#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.”

#9 (Part I)

009 The Note (Part 1)

      Laughter rumbled from the big man standing not more than six feet away. He took his leather cap off, rubbed his hand over the cloth tied over his head. His stained leather vest matched his pants. There were spikes on the toes of his boots. Three spikes. “I’m a professor.” He held a hand out to me, the palm itself as big as a dinner plate.

     “You?”

     “I’m Thorn.” Then, at once, the self-assurance of a professor and his prison arrogance melted away. “I don’t have the journal. You’ll have to tell your employer –“

    I interrupted, temper wearing thin. “You lied! How could you do that to me?”

    “Ms. Applewhite . . .” Thunder’s tone was warning.

     I looked up at him. “He lied to my employer. He said come get the journal. My employer sent me. What do you think my employer is going to do now?”

     I found myself lifted, turned, and staring right into Thorn’s eyes. It was from this perspective that I was reminded of the resemblance between Thunder and Thorn. It was in the deep chocolate color, the flecks of gold, the way their noses wrinkled up when unhappy with something.

     “Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster.