by Sharon Sala
The chopper pilot was still on target. When the car left the interstate, he relayed the info.
“They’re southbound on the Ponchartrain Expressway. It appears they’re heading for Interim Hospital on Perdido Street.”
The NOPD team on standby at Interim heard the broadcast and relayed the info to their men.
“Be ready. Possible sighting heading our way.”
The police cruisers were out of sight and the policemen in position. Suddenly one of them pointed up. “Chopper inbound.”
“Is it medical?”
“No. Highway patrol.”
An officer stationed near the entrance to the parking lot radioed in.
“Late model blue Chevrolet sighted…severely damaged…four men inside. Taking the E.R. entrance.”
The chopper pilot was next.
“Target is in the parking lot. They’re all yours, boys.”
“We’re here,” Nick said, as he pulled up to the Emergency Room entrance.
“Just give me a minute,” Wayman said, and grabbed at the wire he’d used to hold the door shut.
“I gotta piss,” Lou said, and opened his door.
“Wait, Way…I’ll help you,” Nick said, as he jumped out and circled the car.
Suddenly they were surrounded by more than a dozen uniformed officers, all shouting at once.
“You’re under arrest! Get down on the ground! Get down on the ground!”
Nick dropped gratefully, belly down, with his arms and legs spread out. The last thing he intended to do was resist.
Lou was cursing and screaming as the officers forced him to the ground.
“I can’t see! Don’t push! Don’t push! I can’t fuckin’ see!”
Wayman was crying as they pulled him out of the car and forced him down to the ground.
“My brother! You gotta help my brother!”
They handcuffed the three of them, then pulled them to their feet.
“Your brother is getting help. They’ve already taken him into the E.R.,” one officer said.
“I need a doctor, too,” Lou insisted. “Look at me. Just look at me.”
When Nick saw a couple of familiar faces in the crowd of police officers, he realized the DEA was also on the scene; then he quickly looked away as they put him in the back of a police car.
Relief. That was what he felt. A huge sense of relief. Babcock had his information, and Amalie was safe.
Then the back door of the cop car opened, and once again Nick found himself looking at the man who’d tried to kill him.
Lou could see just enough to know there was already someone inside the cruiser. And when he recognized the length and shape of the man, he began to yell.
“Don’t put me in here with him! Don’t fucking put me in here with him! He already tried to kill me once.”
The officer paused and looked straight at Nick.
“Are you responsible for this man’s injuries?”
Nick didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
The officer grinned. “Out of curiosity…what does it take for two drug dealers to get on the wrong side of each other?”
“I don’t rape women,” Nick said shortly.
The officer’s eyes widened as he looked from Lou to Nick and back again, then tightened his grip on Lou’s arm.
“Watch your head,” he said shortly, and pushed Lou forward into the car. Just before he shut the door, he leaned in with one last word of advice. “You two play nice in there.”
Lou was still shrieking when the door slammed shut, but the moment he realized they were alone in the car, he went quiet.
Nick wasn’t about to start anything, but it felt good to let Lou think he might.
As the silence lengthened between them, Lou began to relax. After all, they were both handcuffed, and the cops were just outside.
And then, once his panic about Nick receded, Lou began to concentrate on the fact that the cops had been waiting for them.
“That bitch got away, didn’t she?” he said. “How else would the cops be able to find us so quick?”
“Who knows?” Nick muttered. “That car we were driving had ‘look at me’ written all over it. Big dents…all the windows broken out.”
“Yeah, but then they would have just stopped us and given us a ticket. Not tracked us to a hospital.”
Nick didn’t like the way Lou’s thoughts were heading. The man already had it in for Amalie.
“Whatever,” he said. “Ultimately, this was bound to happen. It’s like I said before. If we’d just bonded out of jail and then paid a fine, this would already have been over. But when the jail came apart, we ran. Then we stole stuff, and took a woman hostage. We made a mountain out of what would have been a molehill. It’s our own damn fault.”
“She’s probably laughing at us right now,” Lou muttered. “If I could, I’d wipe that smile right off her face. Permanently.”
Suddenly the door beside Nick came open and the same New Orleans police officer who’d put him in the car was pulling on his arm to take him back out.
“Nick Aroyo?”
Nick slipped back into his undercover persona.
“Yeah…so what?”
“Looks like you’re going to bypass our fine city. There’s a federal agent here with an outstanding warrant for your arrest.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered.
Lou wasn’t happy about going to jail, but he was happy that he wouldn’t be riding with Nick.
He laughed. “What did you do to piss off Uncle Sam?” When Nick didn’t answer, he raised his voice and asked, “Hey, Officer. What did he do?”
The arresting agent glanced at Nick, who was poker faced and unresisting as the transfer was being made.
“They’ve been looking for you for a long time, Aroyo,” he said, ignoring Lou.
“So now they found me,” Nick said, then let himself be led away.
The policeman came back and looked in to check his other prisoner before he shut the door.
Lou fired a string of questions at him.
“Hey! Where are they taking him? What did they have on him? Is it the DEA?”
The policeman shook his head.
“FBI had an outstanding warrant for his arrest. I don’t know where they’re taking him. Now sit back and be quiet. You’ve got enough of your own problems to worry about.”
But Lou couldn’t let it go.
“What did they have on him? What was the warrant for?”
“Murder.”
A sudden chill ran down Lou’s back.
“Murder?”
The cop stood up. “Yeah. They said he beat a man to death with his fists.”
Lou gasped, then swallowed nervously as the door shut in his face.
The cop grinned to himself as he walked away. He had no idea what the warrant was for, but it did him good to give the little bastard something to think about.
Lou leaned back and closed his eyes. What a fuck up! What a royal fuck-up! From the night they’d been arrested at that bar in Bordelaise to this. All that misery, and for what? They’d gained nothing by hiding. Nothing by waiting. Nothing by finally getting away. He was right back where he’d started—no, worse.
And he never had gotten himself a piece of tail.
Amalie Pope’s face flashed through his mind, and his rage increased.
It was all that bitch’s fault. He should have nailed her, then killed her, when he had the chance.
“You just wait, woman. Payback is a bitch.”
Fourteeen
It was nearly suppertime before Louis and Amalie got back to his home. Immediately upon entering the house, he escorted her to the guest room with its own private bath, laid out fresh towels, and pointed to all the toiletry items she might want to use.
Grateful to be in a cool, safe place, she shut herself in the bathroom and stripped, then turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
The sight was daunting, to say th
e least.
She had scratches and bruises everywhere, and was sore in so many places that the newly healed place where she’d been shot was no longer the focus of her pain.
Her gaze slid from the weight of her breasts to the curve of her hips. To her critical eye, she was bordering on being too thin. She turned, angling for a better view of her back, and frowned at the large purple bruise on her shoulder. With no memory of how she’d gotten it, she decided it was probably just as well. But when she saw identical scrapes on her butt cheeks, she had no question as to how they’d come to be: making love on the floor of a barn loft was hard on tender skin.
The sight of those two small scrapes brought back other memories—memories of Nick. The knuckles on his hands horribly cut and swollen from fighting with Lou. The faint growth of black whiskers on his face. The glint of sunlight against the single earring in his ear. The way his eyes had darkened as he’d taken her in his arms, and the feel of his lips against her skin. The way he’d looked at her—as if she was a most desirable, most beautiful woman. They’d made magic together when they’d made love. She wanted that magic back.
But the decision was out of her hands. Frowning, she turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower. Reaching for the shampoo, she moved beneath the spray and lifted her face to the warm jets of water.
Fifteen minutes later her hair was clean and drying in short wispy curls, her skin glowing from the scrubbing she’d given it. But when she looked down at the pile of filthy clothes she’d taken off, she wrapped herself in a bath towel instead and opened the door. The first things she saw were a long white nightgown and a matching cotton robe lying on the bed. Obviously Louis had come back while she was in the shower.
She remembered Nonna telling her that after Louis’s wife, Charity, had died, he’d refused to pack away her belongings, stating he didn’t intend to change anything in their room, including her clothes hanging with his in the closet.
Amalie fingered the fabric of the gown, guessing these were some of her things. Louis had no control over losing his wife, but he’d taken control afterward by refusing to give up anything else—especially anything that had belonged to her. She was touched that he was willing to share some of Charity’s clothes, and at the same time sad that his joy in living was all linked to the past.
She wondered if, when she died, someone would grieve for her in such a way, then thought of Nick. She was way past infatuation and sexual attraction with the man. He’d become her knight in shining armor when he’d followed Lou into the swamp and saved her life. But protectiveness had changed to passion by the time they’d taken shelter in the barn. She wanted to see him again, to fall asleep in his arms and wake up the same way as in the loft: making slow, sweet love as first light washed away the dark. Just thinking about it made her ache. God. She loved hearing him laugh, and watching the way his long, lean body moved as he walked across the floor. But since she had no way to contact him, all she could do was wait and hope he felt the same way.
The nightgown was soft against her skin as she pulled it over her head. It smelled faintly of lavender. The down-filled comforter on the bed looked inviting, and she was tired—so tired. Thinking she would rest for just a minute, she lay down on top of the comforter, covering herself with a knitted afghan from the foot of the bed, and drifted off to sleep. When she woke, she could smell something cooking and glanced at the clock. She’d been asleep almost an hour.
She rolled over onto her back and thought of home, wondering if Nick and the others had still been there when the police arrived. And if they were gone, wondering where they were and what was happening to him.
Then she sighed.
Wondering was all she could do until she heard the facts, and the smell of food was calling her. But when she swung her feet off the bed and stood up, pain shot up her legs. The long walk in her bare feet had left her footsore—a small but brutal reminder of her ordeal.
Suddenly there was a knock on her door.
“Come in.”
Louis opened the door, holding a pair of backless slippers. “Ah, good, you are awake. You need to get up. I have a pair of house shoes that should fit you. They are soft and should not pain your feet.”
“Thank you, but why do I need to get up?”
“Chief Porter is here to see you.”
Amalie’s heart leaped. “Tell him I’ll be right there…and, Louis?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for loaning me the clothes.”
He smiled. “You are most welcome. We are in the living room. Come when you are ready.”
Slipping her feet into the shoes, she grabbed the robe from the foot of the bed, stepped into the bathroom long enough to give her hair a quick brushing, frowned at the circles beneath her eyes, then hurried from the room.
Hershel had not been in Louis’s house since the day Charity Thibideaux dropped dead ten years earlier. As he sat waiting for Amalie to show up, he couldn’t help but notice that very little, if anything, had changed. It was spotlessly clean, as it had been in her day, and there was an enticing aroma of gumbo wafting through the rooms. It was as if she’d just stepped out and would be returning any moment with a welcoming smile.
The only difference here was Louis. He had aged drastically after her death. His hair and beard had gone completely white within a year, and his stride, over the years, had slowed considerably. Hershel had been unaware of Louis Thibideaux and Laura Pope’s friendship, so he was somewhat surprised by the proprietary manner in which Louis had stepped in on Amalie’s behalf.
Then he heard footsteps coming down the hall and took off his hat and stood up, thinking it would be Amalie. But it was Louis.
“I didn’t have to wake her after all. She will be here shortly. I have coffee, or would you prefer something cold to drink?”
“Neither, but thank you,” Hershel said. “It’s been a long day. I’m heading home as soon as I leave here.”
Then Amalie walked into the room, a far cry from the dirty, disheveled woman who’d shown up at his office earlier. She was wearing a long white nightgown and robe, and the stark color against her pale skin was practically ethereal.
“Chief! You have news?” Amalie asked, as she seated herself.
“Yes,” he said, as he sat down near her. “Your house was empty when we arrived, and the car was gone.”
Amalie frowned. She didn’t know how to react.
“Has anyone had news of the men since?”
Hershel nodded. “Got a call on my way out here that they’d all been arrested without incident at a hospital in New Orleans. The New Orleans PD impounded your car. I have all the information you’ll need to claim it.”
“There’s not much left to claim. I’m hoping the insurance company will just total it out and let me get a new one.”
Hershel handed her a note and two sets of keys.
“This is the info regarding your car. The name and number of the impound lot…the whole mess. When we left the Vatican, I locked it up. This is your house key, and the key on the black and white ring is to your rental car, which is parked out front.”
Amalie was pleasantly surprised.
“How on earth did you manage that so quickly? Usually you have to show an insurance verification card, a driver’s license…all kinds of stuff.”
Hershel grinned. “I’m the law, remember? People trust me. Besides, the man who owns the rental agency was a friend of your grandmother’s. He said to tell you that he’s real sorry to hear about what happened, and that the next time you come into Bordelaise, you can bring your driver’s license and insurance verification, and sign the necessary papers.”
Amalie smiled. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much, Chief.”
Hershel stood up and then jammed his hat on his head. “You’re very welcome. If you need anything, just give us a call.”
“If the phones ever get fixed,” she said.
“This entire area is still without phone service.”
<
br /> “I’ll see what I can do about passing that message on to the proper authorities.”
Louis beamed. “That would be wonderful. Are you sure I can’t offer you something to drink to take with you?”
“No. I’m good.” Hershel turned to Amalie. “Again, I’m real sorry about everything.”
“It’s not your fault, so you have nothing to apologize for. And if it hadn’t been for Nick Aroyo, things would have turned out far worse for me,” she said.
Hershel nodded. “Who knew…right? Undercover DEA. Don’t often get that kind of firepower around here.”
“I’ll see you out,” Louis said, and walked outside with the chief, leaving Amalie alone to consider the little bit Chief Porter had disclosed.
So the men were back in custody. Nick’s message had reached the proper ears. The news was welcome but nowhere near as much as she wanted to know, but at the same time, she was anxious to get home. Hopefully, the second week of her homecoming would be far calmer than her first.
Nick scraped off the last bit of shaving cream and whiskers from his jaw, then rinsed the razor under the stream of running water.
He leaned toward the light, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots, then washed and dried his face. He’d been whisked from beneath the noses of the men he’d been running with under the pretense of an outstanding warrant and, as far as they knew, was on his way back to face charges in Virginia. In reality, he’d been flown straight to D.C. and secreted in a hotel near DEA headquarters. Tomorrow he would spend the day with Babcock, going over all the intel he’d gathered, making sure the ensuing arrest warrants for all concerned would hold up in court.
He stepped back from the mirror, casually eyeing the bruises and cuts all over his body, then tenderly tested the healing cut on the back of his head. There was no doubt in his mind that Lou Drake had tried to kill him. Good thing he had a hard head.
He ran a finger along the cut on his lower lip and realized he’d made love to Amalie without knowing the lip was even split. He sighed. The only pain he’d felt when making love to her was that it had eventually come to an end.