Amber and Blue

by K. R. Rowe

  "I guess not," she said. "Wait, there’s a video message." She covered her ear to listen. "I can’t understand it, there’s so much noise in the background."

  "I’m sure he’ll call back."

  "He seems—upset," Grace said. "Here, see if you can understand him." She handed the phone to Lydia.

  "He sounds drunk to me."

  "I just hope nothing’s wrong. I’ll wait until we’re outside to call him back."

  "Never, ever, drunk dial." Lydia grimaced. "Last time I did that, I called the preacher’s grandpa and told him I wanted him—every wrinkly, crusty, old sagging inch of him."

  "Eww," Grace said and they both shivered.

  They meandered their way through the last of the tour, and made their way out of the building.

  "What a gorgeous day." Grace shaded her eyes and squinted into the bright canary yellow sun.

  "Oh, damn," Lydia said. "I left my phone in the ladies room. I'll be right back."

  "Ok, I'll wait out here." She took a seat, and tried to relax on a little stone bench, next to the museum. "Oh," she said. "I need to call Lucien." She pulled out her phone, and started to call, but jumped when it buzzed in her hand. She smiled. It was Alex.

  "Hello."

  "Grace, thank God!"

  An arm to her throat cut short her response. The phone fell abandoned at her feet, and Alex’s frantic shouts continued unheard from the other end.

  Grace was terrified. She kicked and elbowed, and scratched to break free, but André was too strong, and he easily yanked her to the rear of the building.

  Only act helpless and confused when it's to your advantage, but never actually be helpless and confused. She battled to calm herself, and focus her mind, as she put Lydia’s training into action.

  He was only a man.

  His hold was tight, but she buckled her knees, and dropped to the ground at his feet. Unable to hold up the sudden dead weight, he released her. The second she was free, she screamed, and in a wide sweep, she kicked his legs from beneath him. His face smacked the ground with a hard, sick thud.

  She scrambled to her feet and ran, but in her haste, she ran toward the bluff. Not realizing, until the ground turned to air, she slid to a halt and grabbed for a bush. It was too late. She slipped over the edge and hung dangling over the rocks far below. Pebbles and dirt showered over her, and bounced down the sheer cliff face, to sprinkle like rain, in water beneath her. The shrub tore away, and she started to fall, but André reached over and grabbed her.

  "They said it's not time yet."

  With a heaving grunt, he yanked her back over the edge and she fell in a heap on top of him. She struggled to her feet, and made it only inches before André tackled her hard to the ground. She belted out another scream, before he straddled her, clamped his hand over her mouth, and leaned close to her face. His hot rancid breath smelled of rot and decay, and her eyes teared and burned from the odor.

  "Let's get acquainted," he said.

  His lips were like snails, slimy and wet, and he smiled as he forced them to hers. His rough dirty hands tore at her dress, and she gagged, and struggled beneath him.

  "Stop squirming!" he said, as he put his hands around her throat. His cold clammy fingers tightened around her neck, like a snake squeezing life from its prey. Choking and unable to breathe, she closed her eyes, went limp, and forced herself, to lie lifeless beneath him.

  "Don't make me kill you yet," he said and loosened his grip. He looked at her curiously when she didn’t wake up, and then shrugged with callous indifference.

  Grab and squeeze, Lydia's words rang in her head. Before he could stop her, she grabbed his crotch, and twisted. Caught off guard, he rolled off her, and howled in agony, but she held firm, until she was on her feet.

  She released him, and bolted up a small hill toward the rear of the building, but tripped and sprawled in the grass. Behind her, André staggered to his feet, vomited, and limped toward her. He looked miserable and pale, but undaunted, as he reached behind him and drew out his gun. She hiked up her skirt, and fumbled with the holster on her thigh, but the clasp was stuck.

  "What are you doing there?" he said with a pained smile. "You’re taking off your clothes for me?"

  She rose to her feet, took a wide stance, and gripped her gun in both hands. Her aim was to kill and he stopped in mid-step. He was oddly relaxed, with his pistol held limp in the hand at his side. He cocked his head sideways, and looked at her as if she were no threat.

  "Take one more step and I'll—"

  "Or you'll what?" He laughed and held his arms wide. "Shoot me?"

  His words rattled her, but she didn't flinch, when he continued to taunt her. He threw back his head, and erupted with bizarre laughter.

  "Where did you get your little toy?" he asked with a chuckle. "A bubble gum machine or perhaps, you won it at a carnival? Put it away, ma chérie, before you hurt yourself, and maybe you and I can have a little fun." He winked and took another step toward her.

  "I said, don't move!"

  "Ah, but you’ve changed since last time we met," he said, with a leering smile. "You’re aggressiveness suits you, ma petite."

  "Don’t call me that!"

  Suddenly, his eyes yanked away and his smile disappeared.

  She followed his gaze, as he raised his gun, to fire, at a point just behind her. From around the edge of the building, Alex slid to a sudden stop, alarmed by the standoff in front of him.

  A ground-shaking blast reverberated in ripples, over the bluff, and across the river. Like waves crashing against a rocky shore, her memory came flooding in, filling her mind, and drowning her with a sea of flashbacks.

  In an instant, a lucid scene, born of a similar sound, came roaring back in her head. A madman, a gun, and the love of her life, who lay still in front of her eyes. The memory was clear, and the pain shook her soul, on that day, next to Vittetoe Road.

  ******

  Chapter 32 The Hospital

  The hospital room was cold and uncomfortable, but he sat by her side with quiet patience. Matt stuck his head in the doorway and motioned for him to come out into the hall.

  "I'll be right back," he said, but she only nodded in response. She stared silently ahead.

  Once outside of the room, Matt walked further down the hallway and stopped. "How is she?" Matt asked.

  "Not good," Alex said. "She still thinks everything’s her fault."

  "Has she said anything about what happened?"

  "She won’t talk about it," Alex said and sighed.

  "And you?"

  "Me?"

  "Are you ok with her being here so often?"

  "Oh. Well, that's a complicated question. If this were a month ago, I would have been itching to pull the plug—"

  "Or blast two in his ass." Matt laughed a little too loud, and a nearby nurse shot them a mean look. Embarrassed, Matt walked further down the hall and Alex followed.

  "It's different now. It feels different." Alex said when they stopped.

  "How?"

  "Now, she remembers everything," Alex said and smiled. "She remembers us."

  Matt grinned at his old friend. "I guess that helps," he said. "Oh yeah, I came by for two reasons. I saw Bradford and he asked that you come back by the station. They have a few more questions."

  "Ok," Alex said. "Maybe I can take off now so that I can be back before it gets too late. I really want to try to get her to go home tonight. I’m worried about her."

  "And … " Matt dug in his pocket. "Here's Lucien’s phone. Lydia found it behind the museum. She grabbed it before the police—uh, I mean—she thought he might need it."

  "I’ll pretend I didn’t see it," Alex said and grinned. "But you can leave it in his room."

  A few hours later after Alex had gone, two of Lucien’s friends from work stopped by to check on his progress. Beneath the bustle of the hospital white noise, she sat by Lucien’s bed and could hear their deep voices murmuring outside of the room.

  "Is
that the girl he wanted to marry?"

  "I think so, but I heard that it’s not happening—poor bastard."

  "I overheard a nurse talking," the first man said. "She said they lost him in surgery. He's lucky to be alive."

  After a while, they left, but not before she drowned in the flood of guilt from their words. Lucien loved her, she rejected him, he was shot, and almost died trying to protect her. Grace sat alone steeped in self-loathing. Everyone told her this was not her fault, but until she heard it from Lucien, the words were just words, and meant nothing. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor reassured her that he lived, but it did nothing to calm her fears. Finally, he was breathing on his own, but hour after hour, he lay vulnerable and deathly still.

  Her hand shook, as she brushed his hair away from his face. It was loose, tangled, and dull without life, and his skin was pallid like death. She gripped his hand, and rested her cheek on the cold metal rail of his bed.

  "Why are you crying, little one?" she heard Lucien ask in a soft rasping voice. "Did someone die?"

  She looked up, and he flashed a weak grin. "You're awake."

  "And why are you crying?"

  "I didn't think you would wake up."

  "You know … I'm a tough old dog," he said slowly. He tried to throw her a charming smile, but he heaved a grimace instead.

  "I'm sorry, Lucien." She hung her head as fresh tears dripped from her lashes.

  "What? Why are you sorry, mon amour?" he asked, with slow drawn-out words as he fought for each breath.

  "This is all my fault," she said. "If you had never taken me from André, he wouldn't have—"

  "No, no, no." Lucien took a deep gulp of air and frowned. He took her hand and brushed his thumb across the back of her fingers. "If it's anyone's fault, it's mine." He stopped and considered for a minute whether it was a good idea to continue. "I have a confession, and you might hate me after I tell you this."

  "I could never hate you."

  "Don't be so sure." He groaned and shifted in bed trying to gather his nerve.

  "Be careful." She wrinkled her brow, "Don't hurt yourself."

  "It’s too late," he said with an exaggerated groan. "I think I hurt my lip." He pointed to an imaginary injury and puckered. "But if you kiss it, I think it’ll feel much, much better." He saw a faint smile, but he knew it wouldn't last. He steadied himself and began. "I never planned to tell you this, but I can't have you believing, for one second, that this is your fault."

  "How could it not be?" she asked. "You were shot because of me."

  He gripped her hand and the playfulness disappeared from his tone. "You may not remember but—"

  "I remember," she said.

  "You do? When, how …."

  His voice trailed off when she looked away, and stared in silence, toward the window across the room. He saw the upset and distress in her eyes, and he suspected that something was terribly wrong.

  "Grace?" he said.

  She turned his way.

  "Are you ok?"

  "I’m fine," she said with a forced smile.

  "Did he hurt you?" he asked. "If he touched you, I swear, I’ll—"

  "No," she said. "I promise ... I’m ok." She hung her head and her voice broke, "But you’re not, Lucien, I’ve been so scared for you, I don’t understand, did I do something to make him mad? I still don’t remember much from the bunker that night, but I must have done something, I didn’t mean to …."

  "No, no … don’t cry, Grace, none of this was ever your fault. This is his fault—and mine."

  "How is it yours?"

  He pulled in a shallow lungful of air. "You need to know the kind of man I really am. I’ve done things .…" he said slowly. "The first time we abducted you—the fact is—I chose you. I was a scout and a spy, and I blended in. I searched the area for the most lucrative ransoms and communicated my findings back to Montcalm." He paused and stared at the ceiling for a moment, and battled to ignore the growing pain in his chest.

  "But that was your job," she said. "You told me—"

  "No, ma petite, there were much more valuable prospects than you," he said. "Some were worth a lot of money. I chose you, Grace … for myself."

  "For your own ransom?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "Not for ransom. When I first saw you, I was scouting your neighborhood. Your fall caught my attention, and I stopped."

  "You saw that?"

  "Yes," he said and smiled, remembering the day. "I was captivated. In the days that followed, I watched you, came to know you, your habits, where you went, what you did. I fell in love with your sweet smile, your soft heart, your beautiful soul. I knew everything about you."

  She looked at him in disbelief. "You stalked me?"

  He frowned and continued. "I was going to steal you from André and Jacques and disappear. You would have had no choice in the matter, and my intentions were not that of a gentleman."

  He stopped for a minute waiting for her to absorb his meaning, and to catch his breath. He had not been himself in the days that followed his mother's death. He had been an emotional wreck, and André's ramblings had begun to distort the difference between right and wrong, and the immoral.

  She stared at him speechless, and his stomach churned, when he saw the fear cross her face from his confession.

  "I was no Sebastian," he said hoping to dispel her obvious worries, "and there were no others." He turned his face away from her. He was ashamed of disgusting things he had planned to do.

  "You wouldn't have .…"

  "But I was going to."

  She sat quietly trying to make sense of what he was saying.

  "Alex should have killed me in the bunker that night."

  "What? No …." she said shaking her head.

  "So you see—if anyone is to blame," he said, "the fault is mine for bringing André to your doorstep to begin with. I deserve this."

  She stood and turned away, but not before he saw the hurt and anger in her eyes.

  "I'm so sorry Grace. Will you ever forgive me?"

  She didn’t respond and stood silent with her back to him. He wanted her to be angry. He wanted her to make it easy on him and demand he never come near her again. He wanted her to hate him.

  "But, you aren't that man anymore," she said when she turned to face him, "and you've more than made up for any wrong you've ever done to me." She took his hand and rubbed it between hers.

  She was much too forgiving, he thought with a groan, and now, God help him, he loved her even more.

  "We should both blame your parents." Lucien said with a lighthearted smile.

  "Why?"

  "For creating such a lovely daughter."

  She smiled. "You would flirt with your last breath wouldn’t you?"

  "Only, if it were with you."

  A tap on the doorframe caught their attention. They looked up and Alex stood in the doorway.

  "You've rejoined the living, I see," Alex said as he eased his way into the room.

  "Yes, but death left his calling card," he replied with a grimace.

  "Grace, can I talk to you for a minute?" Alex asked.

  She nodded her head, and followed him out of the room.

  They walked out of earshot, but Lucien had a clear view as they stopped in the hallway. Alex stood close, and gazed down with tender concern. He whispered, reached up, and brushed the back of his hand lightly across her cheek. She nodded her head in agreement, and circled her arms around his waist. He pulled her close, and she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. She appeared to savor the comfort of his arms and the touch of his hand, as he kneaded her back in a slow caress.

  Now Lucien finally understood the strength of the connection he battled. The chest wound was a welcome distraction from the injured heart that beat painfully across from it. He closed his eyes to block out the scene, but the impression seared deep into his brain.

  "Lucien," he heard her soft voice near his ear. "Are you asleep?"

  He
opened his eyes and smiled. Despite the pain, he made a gallant attempt to hide how he felt. "I must have died," he said, "because God has sent an angel to come and take me home."

  "It's late," she said, "and I think I need to go home, but Alex has asked to talk with you."

  He looked up and saw Alex standing in the hallway waiting, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Lucien wondered what he could possibly want, and would rather ask for some pain medication, and just go back to sleep.

  "He can wait if you aren't feeling up to it," she said.

  He wanted to beg her to stay with him, but instead he scooped up his pride and lied. "I'm fine," he said. His strength was fading and the pain was making him nauseous.

  "Ok, I'm going to wait outside." She gave him a careful hug, and kissed him on the forehead. She placed her hand on his cheek and lightly brushed her thumb across his skin. "I’ll be back tomorrow."

  Alex came in when she left and pulled up a chair next to the bed. He sat quietly, as if searching for the right words to begin. The silence was uncomfortable and Lucien could not resist the urge to snap at him. Jealousy made him intolerable, an irritant, like a rock in a shoe, which now, the shoe was on Lucien’s foot, and was digging in and very painful. Struggling to remain civilized but failing, Lucien broke the silence.

  "Have you come to gloat?" he barked, and pushed the call button for the nurse.

  "Not at all." Alex concealed a grin. Lucien’s sudden switch in demeanor did not surprise him. Trying to keep it short, he continued. "I’ve never had a chance to thank you for everything you've done."

  "You—need not thank me. Nothing was ever done for you," Lucien replied, as the contempt and irritation in his voice rose with each syllable.

  "Regardless of whether you want it or not," Alex said, "you have my gratitude, and I'll always be in your debt." Annoyed, he stood and shoved his chair back. The grating screech echoed down the hall, as it scraped against the tile floor when he turned to leave.

  "Wait!" Lucien said.

  Alex stopped and turned toward him.

  Lucien was ghostly pale. He struggled to breathe and jabbed several times at the nurse call button.

  "What about André?" Lucien asked.