Stockholm Hero

by RJ Griffith

  Amy bit her bottom lip.

  “I’m six feet, three inches. Does that help?

  “Hold on.” She got up and stood in front of Archer, then craned her neck to look him in the eyes.

  He met her gaze.

  “He stood a couple of inches shorter than you, but his neck seemed thicker, you know…like his neck disappeared into his shoulders.”

  Anyone would appear tall compared to her.

  “Now that I think about it, he had a mark in one of his teeth, or something etched into the tooth itself.”

  “Etched into the tooth?” Archer brushed his knuckles against his jaw. A hazy memory surfaced, a fighter with a mean streak, a flash of silver, the crowds of people screaming. Archer shook his head. “Was my apartment torn up when you came in?”

  “Huh?” She scanned the room, the blanket wrapped in a heap around her feet. “Torn up? I may have opened a cupboard or two when I burned my arm on the tea water.” She turned her arm over and pressed the blister.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I wanted to see if it still hurt. For your information, it does.” She glared.

  He took the blanket off the floor, folded it, and placed it back on the chair. “I have a medical kit in my bedroom. Wait here.” He walked into his room, flicked on the light, and whispered a quick prayer. Dear God, what will I do with this girl? She is a walking disaster, and I get the feeling she wants to stay here. Please work out a way for me to tell her to go. Amen.

  He returned with his kit. “Sit there on the couch.” Archer waved her over to the velvet cushion. “This is a serious burn. You said tea did this?” He touched a patch of skin that flushed crimson next to the blister. “Does that hurt?”

  “No, I can’t feel much on that part, it’s the blister that hurts the worst.”

  He spread a thin layer of burn cream, taking care not to puncture the skin. “The cream will help the gauze not stick. This is bad enough that you should see a doctor. I could take you to the hospital.” She flinched back as he wrapped her arm.

  “I didn’t throw in the extra money for travelers’ insurance, so gauze and cream are all I need today. I hope you don’t mind me asking…” Her hazel eyes suddenly appeared bigger. “Can I stay here for a few days?”

  “It isn’t appropriate to stay here together, alone, at night.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’d be crashing on your couch, not moving in.”

  Archer’s phone buzzed. “Hello. Yes. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Amy. “Listen. My work needs me to come in for the evening shift. I will be back here around eight-o-clock. You can stay here tonight and sleep on the couch, but tomorrow you need to work out another place to stay.”

  “Thank you!” She stood on the couch, threw her slender arms around his neck, and pecked him on the cheek. Before he could react, she dashed to the door and started rummaging through her bag. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” She dug deeper into the cloth heap and held up his badge.

  “Thanks.” His palm brushed against her fingertips. He slammed a lid on his thoughts and jerked open the door. “Try not to make a mess,” he said through the closing door.

  5

  Archer’s heavy footsteps faded.

  Amy dumped her bag out and found purple pajamas. Archer’s face had radiated shock after she’d kissed him. Why had he been so grumpy when she asked to crash on his couch? She flopped down after changing and dialed Miranda.

  “Mere.”

  “Amy? Do you know what time it is here?”

  Amy checked the time on her watch. “Six at night?”

  “Try again.” Miranda croaked.

  “Oh. Six in the morning?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m sorry Mere. I’ll call back later.”

  “No, Amy, I’m awake. Spill it.”

  “So…I kind of got kicked out of the hotel, but I found the Archer guy, and now I’m staying at his place for the night.”

  “Amy, get out of there right now!”

  “Mere, it’s not like that. He actually tried to kick me out. He said it would look bad if I stayed with him at night.” A black book rested on the coffee table. Archer’s full name was embossed in gold letters. She flipped it open.

  It was a Bible.

  “I think I know why.”

  “Amy, everything about this trip is going wrong. Come home. I checked red-eye flight prices last night. I’ll buy the ticket and you can pay me back.”

  “No, Mere. I have to do this. You know as well as anyone that I have a problem seeing things through. I have to see this through. I don’t want this to become another unfinished art project.” The pile of unfinished paintings in her mother’s attic were still gathering dust.

  “Please come home. I saw your mom at the store, and I almost told her.” Amy heard the strain in her friend’s voice.

  “Don’t tell my mom. I feel as if my identity is tied up in this. My mom closed the door on Dad years ago. This is my journey.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. But, Amy, will you please be careful?”

  “I will. If I haven’t found a lead to this by tomorrow night, I’ll try to finagle my way back. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Amy hung up and laid her head against the cushion. She couldn’t sleep. Her eyes drifted back to the Bible, sitting open on the coffee table. Several photographs clung to the wall equally spaced and at right angles. Amy moved closer and rested the tip of her finger against a photo of a man with rippling muscles, holding a gold and black belt over his shoulder. She leaned in closer. One swollen, black eye and a gash across his cheek couldn’t hide Archer’s thick neck and strong jaw line. He’d picked her up and carried her out of the art gallery so he still possessed the same muscles. But he seemed changed. Amy couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  The other frames held photos of mountains.

  She moved to the other side and admired the canvas on the wall. Amy recognized the print. A man stood alone atop rocks staring out at mountain peaks past a sea of fog swirling beneath him. He wore a deep green overcoat and leaned against his walking stick. Amy almost felt the rush of the wind billowing through the man’s hair as he stood atop the rocks facing his mountains.

  Smears of berry across the floor caught her eye. Guilt welled up in her. Amy checked in the bathroom for cleaning supplies and came up empty except for a toilet brush and Archer’s cat, Tolstoy.

  The brown ball hunkered in the back of the shower. His hissing turned to a low growl and he shot her a fierce glare.

  “Don’t worry, Tolstoy. The shower is all yours.”

  The small cupboard near the front door yielded organic gentle cleansers. Gloves went over the gauze on her arm. A little while later, a hint of pinkish hue remained, but with the lights off one couldn’t even tell. She set the spray underneath the kitchen sink, disposed of the paper towels, and did the meager dishes she’d dirtied.

  Amy poured a generous amount of water into the coffee machine and loaded beans into the top portion. She set the timer for 8:00 AM. Even if she was asleep, Archer would have hot coffee when he came home from work. The clock on the machine blinked 11:45.

  She snagged the blanket off the chair, wrapped it around her shoulders, and flopped back down. The Bible lay within arm’s reach. Amy flipped the pages. The Old Testament seemed a safe place to start. Not many God parts there. She went past Joshua and Judges, and stopped at Ruth.

  6

  Archer had forgotten to grab an overcoat on his way out the door. None of the matches he had fought in had thrown off his concentration like the woman currently ensconced in his apartment. Instead of strolling to work, enjoying the nighttime air, the evening chill seeped into the seams of his suit jacket. He picked up his pace.

  Most Americans who moved here viewed the oncoming winter as a survival status. One of his American friends called it an ”unending arctic blast.” The winter reminded Archer of a heavy snow year in the Cascade Mountains: harsh, unforgiving,
and beautiful. He pulled the edges of his collar up and thought about the other reason he enjoyed living here, the low crime rate. His mind circled around who’d let her into his apartment and where he’d see that etched tooth before. He pushed through the glass doors of Archipelago Industries.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stock.”

  “Hello, Marta.” Archer gave the woman at the desk a nod and a smile.

  “I hope your friend found you. She told me you had left something with her, and she needed to get it back to you.” This secretary had asked him to fika more than once.

  “Yes, thanks!” Archer stepped into the nearest elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. When he’d first started working for the company, he’d been chatty with Marta. She misinterpreted kindness for an invitation to visit at his desk. Archer had politely declined her advances and now stuck to a simple “hello” and a polite nod.

  He reached up and touched his cheek where Amy’s kiss had landed.

  She’d seemed to know her art. She hadn’t been studying the painting, yet when he’d asked her, she’d found the meaning behind it.

  Archer loved the stillness of art, the peace. It resonated a distinct contrast to his past. Amy was a contrast too. The young woman who’d been so determined that she’d found his home and yet, when he’d bandaged her arm, she’d seemed so vulnerable. A tug of attraction pulled at his heart.

  The doors opened at the penthouse.

  “Archer. Thank you so much for coming in tonight.” The man held out his hand.

  “Anytime, Mr. Lundahl. What can I do for you tonight?”

  “The Gala last night, do you think it went well? Many of the people who came are strong supporters of Archipelago Industries. They are the backbone of our company, wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Lundahl took a sip from a glass. “I called you here for two things, Archer. First, I want to thank you for keeping the security running smoothly, and secondly…” He paused, admiring the city skyline through the glass windows. “Secondly, I would like to know if this woman attended last night.” He pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket and handed it to Archer.

  Archer studied the picture. Two people sat together on a rock wall overlooking acres of trees. The man was a younger Mr. Lundahl. The woman strongly resembled a dated version of Amy. “Where did you get this photo?”

  Mr. Lundahl scrutinized Archer. “Why does that matter? I need to know if this woman attended the gala last night.”

  “I don’t believe the woman did, but her daughter might have. I removed her from the premises after she tried to approach you. I thought she was a security threat. She kept insisting she needed to meet you. Forgive me, sir. Her claims sounded far-fetched. I dismissed her as an American party crasher.”

  A range of micro expressions flashed across Mr. Lundahl’s face. “I found the photo on the floor. I knew this woman once. I visited the United States after I finished college. She guided tours for an outdoor company.” His voice softened. “Her name is Abigail.” He took another sip of his drink. “I never saw her again after that summer. I suspect my parents had something to do with that. All this took place well over twenty years ago.”

  “I know where the girl is staying, sir. What do you want me to do?”

  “You say she looks like the woman in the photo?”

  Archer nodded.

  “Bring her here tomorrow afternoon.” He returned his gaze to the city below. “No. Bring her to my mansion.”

  “I will do that, sir. Do you need anything else?”

  “No. Go home and get some rest.” He dismissed Archer with a wave.

  Archer couldn’t go home with Amy there. He’d worked so hard as an example of an upright man. Going home would be the opposite of fleeing temptation. He took the elevator down to his office. The clock on the wall showed 9:45. He pulled out his chair and logged into his computer. ”Amy Bath, daughter of Abigail Bath” got several hits.

  Amy had completed her high school diploma and had worked at the Coffee Cabin after a string of other low-wage jobs. Abigail, an accomplished painter, was described as an eccentric genius who rarely left the house. Several of her paintings came up.

  He recognized one but couldn’t place where he had seen it before.

  Amy’s description of the man who let her in lacked detail.

  Archer typed ”etched tooth” into the search engine. Thousands of pictures popped up with different kinds of tooth alterations. Several shots of teeth sharpened to points caused his mouth to hurt. One man had a row of diamonds across his four front teeth. Archer narrowed his search to include the words ”professional fighter” and ”silver.”

  A picture of a bald man grinning wide, chest covered in tribal tattoos, holding a championship belt, knocked Archer flat. He double-clicked the image and leaned closer to the screen.

  7

  The weight of the cat pressed against her chest and the hum of morning commuters didn’t rouse Amy from restless sleep. The aching kink in her neck coupled with the scratchy soreness of her arm did. Amy cracked her eyes open to see two blue globes staring back.

  “So we’re friends now, is that it?”

  The cat opened its mouth in a wide yawn, exposing a set of sharp, ivory teeth and rancid cat breath.

  Amy wrinkled her nose and nudged Tolstoy.

  He thumped onto the floor and stretched again.

  “How about a truce?” She laid her hand against his velvet fur and stroked along his back.

  This could be a good start. But growing up with felines didn’t give anyone advantages. The only knowledge she’d gleaned from her mother’s gaggle of cats was to avoid wearing black and always carry tacky hair removers in her purse or car.

  “Are you hungry, Tolstoy?” There was a bag of cat food in the same cupboard where she’d found the cleaning supplies.

  The cat stretched dramatically.

  Amy snagged the clothes she wore last night, gave them a sniff, and inspected them for grime. The sweatshirt arm was still damp from the tea. She tossed it back into her bag and chose a loose, long-sleeved sweater. It took a few tugs to dislodge it from the zipper, but with a little smoothing, surely no one would notice the puckering on one arm from the snag.

  “When your daddy gets back from work, I’ll convince him to let me meet Mr. Lundahl.” She set the heaping bowl of cat food on the kitchen counter.

  Tolstoy leapt up and began crunching down his kibble.

  “Hmm. The way to a man’s heart…”

  Amy peered into the refrigerator. It held all the things she needed to make breakfast burritos except the Coffee Cabin signature sauce. Amy could make it with her eyes closed. She placed the finished product onto a cream-colored plate and slid it into the oven. The clock read twenty minutes to eight, enough time to change into the clothes she’d set out and run a brush through her hair.

  Tolstoy gave a satisfied meow, his bowl licked clean.

  “Let’s hope it works on your master too.” Amy tugged on jeans and a sweater, then fixed her hair. She gave her nails a fresh coat. The iridescent color complimented her sweater nicely. Fifteen minutes to eight. Amy peeked under the gauze bandage. It tugged against her skin. Archer will show me how to change it when he gets back.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Did you forget your keys?” Amy pulled open the door. He’s home, he’s… “Oh, you’re not Archer.”

  “You’re not Archer, either,” Niklas said. A wide smile exposed a familiar etched tooth.

  “Good morning, Niklas. Archer should be home soon.” Amy thought about how adamant Archer had been about keeping up appearances. “He went to work last night and said he would be back around eight. I crashed on his couch, we’re not together.”

  “In that case, why don’t we go out for fika?”

  “I suppose that depends on what fika is.” Amy tilted her head.

  Even with his shaggy hair and stocking cap, Niklas cut a striking figure. “Coffee with friends, it doesn’t translate as well to English, but you
get the basic gist. It’s not far and I’m buying. You’ll be back in time to see Archer.” He held out his hand.

  Amy mulled her options. She had already made breakfast for Archer, and Niklas seemed so nice. He’d said he was the neighbor’s son. Perhaps Archer simply didn’t know about him. “Sure, let me leave a note.”

  Niklas caught her hand. “It’s really not that far. I’ll have you back before he gets home.”

  Amy hesitated.

  Niklas wrapped his hand around hers in a coaxing manner.

  “As long as it’s close by.” She slipped her shoes on and shut the door.

  “Let’s take the stairs.” He opened the door to the empty stairwell.

  Amy took a step back. “I don’t know,” she hedged.

  “It’s how I stay fit.” He thumped his chest and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “We can race to the bottom if you’d like.” He gave her a teasing grin.

  “That wouldn’t be a fair race,” she said, stepping into the stairwell. The elevator door cracked open as the door swung shut.

  Cold air rushed in past Amy as they exited the building together.

  “I’m glad it’s not far. I didn’t bring a coat and it’s cold out.” She eyed the forest green down parka he wore.

  “It’s around the corner.” He led her down the cobbled sidewalk, his pace increasing with each stride.

  Amy struggled to keep up.

  He held her hand tighter and pulled her along.

  “Hey! That hurts.” She tugged against him.

  “The coffee shop is right here. I didn’t want you to get cold.” He held the door open.

  An espresso machine wailed from inside. The doughy smells of baked goods saturated the air. “A smell you could get fat from,” Miranda called it.

  Amy’s stomach grumbled. Going out to coffee with a complete stranger was not one of her better ideas. “Listen, Niklas.” Amy tried to ignore the emptiness of her stomach. “I need to get back to the apartment. Archer will be home any minute.”

  “You haven’t tried the pastries yet.” He tugged her toward the glass case filled with confections.

  Saffron buns, cinnamon rolls, and an array of other pastries glistened under the lights.