by L. B. Dunbar
“Holli, honey, you look exhausted for someone who napped.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Mon blanche fleur, that is not good. Not good at all.”
Hearing my nickname made me smile and cringe. In Marie’s French accent it sounded so lovely, but in reality it was a curse. To be thought of as a white flower, so pure and innocent, was completely opposite to my experience.
Marie Christian had been working at the shelter for longer than I was old. Her own story involved something similar to those within the home: an abusive relationship, a possessive would-be-love affair, a dead child. Marie devoted herself to the care of the women through her art. Food. Her culinary skills in the kitchen she shared with all those under the roof, as well as the economics of food shopping on government-issued stamps and a limited budget.
About to protest Marie’s scolding, the cook shushed me.
“Did you just…”
“Shh. Listen.”
I followed the tilt of Marie’s head toward an old radio on the sink counter and listened more intently to the news reporter speaking softly in the background of the vast kitchen.
And in a follow up report…The famous Arturo King was caught in a deadly motorcycle chase through the streets of Manhattan, in the early morning hours, after midnight. Reports say that there were two motorcycles in hot pursuit of Mr. King, the lead singer and songwriter for the Grammy Award-winning band, The Nights, when he was chased under a viaduct only to collide with the underpass wall. It is believed that one motorcycle might have come too close to the Streetfighter 848 driven by Mr. King, a bike known for speed and street handling like no other. The motorcycle is registered in the name of Lansing Lotte, another band member of The Nights, who confirmed that Arturo King was the rider of the bike in the late night hours. Reports believe the bike was clipped by those in pursuit, causing Arturo King to crash in what appears to be a fatal collision. The images of the bike prove there is only a remote chance of survival. Additional images show large traces of blood along a path on the street. The irony in this case, however, is no body was found at the scene of the crime. Those chasing Mr. King are believed to be paparazzi, yet no suspects are in custody, at this time. Mr. King has not been reported to be admitted to any local hospitals. The greater question at the moment is: where is Arturo King?
A shaky hand covered my mouth.
“So sad,” Marie began, as she kneaded dough for the following day’s soup and rolls lunch meal. “He was an amazing singer. So handsome. So skilled. It’s just such a…” Her sympathetic eyes met mine.
“Hollister, ma cherie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Marie turned to approach me, hands raised, covered in flour and sticky pieces of bread dough.
“I…Marie, can you ask another girl to cover for me tonight?”
“Holli, honey, what’s wrong? You look so pale. Sit down.”
I couldn’t answer, as the first sad thought to enter my head was it could have been us. It could have been Perkins and me. I let out an unfortunate breath of relief, chastising myself for my lack of compassion. I was so relieved it wasn’t Perkins Vale in the crash.
The morning after the concert…
[Perkins]
Pissed off. That’s what I was when I exited the bathroom. Fucking pissed off.
She ran.
I wanted to prove to her that I trusted her, and she ran away.
A string of profanity left my mouth that would have made a drunken sailor proud, as I stormed through my home to my room for fresh jeans and a clean t-shirt. Yanking on the clothes, I continued in my rant as my phone rang.
“What?” I snarled into the receiver.
“Perk?” a weak voice responded.
Taking a deep breath, I sighed audibly.
“I’m sorry, Lansing, man. What’s going on?”
“It’s Arturo. There’s been an accident. I don’t have all the details, but I’m heading to his apartment now.”
A loud beeping noise sounded in the background and Lansing Lotte’s voice swore at the other driver through the phone. Without being in the car, I knew Lans’s affinity for speeding through the busy streets of New York City.
“Slow down,” I said as I thumped down on my bed, taking just a second to recall Hollister laying in it, next to me, curled into me this morning.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t have all the details…Damn it, move, asshole…but he wrecked on my bike. There’s more to it, but Guinie was crying so hard on the phone I couldn’t get it out of her.”
“Okay, what can I do?”
“I…I don’t know. Meet us at Arturo’s?” The hesitant voice of Lansing proved his utter loss. I myself felt my heart rate accelerate knowing that this sounded bad. Whatever it was, it was very bad. I rubbed my hand over my chopped hair.
“I’m on my way,” I barked and I clicked off the phone. I could reach my boots from where I sat on the edge of the bed and I quickly laced them. Racing through my apartment, I grabbed things as I went. Phone. Wallet. Jacket. Helmet.
Thank God, Arturo had on a helmet, was the first thought that filled my mind as I jumped on my bike and headed into the city.
My mind wandered from concern for Arturo to fear for Hollister. As I sped past the boarded and locked storefronts, I wondered how Hollister had gotten to wherever she wanted to go so quickly. I’d offered to return her to the shelter, but her escape, in the few moments I was in the shower, proved her distrust of me. There wasn’t much I could do now. I didn’t know which shelter. I didn’t know where she worked, if she worked. Once again, I hadn’t asked the right questions.
Damn it, I sighed as I shifted into another gear, speeding up as my heart continued to race in my chest. Concern for the well-being of Arturo took over. Arturo was skilled on a motorcycle. Trusting that he could outrace his chasers, I never gave our separation a thought. My mind had only been on my personal mission: to get the girl away from The Round Table.
If something had happened to Arturo, more than a scratch or bruise, I would never forgive myself. Just like the dream that haunted me last night, I felt responsible.
It had been twelve years since my first encounter with Hollister SanGrael. She was just as fierce and determined as she had been when I was fourteen years old. My body responded to hers now, as it had then. I cursed myself for reacting to her without knowing who she really was. My brain recalled her words from twelve years earlier; I don’t need your help. Despite her strong bravado, I knew she was wrong. She did need my help; she just didn’t know it yet.
Letting myself through the unlocked door of Arturo’s apartment, I found Tristan Lyons sitting next to the beautiful Guinevere DeGrance, caressing her back as he held her in his arms, pressing her into his chest. Her chestnut colored hair was all I could see of her. Tristan’s green eyes met mine. I instantly knew it was bad.
Arturo? I questioned silently.
Tristan could only shake his head.
“What’s going on?” my voice demanded.
Lansing Lotte, who had been standing staring out the window to the city street below, turned to embrace me in a brief man hug.
“We don’t know. Arturo never came home last night, so Guinie called Kaye, who wasn’t answering. She said she tried you, thinking he might have stayed with you after leaving the bar, but you never answered.”
Guiltily, I looked at Guinie who was still hidden in Tristan’s arms. It wasn’t the time to explain why I hadn’t answered my phone.
“She called me as well, but…I…I wasn’t in a position to answer,” Lansing explained.
He looked just as guilty as I felt, but he didn’t look in the direction of Guinevere.
“She finally got a hold of Tristan, who rushed over this morning. On the way here he heard about the accident on the news.”
I braced myself. Lansing pulled me closer to the windows and returned his bright blue gaze to the street below.
“The news said there was
a motorcycle accident. My motorcycle. Crashed under a viaduct. That’s all we know at the moment. The police called to confirm it was mine and that I knew the whereabouts of it. I confirmed Arturo had it, but I didn’t know what he was doing under that overpass. Kaye’s been in the office calling hospitals. Mure Linn hasn’t responded to calls to him. Ingrid isn’t answering either. No one wants to call Ana.”
I ran through the list in my head.
Kaye Sirs was Arturo’s foster brother and the band’s manager.
Mure Linn had been Arturo’s mentor, training Arturo on guitar, and acting as a surrogate father.
Ingrid Tintagel was Arturo’s mother.
Ana LeFaye: she was a difficult person to describe in relation to Arturo.
According to my calculation all the pertinent people had been attempted.
“He was with me.” At the sound of my voice, Guinevere untangled from Tristan and blinked her blue eyes in my direction, but she wasn’t really looking at me.
“He left The Round Table with me. We were being followed by two other bikes through the city. We made it to the Boulevard and Arturo suggested we split up. I thought they were after the girl, but they followed Arturo.”
“You, too? What girl?” Tristan smiled, raising one eyebrow with curiosity.
“Not now,” Lansing immediately bit back.
“I have no idea what he was doing on that road. Or what happened to him. I never would have left him, if I had thought anything…” I ignored them both, letting my voice trail off as Guinie finally focused on me with her ghostly sad blue eyes.
“Of course not,” she whispered in a voice harsh from crying.
“What girl?” Tristan asked again with humor in his voice.
Lansing gave him a silencing glare as Kaye entered into the room.
“I’ve tried twenty-five of the closest hospitals. Nothing. There’s no one who came in without identification or recognizable as Arturo. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
Silent tears trailed down Guinevere’s face. No emotion was behind them, they just leaked out as if on their own accord.
“We need to keep calling,” I suggested. I had to do something. Being active versus sitting in idle wonder would help no one.
“Give me the list, or a list of other hospitals. I’ll keep trying the surrounding areas. We need Leo. Where’s Mure and Ingrid?”
“Fuck Mure,” Tristan breathed.
“Hey,” Kaye snapped. “I don’t know where he is, but if I know him, he knows where Arturo is. He always does.”
“That’s stalker-sounding,” Tristan added under his breath.
“I don’t care how stalker it sounds, if he knows where Arturo is, or if…” Kaye let his voice dwindle, not wanting to mention the most extreme scenario. “Mure would know something.”
“Where’s Ingrid?” Guinie asked in her scratchy voice.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Kaye said in a softer tone. “She isn’t answering either.”
“Ana?” Guinie sighed.
The men in the room all took turns glancing at one another.
Kaye finally answered, “I tried her, as well. No answer.”
The room fell silent; the sadness and concern heavy in the air.
“Give me something to do,” I begged.
Kaye Sirs did what he did best; he managed. Delegating tasks, I was assigned to continue phone calls to potential hospitals. The more calls I made, the more discouraging the news. No hospital had unidentifiable motorcycle accident victims. No hospital had an admission of Arturo King. It was like Kaye said; Arturo seemed to have vanished.
When I heard the strangled cry of Guinevere from the other room, I exited Arturo’s bedroom to find Ingrid Tintagel had been found. Holding onto each other as if they were life preservers, Guinie was starting to slide down Ingrid, taking the older woman with her.
Ingrid Tintagel was still a beautiful forty-something woman with her light reddish hair and deep green eyes. She’d been rather young when she had Arturo and placed him in the care of Mure Linn, a family friend of the wealthy Tintagel’s. Fostered by Hector Sirs, alongside Hector’s biological son, Kaye, Arturo didn’t know he had a mother until he was eighteen. At twenty-one, Arturo learned of his father only upon the man’s death. The man bestowed on him a vast business empire. Pendragon Empire, Inc. was a large real estate company that held title to smaller businesses, including something important to Arturo, Camelot Records. The independent record company was run by Kaye Sirs and Leo DeGrance, Guinevere’s father. Coming full circle, Leo DeGrance and Ingrid Tintagel had been long-time family friends, and Guinevere was close to Ingrid long before she was engaged to Arturo.
It took the strength of Tristan and I to separate the human collision about to topple before us as Tristan embraced Ingrid from behind and I picked up a frail Guinevere. Tristan Lyons had a special relationship with Ingrid, as she had allowed him to live in her home during summers between college semesters. His comforting arms gave Ingrid strength when Kaye lit into her about her silence throughout the night.
“I don’t know anything. Mure did call me. He told me not to worry. He would figure everything out.”
Tristan barely strangled the grunt coming out his mouth, a true sign of his disbelief in Mure’s abilities.
“I trust Mure,” she continued, “I always have trusted him to take care of my boy. I believe he will, once he finds him.” Her eyes looked guilty as if she knew more than she was sharing.
“What else do you know?” I angrily snapped at her.
“Nothing.” Her tear-filled eyes lied before drifting to Guinevere, who was huddled against me as we now sat on the leather L-shaped couch. I leaned back, pulling Guinie with me to curl against my large body. My dark eyes met Lansing’s, who stared at Guinie with blue eyes filled to the brim with concern. I knew that look. I knew that Lansing Lotte secretly loved Guinevere DeGrance, but his loyalty and love of Arturo King was greater.
The silent conversation of Tristan and Ingrid mixed with the muted sound of Kaye Sirs on the phone again, with Leo DeGrance this time. Lansing Lotte turned his back to the scene on the couch and placed his forehead on the windowpane, as if he could see the answers outside better with his head on that cool glass. I took the moment to close my eyes as I tried to comfort Guinie. My mind drifted to my first meeting of Lansing Lotte.
The band in the forest: eleven years ago…meeting Lansing Lotte
[Perkins]
I wandered the woods once again; in search of the mysterious home I’d seen a year earlier. I was particularly aggravated that day as I walked with a stick in my hand, whacking at low bushes and tall foliage, while I huffed through the underbrush. My aggression was felt by the trees I passed as I pelted them with the stick, developing a slow rhythm as I went from trunk to trunk.
I’d finished my first year of public high school. As a homeschooled kid, to say it was hell was an understatement. I hadn’t been prepared for the cruel words of other adolescents. My size didn’t protect me. Actually, it hurt me. In the first week of school, I asked several questions a day in each class. When the teacher eventually showed her exasperation and the other students began to make their degrading comments, I grew quieter and quieter. I choose to hold my questions inside, stifling the inquisition in me, but the energy transferred to my large body.
I began to fidget in the confines of a desk chair, and I would tap my pencils in an annoying way that earned me glaring looks from others. Rhythm beat in my head, and it pulsed out my hand through the tap-tap-tap of a writing utensil on a wooden desktop. I used the same rhythm as I walked through the woods, taking out my anger of another wasted day at school on the woodlands around me.
It was in this state that I came across a smaller home on the beachside of Lake Avalon and a group of younger boys on the water’s edge. One boy seemed to be the center of attention as he played an instrument that I had newly learned was a guitar. Music wasn’t a part of my education as I was homeschooled by my mother, Iglasia.
She had her reasons, which she would give to me in later years. For now, I discovered the glory of music through the strange instruments I saw others play in the band room, and the powerful music I heard coming through the ear-buds of the few students willing to answer my question: What is that?
I didn’t recognize the boys I found near the water, but I was drawn to the sound made from that guitar. Drawing closer, the boy with the guitar looked up, continuing to play on. Finally upon the group, I anxiously tapped the stick in my hand against my leg. The player had longer black hair that hung into his eyes when he leaned his head forward occasionally. He looked up, every once in a while, with bright blue eyes and noticed me tapping his beat. The guitarist shifted his playing to follow the lead of the rhythm beginning to take over my hand. Transferring the stick to hit the nearest surface, a stump of a tree, the boy continued to follow the play of my lead.
We carried on for several minutes in this shared beat until the younger boy stopped and let me take over. Nodding his head, the floppy haired kid rejoined the sound, and with a final shake we ended in unison. The other boys clapped heartily and the young player stood to clasp my hand.
“Dude, that was awesome. You have a great sound.”
“Thanks,” I stuttered in surprise.
“Lansing Lotte,” he offered.
“Perkins Vale.”
The group grew quiet.
“Vale? As in Alan Vale?”
Hesitantly, I nodded my head.
“Alan Vale. Lead singer of the Valentines?”
“I...,” I didn’t know. I knew my father was named Alan Vale. I knew my father liked music, which was why my mother banned it. But I didn’t know if my father was a musician. Iglasia claimed music was evil, leading to death.
The boy seemed to know more about my father than I did.
“What were you playing?” I asked to change the subject.
“Don’t know. Just playing and picked up on your beat. Do you play?”
