valery at the French doors, leaning one shoulder against the jamb, the curtain lifted back a few inches and held in one hand. His first thought was to wonder what kind of view her position afforded her—just an overview of the square in general? Or maybe a bird's-eye view of clandestine meetings near the statue?
His second—and more dangerous—thought was that he could become used to scenes like this, to coming home and finding her waiting. Warmth, coziness, Valery—they went a long way toward chasing away the cold.
She smiled as he closed and locked the door, then shed his jacket and shoes on the small rug nearby. "That didn't take long," she remarked, her voice soft, sleepy, unfairly sensuous.
"What didn't?" Cautiously he crossed the room in his socks, going to stand beside her, looking out to see what she could see. Trees, the statue, rain and, in the background—always looming in the background—the cathedral. At the most she might have seen Remy walk away with Wilson. With the rain, though, she might not have recognized him. But she couldn't have seen Michael, couldn't have seen them talking.
"Your errands." She gestured to the note he'd left on the table.
He moved to the opposite side of the door, leaning as she was. That put the cathedral at his back and gave him a view that was by far easier on his eyes: the river, the rain, the distant lighted bridge—and Valery.
It was far easier on his soul, too.
"I thought you would sleep in," he remarked.
"I thought I would, too." She smiled one of her lovely warm smiles. "I slept well."
He had already guessed that. With only three good nights' sleep, the exhaustion that had given her an air of such fragility was gone. There wasn't so much as a line or a shadow on her face. Her eyes were clear, bright, her expression one of utter, bone-deep relaxation of the sort he hadn't felt in months. This was Valery as she normally was. Natural. Beautiful. Beguiling.
"You have a comfortable place here." Her gaze swept away, taking in all of the apartment that she could see from where she was.
Michael didn't bother to look. He knew every small detail of his home, had chosen and placed every single item inside these walls. After the divorce, after his wife had moved out and moved on, it had seemed better that way—starting all over. Making what had previously been their home his, and his alone. He had repainted the walls, uncovered the wooden floors, had sold, traded or otherwise disposed of every single thing that Beth hadn't taken with her. He had taken down her heavy drapes, had gotten rid of her fussy plants, her floral sheets and ruffly curtains and white wicker. He'd made a place so personal that no one else could ever feel as much at home here as he did.
Except that Valery seemed to.
He could think of nothing more wrong.
And nothing more right.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" she asked, waiting until he shrugged in response before going on. "How can a cop afford an apa
rtment like this?"
He could detect no suspicion, no doubt in her voice—only casual interest—but they were there. They were in the unspoken echoes of the question she really wanted to ask: How can an honest cop afford an apartment like this? It was a question he had been asked before by family and curious friends. It was an answer that Valery, who was putting her life in his hands, was certainly entitled to. "I have a deal with the management. I provide on-site security, and in exchange, they knock off a portion of my rent."
Only a moment ago, she had hidden her doubts well, but now the relief was evident in her eyes and in the soft beginnings of her smile.
Nothing more right, he thought again. Absolutely.
Remembering Remy's comment about time—limited time, a few days, maybe longer—he forced his thoughts to a more pressing subject. "What do you want from me, Valery?"
His question was simple, quietly spoken, certainly well deserved, Valery thought. If their roles had been reversed, she certainly wouldn't have been as patient as he had been. Still, it made the temperature in the room drop from cozy to winter-chilly. It made her comfort level plummet.
She stared out the window, her gaze fixed on St. Louis Cathedral, and she gave an answer, unplanned but honest. "I'd like to go to church." Although she wasn't Catholic, wasn't currently a member of any church, she longed for an hour of freedom to slip away inside the cathedral. She could sit quietly in a pew, could soak in the peaceful quiet, could ask for guidance, for help, for a simple reminder that she wasn't alone in this.
"Answers aren't found in churches," he replied, his voice still quiet but different now. Flat. Empty.
She gave him a curious look. "Some answers are," she softly disagreed.
"They're buildings. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Is that why you paint them the way you do?"
His gaze shifted quickly, jerkily, toward the armoire in the corner.
"I snooped while you were out Saturday. I'm sorry."
"You didn't like the paintings of the churches?" Now his tone was mocking, all the more effective for its subtlety. It was an effort for Valery to keep her tone even in reply.
"I only saw two. Are there more?"
He shrugged, a response she took as affirmative.
"No," she admitted honestly. "I didn't like them. They were disturbing."
"I was disturbed when I painted them."
By what? she wondered. What had happened to make him see a holy place in such an unholy light?
Anticipating her curiosity, he shrugged again. "It's a long story—and, under the circumstances, not a very reassuring one for you."
"I'd like to hear it anyway."
He considered the matter for a long, still moment, then abruptly gestured toward the sofa. "Sit down, Valery. Let me tell you what happened the last time I had one of these visions."
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
He put water on for coffee, turned up the heat and warmed two sticky buns for her before finally settling in one of the chairs. Valery was on the sofa, snuggled between the overstuffed arm and a giant-size pillow in dark crimson. Her feet in thin socks were tucked between two cushions, but her toes were still cold. Her hands were cold, too, although it wasn't because of the room temperature. The apartment was comfortably warm and growing more so with each moment. This chill came from inside.
From inside Michael.
He sat stiffly in the chair, unable—unwilling?—to relax. There was a frustrated look on his face that came from searching for the right way to say something he didn't want to say at all, and it tempted her to give him a way out, to tell him that it was all right, that she didn't want to know.
But obviously it wasn't all right.
And she did want to know.
"It was a little girl," he said at last. His beginning was rocky, but there was no doubt the tale would get rockier as it went. "She was eight years old. Blue eyes, blond hair, long curls—a tomboy, but you'd never guess it to look at her. She was the kind of kid you picture at Christmas wearing a red velvet dress, patent leather shoes and bows in her hair, looking like a little angel."
Valery knew instantly the sort of child he was describing. Heavens, for most of her childhood, she'd been that sort of child, with red velvet one year, green the next, satin sashes and white tights. Being very much a tomboy herself, she had hated the dressing up, but it had pleased her mother so much to see her little Christmas angel, and so she had grudgingly cooperated.
Until the Christmas she was eleven. Then she had dressed willingly, even eagerly, convinced that her parents would miss her, supremely confident that they would come to see her. She would be good, she had promised God and herself. She would wear velvet and patent leather all year round if both of them—either of them—came back for her.
But they hadn't come. Her mother had sent her a card from a ski lodge in Colorado. Her father, on the road somewhere up north, hadn't done even that.
And she had never worn velvet since.
Drawing her thoughts back to the present and remembering the insubstantial figures—angels with a dark side—in his painting of the lovely white church, she offered a silent prayer. Please don't let the little girl be dead. Don't let that be his sorrow.
"The girl's name was Nicole. Everyone called her Nikki. Her parents were divorced, and she lived with her mother. Her father paid child support when he felt like it and forgot about it the rest of the time, and her mother was having trouble making ends meet. When she was approached by a friend of a friend who was interested in renting the second floor of their house, she agreed. She needed the money, and he was a nice guy, and the house had once been apartments, so it was already set up for separate tenants. There were kitchens and bathrooms on each floor."
He was reciting the story in much the same way she had told him about Nate Simmons's murder: offering facts that were absolutely uncolored by emotion. That emotion—the feelings that accompanied these memories of his—was buried somewhere deep inside him, and he would never, Valery thought, never bring it willingly to the surface.
Not even if keeping it buried destroyed him.
"The guy was a great tenant. He always paid his rent on time, and he never made any demands. They got to be friends—Nikki and her mother and this man. Especially Nikki and him. She rarely saw her father, and Jeffrey—that was his name, Jeffrey Randall—was a willing substitute. He taught her how to ride a two-wheeler, how to throw a baseball and shoot hoops. He took her to the park and helped her with her homework, and when her baby-sitter canceled or her mother had a date, Nikki stayed with Jeffrey."
He broke off, and in the quiet Valery heard the bubble of hot water and for the first time noticed the rich aroma of coffee that drifted on the warm air. He noticed, too, and went into the kitchen.
Jeffrey Randall. The name didn't sound familiar, but that didn't mean anything. Although, until recently, she'd read the newspaper every day, New Orleans was a big city and, frankly, police stories had never much interested her.
But then, until recently, she'd never known any cops.
Until recently, she hadn't known Michael.
He returned with two mismatched cups, heavy ceramic for himself translucent china for her. It felt fragile in her hands, delicate and old and easily damaged. Oddly enough, it, rather than the sturdy ceramic that could survive practically any amount of rough handling, reminded her of Michael. He had little enough strength now, all of it going to maintain that rigid control. She wished she could give him some measure of her own strength, wished that she could make him feel—as he had made her feel—that everything would be all right.
But she couldn't.
He picked up the story as if he'd never stopped. "One day Nikki's mother had to work late, and the baby-sitter couldn't stay over. Jeffrey said no problem; he'd take Nikki. And he did. Her mother came home around eight o'clock to an empty house. At first she didn't worry, even though it was a school night and Nikki was supposed t
o be in bed soon. What was there to worry about? Her daughter was with Jeffrey. She trusted him. She waited until nine o'clock, then ten o'clock, and then she began to worry that something had happened to them—that they'd been in an accident—so she called the police. And while she waited for the police to come, she went upstairs to Jeffrey's apartment and found…" he shrugged. "Magazines. Photographs. Videotapes."
Valery suppressed a shudder of distaste. Already she knew too much of what he was about to tell her. She didn't want to hear anymore. She didn't want to hear that Jeffrey Randall was a deviant who found sexual satisfaction only with young children. She didn't want Michael to confirm her sixth sense that Randall had hurt that little girl, didn't want to know how Michael had helped—or failed—the child. She didn't want to know that someone—someone innocent—had died, or that Michael held himself responsible for that death.
But she knew, anyway, damn it, and she didn't stop him from corroborating it.
"It turned out Jeffrey Randall was a sex offender. He had a record in other states for doing dirty things to little kids, and his preference ran to pretty little girls with long blond curls." He paused and tasted his coffee for the first time. Neither the richness nor the strength nor the warmth of the brew seemed to touch him. "I had my first vision of Nikki that night, right about the time her mother was discovering what kind of man had disappeared with her child. I was working, in the middle of a buy-bust, and all I could see, all I could hear, was this terrified little girl crying for her mother. My partner Evan had a soft spot for kids. He'd been married for nine years, and he and his wife had been trying to have a baby for the last five or six of them. He wanted to help, and I let him. I figured with a kid involved, it couldn't hurt to have backup. I found Jeffrey Randall and Nicki—"
Valery interrupted. "How?"
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 10
