Crossfire (3 page)

She didn’t miss a beat. “Stefan is a professional stunt man. He’s had a few accidents in his career, including a serious car accident about three years ago. I’ve been trying to get him to give up, before he kills himself.”

“A wise decision,” Didier said. “Well, if his vital signs improve sufficiently you can take him home, provided Louis goes with you.”

“Shouldn’t he stay in hospital for a few days?”

Louis responded first. “Of course, that would be the ideal scenario, chéri, but tomorrow the clinic is open, and it will be difficult to keep your secret once the nurses are here. All we need is one of them to speak out of turn.”

Her shoulders sagged. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinking.” She turned to Didier. “Thank you again for putting yourself and your clinic at risk for me.”

“Louis and I have been friends since medical school. How could I refuse my oldest and dearest friend? Now I know the full story, I’m glad I trusted my instincts.”

She hoped her guilt didn’t show on her face as she extended a hand to Didier. “Please let me know what I owe you.”

He waved it away. “There is no cost, except an autographed cycling jersey. My eldest daughter is one of your greatest admirers. I will tell her Louis obtained it for me, to stop any questions.”

She smiled. “Of course, I will see you get it.”

~ . ~

Marcelle slowed as she approached the gates of the complex, blinding the guards with her powerful headlights. She hoped they wouldn’t notice her bloody and disheveled state, or the lateness of the hour.

As two guards approached, she smiled and held up her identification card for inspection. As usual they greeted her with an enthusiastic, “Bonsoir, Madame Deschamps!”

She replied in her usual manner, graciously accepting their congratulations on her victory.

Moments later, she drove into the extensive grounds of the housing complex she shared with other sports celebrities. Three hundred meters on, she pulled into the driveway to her apartment. The term apartment was an understatement for the stylish three-story structure. In the light of the harsh orange security lighting, several other identical buildings were visible.

The heavy oak door of the garage opened soundlessly as she pressed the remote control on the dashboard of the car. An overhead light came on as the racing car nudged into the spacious interior, large enough for four cars. She cut the engine of the Ferrari, and the garage door whirred shut behind the vehicle.

A black Chevrolet van, with red racing trim and wide tires, occupied the other half of the garage. In front of it stood a black Lamborghini Diablo, gleaming under the bright lights, waiting in vain for his master.

Marcelle closed the door of the Ferrari and walked to an elevator at the back of the garage. The doors slid open soundlessly after she keyed a code on the keypad. She entered the mirrored interior, shocked when she saw herself in the polished glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she was pale as a ghost. Now she understood why the doctors had believed her story without question. Louis had been reluctant to let her drive home alone, but she had insisted he stay with Stefan and Didier.

The doors closed, and the sudden pull of gravity on her tired legs made her grab a smooth rail for support. The doors opened a few seconds later on a luxurious living room. She walked down the long passage leading from the living room, the thick carpet muting her footsteps as she headed for the master bedroom.

She undressed in front of the massive mirror doors of the wall-to-wall wardrobe. The bedroom was large, luxurious, and decorated in shades of blue and white. Blue had been their favorite color, and she had left things the same way. The room held many memories of Jean-Michel, and she wistfully recalled their first night in their new home. They had held a huge housewarming party, the evening ending in passion on the king-sized bed.

Marcelle caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and was shocked at the naked longing she saw there. This wouldn’t do. Visibly shaking herself, she went to the en-suite bathroom. The bathroom was a soft baby blue with white tiles, and she made her way to the glass shower cubicle. She turned on the powerful spray of the shower, and adjusted the temperature before stepping under the water.

The hot water peppered her slender body, streaming in sheets over the washboard ripples of her belly, and cascading down her long legs. The young champion’s body was tanned golden brown, with a darker tan starting midway down her thighs and upper arms, the characteristic tan of a professional cyclist. Marcelle had acquired the tan during her preseason training in Spain.

She turned her face into the spray, allowing the hot water to relax her tense muscles, and soothe her tired mind. Somehow, the soap and face cloth weren’t enough as she scrubbed herself, trying to cleanse more than just the blood and grime off her skin.

Twenty minutes later, she had dried her hair and dressed in a comfortable blue tracksuit. She rode the elevator down to the garage, and climbed into the black van. If the guards wondered why she left at such a late hour, they didn’t show it, and she drove in the direction of the hospital.

~ . ~

By the time they had settled Stefan on one of the twin beds of a guest bedroom, it was after midnight. It had been easy to smuggle him into the complex, hidden in the back of the van. They had unloaded the stretcher in the privacy of the closed garage, ensuring complete secrecy. Doc Louis had also brought all the necessary hospital paraphernalia with him. Oxygen bottles and other medical equipment were stacked on the couch against the wall.

The German still wore the gown Louis and Didier had dressed him in at the hospital. His IV bags hung from a drip stand at the head of the bed, and the drainage bags hung from a short drip stand below the level of the bed. Though the oxygen mask still covered his nose and mouth, his face was no longer deathly pale. Marcelle took heart from his improvement. Every time his chest rose and fell, she was thankful for the miracle.

Doc Louis took a blood pressure reading, and noted the results in a small notebook. He looked pleased as he turned to her. “He’s strong, and he’s fighting hard. I think he will survive.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, stretching out on the matching twin bed. Now that all the stress was over, she had an overwhelming urge to sleep. She closed her eyes.

~ . ~

Marcelle opened her eyes at Doc Louis’ touch. He held an icy glass of Coca-Cola in his hand. She must have dozed off for a few minutes.

“This is exactly what you need, chéri.” He sat next to her and offered the soda. “Now, I want you to tell me the real story. I would like to know why I’m risking my freedom and reputation.”

Marcelle sat up, and took the glass from him. “What gave me away?”

“Well, you nearly convinced me, but...”

“But....”

“I don’t believe for one minute you would have kept it from me if you and this man had been seeing each other. On top of that, I don’t think you’ve seen the scars on his body. He’s no more a stunt man than I am. This man is either a professional soldier, or a criminal.”

“Do you think Didier would have come to the same conclusion?”

“Even if he did, he’ll do nothing to jeopardize me. We go back a long way. Just see that he gets the cycling jersey.”

“I’ll send him a whole hamper of Ultima-Fabelta goodies, don’t worry.”

“Good. Now, please tell me what happened?”

Marcelle took a long sip of her Coke, studying her friend for a moment. Louis Gautier was of average height, with regular features, brown hair and kind blue eyes. On the wrong side of forty, he carried it well, showing only a few streaks of gray in his hair. He had the French habit of throwing his hands up at the slightest provocation, or giving an expressive Gallic shrug. He had been Jean-Michel’s doctor long before she entered her late husband’s life. The Frenchman was now the team doctor for her team, Ultima-Fabelta, on her recommendation, earning a massive salary. Yes, she could trust him with the truth.

“Well,” she said, “you’re not going to believe me but here goes.”

The words spilled from her in a rush, as if she could somehow purge her mind of the experience by passing it on to someone else. She worried about the expression of horror on Doc Louis’ face as she reached the end of her tale.

“I can’t believe you killed him.”

“What else was I to do? He threatened me with gang rape and death, and he wanted to kill Stefan. I don’t doubt that he and his pals had shot him in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police? Leaving the scene of a crime is a serious offence. And murder...”

“It wasn’t murder. I acted in self-defense, and he deserved what he got. As for going to the police, with my record, would they even have listened to me?” Her lip curled contemptuously. “I can imagine the headlines: Murderous Marcy strikes again! Innocent or not, that’ll spell the end of my career.”

Louis’ eyes twinkled. “Murderous Marcy strikes again?” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away his smile. He cleared his throat noisily. “Of course, you are right. So what do you plan to do?”

“Well, there were no witnesses. You’re the only person I have told about this, and I won’t tell anyone else,” she gestured towards the bed, “not even him. I’ll tell him I found him at the post office, took him to hospital and then brought him here.”

“He might not believe you.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Believe me, total silence is the way to go.”

Louis listened to his friend’s matter of fact tone, so in contrast to her display earlier. She had already disassociated herself from what had happened, the same coping mechanism she always used. Rather than take her on about it, as he has so many times before, he sought to change the subject. “Well, he’s going to be here at least six weeks. How will you train?”

As usual, everything revolved around her sport. “Maybe you could watch him for the first couple of weeks, until he can help himself. I’ll keep my sessions down to two hours, and you can tell Pierre-Henri I’m sick, and can’t race for the next two weeks. It’s only the beginning of April, so it’s early in the season. I can afford to miss a couple of races.”

Louis sighed. “You have it all worked out, chéri.”

“Will you help me? Please.”

“How can I refuse?”

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him until his ribs creaked in protest. “You won’t regret it.”

“I hope not,” Louis murmured.

~ . ~

Louis shook Marcelle’s shoulder where she lay on the second twin bed.

She woke with a start, her gaze immediately focusing on Stefan, who no longer wore the oxygen mask. “Is he okay?”

“He’s doing fine,” the doctor replied, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ll make us breakfast. Then you can sleep while I watch him.”

The kitchen was large and modern, situated next to the dining room at the head of the long passage. Decorated in yellow and white, it was a chef’s delight. Marcelle was an excellent cook, and when she had time, she cooked in bulk, freezing meals in the two huge refrigerators.

She filled the coffee machine, and while the coffee brewed, made breakfast, treating them to eggs, bacon and toast, foregoing her usual healthy breakfast.

After readying a large tray with mugs, milk and sugar, she added the plates of food. When the coffee was ready, she put the glass jar on the tray, and carried it through to the bedroom.

~ . ~

After breakfast, Doc Louis went to sleep in another bedroom.

Marcelle pulled a chair up to her patient’s bedside. She remembered sitting with Jean-Michel for seven torturous days while he lingered in a coma. Selfishly, she had been unwilling to let him go, though she had known he wouldn’t have wanted to live in a broken body, unable to pursue his obsession.

Stefan’s lighter skin and pale hair contrasted with her memories of her husband’s dark features against the white hospital sheets. She remembered from the passport photo that in health the German was remarkably handsome. Now a day’s dark stubble shadowed lean cheeks and a strong chin, and silky blond hair spilled onto the pale green pillow cover. His mouth looked as if it could smile often, his parted lips revealing regular white teeth. It was a perfect face, she had to admit, sinister in its beauty, like a mask that served to conceal something hideous. A shiver passed through her. Perhaps when he woke and she could see his eyes, she might feel reassured that she had made the right decision.

Doc Louis had asked her to wash their patient, so she fetched two basins from the kitchen, stopping at the linen cupboard for towels and face cloths. She filled both basins with warm water, and dropped soap into one. She carried the basins from the bathroom to the bedroom one at a time, and placed them next to the bed.

As she washed Stefan’s inert body, she tried her best to preserve his dignity, uncomfortable with his nudity. Though she had been a married woman, two years had passed since she’d confronted male sexuality, and her patient had visibly received more than his fair share, even in repose. She felt uneasy, wondering what Jean-Michel would think if he saw her now.