The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  “My father. He was a professor of archaeology with a side interest in geology. There’s something from just about every country and continent in here. It was his life’s work.”

  “This place is amazing. I hope you have a top-notch alarm system?”

  “The best there is.”

  “Good. I’d love to meet your dad.”

  Madison’s smile faltered. “Unfortunately, he passed away some years ago. But he wrote several books about the area.”

  “Really?”

  Madison led him to the bookshelves and pointed out those authored by Christopher O’Riley. Nick flipped through one. “He must have had a hell of a personal collection of artifacts.”

  “Yep. My entire attic is pretty much brimming with rocks, minerals, and fossilized plant and animal life. We’ve even got some meteorite samples up there. I’ll never sell any it, of course.”

  His eyes lit up and she nearly invited him over to see the collection. But, though she’d immediately felt comfortable with him, he was still a complete stranger.

  Madison sighed as Eric Cooterman entered her shop for the second time that day.

  “Madison,” he said, out of breath. “I know we spoke earlier but there’s been a new development. Can I talk to you?”

  Nick Grayson did not step back as the wiry reporter approached. In fact, if anything, he seemed to lean closer, become a little bigger. “Cooter. Nice to see you again.”

  Cooter glanced at the chief. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform. You were at the scene of the miracle! You’re a witness!” He practically salivated. “This is great! You’ll both want to hear this!” He took a deep breath and began talking. Rambling, really. “You know the interview I did on KNDL the other night - on Coastal Eddie’s show? Well, one of the really big syndicates heard it and they want an exclusive with your friend. I know you said no publicity, Maddy, but this is big. Bigger than you think! We have to do this! It’s our obligation to the pub-”

  Madison held her hand up. “First, my name is Madison, and second, I said no, Cooter. He’s not interested.”

  The gleam in his eye faded. “You can’t be serious! Come on! Everyone will want a piece of the story! You have to think big, Maddy!” He slung an arm over her shoulder and gestured broadly at the ceiling. “We could get him booked on Oprah, for Christ’s sakes! And the chief of police is a Witness! You can’t ask for more!”

  Nick frowned. “Didn’t Oprah’s show end?”

  “That’s not the point, copper! The point is there’s money in this!” Cooter eyed Nick. “You can get a cut of it, too. Both of you!”

  Madison shrugged away from him. “Why is this such a big freaking deal?”

  Cooter aped utter disbelief. “Well.” He began ticking items off on his fingers. “One, he saved a woman’s life. Two, he was practically naked when he did it. Three, women and girls all over the country are going crazy about this guy - he’s an online sensation! And four, there are pictures of him walking on water! He’s the fucking Messiah! Do I need to go on?”

  “He wasn’t walking on water, Cooter.”

  “You don’t know that, Maddy. You weren’t there!” Cooter looked at Nick. “You saw it!”

  Nick hesitated, and Madison saw his uncertainty. “Trick of the camera, Cooter.”

  “Horseshit!” His bellow had Dette heading over.

  “You guys want to keep it down over here,” she said. “If someone comes in and-”

  “It’s under control,” said Nick. He turned to Madison. “Your friend, the young man at the scene, does he want to do any interviews?”

  Madison shook her head. “No.”

  Cooter stepped in close. “I haven’t heard him say that!”

  Nick held a hand up to the reporter, and said, “Then that’s the end of the discussion, Mr. Cooterman. Done deal. You need to leave, and you need to stay gone. Understood?”

  Cooter’s mouth worked but no words came.

  “Understood?” Nick repeated.

  “But the public has a right to-”

  “The public has plenty to keep them busy. And you have no right to violate anyone’s privacy,” said Nick. “None.”

  “He’s harassing Beverly Simon, too,” said Madison.

  “You leave her alone, too, Cooter,” said Nick. “I mean it. You don’t want this to get ugly.”

  His jaw tensed. “Are you threatening me?”

  Nick flashed a grin. “I’m promising.”

  Cooter’s cheeks blazed scarlet and for a moment; he looked like a toddler about to throw a world-class tantrum.

  Madison suppressed a chuckle.

  The reporter turned on his heels and stalked away.

  “I mean it, Cooterman,” called Nick as the other man threw the door open.

  He turned, glared at the chief, and left without a word.

  If Madison liked Nick Grayson before, she adored him now.

  “Is he the only one bothering you?”

  Madison shook her head. “No, but most folks just come to stare. Cooter’s the only one who’s making it into a big deal.”

  “He sees this as his chance to become a celebrity himself. A big break.”

  She nodded, letting her eyes roll heavenward for just an instant. “My friend is in the back office. His name’s Alejandro.” Somehow, telling the chief all of this just seemed like the thing to do - before things got worse, and she had to answer questions she wanted to avoid. “I really don’t know him all that well. It’s a … strange situation. I don’t even know where he came from. He’s having, uh, memory difficulties.”

  Nick cocked his head. “Memory difficulties?”

  She nodded. “He rescued me from a bad fall during the first storm. And hit his head. He won’t see a doctor.” She paused a moment. “He wants to wait until his memory returns and then we’ll handle it.”

  “If not a doctor, you should have come to the police.”

  She shook her head. “I know but … Clint Horace … well, he’s … I want to stay away from him.”

  Nick was smiling and Madison wasn’t sure why.

  “First things first,” he said. “Why don’t I do a little damage control? I’ll have a car drive by your house a few times a day and a couple of times a night to make sure people are minding their business.” He grinned. “And it would be my pleasure to have an excuse to stop by the shop regularly.”

  “That would be … great.”

  “As for your friend, I’m happy to talk to him if he wants. I’ll help how I can, but he’s an adult and it’s up to him how he handles it.” He paused.

  “I’ve been reading all about amnesia and am trying some things to jog his memory.” She smiled. “And thank you. For, you know, understanding.”

  Nick Grayson nodded and looked at his watch. “I need to get going. I’ll be stopping by to check up on things.”

  As he opened the front door, Madison said, “Wait.”

  He turned.

  “Maybe you can stop by sometime and see my father’s collection. I’ll introduce you to Alejandro.”

  He smiled. “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  Though the terrible images had lessened in both frequency and intensity, the feeling of dread was ever-present, a steady, patient hand clawing at the back of Beverly Simon’s mind. Abigail Strane - whose memory seemed to be better than Beverly’s own now - had called her sister, a woman named Angela Porter, in Red Cay. After explaining that her home had been destroyed in the flood, Angela had come to Prominence and picked her up.

  The joyous reunion dampened Beverly’s eyes - Angela was as shocked by Abby’s full recovery as Abby herself.

  Although she was very happy that Abby had regained her memory - and a sister - Beverly would miss the old woman’s visits to the shop. Not that business was suffering. In fact, it had been booming, and Beverly knew this was because of the mystery man who’d rescued Abby - who called him her guardian angel.

  Beverly had taken a keen interest in the youn
g man. She’d seen his pictures splashed on the internet and news, and while he was undoubtedly attractive - and a hero to boot - she wanted to know how he’d healed Abby’s dementia. And he had healed her. Beverly had watched it happen. His eyes, she thought. There was something so unusual about them. But she couldn’t remember what it had been.

  She wanted to see him again- she had to - and she had a perfect excuse to stop by O’Riley’s: She’d finished her last Christopher O’Riley book and wanted another. According to O’Riley’s website his daughter, Madison, sold copies of all of them.

  Beverly closed up the Psychic Sidekick and made her way to the rock shop, and as she entered, she passed a man on his way out. He was a few years older than she with thick, dark hair and a linebacker’s physique. He was handsome, though she hadn’t much chance to assimilate his features before his cornea-scorching sweater commanded her full attention. As they passed each other, he held the door for her. “Thank you,” she said.

  The man nodded, and Beverly thought she felt his eyes on her as she passed. She smiled to herself. Still got it.

  Inside O’Riley’s, it was obvious they were closing up shop.

  “Welcome to O’Riley’s Rocks.”

  Beverly smiled at the porcelain-faced but tired-looking woman behind the register.

  “I’m Dette. Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

  “I will, thanks.” Beverly headed to the books and found Christopher O’Riley. She took copies of the ones she didn’t own and went to the register.

  Madison O’Riley emerged from the back office. They hadn’t been formally introduced, but had nodded hellos in passing. Madison’s glossy black hair and large blue eyes had clearly been inherited from her father.

  Beverly saw no sign of Madison’s heroic friend.

  Dette left her post to help a woman browsing a rack of T-shirts and Madison slipped behind the counter. “Did you find everything okay?”

  “Unless there are any more Christopher O’Riley books I’m unaware of, yes.” She placed the books on the counter.

  “There are just five.”

  “Then my collection is complete.” Beverly paused. “I’ve ordered several copies of each to sell at my own shop, but they haven’t arrived.” She tapped the books. “These are for my personal use.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Beverly hesitated. “If you don’t mind my saying, the resemblance is striking.” She nodded at the author photo on the back of one of the books. “I’m Beverly Simon.” She held out her hand.

  Madison took it. “I know. Madison O’Riley.” She picked up a book and rang it up.

  “I’ve been meaning to stop in but-”

  “It gets busy. I’ve been meaning to say hello, too.” Madison held up a book about crystals and gemstones. “This is one of my favorites.”

  “I can’t wait to dig in. I read his book on Mono Lake and loved it. I’m especially looking forward to the one on the history of Prominence.”

  Madison paused. “He got a lot of flak for this one.” She held up a book titled Prominence: The Dark Truth. “I hope it doesn’t turn you off our little community. This book is the reason the members of the Historical Society throw me the stink-eye at every opportunity.”

  Beverly laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m from Snapdragon, where nothing exciting has ever happened at all. I’m interested in the history of places.”

  “Well, this ought to tell you everything you want to know.” Madison paused. “And perhaps some things you’d rather not know.”

  “Ah,” said Beverly. “A tell-all.”

  “The good, the bad, the ugly, and the really, really ugly. But it’s the truth.”

  “Exactly what I’m looking for. Real history.”

  Madison rang up the final book and placed it in a paper sack, then stared at Beverly. “You should meet Thomas Wainwright. He was a good friend of my father’s. He and Dad went on a lot of digs together.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “I could put you in touch with him. I haven’t talked to him in years, but he’s an old family friend. Or you could just stop by St. John’s. He’s the priest there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but he’s a cool guy. Not too priesty, you know?” Madison handed her the sack.

  “I’ll pay him a visit.”

  “Tell him I said hi.” Madison smiled. “People don’t talk much about the history of this place, but if he knows you’re a friend of mine, that’ll warm him up.”

  “Well, I’m flattered to be considered a friend, then.”

  “Any fan of my father’s, especially around here, is a friend indeed.” She stared at Beverly. “So … can we talk about the elephant in the room?”

  Relief crashed over her. “God, yes. I’d love to!”

  “I understand that my … friend delivered Abigail Strane to your place the day of the flood.”

  Beverly lowered her voice. “He did. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. Something happened when he dropped her off. Something extraordinary that I can’t explain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe he’s … a healer of some kind. Abby had dementia, and he said he was going to ‘fix her.’ And he did.”

  Madison touched the back of her head, looking thoughtful, and said, “I think you may be right.”

  Beverly was stunned. “You’ve … seen him do it then?”

  Madison blinked. Her mouth worked. “I don’t really kn-”

  The door swung open as another customer arrived.

  Madison leaned in. “We need to talk more, but not here. Let me give you my number.”

  Beverly pulled out her phone and they exchanged numbers, agreeing to have coffee some time soon. Beverly left the shop - excited … and a little uneasy.

  * * *

  Gremory sat in his office, tapping his fingers on the desk. He knew it had been a matter of time before the locals took an interest in the man named Alejandro, but it had happened much faster than he’d expected. The fool had drawn attention to himself with his heroic little act and now the entire town buzzed with speculation. Even the chief of police had taken an interest in him, and the local reporter was digging deeper and deeper. Now that all eyes were on the angel, Gremory needed to move quickly. Eventually, someone was bound to try and help him jar his memories and before that could happen, Gremory - like any good magician - needed to create a diversion. Lots of diversion.

  And this was where his acolytes would come in handy.

  He pressed the intercom.

  “Yes?” asked Tyranny.

  “It’s time. Let the others know.”

  She was silent a moment. “I see.”

  Gremory signed off and leaned back in his chair. His acolytes had been given the word and Thorne, in particular, would be pleased - he’d been having a terrible time keeping his carnal urges under control. Now, he could enjoy as many fleshly pleasures as he wanted - they all could. Except Gremory, who had dreams to reap and a holy soul to acquire.

  He smiled. Soon the madness would begin to spread.

  Let the games begin

  The Only Two Vowels You Don’t Have to Buy

  On the corner of Kuntze and Bushberry, just north of the downtown district, the new Catholic church stood, a modest brick-and-wood edifice that would be easily passed by if it weren’t for the beaming 7-11 sign next door. The new church was nothing like St. Agatha’s; it felt friendly, welcoming.

  After parking the Highlander, Nick Grayson followed the tar-like scent of burnt coffee into a small room at the back of the church where he was greeted - and unexpectedly hugged - by a small man named Dave F. Given the enormous size of the man’s ears, Nick thought it ironic that Dave F. wasn’t much of a listener. No, this guy was a talker. In their few seconds together, he managed to cram several details of his former life of drinking - and subsequent recovery - into a not-so-tidy nutshell.

  After prying himself away, Nick sat in a folding chair at
the back of the room and quickly learned that neither physical distance nor avoiding eye contact would spare him handshakes and hugs. The furtive glances of others confirmed that his sweater was as lurid as he’d suspected. Once the doors closed, Dave F. of the massive ears and unfiltered personal confessions, sat next to him, proffering a cup of bitter coffee, which Nick took and sipped. It beat the pants off the sludge at Cafe Spastica’s.

  There were about a dozen and a half recovering alcoholics in attendance, and Nick was surprised that they bore none of the qualities he’d expected from a roomful of former hootch-swillers: no trembling hands, no bloodshot eyes, and not a single swollen nose spider-webbed with burst capillaries. He watched them interact and eavesdropped on their dialogue, intrigued by the absence of social hierarchy; there was no chill between the woman in the power suit and the balding man in the spaghetti-stained T-shirt, no breach between the young man with tattoos and pierced lip, and the grandmotherly woman who sat next to him, chatting and knitting. Aside from good cheer - and a weakness for the drink - the members appeared to have nothing in common at all. The lack of societal jurisdiction was a comfort.

  Nick was surprised when one of the men on the board - the board being two men sitting at a table that held a wicker basket, some pamphlets, and a stack of books - introduced himself as Father Thomas. The Father Thomas, formerly of St. Agatha’s, now the flock-leader of this church, St. John’s. He wasn’t the kind of man Nick envisioned when he thought of priests. Lean and fit, his tanned face seamed by the sun, he was handsome in an old-time movie star way with a head of wavy hair, blond going on white.

  The group replied with a unified, “Hi, Father Thomas!”

  If the priest’s an alkie, then the chief of police’s little problem shouldn’t be too scandalous, right?

  Father Thomas read a preamble then asked if there were any visitors or people in their first ninety days of sobriety. Dave F. nudged Nick and a few heads turned expectantly, but Nick remained silent. He knew he had a drinking problem, but it was enough he’d made the announcement to himself. No way was he going to broadcast it to a room full of strangers.