Chapter Three #2
They made another quick pit stop at a gas station outside of Montélimar and began the final hours of the drive.
His anxiety bloomed as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon, gilding the heat-parched landscape.
While Natalie dozed again, he took extra time to ensure no one had picked up their scent, exiting and entering the highway and occasionally going in circles, before heading to the farmhouse where he’d stashed Henri just weeks earlier.
To alert the man of his visit, he’d sent flowers to a woman in Marseille who would then use a burner phone to leave a voicemail on a line that Henri was supposed to check every night.
The type of flowers determined whether she’d tell him her aunt was visiting—expect a visit—or that she had a book recommendation for him—get out of the house and go to the agreed-upon backup location.
Henri left a voicemail on the same line to check in. If he missed a night, the woman would send lilies to Ford’s office, alerting him to a problem.
Of course, even if the older man got Ford’s message now, he wouldn’t be expecting him to arrive with a companion.
Especially not a patient recovering from a gunshot wound.
Ford wasn’t eagerly awaiting that conversation, but he had few viable options at this point.
It was precisely because of Henri that Ford had been under constant surveillance for nearly a month.
Whether from the police, or the criminal enterprise that wanted Henri dead, or both, remained unclear.
Either way, he had risked all their lives to bring Natalie here, but it was the only way he could think of to keep her safe. The gruff old doctor would not be happy to see them, but Henri owed him, and tonight Ford intended to collect.
Natalie woke the next morning to the rumble of a car engine and the crunch of tires on gravel.
Her mouth tasted like death and her eyelids were made of concrete, shut tightly against a bright light.
She tried to lift a hand to rub her face and gasped as pain dug its talons into her upper chest and shoulder.
Her eyes popped open as she released a slow, shuddering breath.
Someone had propped her in a semi-upright position in a plush double bed, her right arm in a sling, fixed to her torso with Velcro straps.
She wasn’t tied up in any way, but even as her mind grew more alert and the ache in her shoulder intensified, fatigue lashed her body to the mattress.
Overhead, dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling of a spacious room painted soft white, with matching floor tiles, and a pale stone fireplace. To her left, sunlight poured in through ivory sheers. Clearly not a hospital, though someone had a hard-on for white.
The doctor’s farmhouse.
It all came back to her then. With her good hand, she lifted the covers and confirmed that beneath the snowy comforter and faintly striped sheets, she still wore a green sleeveless dress that revealed a bandage over her right collarbone.
So, getting shot hadn’t been a bad dream.
Nor the long, sleepy ride in the back seat of Ford’s car.
A closed wooden door stood at one end of the room and curtain-flanked windows at the other.
Was Ford on the other side of that door?
A vague memory flickered in her mind of him carrying her through the dark, gravel crunching under his feet, and then deep voices in a foreign language as she tried and failed to escape the realm of sleep.
Nerves dancing, she called out, “Hello?” The word came out like sandpaper on wood. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Hello?”
A clink of metal on china and the scrape of a chair came from somewhere in the house, followed by heavy footsteps.
The door opened with a low creak. A tall white man with graying hair combed back from his broad forehead clomped in.
He wore a short-sleeved button-down and jeans that were far too crisp to pass for casual.
She used her free hand to tug the covers up to her neck. “Who are you?”
He scowled down at her, his blue eyes wary. “Henri,” he replied, pronouncing it something like “on-ree,” then proceeded to rattle off a bunch of words in another language—French, probably—that went right over her head.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Anxiety coiled around her spine. “Where’s Ford?”
“Ach, Ford.” Henri shook his head, his frown deepening. “Il est parti.” He waved toward the window, in the direction where she’d heard the car engine moments earlier.
Had Ford actually left her here, alone with a total stranger? She’d known they were coming to a doctor’s hideout. She hadn’t known Ford planned to bail at first light. Something icky slithered around her insides, and she struggled to breathe. “He left?” Could Henri hear the panic in her voice?
Until she was in better shape, she was completely at this man’s mercy. Vulnerable. Did Ford still hate her so much that he couldn’t even wait around to explain what was going on? Was leaving her with this unhappy Frenchman—or whatever—some kind of revenge?
Her throat cinched tight. Ford might not like her, but four years ago he’d been as by-the-book as they came and a protector to his core. She couldn’t imagine him as vengeful. Then again, she knew as well as anyone that bad experiences changed people.
Either way, Henri’s nod confirmed Ford that had abandoned her. “Je suis un médecin,” he said, patting his chest. “Doctor.”
“Okay, but when is Ford coming back?” Maybe he’d just run out for supplies.
The older man shrugged as he threw up his hands and made a sound of disgust. Then he launched into another incomprehensible diatribe, his gestures sharp, his face flushing.
Fatigue hit her like a tsunami. She let her head fall against the stack of pillows, but kept her gaze trained on the man at the foot of her bed.
Ford wouldn’t really leave her with him if it wasn’t safe, right?
She had to believe that. Still, Henri was a complete stranger, and she was in no shape to fight him if the need arose.
He stepped toward her and she flinched. Dammit.
Falling silent, he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath, the hard lines around his mouth softening. Then he pointed to the nightstand at her left, on which sat a sweating glass of water with a straw. He mimed drinking and tapped his watch, following it up with more French.
“?Habla espanol?” she asked, mostly joking. But, hey, Spain was on the same continent, so it wasn’t that far-fetched. Based on his expression, though…no. Her Spanish wasn’t stellar, but it would’ve been better than using hand gestures.
Well, damn. Now what? If she had her phone, she could call her boss Gretchen and find out what the hell was going on. Also, have the woman translate her questions, which would be extra helpful, since she suddenly had to pee. “Uh…toilet?”
He sighed and nodded, moving to her side. With little fanfare, and thankfully, a professional demeanor, he managed to help her out of the bed and to her feet.
The bullet had only injured her shoulder, but her entire body protested the movement, and she swayed for a minute, grateful for his strong grip on her elbow, even as her muscles engaged in a battle between fight and flight.
Pointless, as neither was an option at the moment.
The urge to relieve her bladder overcame her psychological discomfort, and she let him guide her through the doorway.
More white walls and flooring, relieved only by a stripe of red tiles surrounding a clawfoot tub with a hand shower. Maybe in a day or two she’d be strong enough to take advantage of it without collapsing.
Henri helped her to the toilet and left her to do her business. Afterward, she was able to hold the narrow counter and hobble to the sink. She glanced into the mirror and gasped.
Her ponytail had loosened, leaving her hair looking like a ball of tangled yarn.
Remnants of mascara and eyeliner shadowed her eyes, and her skin was as pale as the walls.
She washed her free hand with foaming soap, and then used it to awkwardly splash water on her face, using the same soap—ugh—until she was scrubbed clean.
Her skin felt tight and over-stripped, but it was better than nothing. The cool water also chased away some of her brain fog. At the moment there was no help for her hair, but she had bigger concerns.
Pulling aside the neck of her flimsy gown, she studied the large bandage, feeling a little sick.
She could’ve fucking died. Probably would have if Jason hadn’t done his paramedic thing before he and Emma bolted.
Shit, were they okay? Had they found a way to get to Renfro Warner or had his goons caught up with them too?
Her head swam and she gripped the sink hard.
“Henri?” she called. “I’m done.”
He helped her back to bed, made sure she drank some water, and offered her an English edition of People magazine. Then he asked her something that might have included the word “manger,” as he mimed using a spoon.
“I could eat.” Shockingly, she was suddenly starving. Her appetite had been zero during the drive last night, but now she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had food. God, what day was it even?
“Okay.” He took a small pill bottle from his pocket and gave her a questioning look.
Recognizing the prescription Dr. Amadi had given her yesterday before leaving the hospital, she nodded. “Yes, please.” She didn’t relish the idea of being cognitively impaired in this man’s company, but if she went much longer without the painkillers, she’d probably be delirious anyway.
As Henri turned to leave, she asked, “Do you have my phone? Or a phone? Teléfono?” Okay, that was Spanish again, but the root of the word seemed pretty universal.
He shook his head, his expression stern, as he sliced his hand through the air. “Non.”
“But…”
Before she could form a complete thought, he turned and left the room, shutting the door with a loud click.