The Warrior

by Sharon Sala

  Nearly five minutes passed before Alicia could speak. When she did, he knew he was lost.

  “Is that all of it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Bottom line…you’re five hundred and twenty-nine years old, on a quest through eternity to find the reincarnated soul of the man who killed your people and your wife, and you’re telling me that’s my father. You also can’t age, and you can’t die. Is that about it?”

  He nodded.

  Alicia struggled to maintain a semblance of calm. She took a deep breath and almost managed a smile.

  “John…I have to tell you…you are an amazing man. You have saved my life more than once. I’ve witnessed your bravery on behalf of others and at risk to your own well-being. I don’t understand how your body heals itself, but I do know that you make love to me like a god. For the first time in my life, I was truly happy, despite the fact that my father still wants me dead.”

  He watched her, waiting for the “but” he sensed was coming, and he wasn’t wrong.

  “But…it has come to my attention that, while you are still all of the things I just mentioned, you are also, my darling, as mad as a hatter. You need help. Lots of help, from someone who knows more about mental illness than I do. I’ll stick by you. I’ll go with you. I’ll do anything you want or need to help you get well.”

  John’s heart sank. While she hadn’t run away, she had still withdrawn. She thought he was crazy, and he couldn’t blame her. But it didn’t change the fact that the bond that had been between them was gone.

  He nodded once, then slapped his legs lightly, as if to say that was that, and stood.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He paused. “I won’t run out on you, but I don’t think I want to be around you anymore…at least for now.”

  He walked out without looking back, and Alicia was shocked that he somehow maintained an air of having been betrayed. The longer she sat, the guiltier she felt.

  “It’s not my fault,” she muttered. “He’s the one who’s nuts.”

  But the silence ate at her, until she finally got up and went to find him, shocked to realize that night had come unannounced.

  She looked through all the rooms before trying the terrace. She walked out into the darkness, didn’t see him and was about to go back inside when she saw motion from the corner of her eye and looked up.

  It was a falling star.

  She paused, thinking to herself that she hadn’t seen one of those in ages. She stared at it for a moment, watching—waiting for it to burn out. But when it didn’t and instead kept flying through space, coming closer and closer, her interest turned to shock, then disbelief. This must be a meteor—and if it didn’t stop, it looked like it would hit out in the desert.

  “John!” she cried, wanting him to see this. But he didn’t answer and didn’t come. “John! John! You have to come see this!” she cried. But she was still alone.

  The light continued to come closer and closer until it was so bright it lit up the desert. At that point Alicia realized John was standing at the far end of the yard, watching it, too. She started to go to him, but then the light was upon them. It centered on John, bathing him in a glow so bright that she lost sight of him. The more time that passed, the more convinced she became that she, too, was losing her mind. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the light suddenly shifted and started toward her.

  She tried to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. Fear unlike anything she’d ever known swept through her, and when she tried to scream, found herself unable to make a sound. And so she stood, expecting to die in flames.

  The light was on her, then in her. What she thought would kill her instead left her calmed—waiting for what she knew would be a message. It came in the form of an old Indian man with braids so long they dragged on the ground, wearing a robe of rainbow-hued feathers that fluttered in a breeze she didn’t feel.

  When he smiled at her, she wanted to fall at his feet, but he reached for her instead. He didn’t speak, but she understood she was to hold out her hand. This had to be a dream. Any moment she would wake up, and find herself back inside and in bed. But she didn’t wake up, and when she held out her hand, she felt him drop something in it. She wanted to look down, but her gaze was locked onto his face.

  Then he spoke only one word.

  “Believe.”

  He closed her fingers over the object he handed her, and right before her eyes, he disappeared. Between one blink and the next, the light and the dream and everything she thought she’d been seeing was gone.

  “Wow. That was weird,” she said in a voice she hardly recognized.

  As she spoke, John walked out of the darkness and up onto the terrace. He walked past without even looking at her and went on into the house. He’d been out there the whole time, and he must have heard her calling, but he hadn’t answered. Hadn’t cared. The ache in her heart was growing with each passing minute. She started to follow him into the house, when she realized there was something in her fist.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck.

  Impossible.

  That old Indian had been a dream, and so had the thing he’d put in her hand. So if it had been a dream, what was she holding?

  She ran into the house, slamming the door behind her, and turned on the lights. Everything in the kitchen looked the same. The same stainless-steel appliances. The same turquoise-colored dishes in the cupboard. John’s sunglasses lying on the counter beneath the phone.

  She closed her eyes and took a slow, shuddering breath, then slowly opened her fingers and looked down.

  For a moment she couldn’t think. Didn’t know why the object looked so familiar. Then she remembered and let it fall onto the table as she screamed and jumped backward in disbelief.

  Suddenly John was in the doorway. She pointed at the table. Her voice was shaking; her eyes were rounded in shock.

  “Where did that come from?” she cried.

  John walked over to the table and picked it up. “What is it?”

  “My mother’s brooch. Sweet Jesus…my mother’s brooch.”

  She kept hearing the old man’s voice, telling her to believe. But how could she believe something this impossible?

  “Pretty,” John said. “But what’s the big deal?”

  The big deal? Alicia wanted to laugh but was afraid if she let loose it would come out as a scream.

  “The big deal is…I gave her the brooch the Mother’s Day before she died. And I pinned that same brooch on her dress the day of her funeral. It was buried with her. It’s supposed to be six feet underground in a Boston cemetery.”

  “So?”

  This time she did scream. “But it’s not!”

  “What did the old man tell you?” John asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the old man? How do you know? Are we dreaming the same dreams again?”

  “It wasn’t a dream. And he always comes in a light, and he always comes with a message.”

  She was hearing his words and trying to deal with the fact that what she’d seen outside hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. There really had been an old Indian who’d given her the brooch.

  “What did he say to you?” John repeated.

  “‘Believe.’ He said for me to believe.”

  John waited. “And still you do not. What is there left to say?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. This isn’t right. It isn’t real. This can’t be happening.”

  He sighed. “You sound like a broken record, Alicia. Get out or get over it.”

  Even though they hurt, the words were the slap in the face she needed. “He talked with you first.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he always brings a message?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s not fair!” she cried. “You told me you would answer any question I asked.”


  “Yet you have rejected me and my answers. Why should I waste my time?”

  “John. Please. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not. But I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He started to walk out again, then something seemed to occur to him, and he stopped and turned. “Alicia…do you believe in God?”

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “Not ‘of course.’ Many people don’t.”

  “Okay…sorry. Yes, I do believe in God.”

  “Do you believe in angels?”

  Her answer was a bit slower in coming, but still as positive. “Yes. Why?”

  “Why? Yet another question. But I’ll tell you why. If you believe in God and angels, why won’t you consider the possibility that angels appear to mortals in many forms?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she argued. “I just said I believe in angels…although I’ve never seen one.”

  “But you did. You saw one tonight and immediately rejected him with your own mind.”

  Suddenly she realized where he was going with this. “That old Indian man was a hallucination…or something. He was not an angel.”

  “You doubt my word, and you’re prejudiced. You may have learned things about me tonight you didn’t like, but it works both ways. I’m learning things about you, as well, that disappoint me greatly.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m not trying to make you believe outrageous things. And just because I won’t accept your crazy story, that doesn’t make me prejudiced.”

  “You are prejudiced, Alicia. You rejected what you saw just because it didn’t appear as some glorious being dressed in white, with huge white wings and a ridiculous gold halo over its head.”

  His words were more powerful than any slap to the face might have been. What if he was right? What if she had experienced a miracle tonight? She dropped into a chair, staring at him without speaking. Her thoughts were spinning. Her heart ached for this horrible ugly wall that was now between them. Then she remembered that he’d ignored her question. If this was true, what message had he been given?

  She got up and moved toward him, stopping when they were close enough to touch.

  “If I ask you one more question, would you answer it?”

  He shrugged. “It appears that where you’re concerned, I’ve become a glutton for punishment…so why not? Ask away.”

  “You said the…uh, angel in the light always brings a message.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if my message was to believe, what was the message he gave to you?”

  He laughed. It was a short bitter sound that struck at the core of all she was.

  “He told me that you would break my heart. So take comfort in his words, because my message has already come true.”

  He glanced down at the brooch one last time, then walked out of the room.

  The pain in his voice had been sickening. Knowing she was the cause of it was even worse. But how could she reconcile herself to this madness?

  She picked up the brooch, clutching it to her heart as she stumbled to her room. By the time she reached the bed, she was sobbing. She crawled up onto the mattress, rolled herself up in a tight ball of misery and cried herself to sleep.

  Dieter was in Austria. A simple walk down familiar streets, hearing the language he’d learned first at his mother’s knees, made him weak with relief. He’d done it. Escaped the FBI’s net, thanks to an angry woman named Isis and a set of fake papers that got him a berth on a Russian ship. It had taken the better part of a week to get here, but now that he’d arrived, he was anxious to reconnect with the boss. The sooner they began a new life, the better.

  He’d rented a room in a small bed-and-breakfast, and paid for a week, hoping it would take no longer than that to finish the work Richard wanted of him, so then they could settle down in their new life. But for now, he was just looking for the nearest bar. He wanted a good, dark German beer and some kielbasa on rye. Maybe with a big smear of sharp, whole-grain mustard on the rye, and a big dill pickle on the side. Just the thought of it made his mouth water.

  His new persona put a swagger in his walk, and when he turned the corner and saw a colorful sign swinging over a doorway that had a beer stein painted on it, he patted his pocket, making sure his wallet was inside, and headed in that direction.

  Another week had come and gone since the bandages had been removed from Richard’s face. During that time, he’d taken another step in his plan to change his identity by notifying Helga and Gustav that he’d suffered a serious accident while he’d been gone that had resulted in the need for plastic surgery to repair his face. They’d been horrified by the news of his situation, and expressed their good wishes for his speedy recovery and return. He’d also spent long hours on the phone, dealing with getting a new photo for his passport by offering the same explanation he’d given Helga and Gustav. With his doctor’s sworn statement that he had indeed done surgery on Anton Schloss, the powers that be had accepted the reason, and his passport had been updated to reflect his new look.

  Yesterday he’d been released from the hospital, and after spending the night in a hotel near the airport, awaiting his flight back to East Germany, he was now sitting at the gate with his new passport, awaiting departure.

  It wasn’t going to be a comfortable flight, but he had pain pills and the knowledge that he could rest all he liked once he was back home eating Helga’s good cooking. He was even starting to get excited about his businesses. There were a couple of small manufacturing places near Bonn that he’d been looking at as possible locations for expansion.

  It didn’t seem odd to think of himself as Anton Schloss anymore, because the man he saw when he looked in the mirror was certainly not Richard Ponte. He was conditioning himself to be someone new—a he-man with a straight nose and strong features. A man with a slim waist and big chest. A man known as Anton Schloss.

  Finally the announcement he’d been waiting for came over the loudspeaker. They were ready to board his flight. He picked up his bag and then his cane. All the people needing extra time to board were invited to enter first. He moved to the head of the line.

  Sixteen

  It was raining when the cab pulled up to Richard’s East German residence. He tossed some euros over the seat, then had started to get out when the door to his home opened abruptly and Gustav came out on the run, carrying an umbrella.

  He smiled to himself. Good help really was so hard to find, but when you got it, you really appreciated its worth.

  “Thank you,” he said as Gustav extended a hand to help him out.

  “Welcome home, Herr Schloss. We were so sorry to hear of your accident but most pleased to learn you have healed quite well. I’m sorry you did not call me to come and get you, and that you took a cab instead.”

  “My flights were delayed due to the weather. It would have been impossible to tell you when to pick me up, because I did not know when I would be arriving.”

  Gustav nodded, making sympathetic noises, while the cab driver set the luggage, along with a small metal box, on the door stoop, then drove away. With Gustav holding the large black umbrella over his head, Richard made his way carefully up the walk and then into the house, sniffing appreciatively at the homey smells pervading the foyer.

  “Helga must be baking. The house smells wonderful,” he said.

  “Ja…for you, Herr Schloss. She bakes for you.”

  “I will sample some of it later,” Richard said. “For now, bring my bags and help me up to my room. After that long flight, I need to rest.”

  Gustav balanced the biggest bag and the metal box under one arm, then took Richard by the elbow and led him to the stairs. When they reached the landing, Richard was winded.

  “I’m still not at my best,” he said. “But I soon will be. Just put my things in my room. Helga can unpack for me later. I’m going to nap. If I’m not awake by dinnertime, you may wake me. I shouldn’t miss a meal, as I’m trying to regain my strength.”

  Gustav nodded, then
closed the door behind him as he left, leaving Richard in the quiet of his own elegance and hurried off, no doubt to fill Helga in on the news, Richard thought.

  Richard looked around his bedroom with a studied glance, taking note of the fresh flowers, the highly polished wood, the gleaming floors, and trying not to think of his bedroom back in Miami. He’d always enjoyed the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean and the sea breezes that blew through as he sunned out on the deck beyond his bedroom. He didn’t know for certain what would happen to everything he owned under the name of Ponte, but he was determined that Alicia would not live to enjoy what she’d taken away from him.

  Then he remembered the small metal box beside his suitcase.

  “Ah yes, my ace in the hole,” he muttered as he picked it up, checking to make sure the seal had not been broken.

  Satisfied that all was well, he tucked it up high on a shelf in his closet and shoved a pair of extra pillows in front of it. He didn’t care how macabre it had been of him to demand all the skin and flesh that had been removed from his body. No one could have imagined the future plans he had for it.

  He kicked off his shoes as he walked into the bathroom, then turned on the light before going to stand before the mirror.

  He smiled, watching the way his lips curved, then noticing the new lines the smile made on his face. They had put a different arch in his brows. The cheek and chin implants, as well as his new nose, gave his face a Slavic appearance. Coupled with that and the bald head he still maintained, he didn’t even know himself. He patted his chest, feeling the outlines of his new physique, then turned sideways, admiring the toned appearance of his body.

  He might even give thought to getting himself a new woman. But nothing serious. He didn’t intend to marry again—ever. And not because he still held any love for his dead wife. He just didn’t want to share his property and wealth with anyone ever again. He didn’t know how he was going to manage the feat, but when he died, he intended to take it all with him.

  A short while later, he’d freshened up and was readying for his nap when his cell phone began to ring. He glanced at caller ID and then smiled. Even though no name appeared in the window, he recognized the number.