No Good Deed

by Susanne Matthews

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He stared wide-eyed as if he’d spotted some alien creature. “Eight-track cartridges? They’re older than I am.”

  “They still work, but there isn’t much of a selection.”

  Mike chuckled. “That would be an understatement.” He picked up the half-dozen cartridges. “Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong . . . We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  She bit her lip to hold in her laughter. “It’s not that bad. The movies are good though—not new, of course, but still. There’s even a copy of The Wizard of Oz if you want to get your Kansas fix,” she joked. “I’ve watched Kelly’s Heroes a couple of times. The movie’s theme song—something about burning bridges—stayed with me for hours.” She hummed a few bars, and felt her cheeks heat. “Music isn’t my forte, but I wish I had some way to download it. I’ve played the credits several times just to hear the song. I suppose I should be careful. If I ruin the tape, I won’t be able to listen to it again.”

  The song had probably stayed with her because burning bridges was exactly what she’d done to get here.

  “Donald Sutherland and Clint Eastwood, right? I remember that movie. It’s about a gold heist behind enemy lines.”

  She nodded. “Parts of it are terribly sad, but others make me laugh. I’d forgotten what a good actor Sutherland is.”

  “His son’s not bad, either.” He shook his head. “This television set’s an antique, that’s for sure. It’s got to be a third the size of my flat screen at home, and I’ll bet it weighs a hundred pounds more. I’m surprised it’s a color one. What channels do you get? Since we’ve got power, we might be able to pick up the news or a weather report.”

  “Sorry, but it only works with the VCR. There’s no antenna, no satellite, and no Internet. Callaghan said it was a safety precaution.”

  “Safety precaution, my ass,” he said forcefully. “Excuse the language. The idea is to make the witness comfortable and safe, not segregate him or her like this. A prisoner in solitary confinement on death row has more human contact than you did. I can’t imagine what Doucet and Callaghan were thinking. Have you even seen a newspaper since you got up here?”

  “Well, no,” she answered defensively. How could she have been so naïve? “I missed it at first—you know, social media and stuff—but I was so tired, I slept most of the time. Now . . . ” She shrugged. “I read, I knit, I bake, play solitaire, or I draw. It’s not really that bad.”

  “No, I’m sure it isn’t,” he answered, his voice laced with sarcasm. He huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a bad few days, and I’ve been up since four. I need a couple of hours of sleep, and then I’ll figure out what to do. Have you got your gun?”

  “Yes.” She opted not to comment on the “I.” The dark circles—or were they bruises?—under his eyes were more pronounced now, tugging at her conscience. She’d always been a sucker for the underdog.

  “Good. I noticed there’s a second bedroom, so I’ll take it. It’s almost noon, but since we had such a late breakfast, we should be good for a few hours. I’ll set my watch for three. We can watch one of your classic movies and have an early supper.”

  “Fine by me, but I thought we were going to lay down some rules. I mean, you aren’t in charge.”

  “For now, I am, but we can talk about this later. I promise not to make any major decisions without running them by you first. Fair enough?”

  She didn’t believe him for a second, but she nodded.

  “Good. I’ll see you in a little while. Anything weird happens, wake me.”

  He headed to the doorway where he’d left the large bag he’d brought with him, removed a smaller one from it, and vanished down the hall.

  “Well, that conversation was nice while it lasted,” she mumbled after the bathroom door closed. Too bad it had ended with a bucket full of reality dumped on her head. Why hadn’t she seen this place for what it was? Because at the time, it had been exactly what she wanted—no one to yell at her, tell her what to do, what to wear, what to eat. With no Richard in sight, it had been heaven. Thanks to Mike, it had now morphed into hell.

  Maybe he would be in a better mood after his nap. She’d planned to make a batch of cookies. Now she would have someone to share them with. Shrugging her shoulders, she pulled up a fresh sheet of paper and started to draw Todd Callaghan, the first man to be nice to her in a very long time, although it looked as if Mike Delorme could be, too.

  • • •

  Unsettled, praying the ache in his head was just from fatigue and not from his common sense screaming at him that all this was wrong, Mike removed his holster, shirt, jeans, and socks, and pulled down the covers of the single bed in what had to be a young boy’s bedroom. At least someone had put sheets on it. His ribs hurt, probably from bumping along on the snowmobile, and his head pounded. He sat on the edge of the narrow cot, placing his gun on the nightstand.

  What was it about this place? Sure, it was creepy living in the past—the music, the movies, the rotary dial phone, even the goddamn avocado-green appliances his grandmother had when he was a kid—but there was more to it. He could still smell the warm maple syrup and the faint aroma from the woodstove, but the disturbing floral scent permeating the air bothered him. The familiar fragrance might just be from shampoo or air freshener, but it conjured memories of Thea, the last thing he wanted or needed right now.

  Like the rest of the cottage, this room had been caught in a time warp. The poster over the bed was of Captain Marvel, one of his own childhood heroes. On top of the small desk, he recognized the Steve Austin, Six Million Dollar Man action figure, identical to the one he’d owned, and some vintage Hot Wheels cars. The books on the shelves were all classics as well. Dr. Seuss had been a personal favorite.

  Curious, he stood and walked over to the dresser. The silver piggy bank on top of it rattled when he shook it. Would all the coins inside be from the seventies or earlier?

  Crossing the room once more, he got into the bed and pulled up the covers before lacing his hands behind his head. Staring up at the pine ceiling, he listened to the howling wind outside. The pack of wolves was probably hunkered down for now, but come evening, they would be on the prowl once more. He’d have to watch for tracks when he went out to check the perimeter after dark.

  What was going on here? He could understand the lack of Wi-Fi, but a radio and a satellite dish, even an antenna, wouldn’t have exposed her any more than the lack of them did. It was as if someone were trying to deprogram her. Many twenty-first-century women wouldn’t be content to fill their days the way she did, and he couldn’t think of any one of them who’d put up with being stranded here like this. True, her current physical condition could account for it, but most women her age had careers, hopes, aspirations, and modern conveniences. He hadn’t noticed a microwave oven in the kitchen, nor any of the other appliances Thea had owned, like a food processor or a juicer.

  The bathroom he’d used had a claw tub with a handheld shower, pedestal sink, and a toilet. He hoped to hell whichever one she used was more handicap accessible. There was a supply of plastic water bottles, so maybe the water wasn’t fit to drink. He’d seen the large dispenser in the kitchen. There didn’t appear to be any kind of heating system, so she would have to keep the woodstove going all day and night. The kitchen range was an old gas one without a sparker. She claimed Callaghan brought her everything she needed, but that wouldn’t happen now. If Doucet hadn’t sent him here, the lady would’ve been in serious trouble.

  Something didn’t feel right. Of course, he might be projecting his own insecurity. He’d failed to see one trap before he’d walked into it, and now he was seeing them everywhere.

  Yawning, he shifted onto his side. Hopefully, he’d get some much needed sleep, not only to recover from the drive up here, but because he had to think. It was a fluke that the OPP had contacted Doucet and not the RCMP about Callaghan’s body. Why would they have done something l
ike that? Questions, questions, and more questions.

  Yawning once more, he reached for his gun, tucked it under his pillow, and closed his eyes. No one would be out in this crap. They were safe—for now.

  Chapter Six

  Alexa pulled the batch of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and placed them on the cooling rack. As always, she’d cracked open the kitchen window, terrified she might somehow gas herself. Her fear of the appliances and the possibility of a chimney fire were her constant companions. Callaghan had laughed them off, but some fears were easier to overcome than others.

  She sighed. Richard would’ve adored this place. He loved everything about the seventies, claiming society had been on a downward spiral ever since.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She’d left the man and yet here he was on her mind, as large as life, still controlling her, even though he had no idea she was alive. First the snowstorm, then the shooting, now Callaghan’s death and some mystery person coming for her. It was as if fate were doing everything in its power to destroy any chance she had at freedom.

  Now that Mike had pointed out how creepy this place was, if she let her imagination run wild, she could picture this chalet as a carefully orchestrated trap designed to drive her crazy. The police put her here. They’d done so for her safety, even if Mike didn’t believe it.

  Pouring herself another cup of tea, she sat at the table and picked up her charcoal pencil, intent on finishing her drawing of Callaghan while the cookies cooled.

  Mike had gotten up just after three and gone outside to do another perimeter sweep. After he’d come in, he’d been restless, as if he were struggling with a problem he couldn’t solve, and she probably wouldn’t be able to either—not that he’d asked for her opinion. Right now, he was in the back room where she did her exercises, doing God alone knew what.

  “The equipment in there doesn’t seem to fit with this place,” he said, coming into the room and startling her. He’d examined every part of the chalet other than the attic, only because she hadn’t mentioned that to him. The door was in the pantry where the washer and dryer were located, and it was padlocked. She hadn’t seen a ladder, and considering the shape she was in, she couldn’t climb up there even if she wanted to.

  “Callaghan arranged for it to be here when I arrived. I have to wear a brace and follow an exercise routine each day to strengthen my core muscles while I heal. Thankfully, he had someone replace the tub in my room with a walk-in shower. Otherwise, washing myself properly would’ve been all but impossible. It was very difficult at first as it was.”

  Mike ran his hand through his loose hair, pushing it behind his ears.

  “I don’t understand why there wasn’t a car left here for you. Callaghan obviously cared about your well-being, making sure you were as comfortable here as you could be, and yet . . . I assume he’s the one who chopped the wood and filled the wood boxes?”

  She nodded. “I was a little worried about replenishing the one inside, but all I have to do is pull the cord over there and a trap door opens, dropping a dozen more logs into the box from a chute on the side of the house.”

  “What if the chute got clogged? You couldn’t fix that yourself, and you would freeze. Accidents happen. Things break. How could you get away from here without a car?”

  Wanting to maintain the friendly, if slightly strained, atmosphere from earlier, she shrugged.

  “I can’t drive at the moment, so having a vehicle just sitting here would be a waste of resources. Besides, even if I could drive, where would I go? I don’t know the area, and I’m supposed to be off the grid. Alexa O’Brien is dead, and no one’s given me another identity. Until you showed up and turned my world upside down, I was content here.” She couldn’t suppress the frustration in her voice. “I don’t mind my own company, and I’ve become quite self-sufficient. A year ago, the only cooking I could handle was nuking something in the microwave. Now I can even bake bread.”

  Mike nodded, the scowl on his face remaining, as if he wasn’t convinced of her sincerity.

  Licking her lips nervously, she continued, “Callaghan came once a week with water, food, and supplies. He checked everything to make sure there weren’t any problems. And I do have a phone. The fact that it isn’t working is temporary. The whole idea was to keep a low profile. I’m a big girl, and despite the wheelchair and crutches, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. It’s not as bad as you obviously think it is.”

  “You can’t be serious. Whose idea was this particular place?” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking even less happy than before.

  She put down the charcoal pencil she’d been using. All she’d done was doodle.

  “Callaghan gave me a choice of two locations, and this one suited me best.”

  “And I suppose not having any kind of security was your choice, too? Do you realize how vulnerable you are here?”

  Why was he so angry? It didn’t look as if his nap had improved his disposition.

  “I’m not defenseless, Lieutenant, and I had no reason to suspect I was in any danger. In fact, I’ve only got your word on that, and let’s face it. You could be wrong. I’ve got the gun, and I can use it if I have to. I scored at the top of my class in marksmanship.”

  “Mike, remember? Discharging a weapon at a fixed target is a little different from shooting a man with a gun trained on you.”

  “I fired at moving targets as well. Hiding in plain sight is a tried and true method,” she shot back. She wouldn’t be cowed. “If there’d been scads of security around here, people would’ve gotten suspicious.”

  “And a crippled woman living alone in the middle of nowhere isn’t cause for gossip?” he asked.

  Her cheeks heated, and she narrowed her eyes, fighting to maintain control. “I am not crippled. When we arrived in October, it was raining and well past midnight, so I doubt anyone saw me. I’ve been confined inside most of the time. If anyone realizes there’s a woman here, I would suspect they might think I’m Callaghan’s mistress since he visited weekly and recently spent the night.”

  “Were you?”

  His belligerent tone was like a slap in the face. What the hell was wrong with him? She fisted her hands so tightly, her nails threatened to cut the skin.

  “How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are? Slur my reputation all you want,” she spat at him, her body trembling. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s suggested my morals were questionable, but Callaghan was a married man, an RCMP officer who never once came close to crossing the line. I don’t know how the SQ does things, but what you’ve accused him of would be a breach of ethics in my book. If he’s dead, and again, I only have your word for that, you have no right to slander his memory with such an allegation.”

  Mike shook his head, started to say something, and then huffed out a breath. “I’ve got to check something outside.”

  He stomped over to the doorway and grabbed the first jacket he touched.

  Alexa stared open-mouthed as he slammed the door, shaking the chalet with his violence, and knocking the wind out of her own anger.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  She used her crutches to walk over to the door and lock it. Back in the recliner, she set them aside and picked up her charcoal pencil, but her hand trembled so badly, she dropped it. So much for finding common ground and working together. He was just like Richard with his rants and baseless accusations. One man in her life like that was one too many.

  “Damn you, Mike Delorme. Damn you to hell.”

  • • •

  Mike ran his hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? That clout on the head had rattled his marbles more than he thought. His ears didn’t buzz and his vision was back to normal, but his brain couldn’t be working properly. That was a hell of a conclusion he’d jumped to.

  It wasn’t as cold as it had been when he’d done his rounds an hour or so ago, and the fat flakes of snow from earlier had turned into ice
pellets, stinging his face. Freezing rain. Just what he didn’t need. How much worse could this get?

  As if in answer, the icy sleet increased in intensity, driven by a merciless north wind. He glared at the sky and shoved his bare hands into the pockets of the jacket at least one size too small for him. This must’ve started as soon as he’d gone inside earlier. A significant amount of rime already coated the wires and branches.

  Great—no hat, no gloves, and I sure as hell can’t go back inside and get any.

  He shook his head and turned up the collar on the coat before forcing the zipper to close halfway. The nap he’d taken hadn’t done him one damn bit of good. If anything, it had increased his headache and edginess. He’d suspected there was something off about this assignment even before he’d left the hospital, so why did it surprise him to be right?

  He shook his head. How gullible could he be? This had to be a setup, an elaborate trap to stop him once and for all. He was the mouse and Alexa was the cheese. Why else would she be left out here alone like this? And that wheelchair? Just another prop to disarm him. The lady was probably doing handsprings right now. Everyone knew getting Zabat was all that mattered to him. Protecting the woman who could help him do it would be too big a carrot for him to turn down.

  He’d ignored the warning signs. His edge was gone. Was Doucet in on it, or was he just another pawn in whatever game Zabat, the mole, or Doucet’s magician was playing?

  No matter what, Mike had to get his act together. Zabat’s crew hadn’t managed to finish him off on Wednesday, but it looked like they intended to do it now, and an attractive, supposedly crippled, blonde who reminded him of his late wife and challenged him at every turn was exactly the kind of woman who could make him let down his guard. That perfume she wore was the same brand Thea had worn. Coincidence? He didn’t believe in them.