He shrugged. "A combination of good detective work, cop's intuition and—I don't know—the great psychic unknown. It's a gift I have." Bitterness was heavy in his voice, but it faded away as he spoke again. "Randall was holding her at a house across the river. Ordinarily I would have gone to the department, but this time the visions were changing. They were fading … as if she were fading. As if she had given up. There was this sense of urgency that I'd never felt before, so we didn't waste any time. Evan and I went in after her, just the two of us. It took only a few minutes. When it was over, Nikki was all right—as all right as a kid in that situation could be—but Randall was dead and I'd been shot, and Evan…"
"Evan was dead, too," Valery finished in a whisper.
Michael was staring off into the distance, his expression so dull, his eyes so bleak. "He died so that I could have a chance to get that little girl out alive. He was my best friend, had been for half my life, and he died because of me."
In the silence that followed, she didn't point out the flaws in his logic. She didn't remind him that his friend had been every bit as much a cop as he was, that Evan had felt as strong an obligation to help Nikki as Michael had. Visions aside, they had both been sworn law enforcement officers who had known of a small child in trouble, and they had risked themselves to help her. That Evan had paid for his effort with his life was sad and tragic. It was heart-achingly wrong.
But it wasn't Michael's fault.
"And that's when you lost faith in God."
He didn't respond, but she didn't need an answer. She could imagine the scene all too well. No doubt he had whispered panicked prayers for his partner, his best friend half his life. No doubt he had pleaded with God, had bargained, had made promises—anything to keep Evan alive. And God had let him die anyway. Evan had died and Michael had lived, and he had never forgiven Him for it.
Hence the pictures of the churches. He couldn't paint some unseen celestial being, couldn't take out his anger and bitterness and despair on something without shape, without form, and so he had chosen the next best thing: the church. The physical, spiritual house of God.
"I'm sorry." The words were insignificant, too small to hold even a measure of the sadness she felt. They meant nothing to him. What had he told her earlier? Sorry is the most worthless word in the English language. How many times had he said it before he'd reached that conclusion? she wondered. To himself, to Evan, to Evan's family? How many times had he tried to lessen the guilt he carried, only to find that words didn't help?
"What about the little girl?" Had she, at least, survived intact? Had something even remotely good come from Evan's death?
"Last I heard she was coping. She was seeing a psychiatrist. She'll probably be seeing one for a long time."
She started to speak, hesitated, then pushed ahead. "Did you consider that for yourself?"
"No. For a time I had my own means of coping, but I lost that, too."
"Your wife?"
The look he turned on her was mostly blank, only slightly confused around the edges. Then, abruptly, he understood what she was asking and shook his head. "We'd been divorced four years by then. No, I became a strong supporter of every distillery that could give me what I needed. I got intimately acquainted with every bar within staggering distance. I drank to forget, but getting your best friend and partner killed isn't easy to forget, and so I drank more. I drank until I damn near lost my job."
"And the fear of that made you stop?"
"No." His gaze went distant again, looking on unhappy scenes from his own life. "One of my friends, another cop—another friend of Evan's—came over one morning. I was hung over, sick as a dog, and well on my way to getting drunk again. He sat me down, put his gun on the table in front of me and suggested that I use it. It would be a lot more efficient and a lot less painful for me, my family and my friends, he said, than drinking myself to death one day at a time."
"And that was enough to stop you." This friend, this other cop, was a smart man, she thought silently, and a good friend. She missed having good friends.
"Not right away. But it was enough to make me want to stop. It was enough to make me try." Setting his coffee, now cold, on the table beside him, he linked his fingers behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling. In a voice so soft that she could barely make out the words, he murmured, "It's been the hardest nine months of my life."
"I'm not making it any easier, am I?" she asked regretfully.
Although she didn't expect an answer, he considered her question for a long moment before tilting his head so he could see her. "Since you came, I haven't had any more visions. Life is always easier without visions."
"Then why don't I just stay hidden away here forever? With me safe but my problems unresolved, you should be free of any future visions, and I wouldn't have to…" Her words trailed off, and she looked away.
Michael watched her, trying to ignore her man to woman and to concentrate fully as cop to… To what? Witness? She was definitely that. Victim? She was that, too. Suspect? Yes, in some ways—not that he believed her guilty of any wrongdoing, but she was hiding something. Things just didn't add up. She wasn't telling the full truth about something.
Two days ago he had promised that he would find some way other than turning her over to the authorities to help her. So far, though, he'd done nothing, and she had been more than content to let him do just that. Although her question—Then why don't I just stay hidden away here forever?—had been spoken in a light, teasing manner, he suspected that, to some degree, she seriously wished that were possible. Because here she could avoid more than just Falcone's men, more than just the FBI. Here she could also hide from whatever secret she was keeping.
"You wouldn't have to what?"
She continued to look away—he suspected because her blue eyes revealed her emotions all too clearly. Because if she met his gaze he might see more than she wanted him to know. "I wouldn't have to—to be afraid."
"Don't lie to me, Valery," he warned.
Then, defiantly she looked at him. "I'm not lying. I'm not afraid here. I feel safe."
"But that's not what you were going to say."
Predictably—guilty people were so often predictable—she turned away again.
"The last couple of days haven't been bad, have they? You've slept well, you've eaten regularly, you haven't had to worry or look over your shoulder or hardly even think about dying. I haven't asked you many questions, and you haven't had to give many answers. It's been kind of comfortable, hasn't it?" he asked.
Head down, she simply shrugged.
"Well, you can't stay here forever, Valery. I have a job—a real job—that I have no intention of losing. You have a life of your own to go back to. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face reality. You're going to have to deal with everything that's happened to you in the last week, and that means dealing with the FBI."
"I'm not doing it," she muttered fiercely, and then she once again met his gaze. That same fierceness was in her expression. "You promised that you wouldn't turn me in. You promised that you wouldn't tell anyone about me."
A promise he had already broken, he thought with regret.
"Have they caught the killers?" she demanded.
"No, but—"
"Do they know where they are?"
"I don't know. I assume, since there's been no arrest, they don't."
"Then why should I go to them? Why should I let the FBI lock me up someplace when the killers are still running around free?"
"Because they can protect you."
She settled more firmly on the couch and folded her arms across her chest. Her body language fairly screamed obstinacy. "I'm safe here."
Leaving his chair, Michael circled the low table between them and crouched in front of her. "'Here' is my home, Valery," he said quietly, insistently. "It isn't some safe haven people can run to whenever they're in trouble. It's my house. It's my life."
"And you want me out of it."
"No," he denied
. Stung by the faint quaver in her voice, he lied. "That's not what I meant."
She studied him for a long moment in the same way that he tended to study her, and what she saw obviously disappointed her. Worse, it hurt her. "No, Michael. That's exactly what you meant. I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take advantage of your—your hospitality. Give me five minutes and I'll be out of your way."
"Valery—" He reached out, but she avoided his hand, scrambling to her feet and away from the sofa, heading toward the bedroom. For a moment he remained where he was, eyes closed, exhaling heavily, wondering why he made so damn many messes in his life. In a moment he would have to straighten this one out, would have to follow her into the bedroom, to apologize to her, to explain exactly what he'd been trying to say.
Which was, as she had so succinctly put it, that he wanted her out. He wanted her someplace safe—someplace else safe. He wanted out of this case before he got too deeply, too personally, involved. He wanted out before he had a chance to screw it up the way he'd screwed up the last time.
He wanted to walk away while he still could.
The squeak of rubber soles on the high-sheen wood floor caught his attention and made him bolt to his feet. He had expected her to be in the bedroom pouting, maybe even packing in preparation of leaving, but she hadn't bothered with that. She'd put on her shoes and he jacket—the jacket that held all her money—and was already at the door, unfastening the chain, twisting the lock, turning the key he'd stupidly left in the dead bolt.
She'd barely opened the door two inches when he slammed it shut again. She pulled against his greater strength but gave up when he relocked the dead bolt and pocketed the key. With a soft curse she pounded her fist once against the solid wood door, then slowly leaned her head against it, her face turned away from him.
He was standing close to her, close enough to hear her uneven breathing, to feel the tension that held her tight. He was close enough to smell her fragrance, subtle, enticing. The bathroom smelled of it after her bath each morning. It was in her clothes, on the air, in his bed. He wouldn't mind having it on him, he thought, transferred body to body, sheet to skin.
What a first-class bastard he was.
"Valery."
Somehow she stiffened even more. Inside the vividly colored jacket that swallowed her, she was still, coiled, ready to act, to react. Ready to shrink away from his slightest touch. He proved that when he touched her hair, just the end of a crooked strand that fell over her ear.
With a sigh he relinquished the contact, but he didn't move away. He didn't give her the space—the freedom from him—that she so clearly wanted. Instead he remained right where he was, close, too close. "I used to be good at this, Valery," he said quietly. "Once I got used to the visions, to having someone barge into my life, it got to be a game, like some sort of puzzle that only I had the clues to put together. Don't get me wrong. It was always serious. It was always people in trouble who needed my help. I never treated it lightly, but … it didn't scare me then. I had a one-hundred-percent success rate. Nothing ever went wrong. Until Evan died."
She was listening, he knew, but it would have been hard to prove. She didn't move so much as a muscle, didn't alter her breathing, didn't look at him.
"All I was supposed to do was find you and turn you over to the feds—see that you were safe. It was supposed to be that simple." He heard the regret in his voice, ached with it deep inside. "I can't guarantee your safety. I can't swear that I can protect you. I can't be responsible for you, Valery. I can't be responsible for another death. It would kill me."
"Then let me go," she whispered.
"I can't do that, either. Unless you'll go to the FBI. Unless you'll let them place you in protective custody."
Still leaning against the door, she slowly turned her head until their gazes met. "You're right, Michael. You're not responsible for me. Let me go. Let me walk away."
He shook his head bleakly. "If you leave and something happens, it's my fault for making you feel you couldn't stay. And if you stay and something happens, that's my fault, too, for letting you stay against my better judgment."
"And if you turn me over to the FBI and something happens? Are you responsible for that, too, for making me go to them when I didn't want to?" She waited for an answer that she knew he wouldn't give. "You're damned if you do and damned if you don't, aren't you?"
Again he said nothing.
"You're not God, Michael, and you're not my guardian angel. You're just a nice guy who got caught in something beyond his control. But it's not beyond my control. It's my life. It doesn't concern you."
It hurt, he reflected, having someone tell you in a roundabout way to get out of her life.
He should have thought of that before he'd said it to her.
Some cowardly part of him wished he could let her go. He could give her the keys to his car, in case leaving the state still seemed to her the best way to go, step back and watch her walk out. Would time and distance diminish his mental contact with her? If she made it safely to Mexico, would he know? If she got into even more trouble, more danger, would he know that, here in New Orleans, too far away to help?
You're not God, Michael. If he were, he could make things right. He would give Evan back his life, would give Valery back her peace of mind and an unfailing sense of security. He would reward Remy and Smith and everyone good, and he would reward himself too.
He would give himself the gift of Valery.
Hesitantly, knowing she wouldn't welcome it, knowing he was crazy for doing it, he lifted his hand to her face, brushing her bangs into place, touching a damp spot at the corner of her left eye where, sometime in the past few minutes, a tear had worked its way free. "No," he hoarsely agreed. "I'm not God. If I were, I would change the last week of your life. I would undo every bad thing that's happened to you. And I'm not much of a guardian angel, either—even if I was named for an angel."
"You don't even believe in angels," she whispered.
For a time he hadn't. For a longer time he had. Right now, this close to her, all soft and fragile, trembling and vulnerable, he wondered…
Damn.
Valery shifted her head slightly so that his fingers slid away. Perversely, the minute the contact was broken, she wanted it back. She wanted him to touch her again, wanted him to hold her, to simply hold her close, the way Aunt Marie had done when she was little and missing her parents and her home.
But how could she ask for anything from him when he wanted nothing—nothing—but to be rid of her?
Settling her gaze on his chest, on the navy T-shirt that bore the gold emblem of the New Orleans Police Department, she sighed wearily. "I can't go to the authorities," she said, trying to sound reasonable and logical when all she felt was emotional. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I'm not trying to impose on you. I just can't go."
"Why not? What are you afraid of?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had no answer to give but the truth … and she wasn't ready yet to trust him with that. She might never be.
"Talk to me, Valery. Tell me—"
He broke off when she grazed her fingers across his jaw. "I'm sorry, Michael," she whispered. "I'm sorry you got involved in this. I'm sorry I can't do the right thing and make it easier for you. I'm sorry … oh, God, I'm sorry about everything."
With that she walked away, going into the bedroom and closing the door behind her. She twisted the lock, knowing even as she did that it wouldn't keep him out if he were determined to come in.
But he wasn't.
Peeling off her jacket and kicking her shoes into the corner, she headed for the bed, then detoured to the chair between the tall windows. It was oversize, the only new piece in the entire apartment, but with its clean lines and beige-and-green stripes, it worked well with the older pieces. She settled in, knees drawn up, hands clasped and resting on her ankles, head down. Nothing like retreating into the fetal position in times of stress, she thought without a smile.
<
br /> Michael's expectations were totally reasonable. He had put his life on hold, had taken personal time off from work, his own vacation time, to deal with her. He had every right in the world to ask her to move on. She owed it to him.
And failing that, she owed him an explanation. He had a right to know why she wouldn't go to the FBI. She didn't have to name names. She didn't have to give him specific details, although undoubtedly he would want them. All she had to do was offer some measure of the truth: I believe an FBI agent might be responsible for Nate Simmons's death, so my life might be in danger if I go to them.
Maybe he would believe her, maybe not. Either way, he would ask questions, and he would ask them in what she was coming to recognize as his cop persona. It wasn't a major change from the way he normally was, just that his eyes got harder and his questions developed an edge. She imagined he was an effective interrogator … except possibly with someone who had more to lose by talking than by keeping silent.
Like her.
But she did owe him some answers. He had been incredibly patient with her. Since she'd shown up on his doorstep, he'd done all the giving and gotten nothing but frustration in return. Besides, in spite of his promise to the contrary, he could have turned her over at any time, and there wasn't a thing in the world she could have done to stop him. All he needed to do was use the phone while she was otherwise occupied—during her morning bath, while she was asleep, even right now—and call someone at the FBI. He'd been a cop a long time; he had to have a friend or two there. He could call and say, "She's here, send someone to pick her up," and she would be none the wiser until men in suits and carrying guns showed up at the door. She would have no escape, no recourse, no option at all except to go wherever they took her.
But because Michael was an honorable man, he hadn't done that. Because he'd given her his promise. Because he felt responsible for her.
That responsibility weighed heavily on him.
And she could ease it.
Her muscles cramping, she changed positions, tucking her feet beside her, resting her head on the chair arm. If the drapes had been open, she could have turned the chair to the window and gazed out at the cathedral, where she knew she could find help that Michael swore didn't exist there. She could watch the rain and wait for the sun to break through the heavy clouds. She could watch people scurry around, wet and cold, and be grateful that she was here, warm and dry.
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