The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  “Go call the police, but first hide this.” He held out his gun to me. “The police don’t need to know about it. I never fired it and I’ll never be able to explain where it came from.” His eyes anxiously searched my face. “You’re sure you’re all right?” he pressed.

  “What about the second shadow behind the garage?” I asked, taking the Sig Sauer from his hand. “There could be someone else?”

  “There was no second shadow, Nicci. It was just nerves,” he reassured as he struggled with his breath. “If there was someone working with him, they would have shown themselves by now.”

  I took in a deep gulp of air, fighting off the veil of numbness trying to take over my mind. “All right. I’ll go and call the police.”

  He reached out and touched my shoulder. “You had a clean shot and you took it,” he said in between labored breaths.

  I turned and watched Michael’s blood pooling on the stairs.

  “After all the things he said, all the things he did, I had no choice, right?”

  “You saved us. You made the right choice.” He smiled weakly, and then as suddenly as it had appeared, his smile vanished. “Use your cell phone to call the police in case he cut the phone lines.” He grabbed his left side and his face went deathly white. “I’ll just wait here until the police arrive.”

  I went to the kitchen, hid the Sig Sauer beneath some rags under the sink, and then dug my cell phone out from my purse on the counter. Then I noticed my hands were shaking. I took a deep breath and dialed 911.

  “911. What is your emergency?” a woman’s voice said over the phone.

  “Yes,” I swallowed back the lump forming in my throat, “someone has broken into my house and tried to kill me. I shot him. Now he’s dead and bleeding all over my stairs.”

  Chapter 24

  The local police and the state sheriff’s department showed up ten minutes later and turned on the generator out in my back shed, flooding the house and surrounding property with light. They searched the grounds and then questioned Dallas and me while a paramedic cleaned the gash over his eye and taped his ribs. The paramedic wanted to take Dallas to the hospital for overnight observation, but he naturally refused.

  The coroner’s staff took Michael’s body away after they had taken dozens of photographs and covered his hands with plastic bags. They put his wallet and car keys in one plastic bag. They put the gun, rope, electrical wire, pliers, and the scalpel he had brought with him in another plastic bag and threw it on top of his body. We were informed that his red Porsche was found down the road next to where he had cut the power line.

  I told the state sheriff’s officers everything Michael had said to me. Dallas informed the local policemen he was an architect staying with me after a car accident. He then instructed them to contact the New Orleans Police Department for more information about the brake line being cut on my Pathfinder. The local policemen found the back door had been pried open with a tire iron and the garage had also been broken into. After all the stories had been repeated a few times and the evidence sorted through, the authorities felt it was a clear attempt by Michael to kill us while we slept. They reasoned the shooting had been justified. In Louisiana, you have the right to kill any intruder found inside your home or car. The right to protect yourself and your property, at all costs.

  After three hours of questioning, forensic analysis, and evidence collection, Dallas and I were left alone in the house with yellow tape around the stairs and blood splatters on the walls, steps, and landing. It was right about that time my father and Uncle Lance showed up. Dallas had called them; I wasn’t sure when he had found the time.

  As soon as I opened the front door, my father’s arms were all around me. “Thank God! Thank God!” he just kept repeating over and over again.

  Even Uncle Lance held me close for a long time, telling me how much he loved me, and how worried he had been.

  When their eyes fell on Dallas, broken and still bloody, the men approached him and hugged him too. Just not as hard as they had hugged me.

  “Thank you,” my father said to Dallas. “You saved her.”

  Dallas limped from the front entrance into the living room. “Actually, your daughter saved me, Bill. Michael jumped me on the stairs and knocked my head against the banister.” He took a seat on the couch, gingerly easing his body down into the plush upholstery. “I came out of my stupor in time to see her standing over me, shooting. She is the hero. Kinda robbed me of all my glory.”

  My father came over to my side as I stood in the entrance to the living room. “Either way, it’s finally over,” he declared.

  I turned to my father. “He admitted killing David,” I calmly began. “He told me how he had come out here to get me back and his Porsche got a flat. David had pulled over to help him.” I paused, shaking my head with disbelief. “Michael shot him while the man was fixing his tire. He seemed to get some sadistic thrill in telling me how he left David bleeding and groaning to die on the side of the road.”

  “The police told us,” Dallas broke in, “the original witness report stated they saw David helping someone change a tire on a red car, but the witness was never able to identify the car.”

  My uncle took a seat in the chair by the window. “That cold-hearted bastard. And all that time we just thought he was a moron, not some sick pervert with an obsession about you.”

  “He was a control freak,” Dallas explained. “If he couldn’t have Nicci then no one else could. She was safe from Michael until another man came into her life.”

  My father walked over to the couch and patted Dallas on the shoulder. “And thank God that man was you.”

  “Well, I don’t know about anyone else in here,” Lance said as he stood up from his chair and clapped his hands together, “but I could use a drink.”

  I walked over to Dallas and took a seat next to him on the couch. “We don’t have anything here, Uncle Lance.”

  My uncle headed for the front door. “Not to worry. As soon as your father woke me with the news, I packed the bar into his trunk.”

  My father stood up and stared at his older brother. “You’re kidding! Lance, only you would think to pack a bar when we are heading out the door to a murder scene.”

  “Yeah, thank God one of us had his wits about him,” Uncle Lance remarked as he stepped out the front door.

  “You didn’t pack the whole bar?” my father questioned, following his brother outside.

  Dallas and I were alone for however long it took for the two men to unpack a bar from my father’s trunk.

  He reached out and took my hand in his. “You all right? It’s not like shooting a stranger in the dark, is it?”

  I shook my head.

  “No matter what you do from this moment on, no matter what you think, I want you to remember you did the right thing tonight,” Dallas said, his voice firm yet comforting. “Some people have to die. It’s you or them.” He paused and squeezed my hand. “Never question what happened tonight, Nicci. Promise?”

  “I promise. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I sighed. “For ending it.”

  “That’s what I was hired to do.” He let go of my hand and slowly repositioned his body against the couch. “Forget about tonight and get on with your life. Write your stories and never wonder anymore. You’ve appeased David. Free yourself of the past.”

  “It’s funny. After I looked into Michael’s eyes and knew he was dead, I suddenly felt lighter. Does that sound wrong? I thought I should feel more…”

  “Devastated?” Dallas offered.

  I nodded. “Yes. I always thought killing someone would make me feel tormented, conflicted, or just downright scared.” I peered down at my still trembling hands and whispered, “But I don’t feel anything.”

  He turned away from me. “Those feelings will come later. They always do after your first kill. No matter what you do from now on, Nicci, you’ll be different.”

  I looked over at his p
rofile. “I’ll be like you.”

  He shook his head. “No, you’ll never be like me. I was trained to be what I am. You did not choose this outcome. Michael did.”

  “You’re never going to tell me.”

  He took in a deep breath and winced. “Tell you what?”

  “About you.” I paused. “You’re never going to let me in, are you?”

  But at that moment Uncle Lance walked back in through the front door carrying two boxes loaded with bottles. “All right,” Uncle Lance called out. “I’ve got Stoli vodka. I’ve got soda, and I think your father is carrying the box with the orange juice.” He put the box down on the living room floor. “So who wants a drink?”

  “Make mine a double,” Dallas exclaimed.

  My uncle raised his eyes from the box he was carrying to me. “Nicci, why don’t you go get us some glasses?”

  I got up from the couch and walked down the hall to the kitchen. As I passed through the dining room, my eyes caught a glint of the gold shining from the painting hanging on the far wall. I stared at the painting of me sitting at that dining room table typing on the old typewriter David had given me.

  “Write all of those wonderful stories floating around in your head,” David’s voice echoed inside of me. “It’s time to start writing again, Nicci.”

  A sudden sense of emptiness overtook me. I realized that the painting before me was just that, a painting. It was not David. I had held on to everything that reminded me of him because I had thought it would keep David with me. I no longer felt comforted by my mementos, only encumbered by them. Dallas had been right; it was time to let go of the past.

  “And Nicci,” my uncle’s shouting broke into my thoughts, “bring some ice with you too.”

  “Yes, Uncle Lance.” I turned my back on the portrait and walked away.

  Chapter 25

  One of the investigators from the local police department, a Detective Ray Nelson, came by three days after the shooting to update us on the case.

  Detective Nelson was a muscular, middle-aged man with a receding head of brown wavy hair, tanned skin, and a warm smile.

  He informed us that the police were going to close the case on David’s murder. Michael’s confession had proved his guilt and my use of extreme force had been ruled self-defense. Detective Nelson also told us that the New Orleans police had discovered that Michael had worked as a mechanic in high school.

  “The doctor was real good with cars,” Detective Nelson said with a thick Louisiana drawl. “The NOPD thinks he’s the one that cut your brake line.”

  “He must have been following me,” Dallas stated. “After our meeting with him New Year’s Day he followed me to Sammy’s and then cut the brake line.”

  “I still got one question though,” Detective Nelson asked. “There were two bullets pulled from the doctor’s body at autopsy. One bullet came from your gun, Miss Beauvoir. The other didn’t.” The detective turned to me. “Any ideas as to the whereabouts of a .357 Magnum?”

  A shock wave rippled through me. “What?” I shouted.

  “The bullet was pulled out of the doctor’s head.” Detective Nelson explained. “It was the shot that killed him. Now in this part of the world we could care less about that gun, ’cause we got enough on the doctor to prove he was out to kill you two. And self-defense is self-defense. It just makes our paperwork all nice and tidy when all the missing pieces come together.” He winked at me. “If you know what I mean.”

  Dallas looked over at the detective. His eyes were filled with surprise. “You got the only gun we had in the house, Detective. Perhaps there was a mistake at the autopsy.”

  Detective Nelson gave a knowing grin. “That’s just what I told my chief, Mr. August.”

  As we watched the detective’s unmarked car make its way down the shell road, I turned to Dallas. “Where did that bullet come from?” I asked.

  Dallas put his arm around my shoulder. “Seems there was someone else here that night, Nicci. But they must have been on our side.”

  “What do we do?”

  Dallas gazed out to the open land surrounding us and said, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  * * *

  Dallas had a morning flight back to New York and we were busy packing up our bags and loading them into my Jeep. I swept through the house one last time, making sure all of the windows and doors were securely locked, and set the new alarm system. The house had been professionally cleaned and all the bloodstains and evidence of the crime had been removed from the stairs.

  As I walked my bags out to the Jeep, I saw Dallas looking out over the property. The blue and white “for sale” sign stood behind him.

  “You sure you want to sell?” he asked as he helped me load the last of my bags in the back of the Jeep.

  I surveyed the land around us and then turned back to the house, remembering the first time I had come here. The way David had appeared that day on the porch covered with paint and waiting for me.

  I slammed the Jeep hatch closed. “Yes, I’m finished here.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Dallas smiled at me as he walked to the passenger side door. “Nicci, there is one place I would really like to visit before I go back to New York.”

  His eyes met mine and suddenly I knew what he needed to see.

  I climbed behind the wheel and started the car. “We’ll stop by there on the way out of town,” I told him as I put the car into gear.

  I watched the Acadian house where I had known such happiness, and such pain, slowly disappear in my rearview mirror. But I had my memories, and that was all I needed. Things don’t keep people in your heart, you do. And from that moment on, those things no longer seemed to matter to me anymore.

  We pulled up to the little church that looked like it belonged on a postcard with its leaning moss-laden oaks reaching out over the small cemetery next to it. I got out of the Jeep and strolled up the familiar brick path to the giant oak tree that lovingly protected my David. The granite cross sparkled in the morning sun as I bent over and wiped the leaves away from around his grave.

  “David Alexander beloved painter,” Dallas said as he read the headstone. “He would have liked that.” He took in the peaceful surroundings and then he whispered, “How did you find this place?”

  I followed his gaze around the churchyard. “David found it. About a week before he was killed he brought me here. Said he wanted to paint me under this tree.” I looked over at the giant oak next to me and then my eyes traveled down the thick trunk until I found David’s granite cross. “When I had to start making arrangements for the funeral, I remembered this place. I thought he would be happy here.”

  “You picked a great hideaway,” Dallas mumbled.

  “Hideaway?”

  He waved his hand casually in the air. “It was something David mentioned whenever we discussed our plans.”

  I frowned at him. “What plans?”

  Dallas sighed and peered down once more at the tombstone. “Contingency plans in case we ever had to disappear. David always said the ultimate way to hide away from the world was to die. How right he was.” His eyes turned to me. “He would have loved it here, Nicci. He would have loved your book too.”

  I smiled as I thought of David. “I wrote it for him. He was my inspiration.”

  Dallas stepped over to me and took my hand. “And what is to be the inspiration for your next novel?” he asked as he pulled me away from David’s grave.

  We started back down the small brick path to the car walking hand in hand.

  “I haven’t been able to work that out yet. But now that everything is settled,” I said as I took in the idyllic setting, “I can begin writing again.”

  Dallas turned around once more, glanced back at David’s cross, and smiled. “That would make us both very happy.”

  * * *

  We made it to the airport with time to spare. I pulled the car up to the American Airlines terminal and helped Dallas remove his bags from the back of
the Jeep. A porter came over to our car and checked his tickets then loaded the bags onto a cart for him. Dallas may have thought he looked tough, but the gash over his left eye had not yet healed and his ribs still bothered him when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  He turned to me. “How do we do this?”

  I came around to his side and felt a pang of disappointment squeeze my heart. “Perhaps we should just say good-bye,” I suggested as I held out my hand to him. “And thank you for everything.”

  He took my hand, pulled me to him, and kissed me hard on the mouth. When he let me go, the porter was eyeing us both up and down.

  “You sure you want him to leave?” the porter asked.

  I laughed and then turned back to Dallas.

  “So long, sweet cheeks. I know you might not understand why, but know that I will never forget you.”

  My heart began to break a little when I looked once more into his dark blue eyes. I smiled bravely for him and nodded. He turned away from me, grabbed his cart, and quickly disappeared inside the terminal doors. I stood for a moment and waited for the electric doors to close behind him. I forced back the urge to run after him and beg him to stay or at least make him hold me one last time.

  When I turned to head back to my car, the porter spoke to me. “You got it bad,” he said.

  I stopped and studied the man with the rich coffee-colored skin and shining brown eyes. “What?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “That boy. Shame to let somethin’ like that get away.”

  I took a breath and shrugged. “It’s for the best.”

  I stepped back into my Jeep and turned the engine over. I did not look back at the doors through which Dallas had disappeared. I concentrated instead on the road in front of me. I pulled the Jeep out into the bright morning sun and marveled with wonder at the glory of the blue sky above.