Reluctant Witness (29 page)

I slammed the door to our bedroom in his
face, barely able to contain my fury. What was I to do? I knew if I
stayed here, he would surely kill me, too.

I soaked in the hot water for the better part
of an hour. I could see Nora’s relationship with Alain crumbling
right before my eyes as she became more and more aware of Guillaume
Chartier’s true identity. I worried that she was on her own. Where
was Inspector Noiret -- had he just abandoned her after insisting
she marry Le Scorpion?

Once out of the tub and dressed in my
pajamas, I decided to read for a little while longer, not wanting
to wait until the morning to find out Nora’s fate. Would Alain have
her committed to a psychiatric facility, as he threatened, or did
he have something far more sinister in mind? I still had no answer
to the most important question -- what was he really doing at Le
Papillon?

Quietly climbing into my
bed, so as to not disturb my bodyguard, I settled down for the
night. Nestling my head on a pile of pillows, I turned my back to
the sleeping Nancy and picked up the paperback, opening it up to
the last page I had read. It was now well after midnight, but I
wasn’t sleepy. Thumbing ahead, I checked how much more I would have
to read until I reached the next chapter -- nine pages. On that
ninth, I found a yellow Post-It note with a notation written in
blue ink.
Remember Port de Basse-Terre,
when you realized what they were smuggling?

The handwriting was feminine, yet strong and
precise; the neat loops leaned right without any hesitation. Did
the author write it to her research assistant or did the mother
write it to her son? What did she mean about the smuggling?

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 cocked 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?