Guardian's Grace

by Jacqueline Rhoades

  Grace swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The pile of the carpet was deep and soft and her toes curled into its richness. Maybe she wasn’t kidnapped. Maybe her perceptions of being taken had been altered by the horror preceding it. Who would keep a prisoner in such luxury? She went to the window and pulled the shade aside. There would be no escape from here. The window was solid glass, no sash and there was wire mesh imbedded in the glass so that if it were broken, the wire would prevent exit. The view was no more inspiring. Not three feet away was a solid brick wall.

  She tiptoed to the hallway door as if her tread might actually make noise on the inch thick carpet, tried the knob and, with a sigh of relief, found it unlocked. She quietly opened it and peeked out. This room was at the end of a long hallway, four doors to each side. At her end of the hall an antique highboy stood against the end wall. At the other end, a staircase descended. Closing the door, she snapped the lock into place and breathed a sigh of relief at her momentary safety. There were things she needed to do before confronting her captors.

  Captors? Was there more than one? And why did she feel like captors was the wrong word?

  Her bladder felt as if it was about to burst and she padded toward the bathroom, leaving deep footprints in her wake. It, too, was a marvel of good taste and luxury. Large, square, roughhewn tiles covered the floor with a smaller, darker design forming a border. Quarter tiles, matching those on the floor, covered the walls. Mosaic medallions of glass accented the surround of a tub she had only seen the size of in someone’s backyard. The shower was plain though it looked big enough for four with eight shower heads strategically placed throughout the stall.

  Grace turned to the mirror over the vanity and gasped. She knew about the goose egg lump on her temple and the bruise on her cheek. They were tender to the touch and she still had a slight headache. It was the rest of her that caused the shock. She was filthy. Something the cat dragged in. No, something the cat dragged through crap and then brought in. Mud, at least she hoped it was mud, stuck in her hair over the goose egg. Too much make-up had turned to too much sludge on her face. Her arms and legs were streaked with dirt and grease. Eeuw! She wasn’t going to think about what had happened to the little black dress or how it had turned into a big white tee shirt. After taking care of what she’d come in here to do, she marched back into the bedroom to find something clean to wear, listening attentively for any movement outside the door.

  Whoever occupied this room was neat and organized and as she had surmised, a man. She found a black T-shirt, longer than the one she now wore and in another drawer a pair of black - she checked the label, silk! boxers. They were much too big, but while searching the smaller drawers for safety pins, she came across a spool of black thread and two needles. Ten minutes of whip stitching closed the fly and with simple straight stitches she nipped and tucked until she was sure the boxers would not fall down. She continued to search, but found nothing to be used as a weapon.

  A half hour later, she was a new woman with clean hair and freshly scrubbed skin. Being clean and fully dressed made her feel more in control and ready to face whatever she would find downstairs. She’d washed her panties and dried them with the hair dryer and while she wouldn’t win any fashion awards at least she was decently covered.

  Carefully opening the door to the hall, Grace set off to find a means of escape.

  At the top of the stairs, she listened for signs of life from below. Hearing none, she tiptoed down the stairs to a wide foyer with a large round table centered between the staircase and a sturdily built front door.

  There were no bolts on the door, no keyed locks, no security pad nearby. Nothing to indicate the door was locked, but when she tried the knob, nothing happened. The door was so tightly sealed it might well have been part of the wall nor did the windows to either side offer hope. They were the same as the one upstairs. The doors to the rooms leading off the foyer were also locked and much too heavy for her to think of forcing them open. The hall that ran to the back of the house was her next option. There was still no sign of the occupants. No sound but the constant tick of the grandfather clock that stood where the hallway jogged beneath the stairs. A door at the end of the hall was open wide to what was obviously a kitchen. Grace poked her head in the door, found the room empty and cautiously stepped inside.

  In contrast to the orderliness of the bedroom, foyer and hall, this room was a disaster. Overflowing garbage bags took over one corner. Pizza boxes, buckets from fried chicken, white Chinese food boxes and various other take-out containers littered every surface. What wasn’t covered with cardboard and Styrofoam was filled with beer bottles and plastic two-liters. The floor was sticky beneath her bare feet. A huge soapstone sink overflowed with plates, cups and glasses. No pots or pans, she noted. The whole effect made her shudder.

  Once she looked past the clutter and grunge, Grace saw that under it all laid a cook’s dream. This kitchen was state of the art, comparable to any she saw in the many women’s magazine she purchased. An eight burner, restaurant quality stove sat against the back wall with two ovens below the range and two more in the wall to the side. In addition to the overflowing soapstone sink, there was a smaller bar sink on a granite island that had to be six feet square. Grace was tempted to investigate further, but now was not the time. A heavy steel door, next to the wall ovens, caught her attention. A rear exit?

  She pressed her ear against the door and listened carefully. Something was making noise on the other side, but she couldn’t define it. Soft thuds, a murmur. She held her breath and concentrated on the noises. There were two voices with similar tones bantering back and forth though she couldn’t make out the words. Interspersed in the conversation were thuds and grunts that sounded like punches landing, but there didn’t seem to be any animosity or anger in the voices. Were they boxing?

  And why couldn’t she feel them? Where was the piercing buzz that should be drilling into her brain? Her hand went to her temple and touched the lump that now felt the size of a tennis ball. Could a blow to the head have knocked out her problem? The condition had plagued her since puberty and now that she finally needed it, it was gone. Her bad luck never ceased to amaze.

  Keeping one eye on the closed door, she searched the kitchen for a weapon. She found it in the third drawer she opened, underneath a pile of take-out menus. She hefted the carving knife in her hand and once again wondered about this strange house. To a chef, this knife would be perfection; finely honed and perfectly balanced. This was a knife she could only dream of owning. It would cost more than she earned in a week. It felt wrong to think of it as a weapon.

  She returned to the door and gently levered the door handle down, heard the snick of the latch as it disengaged and pushed. The door was so heavy that it only cracked open with the first push. Now she could clearly hear voices and a new sound had been added.

  Bump. Thwack. Clang. Thud. ”Ow! Take it easy, Col.”

  “Fuck easy, Dov. You dragged me out of bed at noon.” Bump. Whack! Clang!

  “She’s a night sleeper.” Grunt. “I thought she’d be up by now.” Thud.

  “Well she’s not.” Whomp. Clang. “Maybe you should have checked on her before raggin’ on my ass.” Bam! “Maybe something’s wrong. Did you ever think of that? She knocked her head pretty good. Dented that dumpster.”

  “You’re the one who put her to bed. You said she’d be okay, that it didn’t look that bad.” Thud.

  It was like listening to a comic strip.

  “It didn’t look that bad. For us. But they’re different.” Grunt.

  “Col, about last night, you puttin’ her to bed and all. Did you leave her in that dress? ‘Cause that little dress was kind of tight and, you know, if she was injured or something…” The thumping and banging stopped.

  “I put her in one of my T-shirts”

  “Shit, Col. Did you take everything off?”

  “There wasn’t all that much to take off. And no, before you ask, I didn�
�t look.”

  Dov’s laugh was disbelieving. “Come on. You couldn’t take off her clothes and not see something.” He snickered. “Or did you shut your eyes and do it by feel?”

  “All right, smart ass, I looked, but just a little and I definitely didn’t touch.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Jeeze, Dov. Buy a magazine. Perv.”

  “Shithead.”

  “Jerkwad.”

  As the door opened, the twins jumped to attention and looked for all the world like a couple of kids caught stealing cookies.

  Chapter 5

  “Oh shit,” said Dov and Grace at the same time.

  She looked from one to the other and swallowed hard at the sight of what they held in their hands. The word broadsword flitted through her mind, big heavy battle swords like she’d seen in that Mel Gibson movie on television. The kitchen knife that had looked so threatening only a moment before now looked paper thin and puny.

  They must have thought so, too, because the one on the right pointed at her pint-sized weapon and started to laugh. The other, at least, had the decency to try and hold his laughter back, but when he snorted through his nose, it was all over. Their laughter wasn’t mean or threatening, though it was obvious that either one of them could disarm her with a flick of the wrist.

  “Kind of like fighting a machine gun with a rubber band and paper clip,” Col sputtered.

  “Kind of spunky, though. Like David and Goliath.”

  “David won,” Grace said, trying to keep her mouth in a firm unyielding line. It was a little ridiculous. Their swords were almost as long as she was tall.

  “Well shit.” Dov looked confused.

  She knew she should be angry or afraid or offended or at least a little embarrassed, but these guys were acting like overgrown thirteen year olds and she just couldn’t manage it. With their yellow blonde hair and big blue eyes, the twins looked like grown up versions of the little Dutch kid on those paint cans. She couldn’t reconcile these open, angelic faces with the hard ass viciousness she remembered from the night before. Both were bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only fleece sweatpants cut off above the knees. Sweat glistened across the broad expanse of their smooth and hairless chests. The overhead lights glinted off the single nipple barbells they each wore, one to the left, and one to the right.

  “He meant ‘Hello’” The one on the left put down his sword and offered his hand after wiping it on his pants. He was still sputtering. “I’m Col. The one with no manners is Dov.”

  “Hey! I got manners.”

  “Yeah? Then why are you making her nervous with the sword?”

  “Oh.” Dov looked at the sword as if he’d forgotten it was still in his hand. “Sorry,” he apologized and laid it next to Col’s.

  Grace smiled nervously as she offered Col the knife.

  “You can keep that if it makes you feel more comfortable. I only wanted to shake.”

  “Oh.” She looked at the knife, transferred it to her other fist and took Col’s hand. It dwarfed her own. She tried to keep her eyes on his face and not the barbell which was shimmering a foot from her nose. She nervously licked her lips.

  “I’m Grace. Grace Masters. I’m not going to say I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” Dov’s face looked as innocent as a child’s.

  “We didn’t know what else to do.” Col seemed more concerned.

  “Then you didn’t kidnap me? I’m not a prisoner?”

  “Oh no.” they said in unison.

  “Then I can go home now.”

  The twins looked at the floor, shuffled their feet and looked at each other. The one on the left, Col, shrugged.

  “Not really,” said Dov. He looked genuinely distressed.

  “What do you mean by not really? Either I’m a prisoner or I can go home. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “We were thinking you could be more like a guest,” said Col.

  “A guest can leave.”

  “Yeah, well…” Col sighed with frustration. “Look, can we go in the other room and talk? This gym is probably not the best place.”

  “No.” Grace folded her arms and firmly planted her feet. “We talk. Right here, right now.” Those tiny, shiny barbells kept twinkling in the light. She flicked her hand. “But put your shirts on first.”

  Grace sat on a weight bench and waited while the twins wiped themselves down and put on their white tees. This room was a professional looking gym, with weight benches, treadmills, punching bags, floor mats and a lot of complicated contraptions with cables and flexible bands of iron that she didn’t recognize. The open doors of a cabinet on the far side of the room displayed an impressive array of weaponry, most of which she didn’t recognize, but was fairly certain were lethal.

  The twins sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, like little boys waiting for story time. She felt like a kindergarten teacher in some bizarre alternate universe, so she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap and spoke as teachers of small children do.

  “All right now, boys, where am I?”

  “In our house.” She knew this was Col because the T-shirt was tight and she could see the tiny bulge at his nipple.

  “And where is this house? Are we still in the city or somewhere else?”

  “In the city but we can’t tell you where. We’re not going to keep you here forever, Grace. It’s just until we figure some things out.”

  “What things? Why am I here?”

  “Cause we didn’t know what else to do with you.” This was Dov. “You’re different from most humans.”

  “People,” said Col.

  “Huh? Oh. You’re different from most people.”

  She noted the correction but let it go. “How am I different?”

  Dov was about to answer when Col punched his arm. “Ow!”

  “Can’t say.”

  Grace felt her jaws tightening, her breathing more pronounced. “This is going nowhere fast. You can’t tell me where I am. You can’t tell me why I’m here or why I’m different,” she stared directly at Col, “from most humans.” She emphasized ‘humans’. Or why the buzzing in her head had stopped. Or why she wasn’t afraid of them. “Tell me what happened last night.”

  “Not much to tell, it happened so fast.” said Col after a guilty glance at his brother. “There was a bad guy. He attacked your friend. We happened to be in the area and we stopped him.”

  They were treating what had happened, all the fear and horror of the night before, as if it were nothing. I have to rip a monster’s heart out, order desert for me, will you? A woman was ripped apart, let’s have another drink. Anger bubbled up inside of her and she didn’t try to hold it back.

  “Bullshit!” she spat, “That guy was no guy and you know it. What was he?” She held up the hand with the knife. “No, never mind. I already know your answer. You can’t say,” she mocked. “So I’ll say it for you. He was some kind of monster.” She waved the knife. “Don’t look so shocked. Or maybe you didn’t see him the same way I did, long ugly face, sharp gray teeth, no nose, hooded black eyes, misshapen body. Yeah, maybe you forgot those little details. Just like you forgot to mention that white light business and the way you moved and the weapons. Oh and let’s not mention your faces.”

  Scenes from the night before flashed through her mind. What she’d seen was real. All of it. She wished she could blame it on hallucinations. She wanted it to be drug induced, but it wasn’t. It was real.

  “Did you forget about slicing the monster open? Did ripping his heart out just slip your mind? And how about those teeth, boys? Let’s give Grace a great big smile.”

  The twin’s eyes were wide. With fear? She didn’t care. She’d been lulled by their good looks and their easy going style. She’d been so relieved that she was alive and unhurt. She’d wanted to believe that she couldn’t have seen what was right before her eyes. But she had seen it. She knew. It was real.

  She poin
ted the knife at Col. “You ripped out its heart. And you.” The knife switched to Dov and her voice faltered. “I saw what you did to Alice.”

  Her voice broke on her friend’s name. Tears streamed down her face and a great wracking sob spasmed through her body. “She was my friend. The only friend I ever had and now she’s dead.”

  Dov knelt in front of her, his hands raised as if to ward off a blow. “You think I killed her?” He sounded horrified. “I didn’t, Grace. I couldn’t. She’s an innocent. I’d never hurt an innocent.”

  Col came to her side and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “Grace, listen to me. What Dov did? It didn’t hurt her. It saved her. Dov stopped the bleeding. He called 911. Alice isn’t dead. She’s in the hospital. If you want, we can find out more about her condition tonight.” He leaned down so they were face to face. “Did you hear me, Grace? Your friend is alive. Dov’s the one that saved her.”

  “Aw, Gracie,” Dov pleaded, “You don’t have to believe anything else we say, but you have to believe this. I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t. It’d be like… like kicking a puppy or something, just wrong. I couldn’t do that to an innocent.”

  They had lied to her before or maybe just omitted the facts, but everything in her told her that about this, they were telling the truth. Alice was alive. Anger and sorrow were replaced by relief and Grace cried harder. She couldn’t stop. The fear and horror and tension all released at once in a massive flood of sobs and tears. The knife fell to the floor and she buried her face in her hands.

  Dov brought her a towel to mop up her tears and Col made her tea ‘to calm your nerves’. The towel was stiff and stank of sweat and the tea was bitter and stale, but the gestures were kind and the twins looked so anxious that she sniffed back her tears and gave them a tentative smile.

  “Hey, how’d you know that would work?” Dov gave his brother an approving nod and Col blushed and shrugged.