by K. R. Rowe
"Oh, that one," Grace said. "I’m not worried about him. I’ve heard a lot worse threats than that," she said. "My dad takes them too seriously though. I personally think they are all just a bunch of talk."
"He’s still gonna be pissed."
"Oh, shoot!" Grace said. "I almost forgot. I saw Matt Downing the other night."
Lydia looked up from dissecting her scone and smiled, "And?"
"He told me to tell you hello." A big mischievous grin spread across Grace’s face. "And that he is absolutely in love with you!"
"He did not! Did he?"
"Well, he did say hello, and he likes you—a lot." She gazed up at the wisteria and went on, "You know, he’s classic. Tall, dark, handsome and—he has those big brown puppy dog eyes! You would make such a cute couple."
"Hmm." Lydia chunked a big piece of scone into her mouth. "And he can cook!"
"Well there you go—and you like to eat."
Grace’s smile was bright but then it suddenly faded.
"Lydia, can I tell you something?"
"Sure, fire away."
Grace stared down into her coffee. "I don't want to marry Sebastian."
Lydia looked up in surprise, "Took you long enough," she said. "Why not?"
"It’s just that … I don’t know," she said. "One day he acts like he hates me and the next, he’s got his hands all over me. I don’t get it. And the other night when we were out at dinner, he stared at me, like I was some kind of … meat and he was a starving vulture," she said, and rubbed her arms to get rid of the chills. "You know, I thought the only thing I ever wanted was for him to like me, but now that he's showing interest—I don't know, he’s just—"
Lydia shivered visibly. "Yeah, I know, he can be really creepy sometimes."
"I kind of feel sorry for him though," Grace said. "I heard his dad is mean."
"That’s probably why he’s so weird."
"All I want is real love," she said, "and I’m so afraid that I’ll never have that with him."
"Say something to your dad—stand up for yourself."
"I did once," Grace said, "but we had a huge fight."
"Well," Lydia said, "I won’t put up with that outdated eighteenth century bullshit. I told my dad I would marry who I wanted. If he tried to force me, I’d say 'hell no' standing at the altar, right in front of that phony preacher, his wino friends, his business cronies, and that pack of prune faced old bitches that rule the church and think they own the whole damn world."
Grace barely swallowed her sip of coffee before she covered her mouth choked with laughter. She had no doubt that Lydia would do it. Her mother passed away when she was twelve leaving her dad to raise the pre-teen alone. He tried to make up for her mother's loss by spoiling her, but it backfired. Now, she was the boss and he would do anything she asked. She could be a hellion sometimes, but she was a good girl, a good daughter, and a wonderful friend.
"Plus, my dad’s half blind," Lydia said. "My future husband would probably look like a dried up old turd."
They both burst into laughter.
"At least Sebastian’s decent looking," Lydia said. "Have you ever even kissed him?"
"Who? Sebastian? No." Grace said. "Well, not on the lips, but look," she said and pulled back her shirt from the side of her neck. "He bit me!"
"Damn! Did your mom see that?"
"Lord no," she said. "She’d probably try to rip his teeth out."
"He is such a mutant." Lydia studied the bite. "Does it hurt?"
"A little, but it’s not as bad as it looks."
"Well." Lydia popped the last of her scone in her mouth and grinned. "You might have rabies now, but at least he’s not ignoring you."
Grace sat unconsciously swirling the whipped cream around in her coffee.
"That’s true."
"What brought this on so suddenly?" Lydia asked. "Is there someone else?"
The question caught Grace off guard. "I wish," she said, "but it wouldn’t matter anyway." Grace sighed, took a sip of her coffee, and broke her brownie in half. "No one else has ever come near me. They’re all afraid of Sebastian."
Grace was not totally honest. Her thoughts kept straying to the blue-eyed guard but there was really nothing to tell. She could imagine anything she wanted, but the sad fact was—he had just been doing his job.
Grace glanced up to see a familiar black sport bike roll by slowly. The rider looked their way and continued his gaze as he passed.
"That is so strange," Grace said as she shoved a giant piece of brownie in her mouth. "I swear, I think that’s the same guy from the river the other night."
Lydia looked up with a playful grin. "Hey, sweet thing!" Lydia shouted. "How ‘bout a ride!"
Grace choked, and spit a shower of crumbs across the table as she burst into laughter. She glanced over at Lydia and smiled with brown speckled teeth. "I’m still hungry," she said. "I'm suddenly in the mood for Italian."
Later that evening, a fisherman sat on the bank of the cloudy, green river, and cast his line by the light of the moon. He was irritated. His lure was stuck again. Why did he bother to come here? Bending his pole at ninety degrees, he reeled and tugged until the object slowly began to move. He had something big—probably another tire. He continued to struggle with it, until finally, it floated to the surface and he pulled it to shore.
It was not a tire.
******
Chapter 10 Short Leave
On each end of the porch, sweet red nectar filled feeders to the brim. Dozens of multicolored hummingbirds fought to assert their dominance, and claim their right to drink. Rocking chairs flanked the front door and gently rocked in the breeze, as if occupied by unseen spirits. In the distance, an old hound dog bayed. Like an eerie lonesome song, it echoed its sadness through the hills. Alex sat deep in thought on the edge of the porch with his elbows resting on his knees.
He slowly twirled a dried white clover flower between his fingers. He held it to his nose but the sweet scent had disappeared many years ago. A striped mother cat mewed for a scratch, while it stretched on its toes, and rubbed against his leg. Her kittens pounced and played nearby. He was here for a week and nothing had changed. Hunting and fishing were welcome distractions, but did nothing to quell the gnarl in his stomach or the crush in his chest. It was unbearable. He had been hungry before, but nothing was as painful as the hunger he felt for something he knew he could never have.
Like the old hound dog, he felt lost.
A week earlier, his mother had been thrilled to see him. The sweet aroma of fresh baked cornbread seeped down his nose and spoke to his stomach the second he stopped in the drive. He was instantly starving. He knew, like always, that the pintos were bubbling on the stove and the hot pepper juice was on the table. The familiar screech and slam of the screen door greeted him, as he jumped down from his truck. She stood waiting on the porch. Her smile reminded him of a warm fire on a cold winter’s night, and the badly missed comfort of home.
Alex scooted aside when she came out to sit next to him.
"Mom, what should I do?" he asked. "Should I forget about her? Move on?"
"Oh honey, my heart breaks for you," Becky said. She put her arm around him. "I know how the wealthy are. They stick to their crazy customs—"
"No matter how it destroys their kids," he said.
"Your father’s arranged marriage ripped his family apart," she said and sighed.
Alex knew she was still devastated from losing his father. It had been five years since the heart attack took him away.
"Honestly," Becky said, "it’s pointless to pine away for her when she doesn’t even know you."
He looked down at his feet, and pushed his fingers through his hair. "You’re right."
"My advice," she said, "would be to let yourself get close, and if she develops feelings for you too, then you have something worth fighting for."
"I’m just afraid."
"Of what?"
"That I’m not good enough."
<
br /> "Now that’s nonsense talking."
"But look at me," he said. "I work for her dad."
"So?"
"Sebastian comes from a wealthy family," he said. "I just can’t compete with that."
"Well," she said, "find another job. Go apply at the police department like you always wanted ... and what happened to the forensic science you wanted to study?"
"Now I know why I came home," he said and smiled.
"Working for the police department might not make you rich, but at least you wouldn’t be working for her dad."
"You're right."
"I believe in destiny," she said, "and I don’t think you saved her from that boar for nothing."
Alex heaved a long tired sigh.
"Be patient, son, I feel a change in the air." She patted him on the back and stood to go inside. "You found her," she said. "Now let her find you."
Daybreak snuck in at six a.m. with the cackling crow of the rooster. Alex was always an early riser and these days were no exception. Without fail, most mornings when he rolled from the bed he could find his mother in the kitchen cooking a breakfast of eggs, bacon, simmering grits, and homemade biscuits smothered in white gravy. She always kept the window open while she cooked. The soothing sounds of the birds’ morning songs would filter in and warm the room.
This morning; however, he was jarred awake. A scream rang in his ears and shattered the calm of the approaching dawn. He bolted upright in his bed and his mother ran into his room. The scream was his.
The nightmare was back.
He and Matt joined the marines when they were eighteen. He wanted out of the mountains to travel the world but the first place they sent him was hell, and this hell, had indeed frozen over. Many times, his tour took him north to Québec, for violent, so-called peacekeeping missions. His assignment was to support a special operations unit engaged in urban stability.
When the nightmare first started, stress was to blame but Alex knew otherwise. The dream was always the same—a tiny young girl, dark hair, and terrified green eyes. He did not know why he was having the dreams, or what they meant, but to preserve his sanity, he had to find out. When his four years were up, she was easy to find. Her father was a good man, but his ruthless business tactics had made him a few enemies. He had stepped on some toes, and the resulting threats hit too close to home. As luck would have it, he was hiring security, and Alex jumped to apply. Almost overnight, to his relief, the nightmares stopped.
Now, he wondered, was this the comfort of home or a self-imposed prison? Two weeks had passed, and Alex had suffered through a week of nightmares. The feeling of impending doom had become overwhelming. Something felt very wrong. Until now, he had resisted the urge, but he finally decided that it was time that he called his old friend. He dug for his phone in the bottom of his duffel bag, and pulled it out. Why was it off? The missed call indicator flashed when he turned it on. There were too many to count, and all were from Matt. He slowly sank to the edge of his bed and gripped the phone tight as he called.
"Alex? It’s about time!" Matt said. "I thought I was gonna have to come up there,"
"Is she ok?" Alex asked. His voice was tense and he tried to stay calm.
There was a short pause and Alex envisioned the worst.
"Matt!"
"For now," Matt said.
"For now? What do you mean?"
"Well, I heard some scary stuff about that nut case she’s supposed to marry," Matt said. "There’s this kid that hangs around the restaurant. His name is Joel—well, his dad's a detective—"
"Detective Bradford," Alex said.
"Yeah, well, Joel told me," Matt said, "and you can’t repeat this—that Sebastian’s suspected in the disappearance of at least three women, and another two were found dead, both in the river, but the thing is, they can't prove it yet."
"What! You mean, like a serial killer?"
"Yeah, exactly like a serial killer," Matt said, "but listen, something’s changed with that guy. It’s weird and sort of hard to explain."
"Changed? How?"
"You know how he always ignores Grace and treats her like a nuisance?" he said. "And you never had much to worry about?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, start worrying. The other night, they were in the restaurant together, and I saw it, right before my eyes," Matt said, "he changed. And then the way he looked at her … well, it was just—unnatural."
There was silence on the other end.
"Hello? Alex? Are you there?"
"I'm here. I’ll be there by morning."
"And it’s not just that," Matt said. "Have you heard the news reports?"
"No I haven’t. It gets worse?"
"Yeah, it does," Matt said. "People have been disappearing, at least five at a time."
"Abductions?"
"Yeah, and most are women, Lookout Mountain, Missionary Ridge, Ooltewah, Signal Mountain, they’ve hit them all," Matt said, "and the ransom demands are coming out of Québec—from a man named Montcalm. They’re bold Alex, and the US is doing everything it can. Everyone is in a panic here, and from what I’ve heard, there have been some that haven’t come back."
It was late when the call ended. Alex threw his clothes in his duffel bag and prepared to leave.
"What's going on?" Becky stuck her head in his room.
"I have to get back, there's trouble. The Canadian lawlessness has made its way here—this far south." He took her hand. "Mom, you should be safe here. There’s nothing they want up here, but still, don't go anywhere. Stay inside unless it’s necessary to leave the property." He handed her a rifle. "Here, you know how to use it. Don't hesitate."
"Is it Grace?"
"They’re attacking and abducting people all around Chattanooga. I just hope I'm not too late," he said and kept packing. His mind wandered to Sebastian. Until they caught him and brought him to justice, Alex would have to be sure that she was never alone with him again.
The sun peeked over the ridges of the dark eastern mountains behind him, and blazed an orange path to the west as he drove. It was early morning when he made it to the city. Stopping in his apartment, he threw on his black security uniform and his military vest.
He knocked urgently and non-stop and woke Matt from his sleep. It was barely light but he was expected. When Matt opened the door, Alex rushed in only stopping for a second to throw an extra vest his way. "Here, put this on and come with me. It's bulletproof."
Matt looked worried, "Is something wrong?"
"I don’t know," he said, "but I can’t get an answer from Mr. Astor."
"How about security?"
"Nothing there either." Alex said.
He waited patiently while Matt threw on his clothes and armed himself. His friend was not only a top-notch chef, but Matt handled his weapons with more skill than his spatula.
The bright morning sun had already risen when they pulled around the back of the old house and parked. It was eerily quiet, and a cold uneasiness chilled its way down his spine.
"Grace and Lydia were together in the restaurant last night," Matt said.
The quiet statement would have sounded random to anyone else, but Alex was fully aware of the magnitude of its meaning. They exited the truck quietly, leaving the doors open behind them. In a stealth run, they reached the back landing and found a guard lying in a pool of blood. It was Louis. His throat had been cut.
Weapons drawn, they skirted the side of the house. They entered without a sound through a side door that led into the kitchen. All was quiet. From the kitchen, they moved through the house in silence until they reached the main living room. There they found a second guard, Bernard, with a gunshot wound to the back. Alex's heart almost stopped. Where's Grace? Matt signaled to Alex when he found Atticus lying on the stairway leading to the second floor. A large gash laid open his forehead but he was alive, and barely conscious.
"Go check the rest of the house," Alex whispered to Matt, and was terrified of what he might find. Alex
leaned close to Atticus, "Mr. Astor, can you hear me?" His eyes cracked open. He reached up and gripped Alex's arm.
"Grace … they took her …. and Lydia," he said, as he squinted and tried to refocus.
"Where’s Mrs. Astor?"
"She's in Knoxville. Adam went with her."
"Alex!" Matt’s voice echoed down the stairs.
"Please find her," Atticus said. "She’s my only baby. I’ll do anything."
"Alex!"
He took the stairs three at a time to find a strange man sprawled on Grace's bedroom floor. The abandoned man had suffered a serious gunshot wound to the leg, but he was still conscious. Alex knelt down next to him for a better look. The bullet wound in his thigh did not appear to be life threatening—yet.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The man smiled, his teeth brown and broken, but refused to respond. Enraged, Alex pulled his pistol and shoved it hard into his temple. Sweat pooled above the man's brow and rolled slowly down his hairline.
"I asked you a question. Who—are—you?" The look in his eye was undeniable and he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in the man's head.
"My name is Pierre," he said. His thick French accent rolled slowly from his tongue.
"Where did they take the women?" Alex growled an inch from his face.
He smiled again stubbornly. "I do not know, Monsieur."
Not in the mood for games, Alex slowly and deliberately slid the long, thin, knife from his boot. The light from the window reflected from its razor sharp blade and flashed into the man's eyes. Alex admired it for a moment before turning it from side to side. He slid his fingers slowly down the cold steel blade. Smiling, he looked at Pierre and back to the blade but Pierre was stubborn and remained silent. Without blinking, Alex dug the blade into the bullet wound and twisted.
The man's ear-piercing scream permeated the house.
"North of the city!" he howled in pain.
"Where?" Demanding an answer he twisted again and a second scream filled the quiet of the house.
"Seven miles!" he shrieked in agony. "Ammunition bunkers! They are abandoned!"
"I know the place," Matt said. "There’s over a hundred of them."