Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  “No. Of course not. But…well, you’ve haven’t been very forthcoming. Do you know what he’s doing? If you do, tell me, and Dad will decide what to do about it. You know I owe Jeffries. I’ll do whatever I can to convince Dad to keep him on the payroll. What is it, Abby?”

  Abby set her glass down and gave him a coy smile. “Suppose I plead the fifth? What then?”

  Staring into his drink as if afraid to face her, he said, “I don’t know. This firm is the most important thing in Dad’s life. If he had to choose between it and me, well, I suspect I’d be looking for someplace new to hang a shingle.”

  Abby picked up her drink again and stared into space, rubbing the rim against her lower lip, her mind racing, her anger mounting. While she wasn’t sure of Tom’s activities, she did have strong suspicions. If she told Bert, he’d tell his father. The senior’s reaction would probably be to dismiss Tom and alert the police. If that happened, Tom would never forgive her, and she’d lose any chance at the happiness she craved.

  Plus, how dare they expect her to be a company snoop. That was beneath contempt. While she’d do anything ethical to keep the name of the firm pure, she wouldn’t stoop to reporting on fellow employees. If the elder Bernstein expected that, he expected too much.

  She set her glass on the table again, this time hard. Choking back her anger, she said, “Bert, you and your father put me in a tough position. You gave me a job to do, and I have done it to the best of my ability. Nowhere in that assignment did I expect a requirement to be a company spy. I will not—”

  “No, Abby. That’s not what—”

  “Really? That’s how I read it. Can you find some way to strangle it in legalese and change the meaning?” She studied him, anger bubbling near the tip of her control. “Yes, you probably can. When your father retires, the firm will be in good hands. But not with me on the payroll. I hereby submit my resignation. On Monday, you’ll have it in writing. And, I’ll have recommendations for the few cases you trusted me with. Then, if you want, I’ll assist in the transition. Effective next week, we’ll start a thirty-day countdown. I’ll be gone at the end of it—unless, of course, you want me out earlier.”

  Bert stared at her. “You’re overreacting. You—” He stopped and held up his hand. “Okay, bad choice of words. Let me assure you I do not view you as a company snitch and did not assign you to Jeffries for that reason. However, I think you should admit that the behavior of every employee is of paramount importance to the agency. As a law firm, the first salable asset we have is the confidence of our clients—whether it is an influential business or an individual. If we are tainted with the stigma of asocial activity, that confidence evaporates. And if that happens, the firm fails.” He hesitated, swallowed some of his scotch, then took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

  Abby’s feelings were still roiling, but she held them in check waiting to hear more of his justification. She knew silence was often the best interrogation technique, one she used in the courtroom. A person in stress feels compelled to fill the void with words.

  “My father has put his whole life into this law firm. It’s only natural he’s defensive about its reputation, perhaps overly defensive in your view. But it is his life, not mine, not any of the other partners—and not yours. If he believes there is a threat, he expects you, me, and anyone else in the business to speak up. I don’t think that’s asking too much.” His words ended, and he looked at Abby as if saying, it’s your turn.

  Abby steepled her fingers and returned his look—still silent.

  After a moment, Bert said, “I’ve offered my case. Don’t you have anything in response?”

  She considered what to say and suppressed several tart replies. After sipping her watered-down drink, she chose, “I didn’t hear anything that changes my mind. It all comes back to you and your father expecting me to spy on Tom Jeffries. I find that contemptible. My resignation stands.”

  “Abby, you’re letting your emotions control you. I understand that. As you perceive it, we placed you in an abhorrent situation. I don’t see it that way, nor does my dad. Please cool down and think it through. You have a brilliant career ahead of you. You know Dad considers you a bright star in the company and will reward you accordingly. If you leave us, what will you do? How can you reach our level again?”

  Her anger exploded. “I don’t see how that’s any of your damned business. But, just for your edification, I’m not exactly without choices. Who knows? I may just hang out a shingle—do some simple cases to help people rather than for the aggrandizement of a law firm. Or I may apply to a few of your competitors. I’ve had some interesting offers in the past. Whatever I choose, I have a month to make up my mind, don’t I?”

  Bert stood. “I say again, please think it over this weekend. This talk will remain between us—at least, I won’t tell anyone. I hope that by Monday morning, you’ll have changed your mind. If you do, this conversation never took place. Or if you want to talk over the weekend, you need only call. My father and I are not the ogres you’re projecting. I don’t want you to resign.” He sighed. “And that’s not just because of your legal talents. We’ve been friends a long time, and I never want to lose you as a friend.”

  “What’ll you tell your dad?”

  Bert did not respond immediately. After what appeared to be a moment’s reflection, he said, “I’ll tell him we had an honest exchange of views, and you’re considering it. He need not know any more than that.”

  She stood, shaking her head. “I almost feel sorry for you. At your age, you’re still terrified of your father. You’ll do anything to gain his approval. What I said was not a threat. It was a fact. I can find my way out.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tom parked in front of Abby’s house at six twenty-five, just in time to see her coming from the opposite direction. She waved as she swung into her driveway, then hopped out of the car as soon as it stopped.

  “Tom,” she called as he walked to the passenger side of his car to remove the cooler. She came toward him, juggling her briefcase and a sweater. “Anything I can carry?”

  “Nope. I have it.” He pulled his head out of the car and found her staring at his arm.

  “Cut yourself shaving?” she said, a frown creasing her face.

  Tom smiled. “Almost. Actually, even more stupid than that. I was sharpening my knife, and it slipped. Took a couple of stitches. Nothing major, just an inconvenience.”

  He felt her eyes probing his face, knew she was looking for truth, and hoped he radiated veracity and innocence.

  After a moment, she said, “I suppose that’s your story, and you’ll stick to it no matter how many different ways I ask. Right?”

  “That’s what happened—honest.” He set the cooler on the street and used his right hand to cross his heart, then pulled her to him. “Would I lie to the woman I love?”

  “Without a doubt. When did you cut your arm?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you go to the emergency room?”

  “No. It’s so minor, I saw no need for it. Charlie threw in a couple of stitches and prescribed Tylenol. It’s fine—really.”

  “So…when I called last night, it had already happened?”

  Uh-oh, he thought. Swampy terrain ahead. Watch your step. “Yes.”

  “And you chose not to mention it?”

  Too late to change course now. “Not worth it. I’ve gotten worse scratches crawling through jungles. Let’s go in. I’m starving. Plus, I have a bottle of wine here that’s begging for air.” He picked up the cooler and headed toward her front door, half holding his breath. The back of his neck prickled as he imagined the stare she sent his way. Then he relaxed as he heard her steps behind him.

  The evening did not go as Tom hoped. Abby was quiet and, while she did nothing to ward off his signs of affection, did not reciprocate. Whenever he turned toward her, he caught a penetrating gaze, as if attempting to see through his layer of deceit.

  “Hear anyth
ing today from your friend in the DA’s office?” Tom asked, hoping to get her talking. Also hoping to learn how close the police were.

  She gazed at him a moment, doubts flickering across her face. “Not really. Want me to butter the bread? Can you manage it with your bad arm?”

  He didn’t miss the meaning of her immediate change of subject, but decided there was no point in pursuing it. “I told you. The arm’s all right. Just a serious scratch.” To prove his point he encircled her waist. When he touched her, he felt the stiffness of her body, no resistance, but no yield. He released her and returned to the food preparations.

  By the time they were halfway through dinner—fluffy omelets, crisp bacon, toast and jelly—he caught himself glancing at his watch, wondering if nine o’clock would ever arrive.

  His training had taught him to suppress his conscience, but tonight it berated him for being coy with Abby. For perhaps the first time, he wanted to come clean and confess his lack of candor. But he couldn’t. To do so would be to lose her, and he couldn’t accept that risk. He wanted the opposite, to possess her for the rest of his life.

  After dinner, they worked together cleaning up the table and cookware, loading it into the dishwasher before adjourning to the living room sofa. He pulled her to him and kissed her earlobe. No response. Not a rejection, but no encouragement. He sat back.

  “Want to tell me what’s eating you?” he said, not wanting to hear her answer.

  “You lied to me. You may have been a wonderful soldier, but you’re a lousy liar. How’d you hurt your arm?”

  Tom swallowed, coughed into his fist, stalling, while debating the lesser of two evils—another lie or her reaction to the truth. A voice entered his head. When all else fails, try the truth. Charlie said it back in sniper school while berating him about missing an easy shot. Tom had blamed the load. Since Charlie prepared it, he wasn’t about to buy that excuse. This seemed an excellent time to follow Charlie’s advice.

  “I hurt it while stalking one of the gang. He got lucky. I got luckier.”

  He expected an explosion—Abby telling him to get out of her house, out of her life. But it didn’t happen. Instead, she gave him a stoic look, then asked, “How many left?”

  With a bit of surprise showing in his voice, he answered, “Two. One more flunky and the leader.”

  “What are you going to do after you murder those two?” Her tone was icy, devoid of emotion, as if talking to a stranger or questioning someone in the witness box.

  “My plan this afternoon was to ask you to marry me.” He smiled waiting for her response. When there was none, no change in her expression, he added, “However, I’m thinking that might have been pie-in-the-sky. Your attitude tells me your answer wouldn’t be what I want to hear.”

  She frowned. “After our night together, I would have been flattered, perhaps overjoyed. I also would have been scared. You’re a fascinating creature, Tom Jeffries—an incredibly fascinating enigma. When I force my hormones out of it, I picture a moth and a candle flame. And I have to wonder if my fate would be the same as the moth. You have the smell of death about you.”

  “I’ll never do anything to hurt you. You’re the first woman I’ve ever felt this way about—and you’ll be the last. I can’t promise you a life filled with roses and fine wine, but I can promise I’ll be there when you need me.” He forced a smile through his disappointment. “And probably times when you’ll wish I’d go away.”

  Abby stared into his face, not saying anything.

  “So, what do you say? Should I get on my knee to make it a formal proposal? I will, you know. I love you so much, I’ll crawl on my belly if it’ll help you say yes.”

  Abby lowered her head, breaking eye contact. “If that’s true, will you give up your vigilante action? Will you quit while you can and let the police handle it?”

  Tom’s gaze shifted toward the far wall, but he saw nothing within his field of vision. Instead, he saw his sister as he had last seen her alive, then as her body lay in the morgue. Sis—the woman the justice system failed. He re-focused on Abby. In a quiet voice, he said, “That’s the only thing I cannot do. I owe it to my sister, to you, and to every female alive today. Don’t you see? It’s because I love you that I must kill these bastards.”

  Abby’s eyes filled, and a tear trekked its way down her cheek. Tom reached to wipe it away, but she moved her head and pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table. After dabbing at the tear, she said, “Tom…I—”

  His cell phone rang.

  “Answer it,” Abby said, leaning back against the couch cushion. “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it’s your conscience. I’ll wait.”

  * * * *

  Charlie held his phone to his ear while he focused on the front door of Abby’s house. He was in his car, parked a block away on the opposite side of the street, facing in the same direction as Tom’s convertible. “Pick up, Tom. You said nine o’clock, and my Casio says it’s that time.” The phone rang a second time, then a third, causing Charlie to frown. “Maybe he changed his mind,” he mumbled, hope in his voice.

  “Hello.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t answer. You said call, and I have. What’s going down?”

  “It’s Charlie,” he heard Tom say in a fainter voice, as if he had pulled away from the mouthpiece and spoken to someone else. Then in a closer voice, “What’s up?”

  “It’s your dime. Take the con.”

  After a moment of silence, Tom said, “What? Say that again.”

  Charlie waited.

  “Of course. You know you can count on me. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  The phone clicked when Tom hung up. Charlie started his engine and refocused on the front door.

  * * * *

  Tom stared at the phone, forcing deep creases in his forehead, then said to Abby, “Sorry, but I have to run. Charlie needs me.”

  She lay her hand on his good arm. “If he really needs you, help him, then come home to me. If it’s a ruse, it wasn’t necessary. I won’t try to hold you. Come back when you finish what you have to do. I’ll be here.” She leaned into him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I love you, Tom.”

  He stood, torn with doubt. Was losing Abby too high a cost for finishing what he started?

  An image of his sister appeared, causing him to shake his head to clear it. A feeling of intense sadness settled over him. She had trusted the system, and she died a horrible death. No other woman must suffer like she did. It must be done—the Thorns on Roses must die.

  He headed out the front door and rushed to his car. With a squeal of tires, he accelerated away, keeping an eye on his rear view mirror. From down the street, he saw a car pull out, highlights off. Good old Charlie. Still trying to take care of me. Not this time though. He turned right at the corner then increased his speed and took the next right. Braking, he wheeled into a dark driveway and killed the engine.

  Scooting down, he kept watch on his side mirror and saw Charlie’s car race by. He slid up in the seat, then ducked again as a second familiar car went by. Abby. He should have guessed she’d follow.

  He backed out of the driveway and headed in the direction he’d come, confident Charlie and Abby would chase a ghost a few minutes before realizing he’d outwitted them. It was time to head for Laury’s.

  Ten minutes later, his cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “The police have the names of the entire gang and are rounding them up, maybe tonight. Be careful.”

  “Abby,” he said, then realized she’d hung up. His first impulse was to hit speed dial and call her back, but a second thought deterred him. If she wanted to talk, she wouldn’t have disconnected.

  So, the informant came through for them. I knew I had to speed things up, but this is worse than I thought. He pulled into a strip mall and parked. “Okay, Sis, we have a situation. There may not be time for my plan. Laury’s no problem, but the cops could, probably should, have Raul in custody by tomorrow night.” He grew quiet, l
etting his mind free-float, his subconscious take over, looking for a solution. There was only one. “They both have to die tonight, Sis. Not the way I’d prefer it, but we can’t have everything, can we?” He smiled. “I’m sure Raul won’t mind going out one day early.”

  He started his engine and drove behind the stores, inching his way along the line of employee cars. He needed a quiet, out of the way place to park, a place where he could think without anyone seeing him. He had a new plan to construct. He saw the perfect spot between two hulking SUVs, a Cadillac Escalade and a Nissan Armada, and backed in. His car disappeared, invisible except from directly in front. Plus the bigger vehicles put him in shadow so the chances of anyone knowing the car was occupied were non-existent.

  He slipped down in the seat and pulled his hat low over his forehead. It was time to drift into himself, time to allow his subconscious to lead him. He’d learned through dozens of missions that his best weapon was his ability to hatch a plan out of nothing.

  He was so still anyone seeing him through the windshield would think he was napping, goofing off on the job, or, perhaps, hiding from a supervisor—or a wife. Details and schemes flew through his head, but none that appeared viable. The best appeared to be to take out Laury with a direct assault, then shift his attention to Raul. If he caught both at home, it could be over by midnight.

  Of course, doing it without leaving a string of evidence behind was something else. The Mossberg was his best bet—shotgun pellets don’t leave ballistic tracks. And he knew its stopping power, especially when you use triple-ought-buck. Laury would drop like a man on a gallows, which he was.

  Tom remembered a close combat encounter in a small Arab village. He’d stumbled into a room where two adversaries hid, terrorists who’d planted an explosive device in a road used by US forces. His frontal assault caught them by surprise. Before they could raise their AK’s and spray the doorway, he fired his Mossberg, and the duo were on their way to sample their virgins. One round took both out, leaving a mess behind. No need to aim. Pointing in the general direction was the only requirement.