No Good Deed

by Susanne Matthews

  No one was at the counter, but the modern coffee bar beside it was self-serve—at least that’s what she thought the sign meant. After grabbing a box of granola bars, she used the hot water and one of the teabags she found in a small basket next to the carafe to make an extra-large cup of tea, adding three of the small containers of milk, selected a couple of prepackaged chocolate chip muffins with an expiration date the following week, and placed her items on the counter near the cash register. On impulse, she headed toward the back of the store to get a bottle of wine. Once she made it to Newfoundland and safety, she would celebrate with a good chardonnay.

  As she moved deeper into the store, she heard angry male voices above the music. Whatever was happening back there was none of her damn business. She was already in enough trouble to last a lifetime; she didn’t need to borrow someone else’s problems. How many times had she been told to butt out of other people’s affairs? This was the perfect time to listen to that advice.

  One man shouted, another responded, his words tripping over themselves with the speed at which he yelled. Then the tone changed, and the voices were barely audible. Someone cried while another pleaded. She recognized that note. It was one she’d used herself too many times this past year.

  Alexa stood rooted to the spot, clutching a bottle of wine in her left hand. She chewed her lower lip. Many voices could be heard now, all tumbling together, but since they spoke French, she didn’t understand them.

  Turning back to the shelf, she examined the selection of wines, exchanging the bottle she held for an Australian vintage she recognized, and jerked at a loud thump, followed by a groan and then raised voices that sounded like a bunch of raccoons fighting over a garbage can full of goodies. Maybe none of what she was hearing was real. For all she knew, the store manager could be engrossed in a movie or television program, which would explain why he hadn’t come out to serve her. If she went barging in there like the cavalry riding to the rescue, how dumb would she look? No. It was better not to get involved. If someone didn’t come out by the time she reached the front of the store, she would total her items and leave the money on the counter. That was the honest, responsible thing to do.

  She’d taken three steps toward the front when the slap of skin on skin made her cringe. What if someone really did need help?

  The man pleading loudly could be the store owner. He could have a wife and children back there that someone was threatening, to force him to open a safe. Didn’t it sound like more than one person crying? She couldn’t walk away if there was even a remote chance someone’s life was in danger. Better to make a fool of herself than leave someone to be murdered. It had taken her months to get up the courage to try to escape once more, but helping someone else was a different matter.

  Gripping the wine bottle by the neck, an unlikely weapon but the only one she had, she crept down the hallway, past the washroom, and stopped. The door leading into the back of the building wasn’t completely closed, and through the crack, she spotted a man’s back. Was that another kneeling in front of him?

  Pushing gently to enlarge the opening enough to pass through, she took three steps into the room, and peered around the corner, stopping cold at the scene before her.

  What in God’s name had she stumbled into?

  Four men stood in a straight line, each of them with a gun pressed against the back of the head of a man kneeling in front of him. While the four stood like statues, three of them with their gazes fixed on the man who appeared to be the leader. They made no sound. The tears and pleas came from the faceless men before them.

  No one had seen her yet, but once they did . . . There was nothing she could do for these men. Sweat coursed down her back, her breath came in pants, and her heart beat out a staccato. Her hands trembling so badly she was afraid she’d drop the wine, she edged her way back to the hallway, praying she could make it to her car undetected. She would call 9-1-1 as soon as she was safe and hope help could arrive in time.

  The man in black spoke, but the only words she recognized were ton visage before the sound of firecrackers exploding tore through the air, piercing her ears, and she screamed, muzzling her mouth with her empty hand. Too late. As four kneeling bodies melted to the floor, eight eyes found her. The wine bottle slipped from her hand and smashed on the tile, the golden liquid slithering across the sloped floor toward the bodies.

  Three of the men glared at her, their eyebrows pulled down, lips in a tight, straight line, chins jutting out. The man in black, who’d been looking at her over his shoulder like the others, turned to face her. His mustache twitched and his mouth opened slightly, a smile playing at the edge of it. He cocked an eyebrow, the one tipped with a dark mole, and nodded. The diamond stud in his ear sparkled in the lamplight.

  “Well, well, look who we have here. The gods do favor the bold,” he said in English before switching to another language—not French, maybe Greek? She concentrated on each syllable, trying to imprint the words in her brain.

  If she didn’t know it was impossible, she would swear the man knew her. Perhaps she resembled an acquaintance. Had she seen this devil before, she would remember him. She licked her dry lips and swallowed what little saliva she had. Inhaling, she choked on the vile aroma of feces mixed with the pungent scent of gunpowder.

  For a second, she couldn’t breathe as her brain tried to make sense of what she was looking at. Had this been an execution? What could they have done to deserve such horrific deaths? She exhaled shakily.

  She was about to run when another firecracker exploded, this one accompanied by an incredibly strong blow across her lower back. The whack, like the powerful crack of a bat hitting a grand slam out of the park, sent her sprawling, face first, into the blood of those who’d been shot. Seconds later, the agonizing pain was replaced by an intense burning so hot she was certain it would sear right through her. Black spots floated before her eyes, and despite the torment, she fought to stay conscious. What the hell had happened? Using every ounce of strength she had, she reached around to the spot where the pain was centered. Liquid oozed over her hand.

  Slowly, cold as intense as the heat of the bullet claimed her fingers and toes, then her hands and feet, creeping up her body until she shivered violently, flopping on the floor like a fish out of water.

  Warm fingers checked her carotid pulse. How much longer would the blood flow through it? The screech of sirens filled the air. She braced herself for a blow that didn’t come.

  This was how it ended. Why waste another bullet? She was dying, the final seconds of her life ticking past. Where was the beautiful white light she’d been told would appear? There was nothing but the numbness and the inevitable burning.

  Calm filled her, and she licked the coppery blood from her lips—it might be hers, but then again, it could belong to one of these four men. Soon, her brain would cease to function from lack of blood, her organs would stop working, and like the men beside her, her bowels would empty. She would be nothing but another smelly corpse for the coroner to cut up and catalog.

  The sirens were louder. Like water swirling before it ran down the drain, blackness replaced light. There was no pain now. Regret for all the things she never accomplished filled her, almost instantly replaced with euphoria. Funny the way things turned out. By dying, she would finally be free of him.

  I won. I made it. He’ll never hurt me again.

  Chapter Two

  Alexa struggled to wake, as if she were underwater and needed to break the surface to breathe. It wasn’t the first time she’d attempted the feat, but every time she got close enough to see the light, the pain was excruciating, and she would spiral down into the numbing darkness once more. This time, she broke the surface and gasped as the world around her solidified.

  She was in bed, not her own, but definitely not the last one she’d slept in, her torso sheathed in a hard casing, making her feel like a turtle in its shell. The small chamber, one wall covered by drapes, reeked of antiseptic. Moving her head f
rom side to side, she recognized the hospital room for what it was, noting the IV pole and smart pump near the bed, delivering whatever medications she needed. Not dead—then what?

  A tinny voice echoed inside the room, the urgency indicating some sort of emergency, but the only word she understood was rouge. Had she ever been in a hospital where communication was clear, no matter what language it was in? Now, the voice called for Docteur Legault, chambre 237. That must be where the crisis was.

  Shifting in the bed as well as she could, considering the armor she wore, and increasing the pain in her back by doing so, she wiggled her toes, lifted her legs slightly, and exhaled heavily. Thank God. She wasn’t paralyzed. The possibility had crossed her mind . . . memories of what had happened to those poor men filled her with sorrow, not only for them but for herself.

  How long had she been here? A day? Two?

  Richard had to be on his way, and when he got here, he would be furious. Once again, despite her carefully laid plans, she’d failed to escape.

  She could refuse to go with him, but considering the fix she was in, doing so would only make matters worse. Using his charm, he would convince the medical staff that she was stressed, delusional, maybe even despondent. With the language he knew so well, he would pepper his speech with words like psychotic break, manic episode, bipolar, and the faces of those listening would change. He would mention her mother, and their eyelids would droop, their gaze would drift to her and move away quickly, while the corners of their mouths would pull down slightly. Every one of them would buy his story, pitying the well-known surgeon and philanthropist with the emotionally disturbed fiancée. None of it was true, but he was a professional, one of their own, and his word was as good as gold.

  But when he reached for her, she would read the truth in his eyes—the anger, the possessiveness, the smugness, and finally the madness, knowing she was his prisoner once more.

  The door opened, admitting a woman in blue scrubs. Her eyebrows pulled up and her mouth opened in surprise when her gaze met Alexa’s.

  “Vous êtes réveillé,” she said quickly.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,” Alexa interrupted, her hoarse voice cracking on the last word. She should’ve had that phrase tattooed on her forehead. She needed it every time she opened her mouth.

  “Not a problem,” the nurse answered, her speech heavily accented. She smiled. “It is good you are awake. How do you feel?”

  “Sore. My head aches and my back is on fire,” Alexa answered softly. “I’m really thirsty, too.”

  The nurse nodded, the slight wrinkles at the corner of her eyes deeper than they had been.

  “I am here to give you your meds, and that includes something for pain.” She uncapped the syringe she carried and injected the contents into a port on Alexa’s IV line. “It should help soon. Now that you are lucid, the doctor will set you up to manage the pain on your own.” She shook her head, her brown ponytail wagging like a dog’s tail. “You are a lucky woman, Madame Dupont,” she continued, speaking with her hands as well as her mouth. “The angels were with you.” She fluffed the pillow.

  Alexa opened her mouth to speak and snapped it shut instead. Madame Dupont? Who the hell was that? A glimmer of hope dawned. What if Madame Dupont was the French version of Jane Doe?

  Her wallet must’ve disappeared. No doubt one of the men had taken it. If it had been found with her body, they would be calling her Eileen Larson, her mother’s maiden name. There was a slim chance he hadn’t found her yet. How could she spin this situation to her advantage?

  “The police are waiting to speak to you. The chief inspector himself has stopped by several times.”

  “Why do the police want to talk to me?” Sometimes playing possum was a good thing. The more she knew, the better.

  The nurse narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Maybe about your accident? Do you remember what happened?” She cocked her head to the side.

  “I’m not sure.”

  There hadn’t been an accident, not unless the police considered getting shot in the back an accident. Alexa yawned. The pain meds were kicking in.

  The nurse shook her head once more and exhaled heavily.

  “Whatever it was must be serious. There’s a policeman guarding your door.”

  Alexa blinked, fighting the medication. A guard on the door? She was either a suspect in the murders or a witness in protective custody. But did it really matter? The outcome was the same. She was in bed, barely able to move, at the mercy of whoever was in charge here. Her eyes stung, and she bit her lip.

  While the nurse busied herself checking the fluids and recording data, Alexa took inventory. She was as weak as a newborn. There was an oxygen cannula up her nose, an IV line in her left arm, and, unless she was mistaken, a catheter in her bladder. Top that off with the armor she was wearing, and it was obvious that she was trapped. Talk about a far cry from the self-sufficient, free, and independent woman she’d expected to be by now. She wasn’t going anywhere. Tears slipped from her eyes.

  “Pauvre enfant,” the nurse said, reaching for her wrist as the band on her upper arm tightened.

  “Am I crippled?” she asked, swiping at the tears running down her face.

  “It is not for me to explain. I will notify your physician that you have awakened. Now, go back to sleep and let the medicine do its job.” She left the room as silently as she’d entered.

  Alexa closed her eyes and let the tears come. What the hell was going to become of her now?

  The next time she awoke, the drapes were open and the sun shone into the room. The pain was still there, but not as sharp as it had been. She depressed the button on her call bell. Within minutes, the nurse entered with a carafe of ice water. A young woman in a white lab coat followed her in.

  “Good afternoon, Madame Dupont. “I’m Docteur Rioux. I have charge of you here. The surgeon, Docteur Balzac, entrusted me with your care. How do you feel? Is there a lot of pain?”

  It’s better than it was before, but it still hurts,” Alexa admitted. “Am I crippled?” She needed the truth now. “I asked the nurse, but she wouldn’t answer me.”

  “Crippled is a complicated word. Let me examine you, and then we can talk.”

  Twenty minutes later, after being poked and prodded from one end to the other, Alexa stared at the young woman who’d examined her. What the hell was going on? She’d been shot—of that she was certain—but so far, the woman had made no mention of the bullet, but she was painstakingly explaining the damage.

  “You’ve sustained high impact trauma to the L4 and L5 vertebrae. This is a rare injury, considering those lumber vertebrae are the toughest in your body, stabilized by your pelvis, as well as muscle and ligament attachments. The fracture widened slightly, and your entire spine has shifted forward. We call that spondylolysis.”

  Alexa stared at the doctor as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  “So I am crippled,” she said, her heart sinking. What the hell would she do now?

  “For the moment, yes, but not permanently. I have every hope that given time and physiotherapy focused on mobility, you will walk again, most likely with a crutch or a cane, but I warn you. This won’t happen overnight. For the next three to six weeks, depending on how quickly you heal, you’re looking at bed rest and bracing of your lower lumbar spine. The TLSO—that’s thoracic-lumbar-sacral orthosis—brace you’re wearing comes off so that you can wash normally, but you will have to wear it for a portion of the day for at least a year. Once I feel you’ve healed enough, wearing the brace, we’ll begin physio.”

  “But I will walk again,” Alexa stated.

  “Yes, but as I said, you will need to wear the brace for some time. It’s only been four weeks—”

  “Four weeks!” The words burst out of her mouth. “That’s impossible.”

  The doctor chuckled. “I assure you it’s the truth. Your physicians have been in—the neurosurgeon as w
ell as the orthopedic one—and we all agree on this prognosis. It’s a good one.”

  Hope blossomed. Richard couldn’t have found her. If he had, wild horses couldn’t have kept him away.

  The doctor continued, “Because of the damage to your spinal nerve, you’ve been in an induced coma to allow your back to heal and help you through the worst of the pain. During that time, the nurses have performed passive exercises to prevent your muscles from atrophying. While you will walk again, you will have to work at it. The exercises will be painful and unpleasant at first, but the harder you work, the sooner you will walk. In the meantime, you’ll need invalid care in a long-term facility. There are some excellent rehabilitation centers in the area. Of course, you can return home if that’s more to your liking. I’ll let you think about it, and we can discuss it tomorrow. Don’t worry. We aren’t shipping you out for at least a couple more weeks. Here’s Marie with something for you to eat.”

  The doctor smiled, not realizing that all of Alexa’s hopes for freedom and security were dashed at her useless feet. Richard might not know she was here yet, but the kind of care the doctor was suggesting wasn’t free. She would need to contact someone to get her health card. Once she did that, Richard would find her in no time, and when he did, she would be at his mercy—the only problem was she doubted he had any.