Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  Her brother’s eyes narrowed on her. “Got yourself another cop, huh? I thought you would have learned your lesson with Blanchard.”

  Her blood stopped cold in her veins. “Shut up, Nicolas.”

  He looked down his nose at Betancourt. “Is this cop as good in bed as Blanchard was? Is he as good with a knife? I suppose a back is a pretty wide target. Doesn’t take much skill.”

  Betancourt stood and yanked out a chair, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “Sit the hell down, Pelletier.”

  “I stopped taking orders from cops the day I walked out of Angola,” the other man sneered. “Go screw yourself.”

  “Unless you want every cop in Lafourche Parish breathing down your neck, I suggest you put your ass in the chair.”

  Michelle watched the exchange, a combination of fascination and dread zinging through her. The last thing she wanted was an altercation between the two men. Betancourt could handle his own—he was both cunning and streetwise. But there was a recklessness about Nicolas she didn’t want to test.

  “Please. Nicolas. We need to talk to you about…a man’s death back in New Orleans,” she said.

  Nicolas looked from Philip to Michelle. “I know the story.”

  “But how—”

  “Even us swamp rats read the newspaper.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s exactly what you meant,” he snarled. “But then that’s you, little sister. Always trying to be something you’re not. Always got that pretty little nose of yours up in the air. Look where it got you.”

  Know your place. Her mother’s words rang uncomfortably in her ears, even though Michelle hadn’t listened to those words in years. She wondered if Nicolas still heard them.

  “Please, sit down, Nicolas.”

  Never taking his eyes from her, he lowered himself into the chair Betancourt had pulled out.

  Michelle resisted the urge to scoot away, starkly aware of his size. He was still soaking wet; the hostility coming from him was so thick she nearly choked.

  “You’re all grown up, Michelle. Pretty. Smart, too, I can tell. But you still have those troubled eyes that always used to worry Mama so much.” Turning, he motioned for the bartender to bring him his drink, then turned his attention to Michelle. “I was wonderin’ when you’d come back. We’ve been rooting for you down here in Bayou Lafourche. Our little Michelle up in the Big Easy taking on the world all by herself. I’ll bet you didn’t know that about all us lowly swamp rats, did you?”

  Shame cut her. She felt Betancourt’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet it. She knew he would have questions. Questions she had absolutely no desire to answer. “Nicolas, please, I’m in trouble. I need your help. Can you put…what happened aside long enough to answer some questions?”

  Betancourt leaned forward, caught the other man’s gaze. “Do the names Honeycutt or Landsteiner ring a bell?”

  Something flickered in her brother’s eyes. She looked at Betancourt, realized he’d noticed the reaction as well.

  The bartender brought three beers to the table, then hustled away. Nicolas popped the tab on his, took a long pull, then looked at Betancourt. “I never met him, didn’t even know Landsteiner was his name until I saw it in the newspaper a few days back.” His gaze sliced to Michelle. “I didn’t find out till the day Mama died that he was the most miserable son of a bitch alive. Funny how people like that get their just rewards.”

  Philip wanted to punch Nicolas. For having a smart mouth and a cocky attitude. But most of all for hurting Michelle. He knew the man harbored resentment toward her, but nothing she could have done excused the kind of cruelty he was doling out.

  Michelle winced, hurt darkening her eyes.

  With an oath, Philip reached for her, but she was too quick.

  Sliding her chair back, she rose. “Go to hell, Nicolas. I don’t need you.” Her gaze flashed to Philip. “I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving.”

  Nicolas jumped to his feet. Grabbing her arm, he forced her to face him. “You come all this way, and now you don’t want to hear the truth? That’s the best part, little sister. I been waiting for this.”

  “I know better than to expect the truth from an ex-con,” she spat.

  “You prefer lies?” He shot a nasty look at Philip. “She’s good at that, non?”

  “You don’t know how to tell the truth.” Her voice shook, but her gaze never faltered. “I know what kind of a man Armon Landsteiner was. I also know what kind of a man you are. Let me tell you, there’s no comparison.”

  “That’s why you’re here, no?” An unpleasant laugh bubbled out of Nicolas’s chest. “You ain’t gonna like what I got to say, little sister. But you better listen, ’cause I’m only going to say it once.”

  Philip should have seen it coming. He’d seen too many fights in his years as a cop not to recognize the signs. Nicolas had pushed her too far. Michelle reacted the only way she knew how. Drawing back, she splashed beer in her brother’s face.

  Nicolas recoiled, surprise and anger streaking across his features. “C’est dégoûtant.” He took a threatening step toward her.

  She stood her ground, hands clenched at her sides.

  Philip stepped between them. “Dammit, that’s enough!” He didn’t think Nicolas would strike her, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Michelle had been hurt enough.

  He reached for his pistol, cursed when he found his holster empty.

  An instant later, a starburst of pain exploded at the back of his head. He saw color, then bright light. Michelle’s voice rang out. The room dipped. Philip staggered, realizing someone had hit him from behind. He went down on one knee, looked behind him to see a fat man swing the cue stick a second time.

  Philip ducked. Air whooshed. Nicolas moved like a bullet, taking the man with the cue stick down in a full body tackle. Philip heard the sound of flesh striking flesh and knew instinctively the man who’d clobbered him wouldn’t be getting up under his own power.

  “Philip!” Michelle’s voice reached him over the roaring in his ears.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he focused on her as she knelt at his side.

  “My God. You’re cut.”

  “Find my head, will you?” His own voice rang in his ears.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Looking uneasily over his shoulder for the man with the stick, Philip struggled to his feet. Damn, he was getting too old for this. “Hell of a welcoming party you’ve got here.”

  Michelle steadied him. “We shouldn’t have come. This is all my fault.”

  He looked up, saw Nicolas hauling the man toward the door, and felt his temper stir. “Not your fault. You didn’t swing the cue stick.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was standing so close he could smell her—that woman-and-baby-powder combination that always made him a little dizzy. He looked into her bottomless brown eyes, felt something in his chest shift. The urge to touch her was strong, but he didn’t. Once he touched her he wouldn’t want to stop, and this was neither the time nor the place.

  Philip probed the bump on his head, cursing when his fingers came away red. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nicolas shove the man who’d hit him out the door.

  Standing on her tiptoes, Michelle inspected the cut. “You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”

  “Yeah, it must be my lucky day.”

  Her fingers lingered at the back of his head, but every cell in his body was focused solely on her proximity. The scent of her shampoo wafted over him, clean and sweet. Her hair looked like silk, brown glinting with gold. He stomped down on a sudden urge to run his fingers through it.

  A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear. “Worried about me?”

  “I…it’s just that…” The words stuttered out of her, then a tentative smile touched the corner of her mouth. “You went for your gun. You weren’t going to shoot anyone, were you?”

  Despite the
pain in the back of his head, he grinned. “I just like to be in charge.”

  “You worry me, Betancourt.”

  “You okay?” Nicolas approached, eyeing Philip warily.

  “I’m about an inch away from hauling you in just for the fun of it.” Philip motioned toward the table. “Let’s finish this.”

  “Some of the guys who come in here don’t like cops much. You got big-city cop written all over you.” Nicolas scratched the top of his head, then shot Philip an incredulous look. “You thought I was going to hit her, didn’t you?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “I don’t hit women.” He looked down at his sister. “Even if they deserve it.”

  “That would have been a fatal mistake on your part.” Philip realized he’d underestimated Michelle’s brother. He might be an ex-con, but beneath the layers of toughness was a decent man who’d seen more than his share of trouble. So much for first impressions.

  “I’d appreciate it if you two wouldn’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” Passing between them, Michelle headed toward the table.

  Philip hung back, shot Nicolas a hard look. “Are you going to talk to us or do I have to get the sheriff involved and make your life a living hell first?”

  “I got somethin’ to say.”

  Michelle reached the table first, turned and directed a killing look at her brother. “You’re wrong about Armon.”

  Loyal to the end, Philip thought. The fierceness of that loyalty touched him. He studied her face, the stubborn set of her jaw, the unmistakable measure of fear in her eyes, and realized she was probably the most loyal person he’d ever met.

  “Sit down, Michelle.” Pulling out a chair, he eased her down into it, then took the chair beside her. He frowned at Nicolas. “Talk to us, Pelletier.”

  Nicolas uprighted his fallen chair, then sat across from them. His eyes flicked from Michelle to Philip. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t figure out the truth until last week, when I saw the story on the news.”

  Philip thought he saw regret in the other man’s eyes. “Figure out what?”

  Nicolas looked at Michelle. “You remember what Mama used to call secrets when we were kids, chère?”

  “Little keepers of midnight.”

  A smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening his hard features. “I was with her the night she died. You were at school, remember?”

  “Yes.” Michelle’s voice was toneless.

  Nicolas continued. “She knew she was dying, and she had some things to get off her chest. She didn’t want to take her secrets to the grave. I was pretty broken up, didn’t hear half of what she said, didn’t believe the other half. She was delirious with pain and morphine and whatever the hell else the doctor had pumped into her.”

  He took a long pull of beer, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I didn’t believe her when she told me your daddy was some rich lawyer from New Orleans. I never told you because I didn’t know it was true.” His gaze bored into Michelle. “I didn’t realize until last week that she’d been telling the truth when she told me Armon Landsteiner was your father.”

  The words tumbled over her like shards of ice, cutting her, freezing her, bruising her until she felt paralyzed by pain. Michelle stared at the brother she’d betrayed, disbelief and denial swirling through her in a violent vortex.

  “You’re lying.” She rose abruptly.

  “Think about it, little sister. Everything Landsteiner did for you. The scholarship. The job.” A bitter smile whispered across his features. “Guilt can be a hell of a motivator.”

  It all made a sort of terrible sense, she realized. She didn’t know whether to feel betrayed that Armon and her mother had lied to her for her entire life, or crushed that they had both died before she learned the truth.

  “Why in God’s name didn’t Mama tell me?”

  Nicolas laughed bitterly. “For the love of money is the root of all evil.”

  Blanche Pelletier had possessed undying faith in the Bible. Right or wrong, her own misguided interpretation of that book had ruled her life. For the first time ever, Michelle understood how far that faith had taken her.

  “In her own twisted way, she was protecting you,” Nicolas said. “Mama viewed the big city as an evil place filled with human weakness and sin. She saw money and wealth as the root of that evil.”

  Michelle couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Slowly, her knees gave way and she sank back into the chair. She felt Betancourt’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t look at him. Not when her whole world had just come apart at the seams.

  “Easy.” Betancourt’s hand covered hers, squeezed.

  His touch warmed her as no words could. She looked down at their hands and felt tears in the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of these two men who seemed determined to turn her world inside out.

  She looked at her brother. “How did Armon and Mama… I mean, how did they…” She couldn’t say the words, couldn’t imagine how her parents’ paths had crossed.

  Nicolas shrugged. “We’re all sinners, little sister. Mama was human, just like the rest of us. We’ll probably never know the whole story.”

  Michelle felt shell-shocked. In an instant her entire world had shifted, slipped, exploded. She risked a glance at Betancourt, found him watching her through dark, cautious eyes.

  “I’m not going to fall apart,” she snapped.

  “I didn’t think you would.” His gaze never faltered.

  Betancourt was another problem she’d have to deal with. They’d crossed some lines in the last several days. Lines that could never be recrossed. He was getting too close, dangerously close, and threatening far more than merely her self control. For the first time Michelle realized her heart was in peril as well.

  “Nicolas…” She cleared her throat when her voice broke, knowing she was an inch away from falling to pieces.

  “Shh. Don’t say anything, chère. I’m here.” Nicolas said. “I’m not going anywhere. You have a lot to deal with. We can talk about the other thing another time.”

  Betancourt’s gaze narrowed on Michelle.

  He didn’t miss a beat, she thought, hating it that she couldn’t meet his gaze. He was too discerning a man not to have questions about some of the things Nicolas had said, particularly about Frank Blanchard.

  From across the table, Nicolas contemplated them. “You two are…friends.”

  “No.” Michelle said the word simultaneously with Philip’s “yes.”

  Her brother looked amused. “Well, that’s pretty clear.”

  “He’s a cop,” Michelle said. “Maybe he’s here to take me back to New Orleans.” She tried to ease her hand from Betancourt’s, but he tightened his grip.

  “Whether or not you go back is your decision, Michelle. I came here to talk some sense into that stubborn head of yours.” He looked at Nicolas. “They issued a warrant for her today.”

  Outside, the tempo of the rain increased. Thunder rattled the windows.

  “Le Bon Dieu mait la main.” God help. Nicolas returned Betancourt’s gaze. “I’ve got a cabin. That’ll buy you some time.”

  “No.” Taking a deep, shaky breath, Michelle looked at her brother. “You’re on parole. I won’t let you sacrifice your freedom for me.” She turned to Betancourt. “I won’t let him do it. I’ve got to go back.” The words cut like shards of ice. She didn’t want to go to jail, didn’t want to go through the nightmare of having her dignity and freedom stripped away. If the experience that waited for her back in New Orleans was anything like what she’d gone through all those years ago in Bayou Lafourche, she didn’t think she would survive it.

  With an oath, Betancourt scrubbed his hands over his five o’clock shadow. “You’re not going to jail,” he growled.

  “No one’s gonna find my cabin, little sister, ’cept the gators maybe. Listen to the man. Jail ain’t no kind of place for a woman like you. You don’t want to be there.”

  A
shiver rippled through her. Jail. A trial. Prison. Years torn from her life. She’d been so certain her memory would return, so certain Betancourt would find Armon’s murderer that she hadn’t considered any of it a possibility. But now the reality of spending the rest of her life behind bars for a crime she hadn’t committed slashed through her like a straight razor.

  “I can’t hide out in Bayou Lafourche the rest of my life.”

  Betancourt frowned. “No, but we can formulate a plan, come up with some suspects. I’ve got my cell phone. Cory can help on the computer end of it.”

  Michelle didn’t think she could stand the alternative. Jail time held about as much appeal as a firing squad. But even as she considered her options, she knew a bigger part of her—her heart—remained in peril if she stayed.

  Michelle stood at the door of the cabin and watched Nicolas drive away. Her heart ached with the realization that she still loved him, had never stopped loving him. He’d put his freedom on the line by letting her stay at his cabin when there was a warrant for her arrest. He’d even agreed to drop off her rental car for her, and showed Philip where to park his own vehicle, so it would be out of sight. She wondered if he was trying to tell her he’d forgiven her for what she’d done all those years ago.

  Rain still poured from a leaden sky, pinging against the tin roof. Spindly fingers of fog rose from the muddy ground. Behind her, she could hear Betancourt stacking wood in the fireplace.

  The setting should have been perfect. The rain. An element of danger. Sharing a cabin with a man she was incredibly attracted to. But the situation couldn’t have been more wrong. She was a fugitive from justice. He was a cop, a rogue with a reputation for always getting his man. His career lay in the balance. Something he would never give up for the likes of her.

  Unhappy with the turn her thoughts had taken, Michelle sighed, hugging herself against the chill. The revelation that Armon was her father had sent her entire world into a wild tailspin, shattering everything she’d ever known about herself, about the people she loved. She couldn’t help but wonder why her mother had kept the truth from her all these years. Was Nicolas right? In her own misguided way, had Blanche Pelletier tried to protect her daughter from the evils of the world?