by RJ Griffith
“Well…I could sit down for one with a bit of tea. The berry streusel.” Amy licked her lips. “Did you say you were buying?”
“Yes. Sit there and I’ll bring you something.” He gestured to a wooden table in the back.
Amy decided to sit near the front. She might be staying a little longer than she should, but sitting in the back of a shop with a man she didn’t know climbed to the top of her dumb-idea list. She hadn’t noticed it before, but something seemed off about him. Amy studied his frame as he ordered their drinks. A silver chain rode up the back of his neck.
He turned toward her, frowned, shook his head and walked to where she had sat.
“How long have you known Archer?” He placed a lidded paper cup in front of her and set a bag between them.
“Not very long, I met him last night.” She sniffed her beverage. He ordered coffee for her.
“At the gala?” He snatched a round cinnamon roll covered in almond slivers.
“Yes.”
“Does he work many nights?”
“I don’t really know. I met him for the first time, yesterday.” Amy ventured a sip. The coffee tasted as bitter as she remembered it.
“Of course you did. Do you know why he quit the fighting circuit to do security work?” He pulled another pastry from the bag.
“No, do you?” Amy considered bolting for the exit, but Niklas had angled his chair to block the front door. She reached into the bag and glanced around the room. Berry goo smeared her fingers. She withdrew her hand from the empty bag and watched Niklas take the last bite of her pastry. A helium balloon floated near the universal sign for the ladies’ room. She stood up.
Niklas jolted.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” She pointed to the goo on her hand. “I’m such a messy eater.”
“Be back soon,” he said as he grabbed her hand and then released it with a final squeeze.
The coffee shop, nearly the same size as the Coffee Cabin, didn’t have a back door. If the smirk on Niklas’s face was anything to go by, he already knew.
Amy walked into the restroom. Her hands were shaking. The lock wouldn’t engage. Perhaps she could alert the barista to Niklas, but what would she say? She leaned against the door and patted her pockets for her cell phone. The phone was on the coffee table, right next to Archer’s Bible. Amy squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breathing. If only I thought things through. She opened her eyes. She would get out of this.
Daylight filtered through the small window above the toilet. Amy stood on the back of the toilet and pushed the curtain aside. The window overlooked an alley. She gave a quick tug and opened it. No dumpster below. She hopped down, cracked open the door, and peeked out at Niklas.
He drummed his fingers against the table, scrutinized the room, and scratched his head. His hair moved back and forth.
A wig…a disguise. Amy slammed the bathroom door and threw open the window. “Dear God, I…” the prayer stuck as she leaned halfway out the window. A fastidiously clean, cobbled alley awaited. She searched for another option as she teetered from the sill, grasping at the reality of the situation. She chose to walk to a coffee shop with a man she didn’t know and now hung between a bathroom and an alleyway. “Am I blowing this out of proportion?”
The bathroom door banged open, and Amy fell to the cobblestones below with a yelp.
A large hand thrust through the window and grasped at the empty air. “Amy! Please come back. I won’t hurt you.”
A bruise was probably starting on her hip and elbow.
Niklas’s growling face appeared in the window. “Amy, we were having such a nice time. Come back inside.” His soft words were at odds with the dark look on his features.
Amy shivered. “This is the worst date I’ve ever been on. EVER!” Seeing Niklas trapped behind the tiny window renewed her confidence. “Not only did you push me around, but you ate all the food. I hope I never see you again.”
“We’ll see about that.” Niklas disappeared from view.
Amy bolted down the alley and across a street. She turned another corner onto Archer’s block. She stopped to catch her breath against the building and scanned the surrounding area for a man in a forest green parka.
He came into view at the opposite end of the block.
Amy gauged the distance between her and the doors. She might make it in time, but the door locked behind them when they left. She was reminded of all those years her mother called her impulsive.
This was exactly what Mom meant.
8
Archer enlarged the photo. He leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes. God, I quit fighting for you. I took a job in Sweden because you opened the door. How can this man from my past be haunting me? He mulled over the evidence and rubbed his palms against his eyes. Complicated didn’t begin to describe the situation. He hit copy and snatched the paper before it fluttered to the floor. Amy will know. He tucked the copy into his jacket pocket and slumped back.
That last match between himself and the reigning champion, the ”Butcher of Sweden”—a fighter who had taken the championship the last three years in a row.
Archer had watched the clips from the Butcher’s winning matches and learned he won his titles fighting hard, sometimes fighting dirty. Not much different from others in the circuit, but something felt off about the guy.
Archer had been a wild card fighter. His loss to the Butcher seemed inevitable. No one could last long against the champion, especially a no-name fighter. Archer would be knocked out, and the Butcher of Sweden would be the winner for the fourth year in a row.
Archer focused on making it through without a knock-out. When the the Butcher started to tire, Archer turned the match around and won the belt to the surprise of the crowd.
He went to visit his grandmother the day after the win. Bruised and battered by superficial wounds, belt slung over his shoulder, he walked into the house as proud as he could be. He wanted to share his win with someone who cared about him. His swagger disappeared the moment she turned her dim eyes upon his swollen face. His grandmother had said three words that humbled him, three words that changed his whole life. He could still hear her thin voice. “Archer, honor Christ.”
He’d been angry because her approval meant more to him than any other. But in time, he understood her meaning. She wanted him to do great things for a greater purpose. Archer quit fighting and started a security business. It grew enormously, and eventually, he was contracted to a company in Sweden.
His grandmother had passed away a year before, but she had seen him accomplish something she could be proud of. And that mattered.
What would Grandma think of Amy? Holding Amy’s injured arm, so soft and small, in his hand had awakened something in him. She had flinched as he wrapped her burn, but she had not cried. Something told him she possessed strengths he couldn’t see. He leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes as exhaustion cascaded over him.
Archer woke several hours later with his head against the desk. His muscles ached. It took some time for him to shake disorientation. The clock read 7:55. He tugged his jacket on and yawned.
Employees greeted each other in the hallway outside.
The picture of the muscle-clad man grinning like a barracuda glared.
Archer hurried from the building. Why hadn’t it occurred to him last night that the Butcher of Sweden might show up at the apartment? He stepped out of the elevator. His apartment door stood unlocked.
A burning smell and a haze of smoke wafted from the kitchen. The coffee pot was spilling over and the oven was smoking. A silver charm bracelet swam in the brown puddle. The rest of Amy’s things were strewn about the apartment.
“Tolstoy!” Archer called.
The cat bounded from his bedroom and rubbed against his legs.
Archer pulled the charred remains of a breakfast burrito out of the oven and turned on the fan. Had she left a huge mess or been abducted? I can’t jump to conclusions. There must be a rationa
l explanation for all of this. Archer changed into jeans and a t-shirt before he cleaned up the mess. Dear God, if Amy is in trouble right now will you be with her? Will you please protect her from harm and let me know what I should do? He needed to go downstairs. Right now. The compulsion overtook him. He stepped out of the glass doors of the apartment building. Now where, Lord?
People and cars passed by.
He didn’t see Amy at all. He turned back to the front doors. Something slammed into him. A familiar blonde form streaked past and jumped into the elevator. “Amy!” Archer jogged to the elevator and put his hands against the closing door. “Where were you this morning?”
“On the worst date of my life.” She hugged herself.
“You seem a bit,” he waved a hand in her direction, “um…dusty.” A dried leaf hung from her hair. He resisted the urge to tug it out.
“It would take too long to explain, even if I did want to talk about it. Let’s say I got to know the back alleys of Stockholm, personally.”
He wouldn’t prod. The less involved in Amy’s life the better. “You’re welcome to use my shower. You’ll want to clean up before I take you to see Mr. Lundahl.”
“Really, you asked him to see me?”
“Actually I…”
Her slender arms wrap around him. He forgot himself and enfolded her into an embrace.
“Oh, sorry.” She let go and rubbed at a smear of berry streusel on his t-shirt.
The doors opened and they walked to his apartment.
“I found this on the countertop in the kitchen.” He handed her the bracelet.
“Oh, thanks. I took it off when I burned my arm.” She laid the bracelet on her wrist and fumbled with the clasp. “I never take it off. It’s all I have of my dad other than that picture. The only thing my mom ever fessed up to having from him is this bracelet. She gave it to me when I turned sixteen, and I’ve worn it since. I think I’m beginning to remember the reason I didn’t take it off.” She held up her bandaged arm. “Would you mind?”
He clasped it on the third try.
Amy snatched her sloppy bag and headed to the bathroom. The whine of the shower shattered the silence of the apartment.
How did I ever get myself into this? Archer sprayed stain lifter onto the red smear and dabbed at it with a paper towel. This girl must have a running tab with disaster.
Tolstoy jumped onto the counter.
“Hey, you never do that. What’s gotten into you?” Archer spotted the empty cat bowl and stifled a groan. He picked up the cat and stroked his velvet fur. “No more counter tops, buddy.” He put the bowl down and filled it with cat food.
Tolstoy beamed up at Archer, gave his customary thank-mew, and started eating.
The stain bloomed across the white material. His grandmother always ran cold water through the fresh stains and they came right out. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and took it back to the sink. Sure enough, the red faded from the shirt.
“Your hot water sure doesn’t last long…wow, look at your muscles!” Amy gaped at him from the doorway.
He pulled the t-shirt from the sink, dripping wet. “Excuse me.” He had to get past her to go into the hall.
“What happened there?” She traced the puckered scar across his back.
His heart picked up pace and he let out a slow breath. “Someone tried to kill me last month.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll get changed and take you to meet Mr. Lundahl.” He ignored the attraction that came with her light caress. Moving to his room, he dressed in a fresh t-shirt, running pants, and a light jacket. He passed over his usual shoulder holster and strapped on the ankle one instead.
“Hey, Archer, can I make you any more coffee?” Amy called through the door.
“No! I mean…thanks, but I’ll pick something up on the way.” He snagged his gym bag and walked out of his room. Outside, Archer hailed a taxicab and opened the door for Amy. “I’ll put your bag in the trunk.”
She smiled and slid across the seat; her sweet floral perfume drifted and slapped him in the face.
Lord, give me strength. She was more alluring than he’d expected.
“We are headed out to the Lundahl estate, but first I need to swing by the coffee shop on this street.”
The cab driver zipped into traffic and sped around the block.
Amy hunkered down in her seat and pulled her collar up.
“What are you…”
She narrowed her eyes.
Archer raised his hands. “Never mind.” He watched the cityscape pass by. “I would like to apologize for dismissing you the night at the gala.”
Amy snorted. “Dismissing me? You make it sound so light and fluffy. I would like to point out that you threw me over your shoulder and hauled me out the door.” She laughed lightly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Mr. Lundahl said he knew your mother. He found the picture on the floor. God must have His hand in all this.”
Hardness flashed across her features. “Well, I’m glad he found it. I can’t imagine going home and explaining my empty bank account to my mother with nothing to show for it but a ticket stub from Sweden.” She shifted toward him. “So you’re a professional fighter, huh?”
The cab pulled up to the curb and Archer hopped out. “Do you want anything?”
“I don’t like coffee, so no thanks.”
“Circle the block and pick me up.” He waved to the cab driver. He ran into the building and exited in time to spot the cab on its second lap. He balanced the two cups and a paper bag in his left hand as he opened the car door. Archer handed Amy the cup of tea and a warm St. Lucia bun.
Amy’s eyes brightened. “Thank you. Wow, this looks and smells amazing.”
“It’s tea. I noticed you used tea at the house.” He fought the urge to grimace at the brown stain residing on his white countertop.
“So you’re a fighter?” she asked again.
“Not anymore.”
“Don’t want to talk about it?”
“I can.” He turned to face Amy as she took a large bite from her bun. “I gave it up because I felt God had a different direction for my life. I can’t say I stood for Christ as a fighter.” Archer opened and closed his fists.
“I don’t understand what you mean by ‘stood for Christ.’ It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t believe in God anymore.”
“And why is that?”
For the first time since he met her, the shadow of hurt haunted Amy’s features.
“Growing up, I went to church, read the Bible a little bit, dabbled in choir…” Her brow creased. “I couldn’t ever understand why a loving God would allow people to hurt so much. And by people, I mean me,” she finished in a whisper.
Archer prayed for God to guide his words.
“Sorry for getting all serious on you. I hope that meeting my dad will give me a little closure. Maybe I’ll be able to get on with my life.”
“You think that Mr. Lundahl is…”
“My father.” She twisted a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “My mom wouldn’t talk about my dad, ever. It didn’t stop me from asking. Eventually, I saw how much it hurt her when I brought it up, so I quit. Last year I stumbled across a photo of my mom— dated twenty-five years ago—with a man I didn’t recognize. The search took months, but I found the man, Mr. Lundahl. I dropped his name in casual conversation. My mom’s reaction said it all.” She pulled her hand away from her hair. “I suppose meeting him means I finished a project.”
“Did you ever consider that God had His hand in you finding the picture?”
“I choose not to see it that way.” Amy shifted to watch the passing scenery.
“Even though you don’t believe in Him, it doesn’t mean He stops existing.”
The cab’s tires hummed against the pavement, the only sound for some time.
“You could be right, but I’m not on that page in life.”
The taxi pulled onto a well-kept gravel lane line
d with iron light posts. An enormous house loomed in the distance as they passed between the hedge-fence surrounding the property.
“Is that…”
“…Mr. Lundahl’s private residence,” he finished for her. “Amy, if you need anything after this, let me know. I’m not out here very often, but I’ll try to check in on you. I will be praying you find what you’ve been seeking.”
“Let me give you my number.”
Archer stared at her open palm, puzzled.
“Your phone.” She wiggled her fingers. The diamond charm on her bracelet glittered.
“Oh.” He unlocked the screen and set it in her hand, admiring the way her hair caressed her neck and shoulders. This girl did things to him he didn’t want to admit.
The cab motored down the long driveway toward the house.
“So, why is there no Mrs. Archer hanging around? It seems like most of the pictures on your phone are of you shaking hands with famous people or hugging some old lady.”
Archer grabbed for his phone, but Amy dodged him. “That old lady is my grandmother. She meant a lot to me. She died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She handed his phone back, the playfulness gone from her voice. A moment later, she stepped from the cab, gave him a wave, collected her bag, and walked through the columns to the house.
“Driver, drop me off at the start of the lane.” Archer zipped up his thin jacket and braced for his run the rest of the way home. The air felt cold now, but soon he would be grateful for the fall chill against his skin. He tipped the driver extra to drop his gym bag off at his apartment.
When he put his wallet back into his pocket he touched the folded papers. Archer glanced back at the looming mansion. It wouldn’t hurt to wait a few days to show Amy the pictures. In his opinion, the Lundahl mansion was the safest place in Sweden—as long as she stayed within the grounds directly around the house.
9
Gravel crunched beneath the car tires as it pulled back down the lane.
Why am I doing this? Amy forced her hand to push the bell and shoved down feelings of trepidation over her father’s first impression of her. She nudged her toe against the mat at the door and chased away the idea of running after the cab and flying home. Her sneaker had the beginnings of a hole, her bag bulged next to her feet. The cab continued down the driveway. She snatched up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and bolted down the stairs.
