Apathy and Vigor

by Faye Hall

  The old man smiled. “Just do your job. That will be payment enough.”

  * * * *

  Days turned into weeks, and Amalie couldn’t have been happier, nor had she felt safer. Albert stood true to his promise and cared for her greatly. She was starting to think that her life was finally turning away from the corner of despair.

  Then, one night, a few months after she started working at the Heather’s estate, she went to her room to find Albert standing beside the bed.

  “Is something the matter, sir?” she asked nervously. “Did you need something before I retired for the evening?”

  Albert walked toward her, his steps steady as he approached her. “Are you comfortable here?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Why, yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He stopped in front of her, reaching out to her, his hand brushing her cheek. “And I haven’t abused you or made you work your pretty fingers to the bone?”

  “N-no, sir,” she stuttered, suddenly very uncomfortable and fearful about what might happen to her, alone with this man. “Would you like me to go get you a nightcap, sir?” she asked, backing away from him toward the door.

  She thought if she could just get out of the room, she could easily outrun him and find a safe hiding place. Albert reached for her just as she turned to check her bearings, pulling her to him roughly.

  “Please, sir, don’t do this,” she begged.

  But he paid her no attention, instead lunging at her, his lips desperately slobbering over hers. Her fear multiplied, knowing if she didn’t escape soon, she would fall victim to this man and his evil desires. Albert pushed her back toward the bed, crawling on top of her as she landed on the mattress, his hands eagerly ripping at her clothing.

  She kicked and punched at him, but it was no use. Panic consuming her, she reached for anything on the bedside table that might help her to escape. Her fingers gripping around what felt to be a vase, she hit it across his head with as much force as she could muster. Almost immediately, he fell off her and rolled from the bed and onto the floor.

  Not stopping to see if he was dead or alive, Amalie ran out of the room, and from the house, hurrying out of the estate grounds. She had to get as far away from there as possible before he woke up and took chase. Should it ever be known that she attacked her employer, she would be finished in this town. No one would allow her to work for them ever again. She was very aware how things worked, and she was positive no one would believe her word over an injured man of wealth.

  She was barely a few yards down the path when she ran into a man. Quickly looking up to see who it was, her gaze rested on Bastian.

  “Oh my God, you have to help me,” she cried. “Please!”

  “What the devil has happened to you?” he asked.

  She began to cry uncontrollably. “Albert Heather tried to rape me,” she explained through her tears. “I’ve been staying in the room down the hall from his study. There was a struggle and…and…” Her words trailed off. She didn’t know how to explain what she may or may not have done to the man she’d been working for.

  * * * *

  Bastian walked along the dirt path to the Heather’s estate, his hand reaching inside his jacket to double-check he’d brought the bottle of digitalis with him. He knew the risk he was taking coming all the way out here, but he had reached the point of desperation that he could see no other option.

  The last few months had been a gradual decline of the life of luxury and affairs he had grown so accustomed to, and into a day-to-day existence of debauchery and stealing. He couldn’t continue to live this way. He had exhausted every avenue of blackmail, as well as called in every favor owing to him. Now he was left with nothing and nowhere to turn to for help—except Albert.

  Despite being banished from the property months earlier, Bastian needed to try his hand to intimidate the old man once more. And he also had a contingency plan. If blackmail didn’t work, there was always murder. He was aware of the risk he was taking, for if he were seen out here, he would surely hang. If he were careful though, he could sneak into the house and steal as many of the old bastard’s possessions as he could carry and sell them on the market for profit.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he felt a woman run into him. His heart pounding fast in his chest, knowing he had been discovered out here, he held the woman away from him and looked down to see who it was.

  It was Amalie.

  “What the devil has happened to you?” he asked, noticing her unraveled and slightly ripped attire.

  As he listened to her tearful rambling about being attacked by Albert, Bastian couldn’t help but think he may have found the patsy he needed.

  “I’ll go see what I can do,” he offered, running to the house and in through the still open front door.

  As he made his way into the building, his footsteps slowed, and he walked toward the study. Noticing the open door several rooms before the study, he cautiously crept inside.

  Albert was lying on the floor beside the bed, his hand covering the bloodied gash on his head.

  “Bastian?” he asked, sounding very confused. “What the devil are you doing here? What happened to me?”

  Bastian walked toward him, his steps purposeful. Looking at the injured man before him, he suddenly had faith that his plan would in fact work.

  “I’ve come to take the money you owe me,” Bastian said quite confidently as he pulled the bottle of digitalis from his pocket. “And you will pay me or you will pay with your life.”

  The old man struggled to get up from the floor, his body flopping around unsuccessfully. Kneeling down beside him, Bastian aimed the bottle of poison near Albert’s lips. As he went to pour the liquid down the old man’s throat, Albert began to struggle against him, his hand finally coming up and going around Bastian’s throat, squeezing it hard.

  Gasping for breath and struggling to free himself of the old man’s hold, Bastian dropped the bottle of toxic liquid he was holding to the floor. Unable to free himself, he flailed his arms around, desperately trying to grab for something—anything—that might help to free him. His fingers reached up to the top of the small bedside table, and quickly went around the solid object he felt there. Catching a glimpse of the silver object out of the corner of his eye, and deciding it would make the perfect weapon, Bastian plunged it straight into Albert’s stomach.

  The old man let go of him instantly, falling back onto the floor, his hands going around the bloodied wound in his stomach. Bastian gasped for breath, scampering to his feet and stepping away from the dying man. This may not have been what he originally planned, but now with Albert dead, and the distraught woman waiting for him outside, Bastian could very well still have the life he deserved and always have a patsy to take the fall for him and do his dirty work.

  Running from the room and down to the study, Bastian searched frantically for any money or signs of deed papers he could take possession of. There was nothing.

  “Damn it!” he cursed softly to himself.

  Walking from the study, he hurried downstairs, ready to take a few smaller belongings and hide them in his jacket. Before he could grab more than a couple of items, he heard footsteps approaching.

  Scared that he would be found and suspected of killing Albert, Bastian ran from the house and back out onto the dirt road where Amalie was waiting for him, pacing back and forth. Going to her, his hand gripping her elbow, he turned her around, forcing her to walk down the path and back out to the main road.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to struggle away from him. “What has happened?”

  Pulling her into the trees and shrubbery that surrounded the path, he turned to look at her, no expression on his face. “Albert is dead. A letter opener in his gut.”

  Amalie shook her head, her tears again beginning to threaten. “That’s not possible. I hit him across the head with a vase, then he fell to the floor.”

  Bastian nodded. “And onto the letter opener.” />
  Her hands began to tremble. “What do I do? I can’t go to the police. Albert was a wealthy man, and they will want to find someone they can hold accountable for his death. They’ll never believe my story. I will hang for sure.”

  “What were you doing there in the first place?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “I think I should take you home.”

  She looked sad. “I have no home.”

  His gaze narrowed. “What are you talking about? What happened to your father’s station?”

  She began to cry. “Everything got repossessed after Father died. That’s why I was here. I have nothing left.”

  That was why the station had been deserted. Bastian couldn’t believe that in all the time he spent with Michael, he never figured out that he was penniless. Deciding Amalie didn’t have anything but more poverty to offer him, he was just about to tell her he couldn’t help her after all. As he started to turn her away, he felt her hand rest on his arm calmly.

  “If you hadn’t been out here, I don’t know what would have happened to me,” she muttered softly before her hand fell away. “What were you doing out here anyway, Bastian? Were you and Albert acquaintances?”

  He eyed her cautiously, knowing he couldn’t tell her the truth. Studying her face, he could see that she was starting to wonder why he had been out here without any form of visible transport. He couldn’t allow her to ever discover the truth. Maybe he would have to keep this woman with him for a while longer, at least until he could find a use for her, or a way to get rid of her.

  Just then a blood-curdling scream echoed from the house, and he knew someone had found Albert’s body.

  “I can take you back to the hotel I’ve been staying at if you want. You’ll be safe there from the authorities.” He had no doubt she would take him up on his offer, her desperation to be saved from the hangman’s noose obvious.

  “Thank you, Bastian. I will do anything you want to pay you back.”

  Hearing dogs barking, he saw her step closer to him.

  “We can talk about how you’re going to pay me later. First, we need to get out of here.”

  He grabbed her hand and hurried her through the scrub, guiding her back out to the main road and the horse he had waiting there. Lifting her up onto the saddle, he swung himself up behind her, kicking the animal in the flanks. The reins held tight in his hands, he steered them toward town and the Anabranch Hotel.

  Arriving at the hotel, Bastian lifted Amalie down from the saddle. This hadn’t been part of his plan, but he was starting to think that his union with this woman may yet play to his advantage. After all, why should he dirty his hands stealing what he needed to survive when Amalie could do it for him and take the fall should she ever be discovered? And she would do it, or she would be reminded that all he had to do was visit the police station and she would be found guilty of murdering Albert Heather.

  His hand on her elbow, Bastian guided her through the crowd of customers filling the hotel and to the stairs that led to his rented room upstairs. Hurrying her up the steps, he stopped outside his door.

  “You need to stay here and out of sight for a week or so, until the hype over Albert’s death dies down.”

  She grabbed hold of him. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

  He pried her hand from his forearm. “I’ll make sure there is food sent up for you, but you need to not talk to anyone or tell them why you are here.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He ignored her question, instead opening the door and maneuvering her inside. “I shall be back in a little while.”

  Shutting the door, he hurried down the steps. He patted his jacket pocket. He had to get to the nearest pawn shop immediately before the items he was carrying on him were listed as stolen. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t get much for them, but it would be enough for him to live at least a few months. Remembering the companion he now had with him, he doubted that would in fact be the case. Truth be known, the money he got today would barely last a few weeks. He would have to come up with another plan and quick.

  * * * *

  It was the end of the week by the time Bastian returned to the hotel, his frustration mounting. He had tried everything and everyone to try to find an avenue for him to make some easy cash, but none of them worked. Climbing the steps, he went to his room to see Amalie and tell her she would have to go and find employment somewhere if they were to survive. He was almost at the door to his room when he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Mr. Tanner, could I have a word with you please?” the man behind him called out, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  Bastian turned hesitantly, his gaze resting on a middle-aged man, his clothes much finer than most who frequented there.

  “And you are?” Bastian asked.

  The other man stepped toward him. “I’m Police Inspector Farrow. I want to ask you some questions about the fire on the Fergus’s property a few months ago that killed two people.”

  “I don’t believe I can be of any help to you,” Bastian said, turning around.

  “Knowing where you were the night of the fire would be a fantastic help, sir.”

  Bastian stopped and turned back toward the man, his gaze narrowing. He needed to give this man something believable that could turn the direction of his investigation as far away from him as possible. Just as he went to open his mouth, he heard a door behind him open.

  “What is going on here?” Amalie asked. “Bastian, where have you been?”

  Inspector Farrow stepped nearer to him. “Yes, where have you been?”

  “You need to go back to your room, Amalie. This man is a police inspector,” he called over his shoulder to her. Turning his attention back to the officer, he cleared his throat. “I can give you proof that Tristen Brone lit the fire that night. It was he who killed Jacob and Amanda.”

  “You’re lying!” Amalie hissed from behind him.

  “I told you to go back inside,” he dismissed her. “I can handle this.”

  “How do you know it was Mr. Brone who lit the fire?” Inspector Farrow asked.

  “Because I saw him running from the back of the workers’ cottage moments before the smoke was seen.”

  “Why would you say that?” Amalie asked, stepping toward him. “I already told you that I saw a man with fair hair and wearing a suit running from the cottage. It couldn’t have been Tristen. He has dark hair, and he wasn’t wearing a suit that night, nor have I ever seen him in one.”

  The inspector glanced from her and back to Bastian. “It appears this young lady here disagrees with your story. So again I ask, where were you?”

  Fury began to boil inside him at Amalie’s audacity to contradict his words, especially in front of a law man. Pursing his lips, he focused on the police officer. “I was with a woman when the fire was lit.”

  The inspector eyed him intently, and Bastian doubted he believed him at all. “A woman, eh? I think you should find this woman you were with, because I would like to question you both.”

  Watching as the officer turned and walked down the stairs, Bastian had never felt more furious. Turning swiftly on his heels, he reached for Amalie’s arm, and grabbing her firmly, he dragged her back to the room. As he pushed the door shut, he stepped toward her.

  “Do you have any idea what you have just done?” he asked.

  She tried to back away from him. “I told the truth,” she exclaimed. “Tristen wasn’t the one who lit that fire.”

  Stopping beside the desk, his hand rested near the fruit tray, his fingers grazing the handle of the knife there. “And how is it you are so very certain he wasn’t the man you saw running from the cottage?”

  “I told you all this before Father died. Carter and I were outside that night, and we both saw a man with fair hair wearing a suit running from the back of the cottage. I can’t believe you would continue to blame Tristen, when I clearly saw something so very different.”

&nbs
p; His fingers went around the handle of the knife, grabbing it, furious at Amalie for ruining what he had tried to convince the inspector of. “I can’t believe you’re still defending that bastard Brone, even after everything he’s done to you and your family.”

  “I know what he is capable of,” she insisted.

  Bastian smiled. “And I know what you are capable of. Now, unless you want me to tell the police that you are in fact the one who killed Albert Heather, I suggest you retract your recent statement to that inspector. I need you to tell him that you were mistaken and that the man you saw running from the cottage that night was in fact Tristen.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “And there is no way you can make me.”

  As soon as she said the words, he reached for her, his hand going to her shoulder to steady her as he plunged the knife from his hand into her stomach just below her right rib.

  Letting go of the knife, he pushed her away from him. Amalie stumbled to the floor, her hands going to the weapon sticking out of her stomach. Bastian turned, walked to the door, and opened it to leave.

  “B-Bastian...” Amalie cried in a pain-filled voice.

  He turned back to look at the pathetic creature on the floor still clasping at her bloodied stomach. A loud scream behind him drew his attention, and he turned to see a shocked expression on one of the women’s faces as she stood at the open door.

  “Abbey!” she cried. “A girl’s been stabbed up here. Bring the doctor. Now!”

  He was cornered.

  “What has happened here?” Abbey asked, running into the room, pushing past him.

  Bastian stared at the two women fussing over the injured Amalie. He hadn’t planned on someone walking past the room and spotting the injured woman. He would have to think fast and invent some lie they might believe so as to remove any suspicion from him. “She fell and landed on the knife. I had just opened the door and was going to fetch some help when your friend here screamed.”

  Both women looked up at him, doubt in their eyes. Turning back to the injured woman, both women struggled to pick her up in their arms and carry her to the bed. No sooner did they lay her down than the doctor arrived at the door.