Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

  Had Jeff forgotten it was tucked inside Vanilla Orchid Magic when he lent me the book? I certainly had no business removing it from the spot where it was left, especially if it had personal meaning for author and researcher.

  What had happened in Port de Basse-Terre? For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Jeff was something more than just an author’s assistant. Could he have been researching drug trafficking in Guadeloupe, using his mother as cover?

  But then I remembered what Rocky had told me. Jeff had recently graduated from college when he had the terrible accident changed his life. Surely it had just been a mother-son project, given that Jeff was still recovering during that trip. My mind was playing tricks with me, encouraging my overactive imagination to run wild.

  “Om...fah...da...num...hex...it!” The sudden, unexpected conversation in the next startled me. Nancy turned over in bed and mumbled something else about stopping soon for gas. I decided she must be dreaming about driving the RV, so I went back to my reading.

  I heard a muffled sound as I lay in bed just after midnight, a soft footfall on the wood floor. Alain was at his desk down the hall, calling an associate in France. I could hear his muffled conversation through the open window.

  “Nora!” a hushed voice beckoned me. I turned in the direction of that whisper and found Inspecteur Noiret at my bedside. “Hurry! We must get you out of here now! Where are your shoes?”

  “My shoes?”

  “There isn’t much time. Shush!” He crossed to the door and opened it a crack, listening for signs of moment in the hallway. Satisfied, he silently shut it and returned to my side.

  “Where are we going?” I was still feeling emotionally hung over from my crying jag, and it wasn’t easy to shake it off. “Has something happened?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. You must trust me, Nora.” The French policeman pulled the covers back, encouraging me to rise. “You are in grave danger!”

  Gazing into those eyes, I instantly recognized the worry he felt and leapt from my bed. He stood at my side as I snatched my robe from the bedside chair, slipped my feet into my huaraches, but as I headed toward the open French door, Inspecteur Noiret stopped me, his hand on my arm.

  “Non, non! Un moment!” He quickly crossed to the en suite bathroom, flicked on the light, and fiddled with the knob before closing the door. “Just in case anyone looks in on you -- let them believe you are locked in there, crying your eyes out.”

  I found myself liking Inspector Noiret as the story unfolded. He reminded me in some ways of Lincoln. The FBI agent seemed to share some qualities with the French policeman. Both seemed steady and reassuring, and yet quite competent in an emergency. I thought if I were in danger, I would trust the fictional Jean-Claude.

  But I realized, as I continued the tale, that Serena Duvall had told the reader nothing personal about the man. Was he married, with a family back in France? Did he choose this assignment, or was he a rogue cop, acting on his own during his investigation? Who made the decisions about what happened to Nora? Were they made in Guadeloupe or back in Lyon, at Interpol headquarters, where Jean-Claude’s bosses were? Most of all, I wanted to know if he realized Nora was falling in love with him and how he felt about that possibility.

  Tiptoeing, we stealthily made our way out to the terrace and around to the back of the house, skirting the shadows until we got to the banana grove, where we paused, hoping our escape had not been observed by one of Alain’s goons. From where we stood, I could see the light remained on in the study, the windows open to the night air. Alain must still be on the phone. I was not yet missed. As the minutes passed, we began to plan our next, riskier move. The moon was full, casting a silver glow across the open field. It was a good four hundred yards from where we huddled in the shadows to the edge of the forest.

  “Nora,” Inspecteur Noiret said softly, pulling out his handgun and cocking it, “we must run like the wind. Whatever happens, don’t stop. I have a man waiting in a car at the end of the lane. If we get separated, I will join you there. Are you ready?”

  I nodded, my apprehension growing with every minute we lingered. What if we didn’t make it? Would we end up in the bay, like Guy? Inspecteur Noiret must have sensed my fear. He took my hand, squeezing it gently, as we stepped away from the darkness and into light.

  “It will be okay,” he promised me.

  Our first few steps were tentative, cautious, but then we began to pick up speed, making a mad dash through the scrub grass, exposed and vulnerable. I could see the wooded sanctuary ahead as we closed in on it. If we could reach it, I told myself, I might be free of Alain Beaumont once and for all. That gave me the impetus to run faster, but in my sprint to the tree line, I caught my sandal on a rock and lost my footing. Pitching forward, I stumbled. Inspecteur Noiret’s strong grip on my hand kept me upright and I recovered quickly, just as a sharp crack cut through the air. A moment later, something whizzed by me and struck the tree fifty yards ahead.

  “Sacré bleu!” he gasped, as he pushed me down to the ground, releasing me. My hands bore the brunt of the fall as they scraped along the rough terrain, carried by the momentum of my trajectory. “Nora, stay down!”

  “What was that?” I cried. I heard another crack, louder than the first, as a second slug split the bark of the same tree, this time two feet lower. “Dear Lord!”

  “Crawl,” he urged me, waving me towards the forest. “And keep your head down!”

  As I came to the end of the chapter, I knew I couldn’t stop there. The digital clock on the bedside table informed me it was 1:24. I was too wound up to sleep. Maybe it was the coffee I’d had after dinner. I continued reading, telling myself that I would sleep in the RV tomorrow, while we traveled.

  I made it ten feet before I realized he was not with me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw why. Inspecteur Noiret was lying on his belly, facing a man pointing a shotgun in our direction. It was Alain. In the glow of the effulgent moon, my husband’s face reflected the palpable fury he felt towards me; he wanted me dead -- of this I had no doubt. That was enough to instinctively propel me onward in a burst of panic. On hands and knees, I shimmied along the rough ground, too aware of every twig and rock assaulting my tender skin. But my physical discomfort was nothing compared to what I would feel if the shooter succeeded. I was running out of time. There was a chance I might escape, but only if I could outrun Alain. I had to reach that tree cover.

  In the ensuing chaos, I tried to focus. How many more shots were fired? Had there been four or five? The blasts of the shotgun were louder now, and Inspecteur Noiret’s handgun seemed to go silent. Was Inspecteur Noiret hurt...or worse?

  My knees were raw by the time I reached my leafy sanctuary, but there wasn’t time to take a breath. Carefully hugging a large sweet chestnut, I got to my feet, daring to peer into the moonlight. In the distance, I saw three silhouettes headed this way, yet still far enough away not to pose an immediate threat. Alain, however, was a different story. I observed him holding his weapon in one hand as he stood above the prostrate French policeman. He gave Inspecteur Noiret a hard kick in the side before raising the barrel just a few inches, aiming at his chest as my protector writhed in pain. Horrified, I waited for the blast that never came. Inspecteur Noiret, swiftly rolling away, threw his legs around Alain’s and used them like a pair of scissors to cut him down to the ground. The two men wrestled for possession of the shotgun, trading punches, and all I could think of was I was about to lose my only chance for freedom. Despite Inspecteur Noiret’s instruction to make my way to the waiting car down the lane, I hesitated. What good did it do me to run if Alain followed? I had seen the depth of his hatred for me and I did not doubt that he would act upon it the moment he saw an opening.

  I’m not sure I know why I did what I did. Perhaps it was pure instinct. With a deep breath, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and ran the hundred feet. The shotgun was now on the ground, seven or eight feet from the combatants. I snatched it in my hands and cocke
d it, before leveling it at Alain.

  “Stop it!” I cried. Neither man seemed inclined to do so, so I fired a shot into the air. That brought them around to my way of thinking. Shock registered on Inspecteur Noiret’s face for a brief moment as he looked up, and then he rolled into action. With a quick snap of his wrist, he used his gun to coldcock his opponent. Alain, losing consciousness, was no longer an immediate threat. For just one second, I felt an impulse, an urge to end his reign of terror with just one shot, but I knew I couldn’t do that. Instead, I pointed the weapon at the ground, staring at my tormenter, now unable to respond, and wondered if it was now over.

  “Give me the shotgun, Nora,” said my protector. I stood woodenly, my fingers stiff and unyielding, until Inspecteur Noiret pried them apart from the stock and removed it from my grasp. “Let it go. He can’t hurt you at the moment.”

  The same could not be said of the rapidly approaching men, quickly closing the distance between us. They were still too far away, but that didn’t stop them from shooting at us.

  “To the trees, Nora!” he cried, even as he turned and fired.

  This time I didn’t bother to crawl. I ran as fast as I could until I was deep inside the lush, leafy shelter on the hillside above Petit Bourg. The battle was in full swing. I covered my ears to the deafening sound of gunfire, even in my haste to escape. My heart was thumping against my chest as the terror overtook me. Pressing forward, I struggled to navigate my way through the maze of tree trunks. The moonlight didn’t penetrate the forest canopy, so I was stuck trying to feel my way through the darkness. Was I even headed in the right direction? Without some indicator along the unfamiliar route, I feared I had no way of knowing. I had no wish to be lost in the rainforest, but it was preferable to being back in the open field.

  But then, within a minute or so, I began to recognize telltale signs of the verdant landscape. The vanilla orchids, wrapped around sweet chestnut trees, were thick with beans ready to be picked. I had often come here to check on them, anticipating the harvest. Keeping to the left of them, if I climbed up the slight rise, would bring me to the waterfall. There I would find the enormous acomat boucan tree by the rocks. I would have to take care not to trip on its snakelike roots. Once I got past it, I would come to the local swimming hole, and from there, the path down to the lane.

  Even as I processed my plan, I became alert to the change in my circumstances. Behind me on the path now, there was only silence. Was that a good or bad thing? Had those men captured Inspecteur Noiret? Were they, at this moment in time, hunting me?

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Why did the thought of Le Scorpion bother me so much? Why did he remind me of Jared? Was it his seduction of Nora, his determination to get at Le Papillon through her?

  I related to Nora as a woman, and even as a business owner. Both of us loved the land, thanks to the farming generations that came before us. Her family grew coffee and spices; mine grew flowers. But there was some other connection between us, something that eluded me. What was it?

  As I closed the book for the night and shut off the table lamp, I settled my head on the pillow and searched my mind for the answer. My restless brain continued to whirl around the details, seeking the result, but nothing came. I lay awake for almost an hour, unable to let go of that dark worry. I was missing something, something I should know about Jared. But what could it be?

  I tried thinking about the differences between Nora and me, hoping that might trigger a helpful train of thought. My father, unlike Nora’s, was alive and well, working on his project for Petry Chemicals at a secure research facility. Nor was I an only child. I had a pair of sisters. Violet really was a violinist, a concert master in fact, living in Austria. Pansy had been in the Army for the better part of a decade, and she had done two tours in the Middle East, patching up traumatically injured soldiers. All of us had new identities that would prevent anyone from realizing we were related. I kept in sporadic touch with my sisters, under the pretext we were friends, rather than relatives. None of that seemed to mesh with Nora’s story, and yet I knew there was a connection between us. What was it?

  I turned my thoughts back to Jared. What had I told him about myself? Only that I was in the witness protection program. I had never told him about my family or the reason we were in the program. I never even told him I had a family. For all he knew, I didn’t have one.

  I don’t know what time it was when I finally drifted off to sleep. Nancy shook me awake just after eight.

  “Sorry, buttercup. It’s rise-and-shine time. We’ve got to hit the road in thirty minutes or Vince will have a complete nuclear meltdown. You can sleep in the RV.”

  Dismayed, I hopped out of bed and ran a frustrated hand through my unwashed hair. Maybe tomorrow, I groaned, grabbing a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and clean underwear on my way into the bathroom. Nancy stopped me as I went past her.

  “We’ll grab some breakfast on our way out the door. In the meantime, want a cup of coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot here.”

  “Thanks,” I nodded, taking the cup she offered as I headed into the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, I emerged. Nancy’s suitcase was by the door, already packed. I grabbed my toiletries bag and pajamas, tossed them into my case, and zipped it up. “Ready.”

  “Not quite. Did you take your medication?”

  “I did not,” I sighed, frustrated with myself for forgetting. I pulled the pills bottles from my tote bag, and while I counted out the pills, Nancy checked my ear for signs of infection.

  “Still looks pretty good, kid, all things considered. Gunshot wounds can be tricky. People think you’re lucky if you get hit in the hand or the foot....”

  “Or the ear?”

  “It might not be a vital organ, but you’d be amazed at the problems you can have. A friend of mine once got shot in the palm. The tendon damage was severe. Steve spent months with a physical therapist, but never did regain the full use of his hand.”

  “More serious than an ear,” I remarked lightly, not wanting to think about what a chewed up, spit out mess my ear must be. She disagreed with me.

  “Not necessarily. Your ears are shaped that way to conduct sound efficiently. Without a proper one, you can have a lot of distortion in what you hear, leading to communication issues. For a protected witness, it can be a security thing, especially if you can’t hear the bad guy coming up on you. And let’s be honest -- it’s hard to wear glasses or use a Bluetooth headset if there’s nothing there. Oh, the cosmetic scars aren’t just a matter of vanity either. What if you want to wear earrings? You’d be surprised how important those ears of yours are.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I smiled. I appreciated the effort she made. Maybe I hadn’t come to grips yet with actually being shot.

  “Am I?” She poked around a bit. “Your wound looks pretty good. There’s just a little bit of ear missing and most of the scarring will be on the back, out of sight. You must have been scared stiff when the bullet hit you.”

  “Oh, I was well beyond terrified by then,” I admitted. “I’d seen my handler shot, had some woman lock me in the trunk of a car for several hours, and then, when she was shot and killed, I had to scramble to get out of the sinking car before the ice swallowed it up. By the time I got shot, I was already in shock. I was wet, desperate, and suffering from hypothermia.”

  “Maybe that’s what saved you,” she told me, her expression thoughtful. “Gunshot wounds can be tricky. Your body temperature was probably pretty low, and that would have affected your blood circulation.”

  “Maybe. The worst part was when I came to, naked in the ambulance, with a bunch of men watching me. The paramedic said I had to be careful not to move, because I could trigger a heart attack.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, kid. Those guys are usually so pumped up on adrenaline and focused on the subject of their rescue, they don’t think about that kind of stuff until the crisis is over.” Nancy gave me a gentle pat on the bac
k. “Interesting story, though. No wonder Jeff wants to know more about you. For someone who’s been through this kind of experience, you seem remarkably resilient.”

  “Do I?” I looked at her, feeling less than confident. “I’ve never really had much of a choice. It’s always been about survival.”

  “All the more reason you should put it into perspective when you have the chance, kid.” She reached down and grabbed her bags. I did the same. “Maybe that book you’re so attached to is helping you to do that.”

  “Maybe. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one with these kinds of problems,” I smiled. “Poor Nora’s up to her eyeballs in trouble.”

  “Ah, misery loves company. You might even learn something from the heroine if she’s smart,” she chuckled, opening the door to the hallway. Vince leaned against the hallway wall, tapping on his cell phone, obviously waiting for us. “Speaking of misery, good morning to you, oh fearless leader. How long have you been out here? Five minutes? Ten?”

  “Wow, you’re even funny in the morning, Zemaki. How do you do it?” he growled in response.

  “It’s a gift,” she grinned mischievously. “Don’t you wish you had it, too?”

  The trip to Kansas City was uneventful and that was a good thing. Now that I was more than halfway through Vanilla Orchid Magic, I found myself feeling increasingly uneasy. The longer Nora remained on the island of Guadeloupe, the more perilous her life became. How could she get away from her ruthless husband? There were only two ways off the island -- by boat or by plane; either way, Le Scorpion was likely track her down wherever she went in the Caribbean and send someone after her. He not only had the money, he had the resources, and he was all too aware that Nora knew more about his business than she pretended.

  That kind of fear was familiar to me. It’s hard to accept someone wants to harm you, not because of something you’ve done wrong, but because of circumstances beyond your control. Nora and I were both hunted women.