by Janet Dailey
She had a hazy glimpse of a blurred hand coming toward her face, then there was just the roaring in her head when it struck her jaw—again and again. Suddenly the ground seemed to drop out from beneath her. She felt herself sinking onto the sidewalk and tried to catch herself.
The man from the dock had let her go. They were both gone. Dizzily she looked up and saw them hurrying down the street. And she saw the other people, too, staring at her in frozen shock. She couldn't know that her eternity of terror had lasted no more than twenty seconds. She tried to stand up . . . but God, it hurt so much.
25
With each careful breath she drew, Remy smelled the sharp, antiseptic odors of the hospital. The pain had subsided to a throbbing ache in her face and stomach—as long as she didn't move too much or breathe too deeply. She focused her eyes on the cubicle's hospital-green curtains, which partitioned her bed from the rest of the emergency room.
"Is there anything else you can tell me about these two men? The color of their hair? Their eyes?"
She swung her gaze toward the uniformed policeman standing next to the bed and gave a very small shake of her head. "All I can remember . . . is the pig's face," she said slowly, her face stiff from the swelling along her jaw and cheek, "and how mean it looked with those big tusks sticking out—like a wild boar's, but the mask was painted pink . . . like Porky Pig." She made a weak attempt at humor. "Somehow I have a feeling I'll never think of Porky Pig as cute or funny again."
The officer nodded absently and went back to his questions. "What about the man who grabbed you from behind? You said he put his hand over your mouth. Was he wearing a ring?"
Remy closed her eyes, trying to remember if there'd been any sensation of metal. "I don't think so." She started to sigh, then winced at the sudden stab of pain that stole her breath. "His palm was sweaty, I remember that, and his fingers were rough—calloused."
"What about the second man, the one in the pig mask? Was he wearing rings, watches?"
She pictured that blurred image of his right hand coming at her face. "I'm almost sure there wasn't anything on his right hand, but... I don't know about the left."
He made a note of that, then flipped his notebook shut. "If you think of anything else, Miss Jardin, just call the station."
Again Remy gave a barely perceptible nod of her head in agreement, saying nothing about the warning that had preceded the beating. She couldn't—not without telling him about everything, including the insurance company's allegations of fraud. The first people to come to her aid afterward had been from out of state. They'd automatically assumed they'd witnessed a mugging —after all, this was big, bad New Orleans, and things like that happened here. By the time Remy had recovered enough to speak for herself, she'd realized it would be better to let everyone believe it was a mugging. And everyone had . . . without question.
As the green curtian fell back in place behind the departing policeman, Remy heard her mother's anxious voice demanding, "Is she all right? Where is she? I want to see her?"
A second later the curtain was swept aside and Sibylle Jardin stepped quickly into the cubicle. If she'd been the hand-wringing type, her fingers would have been twisted in a knot, but she wasn't. She faltered briefly when she saw Remy lying there, one cheekbone red and swollen, a purpling under one eye, a bruise coloring the skin above her jaw. But her hesitation lasted only a fraction of an instant, and then she moved to Remy's side and lightly ran smoothing fingers over the top of her hair.
"Remy, my poor darling," she murmured, biting at her lower lip.
"I'm all right, just sore." Remy reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Then Gabe was there, hovering on the other side of the bed, his look intense, angry, his face white under its tan. "Who did this, Remy? What'd they look like?"
She heard the tremble of rage in his voice, a brother's rage. "I don't know. They wore masks."
He half turned from the bed, then swung back. "What the hell were you doing in the Quarter, anyway? You said you were going to stay home and lie around the pool. Why didn't you? Dammit, why'd you have to go out?"
"Gabe." Sibylle silenced him with a look, giving her a reprieve from his questions, but Remy knew it was only a temporary one. Sooner or later she'd have to answer them.
"I'm sorry. It's just—" He raked a hand through his tobacco-brown hair, something helpless in gesture.
"I know," her mother murmured.
"Is she going to be all right. Dr. John?" Her father stood at the foot of the bed, looking pale and shaken.
Remy glanced at the white-haired man standing beside him. She'd expected someone old, short, and irascible, but Dr. John was tall and proud, exuding competence—a Southern version of Marcus Welby, right down to the vacuous smile.
"I've consulted the resident who examined her when she was brought in. Her injuries, for the most part, are minor. The bruises on her face you can see, and we do have a cracked rib."
Remy heard that and observed dryly, "If we had a cracked rib, Dr. John, you wouldn't be smiling." He chuckled, and she added, "Or laughing."
"Listen to her. I think that proves my diagnosis, Frazier," he declared. "By Mardi Gras the bruises will have faded enough for makeup to cover them, and she'll be dancing at the ball—at least to the slow songs."
"Does that mean we can take her home?" Sibylle asked.
The doctor hesitated a full second before answering. "I'd like to keep her here overnight— strictly for observation. There is her recent ordeal in France to consider."
When she heard his announcement, Remy felt oddly relieved. She didn't want to go home and face a barrage of questions—not tonight, when she ached all over and just breathing was an effort. Tomorrow. She'd tell them about the warning tomorrow. She knew there'd be an argument, and she simply wasn't up to it.
"Yes, I think it's best for Remy to stay here tonight," her father agreed.
"I'll arrange for a private room," Dr. John said, then winked at Remy. "And one of our gowns— a Charity exclusive, guaranteed to repel muggers."
"Just what I need," Remy murmured, not at all amused.
An hour later she was in a private room, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room with its dinging bells and rattling gurneys, its urgent voices and moaning injured. She lay in the regulation hospital bed with eyes closed, not sleeping or resting, just aching, but aching undisturbed, without her mother offering to fluff her pillows to make her more comfortable or Gabe asking if she wanted something to drink. As long as she kept her eyes closed, they left her alone.
Her mother sat in a chair beside her bed. Remy could hear her idly flipping through the pages of a magazine. Gabe was at the window, alternately pacing and stopping, pacing and stopping. Her father had stepped out of the room several minutes before, maybe longer. She was losing track of time, and silently wondered how much longer it would be before visiting hours were over. They'd have to leave then.
What a contrast this was from Nice, when she'd been so desperate to have her family around her. Now they were here and she wanted to be alone so she could rest. . . no, that wasn't true—so she could think.
"Stop asking questions, and keep your mouth shut," the man had growled. Asking questions of whom? Who'd sent those men to beat her up? Not Cole. He wouldn't do that. She was sure of it. Did that mean she'd been wrong to think he was behind this fraud?
She heard footsteps in the corridor, approaching her room. Not the quiet, rubber-soled squelch of a nurse's shoes, but the firm sound of hard leather soles. They entered her room and paused.
"How is she?" The low question came from her father.
"Sleeping, I think." Gabe moved away from the window. Remy heard his footsteps stop somewhere near the door.
"Good. I spoke with Dr. John just now." His hushed voice was barely above a whisper, and Remy had to strain to catch his words. "He's making all the arrangements to have Remy flown by air ambulance to the clinic tomorrow morning."
She stiffened in instant protest, then breathed a little easier when she heard Gabe reply, "She isn't going to like that."
"She isn't in any condition to argue. She's lying to us, Gabe, I don't like it. Something's wrong. We can't watch her every minute. She needs to be in a place where she can be monitored at all times."
"I agree," came Gabe's soft, hope-killing reply. She wouldn't go. She couldn't go—not now. But how could she stop them? They'd override any protest she made. If she told them about the warning and the few things she could remember about the tanker and that night on the dock, they'd be more determined than ever to protect her and get her out of harm's way. And if she became too vocal in her objections, they might persuade Dr. John to give her something—and then when she came to, she'd find herself in the clinic, with the doctors there convinced that she'd lost her mind as well as her memory.
Dear God, what was she going to do? She had to think of something. She couldn't let them send her away.
She remembered the pig mask with its small, mean eyes and vicious-looking tusks. The man had said this was the only warning she'd get. If she stayed, if she asked more questions, if they found out. . . . Remy shuddered and immediately felt a stab of pain from the fractured rib.
"Remy." Her mother's voice reached softly out to her an instant before she felt the touch of a hand on her arm. Slowly she let her eyes open. "We're leaving now, dear. We'll see you in the morning."
She made a faint sound of understanding, then pretended to drift back to sleep.
Silence. Remy unconsciously held her breath and listened for the faintest whisper of sound in the hospital corridor outside the darkened room. Nothing. She could hear nothing. She hadn't heard any movement in a long time.
She folded back the thin blanket and the bed sheet, then used her hands and elbows, propping them under her, to carefully and gingerly ease herself into a sitting position. She wondered if she dared turn on the small wall-light above the hospital bed's metal headboard, then decided against it. She groped for and found the telephone on the stand next to the bed, picked it up, and set it on her lap.
There was just enough light from the window to allow her to see the numbers on the dial. Directory Assistance gave her the number, and she dialed it.
"It's Remy," she said quietly, softly, keeping one eye on the closed door to the corridor. "I need a place to stay tonight, and I didn't know who else to call." She almost sighed in relief, but she knew it would hurt too much. "Can you come get me? I'm at Charity. . . . I'm fine," she insisted. "Just bruised up some. I'll explain when I see you. . . . No, don't come in. Wait for me outside."
She put the phone back on the stand, then half rolled and half slid out of the high bed, gritting her teeth against the waves of pain that every movement seemed to bring, despite the stretch bandage that bound her rib cage. She found her clothes in the closet, but changing into them was agony.
Once she was dressed, Remy leaned against the wall to gather her strengh, then moved to the door and listened for footsteps and the stiff whisper of polyester uniforms. Nothing. Cautiously, she opened the door a crack and peered out. The corridor outside her room was empty. She opened the door a little wider to check the nurses' station. There were three of them there, talking softly among themselves, none of them looking in her direction. But to reach the elevators, she had to go by them, and she knew she didn't have a hope of accomplishing that unseen. Then she spied the fire stairs and silently blessed the architect who had unwittingly placed them so close to her room.
She counted to three and slipped out the door, pulling it almost shut behind her, unwilling to risk a sharp click of the latch. Not a single head turned in her direction. Cradling her right side, Remy darted across the corridor to the stairway door.
Five minutes later she walked out the front door of the hospital. She spied the car parked at the curb, its engine idling. She hurried to it, never once doubting her decision, which had been prompted by one single question: if she remembered what she'd seen on the dock, would she be safe anywhere?
26
The clanging crash of the brass knocker had been replaced by a fist pounding at the door, the racket drowning out the sound of the cathedral bells ringing out their summons to morning Mass. "I'm coming!" Cole shouted a second time, padding across the living room in bare feet, fastening the snap of his jeans as he went. The hammering didn't let up. He threw the night bolt and started to jerk the door open, but it exploded inward and Gabe Jardin charged through, with Lance at his heels.
"Where is she? Where's Remy?" He looked wildly around the room, fury and desperation in his face.
"Remy?" Cole frowned. "What makes you think she's here?"
"Because she's disappeared from the hospital —as if you didn't know." He glared at Cole as if he were a roach to be crunched underfoot, then just as quickly waved a hand at the door to the kitchen, ordering, "You check in there, Lance. I'll look back here."
"Hold it." Cole grabbed Gabe's arm as he started toward the hall that led to the bedroom. "What was Remy doing in the hospital?"
"You mean she didn't tell you?" he jeered and tried to shrug off Cole's hand.
But Cole tightened his grip, easily outmuscling him as he surged forward to growl in his face, "Listen, bastard, you don't like me and I don't like you, but you're not taking one step in any direction until you tell me what Remy was doing in a hospital."
Gabe eyed him uncertainly but held his ground. "She was mugged yesterday afternoon in the Quarter. A couple guys in masks worked her over."
"Why?" Stunned by the announcement. Cole loosened his grip.
"How the hell should I know? Maybe they were a couple of crazies high on crack." He pushed past Cole as Lance came swinging out of the kitchen.
"She's not in there, Gabe."
"Come on. We'll look back here."
When the two of them headed toward the bedroom, Cole made no attempt to stop them. Instead, he turned away in troubled silence.
"Where is she?" He had a stranglehold on the black receiver, his hand—like his voice—trembling with fear and rage. "What have you done with her?"
"Who?"
"You know damned well I'm talking about Remy."
"Isn't she in the hospital?"
"No," he admitted. "She disappeared from there . . . sometime in the night." He gripped the phone even tighter. "Leave her alone—do you hear? If you touch one hair on her head, I swear I'll—"
"—kill me?" the voice taunted with contempt. "Don't make threats you can't keep."
"Dammit, I—"
"Don't give me any of this noble shit! You won't do a damned thing, and we both know it. You're all greed and no guts. You always have been."
"Where's Remy?"
"I don't know. But you'd better find her before I do."
Fog. A menacing white mist swirling thick and cool around her. Out of the night fog came an eerie yellow glow, dancing, wavering, coming closer and closer. Remy wanted to run from it, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The yellow light kept moving toward her, flaring, separating into two, three, then four towering columns of flame. Black faces loomed from beneath the dancing fire, black faces on black bodies wrapped in white rags, bodies dancing, gyrating, high-stepping, holding aloft their flaming torches, grinning at her, and rattling their tin cups in her face.
Flambeaux. Remy laughed in relief. It was a parade, a night parade, complete with black torch-bearers to light the way. Riders emerged on snorting, sidestepping steeds, their rich costumes, knightly in design, all with plumed helmets and hooded faces, glittering in the mist. Then came the float, a dazzling display of bright, shining paint and sparkling glitter. Riding atop it was the god Comus, the chosen ruler of the parade, a silver and white specter of rhinestones and blinding white stones. He raised his jeweled goblet to her, and Remy clapped her hands together in delight, seeing gray eyes smiling at her from behind the full mask. Cole. Comus was Cole, the god ruler of—
Suddenly the mask changed s
hape, sprouting a snout and huge, gleaming tusks. Remy recoiled from the image. No—Cole couldn't be the man in the pig mask. She backed away, shaking her head in denial, as he kept pushing the goblet toward her.
Then she remembered that Comus was never the true ruler, not in the arcane society of the krewe. No, the true power in the krewe lay with the captain—one of the riders who had preceded Comus's float. She turned and ran through the thick fog after the disappearing riders. But her legs moved so slowly, so very, very slowly, that she couldn't catch up with them. She could see the streaming tails of the horses and the gleam of their polished hooves as the mist started to gradually swallow them.
"Wait! Wait!"
A rider stopped and turned in his saddle. Gone was the shimmering hood that concealed his face. In its place was a pig mask. Mean, glittering eyes fixed their accusing gaze on her.
Remy froze and whispered, "Who are you?"
"I told you to stop asking questions!"
All of a sudden the mist around her dissolved and she was surrounded by riders, riders in pig masks. In unison, they chanted, "You were warned. You were warned," and walked their horses toward her, tightening the circle.
"No! No!" She was screaming, but no one was listening. She could see the parade crowds along the street, their arms outstretched to the riders, but they weren't looking at her.
She felt hands on her and she struck out wildly, feeling the pain again, stabbing, slicing. . . .
"It's all right, girl," a voice crooned. "Sssh, now. You're safe here. Do you hear? You're safe."
She came awake with a rush, aching and disoriented, still half in the grip of the dream. She stared into Nattie's face, the dark and gently knowing eyes looking back at her.