Never Let Her Go

by Gayle Wilson

  Only, there was no one local who could bring it off. That’s why the FBI had been asked to come in again and set up a sting operation, targeted not only at the mob, but at the remaining rogues in the department who had ties to it.

  Abby wanted, probably more than most, to see this department cleaned up. She just objected to the cocky way Nick Deandro had gone about his part of the job. She had been pretty vocal in those objections, at least within the extremely limited circle of the Organized Crime Special Unit, those very few, hand-picked individuals who knew who Deandro was and what he was doing down here.

  Real vocal, she amended mentally. Abby was nothing if not honest. Especially with herself. Nick had only been doing exactly what he’d been brought in to do, and so, even at the time, she hadn’t understood her reaction to him.

  “I can’t help it if he rubbed you the wrong way,” Rob said. “He has the kind of personality that rubs a lot of people the wrong way, I guess.”

  “Apparently,” Abby said.

  “You didn’t shoot him, did you?” her boss asked, reading her tone. His question was full of black humor, despite what had happened to Deandro.

  “I won’t deny there were a few times I thought about it,” she said truthfully. “How’s he doing?” she asked, holding her eyes on Rob’s by sheer willpower.

  “Not so good,” he admitted. “I guess physically he’s doing about as well as anybody ever expected, but…” Rob’s brows lifted and then fell, and his mouth tightened. He looked down at his hands a moment before he looked back up, pinning her with dark, troubled eyes. “And I guess, given the circumstances, that shouldn’t be surprising. He still doesn’t remember a thing, Abby. None of what we need him to remember.”

  “I thought the doctors said that would be temporary,” she said. Temporary, she repeated silently. It had been more than six months now, and apparently—

  “I’m beginning to think they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. None of them.”

  “What about the blindness?” she asked softly.

  That question was more difficult to get out. She still couldn’t quite make her memory of the brash New York agent fit the stereotypical images she supposed everyone, herself included, had about the blind. Perceptions gleaned from television or the movies. Images of people who touched things carefully, who moved hesitantly, guided by white canes or dogs wearing halters.

  Those were all somewhere within her consciousness when anyone said “blind,” even if they shouldn’t be. And she could not make any of those images match the ones of Nick Deandro that lingered in her mind. She hadn’t been able to do that since she had heard about his injury.

  “There’s no change,” Rob said “No change in any of it.”

  “You think he’s not ever going to recover,” she said That wasn’t a question. It sounded more like an accusation, but she hadn’t realized that in time to soften the harshness of her tone.

  “Maybe not,” Rob agreed. “He wants to remember, just like he wants to be able to see again. But what he wants to happen, what we all need to happen, may not be what any of us get.”

  “But everybody said he would,” Abby said. “As soon as everything healed. When the swelling went down, blood clots reabsorbed, all that medical mumbo jumbo.”

  “Except we’re past all the deadlines they gave us.”

  “Still…” Abby said, reluctant, as she knew Andrews must be, to admit defeat. Rob had worked too hard on setting this up. As had she and the others in this special unit of the Public Integrity Division. Too damn hard to see everything fall apart.

  Of course, they were lucky that Deandro wasn’t dead. Luck and a thick skull had saved Nick Deandro’s apparently charmed life. Somebody had certainly intended to kill him that night. And they had nearly succeeded, but for some pretty quixotic reasons the FBI agent had survived, blind from trauma to the optic nerve and suffering from amnesia about almost everything that had happened since he’d been in New Orleans.

  “You haven’t completely ruled out the possibility that he’ll recover,” she finished her hesitant sentence.

  “I don’t want to rule it out. That would put the police-corruption part of this in the toilet, Abby, and you know it.”

  She nodded, thinking about what they did have. As soon as Deandro had been made, they had pulled the informant, the one who had made the introduction, knowing his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. He was in witness protection now, and he was singing like a bird.

  She hadn’t heard that he’d accused anyone in the department of having ties to his former comrades. Even if he had, however, any accusations that guy might make against cops would be almost worthless. No grand jury was going to give credence to it. It would smack of vendetta or of trying to buy immunity, especially if the officers involved were highly placed and highly regarded. The D.A. wouldn’t get any corruption indictments out of anything he said.

  The only person who might be able to stand up and finger the rogues in the department was Deandro, who was not only blind but couldn’t remember anything that had happened in the weeks before that bullet cracked his skull. Even the D.A.’s office seemed to be trying to back off the corruption angle, concentrating successfully on getting indictments against the Mafia instead.

  “Deandro never gave you any names?” she asked.

  “He didn’t want to accuse anyone without solid proof they’re dirty. He was trying to get it. The kind you take to court. Maybe he had. But unless he recovers, we’ll never know.”

  “Look, I’m sorry that this isn’t working out—”

  “I need you, Abby. Forget blackmail. And I guess you were right about that. I know damn well how you felt about Deandro. We all knew. But you’re a member of this team, an important member, and I need you to put your personal feelings aside.”

  “If you think you’re going to talk me into believing that my bodyguarding Nick Deandro is a good idea—” Abby had begun, anger creeping back into her voice, before Andrews interrupted.

  “You hated each other’s guts. That was pretty obvious to everybody. But the point is…” Rob paused before he made whatever the point was. He rubbed his hands distractedly over his head again, and Abby waited, unwilling to give him any help.

  “The point is,” he said finally, “that you two reacted real strongly to each other. Personality conflict. Whatever.”

  “You were closer the first time,” she acknowledged. “We hated each other’s guts.”

  “One of the doctors thinks that maybe some kind of stimulation might jog Deandro’s memory,” Rob offered.

  “And I’m supposed to be that stimulation? Give me a break.”

  “Why not. If he remembers you—”

  “He doesn’t. He doesn’t remember anything about his assignment down here. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “But that’s the whole point of this. Maybe we can do something to trigger that memory. You seemed to evoke the strongest reaction of anybody in the Organized Crime Unit. Maybe just seeing you again ..” Rob’s voice faded, as he apparently realized what he had said.

  “Well, now, that is a problem, isn’t it?” Abby reminded him softly, those stereotypical images again inside her head. So unwanted. “Whatever there was about me that set off Deandro’s animosity may not work in this situation.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re still the best shot we’ve got. I need you to try. You’ve got as much at stake as the rest of us.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “Too much at stake to undertake something this stupid,” she vowed.

  Rob let that lie a moment between them, letting her think about what she had said. That was, of course, the crux of the matter. The hold her boss had over her. One she couldn’t deny.

  “Is this it?” she asked when Andrews didn’t say anything else. He just sat there watching her, letting the silence get tense. Although Abby knew the technique as well as Rob did, she gave in to that tension. “Is that what you’re saying? I take this assignment or else?”


  “I’m asking you to take it. For the good of the department. I’m not threatening you, Abby.”

  “Because you couldn’t get away with that and you know it.”

  “Because you’re a good cop,” Rob corrected. “You’re too good a cop not to know I’m right about this.”

  The quietness stretched again There was part of Abby that screamed for her to agree. And another part that fought fiercely against even admitting the thought of doing this into her brain. A very bad idea, she knew. Because she would be opening herself up to all kinds of pain.

  “I can put you to work answering the phone somewhere, I guess,” Rob said finally. “I owe you that. But if you’re worried about doing what the doctors want you to do, then this is the best I can offer. You show up at the safe house, put your feet up, and relax. With nothing, literally, to do.”

  “Nothing except make sure nobody dirty gets to our witness.”

  “Nobody’s going to find Deandro,” Rob insisted, ignoring her sarcasm. “They haven’t yet. I’m not sure they’re even trying.”

  “They believe he’s dead?” Abby asked.

  “Maybe. God knows he ought to be.”

  Another silence while they both thought about the reality of that. The shooter had pumped two bullets into Deandro before one of the building’s tenants, who had been sitting in the darkness on a balcony overlooking the narrow street, finally started yelling his head off.

  And a foot patrolman, part of the department’s apparently successful attempt to increase police presence in the embattled neighborhoods, arrived within seconds after the first shot. In the aftermath, the shooter disappeared, apparently believing his job complete, even if he hadn’t been able to verify the kill.

  Maybe whoever had set the ambush up did think Nick was dead. That would be comforting to believe, Abby supposed. She just wasn’t sure she was optimist enough to buy it.

  “There’s a lady who lives out on this place,” Rob went on, apparently still trying to sell her. “She cooks and cleans and shops. There’s surveillance equipment all over the grounds, motion sensors, alarms, the works. The parish sheriff is less than five minutes away.”

  “You trust him?” Abby found herself asking She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Rob would take them as a sign she was at least thinking about it.

  Maybe she was, she admitted. She was certainly thinking about a lot of things—things she had been resolutely pushing to the back of her mind for the last six months.

  “He doesn’t know who we’ve got out there. But even if he figured it out. . Yeah, I’d trust him. He’s worked with us before. He’s as straight as they come—old-time law enforcement. His daddy was sheriff before he was.”

  “Who’s out there now?”

  “Mickey Yates. He has been from the time Deandro was released from the hospital.”

  “I heard Mickey had gone up to Birmingham with the group advising in their crime-prevention program”

  “And you believed it, too, didn’t you?” Rob asked, smiling.

  “I had no reason not to.”

  Her boss nodded. “Exactly. But Mickey’s got a wife and four kids. Deandro’s not eager to have somebody new out there, but this has gone on far longer than I promised Mickey it would. He wants to go home before his wife divorces him.”

  “And I, on the other hand…” Abby said, thinking of her lonely apartment. No ties. Not even a cat to keep her company. “How were you going to explain my disappearance?”

  “Something close to the truth. That your doctor put you on medical leave. Until after the baby’s born. That gives us three months. Isn’t that about right?”

  “About that,” she admitted. Rob’s eyes fell, briefly examining the bulge of her pregnancy, and then they lifted to hers.

  “So…?” he said.

  The word hung in the air between them. So what? Abby thought. What do you want me to say? But Rob was right. She was too good a cop to dismiss his request for help out of hand. Besides, it was always possible he was on to something.

  “So unless something shakes Deandro’s memory loose, we don’t have anything on the corruption,” Abby finished for him.

  Rob nodded. Apparently he’d made all the arguments he intended to make. And of course, he had really said it all.

  The O.C. unit needed her to do this. She was the one most likely to make Nick Deandro remember something about his time down here. She understood the reality of that far better than Rob did. And her reasons for wanting Nick to remember were far more personal than those involved in simply being a good cop.

  She had already told her boss she needed an assignment as free from stress and physical exertion as she could manage and still stay employed, keeping both her medical benefits and her salary. It was going to be hard to explain why this one didn’t fit the conditions she’d outlined in her official request.

  She supposed she could really apply for the medical leave Rob had suggested as her cover, but the paperwork would take time and her obstetrician hadn’t recommended such a drastic step.

  The problems Abby was having weren’t that serious. Not yet, at least. Probably just stress-related, her doctor had assured her comfortingly. And ironically she was probably right about that, Abby thought. Only wrong about the causes of that stress. No one really knew about those. But would taking this assignment lessen that stress or increase it dramatically?

  She sighed, pushing her hair back behind her ears. The sides of the straight, chin-length bob had fallen forward when she lowered her head to try to think this through without the pressure of Rob’s steady regard

  She didn’t want anything to happen to this baby. That’s why she had requested a less stressful assignment. She would do anything for this small, dear life she carried. Anything? she questioned. Always honest, at least with herself.

  “Okay,” she said softly.

  She glanced up in time to catch Rob Andrews’s reaction. Although he had controlled it quickly, his shock had touched his eyes He hadn’t expected her to agree, she realized. That was clear, and she guessed it was natural for him to feel that way.

  Because she hadn’t expected to agree, either. She was not aware that her decision to become Nick Deandro’s bodyguard had been reached until exactly the same time Rob had been. Not until the soft capitulation came out of her mouth.

  THE SAFE HOUSE was outside the city, really isolated, surrounded only by swampy marshes that fronted a bayou. The only access was a winding dirt road that snaked off from a black-topped parish two-lane.

  Its location was the main reason for choosing the place, of course—to keep anyone from accidentally stumbling across where they were hiding Deandro. Despite her position within the department, Abby hadn’t even known this place existed. Maybe that meant nobody else did either, she hoped.

  Unconsciously she put her hand against her rounded belly. Despite the fact that Rob had assured her help was only a few minutes away, she felt isolated as well as unsure. She would be pretty far away from her doctor, if anything happened

  Nothing’s going to happen, Abby told herself determinedly, fighting that frisson of unease. Nothing was going to go wrong. That was one reason she had accepted this assignment. So she could put her feet up and relax, just as Rob had advised. All she needed to do was relax, she told herself again.

  But this second admonition had more to do with the realization that Rob was holding the door of the car open for her to climb out. She wondered briefly how long he’d been standing there, while she had tried to control the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, reminiscent of the brief periods of morning sickness she’d suffered. Those were long past now, and despite the anxiety her doctor’s thoughtful cautions had created, she felt strong and very healthy.

  Strong except, of course, for her feelings about this. She took a deep breath, climbing carefully out of the car. The small precautions Dr. Clarke had suggested had created within her an exaggerated sense that she must take very good care
of herself in order to take care of this baby.

  “You okay?” Rob asked, apparently sensing her apprehension.

  “I’m fine. Just a little nervous, I guess.”

  “Look at it this way, Abby. If he doesn’t remember you, you have a whole new chance to make a first impression. Maybe even a better one this time.”

  She laughed. At Nick’s expense, she supposed, feeling slightly guilty about that, but at least Rob’s teasing comment had lessened the tension. Despite Andrews’s hopes, she knew in her gut that Nick Deandro wasn’t going to remember her. After all, during the last six months he hadn’t remembered her or anything else that had happened since he came to New Orleans. And she really didn’t buy the theory that simply being confronted with her again was going to shock him into remembering now.

  “Let’s go,” Rob suggested.

  She followed him reluctantly up the walk that led to the house. The structure was shaded by towering oaks, their limbs heavily draped with Spanish moss. The overhanging branches, stretched over the roof, looked like Hollywood’s idea of the storied past in this part of Louisiana As did the house itself.

  It was a bastardized version of the classic Louisiana raised cottage, fronted by a gallery whose roof was held up by decorative wrought-iron columns connected to one another by an iron railing. The second story was topped by dormer windows that looked out above the flat roof of the veranda and down the avenue of interlocking oaks. The weathered cypress that had been used in the house’s construction was a soft silver-gray, which blended in a monochromatic sweep with the color of the moss.

  Abby wondered briefly how the department had gotten access to a place like this, but she supposed that didn’t matter. It was just something else to pretend to contemplate in order not to have to think about the man who was waiting inside.