Swept Aside

by Sharon Sala

  He’d already tried to call her, only to discover the phones still weren’t working. As soon as he could, he was heading back to Bordelaise. He needed to see a woman about the rest of her life.

  Amalie woke to the sound of birds chirping in a tree outside her bedroom window and the sunshine warming the covers over her feet. According to the clock beside her bed, it was 8:12 a.m. She glanced out the window and saw sunshine. Not only did it look like the beginning to a good day, but it felt like one, as well.

  Louis was a dear, but she was ready to go home and get a change of clothes, then drive into Bordelaise. It was past time to let the world know she was back. If she hadn’t been so set on slipping in without notice, maybe those days in hell would never have happened.

  She threw back the covers and padded barefoot into the adjoining bathroom. A few minutes later she was on her way down the hall, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

  Louis was coming in the back door as she entered the kitchen. His eyes lit up as he saw her. “Good morning, cher. You are awake. Did you rest well?”

  “Very well, thanks to you,” Amalie said. “I was about to help myself to some coffee.”

  “Of course,” he said, as he waved toward the kitchen cabinets. “Cups are behind the first door to the left of the sink.”

  Amalie filled a cup, stirred in a little sugar, and carried it to the window.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Louis said. “You sit. I will make you some eggs. How do you like them?”

  “Scrambled?”

  He smiled. “Coming up. I have bacon and biscuits already made.”

  Amalie grinned. “You could easily spoil a woman.”

  Louis’s smile slipped. “It has been a long time since I’ve been offered the opportunity. Do not begrudge me the chance.”

  The poignancy of the moment was not lost on Amalie.

  “Then I await your most gracious meal,” she said, and sat down at the table with her coffee.

  Soon a plate of steaming, hot food was place in front of her.

  “It smells and looks wonderful,” she said, as she picked up a fork and took her first bite. “Mmm, and it tastes good, too.”

  Louis beamed.

  “Then I will leave you to eat in peace. Just so you know, I washed and dried the clothes you were wearing. Some of the stains would not come out, but at least they are clean.”

  “Oh, Louis! That’s wonderful.”

  “It is nothing. I’m happy to be of service. Eat while your food is hot. I have something I need to give you.”

  With that, he left the kitchen, his stride long and sure.

  Amalie wondered idly what it might be, then turned her attention to her meal. She was just finishing up her last bite of biscuit when Louis returned. She didn’t notice what he was carrying until he plopped it on the table in front of her.

  “Can you shoot a gun?”

  Amalie blinked—surprised by both the question and the rifle he was carrying.

  “Yes, actually, I can. Why?”

  Louis laid a box of shells beside the rifle.

  “I know you’re determined to go home. And I know the escaped criminals have been arrested. But that is a very big house, and you are but one woman. I will sleep a lot better knowing you are at least armed and able to protect yourself.”

  Amalie stood up, then kissed him on the cheek.

  “You know, it’s strange, but all my life I’ve been against people owning weapons. And being shot even enforced what I’d believed. I kept thinking that if the boy hadn’t had such easy access, maybe it would never have happened. Maybe no one would have died. Then I came home and was taken hostage. I have to admit, I would have given anything to have been able to protect myself. If one of those men had not been an undercover cop, I don’t think I’d be alive today. So, yes, I gratefully accept the loan of your rifle.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I am giving it to you,” he said. “I have others.”

  “Then thank you again,” Amalie said. “I hate to eat and run, but as soon as I’ve dressed, I want to get home.”

  “I understand,” Louis said. “Just know that I will check on you daily, at least until the phones are fixed.”

  She grinned and hugged his neck.

  “You are a lifesaver.”

  He smiled, then gently cupped her cheek.

  “It is my pleasure.”

  A short while later Amalie was dressed in her own clothes and waving goodbye as she drove away. The rental car was a godsend. As soon as she got home and changed into some decent clothes, she was going into Bordelaise. She needed to go by the car rental and sign papers, use the phone to call her insurance company, check in with the family lawyer, open an account at the bank and buy groceries. Most especially buy groceries.

  After that, she had a house to tackle. No matter how long it took, she intended to remove every trace of the intruders, even if she had to burn the sheets they’d slept in to do it.

  After spending over two hours in Bordelaise, Amalie was almost home. When she turned off the blacktop and started up the driveway, she had a momentary sensation of déjà vu. She had done this very same thing only a few days ago. She’d driven onto Pope property with hopes of rebuilding her life, a suitcase full of clothes and a couple of sacks of groceries.

  Today she was going home with three sacks of groceries and the hope that they would last longer than the first ones she’d brought.

  When she came around the curve and saw the house once again, she was filled with a sense of well-being. The danger around her had been removed, and the storm front associated with the hurricane was gone. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the car. It was after one, which explained why her stomach was growling. As soon as she unloaded the car, she was going to dig into the jambalaya and rice she’d purchased from Mama Lou’s Crab Shack in town, and then finish off her meal with the piece of pecan pie she’d bought for her dessert.

  She eyed the scattered debris as she drove around behind the house and made a mental note to ask Louis to recommend a handyman. There were some minor repairs that needed doing, as well as some landscaping and mowing.

  But all in good time, she reminded herself, as she parked and got out.

  A short while later she had the groceries put away and was carrying her dirty dishes to the sink. Her belly was full, and for the first time in days she could breathe without panic. It felt good to have purpose, and today her purpose was to give the Vatican back its pride.

  Soon she was striding down the hall to the room where Tug French had slept, a garbage bag in one hand, and some cleaning rags and a bottle of Lysol in the other.

  She entered the room with a glint in her eye and intent in her step; the bloodstained sheets and pillowcases were a gruesome reminder of her uninvited guests.

  “Sorry, Nonna,” she muttered, as she stripped the bed all the way down to the mattress and began stuffing everything into the garbage bag to burn later.

  When she was done, she set the bag out into the hall, then grabbed the rags and disinfectant, and began wiping down everything in sight. When she was finished with the bedroom, she headed for the adjoining bathroom and did the same thing in there.

  She came out with an armful of dirty towels and washcloths that the men had used, and stuffed them into the garbage bag along with the sheets, then carried the bag to the back porch and set it by the steps to deal with later on.

  Back inside, she grabbed a fresh set of rags and began cleaning the entire first floor. By the time she was through, sweat was running from her hair and down the middle of her back. The clean jeans and T-shirt that she’d worn into Bordelaise earlier were sweaty and dusty. She wanted a bath, but there was one more place that had to be put back to rights.

  The lemon scent of the furniture polish she’d used followed her as she moved from room to room. Sunlight came through the windowpanes, gleaming on the clean cypress floors. It was as if Amalie had given the house a new dress, and it was preening i
n pride.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs and looked up, half expecting to see Nick Aroyo looking down. Then she sighed. Today it was enough to be safe and alive. No need wishing for something she might never get.

  “Get over it,” she told herself, as she headed upstairs.

  She paused at the door to her room. There was no ignoring the mattress where he’d slept. Just the sight of it was enough to weaken her resolve. She might get past what had happened between them, but she wasn’t going to get over Nick. Not if the sight of a stupid mattress he’d slept on was all it took to make her ache. Not that easily. And certainly not that soon.

  By the time she had the mattress back on its frame and the spare bedroom back in order, her steps were dragging. She paused in the doorway, giving the room the once-over, then closed the door and crossed the hall into her own room.

  She began stripping off her clothes as she went and stepped into the shower, turned on the water without waiting for it to warm, and then gasped when the cold hit her face and belly.

  Her hands were shaking as she reached for the soap; then she stopped and let them fall. There was a knot in her stomach and a ball of unshed tears at the back of her throat.

  Emotion was finally taking over.

  “Too much,” she said, and leaned against the wall as the water slowly turned from cold to warm and cascaded down her body.

  “Too much,” she whispered, as she slid downward into the tub. She lowered her head to her knees, then wrapped her arms around her legs and curled her body into a ball.

  “Too much,” she moaned, and then choked on a sob.

  Relief was the final crack in the mental wall she’d built and hidden behind. Before she knew it, she was crying—one gut-wrenching sob after another—her body washed clean by the water as well as her tears.

  Tug French died in surgery.

  Wayman received the news behind bars, and he, too, wept like a baby. Hours later, he was still inconsolable. He’d lost his anchor to the world and didn’t know where to turn. He knew that after the kidnaping charges that had been added to his list of offenses, it was going to be years before he would see freedom again.

  Lou Drake’s situation wasn’t much better. His only consolation was that the swelling in his eyes was beginning to subside and he could finally see.

  He heard about Tug, but he knew the man’s death did not lessen the law’s vision of his own culpability in what they’d done. Along with kidnapping charges being added, he had also been charged with assault and attempted rape. He was going down for a long, long time, and he blamed Amalie Pope for all of it. If she hadn’t gotten away, none of this would have happened.

  His days and nights were full of rage at the injustice of it all, and his thoughts were of revenge.

  Finally his day in court arrived. He’d been told his court-appointed lawyer was waiting for him at the courthouse as he was being loaded into a van for transport. Handcuffed and shackled, he stumbled as he stepped up into the van and had to suffer the humiliation of being laughed at by another prisoner, who was also being arraigned.

  Pissed, he settled on the bench inside the van and stared down at the floor as they drove away.

  The guards up front were talking and laughing. He didn’t pay any attention to what they were saying until he caught a word here and there, and realized they were talking about Amalie Pope. His indignation grew as they kept remarking on how tough she must have been to have escaped her captors, then spent the night in the swamp before walking barefoot for miles to get help. They were calling her a heroine.

  Lou fumed. Heroine? Hell! She was a bitch—a cold-hearted bitch.

  All of a sudden there was a squeal of brakes, and then the van began sliding sideways. He heard one guard curse as another shouted, “Look out!”

  Seconds later there was a bone-jarring crash, and then the van went airborne. It hit the pavement with a second bone-jarring blow, then began rolling.

  Lou never lost consciousness. He went from the top of the van to the bottom and then the top again, as if the interior had suddenly lost gravity.

  When the van stopped rolling, it was on its side and the back door was ajar. The prisoner who’d laughed at Lou was dead. Lou could tell by the angle of the man’s neck and his wide, sightless stare.

  Served him right for laughing.

  Then Lou rolled onto his hands and knees. His head was pounding, and there were a dozen places on his body that were beginning to ache, but he could see freedom only a few feet away. The only problem was that he was still handcuffed and shackled. All of a sudden, he realized smoke was pouring out from under the hood and began to panic.

  “God…oh, God…don’t let me burn,” he muttered, and began to crawl toward the door.

  Then he realized people were outside, shouting.

  “Help!” he yelled. “Help me!”

  He could smell gas, and the smoke was getting thicker. He screamed again, afraid that the van was about to explode.

  Suddenly he saw daylight, then felt someone grab him by the arm and drag him bodily out of the van. He fell to his knees, then crawled over to the side of the curb and lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky through the smoke, too rattled to think.

  Moments later, they laid the dead body of the other prisoner beside him. He shuddered and scooted over. He’d seen dead people before but didn’t want to lie beside one.

  Then two men appeared through the smoke, carrying one of the guards, and set him carefully on the grass beside Lou.

  Lou eyed the guard cautiously. This man was alive, but unconscious and bleeding from a deep gash in his forehead. The rescuers disappeared again into the smoke as they went back for the driver.

  All of a sudden there was another loud crash, and then a third and a fourth, as cars began rear-ending each other, blinded by the smoke and confusion.

  At that point the scene turned into a panorama of chaos. People came running from everywhere. New victims were appearing, some staggering out of the smoke, others being carried to safety.

  In the distance, Lou began to hear the sound of sirens. The police and rescue units were on the way. When he realized no one was paying any attention to the fact that he was in handcuffs and chains, he saw his chance and took it.

  He crawled over to the unconscious guard and began going through his pockets. When he found the key to his cuffs and shackles, his heart skipped a beat. Hot damn, he’d done it! Within moments, he was free.

  He stood abruptly, then realized his ankle had been injured. It hurt to put weight on it, and it felt like it was swelling by the minute. But it wasn’t going to slow down his run for freedom.

  He spied the nearest alley and started toward it, hobbling at first, and then ignoring the pain and turning it into an all-out dash as the sirens got louder. He ran through the alley, across another street and into a second alley. When he saw a produce van parked outside the delivery entrance to an Italian restaurant, he ducked inside it and squatted behind some stacked boxes of lettuce only seconds ahead of the driver, who exited the restaurant, then slammed the door shut as he got into the cab.

  Within moments, Lou heard the van shift into gear and felt the motion as they drove away. At that point he grinned.

  Freedom was a sweet bitch indeed.

  Now all he needed was to find a ride and get the hell out of the state. It was time for a change of occupation and a change of residence, but before he left, he had to see a woman about a little dish of revenge.

  Fifteen

  Nick had an itch that only Amalie Pope could scratch. He needed to see her. To touch her. To put a smile on her face that a lifetime of years couldn’t wipe off. He’d had no idea when he’d insinuated himself into Tug French’s drug operation that he would meet a woman who’d steal his heart.

  It was a miracle in itself, after what they’d put her through, that she’d been able to disassociate him enough from the others not to hate him. Even though he knew she’d suffered no real physical injuries f
rom what had happened, he was concerned about her emotional well-being. Being a gunshot victim was traumatic enough for one lifetime, let alone being terrorized and held hostage in her own home only a few weeks later.

  He glanced at his watch. It was just after 1:00 p.m. He tried to imagine what Amalie might be doing and realized how little he really knew about her normal habits. Then he smiled. He knew all he needed to know. He didn’t give a damn about any quirks she might have. God knew he had a few of his own. What he did know was that she was one of the most amazing women it had ever been his privilege to know. Tough. Resourceful. Beautiful. What else could a man want—except having his feelings reciprocated? But he wouldn’t know if that was possible until he saw her reaction to his arrival.

  He was topping a hill when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, then frowned. Babcock! Whatever it was he wanted, the answer was going to be no, and when he answered, Nick made sure the tone of his voice reflected the fact. “Hello.”

  “This is Babcock. Where are you?”

  Nick’s frown deepened. This sounded like the beginning of one of “those” calls. “In Louisiana.”

  “What the hell are you doing back there? How are you going to explain yourself if someone recognizes you? You’re supposed to be in prison, remember?”

  “I lost the earring, shaved off the stubble, got a haircut and packed away the jeans and leather.”

  “Still, I don’t want—”

  Nick interrupted. “What’s up, boss?”

  He heard Babcock sigh. “Drake escaped.”

  Nick’s heart dropped. “Son of a bitch! No! How?”

  “The prison van wrecked as Drake was on the way to arraignment, resulting in a ten-car pileup. Concerned citizens took the situation in hand and began pulling people out of burning vehicles before the police and rescue units ever arrived. One guard dead at the wheel. A prisoner dead inside the van. The other guard severely injured. Drake took the keys out of the injured guard’s pocket, removed his handcuffs and shackles, and disappeared during all the confusion.”

  “Shit. When did this happen?”