by Alan Chaput
Turning her back to the car, Patricia wrapped her body around Hayley, shielding her.
The sedan rammed the iron table into Patricia’s back, knocking her down on top of Hayley. Terrible, mind-numbing pain tore through Patricia’s back. The world spun. Brilliant stars filled her vision. She tried to scream. Nothing. The head-to-toe agony became secondary. Air! Air! She needed breath.
She inhaled, gasped from the stabbing pain, and sucked in the hurt with the air. Her mouth tasted of blood. The sickening smell of fuel registered. Get up. Get up, get Hayley and—
A bright flash exploded around her. Glass shattered. Hellfire scorched her back. She gulped foul air. Coughed. Choked. Her ears buzzed.
She forced her eyes open and looked back. Ten feet from her, huge orange flames engulfed the car. Black smoke billowed. Overhead, flames consumed the café’s canvas awning. The quickly spreading fire would soon engulf them; they’d surely die.
No! She was still alive. She could survive. She put her palms flat on the ground and pushed up. Searing pain filled her back. Each life-sustaining breath was torture. Still, she persisted, finally standing on weak legs and helping Hayley to stand. Six, maybe ten, pain-stabbing steps later Patricia, shouldering Hayley, couldn’t go any further. There was no air, no legs, no ...
* * *
Patricia ran her tongue over slick lips. Her pulse throbbed softly in her head. The air reeked of alcohol and pine disinfectant.
“Madame is a very courageous woman,” a distant female voice said with a French accent. “Her quick action saved her daughter’s life.”
A shudder ran the length of Patricia’s right arm. She forced her reluctant eyelids open to see who was speaking. Though blinding brightness registered, all she saw was a gray linoleum floor three feet below her. And why was she suspended in air? Where was she? Why couldn’t she move? Her head spun. Her stomach roiled. She was going to vomit. She opened her mouth.
“She moved her lips,” the voice said. “Madame Falcon. Patricia Falcon. Can you hear me?”
Patricia wanted to say ‘yes’ but her throat was numb. No words formed. No sound came. She nodded.
“C’est bon,” the voice said. “Do not talk. You are in the hospital. Your back has been badly burned. You are in a special bed to keep you off your back, and you must remain calm. The medication will help you.”
Patricia tried to smile her understanding, but her lips wouldn’t move. She tried to raise her hand to her face. Neither arm would elevate.
“Do not struggle,” the voice said. “You need to rest.”
Her questions about Hayley’s condition wouldn’t rest until she knew the answers. Desperation raged, whipped, and tore through her head like a hurricane. Why couldn’t she speak? Was it the drugs or her injuries?
Drool trickled from her mouth. Something refreshingly cool and wet wiped it away. Her face tingled where the drool had been. Someone was close enough to notice, to help.
If she made eye contact with them, maybe she’d get answers. Head throbbing, she squinted her eyes. Two slits. She scanned left and right for a body, anyone. Contact. She had to make contact. She twisted her head from side to side and searched the brightness. She could only make out an outline of what might have been a person. Good.
Darkness swallowed her.
* * *
Trey awoke from a troubled sleep as the Gulfstream eased down on the Orly Airport runway. His mouth was as dry as toast, and his bleary eyes itched. The jet shuddered as thrust was reversed and brakes engaged. The craft slowed. He yawned and stretched stiff joints, then watched the rain-soaked runway as they taxied to the General Aviation terminal.
As soon as the engines were shut down, a black Peugeot pulled up to the side of the jet. Still in a fog, he grabbed his briefcase, went to the front of the plane, and waited as the cabin attendant opened the door, deploying the stair into the rain. The wet tarmac glistened like black ice.
Two shadowy figures wrapped in black trench coats got out of the Peugeot, popped mammoth umbrellas, and scampered up the stairs.
As soon as the customs agent cleared him, they left the jet. Swirling, howling wind whipped rain everywhere. Together with his escorts, he cautiously clomped down the slippery steps and spilled into an idling limo.
Trey settled back onto the soft leather seat and breathed in the leather aroma wafting in the air. Normally, he would have been comforted by the familiar scent, but not today. He had too much on his mind.
As the limo left the airport and took the ramp onto the autoroute to the city, the gale picked up, sweeping the windows with sheets of rain as though the car had entered a violent car wash.
Patricia and Hayley were confined to an antiseptic hospital world where his incompetence had put them. He knew when your loved ones were in peril, you kept them close, guarded, and never out of sight. But he had gotten caught up in the chase for the killer, and the killer had been one step ahead in the chase for his family. A mistake. A God-awful mistake.
On the flight over, he’d been in contact with the French police, gathering information. The media was calling the car bombing at the café another terrorist attack, but no one had come forward to claim credit. Trey believed the attack was personal. The killer had followed his family to Paris. His throat constricted and he swallowed a choked breath.
The limo left the expressway. He looked out the window. Bleak, gray buildings with steep roofs came into view. No pedestrians. No one at the sidewalk café tables. The squall seemed to have sucked life from the city. As if to match his mood, La Ville Lumière, the City of Light, had morphed into the City of Gloom. Like a bar at closing, Paris had become inhospitable—lights off, everyone out.
Immediately on arriving at the Hôpital Cochin in Paris and presenting his credentials, Trey was shown to a small, tasteful conference room in the Burn Centre. The subdued incandescent lighting was warm. The absence of sound gave the place a solemn air.
An aide appeared and asked if he’d like coffee. Still under the influence of jet lag and a sleepless night, Trey was happy to say yes. The man left.
Haunted by concern for his family, Trey sat facing the entrance in one of the four leather chairs neatly arranged around a circular, polished teak table.
From what he had learned from his local contacts, the hospital was a level-one trauma facility, as well as the largest Burn Centre in France. Fortunately for his loved ones, they were in the best place for their injuries.
He knew the basic details of Patricia’s and Hayley’s situation, but he had been advised the true extent of their injuries would take at least twenty-four hours to manifest. Frightful time he had partially spent crossing the Atlantic by private jet and sitting in a French government limo as it rushed through the streets of Paris.
Two men and a woman entered. The men wore suits and the woman wore a wrinkled lab coat.
Trey stood on unsteady legs. His hands quivered as he searched their somber faces for any sign of good news. Seeing none, his heart sank.
A tall, square-faced, white-haired male introduced himself as the translator. He had a vacant look that probably suited his occupation. Then the female doctor overseeing Patricia’s and Hayley’s care introduced herself, and, finally, the male head of hospital security. As might be expected, the security man’s build was stocky and tall. The doctor seemed tiny and fragile beside the two huge men. Her short black hair contrasted sharply with her ghostly pale skin. They sat around the table.
The aide flitted in with coffee service and poured according to each person’s preference.
The translator asked, “Shall we begin, Monsieur Falcon?”
Trey nodded, then took a sip of the harsh and hot coffee. The coffee jolted his senses to full awareness. This could be the most important meeting of his life. He needed to be totally in it. He took and a swig of fortification.
The doctor repositioned her oversize glasses, consulted her tablet computer, and lifted her sad brown eyes to fix on his face.
His jaw t
ightened. He wanted the truth, but he feared it as well. He had no doubt the news would be devastating. A freight train of guilt returned.
The doctor spoke in French. The translator followed in accented English. “Your daughter, Hayley, faired remarkably well. Just a few superficial burns, some abrasions from her fall and smoke inhalation."
The doctor drew in a sharp breath. “Her burns are first-degree. Those wounds can be quite painful. Over the next two or three days the redness and pain should subside. Much like a sunburn, by the fourth day the injured skin will peel away.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed, marking her concern. “Sadly, your wife’s injuries are more serious. Though her arm and back burns are largely second-degree, fortunately, the rest of her body escaped serious injury. No broken bones from being struck, but some torn ligaments. She too suffers from smoke inhalation. Her burns should, baring complications, spontaneously heal within two to three weeks without functional impairment, though she is likely to have long-term pigment changes. At this point, my primary concern is infection prevention and keeping further desiccation of the wounds under control.”
“When may I see my wife and daughter?” he asked in a strangely weak voice.
“Immediately, if you wish.”
“I wish.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” the security chief said. “About the Swiss Guard?”
“I want them to guard both rooms around the clock.”
“Is there a particular reason?”
“Someone tried to kill my family with a car bomb. I don’t want the killer to be able to have access to my family here.”
The security chief nodded. “The papal guards will be no problem, Monsieur. However, if I might be so bold as to make a suggestion, since the Swiss Guard has no police authority in our country you might want to see if the Holy Father would grant your family members diplomatic status during their stay. If diplomatic status were given, the Swiss Guard would have full police authority over all matters concerning them.”
“An excellent suggestion, sir. Now, might I have access to my family?”
Chapter 28
Trey, dressed in cap, mask, gown and booties, pushed aside his trepidation. He sanitized his hands and stepped into the dim hospital room.
Patricia, arms swathed in bandages, lay facedown on the bed.
On seeing Patricia, his breathing accelerated and his pulse pounded in his ears. The image ... the love of his life reduced to this. He so wanted to be upbeat for her, but all he could think of was the reality of what he was seeing. The murderer had damn near killed her and Hayley.
Controlled by concern, he swallowed. Hard. Then he took a deep breath. He’d failed her. He’d failed to keep her safe. If he did nothing else the rest of his life, he’d never expose her to danger again. Never.
Though disconcerted, he did his best to push his worry aside so his agitation wouldn’t taint his voice. His heart thudded as he watched the green line on her monitor beat faster, watched her respiration pick up. She’d been through so much. She had to be in pain. His voice was the only way he could communicate with her, and he wanted to give her hope, to lift her spirit.
“Patricia. It’s me, Trey. Are you awake?” he asked, his words muffled by the thick infection-control mask he wore.
She nodded.
They’d told him because of her smoke inhalation treatment they preferred she didn’t talk today. To minimize infection risk, they advised him not to touch her.
“The doctor says you’re doing better than anticipated,” he said quietly. “I told them to expect more of the same from you.”
She nodded again.
“The doctor said Hayley is okay.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. I was wrong to assume you were safe. If ... if only I’d stayed with you. Protected you.” He took a deep breath to settle himself. “I love you, Patricia, more than life itself. I know I don’t tell you that enough, but you are my bedrock, my foundation, my everything. And no one will come between us again, ever. From now on, I’ll protect you. I’ll be here for you. You can count on that.”
* * *
Trey steeled himself, stepped into Hayley’s hospital room, and froze. Afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. Hayley lay motionless, covered with a thin white blanket. She seemed so alone. So vulnerable. She slowly turned her head toward him.
He fixed his eyes on hers, looking for hope.
Her formerly bright eyes were sunken and dull.
His stomach tumbled. The doctor had said she was on some medication for smoke inhalation. Had the medication stolen her spirit, or had the tragedy? His pulse thundered in his ears. Trying to be strong for her, he forced as warm a smile as possible.
“You look good in white,” Trey joked.
She exhaled an extended wheezy sigh.
“Your doctor says you’re making good progress.”
She nodded. “What ... what happened?”
“The French police think a terrorist was responsible. The car that jumped the curb was rigged with explosives and gasoline. They might be right. But there wasn’t a corpse in the car. Whoever drove that car wanted to survive. Survival doesn’t fit the standard terrorist profile. Plus, it was the wrong time of day. The café didn’t have many customers. I think you and Mama were targeted.”
“Did they capture the driver?”
“Not yet, but you’re safe here. Your room is guarded by a special agent from the Vatican.” He swallowed. “Sugar, you and Mama are the two people I care most about.” He gritted his teeth. “I can’t express how sorry I am for not being here. I made a mistake. A horrible, gut-eating mistake. I’m sorry. And though I so wish I could, I can’t change what happened. But I can prevent any more harm from coming to you or your mother, and I will.” He released a long sigh, hoping she’d reply, but she didn’t. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” she said, wheezing. “I don’t hate you. I love you.”
He squeezed her hand.
Hayley’s eyes got hard. “So it wasn’t a random attack?”
Trey swallowed. “I don’t believe so, but don’t worry. I’ll never leave you or your mom again until this killer is caught. I’m going to do everything I can to stop the killer and bring him to justice.”
“We are. I’m not afraid of him. I’ll do anything I can to help, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl.”
Her face transformed. Determination filled her eyes.
“Daddy,” she said, “how’s Mama?”
“She’s doing better than the doctor expected.”
“Exactly how is she?”
“Honey.” He gently took her hand. “Her condition is serious, but not life-threatening. It will be two or three weeks before her wounds heal.”
“Can I visit her?”
“Of course. Incidentally, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Who?”
“He’s a person I’ve spent the last two weeks with. He’s become like a brother to me. He’s very smart about major criminal matters like this and has great contacts here in Paris. I trust him explicitly. It was his idea to have the papal guard in the hall.” He stepped to the door and opened it. “He’s just out here. Father John, would you please come in?”
Father John shuffled in and dipped his head to her.
“Hayley, allow me to introduce Father John. Father John, this is my daughter, Hayley.”
Father John went to her bedside and peered down.
Hayley offered him her hand.
Father John took her hand. “Please call me John,” he said in a kind voice.
“My pleasure, John.”
“Father John will be here while I’m sleeping and—”
“You’re ... you’re going somewhere?”
“Just down the hall.” Trey gave Hayley a pager. “Just a page away.”
“Daddy, could I speak with you in private?”
“I’ll just step outside.” Father John inclined hi
s head toward the door.
Once he left the room, Trey asked, “What is it?”
“He’s an old, crippled priest. How’s he going to protect us? Prayer? Divine intercession?” Hayley glanced out the window, where a mango sky was developing. “You know I’m a believer, Daddy, but Mama and I need a lot more than faith right now.”
“I know, honey. Don’t be deceived by appearances. Father John has keen senses, an exceptional mind, and is considerably more talented than anyone else I could find to protect y’all. And I’ll be staying just down the hall. Trust me. What do you say? Are you good with this?”
“I guess so.”
Chapter 29
Shortly before nine the next morning, Patricia opened her eyes and looked at her bandaged arm. Agitation billowed at being targeted. Targeted just like Mama, Meredith and Alisa. A shiver went through her, triggering sharp pain in her back. She let out a whimper, then clamped down her jaw and squeezed her eyelids tight, fighting to maintain control. If she showed too much agony, they’d restart the heavy-duty painkiller morphine. And she didn’t want to go back into that foggy numbness again.
Despite the painkillers, the pain lurked, waiting for any movement. She took slow, even breaths. Calm, controlled breathing was hard. She wanted to gulp air, but she persisted with controlled breathing. As she calmed, the pain eased.
Her resentment toward her assailant was overwhelmed by her guilt. Her guilt over pulling her friends into the investigation of her mother’s death, and then putting her daughter at risk. In retrospect, she should have done the investigation by herself, just her and Trey. Trey had better resources than her friends. But in her defense, at the time she was neither sure her mother had been murdered, nor did she know how maniacal the killer was.
She whispered a prayer for Meredith’s full recovery, and for Mama and Alisa.
As for praying for her enemies? A sincere prayer for the perpetrator was going to take a while. Maybe after he was caught. Perhaps longer. At this stage, her anger overwhelmed forgiveness.