The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  She eyed the tube of roofing tar, recalling the instructions the clerk had given her. She placed the nozzle near the fissure and squeezed the caulking gun’s trigger. A blob of black goop oozed out and she covered the crack. “Perfect.” Her dignity intact, she stood.

  Madison hadn’t prepared to be a homeowner. It had been thrust upon her when her mother signed over the house and business to Madison and left for Las Vegas to spread the word of God. Homeowner duties had been learn-as-you-go and she was pleased that patching the roof wasn’t beyond her abilities. Much easier than installing the koi pond. She’d gotten in over her head with that one - but she’d triumphed. She glanced down, saw the pond was nearly flooded and was glad she’d taken the time to lay a stone edge around it as Bart Aberdeen from the pet shop had suggested. All she needed now was koi.

  A tine of lightning ripped across the sky. Thunder boomed, crashed loud enough that she felt its echo in her teeth - then trailed off, growling like a starved dog protecting its bone.

  The seal looked to be holding and, under the advisement of the skies, Madison headed for the ladder. Stepping down the sloped roof, her shoes lost traction and her feet shot out from under her. The caulking gun flew as she windmilled for balance. The gravelly asphalt raked her elbows as she came down hard on her tailbone. A sickening thunk! resounded and a flash of white blinded her as the back of her head smacked the brick chimney. Pain bit her, crippled her, and she rolled down the slope, a tattered rag doll. Though barely conscious, she felt the roof disappear beneath her. Then she was free-falling.

  Help me! she thought, unable to scream, to speak.

  In the dream-like instant of her descent, the sky flashed - not lightning, but a shooting star streaking toward earth.

  She plummeted into the koi pond below.

  Icicle-cold, the water stole her breath. She panicked, tried fighting, but body and mind had parted company. She sank, paralyzed as blurred ribbons of blood rose and eddied around her. Like a failing bulb, her vision flickered and went out.

  She was not aware of any time having passed. As if waking suddenly from a nightmare, she shot from the water, gurgling and choking, her lungs starved of oxygen. Splashing, writhing, her nails bit into bare shoulders and with the sound of rusty brakes, she sucked in a deep lungful of air. The black world resolved, and she glimpsed the face of a man, a stranger - no, not a stranger, not exactly. I know you, don’t I?

  She gagged, clawed for purchase. Water gushed from her nose and mouth in explosive bursts as her lungs purged themselves. She locked onto the stranger, her fingers like anchors in his bare arms. Seconds later, she was on the sodden earth, on her back. She coughed, vomiting water. Hands clutched her head, turned it to the side, and water spilled from her mouth and nose like unspooling ribbons. More gurgling, more body-wracking gasps. Her vision came, dissolved, settled midway between blindness and sight.

  A mouth covered hers, blew, and Madison’s lungs expanded with borrowed breath. As if the man were blowing on dying coals, warmth glowed inside her, spreading and swelling through her solar plexus, expanding, reaching her limbs, bringing heat to her skin and clarity to her mind. She could breathe, she could see, and what she saw was the stranger’s face.

  Handsome. Full lips, strong cheekbones, eyes she couldn’t yet fathom. Close-cropped, golden hair backlit by a near-blinding halo of light. Yes, she knew him from somewhere - but where?

  The warm buzz swam through her. Her fingers and toes tingled. She was losing consciousness again, but she didn’t care; the panic was gone. As the world pulsed in and out, the man leaned over and blinked black-lashed silver eyes at her. Not gray, but silver. Bright and shining, like disks of polished steel. The light behind him swelled and brightened just before the world relapsed into black and nothingness wrapped itself warm around her.

  Prominence

  From what little he’d seen so far, there was nothing prominent about the town of Prominence. It had taken former Crimson Cove deputy Nick Grayson six hours to drive from his old home on the coast, to his new one on the slopes of the eastern Sierras.

  Midway between Bishop and Bodie, Prominence was mostly high desert, with intermittent spatterings of thick, tall pines and firs. He hadn’t seen much of the town yet but intended to explore it after checking out his new place, which came with his position as Chief of Police. He pulled up to the residence and killed the black Highlander’s engine.

  It wasn’t too shabby - an L-shaped, wood-trimmed, stucco ranch house with two tall sycamores out front, complete with a two-car garage, and what might be a decent lawn come spring.

  He found the house key beneath the faded welcome mat where the landlord - one Jeffrey Gimple - said it would be waiting for him.

  Inside, he was struck by two things: the stale scent of inactivity, and the dusty, lime-green drapes that covered the windows. Those have got to go. The living room was spacious with a blessedly new beige carpet and freshly painted walls. It was furnished - Thank God - with a comfortable-looking tan leather recliner, a slightly ratty love seat, and a rump-sprung sofa. Against the far wall, directly across from the recliner, was a large television that would be great for watching sports.

  Stepping to the sliding glass doors that spanned the living and dining rooms, he drew more gecko-colored draperies and stared at the backyard. The earth was still wet from a rare valley downpour, but there was plenty of room on the patio for his barbecue.

  Down the hall, he found a cramped bath with a stained sink, a tub, and a questionable-looking toilet. Beyond that were three bedrooms. One had plenty of space for his rock polisher and stone collection, another would serve as his office and music room - a sturdy old desk and chair were already in place - and the last was the master bedroom. My bedroom. It was complete with a queen-sized bed and a much nicer bathroom with a tiled shower behind a clear glass door.

  He gazed out the small window, saw the tall redwood fence that surrounded the backyard. Plenty of privacy. He smiled. The half-acre plot was wide and fairly deep, keeping the neighbors at enough distance that he could play his guitar all night without disturbing the peace.

  He walked back up the hall, through the living room and dining room, which contained an old oak table and chairs. The kitchen was roomy with simple light wood cabinets, and had all the appliances - there was even a washer and dryer. Leaning against the yellow tile counter, he pulled his phone from his pocket. His former boss, Sheriff Ethan Hunter, picked up on the second ring.

  “I’m alive,” said Nick.

  Ethan laughed. “Well, how’s Prominence?”

  “Not too exciting so far. I’m going to grab some lunch and have a look around this afternoon.”

  “And what about the house?”

  He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he shook dust off the ugly green drapes. “It’s decent, except for the drapes. Plenty of room for me, myself, and I.”

  Ethan chuckled. “Anything’s better than the dinky place you had up here.”

  “You got that right.”

  The sheriff was silent a moment. “I hope it works out for you. You deserve this.”

  “You bet your lily-white ass I do.” Nick cracked a smile.

  “Well, we’ll miss you here.”

  Nick coughed on dust. “Give my best to Sheila.”

  “Will do. Call anytime … Chief. Oh, and Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a lot colder there in winter than it is out here on the coast. After you get settled in, text me your mailing address. I’ll send you one of my Aunt Vanessa’s sweaters.”

  It was fairly well known throughout Crimson Cove that the sheriff knitted sweaters in his spare time, and to conceal his unmanly hobby, he’d created the fictional Aunt Vanessa in Oregon. Nick wouldn’t dream of bursting Ethan’s bubble and embarrassing him. Besides, though they were loud and unattractive, he was touched to receive one.

  “Sure thing, Boss. It gets really cold here this time of year. Tell her thanks for me.” He ended t
he call, realizing he was going to miss Crimson Cove and its quirky inhabitants. He hoped Prominence would be half as interesting.

  Hard rapid footsteps broke his reverie. They came up fast behind him. Nick whirled, drawing his Glock.

  But the room was empty, the silence complete.

  “Hello?” What the blue fuck?

  He did a cautious walk-through in case a transient had made himself at home. Finding nothing, he locked up and took off to see what Prominence had to offer. The footsteps had spooked him and he was eager to be out of the house.

  The Naked Stranger

  Her head throbbed, the pain keeping time with her heartbeat. Madison’s eyes cracked open and were pierced by blinding light. Squinting, blinking, she recognized her bedroom. The light was on and sunshine poured through the window. Memories, a rapid slideshow, began to flash - I fell from the roof into the koi pond …

  She blinked hard. Fists pounded at the back of her head with the fierce determination of a soul-saving missionary. “Ugh.” She lifted her hand and felt a massive goose egg. A new memory came. There was a man in the pond … a man with silver eyes!

  She gasped at a loud clattering from another room. Her head responded with a fierce round of throbbing drumbeats and she pressed her palms to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. Another noise - this one a clang! followed by the silvery clinks of forks, spoons and knives. Someone’s raiding the silverware drawer? She looked down, realized she was nude beneath the sheets - Where did my clothes go? - and pulled the quilts around her. Her gaze froze on the bedroom door. It was shut. She never closed her door.

  Voices carried down the hall. She strained to hear and realized it was the television - which still wasn’t much relief. Someone’s in my house!

  Slowly, Madison reached under her bed, gripping the first object she found - a Wilson tennis racket.

  Her knuckles white around the handle, Madison wrapped herself in the bed sheet and tiptoed to the door - and heard cupboards and drawers being opened.

  Maybe it’s Dette. But although her friend had no problem entering the house unannounced and ransacking the kitchen, it didn’t feel like Bernadette. And it was Saturday. Dette would be minding the shop.

  She cracked the door, praying for silent hinges. The gods were listening. Creeping into the hall, heart in her throat, she tiptoed toward the sounds, knuckles white around the tennis racket. At the end of the corridor, she stopped, hid behind the corner, and took a quick peek.

  Someone was in the kitchen and it wasn’t Dette! It was a man. His bare back was to her as he rummaged through the fridge.

  Madison pressed herself against the wall and held her breath. I need to call the police. Where the hell is my phone? Then she thought of Clint Horace, who would undoubtedly respond to the call. She sure didn’t need his drama on top of this. She stole another glance at the stranger. He had short golden hair and bronzed skin. The guy from the koi pond! An inexplicable calm came over her as she stared, but she reminded herself that regardless of his appearance, he was still an intruder in her home.

  He shut the fridge and opened the cupboard beside it. The kitchen island blocked her view of him from the waist down, but as he pulled a bottle of honey from a high shelf, she saw the cleft of his buttocks and realized he was naked. She gasped.

  He whirled and Madison disappeared around the corner, holding her breath. She was surprised he’d heard her over the blaring TV. She tightened her grip on the tennis racket.

  When he didn’t approach, she stole another glimpse.

  He remained in the kitchen, head tipped back, honey bottle raised, squeezing a glistening stream into his mouth. The same irrational feeling of calm came over her as she watched him. She was certain this was the man who’d saved her life. But she shook her head, unwilling to lower her guard. If he’s not a creepster of some kind then why is he naked? She became aware of her own nakedness beneath the sheet. Oh God, please tell me we didn’t have sex! She wracked her brain but couldn’t remember anything since the fall. Maybe he’s going to rape me! Maybe he already did!

  Anger flared as he emptied her honey bear. Whether this man was a savior or a rapist, she didn’t know - and wouldn’t know until she confronted him. She stepped into plain view and shouted, “Stop right there!” Raising the tennis racket, her entrance was spoiled when her sheet slipped - That’s right, Madison, help the rapist out by taking your clothes off for him! She tugged the sheet up, tucked her boobs in, and tried to salvage her dignity. “Tell me who you are or I’m calling the police!”

  The man turned, honey dripping from his mouth.

  She realized he was young, perhaps her own age. The honey-coated lips were pink and full, and eerily familiar. Where do I know him from? His cheekbones and jaw were sculpted, as was his body - as if he’d been carved from stone; the statue of David come to life. But what is he doing naked in my kitchen? Her mind reeled.

  She waved the tennis racket, this time using her free hand to hold the sheet in place. “What do you want?” Again, her performance as the fearless defender of her home was ruined when an outbreak of jubilant praise and applause sounded from the television. She jumped, squeaking like a cat toy.

  The man in the kitchen just stared at her, working the mouthful of honey. The inexplicable scent of something even sweeter - vanilla? - wafted toward Madison and as the man stepped closer she found herself drawn into his eyes. They were beautiful - but gray, not silver - not nearly as bright as she remembered. I was hallucinating. She touched the tender knot on her head.

  He took another step; one more and the parts of him hidden behind the kitchen island would be exposed.

  “Stop right there!” she commanded, not wanting to see more than she already had. He paused in a sunbeam shining through the kitchen window, a look of confusion on his face. A nimbus of light haloed his head and without her consent, Madison’s eyes trailed down to a golden sprinkling of hair between well-defined chest muscles - and lower, a fine dusting around his navel. She forced her eyes back to his face and swallowed hard, thankful for the island that concealed him. Barely. A cloud passed over the sun.

  She shook the tennis racket at him, knowing she looked less like a sword-brandishing warrior than a crazed swatter of flies. “Who are you?”

  * * *

  The man with golden hair understood her question, but he did not have an answer. He thought very hard, but had no recollection of … anything. Giving up, he said, “I don’t even know.” Through the delicious mouthful of slowly-dissolving goodness, however, it came out, “Ah-hoh-eehn-doh.”

  The beautiful woman with the mass of shiny black hair blinked wide blue eyes at him. “Alejandro?” she asked.

  He thought about this. It was as good as any name, and in fact, he liked it. He nodded and tried to squeeze the last of the honey into his mouth. He might not know who he was or where he was from, but he was certain of one thing: he’d never tasted anything so divine.

  * * *

  Alejandro? He didn’t look like an Alejandro. Alejandro was a name for Hispanic men with slicked-back hair and coppery sun-kissed skin. She knew she should be terrified, but she felt utterly calm. Clearly, the guy’s harmless. His only interest, apparently, was in honey. She tightened her bed sheet. “Why are you here?”

  The man shook the bottle, banged it against his palm. “Do you have more of this?” His voice was smooth and put her in mind of silk and suede. It calmed her and she lowered her weapon. “I don’t know.”

  She glanced at the man’s magnificent bare torso again and was oddly disappointed by the placement of the kitchen island. She shook her head. What the hell is wrong with me? “We need to get you some clothes.”

  Alejandro looked down at himself and seemed unconcerned.

  “Why are you naked, anyway?” Madison asked.

  He looked confused. “Who told you I was naked?”

  She had no idea how to answer that. “Where are your clothes?” She remembered digging into bare shoulders in the koi pond. Has h
e been naked the whole time?

  Alejandro stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where your clothes are.” It wasn’t a question.

  Alejandro shook his head.

  She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the headache to let up. I really don’t need this. An idea. “I’ll be right back.” She turned, went to her bedroom and found the only robe she had. It was a pink satin kimono embroidered with lotus blossoms, and surely too small, but it would work. There was no way she was going to try and have a serious conversation with a naked stranger. Or while I’m naked. She dropped her sheet, threw her closet open, and pulled on jeans and a red sweater.

  She returned in time to see more butt-cleavage as he reached into the cupboard above the stove and pulled out a box of corn flakes. “Here.” She tossed the robe on the kitchen island, keeping a respectable distance and averting her eyes. “Put it on.”

  Turning away, she stared at the television where the God Club - one of her mother’s favorite televangelical shows - was having a full-on Jesus party.

  “Like this?” Alejandro stepped out from behind the island, the kimono wrapped haphazardly around him. As he moved, the vanilla scent enveloped her; he was definitely the source of the sweet fragrance.

  As she’d suspected, the satin robe barely fit but it was just long enough to cover the parts of him she did not want to see. She had to admit, however, that his legs were nice - long and well-muscled in the same toned way as the rest of his body. She swallowed.

  Alejandro looked down at himself and frowned.

  From the television, the reverend hollered about the power of the Lord’s grace and the crowd erupted into excited amens and hallelujahs.

  Alejandro glanced at the screen. “He is a bad, bad man.” The long sleeves of the kimono waved as he pointed at the television.

  Madison found the remote on the arm of the loveseat and shut it off. “I agree. So why are you watching it?” The God Club - and Reverend Bobby Felcher in particular - was the inspiration behind her mother’s decision to abandon the town of Prominence.