The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  She vaguely recalled Alejandro helping her to bed. He’d held her, stroking her head, saying he’d make her better. I guess he did. But how? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, any of it.

  “Where’s Alejandro?” Dette clutched the coffee cup with one hand while the other rubbed her silver moon pendant, like a worry stone.

  “In the shower.” Madison hadn’t said a word to him since last night. She stood and began rearranging dishes in the dishwasher - not because they needed it, but because she needed to do something. Anything.

  “From what little I saw,” said Dette, “he kicked Clint’s ass. What happened?”

  Madison was glad Dette had seen some of it; it meant it really had happened. “Clint was being a douche. Alejandro overreacted.”

  “A douche, how? He must have been really out of line to have his ass handed to him like that.”

  “He was.”

  “I wonder if he broke any bones. Did you hear it when Alejandro smacked his head on-”

  “I heard it, and I don’t care if he broke any bones.” She wished Dette would just go home.

  Dette sighed. “He must really like you.”

  Madison, who’d been separating silverware, paused. “Who?”

  “Alejandro.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Dette looked incredulous. “He totally smeared the guy across the parking lot for messing with you.” She looked at her coffee cup. “I wish a guy would do that for me.”

  “No, you don’t. It was scary, Dette. Clint was about to rape me.”

  Dette’s eyes went hard, as if Madison had said something about her weight or her bad hair. “Sometimes, I don’t know if you’re humble, spoiled, or just plain stupid.”

  Madison felt her jaw drop. “Excuse me?”

  “You have it all, Maddy. The house,” she waved a hand. “Your own business, and a totally hot guy who comes to your rescue like a knight in shining armor. And you piss all over it. And Clint might be a douche, but he’s still a guy with a job who wants you so bad that he can’t keep his hands off you.”

  “You’re saying I should be flattered that I was almost raped?”

  Dette sipped her coffee. “That’s not what I meant.”

  To contain her rage, Madison switched subjects. “You said you have the book I lent you in your car.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She stood and rubbed her temples. “It’s been riding around in the trunk for weeks. Can I trade it for the next in the series?”

  “Yes. It’s in the bedroom.”

  “I’ll be right back.” As Dette headed outside, Madison’s cell phone rang.

  “Ms. O’Riley? It’s Bart Aberdeen. From the-”

  “Mr. Aberdeen! I’ve been meaning to call you about the parrot.”

  “Is he well?”

  “Yes, he’s perfectly fine. I haven’t had a chance to drop him off. Are you at the shop today?”

  “I am, but I’m beginning to wonder if bringing him back is a solution. I’m of the belief that pets choose their owners, and it seems that Pirate has chosen your friend as his master.”

  Madison didn’t want a parrot, but had to admit that Alejandro was a responsible pet owner. Even now, as he showered, Madison knew Pirate was perched on the rod, whistling and talking and having the time of his life.

  “And I’d bet your friend is equally taken by the bird.”

  She hadn’t thought about what it might do to Alejandro to take Pirate away. They seemed to be good for one another. “That’s incredibly generous of you, Mr. Aberdeen, but-”

  “Please, call me Bart.”

  “Do you want anything for him?”

  “You mean money? No, no. Nothing at all. I only care about his happiness.” He paused. “What have you been feeding him?”

  “A steady diet of nuts, raisins, and uh … well, he’s very fond of ginger snaps.”

  Aberdeen laughed. “Why don’t you stop by and I’ll get you some proper supplies? I’m not open, but knock loud and I’ll hear you.”

  “I’ll do that.” She heard the squeak of his shoes in the background, followed by happy meows and yips.

  “And tell your friend congratulations on his very own parrot.”

  “I will. Thank you, Mr. - Bart.”

  Dette appeared in the doorway, book clutched to her chest, something like shock - or maybe glee - on her face.

  Madison ended the call and gave Dette a quizzical look. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re not going to believe this.” Dette strode into the dining room, looking more alive than she had all morning. She plunked the book on the table. “It’s him. Look at it!”

  Madison looked at the book.

  She opened her mouth, but no words came.

  The cover depicted a man at the helm of a ship, the wind blowing his shirt open to show off his manly assets.

  But it wasn’t just any man.

  It was Alejandro.

  * * *

  Nick Grayson had called Marty Pullman to ask if they’d picked up Festus Crawley, the assailant from the 7-11 alleyway last night, and no, there’d been no sign of him. Apparently, he hadn’t gone home and if anyone knew where he might be staying, they weren’t talking. The victim, Darcy Cromwell, was fine.

  Clint Horace hadn’t shown up for work, so Marty had stepped in and called on the other officers to continue the search for Crawley. Nick didn’t ask him to contact the young man in the boxer shorts. He wanted to talk to Alejandro himself.

  Nick began unpacking his final suitcase - the one that contained his winter clothes. He found his leather jacket and lifted it out. It seemed suspiciously heavy, and when he reached inside the wide inner pocket, his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as his hands closed around the neck of a bottle.

  It was vodka. Cheap, but vodka. A full bottle. His emergency stash.

  He’d learned to always keep one on hand. Nothing bit the big one harder than running out of booze and being too drunk to drive to the store.

  He’d forgotten all about it.

  Now, it was as if the cells in his body were waking from a deep sleep, eager to get a look at the lucky find. He swallowed hard. Shit. He knew what he should do. He should dump it down the drain, call the padre and tell him about it.

  Call him.

  No. It’s Sunday. He’s at church.

  But he knew better. That’s what sponsors did, Tom had said. They took ill-timed phone calls and talked to boozers about threats to their sobriety. ‘Any time, day or night,’ he’d said.

  And the bottle in his hand was definitely threatening his sobriety. In fact, Vodka had a loaded gun to Sobriety’s temple, its finger twitching on the trigger. One wrong move and I’ll shoot …

  In a hazy stroll into the living room, Nick set the bottle on the coffee table, sat on the sofa, and stared at it.

  Vodka stared back. Just a sip, it said. A little sip never hurt anyone.

  But a little was always too much. What was it he’d heard in one of the meetings? One drink is too many and a dozen aren't enough. Or something like that. Either way, he wouldn’t stop at one drink, or even six drinks. He knew that.

  Vodka was indifferent to his predicament and just sat there, staring.

  “Ain’t this some fucked up shit?” Nick whispered.

  Only one way to make it go away, said Vodka.

  Unless I dump you down the drain right now.

  Vodka, he was certain, laughed. Come on, buddy. One last time. For old time’s sake …

  The craving was like being caught in a spider’s web: The harder you struggled against it, the tighter your trap.

  One last time. Then you can find Jesus or whatever it is they want you to do.

  It had nothing to do with finding Jesus. Nick had made certain he understood that part very clearly. He didn’t have to go to church, or find Jesus and spend the rest of his life spreading the gospel. A.A. was not a religion.

  Again, Nick was certain Vodka laughed.

  Isn�
��t it? And who told you that? Oh yeah! A fucking priest! More laughter.

  Saliva burst like fireworks under his tongue and for a moment, Nick tasted the liquor, felt the fiery bliss in his mouth, down his throat. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes against the urge, and became aware of a gnawing emptiness inside him. The pit of his stomach felt cold, desolate, vacant. It wanted to be filled - needed to be filled.

  “No. I won’t do it.” Nick, with about as much strength as it might have taken to lift a Buick off his foot, picked up his phone, found the padre, and punched the number.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  When it went to voicemail, Nick ended the call.

  See? Vodka said. Where’s your priest now, old buddy? ‘Any time, day or night.’ Isn’t that what he said? Vodka laughed.

  Something crashed in the back of the house. “What the hell?” Nick was on his feet, looking wildly around. He thought it came from the bathroom. Stepping inside, he flipped on the light.

  The mirror above the sink was smashed. At its center was a mass of ground glass that spider webbed out in all directions. It looked as if someone had thrown a rock. Or punched it. He saw nothing around it but a scatter of renegade shards. He stared at the mirror again, studying his contorted reflection, and thought, That’s about right. With eerie accuracy, the splintered image seemed to portray how he felt: split in a thousand different directions. Wrecked, inside and out.

  He thought of the alleged psychic, Beverly Simon, and her parting words: ‘You’re not alone in that house and you know that.’ The hair on his arms bristled, as dread, icy and foreboding, did an insidious tap-dance down his spine.

  “Believe.” The voice came from all around him.

  Nick jumped, whirled, and found only emptiness. This had not been in his mind. This had been a real voice, whispered from real lips.

  Believe? Believe what? His fingers quaked like tiny temblors and his knees felt weak. The blood drained from his face - he felt it - and for a dreadful moment, he thought he might pass out. “Jesus Christ.” What’s happening to me?

  ‘You’re not alone in that house and you know that.’ Suddenly, he hated Beverly Simon, hated everything she stood for, and wished he’d never darkened her doorstep. ‘You’re not alone in that house …’

  What does she know about my house? Clearly, the woman knew something.

  Believe. What the hell does that mean? He was no longer nervous, he was pissed.

  I’m losing my fucking mind!

  The walls within him, which he’d just begun building, crashed down, and Nick no longer gave two shits about the padre, or Beverly Simon, or the police force, or the man who saved people in his skivvies. Nick only cared about one thing now, and that was making sure his emergency vodka bottle didn’t go to waste. After all, what was this, if not an emergency?

  I’m losing my fucking mind!

  * * *

  “Coming!” Bart Aberdeen squeaked his rotund way to the front door after much banging and commotion. He’d been in back, feeding the orphaned baby bunnies he was fostering. He’d told Madison O’Riley to knock, but this was ridiculous. She was liable to break the glass.

  But it wasn’t Madison who stood on the other side of the door. It was Olivia LeBlatte. She wore a red suit jacket and black glasses that covered a good deal of her face. Her graying dark hair was pulled back tight and aside from the cigarette she puffed on, she appeared to be all business.

  “Ms. LeBlatte,” he said when he got the door open. “I’m afraid I’m closed today.”

  “I know.” She flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk and brushed past him in a cloud of perfume and tobacco-reek. “Lock the door please.” She pulled her sunglasses off, her eyes revealing no hint of her purpose.

  Bart did as he was told. “What’s this about, Ms. LeBlatte?” She looked fatigued.

  “Call me Olivia.” She chewed the stem of her glasses, eyeing him. “Today anyway.”

  The locks clicked in place and he turned around. “I don’t-” Before he could finish his words - or his thoughts - Ms. LeBlatte took hold of his genitals and gave them a squeeze. He yipped in surprise. The next thing he was aware of was her mouth - it fastened onto his, smashing his lips. Teeth clacked against teeth as her tongue plumbed his depths. She tasted of cigarettes and toothpaste. Her hand was a vise at the back of his head and she was stronger than she looked; he couldn’t move.

  “Take me in the back,” she whispered, coming up for air. “Now.”

  * * *

  “This is why he looked so familiar to me.” It had been several years since Madison had read the series, but this one, Dark Lily, had been her favorite. “I don’t know how I missed it.”

  Dette peered over her shoulder. “It’s definitely him, right?”

  It didn’t add up. Madison turned to the copyright page. “It can’t be.”

  “What do you mean? It’s Alejandro! It’s him as plain as the nose on your face!”

  “I know, but this book was published twelve years ago.”

  “So?”

  Madison chewed her lip. “That would put him well into his thirties by now.”

  Dette looked doubtful. “Maybe he’s carrying it really well?”

  “No way.” She studied the cover. It was Alejandro - the same full lips, same flawless skin. Only the eyes were different. Not in shape, but in color. On the cover, they were blue, like faded jeans.

  “Maybe it’s new cover art,” said Dette.

  “This is a first edition. I checked.” Granted, it was a painting and they could have made any alterations they wanted - but the timeline was still wrong. If Alejandro was around her own age, that put him at ten to thirteen years old when the book was released. And if he’d been in his early twenties when he’d modeled for the cover - which he certainly appeared to be - he’d be approaching thirty-five. And there was no way he was thirty-anything. Alejandro couldn’t be a day over twenty-four, and that was pushing it. Hard. Maybe it’s just an uncanny resemblance …

  But she knew that wasn’t true. From the cleft of chin to the rise of cheekbone, to the straight slope of nose - it was Alejandro. The eyes were fringed by the same lashes - Madison even recognized the sprinkle of golden hair on his chest. “No. It’s him.”

  “That’s what I said.” Dette had lost interest and had plunked herself on the couch to watch television. Flipping through channels, she paused on Reverend Bobby Felcher and The God Club.

  “At least this gives me a starting point,” said Madison.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m going to contact the publisher and try to find out where they got this art.” It wouldn’t be easy. Kathryn McLeod’s publisher was a big one. When Alejandro gets out of the shower, I’ll show him. Maybe it will jar his memory. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. I’ve read this book a dozen times.”

  Dette shrugged. She was engrossed in Reverend Bobby, his nasal, self-righteous voice blasting out threats of eternal damnation. Madison looked up and for a moment, she too, couldn’t pry herself away.

  “You can’t think with your brains, people!” shouted the reverend. This was followed by a rippling series of Mm-hmms and Hallelujahs and Amens. “I’m talking about trusting the Voice of God!” Applause broke out. “Listening to the Word that the Lord himself - The LORD HIMSELF! - placed in your hearts! Do you hear the words of God?”

  The crowd swayed, eyes heavenward, hands clasped. A few people collapsed and fell into the aisles.

  “But let me ask you something else, brothers and sisters.” His voice now took on the gravity of a doctor delivering bad news. “How do you know it’s not the devil whispering into your hearts?” His bushy gray eyebrows rose.

  The worshippers gasped and murmured, startled by this unexpected plot twist.

  “How do you KNOW that the Lord hasn’t stepped aside and said, ‘Satan … I’m going to test the faith of this man,’” he paused, “‘Or woman … and I’m going to let you whisper into thei
r hearts and find out just how strong their faith in Me really is.’” He was shouting again.

  The crowd, scandalized by the possibility, swayed with new fervor.

  “In fact!” Reverend Bobby thrust a finger in the air. “In fact! How do you KNOW the devil isn’t intercepting your prayers, people? He knows what you want, just the same as the Lord knows. He knows! The devil KNOWS!” For a long moment, his face was a plaster cast of religious lunacy. Then slowly, it dissolved into sanity and he spoke with reverence. “So how do you keep the devil, Lucifer himself, out of your prayers, brothers and sisters?” A long pause as he gazed out over the crowd, giving them time to really think about it. “I’ll tell you how …” He stabbed a pudgy finger into the surface of his wooden podium. “I’ll tell you, all right! Right after these words from our sponsor.”

  “Turn it off, Dette.” Madison had heard enough of Reverend Bobby for a lifetime. Once her mother had discovered him, it was all the woman would watch; even her soap operas were forgotten.

  “All right, all right.” Dette changed channels. “I know you can’t stand him.”

  “That’s an understatement.” But it never stopped Madison from staring when he came on the screen, searching for some hidden insight into her own mother. No matter how closely she scrutinized the man, she didn’t get it. Whatever had inspired Moira O’Riley to send hundreds - no, thousands - of dollars to Reverend Bobby and his God Club and prompted her to pack up and go preaching his word in another state, was lost on Madison. She wondered why on earth he intrigued Dette now.

  She glanced back at the book. There was no mistaking that the man on the cover and Alejandro were the same person.

  * * *

  As it turned out, Bart Aberdeen, although seeming a little light in the loafers, was not gay. Not at all. In fact, Olivia had never made love to a man possessed of such empathy, passion, and deep appreciation for the female body. He worked her like a piece of clay, shaping her with tender and deliberate strokes the way a sculptor might refine an unfinished lump into a consummate work of art.

  And by the time he was finished, she felt like a masterpiece.