MICHAEL'S GIFT Read online

  Remy's only response was a nod. Of course he knew. He'd been there, too—at the hospital through Michael's surgery, through Evan's funeral and, afterward, in every sleazy dive within walking distance of here.

  "I can't do it. Damn it, you don't know what it's like."

  "Okay. No problem, Michael." Remy got to his feet and put his coat on, straightening his tie, smoothing his shirt collar. He started toward the door, then slowly, hesitantly, turned back. "What happens if you don't help, Michael?" he asked, his voice oddly pitched. "Do the voices eventually go away? Do the visions disappear? Or does she have to die before you get any peace?"

  His hands clenched into fists at his sides, Michael refused to answer.

  He didn't have any answers, save one, and it mocked him.

  I can't do this.

  I can't, I can't, I can't…

  * * *

  The hotel room was tiny and smelled of must and mildew, but Valery didn't mind. She felt relatively safe here—safe enough to spend another night—and it was cheap. She sat in the dark, the lone chair pulled close to the window, the vinyl-backed drapes drawn shut but for a crack in the center. From here she could see the front door of the hotel, could watch who came and went. She wasn't sure exactly who she thought might follow her here—the bad guys or the good guys. She wasn't even sure there were any good guys this time.

  Oh, God, she wasn't cut out for this. She managed a shop in the Quarter, a tiny little place on Royal Street

  that specialized in wearable antiques—clothing, jewelry, shoes. She wasn't a criminal. She wasn't supposed to have to go on the run to stay alive. She wasn't the sort to be interrogated by the police. She had no experience with crime, and certainly not with murder. She'd never even gotten a speeding ticket.

  She never should have become so accustomed to habit. If she hadn't, maybe she wouldn't even have been on Chartres Street

  Monday. But, no, she had to do things just so. She had to leave work at exactly three o'clock every afternoon. She had to follow exactly the same route to the lot where she left her car. She had to turn onto that particular block of Chartres at exactly that particular time.

  Why hadn't she varied her routine even the slightest? Why hadn't she worked just a few minutes late? Why hadn't she walked down one more block before turning? And why had she responded at all to that man's apologies when he bumped into her? Why hadn't she simply nodded, accepted the purse she'd dropped and gone on? Why had she let him walk alongside her toward the end of the block?

  She never should have formed such rigid habits.

  She never should have been standing less than three feet away from that man when the two other men shot him.

  Leaning across to the bed, she snagged the spread and pulled it toward her, then wrapped it around herself. She'd been getting chills at the oddest times lately. Whenever she remembered the sudden appearance of those two men on the sidewalk ahead of them. The sound of the gun. The startled, betrayed sort of look on the man's face. The words the two men had spoken after he'd fallen.

  Those words… She got plenty of chills when she thought of them. They were the reason she hadn't been entirely truthful with the police. The reason she had slipped out of the police station as soon as the detectives' backs were turned. The reason she had gone into hiding. She needed some time to consider what she'd heard. She needed to make some decisions. She needed to figure a few things out.

  Still shivering underneath the bedspread, she watched the rain and the empty street outside. She felt lost, pretty much the same way she had when she was eleven years old and her parents had split up. Then she'd had a place to go and family—Aunt Marie, Uncle George and Remy—to take care of her, but she'd still been afraid. She had cried every night for months—for her mother and her father, for the security of her own bedroom, and for the familiarity of her own neighborhood, her own friends and her own school.

  Now she had no place to go. Home—Aunt Marie's—was definitely off limits, as were her friends. Her life was in danger, and she couldn't expose any of the people she cared about to that danger.

  She couldn't even go to the one person—her cousin—who she would have turned to naturally under the circumstances, because Remy—FBI agent, one-time best friend, one-time betrayer, but still, always, her cousin—was a part of it. He was supposed to be one of the good guys.

  But she was terribly afraid he might be one of the bad.

  Watching the rain, she wished she had grabbed her trench coat from the back seat when she'd abandoned her car. The rain had started sometime Tuesday, and it seemed as if it would never stop.

  She wished she knew what to do.

  She wished she knew who to trust.

  She wished she wasn't so afraid.

  Wearily she shifted position so she could rest her head on her knees. Tomorrow morning she would have to leave this hotel and find another. The thought of leaving its dark, grimy safety for the openness of New Orleans's streets frightened her, but she couldn't stay in one place too long, and she'd been here two nights already. She couldn't run the risk of anyone getting curious about her.

  She would go to the Quarter.

  The thought, quiet and calm, seemed to come from nowhere, and it brought her upright in the seat. Go to the Quarter, where all her troubles had started? Where she had seen a man gunned down on the sidewalk? Where she had stood close enough to two murderers to be able to describe them down to the last detail? She was never going there again—provided that she lived long enough to refuse the chance. No, what little sleep she got now was disturbed by nightmares about the place. She would never feel safe there again.

  But she would go there, some part of her insisted, and she would be safe. Until this mess was all sorted out, until the bad guys were caught, until her questions were answered, it was the only place she would be safe.

  With a grimly mocking smile, she shook her head in protest. "Jeez, girl, you're losing it," she murmured, her voice loud in the still of the night. She wasn't going back to the scene of the crime. People were looking for her—the killers, the cops, the FBI. Some of them wanted to know what she knew, and some of them wanted to make her forget it—permanently. The problem was, she wasn't sure which group wanted what.

  Go back to the Quarter?

  She didn't think so.

  Not in this lifetime.

  * * *

  Friendships were strange things sometimes, difficult to explain. Michael had never had any problem figuring out his friendship with Evan; they were both from small, average families in small, average towns. Michael's father was a preacher and part-time farmer in southern Arkansas; Evan's had been an insurance salesman and part-time Little League coach in northern Louisiana. Michael had two younger sisters, and Evan had had three younger brothers, and they had both worked to put themselves through college.

  Even his friendship with Remy was relatively easy to understand. There weren't many similarities in their backgrounds—Remy was an only child, and his parents had enough money to comfortably maintain the old family plantation home on the river between Baton Rouge and New Orleans—but they were both cops, after all. They understood and respected each other's work. And, in spite of the privileges the Sinclair money had given him growing up, Remy was really just an average guy—as common as Michael and Evan and just about everyone else.

  But Smith Kendricks was a puzzle.

  Michael liked him—truly, sincerely liked him—even though they had nothing in common besides the somewhat tenuous connection of their jobs. Michael was a cop; Smith was a prosecutor. Michael caught the bad guys, and Smith sent them to jail—although rarely the same bad guys. Smith worked in the U.S. Attorney's office and prosecuted federal cases, while Michael's cases were usually handled by the district attorney.

  But as far as Smith Kendricks ever being an average guy … not even when hell froze over. He came from back East somewhere—Connecticut, Michael thought, or Rhode Island—someplace where his family had settled two hundred years ago
and built their own small empire. Why he'd decided to attend college in Louisiana was anyone's guess, although his choice of law schools—Harvard—and jobs—government service—hadn't been a surprise. The Kendrickses were old money with a social conscience. Every young Kendricks was expected to devote a portion of his life—five, ten or fifteen years—to the service of others, after which time it was perfectly acceptable to become selfish and gather his own fortune. Michael had no doubt that in ten or twenty years, Smith would be, if he chose, one of the wealthiest and most successful men in the country.

  And yet they were friends.

  Just as Remy's visit yesterday hadn't been casual, neither was Smith's today. He had called first, though, getting the answering machine and leaving a clipped message that he was coming over at lunchtime, that they could go somewhere. Michael had already been cooking a pot of jambalaya, so instead they were eating here.

  Michael hadn't asked Remy what the FBI's interest in the Chartres Street

  murder was. He hadn't wanted to know if it was connected to one of their cases, if it was important, if there was some particular reason why Remy wanted his help on that particular case. Now, after exchanging nothing more than pleasantries and small talk with Smith, he knew the answers. Something was going on, something more than a woman witnessing a murder.

  Now that lunch was nearly finished, Smith got to the point of his visit. "Have you been following the Falcone case?"

  Michael shrugged. He and Remy had discussed it a few times. Jimmy Falcone was a very rich, very powerful man, only, unlike the Kendrickses, he'd gained his money and power through illegal means. For fifteen years he'd been satisfied with what he had, but lately he'd begun expanding. He was buying into honest businesses and not so honest politicians. Just about every crime in the United States Code could be laid, if not directly at Jimmy's feet, then indirectly so, and yet now he was verging on respectability.

  If he ever got it, he would be untouchable.

  "You know Remy's in charge of the investigation into Falcone's activities."

  Michael nodded. It was a big case, probably the biggest of Remy's career. If he nailed the bastard, he would succeed where all other efforts had failed. It would be a boost to an already-illustrious record.

  "The man who was killed Monday was one of Remy's sources."

  And no cop liked to lose his sources. It tended to scare other people away—which, of course, was the purpose behind killing them. "Listen, Smith, I'm sorry, but—"

  "Did he tell you about the woman—the witness?"

  "Some." More than he'd wanted to know. Now that she had a name and a story to go with the visions, Valery Navarre haunted him more than ever. So did Remy's last question: Does she have to die before you get any peace?

  Smith pushed his plate away, neatly folded his napkin and laid it on the table. "Did he tell you—" He broke off, glanced at the portrait across the room, then grimly continued. "Did he tell you that she's his cousin?"

  Michael left the table and carried their dishes into the kitchen, setting them down harder than necessary. Damn it, he didn't want to know this. He didn't want to hear anything that would change his mind, that would take away his choice, on this matter.

  "Valery's father is Remy's mother's brother," Smith said from the table, watching him. "Her parents divorced when she was eleven, and she went to live with the Sinclairs. She and Remy haven't been on the best of terms the last fifteen years, but they are family. They were more or less raised together. And now she's in danger, and he needs your help to find her."

  Michael's chest tightened with every breath he took. He couldn't stand this. He'd sworn he wouldn't get involved, had promised himself that nothing could change his mind, but, damn it, this did. How could he say no? After all Remy had done for him, how could he tell him that he wouldn't help find his cousin? How could he tell him that he would rather let her die than deal with the visions, with the danger, with the risk?

  He had to help her, for Remy's sake if not her own.

  He had to get involved, no matter how much he didn't want to. No matter how adamantly he'd promised himself he wouldn't. No matter how badly even the idea frightened him.

  He had to do it.

  For Remy.

  Damn him.

  Lifting the pot from the stove, he filled it with water, then measured coffee grounds from a tin bearing the Café du Monde label. After he returned the pot to the burner, turned to high, he leaned against the counter and faced Smith. "Why didn't he tell me?"

  "He didn't want you to feel pressured. He understands that you don't want to be burdened with this…" he chose his word carefully "…this gift anymore."

  "So why are you telling me?"

  Smith shrugged. "I thought you would want to know."

  And, damn it, of course he did. Remy had saved his life. He owed him… God, he owed him big time.

  Looking away, Michael rubbed his neck with one hand. The muscles there were stiff and tight, and he had a hangover sort of headache. He'd felt rotten since the first time he'd seen Valery Navarre. Early this morning he had lain in bed, unable to sleep, and focused on her, tried to force something even though he knew his gift—as Smith so cautiously referred to it—rarely, if ever, worked that way. He had concentrated until he felt sick; then, finally, exhausted, he'd fallen asleep, only to dream of her.

  "She has black hair now," he murmured.

  "What?"

  He glanced at Smith again. "Her hair. It's black. And shorter."

  "Which suggests…?"

  "That she's probably hiding somewhere. That she knows people are after her, so she's trying to disguise her appearance."

  "She manages some clothing store. How good can she be at hiding?"

  Michael shrugged. Granted, her job certainly hadn't prepared her for this turn of events, but if she was bright, if she was logical and sensible, if she could think on the move, she just might be all right.

  Without his help? Was he trying to reason his way out of this, trying to convince himself that if Valery Navarre was bright and logical, she could take care of herself and wouldn't need him?

  It wouldn't wash. Because she was Remy's cousin, he had to help whether she needed him or not. Because of a coincidence of birth, he was in this until the bitter end.

  The coffee ready, he poured two cups and set one on the table for Smith. He carried his to the French doors and gazed out across the square. It was raining again, a relentlessly hard rain that was bringing the usual flood warnings. It didn't take a lot of rain to put the better part of the city underwater, and they'd had just about enough.

  "Why hasn't she gone to Remy for help?" he asked absently as he watched a lone figure below, dressed in jeans and a wildly colored jacket that was much too big. It was a woman, he thought, even though he couldn't see a face or any hair. It was the way she moved, the way she stood when she stopped. Those natural, unconsidered motions were thoroughly feminine.

  "We don't know. As I said, they aren't close. I don't know the reason. He didn't volunteer it, and I didn't ask."

  To a cop's eye, the behavior of the woman down below was curious … but curiosities were part of what the Quarter was all about. There was a freedom to be found in these few city blocks, a sort of anything-goes attitude. Besides, what was so curious about a woman wandering through Jackson Square

  , looking up at the apartments that bordered the two sides?

  Wandering—that was what. Through pouring rain. On a nasty chilly day.

  She was probably a tourist, he thought, from Kansas or Arizona or some other such state. She had probably saved all year for a week-long excursion to the most exotic of all American cities and, by God, a little rain wasn't going to dampen her enjoyment of it.

  "What about money?"

  Smith's chair squeaked as he changed positions. "She makes a living wage. She was her mother's sole heir when she died a few years ago, but unfortunately, she didn't have much to leave."

  Still staring outside, Mi
chael shook his head. That wasn't what he wanted to know. "When was the last time she got any money from the bank? What is she living on right now? Is she using credit cards?"

  "No. She got cash advances on two credit cards Monday afternoon at different banks a block apart—a total of three thousand dollars. It was just before closing time. She must have gone straight to the banks from the police station."

  So she was bright, Michael acknowledged. She had realized right away that she was in trouble, that she had to hide, that she would need money. She'd gotten the cash, then ditched her car and disappeared. She knew better than to use her credit cards, knew that the paper trail would lead the cops, the feds and, likely, Jimmy Falcone's people straight to her.

  The woman below left the square through the Decatur Street

  gate, and Michael abruptly closed his eyes. His head was really throbbing now. The more he thought about Valery Navarre, the more he considered what had happened to her, the worse he felt. The more hopeless he felt. The more despairing.

  God help him, he couldn't do this.

  But he had to.

  For Remy.

  He took a drink of coffee to wash the sour taste of fear from his mouth. "I'll need to see her apartment and her car."

  "All right."

  "I want to see whatever reports you have on the shooting."

  "No problem."

  No problem. It was so easy for Smith to say. Other than an occasional threat, he didn't deal with the seamier side of life. He saw the reports, photographs and evidence that made up his cases, but it was all sanitized for the courtroom. He never saw the actual killings, never took part in the actual investigations. He never got dirty, never risked his life, never risked his friends' lives. He'd never killed anyone, and he'd never gotten anyone killed.

  No problem.

  Well, Michael had problems. He had lots of them—the insomnia, the booze, the guilt. The sorrow, the blame and the loss of faith. How it would hurt his father, pastor of the Titusville, Arkansas, First Assembly of God, to know that his only son had quit believing in God. But a merciful God wouldn't have let him live while Evan died. A compassionate God wouldn't let people do the things they did to other people, to innocent people, to children and the good, decent men who tried to help them.