Amber and Blue

by K. R. Rowe

  Shattering the peace that she finally achieved, from out of the darkness, a hand grabbed her arm and ripped her to the cold shocking reality of the surface above. Choking and gasping for air, he hauled her up the ladder, and dumped her roughly onto the hard, unforgiving deck. She trembled from the cold and tried to stand, but her knees gave out and buckled.

  "You'll only die by my hands!" André screamed and tore his belt from his soaked pants. Before she could move, a searing pain ripped across her back like a stream of hot acid burning the skin from her bone. She fell prone to the deck shrieking in agony, until finally, she lay quiet.

  Through the haze of pain, Grace watched the captain’s vicious attack on André. He grabbed him by the throat and held him teetering backwards over the railing.

  "Next time you touch her, dog, you die!" Sticky brown specks of tobacco showered André's face as the man screamed. "I've stood idly by and watched you beat her without mercy! This is my boat and I won't allow the abuse to go on any longer!" He slammed André to the deck and kicked him in the ribs. "There's no excuse for it!"

  Disconnected from the fight between the two men in front of her, she had lost the will to move and she prayed death would come soon. Although her reluctant physical body remained among the living, the Grace that she knew faded, and her conscious mind retreated.

  She was left in peace on the deck for hours until André jerked her to her feet in front of him. He tied her hands, shoved a putrid rag in her mouth, and knotted it behind her head.

  "We'll anchor here," she heard the Captain bark.

  Her fate awaited her, but her will to care was gone.

  The mist hung dense and low, and the dark night was frigid at Thunder Bay as Lucien and the driver stood on the side of Lake Superior. Under cover of night, André stole her by river and traveled north until eventually, they reached the great lake. They skirted the shore with the fear of venturing out too far. The violent gales blowing off Lake Superior were notorious in November, and many ships much larger than their own had fallen victim to the lake’s fresh water fury.

  Impatient, Lucien stood waiting. They shivered in the biting cold as the frost began to blanket the ground, and glaze over the toes of their boots. The small cabin cruiser was late. He was not surprised by André's call. He needed help. Lucien’s main concern was how the girl was treated. The best he could hope for was that she was still alive.

  The small speck of a boat danced with light on the black water as it approached and splashed anchor in the bay. The captain flung out a rubber dingy. The two men and the girl boarded and made their way inland.

  From a distance, she appeared unharmed, but Lucien’s relief was short lived, as they approached, and stopped in front of him. Just above the gag between her teeth, a large purple mark stood out on her cheek, and her lip was bloated and bruised. Her dark, tangled hair covered her eyes and she hung her head to her chest.

  "Take her," André demanded. He shoved her hard with both hands and she fell in front of Lucien. "You know where to go. I will meet you there in two days. Tonight, I'm going home to scrub her stench from my skin." André snarled up his nose in disgust.

  Lucien knew where André wanted him to go but it didn't matter. He had no plans to go there.

  "Good, I'll see you then." Lucien lied through clenched teeth. He looked down at Grace and his surfacing anger threatened to undermine his plans. She was soaking wet with icicles forming in her hair, and her appearance and demeanor screamed of abuse. André walked away toward his waiting car, and the boat captain glared at his back and grumbled.

  "Someone should kill that bastard." He curled up his lip and spat a slimy brown stream of tobacco juice. It splashed to the ground at their feet as he turned and stalked back to his dingy.

  Lucien had driven the road many times. He knew it like an old friend—every rock, every tree. It was desolate and straight and people often drove too fast out of boredom. A four-way intersection lay half way, and when they came to a stop, he would make his move then. With the cruise control on, the driver drove careless and fast through the dark cold night. When the intersection neared, he blew through it without slowing down. Unprepared for this change of events, Lucien had to alter his plans.

  In the back seat, he leaned over Grace, buckled her in, and untied her hands. He took a last look at her, and was glad that she slept. He pulled a long thin piece of twine from his pocket. Lucien braced his foot on the back of the driver’s seat, leaned forward, and looped the twine around the driver's neck.

  He jerked backwards hard, hauling the man from his seat, and away from the wheel. The car continued straight at full speed. The man choked, and turned blue, and fought for his life. He reached over his shoulders and tore at Lucien’s hair. He ripped out large clumps but Lucien held tight. The car rolled off the road a few feet into a shallow ditch and drifted back out. He clawed at the rope in a panic, and his foot wedged itself in the wheel. The car jerked sideways and flipped out of control. It slammed hard on its nose, scraped the road on its roof, and groaned to a halt, in a field of tall weeds.

  Lucien scooted on his stomach in the cold brittle grass. Through the white dense cloud of his breath, he peered inside. She lay in a heap on the roof of the car. The driver was next to her, unmoving and not breathing. Her eyes opened. He reached in, grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the wreckage. The mangled wad of metal and plastic reeked of hot oil, and the tires still wobbled in a slow fading spin.

  "Come with me," he said.

  The need for urgency consumed him and he took her hand. The acrid odor of blood filled the air. She reached up to touch her head and pulled her fingers away. They were sticky and dark.

  Lucien stopped in front of her.

  "Are you ok?" He took a step back and looked her over to be sure.

  "I'm ok," she said in a hoarse whisper.

  "Come," He said and took her hand again. "We have to hurry."

  She tried to walk but stumbled and fell, and could not get back to her feet.

  "Relax, ma petite … I will carry you." Without another word, Lucien picked her up and ran.

  He had hidden a car in the trees near the intersection, and it only took a few minutes of backtracking to get to it. He was worried and angry. She sat unusually still with her head against the window and her eyes closed. She looked cold and exhausted and the gash on her head was deep. It would be a long drive to Montréal. André was going to be furious and looking for him. The sooner he got there, the better.

  Alex waited. He felt helpless. A week went by and Lucien called twice to update him on his plans.

  It was one a.m.

  "Alex? It's Lucien. I have her and she’s ok, but I can't talk long."

  "Thank God. Can I talk to her?"

  "Hold on."

  "Hello?" he heard her say.

  Silence followed.

  "Grace? Grace!" Alex punched the wall and shouted.

  The connection was lost.

  ******

  Chapter 23 Montréal

  At one time, Montréal was rated one of the world’s most livable cities. It was considered Canada's cultural capital. In a failed attempt to preserve its culture and language, the secession of Québec floundered leaving collapse and ruin in its wake.

  Their destination was Old Montréal located along the St. Lawrence River just a few minutes’ walk from downtown. Cobblestones still paved the streets of the historical area but the enchantment and nostalgia had long ago vanished. The horse-drawn carriages and quaint cafés that once lined the narrow streets were gone. A time when romance and charm once reigned, was now replaced with the ashes of revolution. The lawlessness had taken hold, and most of the city’s beauty had long since been destroyed.

  They drove from dawn to dusk, and on through the night, and made it just before light the following morning. She slept most of the trip, and instead of waking her, he gathered her in his arms and carried her in. He had stolen the car and disposed of it quickly, and was thankful to have gone unnotice
d.

  All he could lease, with no questions asked, was an apartment in the most troubled part of town. A thick oak door, split and scarred, creaked and opened, to a small one-room box. Years of smokers, coming and going, coated the walls with a sticky brown film, and yellowed the once white appliances. A permanent stale odor fouled the air, although Lucien had scrubbed the place clean. Seeping from an old ragged sofa, the stench of a dog, fumed from its thin, ripped upholstery, like a poisonous vapor, as it sat, broken and crooked, against the far wall. Across the room, a steel barred window, cracked and bleeding the cold, opened to a mob-ruled street that lay in wait, like a concrete marauder, on the other side of the duct-taped glass. He was thankful, at least, that this one had dependable electricity.

  He was cleaning her head when she finally woke up and she cringed and moved away from him.

  "Hold still, ma petite," he said as he gently wiped away the blood.

  "Ouch!" she said, and flinched.

  "You might have a concussion." He pressed a cold ice pack to her head but she scooted farther away from him, and turned her face toward the opposite wall.

  "I won't hurt you."

  She stole a quick glance his way, but her look was that of a stranger.

  "Do you remember me?"

  She shook her head no.

  "My name is Lucien," he said. "You don't remember me from the garden?"

  She again shook her head no.

  "Grace, look at me." He touched his fingers to her cheek and gently turned her face toward him. "You're safe now."

  She looked around the room with confusion and fear in her eyes. She said nothing as she took in her surroundings. Finally, after much thought, she broke her silence and spoke.

  "My name is Grace?"

  Like a kick from a mule, the unexpected question took his breath.

  What? She doesn't know her own name? This is not good, Lucien thought. He feared she might be hurt much worse than he had imagined.

  Lucien was no doctor, and he was painfully aware that his first aid skills were somewhat lacking; however, he did know of ways to make her more comfortable.

  "Yes, your name is Grace," he said. "I’ll try to explain everything but please relax, and trust me," he said and stood. He needed some time to gather his thoughts. "I'll be back."

  He went into the bathroom and drew a steaming hot bath. He filled it deep and added lavender bubble bath. His mother loved bubble baths, and he drew them for her often when she was ill. She had once told him that the lavender scent could calm the mind and relieve stress, and at the moment, Grace was in serious need of both.

  "Come," he said. "Have a nice relaxing bath and I’ll cook something." He gingerly coaxed her from the sofa, like a timid animal, and led her into the bathroom.

  "Are you hungry?"

  She sat down on the edge of the tub, clutched her stomach, and shook her head no. Lucien hoped it was only her nerves.

  "Ok, I’ll leave you alone to your bath. Maybe you’ll feel better later." He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Lucien was tired and hungry, and rummaged around for a few minutes, before he was startled by a loud dull thud from the bathroom.

  "Grace? Are you ok?" he asked, with a soft knock on the door.

  "Grace?" He called again, but she was silent.

  He turned away from the door, but stopped, when he detected the faint sound of crying inside. Worried, he carefully peeked in to find her sitting on her knees, with her back to the door. The towel gripped in one hand, her face in the other, in near silence, her small shoulders shook.

  "Are you ok?" he asked cautiously.

  She nodded her head yes.

  "Do you need help?"

  She shook her head no.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I fell."

  Her words were so soft that he barely heard her. She sat deathly still, not making a move.

  He slowly entered the room and sank to his knees in front of her. "Is something wrong? Are you hurt?"

  "I can't get up."

  He wanted to put his arms around her, comfort her, make it all go away, but instead he touched his hand to her cheek and leaned close. "I can help," he said. "Let's get you into the tub. The hot water will make your muscles relax." He picked her up and dipped her in the water while she still gripped the towel.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "We have more towels." He hoped that would reassure her, and looked away, when she handed him the sopping wet towel.

  She sat guarded, in the tub, with her arms wrapped tight around her knees, and her cheek resting against the back of her hand. The water was deep, the bubbles rose high, and all he could see was her back. That was enough. On her shoulder, a jagged red scar, from a healed bullet wound, jumped out and rattled his already guilty conscious. The regret came back and seized him like an executioner, to drag him to the gallows, and choke the life from his misguided neck. She was thin and gaunt, and the sight before him made him shake with anger. Deep, dark bruises marred her ribs, and a raised, crimson welt, streaked at an angle, across her back.

  He abruptly stood, and turned to the wall. He dug his fingers in his hair, and balled both hands into fists, in an effort to pull the anger through his scalp. He wanted to run through the door, and keep running until all of the rage and fury left him. He realized that he would have to run for a very long time. Instead, he gathered his composure, turned, and knelt again at her side. He picked up a large soft soapy sponge and slowly, gently washed her back, but still, she flinched in pain.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Would you like your hair washed?" he asked, and she nodded her head yes. "Ok, stay still and close your eyes."

  He held the sprayer against his hand and waited until the temperature was perfect. Holding the nozzle close, he let the warm soothing water pulse through her hair, and stream over her back, as he slowly massaged in the shampoo.

  He took his time, and carefully untangled each strand of hair. The sweet scent of coconut filled the room and his thoughts began to wander. It would be nice, he thought, if they were on the beach on a warm sunny day, her skin hot from the sun, his hands slick on her soft back, as he massaged in the sweet coconut lotion. A smile tinged his lips, as he ran his hands through the length of her hair, letting it slide slowly through his fingers, then gently, kneading her scalp while he rinsed.

  "All done," he said. He brushed her hair away from her face, and handed her a towel to wipe her eyes. "I will leave you to your privacy," he said. "Are you going to be ok?"

  She nodded in response.

  "I’ll find something for your pain," he said as he stood. "I left a robe and some things you might need on the sink. Please, call for me if you need help."

  He slowly closed the door behind him. After the bath, she left her food cold, but she slept for hours while he sat by her side. She did nothing to deserve this, Lucien thought.

  He loved André like a brother, but this time, he had gone way too far.

  A second week passed and the first week of December blew in like a frigid nightmare. Alex sat in Matt's apartment distraught, and tortured. He could not eat or sleep, and the strain was wearing on his nerves.

  "This waiting around is killing me." He put his head in his hands and groaned.

  "You know, Joel is on leave for two months," Matt said. "We can probably use his military access from your phone to trace the call. It has the capability to trace anywhere on the planet, hell, even off the planet if you need it."

  "Will he do it?"

  "Of course he will."

  "That's a good idea," Alex said. "I just don't trust that guy with her. The only thing that keeps me sane is at least, knowing she’s safe."

  At midnight, Alex jumped to his feet when the phone lit the room.

  "Alex, it’s Lucien, I can't talk long," he said, "so listen carefully."

  "I’m listening."

  "I’m using a public satellite transmission in the area," he said. "Mine’s being tra
ced. André knows I'm in the area. I can only avoid his men by coming out at night."

  "Where’s Grace? Let me talk to her."

  "She’s safe in the apartment," Lucien said. "There’s no way I would bring her out here."

  Alex took a deep frustrated gulp of air and exhaled slowly.

  "There’s something you need to know," Lucien said.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "She’s been hurt, there was an accident—"

  "Hurt? What do you mean hurt?" Alex started to panic.

  "She’s ok … physically."

  "What?" Alex yelled. "I swear if you’ve done something—"

  "I haven’t done anything!" Lucien barked, losing patience. "She’s lost her memory."

  "You’ve got to be kidding me!"

  "I’m very serious," Lucien said. "She doesn't even know her own name."

  "Where are you?" Alex demanded, trying to calm himself. "I’m coming to get her."

  "We’re in Montréal," he said. "Another week hopefully, when André's men scatter, I’ll bring her home then."

  "One week," Alex said. "That's it! After that, I'm coming to get her."

  As Grace became more comfortable, her questions came in waves, and Lucien did his best to explain. She asked about her family, where she came from, and how she came to be here. He also explained that this area was dangerous, but for now, she was safe. The police could not help, and were not to be trusted. They were corrupt and lived deep in the pockets of the privateers. He could see the distress in her eyes when occasional gunfire resonated in the distance.

  "Lucien, I’m afraid."

  "I promise, I won't let anything happen to you." He lifted her chin to look at him. "I promise … ok?"

  "Ok."

  "But for now, in the event of an emergency," he said. He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down a number. "I’ll leave a spare phone here on the table." He laid the paper under the phone. There was a number but no name. "Don’t turn on the phone unless you feel it’s an emergency," he said. "I’m positive it’s being traced. But if something happens to me, use it, and call the number I wrote down."