MICHAEL'S GIFT

by Marilyn Pappano

  Unbidden, Jolie's comment about Travis Wilson drifted into her mind. He's screwed either way. He's got to work the best deal he can get, and that's playing with the bureau.

  The little flutter of unease moved from her stomach up high into her chest, making it hard to breathe. Wilson was incompetent. He wasn't much of an investigator. He was foolish and had no control over his gambling. But none of that made him stupid.

  None of that could make him forget that he had helped Falcone set up Remy.

  Or that the setup had included murdering a man in cold blood.

  Surely Travis would never forget that Falcone had sacrificed Nate Simmons for his own selfish gain, that he had ordered Simmons's death as easily, as carelessly, as he might have squashed an annoying bug.

  Travis Wilson was screwed either way. He had to work the best deal he could get. But there were more than the two options Jolie had considered. It wasn't a matter of helping the FBI and going to prison for a long time or not helping them and going for the rest of his life. The question was simpler than that: What was he more afraid of? Arrest, trial, conviction, imprisonment?

  Or Jimmy Falcone?

  The tightness in her chest fluttered again. She was all too familiar with it, all too afraid of it. She had felt it about a block and a half before her one and only car wreck. She had endured it through a series of misfortunes a few years back. She had experienced it only minutes before the phone call notifying her that her mother had died.

  Anxiety. Dread. Apprehension.

  Foreboding.

  Oh, God, no.

  Nothing was going to go according to plan. She knew it, knew it as surely as she'd known to come to Michael that Friday night a lifetime ago. Their plan counted heavily on Travis Wilson's cooperation, and he wasn't going to cooperate. He was going to weigh his options—betray the bureau once more, an act that he obviously hadn't found too difficult the first time, or betraying Jimmy Falcone, an act that would likely get him killed for his efforts—and he was going to make the logical choice for a man in his position.

  He was going to warn Falcone, if he hadn't already, that the meeting was a setup.

  He was going to try to save himself by joining forces with Falcone.

  He was going to expose Remy and Michael and everyone else to danger and the threat of death.

  Leaning against the counter for support, she considered her own options. She could try to convince Jolie, could try to convince the cop outside the front door. The cop who had taken strict orders from Michael that he was to allow no one other than Michael, Remy or Smith to enter the apartment, that under no circumstances was he to allow Valery to leave. The cop who had that do-or-die look about him.

  Or she could take matters into her own hands and warn Michael and Remy herself.

  "Are you all right?" Jolie came into the kitchen, stopping beside Valery, giving her a concerned look. "You look like a ghost. Come and sit down. Don't worry about dinner. I'll take care of it."

  When she started to slide her arm around Valery's waist, Valery pulled back. "No, I'm okay. It's just…" Her stomach heaved again. "Too much rich food, too many sweets."

  "And too much stress, too many nerves, too little peace. Come on…"

  "I'll be fine."

  "You don't look fine."

  She managed a weak smile. "Michael's got some of the pink stuff for upset stomachs in the bathroom. If you could just get it for me…"

  Jolie left to search the bathroom cabinets. The instant she was out of sight, Valery made a beeline for the balcony, opening, then closing, the French doors with the quietest of clicks. It was a chilly night, and, just like before, she had no coat. Unlike before, she was wearing her own shoes, it wasn't raining and she was at least a little experienced in climbing from one balcony to another. A quick glance over the railing showed what she assumed was a normal number of people out and about on a January Saturday night. They were alone or in groups, in a hurry or taking a lazy stroll. Some just stood and talked, some were reading papers and maps, some were enjoying the sights.

  Some, she knew, were cops, there for her benefit. But which ones?

  Inside she heard Jolie call her name. "Valery, I couldn't find—" Hastily she climbed over the balcony rail. If any of the cops below noticed her—if anyone at all noticed her—they weren't obvious about it. She moved quickly, competently. It wasn't so bad this time. Of course, dry metal and shoes made a tremendous difference, to say nothing of the fact that this time her fear wasn't for herself. She wasn't afraid of her own death. It was Michael and Remy she was worried about.

  She swung over the rail onto the neighbor's balcony just in time to duck under the table as Jolie opened Michael's doors. "Valery, are you okay? Where the hell did you go?"

  When Jolie returned inside, Valery wriggled out and, whispering a soft prayer for help, tried the doors. Bless this neighbor's heart, she hadn't learned a lesson from last time. The doors were unlocked.

  She hurried across the room to the front door, figuring that about now, Jolie was alerting the cop outside. Being a man and a cop, he wouldn't take her word that Valery had simply disappeared; he would want to search the apartment himself. Opening the door just a crack, she saw that Jolie was, indeed, talking to the officer, that he was, indeed, insisting on seeing for himself.

  "There's nothing to check. I'm telling you, she just vanished. You need to get on the radio and…" As she followed the officer inside, Jolie's words faded away.

  Valery shot out the door. She hit the stairs at a run and, a scant moment or two later, she was home free. Once she reached Decatur, she slowed to a fast walk, trying not to stand out among the crowd, but as soon as Michael's building was out of sight, she broke into a run.

  The wharf wasn't far away—a half mile, maybe a mile. She prayed as she ran.

  Please let me get there on time.

  Please let Falcone be late.

  Please keep Michael and Remy safe.

  Please, God.

  Please, please, please.

  * * *

  Michael was cold, his muscles cramped, his nerves on edge. It seemed he'd been waiting forever in this dirty niche formed by tall wooden packing crates, listening to the lap of the Mississippi off to his left and the sounds of the city on his right. Now it was time. Showtime, Evan had always said with a grin and a flourish, even that last time.

  Remy was standing about fifty feet in front of him. Travis Wilson waited another ten feet or so away. They were dressed much the same, looking, even out here, like FBI agents in their suits and overcoats. But that was the extent of the similarities. Wilson was scum. He didn't know the meaning of honor. He was the worst kind of cop there was.

  At least, he had been. No matter what happened here tonight, Wilson's career in law enforcement was finished. Even if he somehow managed to escape jail—a distinct possibility; earlier Michael had heard someone mention the federal witness relocation program—he would never be a cop again.

  Wilson lit a cigarette, then, after only a few puffs, tossed it to the ground. He didn't bother to step on it, and Michael watched its faint glow until the sound of a finely tuned engine caught his attention. It was a limo—long, black, tinted windows. Jimmy Falcone liked to travel in style. He liked to flaunt his money, his power. If he couldn't have respect, which lately he'd gotten a taste of, he would damn well have flash.

  Showtime.

  The car came to a stop some distance back, and the driver got out to open the door. Falcone's bodyguards existed first, then the man himself. More suits, more overcoats. It was getting so you couldn't tell the players without a program, Michael thought without a smile. He felt downright conspicuous in his jeans and leather jacket.

  The three principals came together, forming a loose triangle, too far away for Michael to hear their words. Smith was in the surveillance van parked inside the warehouse, listening to the conversation as it was recorded. They each had their limitations: Smith could hear but not see, and Michael could see but not hear
.

  And from this particular spot, he couldn't see a hell of a lot. Falcone was in shadow, and Remy stood at an angle, his profile hazy. Wilson was the only one Michael could get a good look at. Travis was nervous, too damned nervous. Michael had been in favor of using him only to arrange the meeting; he hadn't wanted him here, hadn't wanted him acting as a go-between. But he'd gotten voted down by the others. He could do it, Travis had insisted. He could handle it.

  But the truth was, he couldn't. He was obviously nervous, obviously troubled, obviously afraid. All they could do was hope that Falcone would put it down to Remy's presence and nothing else.

  Michael shifted, trying to ease the stiffness in his legs, trying not to think about how cold his fingers were, how damp and uncomfortable his clothes were. Winter weather in New Orleans was unpredictable. One day might be sunny and warm, the next uncomfortably chilly. There was only one constant: it was always damp. In one form or another—fog, rain, humidity or the rare snow—there was always moisture in the air.

  He'd just found some semblance of comfort when all hell broke loose inside his head. The images flashed in quick succession—Valery, Remy, the bitter odor of gunpowder, a lingering pain. He tried to rise, but his legs wouldn't support him; he had to lean against one of the crates with its prickly wood. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and his lungs burned with each breath, burned as if he'd exerted himself too hard, as if he'd used every last breath in him, as if he would collapse any moment now.

  Then he saw her—Valery—really saw her. Flesh and blood, no visions, real this time. She was here, running toward Remy, running hard. Remy didn't see her, though, and neither did Falcone or the others. Their attention was on Travis Wilson, who suddenly started backing my from the group, drawing his gun from underneath his coat as he went. "Jimmy, it's a setup!" he shouted, turning the pistol on Remy and pulling the trigger. "Damn it, Jimmy, it's a trap!"

  Then all hell really did break loose.

  * * *

  Valery watched as the paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, watched as they took Remy away, lights flashing, siren wailing. He was going to be okay, they'd told her—Michael, the paramedics, Remy himself. Still, she felt cold and empty and terribly afraid inside.

  Michael came up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders, squeezing the taut muscles there. "Are you okay?"

  Unable to make her voice work, she nodded.

  As he'd done only a few nights ago, he removed his jacket and offered it to her, sliding her arms inside, zipping it up. "Before we go to the hospital, there's something I want you to see."

  Numbly she followed him across the busy pier to the tall wooden box where she'd taken refuge during the gunfight. He crouched beside it. "This is where you were, sitting right here."

  She didn't comment.

  "They were shooting at you—did you know that?"

  She shrugged. There had been so many shots—hundreds of them, maybe more. It had reminded her of childhood Fourth of July celebrations, when she and Remy and some of the cousins had tied giant strings of Black Cats together, then lit them all at once. After their mothers had endured the one or two thousand firecrackers blasting off within minutes, they had always chased them away with the admonition not to do it again. But that had been harmless fun.

  Tonight people had gotten hurt.

  Remy had gotten hurt.

  "I was over there—" he pointed to the corner of the warehouse "—and I saw them shoot at you. I saw the wood splinter. I thought…" He looked away from her, blew his breath out, then grimly finished. "I thought they were going to kill you."

  She huddled deeper in his jacket. "I had cover. I was safe."

  "Honey, this is a simple wooden crate with some packing material and furniture from Taiwan inside. All it did was slow them down. Every bullet that went in on their side came out again over here. Except one." He motioned for her to come closer, and she did, kneeling beside him. "The way you were sitting, your head was about right here. I remember most of this label was hidden behind it." He fingered a rectangle of poster-board-type paper that had once been fluorescent orange but had long since faded to a soft peach. Lifting one corner of the paper, he revealed a hole in the side of the crate that was plugged with a small chunk of metal. "Do you know what that is?"

  She leaned closer. It was misshapen, a dull silvery color, squished-looking.

  "That's a slug. That's the part of the bullet that kills you. The only thing between this slug and your head was this piece of paper. The only thing that stopped it was this paper."

  Her knees weakened, and she slowly slid to one side until her bottom was on the ground. Her voice was hoarse and shaky when she finally spoke. "I guess I was lucky."

  Michael shook his head. "Not lucky. Blessed. Protected. Watched over." He released the paper and took her hands. "I've been damned angry and bitter the past nine months, Valery. I lost my faith in God, in prayer, in miracles, in me. But I prayed tonight when I saw you here—me, the great unbeliever. For the first time since Evan's death, I prayed. I prayed for you to be safe, and God heard me. You should have died here, Valery. Only a miracle could have kept you alive. I asked for a miracle, and I got it."

  She smiled nervously. He might have gotten more than he bargained for. "Michael—"

  With a shake of his head, he silenced her. "I know life hasn't been fair to you, Valery. You've been hurt too many times by people who should have done their damnedest to protect you from pain. But bad things do happen. How you deal with them determines what kind of life you'll have. You can give up and close yourself off from everyone else, or you can learn from the bad times. You can learn to appreciate the good when it comes along. You can learn to value it that much more. You can—"

  "Michael." She kissed him, stopping his words, then cupped his face in her palms, meeting his intense gaze. "I love you."

  He stared at her for a long still moment; then slowly, oh, so slowly, he smiled a faint smile. "I know you do. I just didn't think you knew it."

  "I knew. I was just afraid."

  "And you're not now?"

  "I am," she whispered, tears coming too easily to her eyes. "I always have been. But I'm less afraid with you than I am without you. I never want to have any regrets, Michael. I never want to get hurt again, never want to be left again. But there could be no regret, no pain, no loneliness, that could ever equal the way I would feel if I lived my life without you."

  "Do you know what you're saying?"

  She nodded.

  "I'm not as generous as you. I'm not going to give you a chance to break a first promise, much less a second. You make a vow, and I'm going to hold you to it."

  "I'm counting on that."

  "For the rest of our lives," he warned as he drew her into his arms.

  "I'm counting on that, too."

  For one serious moment he searched her face; then, at last, with a smile, he kissed her. Somehow, Valery reflected, it was different from all the other kisses they'd shared. It was as sweet, as passionate, as proprietary, as the others, but it was also full of promise. It was a commitment. It was a vow.

  When he raised his head, he studied her face again. She didn't wonder what he saw there. She knew; she saw it reflected in his own expression. Hope. Love. A future worth living. A future worth sharing.

  Getting to his feet, he pulled her up, too, wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and started toward the cars parked inside the warehouse. "You know," he remarked thoughtfully, "there's something to be said for the power of prayer. I asked for one miracle, and I got two. I got you."

  * * *

  Epilogue

  « ^

  At the sound of the phone, Michael eased out of bed, away from Valery's side, tugged on his jeans and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. A quick glance at the clock showed that it was nearly ten o'clock. They hadn't gotten home from the hospital until shortly before five, and it had been closer to seven before either of them had managed to fall asleep
.

  He stopped beside the answering machine as it came on. If it was something important, he would pick up. Otherwise, he didn't want the stillness of his morning disturbed with conversation just yet.

  "Hey, Michael, it's Smith." His friend sounded weary. Michael doubted that he'd gotten any sleep at all. "I just checked with the hospital, and Remy's fine. Falcone got away clean. His people aren't talking, not even the two we got for killing Simmons. The man inspires some loyalty, doesn't he?"

  More like fear, Michael thought.

  "Anyway, I'm going to tie things up here, then go home and sleep until tomorrow. Once you're up, if anything changes with Remy, let me know, will you?" He hung up, and the machine reset itself, the zero on the message counter changing to a one.

  Michael went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. They had waited all night at the hospital—he and Valery, Smith and Jolie, and George and Marie Sinclair. Even once the doctors had told them that Remy's injuries, while serious, weren't life-threatening, they had remained until, finally around dawn, they had each been allowed to see him for a moment or two. They had left him with the parents he hadn't seen in fifteen years, the parents whose only contact with him in that time had been brought about by their concern for Valery. It had taken a too-close encounter with death to get them there on Remy's behalf, but now that the silence between them had been broken, Michael had no doubt they would stay in touch. Their love for their son and their regret over the estrangement were obvious; they had gone a long way toward removing that perpetual sadness from Remy's eyes.

  He drank his first cup of coffee on the balcony, even though, shirtless and shoeless, it was a chilly place to be. The sun hadn't yet burned away the morning fog. It hung in low wisps around the square, obscuring the ground here, revealing it there. It gave the Quarter a softer, gentler look.