MICHAEL'S GIFT Read online

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

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  Michael Bennett knew he was in trouble when the visions started again.

  There was little of substance: the whisper of a voice, the flash of a face, the feeling of fear. They came at different times—asleep or awake, at work or at rest. He could be lost in a book, and her face would appear on the pages. In the middle of his favorite TV shows, the actors' voices would fade away to be replaced by hers. After three hours of sound, restful sleep, he would awaken, his heart thudding, his chest tight, fear spreading slowly and insidiously through him with every pained breath. Because she was afraid.

  He stood in front of the easel that, along with a table, a cabinet and a chest, filled one corner of his living room and made up his studio, and he studied the portrait there. Her. He knew she had blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes. He knew her hair was long, practically to her waist, soft and straight and heavy. He knew her forehead was high, her lower lip fuller than the top one, and that her nose was probably the most perfect nose he'd ever seen.

  He knew all that without ever having met her, without ever having seen her except in those brief flashes. He didn't know her name. He didn't know who she was or why she was bothering him.

  But he knew a few other things. He knew she was afraid. He knew she was in danger.

  He knew she wasn't going to leave him alone.

  Muttering a curse, he turned away from the canvas and went outside onto the balcony. It looked down on New Orleans' Jackson Square

  and Decatur Street

  , on the Café du Monde and St. Louis Cathedral and the mighty Mississippi. There were few tourists in the square. It was January, a Thursday afternoon, cool and uncomfortably damp from the drizzle that coated everything with a slick, wet sheen. He liked rain, liked to lie in bed and listen to it on the roof, liked to watch it drip from the iron-lace balcony. He liked the fact that it kept all but the hardiest of tourists away from the Quarter. He liked—when it was warm and the air smelled of flowers and spring—to walk in the rain, block after block, until he was soaked clear through his clothing, until his shoes were so wet that they would need a week to dry out.

  Until he'd been washed clean.

  But he wasn't in bed, it wasn't warm, and the sins he carried now could never be washed clean. He had to work tonight, and rain usually made working hell, so he wished to God that it would stop before it was time to hit the streets.

  Wished to God.

  It was just a phrase. It didn't mean anything to him, not anymore. Once he'd been a God-fearing man. He had been raised in church, had dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt every Sunday morning and sat in the pew in front of his mother. He had sung the hymns and prayed the prayers and had believed—oh, yes, had believed with every fiber of his being—that there was a good and benevolent God taking care of them all.

  When he'd grown up and moved away from home, he had cut back on the churchgoing, but he hadn't quit believing. He had still believed in right and wrong, good and bad, angels and demons, God and Satan, heaven and hell. He had still believed in the power of prayer, the power of healing, had still believed in the promises of the Bible.

  And then Evan had died. He had lost one of his best friends, his partner, and he had lost his faith. All those beliefs his parents had instilled in him since infancy had gone right out the window … except one.

  He still believed in hell.

  He was living in it.

  His expression hardening into a scowl, he focused his gaze and his attention on a woman in the square below. She was tall, slim, had long heavy blond hair. Although she wore a trench coat buttoned from neck to hem her hair was uncovered, left to soak up the water, to grow heavier as it became saturated. She reminded him of the woman in his vision, although he knew it wasn't her. In spite of the rain, this woman was strolling across the square, in no hurry to get where she was going, unconcerned about whether she got wet on the way. His vision from hell was too afraid to stroll. If she dared to go out at all, she would rush, scurrying from here to there, clinging to the shadows, looking over her shoulder.

  He wasn't going to think about her. He couldn't keep her out of his mind in those odd moments when the visions—the hallucinations?—started, but, damn it, he did not have to think about her any other time. He couldn't. That was how things always started: the visions first, followed by the desire to help, followed by the obsession. Soon someone would show up—maybe Remy, maybe Smith; it often used to be Evan—and he would be pulled into something beyond his control, something reckless, something dangerous.

  Something evil…

  But not this time.

  He wouldn't be drawn in this time. The cost the last time had been too high. That child, sweet and innocent though she was, hadn't been worth Evan's life. He couldn't risk it again. He would simply learn to cope with the visions. Maybe one day they would fade—when she escaped whatever danger she was in, when the cops who had to, helped her or if she never escaped, when she…

  Died.

  Savagely he hit the rail with the heel of his open hand. He wouldn't think about her, damn it. He would pretend the visions meant nothing, would pretend that everybody had them. He would ignore them and continue with his life.

  He would.

  Damn it, he would.

  Turning, he focused his gaze on the painting. Three days ago he had never seen the woman. If he had passed her on the street, had met her through the course of his work or had been introduced to her by mutual friends, he would have thought she was pretty and then immediately forgotten her. But he hadn't met her in any of the usual ways. She had invaded his mind, and for that reason, he would never, ever forget her.

  He remembered them all—the eight-year-old girl kidnapped by the perverted bastard who had rented the upstairs half of their house from her mother. The seventeen-year-old boy who had gotten involved with a satanic cult, who had been running scared after witnessing a ritual murder. The young woman taken at gunpoint by the stranger who had stalked her, who had terrified her, for two years. He remembered them and each of the others. Their faces and their problems had become a part of his life. Their fears had become his fears.

  But no more. This pretty blond-haired woman would have to get by without his help. He didn't have anything left to give.

  Rain dripping from his hair, he at last went back inside, but he left the double French doors open. In the kitchen he put water and coffee grounds into the battered aluminum pot and turned the burner on; then he went into his bedroom, where he stripped off his wet clothes and dressed for work in jeans, a T-shirt and a wrinkled button-down shirt in muted green and khaki stripes. For five years he'd worn the uniform of the New Orleans Police Department—dark trousers and light blue shirt—and then he'd made detective. For the next five years he'd worn suits to work every day, fitting in—appearance-wise, at least—with Remy and Smith for the first time in his life.

  Now he worked drugs. Jeans, good running shoes and a shirt or jacket that would cover his weapon were all he needed. No more uniforms, no more routine haircuts or, for that matter, regular shaves, were necessary. Hanging out in the areas where he hung out, being clean-cut could get you made for a cop, and being made for a cop could get you dead.

  Evan had worked drugs, too, had worked most of Michael's cases with him. They had gone through college together, the four of them: him, Evan, Remy and Smith. Remy and Smith had gone on to law school—Remy here at home in Louisiana, Smith back east at Harvard, where all the Kendricks sons went—and Evan and Michael had joined the NOPD. They had gone through the academy together
, had worked down here in the Vieux Carré District together, had in the early days even lived together in a shabby two-bedroom place on Dauphine.

  After law school, Remy and Smith had joined them in New Orleans, Remy with the FBI and Smith with the US. Attorney's office. They had stood up at each other's weddings—Evan's first, then Michael's—and they had been there through Michael's divorce. Evan's marriage had lasted nine years, until a spray of bullets brought it to an end. Michael still occasionally ran into his widow around town.

  They had always thought that, if they died young, it would be because of the job. Drug dealers could be vicious. When a single shipment up from Mexico or South America could net a profit in the millions, when even the small-time dealers could rake in hundreds of thousands of dollars, the stakes were high. What was one cop's life compared to such easy money?

  But it hadn't been the job that had killed Evan. It had been Michael and the nightmare he'd dragged his friend into.

  The aroma of coffee drifted into the bedroom as he went to the closet. From the shelf he took down his Beretta and the leather holster that clipped on to the waistband of his jeans, a couple of extra clips for the pistol and his handcuffs. There was something comfortingly familiar about the solid-steel cuffs, although these days they often made so many arrests that instead they used flexible cuffs, unbreakable bands of plastic that could be slipped into place and tightened in an instant. He had a stash of those, already linked together in pairs, in the trunk of the undercover car he drove.

  Back in the living room, he laid everything on the table alongside the heavy black flashlight he carried, then poured himself a cup of coffee. He added nothing to it but half a spoonful of sugar. Good coffee shouldn't need doctoring with sugar and cream, Evan's aunt Sirena insisted. She had taught them both to make coffee, jambalaya, shrimp étouffé and crawfish gumbo. Michael had turned out to be a pretty good cook, better by far than the woman he'd married eight years ago. Like Evan's wife, he still saw his ex around town occasionally, too. She had married a man with some money. With their two children—children she had insisted to Michael that she would never have—they were the perfect little family.

  He had just set his coffee on the table when the doorbell rang. His friends were welcome, but because his work hours varied, no one ever dropped in without calling first. If the answering machine was on, it usually meant he was sleeping in after a late night at work.

  Since the visions had begun three days ago, he'd left the machine on all the time.

  Moving to the easel, he carefully draped a piece of cotton sheeting over the painting there, then opened the door.

  Remy Sinclair walked inside, looking every bit the fed in an expensive steel-gray suit, white shirt and conservative tie. He could pass as a respectable and thoroughly harmless businessman in the outfit, but give him a pair of jeans, a loud shirt and a camera, and he made an equally good tourist. With a little rattier change of clothes and a splash of booze on a French Quarter street corner, it would be hard to pick him out from the winos.

  He didn't speak right away. He walked to the middle of the room and turned around, his gaze settling on the easel. He didn't go to it, although Michael knew he wanted to. Instead he shrugged out of his coat, folded it neatly and laid it on the sofa. "You look like hell."

  Michael dragged his hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "I haven't been sleeping."

  Remy ignored his scowl and sarcastic tone. He was good at that, Remy was—good at ignoring anything that might not set right with him. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  Settling at the table, Michael ignored his remark. Insomnia had long been one of his problems. Of course, the business he was in didn't help any.

  Neither did the visions.

  "You have anything to drink?"

  With a careless wave, Michael gestured toward the kitchen. He didn't have to play host for Remy. His friend knew what he would find—fresh coffee, soda and juice—and where to find it. He knew he wouldn't find any booze, not even a beer, and he knew why. He'd sat through some hellacious times with Michael when he was trying to sober up and regain control after Evan's death.

  Remy returned with a mug of coffee, doused with so much cream that its color resembled the nearby river. He sat down across the table and, for a moment, looked at the easel again. So that was why he'd come. He knew something about the woman—probably knew plenty about her, except where she was—and he hoped that Michael knew something, too. He hoped that, like so many times in the past, he could say, "I have a case." Hoped that, like so many times, Michael would reply, "I know. I had a vision."

  Michael felt sick inside, a queasy sort of nausea that made his stomach churn and brought a sour taste to his mouth. He didn't want to have this meeting. He didn't want to hear whatever his friend had to say. He didn't want to know anything about that woman. He didn't want to see the photograph that Remy was sure to have, didn't want to hear what terrible thing had happened to her, didn't want to know why she was afraid.

  Remy didn't waste time on small talk. He didn't try to pretend that his visit was anything other than what it was: business. The FBI wouldn't officially ask for his help—they tended to want hard-and-fast explanations, to be a little skeptical of anything that couldn't be explained—but Remy would ask. He didn't care about jurisdiction or boundaries. He cared about solving crimes and saving lives and locking up crooks, and he counted on Michael to share those feelings.

  And Michael always had before. But not this time.

  "Can I see the painting?"

  Michael didn't respond, and Remy took that as a yes. He walked to the easel, lifted the cover and for a long time simply stood there, hands in his pockets, studying the woman's face.

  Michael was a reasonably talented artist. He could, if he didn't mind giving up the expensive apartment, earn a living selling his work in the square, as so many other local artists did. He was better with scenes than with people, but this painting had turned out better than usual. Maybe because the image of her was so strong in his mind. Maybe because this time, in addition to feeling her fear, he had fears of his own.

  Remy reached into his shirt pocket and removed a small flat item, balancing it on the easel against the portrait and then returning to the table and his coffee. The photograph. Oh, yes, there was always a photograph.

  He wasn't going to look at it, Michael swore. Damn it, he wasn't. He didn't need to know how perfectly he had captured the woman's likeness. He didn't want to know her name, didn't want to hear how old she was or which anxious family members were waiting hopelessly for her safe return.

  He stayed where he was, leaning back comfortably in his chair, his foot propped on another. He refused to get up and cross the room to the easel. He refused to show any interest at all in the woman. He refused to even look in that direction.

  But his mind kept seeing that small photograph propped against the painting.

  "Her name is Valery Navarre," Remy said quietly. "She witnessed that murder three days ago over on Chartres Street

  ."

  Three days ago. The visions had started three days ago.

  Michael closed his eyes, wishing he could cut off his hearing as easily as his sight. If he listened, if he heard even a few of the details, she would cease being a nightmare vision and become a real person, someone deserving of help, but, damn it, he couldn't be the one to help her. He couldn't.

  "She spoke to the police after the shooting. She was obviously upset and very afraid. There were a few other witnesses—mostly tourists down the street who weren't paying attention—but she was standing right beside the guy when he was shot. She was less than ten feet away from the men who shot him. She was the only one who could positively identify them."

  Remy spoke in quiet, emotionless tones, but Michael knew if he looked at him, he would see regret in his friend's face. He didn't want to do this to Michael, but he had no choice. Valery Navarre had no choice. No hope. Just him.

  And right now, that
was worse than no hope at all.

  "She left the police station before we got there to question her. That was about this time Monday. No one has seen her since."

  Michael stood up and walked to the French doors. The rain was coming down harder now. In weather like this, business was slow for him and his partners; even the damn addicts didn't want to come out in heavy, cold rain.

  "Her car was found on Rampart Monday evening, the door standing open, her purse dumped on the seat. Her apartment has been searched. She hasn't shown up for work all week."

  Michael stared out the door, wishing for a cigarette or, better, a bottle of whiskey. Failing that, he wished Remy would go away and leave him alone.

  Seventy-two hours. That was how long Valery Navarre had been out there. Had she been kidnapped by whoever was responsible for the murder, as the discovery of her car seemed to indicate? Or was she still out there, running, trying to hide?

  He didn't know and, damn it, he couldn't care. Not wouldn't—it wasn't a matter of free will, of choosing to help this woman, of doing what his friend wanted. He couldn't. After what had happened last time, he could not do this again.

  Remy waited, watching him patiently. He could be so damned patient, Michael thought ruefully. Sometimes, when he'd been working on a particularly tough case or when Michael had been trying to quit drinking, Remy's patience had been a blessing.

  At times like this, it was a curse.

  The silence grew, along with the tension that was making his head ache. He turned around and returned Remy's steady gaze. The desire for a drink—not a need, no longer that, but just the wanting—made his throat dry. What he was being asked to do made his hands shake.

  "I can't do it," he said at last.

  Remy didn't reply.

  The queasiness in Michael's stomach increased until he thought he might lose the spicy shrimp and rice he'd had for lunch. The visions were always uncomfortable—having someone else in your mind, feeling someone else's feelings—but they'd never been this bad, this repugnant, this unwelcome. "You know what happened last time."