Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  Richards stood. “Sir—”

  “If you have anything else you need to talk to me about, make an appointment. Otherwise, the Mary Lou Smithson case is closed.”

  * * * *

  Tom’s eyes flickered open, and his head shifted on the pillow. He studied the wall to his left. It looked familiar, but he couldn’t remember why. He turned to the right and saw Abby sitting in a chair by a window, a thick book in her hand.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in a croak. “Hey, you.”

  Abby’s head popped up. “You’re awake. About time. It’s been three days.” She rose and walked to him. “How do you feel?”

  Instead of answering, Tom continued to look around. “Where am I?”

  “Where are you? You lummox. You’re in my bedroom. You’ve been here before, you know. I’m not sure your lack of memory pays me much of a compliment.” Her smile took the edge off her words. “On the other hand, maybe your not remembering the room is the best compliment I could get. I won’t ask if you remember anything else—not now.” She leaned and kissed him.

  “Sorry. One bedroom is pretty much like another to me.”

  She stood, frowning. “That better be your weird sense of humor I’m hearing. Otherwise, you’re going to have one hell of a time feeding yourself.”

  “Feeding…” He raised his right hand. It wore thick bandages. “Oh, shit. What’s this all about?”

  “This is all about borderline third degree burns on your hands—both of them. In case you’re wondering about the fresh bandage on your left arm, you popped all the stitches. You have new ones.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “There’s more. If you roll around a bit, you’ll discover first and second degree burns on your neck and first degree on your back. Most of the hair on the back of your head is gone. Of course, I like the hair damage. Gives me an idea what you’ll look like when you’re old and bald.”

  “You’re a funny lady. Did I tell you the marriage is off?”

  “Not a chance, buster. You compromised me. You must marry me now.”

  “I thought we’d skip straight to the honeymoon.”

  She appeared to think. “Interesting, but not with that damaged body. When I hear a man scream, I want it to be in ecstasy, not pain. You proposed. You’re stuck with it.”

  Tom lifted his left arm and looked at it, memories flooding in. “Charlie. Have you heard anything about him?”

  Sadness filled her eyes. “He’s the media star of the moment.” She went solemn. “He’s dead. They found his body—”

  “I remember now. I was there. I couldn’t get him out. He saved me, and I failed him. We have a credo. Leave no man behind. I left him behind.”

  Abby stared at him. “No. Don’t think that way. He was your friend, and he loved you like a brother. I’m not saying he wanted to die, but if he had to, I bet he’s looking down with a smile on his face.”

  “Maybe. How’s Lonnie?”

  Abby hesitated, appearing to compose her thoughts. “She’s taking it like a trooper. One tough, tough lady. If I’d taken the hits she’s taken—first her daughter and now her husband—I’d be mush. But she’s handling it. She says there’s no point in crying any more. She’s all cried out, and it won’t bring Charlie back, just like it didn’t bring Mary Lou back. She sends her love and wants to talk to you as soon as you’re awake. She came yesterday, but the doctor still had you on knockout juice. If it’s okay, I’ll call her later.”

  Tom looked perplexed. “What do I say to her? I killed Charlie. I killed her husband.”

  Abby bristled. “Bullshit, Jeffries. Knock that crap off. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Charlie did what he wanted to do. Lonnie told me he felt terrible that you were carrying the ball, that you were taking out that gang alone. He might not have wanted them murdered, but he wanted them hunted down and brought to justice. But you were so damned hardheaded you wouldn’t let him help. When he left the house Friday night, he told Lonnie he wouldn’t be back until the gang was in jail—or worse.” Abby calmed. “You told him you didn’t need his help, tried to send him home, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “See. That proves my point. Charlie was with you because it was his choice to be with you. Lonnie and I think you couldn’t have chased him off. Lonnie says you may be tough, but Charlie was tougher.”

  Tom sighed, the sound reflecting the sadness inside him. It lasted a moment, then he set his teeth, and his face took on a hard look. “Anything from the cops?”

  He felt Abby’s eyes burning into him while he hoped she would understand. It was how he’d survived all his operations. Once they were finished, he shut them out. Re-living the past, except as a learning vehicle, did no one any good. The past was best left in the past.

  She lay the back of her fingers on his cheek, stroking it. “The DA held a couple of news conferences. He said it appeared Charlie took out the people who killed his daughter. His remarks were all very cold and surgical—minimum information, maximum political exposure. He spent more time extolling the destruction of the Thorns on Roses gang than on the hows of it. Since then, Charlie has become a media hero—a father who embarrassed the police by doing their job. Two-thirds of the people think he’s the greatest man since Robin Hood, and the other third is calling for his crucifixion.” She paused as a tear dribbled down her cheek. “He died in the fire.”

  Tom rubbed his bandaged hand across his face. “Yeah. I couldn’t save him. I…”

  As he fumbled for better words, Abby said, “You tried. That’s what’s important.”

  “How do you know? Maybe I cut and ran.”

  “I know because I know you. Plus, I don’t figure you burned your hands trying to rescue any of the gang members.”

  Memories poured in—Laury crumpling on the couch, Charlie falling after being hit, Raul’s look of surprise in death. The fire. Wrestling with Charlie’s body. Fleeing into the night. Jumping into the van and racing away. There, the memories ceased. He struggled, but there were no more until he awakened to see Abby with her head in a book.

  As his mind cleared, he remembered one more thing. The Dream. The nightmare that had haunted him for years. At some time during his sleep, it had returned.

  Alone, he treaded snakelike through a jungle, searching for a spot on a map. When he found it, he climbed a tree and settled in a fork, his rifle with sniperscope at his elbow. He waited—one day, two days, three days, munching on energy bars and sipping from his canteens. Finally, the afternoon of the fourth day, he heard voices along the trail. Four men came into view.

  Tom studied the snapshot he carried, the face blurred in his dream, then sighted his scope. The first target was the wrong man—too tall, too fat, wearing a beard. He shifted to the second, also wrong, then the third, not right. As they passed under him, he let the scope settle on the back of the head of the fourth man and tightened on the trigger. He had to be the target. As Tom squeezed off the round, the head turned, the face coming into focus…

  But something was different, the ending had changed. Tom struggled to remember, to reconstruct what his subconscious had pictured for him. Then he had it, the ending as clear as if he sat in a theater. The face that came into focus was Raul Santiago—just before the bullet from Tom’s rifle tore through it. No longer had Tom shot himself. He had taken out the ruthless piece of scum that desecrated the pond of life—the leader of the Thorns on Roses. This time, his action was vindicated.

  “Tom,” Abby said. “What is it? You look so strange. So…almost satisfied. What are you remembering?”

  He started, looking at Abby, putting the jungle and the dream behind him. It was finished. “How’d I get here? How long have I been here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Nothing since I drove away from Raul’s.” He attempted to raise himself, his expression agitated. “What happened to the van? It’s a rental.”

  “Lay down and rela
x. I returned it. Here, take some water and I’ll tell you the parts I know.” She held a cup of ice water while he sipped through a straw.

  When he finished, she set the cup on the nightstand. “You showed up here Friday night near midnight, driving a white van. How you got this far I don’t know. But you made it to my front door. You must have been leaning against the door because when I opened it, you fell inside. You smelled like the fires of hell and looked worse. Your clothes were in burned tatters, and your hands were blistering so badly I was afraid to touch them. I managed to drag you out of the doorway and left you on the rug. I couldn’t pick you up so that was as good as I could do.”

  “You did this?” Tom waved his right hand.

  “No. All it took was a close look to know it was beyond my military first aid training. I called a doctor, and he came over. He did the diagnosing and the bandaging.”

  Tom frowned. “That may be a problem. He’ll have to make a report. Have the police been here?”

  “Settle down. This doctor is a friend who owes me big time. I saved his butt in a malpractice suit a couple of years ago. He was all too happy to repay part of the debt. That’s not to say he didn’t want to move you to a hospital, but I wouldn’t allow it. So, he doctored, bandaged, got you into bed, and gave you a knockout shot. He’s been back morning and evening since then. Each time, he said sleep was the best thing for you. You needed the quiet time to heal.”

  She paused and smiled a small smile. “I was a worse patient than you, bugging him with every question I could think of. Finally, he gave me detailed instructions. Basically, they were that I was to be here when you woke up—and I was.

  “As for the second half of your question, no. The police have not been around. If we can believe the newspapers and the TV, you don’t exist.” She feigned indifference. “Now you’re awake and my duties are done.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Tom said. “This is a king-sized bed. Plenty of room for both of us.”

  Abby stared at him, her brows knitted. Then she smiled, kicked off her shoes and lay beside him. “You stay under the covers and I’ll stay on top. Otherwise, I might cause you more injuries.” She kissed him. “I could learn to like this. You’re under my power now.”

  They were quiet as Abby snuggled into Tom, resting her head against him.

  Tom reveled in her closeness, marveling that this wonderful woman loved him. Gradually, his mind relaxed and vivid images took over. The shootings, the inferno, his struggles to get Charlie’s body out of the house. Could he have done more? If he hadn’t shot Laury, would Raul have held his fire? He’d never know—and he’d live with it the rest of his life. Using the technique he’d taught himself throughout his career, he closed his mind on that chapter. It was over. He couldn’t change it.

  “Tom? Are you awake?” Abby said.

  “Yeah. Just letting my mind drift. What’s on yours?”

  “I-I made a decision. I hope you’ll accept it.”

  “I’ll sue you for breach of contract. You said yes, and I won’t let you back out without a fight.”

  “Not that, you ninny.” She giggled. “You’re the one that’s hooked. There will be wedding bells in your future.”

  “So? What’s your decision?”

  “Something I’ve been considering since you told me about your sister. It’s horrible when the justice system fails the public. Lucy said she had the same problem trying to get a warrant to arrest the Thorns on Roses gang. The judge said she didn’t have enough justification. Lucy and the police were powerless.”

  “Not news to me. Well, the specific bit with your friend is, but I’m not surprised. I know the system doesn’t work.”

  Abby took a deep breath. “It’s not the system. It’s some of the people in the system who subvert it for their own purposes. But that’s not what I want to talk about. Do you think I’m a good lawyer?”

  “That’s the scuttlebutt. A hard-ass, but good.”

  “Did you notice what I was reading when you woke up?”

  “Is there an end point to this game? I’ve always been lousy with twenty questions.”

  “I was reading the Florida criminal statutes. I want to apply to the county to become an assistant district attorney. Lucy says I’m a shoo-in.”

  Tom said nothing for a moment. “Not much money or glory there. Defense gets all of both.”

  “I know that, but I want to make a difference. I don’t want any more failures like your sister’s—or Mary Lou’s. We must put the criminals away.” She took a deep breath. “I can do that.”

  “Then I support your decision.”

  She grinned and nuzzled him. “Plus, it’ll keep you from rushing off to play vigilante again.”

  Tom considered her words, then smiled. “Maybe.”

  ABOUT AUTHOR RANDY RAWLS

  Randy Rawls is a retired US Army officer and Department of Defense civilian. During those years, he honed his craft as a writer in various leadership and administrative positions. After retiring, he turned his hand to writing fiction.

  He is the multi-published author of the Ace Edwards, Dallas PI series, as well as short stories in various venues. Living in South Florida gives him a rich environment in which to harvest plots. One of his favorite sayings is, “There is no fiction in South Florida. It either happened yesterday, is happening today, or will happen tomorrow.”

  Thorns On Roses tests the proof of his saying. A thriller, it features Tom Jeffries, a PI who launches a vendetta against the gang that raped and murdered the 17-year-old daughter of his best friend.

  Randy’s email address is RandyRawls@att.net. He welcomes comments from his readers.