Текст книги "Lovers and Reprisals"
Автор книги: Lori Turner
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Chantel nodded, then Lucien skirted around the guest, until he finally reached the front door–stepping out into the mad rush of street party’s. Lucien’s heart plummeted, faster than a brick thrown from the roof. The traffic on his block was at a standstill. There’d be no traveling on the ground for him. He pulled out his mobile phone, then pressed a button to phone his pilot. After one ring, the phone was answered.
“Hey boss. Happy holiday.”
“Same to you Caesar–look–normally, I wouldn’t bother you on a holiday–but, from where I’m standing–the ground traffic is unbelievably thick.”
Lucien could hear Caesar’s grin in his voice....
“No bother boss–what can I do for you?”
“First off man–are you sober?”
“As sober as I’m going to get on a day like today.”
Lucien nodded, fully understanding his meaning. If he waited another hour, his pilot will have drank more, thereby being less sober than his present state. In this situation, Lucien would have to take what he could get.
“All right then–meet me on the roof of the brownstone in twenty minutes. I’ll wait for you there at the helipad–and if you don’t think that you’re sober enough to fly, find me a pilot who’s clearheaded and won’t fly into the side of a building.”
Caesar laughed then said...
“I guess, that about describes me boss. See you in ten.”
***********
Chapter 4
12:29 PM
Samaritan Conclave
The beginning of the Samaritan Philanthropic Year
Peace be to all
Ona leaned against the wall, balancing her pad while trying to sip her coffee. She pressed the cup on her lip–blowing across the surface to cool it. She stared at the screen, adjusting her proposal and adding other notes. She’d arrived shortly after ten o’clock like most of her Sect, prepared to request financial backing for this years charity project. She’d taken up her normal spot in the rotunda, watching the morning news. Every year, people belonging to the Samaritan Sect began their philanthropic year submitting charity proposals to their local Conclave. The Sect’s council members reviewed these projects, and after evaluating each submission, the council would decide which plans would receive Conclave financial backing. It is an honor an a privilege to have your proposal selected by the Conclave and members in Ona’s family had never been turned down. In the past, she’d worked alongside her parents, assisting them while they carried out their projects. Now that she was of age, and she could submit her own proposal, Ona questioned the possibility that her idea might be more than she could handle on her own. All year, she’d waited for this day, and she’d known exactly what she would propose to the council. In spite of her certainty, Ona was beginning to have doubts. What would she do if the council refused her? Where would she get the funding to carry out this enormous undertaking?
Ona’s musing was cut short when she was joined by her brother.
“What time are you scheduled to appear before the council?”
Noah raised his brow in question. Ona shrugged.
“Haven’t heard. The last announcement stated that the council is reviewing the proposals, and to check the screen to see if you’ll be one of the lucky ones.”
That wasn’t exactly what the announcement had said–but Noah understood. Upon arriving at the Samaritan Conclave, all proposals are submitted on the central computer–then the participants stand and wait, hoping to see their name flashing on the overhead screen. Noah had gone in with the first set of people because their projects were not directly affected by the news reports. He worked with a group of Samaritan’s repairing infrastructures. Last year, a flash flood had wiped out a bridge in a remote mountain area–and since then, its inhabitants had been cut off from civilization. That’s where Noah and his group of Samaritans were heading.
Noah trained his eyes on the screen. He watched the names flashing, but he didn’t see Ona’s name. He said...
“Mom and dad–have you seen them yet?”
“Yes–and they received their funding.”
For the past ten years, Ona’s parents worked in the Congo building schools alongside the villagers. She thought about this, because if her proposal was not approved, she wouldn’t have any choice except to join her parents. Ona didn’t have to share her concern with her brother because Noah already knew. They stood quiet watching the names, until they were joined by her brothers friend, Geff.
“Did you ask her Noah?”
Geff was not an unattractive person–it’s just that, he wasn’t someone Ona found attractive at all. He was tall, fair haired and lanky. In her estimation, his only redeeming quality was that he was a nice, pleasant and affable man–but what Samaritan man wasn’t nice, pleasant and affable. On the other hand, Ona’s brother regularly turned heads when it came to her female friends. Ona looked at Geff questioningly, because she’d forgotten that he’d just said something to Noah. Her brother looked to the ground, then he moved his feet about, trying to evade something–but Ona didn't know what.
Noah cleared his throat, then he said...
“Ona–Geff’s family has invited us to supper tonight–to celebrate the beginning of this Philanthropic year.”
Us, she thought to herself. Us would mean, her, her parents, her adopted brother Caleb and Noah. In truth, Geff’s invitation meant something else, and Noah knew this as well. Before asking for a woman’s hand in marriage, it is common among the Samaritans to share special meals together–and to this philanthropic Sect, no meal is more special than the meal prepared for this day. Also, since Geff doesn’t have any sisters, that would mean that this special dinner isn’t being hosted to win over Caleb or Noah–if not them, then that only leaves Ona.
Ona’s brained raced with thoughts, and ways to politely refuse, when grace favored her. White large letters scrolled across the screen, announcing her name.
“Ona...” Geff said...
“Yes...Ona.” she replied. Both men looked at her confused. Ona beamed a smile, saying...
“My name...my name is on the screen. The council selected my proposal.”
Noah corrected her...
“The council wants to discuss your proposal–there’s a big difference.”
Ona realized this, but being chosen was one of a few hurdles and Noah understood this as well. Her brother clarified his remark...
“Don’t be nervous. I gather that you have the numbers that you’ll need to support your proposal?”
She nodded...
“Yes...I thought it would be worse...but regardless of the actual report, I’m certain that the council will agree that there is an urgent need in this area. I really feel good about this.”
Noah smiled, because he could recall the first time he’d submitted a proposal to the Conclave–his parents had waited in the rotunda, wanting to be the first to congratulate him. He was certain that his parents would have done the same for Ona; had it not been for the dinner invitation offered by Geff’s parents. His mother had to go straight home to prepare a dish, because showing up empty handed would break with tradition. When two families shared a meal–for Samaritans, this was the first offer of a proposal to marriage. This is followed by a dinner offer from the other parents–a meal that typically occurs within that week. Noah knew exactly when his friend became attracted to his sister. Over time, Geff had waited for Ona to reach the age of consent; then he would make his feelings known. Yet, during all that time, Ona never showed a hint of interest in Geff–not even the smallest notice.
Noah relieved his sisters hand of the coffee mug. He nodded his head in the direction of the council chambers.
“Our parents are Zachary and Aldeara Zelle–go make them proud to say that you are their daughter.”
Ona adored her brother. She thanked him with a kiss on the side of his face.
“Wait for me at the coffee shop on the dock. I’ll head straight there when I’m done here–and we can share my good news with mom and dad as soon as we get home.”
“Yes...” Geff agreed. “On the first day of this new year we’ll have plenty to celebrate.”
Ona inclined her chin, lowering her head so as not to meet Geff’s eyes. She was thrilled but not for the reasons Geff supposed. Frankly, Ona had underestimated the man and she never imagined him approaching her parents before coming to her first. In spite of his invitation, there were ways to deal with this problem–but for now, she had her project to consider.
“Ona...” Geff pointed to her wrist... “Your band...”
Ona lifted her arm and she noticed Noah’s disapproving stare. Before he formed his first sentence, she tugged down her sleeve, covering the exposed area. Noah said...
“Ona...you left the house without wearing your band?”
It was common practice for Samaritan’s to wear a band, etched with their communal Creed on the inside. Wearing this band also signified that Ona was unmarried–and in some Samaritan Sects not wearing the band could mean that the woman was in transition. In other words, not wearing a band could mean that the woman had accepted a proposal and she was waiting for both families to agree on a union date. In her Sect, the bands held meaning–but Ona knew the reason for her bare wrist–and it had nothing to do with a proposal, a union, or any such nonsense.
She swiftly shed light on her offense.
“This morning, I was washing the dishes, and I forgot to remove my band. My mind was on my project, instead of the sink, filled with wet dishes. When I realized what I’d done, I removed my band, and placed it on the windowsill to dry.”
“The windowsill” Noah said flatly. Ona smiled then replied.
“Yes...the windowsill. Noah–it was an honest mistake.”
Geff rolled back his sleeve, revealing his black band. He was taking it off before Ona or Noah could stop him.
“Here–wear mine’s.”
“Oh–no...” Ona stumbled, unable to find the right phrasing. Geff said...
“You’ll want to look your best when you stand before the council. Just take it Ona.”
She looked at her brother, and he shrugged–but she wondered why he wouldn’t give her his band. On the other hand, Geff was her brothers good friend, and she was quite certain that Noah didn’t want to offend him. Regardless of what happened between Ona and Geff–for now, accepting Geff’s offer was the polite thing to do. So–Ona took the band. She would hold it, but she wouldn’t dare put it on. Wearing this band in front of Geff would be like seeding false hope. She wanted to say something to this affect but she noticed her brothers strained expression.
Noah said...
“Okay–now that that’s settled–go Ona; the council is waiting. And good luck–we’ll wait for you to join us on the dock.”
Ona parted company with them–walking with a skip in her step. She was determined to leave the Samaritan Conclave with the finances she would need to support her city project–a project designed to help city children who’d been orphaned or traumatized by violence.
**********
“Congratulations Ona Zelle–your parent’s should be proud. I have no doubt that one day you will fill my seat as a Conclave council member.”
If she had wings, Ona would have taken flight. She could still hear these words when they’d been spoken in the Conclave Chambers. Her project had been approved, even before her name appeared on the screen in the rotunda. When she’d been called before the council, the members had simply wanted to see the enthusiastic face responsible for drafting a project whose time had finally come. It wasn’t unusual for proposals to be similar and in some cases, exactly the same; but in the history of this Conclave council, no one had ever submitted anything remotely similar to Ona’s dream plan.
Ona burst through the doors, singing a tune in her head. The words weren’t the lyrics from the song; instead, she’d replaced the words with her list of things to do. Enlist aid from her friends; other Samaritan’s whose proposals had been rejected or abandoned due to lacking funds. Contact the local shelter to request the use of their gymnasium and auditorium. Distribute letters, requesting local restaurants in the area to donate leftover food to feed the program participants. She had a list of artist but she hadn’t worked out how best to contact them. She’d lived a sheltered life, and she’d never worked with anyone outside of her Sect, but Samaritans weren’t known for their artistic abilities and according to Ona’s research, children responded well to hands-on therapy. She’d planned to have an area filled with domesticated animals–the children could pet and help take care of them. In this way they could express positive emotions. That‘s where the idea concerning the arts had come from. Singing, acting, painting and playing an instrument; Ona had read countless articles and research that proved how beneficial this form of therapy can be when helping a child heal from emotional wounds. Ona’s mind raced with all the things she had to do, before the weeks end. Her mind had been occupied with her project and without meaning to, she’d walked down a street she’d intended to bypass. Bishop Square housed a number of people whose parties tended to go overboard. This also was an area not to far from where many of the cities rich people lived, in their ritzy high-rise apartments and oversized brownstones. Samaritan’s rarely traveled alone, and when she’d left the Samaritan Conclave, she’d exited the building with a few other people. Yet, somewhere in between the Conclave and Bishop Square; due to the over crowded streets, Ona had gotten separated from members belonging to her Sect. Her eyes searched wildly, looking through a sea of people dressed in fashionable clothing. She didn’t see one black, grey or navy outfit; these were the shades that typically colored Samaritan clothes.
“Don’t panic Ona–stay cool. It’ll be fine.” She told herself. No sooner did this lie leave her lips, a strange man wrapped his arms around her waist, spinning her, until she faced him.
“Happy New Year’s Day!” he yelled, then he wobbled attempting to seal his announcement with a wet sloppy kiss. Ona pressed her palms against his chest, fighting to resist him.
“Wait a minute...” the man protested. “All I was trying to do was...”
From behind, Ona heard a slap, then the man released his hold while falling at an angle. Someone had hit his head, and when he was on the ground, she’d locked eyes with his assaulter. Ona was thankful when this woman’s piercing glare landed on the octopus man.
“That’ll teach you to cheat...just you wait. ”
Ona fixed her gaze on a woman she was sure was ten years older than her. She nailed Ona with an angry glare when she said...
“You’d do good to get out of here–reformer.”
Reformer. Ona remembered the first time she’d heard this word; it was then that she learned that some people despised her Sect. Being called a reformer by this woman was the same as being spat in the face.
“Get!” the woman screamed. Then the woman turned her attention back to the man who had practically mauled her.
Ona stumbled, trying to distance herself. She recalled a street that led back in the direction of Conclave Square. If she took this route, she could wait in front of her Conclave, then she could join a group of Samaritans and walk with them back to the dock. Yes...she thought. That’s exactly what she would do.
Ona hurried her pace and it didn’t pass her notice that her progress was slow. She’d never been around so many people and it seemed that not one of them was sober. She passed doorways, and building fronts; using these landmarks to gauge her position. She was coming up on a crosswalk, and from there she would only have one more block to walk, then she could retrace her steps back to the Conclave. The horde of people moved like a rushing rapid, and even if she wanted to turn now, going back the way she came; the crushing swarm made turning impossible. She had to move forward, and hope that the other route would favor her direction. Ona was passing a house where loud music and laughter swelled, and inside she could see people pressed together, drinking and dancing. Each face held an expression of utter joy. She’d always been curious to learn about other people and their beliefs. And working with children outside of her Sect would give her that unique opportunity. Ona watched as a woman twirled in the outer foyer of the house; she spun until her dancing landed her on the sidewalk. For some reason, her rhythmic movements spread like wildfire, then everyone around her began to shake, hop, quiver and sway. An electric beat fueled their movements, and Ona was caught in the mesh of people. She tried to weed through them, then she felt someones hand reaching for her. Ona panicked and her thoughts went back to the woman and that man on the street. She didn’t want a repeat of that scene, so she moved away from the hand. Ona fought hard to distance herself, then beneath her the ground became uneven, causing her to lose her balance. While Ona had been making slow steady progress on the sidewalks; on the street, ground transports moved at steady clips. The city was a cacophony of smells, images, slow and rapid motions. All at once, loud noises assaulted her ears. Blaring horns, loud screaming, cries of unintelligible anguish–then the sound of crushing bones. A blanket of darkness shrouded her vision. Ona would recall these things–but the memory wouldn’t come, until many days later.
**********
Chapter 5
1:50 PM
Somewhere over Bishop Square
By the time Lucien stepped on the elevator, taking him to the helipad on the roof; he’d prepared himself to wait, but instead, he spotted Caesar standing next to the passengers door. His pilot had been in good spirits and they flew to Lucien’s penthouse in under five minutes. Lucien dashed down to his wine cellar; collected the three bottles of champagne, then he was on the roof and they were headed back to his families celebratory Ball. While Caesar flew the chopper, Lucien busied himself checking messages, and responding to relatives who had not been able to join them this year. He was finishing up a letter to his cousin in Burgundy when he heard what sounded to him like a chorus of screams. Lucien strained his eyes, staring out the window and that’s when he saw it–the Delors’ white van. The Delors‘ Ball is an all day event, requiring the staffing of three shifts of servers. Lucien didn’t know with certainty, but he was pretty sure on the direction of the van, this transport was headed for his family’s house. His notion was confirmed, when men and women filed out, seemingly daze–and they’d congregated in front of the van. From the height of the chopper, it looked like a pedestrian had been hit–and the Delors employee had been the driver. Lucien could clearly see a growing crowd of people milling around the victim but no one appeared to be rendering any assistance–not even the staff dressed in pristine black and white uniforms. On the overhead speaker, the pilot said...
“The sky is clear boss. No emergency air transports in sight.”
“Are you sure Caesar?”
“Yep–the skies are clear and blue–not one flasher in sight. I don’t think anyone’s on the horn boss. Nobody has sounded the whistle.” then his pilot said...“Hey boss–isn’t that a Delors’ logo on the top of that van?”
“Yes–it is.”
A Delors’ van was responsible for the accident and if Lucien were to believe his pilot, it would mean that no one on the ground had notified the police or any of the emergency services; not even the Delors’ staffers. He supposed that on a day like today, the witnesses were more than likely dazed, or thoroughly inebriated.
“What do you want me to do boss? Sound the whistle?”
Lucien watched and waited, and still no one seemed to be helping this person. The closer he looked, he was convinced that if this person were to survive, someone had to react.
“Yes–call for medical support–and...” Lucien stalled before finally saying...”You might as well notify the local authorities as well as my families solicitor. From this height, it’s unclear if the driver is to blame, but I’m confident that our legal counsel will want to be notified, just in case this victims family decides to take legal action.”
What a way to start the new year, he thought to himself. He wondered if the driver of the transport realized the consequences tied to this accident. Of course he did, Lucien reasoned. But he didn’t envy this person, whoever they were because this was the worst way to begin a new year.
“I see the flashers boss. Ground and air transport–but it looks like the air medical transport will arrive first. They should be here in five minutes. Ready to head back to the brownstone?”
Lucien stared at the people below. Their heads were craned towards the sky, watching the approaching medical transport. Once the medical technicians got to work, there wouldn’t be anything left for anyone to do. His rational mind told him to leave but–he couldn’t get his family’s crest out of his head. The logo was clearly printed on the van’s roof, its side, and more than likely the logo was printed on the license plate, and stitched on each employee’s shirt. He groaned, then Lucien said...
“Find someplace to land.”
“What’s that you say? Did I hear you right when you said to land?”
That’s right, Lucien thought to himself–land this fucking bird. He didn’t know what compelled him, but his gut told him that his presence was needed on the ground.
“That’s right Caesar–I want you to land. Try to put down, at a safe distance, but close to the person lying in the street. From here, it doesn’t look like anyone is rendering first-aid.” Not even the Delors staff. Lucien cursed under his breath, and his vexation eased when he heard his pilot say...
“Okay boss”
For a moment, Lucien had had second thoughts–mainly because his pilot had not questioned him. He’d heard a hint of concern, but the chopper was lowering all the same. From this height he could see a number of vehicles, and none of them seemed to be moving.
“Caesar–what about the land vehicles–they aren’t moving.”
“When they get an up close and personal with my whirly bird–I guarantee–the sea will part, just like it did for Moses.”
Lucien gave his pilot credit because–the sea parted indeed. When the chopper hovered meters from the ground–land transports and automobiles scattered, making room for the helicopter to land. When Caesar gave him the thumbs up, Lucien jumped out on the passenger side, making his way to the accident victim.
He shouted over his shoulder, directing Caesar in how best to help.
“Check the driver of in the van–see if he’s injured–and if he isn’t, make certain he stays put. The same goes for the servers–I want everybody to remain here. They will all need to give a statement to the police and the detective, if one arrives–and tell them to be quiet and not to talk until the Delors’ solicitor gets here”
Overhead, an amplified voice blared from speakers mounted on the police helicopter. The officer was issuing directions to the crowd instructing them to disperse and make room for the ground patrol and the approaching medical flight vehicle.
Lucien didn’t hesitate. He ran to the front of the van, and everyone moved when they saw his white coat flapping in the wind. They were surprised to see a man of his caliber on the streets; wearing white and preparing to get his hands dirty. Lucien passed the crowds and he cursed, mouthing...
“Worthless horde. Not one of them is sober enough to help.”
When the crowd was to his rear, he headed straight for the person lying motionless in the street. He removed his white duster, to use as a headrest. A pain shot through his chest when he realized the person who’d been hit was a woman. He lowered to the ground and he could swear that he’d heard her whispering something–maybe a prayer, or perhaps a name. Lucien cradled her head, then he eased her neck up, ever so slightly to place his coat on the ground as a makeshift pillow.
By the shape of the body, he’d rightly surmised that she was young–perhaps, nineteen or twenty. Her face was covered by long black hair. Lucien parted the strands and his eyes widened at first glance. He was amazed by his first impression because there was something about these events that should have been antiseptic, clinical and most certainly dispassionate. But his heart told him otherwise because instead of mere concern, Lucien was drawn to her natural beauty, and the fact that to his eyes, she was a vision worth beholding.
Lucien tried to remain on point. He’d never dabbled in first-aid and he didn’t know what this situation called for; but he believed, if he comforted her, his strength would give her the will to survive. On that thought, she drew in a breath, then the air rushed out on the tail of a low moan.
Lucien stroked her cheek with his thumb, he wondered what was taking the medical transport so bloody long. This was an emergency, for goodness sake. The area was swarming with people, and he’d heard the amplified voice from the officer, directing the crowd from the sky–but he didn’t hear the blare of the medical transport.
“Move”, the voice had said–”make way for incoming aircrafts”
In spite of their urgent cries, Lucien was alone, so he thought it best to encourage this woman.
“Hang on–I’ll stay with you, until help arrives.”
He watched the flutter of long dark lashes, and witnessing this lodged a lump in the rear of his throat. Who was this woman, he thought to himself. At that moment, he felt a controlled whirling wind hovering directly above him. He didn’t bother looking up–instead, he kept his eyes trained on this broken dove. She gasped, and Lucien wasn’t sure what this sound had meant. He comforted her saying...
“My name is Lucien–Lucien Delors. Can you tell me your name?”
He didn’t expect an answer and the woman didn’t supply one. More importantly, he didn’t know why he’d told her his name–but for some strange reason, her knowing was important to him. He looked at her battered broken body and he wondered how this had happened. Had she fallen in the street, or had she been pushed? He was low enough to smell her aroma, and except for the smell of soap, he didn’t detect anything that would hint, she’d been drinking. In the distance he could hear Caesar telling the van driver of the transport to stop talking. His pilot wanted this man to reserve his right to have legal counsel present before he told his side of the story. Lucien didn’t know what was going wrong because Caesar’s urging was being ignored.
“It was an accident man. Somebody pushed her–but with so many people on the street–it’s going to be impossible to finger the person responsible for all of this. Oh God, oh God–what a way to start the new year. It was an accident man...”
The driver of the Delors’ van had repeatedly said the same sentence over and over again. If it was within his power, Lucien would have removed this woman from this place. He didn’t know her but she had a face that told him she was a gentle spirit–and for whatever the reason was–he felt partly to blame. The driver was a staffer and the van was owned by his family. He wanted to cradle this woman in his arms but he didn’t dare move her for fear of worsening her injuries.
Lucien could hear the rapid approach of footfalls.
“Step aside sir...”
Lucien felt a hand nudging his shoulder. He was being urged to move aside by one of the medical technicians. Two men knelt on either side of the young woman, then each man began administering care. Their hands moved so fast, he couldn’t say with any certainty, which task had been administered first. An intravenous catheter was inserted, then the tech squeezed a bag filled with liquid between tightly palmed hands. The other tech snapped buttons off her shirt, spreading the fabric to place EKG leads in different areas on her chest. He switched on the machine, then covered her nose and mouth with a mask to administer oxygen. Out the side of his eyes, something caught his attention. When the tech had moved her arm to start the IV, it was then that he clearly recognized the object. It was a wristband, not to far from her outstretched hand. The technicians had been so busy working to stabilize her for transport, neither of them noticed the object. Lucien lowered, and no one observed him because all eyes were trained on the victim. He lifted the band, then he curled his fingers to palm it. He’d heard stories about the Samaritan’s and their marriage rituals. Unmarried Samaritans wore one black band on their left wrist. When they are betrothed the women wear two braided black bands on their left wrist, and the men wear one blue band. That’s what puzzled Lucien. He was staring at this woman lying in the street and her wrist was bare. When he’d picked up the band, he’d made note of its size and he was certain, that the band had not been made to fit a woman’s wrist. At least, not the woman currently injured in the street. By the size of her hand and fingers, he judged her to be small boned–petite; just like his sister Chantel.
Lucien watched the medical techs, frantically working to save her life and within him, he sensed a gnawing question. Was she married or not? Did the band belong to her–or a male Samaritan who wanted her to wear his band? He didn’t understand his curiosity but he wanted to know these answers.
Lucien’s gaze was drawn to his duster–the coat that had been white. When he noticed an expanding red circle, his brows rose in concern. When he’d knelt by her side, Lucien had been drawn to the deep shade of black that colored her hair. Now her glorious mane had a lacquered sheen; a glaze all due to her seeping blood. Dear God, would this ever end. Apart from News telecast, Lucien had never witnessed illness or death firsthand. But here it was–and he didn’t like it. More to the point; this wasn’t what he wanted for this woman. Not now–not ever and he didn’t know what gave him the right to feel this way; given that he didn’t even know her name. Amidst all the blood and her twisted broken body; he wanted a good outcome for this woman. She was too young for her life to be cut short.
