Shards of Crystal

I realize that this starts a bit harsher than my other stories in the Romance category. Things calm down quite a bit after the opening vignette. The opening isn't indicative of the overall tone. Thank you for reading.

Shards of Crystal

Serenaded by the gentle sounds of the woodlands, Amanda sleepily made her way to the kitchen of their luxurious cabin. Pausing, she gazed through the skylight. The stars seemed so much brighter than she was used to. It had taken a week for her to finally start to relax.

Breathing seemed easier there. The air was clean and clear and not laden with the tension under which they had been living. There was a gradual lessening of that ever-present dread niggling at the back of her mind, wondering if this was the day he found out, or worse, if this was finally the day she received word that he had been killed. For the first time in years, the dull aching in her soul started to recede.

It was a beautiful night, clear with a slight chill. They'd use the huge fireplace the next morning, one of the employees having stacked up the wood. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of juice. Maybe it was something revealed by the ambient light from the fridge or maybe it was a barely audible sound of breathing, but Amanda suddenly tensed.

Hackles rising on the back of her neck, she realized she wasn't alone. Amanda slowly and deliberately put the orange juice down, all thoughts of sleep instantly banished. Smoothly grabbing the knife from the butcher block, she spun towards the darkened living room.

"Put the knife down, Amanda. I don't want to take it from you, and you wouldn't want me to."

She couldn't pull in a breath. The knife fell to the counter from her shaking hands. Thoughts racing through her mind, she tried to quell her panic. How did he find them? Is Crystal still in her room? Savagely suppressing tears as she thought of her daughter, she knew that she had to stall.

"Can I finish my juice, Manny?"

"Enjoy." Speaking from the darkness, his voice sent a shiver snaking down her spine.

"Can I get you something?"

This isn't a social call, Amanda."

"Let me just get a glass. How long have you been here?"

"Stalling's not going to work."

He knew.

"Were you thinking that Mr. McCord and Mr. Dennings were going to burst through that door? Were they going to rescue you after their sweep of the property? They won't be rescuing anyone. Not for a long time."

The shaking was back. She leaned against the counter, trying to project a semblance of stability. Her knees refused to support her on their own, but she couldn't appear weak.

"You made three mistakes, Amanda. The first was never coming to me and telling me that you were falling in love with someone else before you fucked him. The second was not understanding that although I was never the smartest man in the room, I had many friends who were. The third is thinking that I would ever, ever allow someone to take my daughter from me."

He snorted in disgust.

"How was this supposed to happen? Were you going to eventually send me a letter? Maybe tell me that this was for the best? That he could provide a better life for Crystal? That maybe you'd let me see her someday? Is that what you were imagining?"

"Manny, I..."

"This had better not be another one of your lies, Amanda. Instead of telling me whatever was about to come tripping out of your whore mouth, why don't you say something that would convince me not to kill you and your lover?"

"That's... Manny, that's not you. You could never, I... please, please don't hurt him."

"You can stop worrying. Unless he's harmed my daughter, I'm not going to touch him. I don't give a fuck what he's done to my worthless slut of a wife, but if there is so much as a mark on Crystal, I will kill you both."

"He's never," she felt nauseous. "she's fine, Manny. She's perfectly fine. She thinks we're on a vacation."

"When you and I are done, tell Jeremy what you know about me, Amanda. Tell him that if he's hurt my daughter in any way, I'll kill him. Tell him that if he tries to find us, I'll kill him. And you can tell him that I don't give a crap about you. He can stay with you until you're old and grey, he could pass you around to the other titans of industry, he can leave you tomorrow. I don't care."

Fear gripped her, and her heart pounded. "Us. You said tries to find us. Who's us, Manny? You can't take her. You can't take my daughter!"

For the first time he seemed angry, as if he was barely hanging on. "OUR daughter! She's our daughter, you fucking cunt! You decided that it was okay to try to remove her from my life. You thought it was okay to hide in another state with your billionaire lover. You decided to try to change her name. You! Oh, I wasn't supposed to know about the new identity?"

Furious, he clenched his jaw and paused before continuing. "You've shown that you have no compunctions about taking our daughter, changing her identity and using your lover's money against me. I'm supposed to trust you won't do it again? Congratulations, it was a good plan, just poorly executed. I promise I'll do better. I'll do exactly to you what you tried to do to me. You'll never see Crystal again."

She was hurriedly rummaging through a drawer as he got up and started walking towards the stairs. he called over his shoulder. "Don't bother, I found the gun in the drawer. It's gone. I'm getting OUR daughter and we're leaving."

Amanda noticed the blood on his shoulder and arm as she ran and threw herself on him, trying to slow his progress. He grabbed her, pulled her towards him and slipped his arm around her neck. Amanda felt the pressure, a sensation of being submerged into darkness and then nothing.

She didn't know how much time had elapsed before she awakened. Heart racing, she crawled the rest of the seven feet to the stairs and scrambled up to Crystal's room as fast as she could. Her daughter was gone.

REBECCA

I remembered my mother, sort of, anyway. I thought that she was a blonde. She was tall and soft, but everyone is tall to a four-year-old. Her face is elusive. Sometimes, I'll see a stranger and I'll remember a feature in their face: eyes, cheekbones, lips, something that brings her to mind. The worst is scent. If I'm in a Macy's or another store that sells perfumes, I'll occasionally get a wisp of what she wore. It lingers in the air, tantalizingly out of reach.

She's so vivid in my dreams. My mother holds me, comforts me and tells me she loves me. I grasp her hand so tightly as we walk down a tree-lined street. Then, as I start to wake, pieces fall away. Her hair-style falls from memory. Did she have long hair? Short? Was it frozen with hairspray like so many women twenty years ago? I'd awaken a little more and lose the shape of her face, her eyes and her nose. I had a feeling that she was thin, but there was nothing definite to that feeling. Almost fully awake, it's the smells that remained: memories of soaps, body lotions, and perfume. They haunt me.

Dad dedicated himself to being a great father like some clergy dedicate themselves to God. My well-being was paramount; my interests became his new hobbies. Sometime in my early teenage years, I started to wonder how much of that was for me and how much was to prove my mother wrong. She'd never know, of course, but he would. Dad's efforts were successful. I couldn't imagine a better father. Looking back on my childhood with some distance I was able to see that all the mountains in my life were actually small hills, and all of our huge battles were nothing compared to what my friends went through.

I'd have dreams about Dad as well. It was the three of us, together again. We were in a large dark room with wooden floors. A spotlight shone down on us as we were dressed in what a child considered finery. The music would start, and Mom would take a step backwards. Standing on Dad's feet, the two of us would begin to dance. We'd work our way in a circle, listening to the seventies songs that he and Mom loved. Whenever I turned backwards Mom was further away from us. Eventually she was in the dark, and Dad and I kept dancing.

A year into our new lives, we were at the park throwing around a softball when we saw a portable pet adoption RV. Maybe Santa has a stronger pull on a five-year-old's heart than a puppy, but it's iffy. We spent hours with the animals, and both fell in love with a chocolate lab. Dad said it was because the dog and I had the same dark brown eyes. Her name was Missy, and she went home with us.

I was twelve on 9/11/2001. It felt like I had lost my father for an eternity after the towers came down. It was actually less than six months, and he never left physically. He told me later that he was clinically depressed and sort of checked-out of life for a while. He felt that he should have done something, that he could have stopped the attacks from occurring somehow. His office that he normally guarded zealously was often open during that time and I would see him watching videos repeatedly of the planes striking the buildings and interviews with survivors.

That dark day and the six months afterward did something to me that I couldn't identify at the time. It took me another three years to realize that I wanted to be a cop and be able to somehow help if anything like that happened again. Dad did what he always did; he stepped up and prepared me to succeed. This time, there were no hired batting coaches, no gymnastics coaches, he didn't need to do any research or consult with anyone.

When he learned of my interest in joining law enforcement, he made sure that I was prepared. We went to the gun range, weekly, from the time I was fifteen. It never struck me as odd that everyone there knew my dad. It also seemed normal that they came to him with questions and asking for advice. We would have endless discussions about what he called TNS, tactics 'n strategy. You walk into situation X. There are three armed men approaching a woman with a child. What do you do, step by step? Tactics. You get intel that a woman is planning to abduct a child. You know her last name and have five possibilities for whom she's targeting. What's your plan? Strategy.

He moved us to New York City, as I wanted to join the NYPD. We found a nice apartment in Queens and we grew accustomed to the huge city. I started researching the police department and taking practice tests. Dad kept training me. I wasn't sure what polygraph experts had to do with my training, but that's where we were. I was taken aback when they affixed their equipment to him, and he asked me to sit down.

"Honey, ask me anything you want about... well, about anything, but I thought you might want to ask about your mom and the two of us."

He had never lied to me. Dad explained as soon as I asked as a child that Mom wouldn't be living with us and we wouldn't be seeing her anymore. I remember being inconsolable for a long time. How long, I couldn't say. Children's perspective on time isn't very accurate. Like most kids, I was resilient, and eventually bounced back.

I thought of it like a grand game when he let me choose my new name and helped me memorize our new family history. When I was ten, he sat me down and explained what happened. My mother, her lover, her taking me, everything was on the table.

"Dad, we've gone over that. You already told me what happened."

"I know, sweetie. I just don't want there to be any questions, any doubts. This firm is the best. I'll get you the literature, but they consult with the FBI, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York and the NYPD. I need you to know that I've been totally honest with you and held nothing back. You're turning eighteen, and you'll be able to go find her and talk to her if you want. I need you to be confident that everything I've told you was accurate."

My father had taught me how to think logically and push aside emotion. I asked for a pad and pen and started working on questions. We went back and forth for almost an hour. It took me a while to figure out how to frame my questions as binary yes or no options.

"Did Mom love me?" "Did she love you?" "Did you think you were helping me by taking me?" "Do you ever regret cutting us off from her?"

After a while, every question seemed to lead to three more. I was getting off topic by chasing details down rabbit holes. When were finally finished, the technician left us alone in the room and I started sobbing. All of his answers had fit seamlessly with what he had told me as I grew up and I didn't doubt that he was telling the truth, but there was a devastating feeling of loss. My questioning seemed to push everything I had been suppressing to the forefront. In spite of my hatred for her and what she had done, my heart ached with a privation of the soul and longing for my mother.

As I knew they would, the results came back confirming no attempts at deception.

It took me eighteen months to earn the sixty credits needed to be eligible for the NYPD. When I was seventeen, I started as an Auxiliary Officer, working after school. While I was at Fordham University, I started volunteering for the Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Public Information. Writing was fun for me. Choosing a right word was easy. Choosing the right word was different. Precision in writing was challenging and fun. They soon entrusted me with responding to simple inquiries from the public and working on drafts for speeches for precinct commanders. It didn't go to my head; I knew that any speeches I worked on went through the hands of at least four other people before it was finished.

The written test for the NYPD was simple. After everything my father put me through, I was surprised at how easy it was. My raw score was perfect, but I didn't know if it would be weighted. I did fine in the physical testing and was admitted to the academy just before my twentieth birthday.

At least twice a year I would send a letter to the Chief of Counterterrorism, telling him about my desire to be part of the Critical Response Command and my continuing education at Fordham. It was a shot in the dark, but one worth taking. I was too inexperienced and too young to be a serious candidate. It did, however, put me on their radar, which worked out well.

I was born on April 22nd and a week to the day before my birthday, Dad and I were deciding how we would celebrate. Jason, the guy I was seeing, had moved back to Iowa at the end of February, so Dad was the only man in my life. We decided on an early dinner at Trattoria L'incontro, and then I'd go out drinking and clubbing with friends.

It didn't happen. On April 15th, the day we were making plans, there was a bombing at the Boston Marathon. As soon as I saw the initial coverage on TV, I rushed to my precinct. My cell phone didn't stop ringing the entire time I was en route. The department called, telling me to report immediately. I told them I was already on the way. Friends called asking if they should be worried. I tried to reassure them. Dad called and told me he'd have information for me soon. I had a rough idea of what he did for a living, so I didn't question it.

I had never quit voluntary writing and editing for the Public Information office, and I assumed that's where the touch of my particular angel came from. I was temporarily assigned to the Joint Terrorist Task Force and sent to Boston. Much like other departments had sent personnel to New York after 9/11, the NYPD sent people up to offer whatever assistance they could.

I was able to write clearly, assemble and explain data and do so quickly. It soon became mind-numbingly boring, but I was assigned to interview everyone the BPD and the JTTF wanted me to, write up a succinct analysis of the discussion and help others who had limited writing skills to do the same. It was twelve-hour days, far from home and without anyone I knew, but I relished the opportunity.

When I knocked on the hospital door of Marco Bianchi, I was greeted by more people than could have been allowed in the room. Policy be damned, his family was large, boisterous and supportive. I didn't have details of why he was there, just instructions to come down and interview him. When I volunteered to come back later after he had spent time with his family, a large woman hugged me and pulled me into the room.

It was bizarre, off-putting and a bit frightening. For most of my life, my family had consisted of me and Dad. It felt like the entire Bianchi clan was there, loud and loving. The woman smacked the shoulder of a young man and made him give me his seat. I tried to object until she pulled the chair to the bed that Mr. Bianchi was in and almost forced me to sit.

I introduced myself, showed him my ID and asked if he would mind answering some questions. Maybe it was my inexperience, but I felt odd about asking the others to step out of the room. Looking back on it, that was clearly a mistake, but one that didn't cost me anything.

Recorder, pen and pad were out and ready. "Mr. Bianchi, you were a participant in the marathon?"

"Yes, Officer Trubadeaux. And call me Marco, please. Mr. Bianchi is my dad."

A young brunette woman in her late teens or early twenties spoke up. "He was on track to finish in just over three hours." I guess that I looked confused. "That's really good time."

"Oh, okay, that's great. Maybe next year, right?"

The room quieted and everything became uncomfortable. Marco tried to break the tension with an awkward laugh. "No, I don't think that's in the cards."

I noticed the wheelchair in the room and how his legs were covered up with his sheet. The shape of his left leg and foot was clear, but the protrusion where the right should be was missing below where I assumed the knee was.

Face flushing, I felt that I had just made the worst blunder possible. I wanted to escape, get up and leave, but I felt a strong hand gently grasp my shoulder. "It's all right, dear. They're doing amazing things with prosthetics. Lots of people still run after... well, after a loss like Marco's."

That hand on my shoulder was infinitely more comforting than the hug she gave me earlier.

"You don't need all of us here. C'mon, everyone. Let's give them a few minutes. Anthony, go home and get your grandfather. We'll meet you in the cafeteria." As they filed out of the room, she pushed a large Tupperware container into my hands. "Rainbow cookies and biscotti. You're too skinny. Your boyfriend likes skinny girls?"

"I, uh, I'm not really seeing anyone right now."

"Oh-ho, you hear that, Marco? The pretty police lady is single. We'll get out of your hair. Maybe he'll remember something later, you should give him your phone number."

"Mom!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

She closed the door after everyone left and I couldn't help smiling at Mr. Bianchi. He looked back, blushing delightfully.

"That was incredibly embarrassing. I... She means well, she's just sort of, I don't know, irrepressible."

"She's lovely, Mr. Bianchi. No harm done. She's a mom." I didn't know why I said that. My experience with moms was limited to the mothers of friends and what I read or saw on TV.

"Please, it's Marco, and yeah, they get to be a bit much, but I love them. So, what questions can I answer for you?" He smiled encouragingly as I pulled out my generic preparatory notes. It was a good smile that was aided by his friendly green eyes.

We spoke for ninety minutes. He had an analytical mind and anticipated many of my follow-up questions. Things were hazy for him around the time of explosions and he apologized for not being more help. I left him my card. Walking towards the elevator, his mother and three other family members were headed down the hallway. She veered in my direction when she saw me.