Crossfire

by Niki Savage

  The pack appeared on the screen again, and the commentator said the world champion had gained thirty seconds on them. She was now within sight of her first teammate, who had ridden back to meet her.

  Soon the two of them had joined forces. Marcelle’s teammate rode in front, breaking the wind for her. The commentator explained that the injured champion would try to recover in her teammate’s slipstream. The front rider would give everything she had, and possibly even abandon the race later, to regain the maximum time for her captain. Her job would be over when they met up with the next teammate. She would then possibly drop out of the race, or finish on her own.

  It became a contest. The screen switched between the fleeing pack and the determined pursuers, while the commentator gave time gaps at every opportunity. Soon it became apparent that the champion did not intend to exhaust her teammates. She took an even share of the work, and the commentator said those were smart tactics. It would be to her disadvantage if she got back in the pack, but had no team support. This way there was still a remote possibility she might win the race.

  The gap came down, but the kilometers slipped by just as fast. Stefan found himself on the edge of his seat, willing Marcelle to get back into the pack. She had shown a streak of determination he hadn’t dreamed she possessed, and he felt a surge of pride, watching her ride. At the same time, he worried that she might be doing herself some kind of harm. Doc Louis had not assessed her injuries, and there could be some serious damage.

  The entire Ultima-Fabelta team had joined up now, working in unison like a well-oiled machine, each rider taking a turn at the front. The manager hung out of the passenger’s window of the team vehicle, shouting encouragement to his riders.

  There were still a few kilometers to go to the mountain pass when the pack came into sight. The camera showed Marcelle conferring with her teammates before she dropped to the back of the line, and stopped taking on any more work. Nevertheless, the team continued to gain back lost ground, and as the pack started climbing the pass, Ultima-Fabelta made contact.

  The effect resembled a cue striking billiard balls as Marcelle attacked instantly up the side of the pack. Some riders watched in amazement, others tried to follow, and the rest hovered indecisively, not sure whether to chase or not.

  The pack was in disarray as the world champion disappeared up the road like an eagle in flight. Utima-Fabelta did their best to add to the confusion and blocked any attempts to chase.

  Soon the camera lost interest in the pack, and followed Marcelle as she powered her way up the pass. She was a beautiful sight, every muscle strained to perfection, dancing on the pedals, making it look easy. Though her face was pale, the bleeding from the cut had stopped and she didn’t look in distress.

  Stefan couldn’t help a smile when he heard the commentator, who had been so doubtful before, singing her praises. “And this is what has won Marcelle Deschamps the world championships three times, ladies and gentlemen. She is the ultimate all-rounder, head and shoulders above the rest. Such aggression, such drive. Like a machine, she is oblivious to pain. For any other rider it would have been enough to finish in the pack, but for our French champion, and reigning world champion, it isn’t even an option. What style, what daring, to attack from such a position.”

  The commentator went on and on as she rode the last two kilometers up the pass.

  As Marcelle crossed the top of the pass, she let go of her handlebars and zipped up her cycling jersey. There was an eight-kilometer descent ahead, and then ten kilometers to the finish. She was already three minutes ahead of the pack as she started the descent.

  Stefan found himself holding his breath as she descended at breakneck speed, negotiating the sharp corners and twists in the road with ease, pulling away from the cars. Then she was out on the open road again, her lead increased to four minutes.

  She rode the last ten kilometers strongly to finish in front of a cheering crowd. Marcelle raised both arms in a fierce victory salute as she crossed the line. The camera went back to the pack, still out on the road.

  They had consolidated again, and it looked as if it would be a bunch sprint. Soon they were in sight of the finish line, and in the resulting sprint, an Ultima-Fabelta rider was the victor, another coming in fourth. The two Dutch women didn’t place in the sprint at all, and Stefan was grimly satisfied.

  The camera roamed round again, and found Marcelle and her team manager in conversation with a man the commentator identified as the Race Commissar. Stefan now knew his suspicions were correct. No doubt, she was reporting the incident to the authorities, hoping they would take some kind of action. The commentator speculated what the problem could be, as the camera stayed on the figures for a minute or so.

  Finally, Marcelle gave an exasperated shrug, and her manager put a protective arm around her shoulders as they returned to the team bus. Though Doc Louis had cleaned the blood off her face, and put a clean dressing over the cut, Stefan could see her wincing with every step, clearly uncomfortable.

  The prize giving took place, and Marcelle took possession of a huge trophy. She appeared to cheer up at last, hugging her second placed team mate in delight. In her short speech, she thanked her teammates and dedicated the victory to them. She called the rest of her team up to the podium to share the victory, and her unselfish attitude impressed Stefan. This was true sportsmanship.

  The proceedings were over, and the screen showed the champion standing next to the team bus, talking to a couple of reporters. The camera drifted to the Race Commissar’s vehicle, where he spoke to two riders, one finger wagging in warning.

  It was as if the cameraman could smell trouble as he kept the camera focused on the three figures. The two women turned from the Commissar and held a brief discussion before making their way to Marcelle.

  They pushed through the press corps while the commentator speculated what could be happening. The camera zoomed in closer, and Stefan could see Marcelle’s lips compressing in anger as the two women spoke to her. Though the camera couldn’t pick up what they said, clearly an argument was in progress.

  The two women thrust their faces close to Marcelle’s, their expressions ugly. The champion remained calm, answering in monosyllables. She started to turn away, a mocking smile on her face, and one of the girls threw a final comment her way.

  Chaos erupted. Marcelle whirled back, her right fist flickering out in a devastatingly fast, brutal right cross, connecting squarely with the jaw of the taller of the two antagonists. The blow lifted the woman off her feet before she dropped to the ground in an untidy jumble of limbs.

  Before anyone could react, the champion had turned on the other rider, her left fist sinking into the woman’s belly. As the unhappy victim folded to ease the agony, Marcelle grabbed her by the hair, and smashed her knee into the woman’s face. She dropped instantly, joining her friend on the ground.

  Intent on finishing the job, Marcelle stepped forward, raising her foot, apparently intending to stamp it on her first victim’s unprotected face. A strong pair of arms encircled her from behind and lifted her off her feet, so that her kick missed its target by inches.

  The camera pulled back to reveal that the arms belonged to the Ultima-Fabelta team manager, who had appeared on the scene. Marcelle struggled for a few seconds, her face contorted by fury, before she calmed down, responding to whatever her manager said to her. He put her down on her feet again, watching her warily.

  Marcelle glared at the shocked faces around her, and the two motionless figures on the ground. Before anyone could stop her, she stormed off to her car, which stood next to the team bus. As everyone stared, speechless, the Diablo pulled away in a cloud of smoke.

  Stefan sat back on the couch, stunned but also amused. Those women would think twice before they tangled with Marcelle again. He was sure the first rider had at least a broken jaw and the second a broken nose.

  Where had she learned to fight like that? She had thrown the first punch without warning, her entire weight
behind it. She had disabled the tall girl first, to allow her to deal with her companion. Clever tactics. Someone who knew street fighting had taught her well.

  The commentator had gone wild, shocked but excited by the incident, as the crowd gathered around the two victims. Stefan heard a siren as an ambulance approached.

  The commentator speculated about the reaction of the cycling authorities. They would surely enforce a suspension, and possibly even strip the champion of the afternoon’s victory.

  They replayed the fight in slow motion. Now Stefan could see the way Marcelle’s lips had tightened, and the ignition of fury in her eyes as she had spun to face her adversaries. He hoped she was on her way home. He didn’t want her driving such a powerful car in her state of mind.

  ~ . ~

  The next hour was tense as Stefan sat on the couch, listening for the sound of the Lamborghini. Every few minutes he walked to the picture window to stare out at the waning afternoon, sure he had heard the Diablo.

  After nearly two hours, he realized the young widow had gone somewhere else. He didn’t suspect foul play, and tried to imagine where she could have gone. Where would she go to seek solace after what had happened?

  It dawned on him. Of course! She would go to where Jean-Michel lay. He went to his room and dressed quickly He planned to take the American van and drive to the graveyard to look for her.

  He had just taken the van’s keys off the rack when he heard the sound of the elevator going down and then coming up again.

  The doors opened, revealing a concerned Louis Gautier. “Is she here yet?”

  “No, I think she may be at Jean-Michel’s grave.”

  “Let’s go, we can take my car.”

  ~ . ~

  The drive to the graveyard on the outskirts of Paris took twenty minutes. They were relieved to see the Diablo in the parking lot.

  Stefan took control. “I think it’ll be better if I look for her. You stay here in case she comes back.”

  Doc Louis nodded.

  It was nearly nine o’clock. Long shadows formed behind the tombstones as the dying sun colored the sky red. He found the grave without any effort. The City of Paris had gone to a lot of trouble to mark the resting place of their fallen hero. A glass-enclosed, scaled-down version of a Formula One racing car sat atop a massive tombstone, catching the weak rays of the sun in a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors.

  Stefan approached the chained off area, relieved when he spotted Marcelle. She was alone, sitting on the black marble slab that sealed Jean-Michel’s grave. She sat motionless, her arms hugging her knees to her chest, her forehead lowered onto the tops of her knees.

  His heart lurched at the sight of the forlorn figure, so desperately in need of comfort. He stepped over the low chain fence, and approached the grave, his boots crunching in the loose gravel. Marcelle remained motionless, giving no sign that she had heard his approach, not even reacting when he dropped to his haunches beside her. He noticed the badly grazed and bleeding knuckles of her right hand. The top of her hand was blue, and wondered if she had broken it throwing that massive punch.

  He touched a rigid shoulder. “Marcelle?”

  Slowly she looked up, empty eyes seeming to look right through him. She had no words.

  “Marcelle, come home,” he said, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We need to look after your injuries. Doc Louis came with me.”

  She didn’t answer, staring fixedly ahead, a picture of despair.

  “Marcelle...” What could he say to her?

  “I don’t want to go home,” she whispered. “I want to be with Jean-Michel.”

  “You can’t be with Jean-Michel. You owe it to him to carry on with your life.”

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, her body stiffening under his touch.

  He tried again. “What happened to upset you so much? Please talk to me.”

  She lowered her forehead to her knees again. “I need Jean here. He’ll know what to do. They said horrible things, and now I’m in a lot of trouble.”

  “Marcelle, we’ll fix this. It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll help you, I promise. Please come home.”

  She hugged her knees even tighter and repeated, “I need Jean-Michel. I can’t go on alone anymore. I want to be with him.”

  He realized he wasn’t getting through to the distraught young widow. She was clearly in a state of shock.

  Sighing, he got to his feet, and picked her up with an effort, his wounds protesting at the exertion. Marcelle exploded into motion, trying to get out of his grip, but he crushed her against his chest to subdue her struggles. She finally gave up and lay limp in his arms.

  The way back to the car seemed much further than he remembered.

  Doc Louis saw them coming, and ran to meet them. “What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly as he reached them.

  Stefan shook his head. “I think we should get her home.”

  Marcelle had lapsed into a sullen silence, and didn’t respond when Louis spoke her name. Stefan settled her in the passenger seat of the doctor’s car, and put on her safety belt.

  Doc Louis sighed when he saw her bruised right hand. “I’ll have to take her to hospital for X-rays. Her hand could be broken.”

  Stefan checked her pockets for her car keys. “I’ll follow to ensure you get there, and then go back to the complex.”

  The drive to the hospital proved uneventful. There wasn’t much traffic so late on a Sunday night. He stopped in the parking lot and watched as Doc Louis helped Marcelle out of the car and led her into the hospital.

  He desperately wanted to be with her, but he knew it would be too dangerous, not just for him but also for Marcelle and Louis. He put the Diablo back into gear, switched on his headlights and drove home to wait for them.

  He had no difficulty reentering the complex thanks to the I.D. card and password Marcelle had given him earlier that week. The guards were courteous and if they were curious, they didn’t show it.

  Back in the apartment, he made himself a cup of strong coffee, and settled down to wait, too worried to think about eating. He realized Marcelle was vulnerable now, in need of support and reassurance, and he intended to provide that. She was such a complex person, he thought, but to be in possession of her love must be a wonderful experience.

  His thoughts turned to the contrasts that made up her personality. He had now seen the public Marcelle, confident and likeable, and arrogant in a playful way. That Marcelle didn’t know the meaning of defeat. She would get up from a fall and continue the race, prepared to fight to the last man, or woman for that matter. She would react in anger to an insult, and even resort to violence, before she would show how deep her wounds went.

  With Richard, he had seen the side of her she kept for her cycling friends, Marcelle the comedian. She could be just as crude and vulgar as they could, trade insults, and be one of the boys, as she had been so many years ago. Stefan didn’t like that side of her personality. It wasn’t her natural disposition, but rather a role she slipped into if the occasion warranted.

  There was the real Marcelle that he suspected few people saw, the woman he had known from the start. Caring, sensitive, vulnerable, were words he would use to describe her. Conflicted, lonely, sad, fearful, were other words he wished he didn’t have to use. He longed to help her, but realized her problems were too complex for him. She would have to come to terms with the fact that Jean-Michel was gone for good. The fact that her husband’s clothes hung in the wardrobe, and all his possessions were as he had left them, proved that she was in a state of denial. She needed professional help, but he had seen her reaction when he had suggested it, so that option was unavailable.

  Disconsolate, he walked to the study, where the many photos of the young couple graced the walls. He stared at the photos, his gaze pausing on a framed photo showing a sparkling Marcelle and an ecstatic Jean-Michel on their wedding day.

  He wished he could restore her to the animated woman in the photos, and
he wished she would look at him the way she looked at Jean-Michel. He sank into the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, deep in thought, wanting above all to be with her.

  ~ . ~

  In the hospital, Marcelle fought her way to the surface, trying to break through the woolly fuzziness enclosing her mind. She opened her eyes in the dimly lit room, and tried to focus on her surroundings. Everything remained a blur. Her body felt sore and tender, and she had a throbbing headache. What had happened to her?

  She remembered the race, and the fall, and the terrible things the two Dutch women had said to her. She winced inwardly as she recalled how she had hit them, destroying her season in a few seconds. If only Jean-Michel were here, he would know what to do. If only...

  At times like these, she realized how much she had relied on her husband. It was a role he had naturally assumed, that of friend, lover and protector, jealous guardian of her well-being. Jean-Michel would have known what to do. He had the right influences, knew the right people.

  The powers who held control over her career might try to make an example of her, now that she didn’t have Jean-Michel’s influence to protect her. Her sprinting style had already turned her into a controversial figure, and commentators sometimes called her a reckless bandit, an uncomplimentary name for a sprinter. Now she had given them the perfect opportunity to nail her. And they wouldn’t be content to slap a heavy fine on her. A fine wouldn’t punish a person of her means. No, they would be leaning towards a suspension or a ban.

  She didn’t think they could take her win away from her. She had contested the race fairly and engaged in no foul play. The incident had occurred after the prize giving, when the meeting had been technically over, so they couldn’t strip her of her victory unless they wanted to face legal action. And she would be prepared to resort to that, because she had ridden too hard for that win to give it up without a fight.

  Marcelle turned onto her side and drew her knees up, shuddering at the thought. She desperately needed someone to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right. She missed Stefan, missed the security of his masculine presence, and his arms around her. If only she could be home, in her own bed, with him holding her tight.