A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  “Pristinely,” Josh replied. The man was so smart it was scary.

  “I hate to say it, but the media is a flock of vultures,” Ben said, looking like he didn’t hate to say it at all. “Perhaps you were an exception, but most of your colleagues live to peck at dead meat.” Ben blinked and his face softened. “Pardon me. I’ve lost my manners. Please come in.”

  Josh stepped into the foyer and glanced around. The living room was to his left, the dining room to his right, and the kitchen down the hall. The house was a curious paradox, a trove of antiques and original art yet as cozy as a cottage, as if all the beautiful things were in place not just to elicit admiration but because beauty made a home to which people wanted to return.

  “This way,” Ben said, leading Josh on a slow walk to a den at the back of the house. A fire was blazing in the hearth. Ben gestured to a chair and sat down in another. “I’d offer you coffee, but I’m afraid the pot is empty.” He peered at Josh intently. “So what brings you out to Cambridge on such an unpleasant day? Certainly not the desire to keep me company.”

  On the flight, Josh had debated with himself about how to broach the topic of Cameron. He decided on an indirect approach to build credibility. “I assume you’re aware of the lawsuit pending against Presto. I’m married to one of the lawyers representing the plaintiffs—Madison Ames. I believe her father is an acquaintance of yours.”

  Ben scratched the stubble on his chin. “I’ve followed the case in the papers. Lewis was a star student in my early years. And his father was a great friend of the black community. I recall seeing your name in the coverage. You had a part in the research, am I right?”

  Josh nodded. “I tracked down the plaintiffs.”

  Ben pondered this. “So what can I do for you? As I understand, the judge dismissed the claims with leave to replead.”

  Josh leaned forward and spoke the truth gently. “We didn’t just dream up the lawsuit. Someone came to us with information. I met him at the Lincoln Memorial in the middle of the night.” He gave Ben a piercing look. “It was Cameron.”

  Long seconds passed in a silence so dense that the air seemed to have frozen solid. Ben sat rigidly in his chair, as if his joints had ceased to function, yet his eyes sparked with vivid life.

  “I’m going to pretend this conversation isn’t happening,” he said at last, his words like steps through a minefield. “And when you leave, I’m going to forget it—the curse of being an old man. But for a moment, I’m willing to listen. Tell me what this has to do with me.”

  Josh looked into the fire and told Ben about the summons and the meeting and the names. He told him about Cameron’s aloofness at the last hearing, his evasive action at Union Station, and his disappearance in the weeks since. “I did what he asked,” Josh said. “I don’t know what his reasons were, but I don’t care anymore. I need to find him.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “And if you don’t?”

  Josh shrugged. “Then Lewis will put his name in the amended complaint. None of us wants that to happen. But we have an obligation to the plaintiffs.”

  Ben cleared his throat, his eyes smoldering. “You have got a lot of nerve. You come to my home on a Sunday afternoon and accuse my son of conspiring against his own company, and then you attempt to extort information from me by threatening him. You can see yourself out.”

  Ben’s words hit Josh like a punch in the gut. But he was prepared. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. “I understand how you feel. But, please, think about it. We have until May 16. Call me if you change your mind.”

  Josh placed his phone number on the chair and left through the front door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  NEAR CAPE VERDE

  MAY 8, 2016

  11:07 A.M.

  The ocean was like a creature from a fairy tale, its sinuous form always in motion, animated by the wind. Its nature was as winsome as it was tempestuous, soothing with one breath and scorching with another. Cameron had been at sea for over a month now, and no two days had been the same. He saw periods of calm where the ocean was a mirror for the sun. He saw squalls that clotted the skies and dumped rain in buckets before vanishing over the horizon. And he saw fair winds that blew like a benediction from the gods. Whatever the weather, he stayed on the move, sometimes sailing with the engine off, sometimes with it on.

  His timetable was loose, but his course was set. He had landed in the Azores on April 21 and uncorked the bottle of Bordeaux on a patch of sand as the sun sank into the sea. In a moment of inspiration, he took Cornelius’s journal from his backpack and wrote his thoughts on a blank page in the form of a letter. He told Olivia about the flying fish and dolphins and cloud shapes he had seen. He told her how much he wished she could have seen them too, how much he missed her, how much he loved her. After draining the bottle, he rinsed it and placed the letter inside, then filled a third of it with sand, plugging the top with the cork.

  After Flores Island, he had sailed to the Canaries. He topped off his tanks in Tenerife and restocked his refrigerator. Then he hired a local to drive him to the rim of the crater on Mount Teide. He climbed to the summit beneath a spotless sky, collected pumice in a jar, and then transferred it to the bottle of Lafite back at the port. He stayed on Tenerife for two days, catching up on sleep, and then set sail again along the course of the trade ships from centuries past, following the coast of West Africa toward Cape Verde.

  The islands were out there in the wild deep, beyond the canyons of waves carved by the harmattan wind blowing off the deserts of Mauritania four hundred miles to the east. Cameron had never seen a wind like it. It was the spirit of the Sahara, superheating the atmosphere and draining it of every stray drop of moisture. The blazing current was so powerful, in fact, that the Breakwater was sailing at hull speed with two reefs in the mainsail. The anemometer had been pegged at twenty-five knots since the sunrise, and gusts had sent it above thirty.

  Cameron was at the helm in shorts, a faded T-shirt, and aviator shades. The Beatles were crooning over the speakers, but he could barely hear them over the wind. His eyes were on the horizon, looking for a color other than blue. His charts said it should be there, but the dancing waves diminished his visibility. He waited and waited some more, the patience coming to him naturally now, worn in by nights and days of solitude.

  Then he saw it—a yellow spar above the water. The cry erupted from his lips like from the mariners of old. “Boa Vista!” It was the easternmost island in the archipelago, christened by the Portuguese in their seafaring joy—“boa vista!” was the equivalent of “land ahoy!” He pointed the bow toward the leeward side of the island. When he passed the headlands near Sal Rei, the wind fell off to fifteen knots and the waves settled down. Beyond the jetty, the water flattened out, and Cameron started the engine, motoring into the harbor.

  Three other sailboats were at anchor in the bay, along with a host of colorful fishing craft scattered near the shore. People were sunbathing on a rocky stretch of beach and swimming in the turquoise water, their skin a few shades lighter than Cameron’s own. He watched the depth gauge until it dropped below twenty feet, then released the anchor and worked the throttle back and forth until the flukes held firmly in the sand.

  He took out his iPhone and connected to a network. Then he went below and fired up his MacBook, checking his e-mail via satellite. There were thirty messages in his in-box, down from two hundred when he arrived in the Azores. The majority were from Anderson and Declan, legal matters that required his advice. One was from Noel, asking for an update and pictures. Another was from Vance with up-to-the-moment financial statements and a draft letter to the board. The most recent e-mail, however, sent Cameron reeling. It was from Josh Griswold and had been sent to his personal address. He opened it, cursing his trembling hands.

  Cameron,

  I have no idea where you are, but it’s obvious you have no intention of returning until after May 16. What I don’t understand is why.
Why did you ask me to start this if you didn’t want me to finish it? I can’t believe it was all for nothing, but perhaps you never meant me to understand. Perhaps you just meant to use me. Perhaps you just meant to use Madison and Lewis. We’re all adults. We will move on. But Sonia, Ashik, Jashel, and Alya are different. Their lives will forever be scarred by what they’ve experienced.

  The court’s decision aside, we both know the truth. Even if Presto doesn’t control its suppliers, it bears responsibility for its supply chain. It’s like food and medicine. If the ingredients are bad, it doesn’t matter where they came from or who made them, only that the product that included them made people sick.

  I believe you care about the plaintiffs. I know about what you did to save Alya from Siraj. But right now I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t know what to tell the others. I don’t know what to tell my wife. I was hoping you could give me an idea. I was hoping you wouldn’t just walk away like your company did. I think you’re better than they are. But your disappearance has put that instinct to the test.

  The question I can’t answer is what I’m supposed to do now. I suspect you want the lawsuit to die. But I’m not sure I can let it go. Someone once told me that I had to prevail, that Presto had blood on its hands. I’m counting the cost of following through.

  What do you think I should do, Counselor? What would you do?

  Josh

  Cameron stared at the screen, his stomach in knots. He remembered another moment like it, when he had watched from his office window as Lewis addressed the media, conjuring a spectacle nearly as dramatic as the Millennium fire itself. He didn’t fault Josh for his zeal any more than he faulted Lewis. They were traits he had deliberately chosen in allies he had carefully selected. Yet for his mission to succeed, they had to concede. If they didn’t, the whole plan he had worked two years to construct would fall apart.

  He clenched his teeth so tightly they began to ache, and then he typed nine words. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but Josh had backed him into a corner. He had to reply. He stared at the message in anguish, then shook off his indecision and hit Send.

  “Let it go,” he wrote. “I have a plan. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  PAINTED HILL FARM

  KESWICK, VIRGINIA

  MAY 8, 2016

  12:10 P.M.

  There was a reason it was called Painted Hill. Every spring the hilltop turned into a riot of color. The wildflowers were kaleidoscopic—black-eyed Susans, geraniums, violets, thistle, and spring beauties. Lily chased the rainbow like a leprechaun, dancing through the grass with her guidebook in hand. Josh and Madison watched her from the top of Old Man’s Nose, delighting in her delight. After church, Lily had suggested a horseback ride, and Madison agreed, daring Josh with a look that said, Any other response would be infantile, and we’d drag you along anyway. So, of course, he acceded, playing nice with Tommy long enough to survive another ride up the mountain. He wasn’t looking forward to the return trip.

  “Sometimes I think she’s just like any other kid,” Madison said, picking at a clump of grass. “And then I remember how close we came to losing her.” She took a breath and glanced at him. “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

  Josh saw the vulnerability in his wife’s eyes. “She’s going to beat it,” he said softly.

  Madison reached out and touched his hand. “I can’t imagine the world without her.”

  He slipped an arm around his wife and pulled her close. She was a gift, the avatar of his conscience and the lover of his soul. He woke up every day regretting what he had done to her and vowing he would never do it again. Yet its consequences were still haunting him. Maria’s last e-mail was buried in his in-box, its twin beside it, sent a week ago when he didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to do. He wished he could ask Madison’s advice, but that would require a confession he didn’t want to make. He knew it might come to that. But there was still a chance he could pull this off without wounding her again.

  “We’re down to a week,” Madison said. “We could ask the judge for an extension, but he won’t grant it. He already gave us more time than anyone else would have.”

  Josh shook his head. “I keep hoping Ben will come to his senses and call me.”

  “That assumes Ben knows where he his.”

  “Someone knows where he is.” Josh’s hand moved to his pocket. Then he hesitated. Madison’s rule was firm—no technology during family time. He gave her his most solicitous look. “Do you mind if I check my e-mail? Cameron might have sent a reply.”

  She let out a wry laugh. “Go ahead.”

  Finding Cameron’s personal e-mail address had been a coup. Conlin had dredged it up. Josh had no idea how, but he had the good sense not to ask. He opened his in-box and held his breath. When he saw the general counsel’s name at the top, a jolt of adrenaline shot through him. Thank God! he thought. Then, just as quickly, the letdown came.

  “Shit,” he muttered, holding the screen for her to see. “He wants us to quit.”

  “Bastard!” Madison erupted, loudly enough to startle Lily forty feet away.

  “What is it, Mommy?” she called out, sounding worried.

  Madison brought herself under control. “Nothing, sweetie,” she said. She stood up on the rock, bleeding nervous energy. “We need to talk to my dad.”

  Josh grimaced. Much obliged, Cameron. You just ruined a beautiful moment. One way or another, I’m going to return the favor.

  The grandfather clock tolled in the hallway as Lewis entered the parlor, his expression grave. Josh and Madison were waiting for him on the couch. He sat across from them and draped one leg over the other, ever the patrician, even in an earthquake, even at the epicenter of his rage.

  “So Cameron has been leading us on,” he said. “It was always a possibility, but I allowed myself to believe otherwise.” Madison leaned forward, poised to speak, but Lewis gave her a look and she held her tongue. “Right now I don’t feel like giving him the benefit of the doubt, but I will for his father’s sake. Let’s imagine he’s telling the truth and has a plan. Let’s imagine that plan has something to do with leveraging the fallout from the lawsuit to make changes inside Presto. I’m just spitballing, but if I’m in his shoes, that’s what I’m thinking. Let’s imagine that plan will go haywire if we name him in the complaint. I sympathize, but it doesn’t change our obligations. We need something more before I can ask the plaintiffs to walk away from this.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to tell him that,” Josh said acerbically.

  “E-mail is not going to cut it,” Lewis rejoined. “We need a meeting.” He slid his iPhone out of his pants and swiped the screen.

  “What are you doing?” Madison asked.

  “I’m doing what I’ve been thinking about for the past two weeks. I’m calling Ben.”

  Josh couldn’t hide his astonishment. “You have his number in your contacts?”

  Lewis smiled drolly. “Assuming he hasn’t moved, yes. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to see how he would react to your story.”

  He put the phone on speaker and listened as the call went to voice mail. Halfway through the recorded message, Ben picked up.

  “Hello?” he asked, sounding slightly disoriented. “Is that you, Lewis?”

  “Hi, Ben,” Lewis said, imbuing his voice with affection. “It’s been too long.”

  “About seven years, I think,” Ben replied. “Back in the days when I could still captivate an audience. Now I can barely get up the stairs. Getting old is a curse.”

  “I heard about Iris,” Lewis continued. “I’m so sorry. She was a magnificent person.”

  Ben took a ponderous breath. “The best woman I ever met.” The old professor paused, then presented his question with care. “So what can I do for you?”

  Lewis spoke the words gently. “I’m calling about Cameron.”

  After a brief silence, Ben said, “I figured as much.”

  “We hav
e to talk to him, Ben. If we don’t, some bad things are going to happen. We don’t want that any more than you do. But he’s put us in a bind.”

  Ben snorted. “That damn company of his. I told him when he took the job that he was dancing with the devil. But he’s got a brick on his head. He’s never listened to me a day in his life.”

  Lewis waited a beat before saying, “I don’t know about the past, but I believe he’s trying to do the right thing now. I think that’s what this is all about. But we can’t ask our clients to drop the claims unless we talk to him. The filing deadline is in eight days.”

  “What makes you think I can help you?” Ben asked.

  Lewis’s lips spread into a thin smile. “Call it a hunch.”

  Ben grunted, then wheezed, as if he was laboring to stand. Josh heard scratching sounds and breathing, then a muffled thump, like he had set the phone down. A moment later, he heard the click of a mouse, then a series of keystrokes. Eventually Ben came back on the line.

  “He has a sailboat, the Breakwater. He took it offshore about a month ago. He sent me a link to a website that gets satellite data from the boat. I’ve been watching him on Google Earth. Before I tell you where he is, I need you to promise me something.”

  “Anything, old friend,” Lewis replied.

  Ben’s voice cracked with emotion. “Cameron and I have had more than our fair share of differences. But he’s my son. If it comes down to it, I want you to trust him. I’m not asking you to throw away your case, just that you give him a chance to make this right.”

  Lewis gave Madison a triumphant look. “We will.”

  “He’s in Cape Verde,” Ben said, “an island called Boa Vista. He just arrived today.”

  Josh clenched his fists, scarcely able to contain his elation. Cape Verde was only five time zones away. He took out his phone to check on flights, even as Ben spoke a final word.

  “When you see him, tell him I’d love to talk to him when this is all over.”