#11 (Part III)

#11 The Table (Part III)

     At once the table collapsed.  Again the wrongness hit me: there was no loud booming sound of wood hitting tile as one would expect in a large, undecorated basement apartment.  It sounded  . . it sounded empty somehow.  Too light.  More like reedy wind chimes than fully realized wood. 
     The collection of wood bits at my feet made no sense at first.  They were an optical illusion my eyes would not sort out.  This was the remnant's of Thorn's table, a table made by a carver-magician.  A table Thunder assured me was important in the community.  A table that gave stability to the officials of the City of Tamorace.  I couldn't see the table for the hollowed insides.  Perfectly empty.  Except . . .
     Except for the envelope protruding green-stick like from the top of one of the shattered legs.  Dread filled me.  I reached for the envelope.

#11 (Part II)

#11 The Table (Part II)

     Threaded into the cloth of the comforter spread out on my bed were splinters of wood.  They'd been evenly spaced, perfectly held in by their fat needle bodies.  Near perfectly shaped bodies.  I set my bags down and extracted one from the comforter.  No, not splinters.  Tooth picks.  Hundreds of them the same color as the shattered wood at the bottom of Thorn's table. 
     I padded back to the hallway.  Something was wrong with the table, something beyond the four impressions marring the surface.  For a moment I hesitated, hardly daring to touch the table.  

#11 (Part I)

#11 The Table (Part I)

     There is no sight more bizarre than a table that has been destroyed by shattering the center of each leg.  Impression marks scarred the warm surface.  Indents from a sledge hammer showed where the blows - four equally well placed blows - landed.  I could imagine the force of each blow traveling through the table, down the length of the leg until it was too much to bear and the feet . . . the hand turned feet exploded.  Shredded. 
     Should have left splinters everywhere.
     Someone had set the table back against the wall.  Someone had swept the floor clean.  Someone had gone as far as to wax my floor, and put a new liner in the trash can in the kitchen.  Someone had left my bedroom door open.  Someone had put a white down comforter on my bed similar to that in Thorn's home.  Except . . .

#9 (Part II)

#9 The Note (Part II)

     “Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster. “I am a teacher. Or I was supposed to be. My husband . . . well, if he were still here I’d be a teacher by now. I’d have a real classroom with real students. This job was my only shot at becoming a teacher again. Do you understand that Mister Thorn?” Tears gathered. “You’ve ruined my life!”

     “She’s very dramatic.” Thorn said.

     I tried to kick him.

     Thunder caught me, set me down. “Put the blanket back and I’ll take you to the train station.

     “Is there any chance,” The old man sitting on the couch spoke up, “That the table will be returned?”

     All eyes turned to me.

     “I think,” I said after a moment of consideration, “My employer wanted that journal. He sent me all this way. He gave me hotel vouchers and round trip tickets."  I pinned Thorn with a look.  "He deserves a note of apology at least.”

#8 (Part II)

#8 The Appraisal (Part  II)

     A moment later shadow blocked the slim line of light from under the bedroom door.  “It is all right, Ms. Applewhite.  Let me in.”

      I did not let go of the comforter.  My hands trembled, and turning the lock became a chore.  Thunder pulled me into the living room, his arm draped over my shoulders.

      “Damn to her!”  The man belonging to the icy voice snarled, a hand going to his mouth and nose.  He glowered at me with baleful black eyes.  “Damn to her, and damn to you!”

      The old man sitting on the couch began to rise.

      The icy voiced man shoved past the old man, toppling the oldster back to the cushions.  He said something else over his shoulder, but it was garbled and broken.  The front door slammed shut behind him.

     “A wise trick.”  The oldster adjusted his cane and stood again.  “Wrapping yourself in goose-down when so many of his ilk are allergic to it.”

      “Is that what I did?”  I couldn’t help the relief in my voice.  I looked up at Thunder.  “Is that bad?”

      “He won’t come near you now.  He’s probably on his way to the clinic for treatment.”

      “I thought you said he was military.  Don’t those in the military have an infirmary or their own doctors to check in with first?”  I was curious about this glimpse into Thunder’s life.  Too much of what Thunder said confused me.  “At least I didn’t run.  I wanted to.  That is worth something, right?”

      “Worth, I think, less than it could be.”  The deep voice said.

      I looked up and around, pulling the comforter closer to me.  I could only but stare at the man standing there.  I could see at once the similarities in the eyes and face this newcomer had to Thorn.  But ti was the huge man's clothes that confused me - clothes no sane man would wear.  “Once more,” I told Thunder, “I must admit this makes no sense to me at all.  Your brother is a . . . a convict?”

#8 (Part I)

#8 The Appraisal (Part I)

     I locked the bedroom door.

     “Who is the woman?” A voice cut through to me.

     This voice I did not like. Despite the interest in the words there was an icy detached quality to the voice.

     I backed up step by step until the backs of my knees bumped the bed. Then I sat down abruptly. I hadn’t liked it when Thunder warned me not to run. My fingers fisted in the white downy comforter. I wrapped it around myself. It was the only protection I had against such a voice.

     “It is not ours. That is all that matters.” Another of the men answered. It was a weary voice, tired. And it was deep, too. Once I met one of my husband’s uncles. The man sang opera for fun. We had him to dinner one night. During dinner he ate plenty, which he said was to keep the weight on to better preserve his tone. What I found most fascinating was when the uncle spoke normally, as one normally speaks in conversation, the crystal on the table vibrated. “And I fear I may have made the situation worse.”

     “Worse?” The question warbled out thinly. “It is my business that is to be destroyed for this! It is my reputation to be broken! My certificates of authenticity will be –“

     “Nobody is saying you are a liar, Strumbeck.” The deep voice soothed. “This is not your fault.”

     “And it is yours?” Thunder asked sharply.

     “Bring the woman out.” The deep voice said.

#7 (Part II)

#7 The Scout with the Appraiser (Part II)

    “When all the world knows you have something valuable and important, when reputations and jobs are staked on the truth of the matter, why would the military not get involved?”
     I looked up at Thunder as he turned out to the street. He was serious!  “I don’t understand.”  I told him.
     His motorcycle was only a short length away.  Thunder helped me put the helmet on.  Then he grasped my shoulders, “I don’t know which scout it is Strumbeck brought along.  You must listen to me very carefully Ms. Applewhite.  If I tell you to do something you must not question me.”
     “Now would be a good time to drop me off at the hotel.  I can stay there until Thorn arrives.”
     “No.  Too many people can play end-of-days with your arrival and any issues with the table.”
     “End-of-days?”  His use of the term seemed precognitive.
     “It’s a game of marbles.”
     The drive to Thorn’s house was quiet.  It was hot in the helmet.  By the time Thunder pulled up into the drive sweat blotted my forehead.  Thunder helped me off with the helmet.  This time he was the impatient one.  Then, with a hand wrapped around my arm, he took me back inside.
     Not that I saw much.  The table was no longer in the hall.  Four or five people were seated on the creamy white living room couches.  Thunder, though, walked me straight through to the guest room I’d had a nap in just hours before.  “Lock the door.  Do not run.  Understand?”
     I dared challenge, “What happens if I run?”
     Thunder paused.  I knew he was going to lie a moment before he did; his eyes darkened, narrowed.  “The scout has brought his dogs and they are prone to chasing anything that flees.”

#7 (Part I)

007 The Scout with the Appraiser (Part I)

     “The appraiser is at Thorn’s house right now.” George said the moment we stepped back into Thunder’s gym. “There is a scout with him.”

     “Why would an appraiser bring a ballist along?” I asked, thinking of the gentleman’s game base ball. My husband had loved the older era base ball, had complained endlessly that the demise of sportsmanship came about with the very first scout.

     George averted his face. “Don’t leave her here, Thunder. Half the men would eat her alive, and you know it.”

     Which did not make me feel comfortable. I stepped closer to Thunder, the age-old wisdom that a man who has protected a woman once will protect her again.

     “She’s not a hunter.” Thunder’s arm came around me, albeit lightly. The imposition of his presence had been before sunrise was now comforting, and almost friendly. “Come. In this sense a scout is not for rough play, but as in military.”

     “That makes the situation all the more absurd. Why would the military be interested in a table?”

#5 (Part III)

#5 The Table (Part III)

     “A what?”
     “I’m offering you breakfast. Would you like some?”
     “Yes, please.” We ate bagels slathered with cream cheese and jam. Thunder didn’t like strawberry jam, preferred peach, and stripped off his shirt halfway through to show me his muscles, and explain what exercises he used to develop each set. He was bragging, chatting along, and full of energy.
     I was washed out, talking slower and less.
     “Time for bed.” Thunder said.
     “I’m supposed to go to a hotel. I have a voucher for it.”
     “We can do that later. I’m going to call the appraiser. Thorn should be back before lunch. I’ll wake you up when he gets in. Trust me, I’m safe.”
     “Said the wolf to red-ridding hood.” I muttered. This quip came more natural. It did not startle me this time.
     Thunder, though, Thunder threw his head back in laughter. Not for the first time that morning I noted how sharp his teeth looked. The thought follows me down into sleep, and is the first thing I think of when Thunder wakes me hours later. “Thorn can’t get away for a few more hours. Want to go work out?” He ends the sentence with a hopeful puppy-dog look. Then he ruins the image by running his tongue over his top teeth. His very sharp top teeth.

#5 (Part II)

#5 The Table (Part II)

    “Don’t run.” The voice that emerged was not normal. It was rough, raspy, and dangerous. “I’ll be in control soon. Just don’t . . . move.”

     How does one stay in place when every single nerve screams at you to flee?
     Thunder kept his face turned away from me. Perhaps this is why I did not run. After several minutes – maybe five or ten – his shoulders relaxed. “I will call Strumbeck.” He said. Then, “Care for some breakfast?”
     “Are you offering me real food or leading me to the slaughter?” The quip came from nowhere. I froze afterwards, stunned at hearing my words. I hadn’t as much as joked since my husband’s . . .since my husband was gone.
     The words changed something in Thunder. It wasn’t just that he relaxed, but he seemed at ease, whereas before he’d been reserved. Bragging, but reserved.
     “You’re not a hunter.”

#5 (Part I)

#5 The Table (Part I)

     Thunder led the way up a brick path to the door of the house. We passed neatly trimmed and fragrant bushes of lavender and rosemary. “This is Thorn’s home. I don’t live here anymore. Used to. Just never fit in with the elegance he likes.”

     Just within the door was a table so familiar I looked at once for envelopes. “I have one of these at home. They must have been made by the same company.”

     “A knockoff, maybe.” Thunder dismissed. He tapped the top of the side-table. “This is the original. Thorn had it appraised six years ago. A carver-magician made it for our great-great-great dam.”

     “Dam?”

     “Another name for mother.”

     “Oh.” I considered the table. “I thought they were mass produced. I’m sorry. The one I have at home had a sticker on the bottom of the back left leg. I found it when I was cleaning the piece.”

     Thunder’s expression turned dark. “Did the sticker say Strumbeck and –“

     “Grandsons.” I said.

     I’d been treated to Thunder conversational, Thunder irritated, Thunder caring. Now I was treated to Thunder angry. He put a hole in the wall above the table. Plaster dust sprinkled the top of the furniture piece he’d lovingly caressed a moment before. Off to the side a black and white print swung for a moment, and then fell. The tinkle of glass one last final note in the air between us. Except it wasn’t. Because Thunder was breathing in a pant, each outward expulsion of air heavier than the one before.  
     Thunder was a big man, muscled.

     For the first time since meeting him I felt fear.