Acacia-'Thorny'

Acacia--'Thorny', Chapter Twenty


Chapter Twenty
Escalation

Henry Gallego checked his watch as he made his way
upstairs to the Records office. Lately he'd noticed a
tendency for his gut to be convex instead of nicely
flat, and taking the stairs instead of the elevator up
to the third floor was part of his regime. So was the
low-fat, sugar-free, decaff latte in the paper sack.
The banana-nut muffin sharing the sack was another
thing entirely. He hadn't intended to get it, but
damn it, they'd been pulling the tray out of the oven
while he in in line. What could he do? Maybe he
should sue the coffee shop chain for presenting a
hazardous nuisance.

The Bulova said that he had a full eight minutes
before he had to punch in, and he was pleased with
himself. "Punctuality is your friend," his old man
had said. It had sounded so damn wholesome and
sensible. Of course, then he'd added, "And butt
kissing will get you even farther." Smart man, his
dad.

He almost dropped the sack when he entered the room
and found Randal already sitting at a keyboard. His
chin was propped in his hand, his eyes fixed on the
glowing monitor before him. He was wearing the
regulation black uniform, and Henry reflected that it
looked as if it had been designed for him. Randal was
a bit of a clothes horse off duty, and a black
quasi-military uniform was right up his alley. When
Henry wore his uniform he looked like a cop--when
Randal wore his, he looked like he was ready to go out
to some underground club.

"Randal, what the hell are you doing here?"

Randal glanced at him, then went back to the screen.
"I'm on duty today."

"Well, yeah, but not for, like, five more minutes."
Another glance, and he knew that it sounded
ridiculous. Still, it was remarkable. Randal was
never early. His time card would have made Henry's
dad proud: it was never punched more than 30 seconds
early or late. Randal wasn't going to shirk, but he
damn sure wasn't going to contribute anything without
being compensated, and that minute here, minute there
just kept getting averaged out. He explained that if
he clocked in one minute early every day for a year,
he would have been screwed out of over four hours
worth of pay.

Henry put his sack on his desk, then
ambled over and took a peek over Randal's shoulder.
Randal didn't move to block the screen, but he said,
"Nosiness is not very becomming, Henry."

"I'm just curious as to what would interest you enough
for you to come in early."

"Then ask--don't go peeking. Noses that are poked
where they shouldn't be occasionally get snapped off.
I'm just looking at a few domestic disturbance
reports."

"Why?"

"That's another question entirely. You're going to be
late if you don't go clock in."
Henry swore and ran for the time clock, and Randal went back to
his screen.

*There was a history before the Oliphants bought it.
Not like some I've run across, but not just lovers'
tiffs, either. Let's see... seven, eight, nine
incidents. Two of them requiring medical attention.
The woman had her wrist bandaged, and the guy had a
few stitches in his face. but neither one of them
were ever brought to trial. Hmm. I can't say I agree
with that, but this was about twenty years ago, and
they were just starting to require us to take action
on domestics, even if the participants didn't want us
to. Things slowed down instead of accelerating,
though, and there was nothing for about a year before
the deaths.*

He clicked the mouse a few times, looking at some
additional files. *They did file assault charges the
time he sprained her wrist, but the DA dropped them
when they agreed to counseling. Looks like they went
to a priest as well as a marriage celorelor. Both
turned in favorable reports. They might be worth
checking on.* He made notes, wondering if a priest
would treat counseling like the confessional, and if
it made a damn bit of difference when both the people
involved were dead?

"You asked him in?"

Milda continued crushing the dried basil in the little
mortar. "He didn't seem inclined to go away, so I
figured I might as well."

Acacia growled, "You could have called me. I could
have made him go away."

"Yes, dear, but you might have made him go away in a
very permanent manner, considering the moods you get
into sometime. There was no harm done." Milda
carefully poured the ground herb into a tiny,
carefully labeled jar, then screwed on the lid. She
was smiling faintly. "Besides, he was very nice."

Her sister snorted. "Sweetie, I love ya, but you are
one of the most gullible creatures walking the face of
the earth."

"Acacia, lighten up. All he did was have a cup of tea
and shoot the breeze. He seems like a really nice
guy, and he could be very helpful in our work. You
know I've been urging you for ages to get someone on
the inside with the police, and he's perfectly
situated--records."

Acacia watched as Milda carefully wiped the mortar and
pestil, then picked up a bunch of dried chives and a
pair of kitchen shears. "Nice? What nice? Okay,
I'll a tha that he struck me as slightly less
obnoxious than the average male, and I'll admit that
he could be useful, but why can't we find a nice, buff
policewoman instead?"

"Well, last I checked, none had walked in off the
street and offered their services. And let's face it,
sister dear--law enforcement types don't usua han hang around our circles. I suppose you could haunt the acadamy and try to recruit."

"Funny, funny." Acacia was silent as she watched
Milda quickly and efficiently snip the chives. Tiny
dull green bits rained down into the waiting mortar.
"Ya know, I can't decide which smells better--when you
bake, or when you prepare herbs. How the fuck do you
manage to get those things all the same size?"

"Practice. What about Randal?"

"Oo, first name basis. I dunno--maybe. We'll have to
talk to Naresha--he's hers, after all."

"Naresha has never been nasty about sharing. Well,
not her followers, anyway. She can get pretty snippy
if it's down to the last cup of espresso, if she needs
a caffiene fix."

Acacia fished a chive out of the mortar and munched
it. "You like him, don't you?"

Milda was not coy. "Yes, I do. He's very handsome, I
think he has a sense of humor, and if he wants to help
us, his heart must be pretty much in the right place."

"He man man."

"We've been over that before, dear." She reached out
and stroked her elder sister's cheek fondly. "Law of
averages. One of us was bound to be straight."

"Huh. Well, I guess it's cool."

"Thank you." Milda's tone was gently ironic.

"Better than you being celibate, I suppose." She made
a face. "Dullsville." As she watched her sister
seal the chives zip ziplock bag and store it in
the refrigerator, her expression softened. She said
quietly, "Sometimes I wish I could go back and kill
The Bastard again, Mil."

Her sister looked at her with sympathy. "Once wasn't
enough?"

Acacia shook his head. "Nope. He committed so many
acts of shittyness that each deserved it's own
execution. But I think one of the worst was what he
did to you."

"Me? Casey, I was the lucky one, remember? I wasn't
born till we got away, and at the end..." A tense,
pained look flitted across her face. "He didn't
really do much more than scare me. You saw to that."

Acacia's expression was sad. "It's what he did to you
through Naresha and me." She went to her sister and
hugged her, whispering, "Of all the people in the
world, Mil, you should be a mother, and he took that
away."

Milda closed her eyes, and a faint tremor passed
through her body, but her voice was calm. "There's no
use cutting ourselves up over what can't be changed." She held her sister for a moment, then pushed
her away. "I wouldn't mind so much if I thought there
was a chance of adoption, but you know how they purosprospective parents under microscopes these days."

"I told you, hon. There are ways. Shit, with our
resources, we could..."

"No, Acacia." Milda's voice was firm. "I will not
buy a child. I won't be party to someone selling
their flesh and blood."

"But it isn't like that, Mil, you know it isn't! Lots
of those private adoptions are legit. You'd do the
parents and the baby a favor."

"No. Look, I... just wouldn't feel right. Oh, I'd
love the baby and care for it to the best of my
abilities, but there'd always be that little nag that
perhaps they weren't meant..."

"Don't start that 'fate' shit, okay? We make our own
fate." She gave Milda another squeeze, then playfully
lifted her up and swung her around as the other girl
squealed. "Milda an' Goth Cop, sittin' in a tree!
k-i-s-s-i-n-g!"

"Not yet, but maybe."

"Good on ya, sis. But I don't know..." she gave Milda
another twirl before setting her down. "I'm not sure
if you should get laid. If you get any more mellow
you'll be in a coma all the time."

Stephanie Bradshaw parked in the drive-way, listening
dispiritedly as the engine kept chugging long after
she'd turned it off. *God, please. Not for another
few months, huh? Just till I get that raise at work,
then I can see about finanacing another used car.
Please don't leave me stranded.*

It finally died. She hesitated, holding the key.
Dreading what she might find out, but needing to have
some idea of what to expect in the morning, she closed
her eyes, gritted her teeth, and turned the key again.
It started. She sighed in relief and turned it off
again. She probably wouldn't have to beg a ride to
work tomorrow.

Stephanie got out, groaning as she straightened up.
Those double shifts were playing hell with her, but
she needed the extra cash. No matter what the Akujis
had said, she was determined to make at least a token
payment.

She trudged to the front door, shifting her bag of
groceries to the crook of her arm so she could unlock
the door. It was depressing--coming home to an empty
house. She'd expected to face this somewhere down the
line, when Bethany got married and moved out, but
she'd hoped it wouldn't be for a few more years.

Inside, she locked the door again, then paused,
frowning. *Didn't I leave the light on over the
stove? Don't tell me it's burned out again? Damn.*
She started back to the kitchen. *Why couldn't it
have done that before I left this morning? I could
have picked up bulbs while I was at the store.*
Stephanie put the bag down on the table and turned to
feel for the light switch.

She realized there was something wrong a split second
before she heard the scrape of a foot on the tile
behind her. There was... The atmosphere was
suddenly, subtly wrong. Before she could turn,
though, the hand went around her neck, cinching tight
against her throat, and the hoarse voice whispered,
"Where is she?"

Stephanie screamed. She grabbed at the restraining
arm, trying to tear ity. Ty. The grip tightened,
cutting off her air. "Listen, bitch, I can't find
her, and I need you to tell me. If you do, I won't
kill you."

She was starting to get dizzy, and there was a buzzing
in her ears. *I couldn't speak, even if I wanted to,*
she thought desperately. *He's going to kill me, one
way or the other.*

She tried stamping on his feet, but that only earned a
curse and a further tightening of his arm. Stephanie
struggled. She tried reaching back to scratch at his
eyes, but he ducked his head tight against her. Her
hand struck the bag sitting on the table before her
and knocked it over, spilling the contents. Her hands
closed on a heavy cylinder, and she swung it up and
back.

She connected. There was a thud and the cursing
escalated, but the grip loosened--just a fraction, but
it was enough for her to suck down enough oxygen to
clear her head a little. She swung again and again,
battering at her assailant. After three blows she
managed to tear loose, and turned.

The figure behind her was not much more than a blur,
but she could see well enough to aim for the head, and
she struck out again. He ducked, and she only hit him
a glancing blow. It was enough. The figure slipped,
falling to its knees, and she ran for the back door.

Stephanie reached for the dead bolt, and felt
splintered wood. The door opened without her having
to unlock it, and she darted out into the night,
screaming as she went. *Where? Oh, God, where?* The
Beasons on the right were on vacation. *Crandal's.*
It had been a long time since she'd climbed a
hurricane fence. Her stockings didn't survive it, and
she gashed her calf swinging her leg over, but she
made it.

She was pounding on the back door when she heard the
car engine roar. As footsteps approached hurriedly
from inside she thought vaguely, *Well, I know he
didn't steal my car--it hasn't sounded that good for
years.*

"Who the hell is it? I have a gun."

Stephanie stepped quickly to the side. Douglas
Crandal most certainly did have a gun--a wicked
Colt-Python that could probably shoot through the door
and still blast a hole clean through her. "Doug, it's
me--Stephanie Bradshaw. Let me in, quick! Someone
was in my house."

The door was opened as she finished speaking. Doug
Crandal, a thin, painfully erect man in his
mid-seventies, reached out, grabbed her arm, and
hauled her into the kitchen with surprising strength.
He slammed the door, and turned to her, the kitchen
light gleaming off the chrome barrel of his gun.
"Steffie, what the hell...?" He took in her
disheveled appearance, and his eyes focused on the
gash on her leg, dripping blood on his linoleum.
"Shit! Did the bastard cut you?"

Stephanie had the phone and was punching in 911. Her
voice was shaky, but she managao mao make sense. "I
did it on the fence. Christ, Doug, he tried to
strangle me." The old man's lips tightened, and he
reached for the door. Stephanie grabbed at him.
"Don't! I think he left, but we can't take any
chances. If he's still there, he knows I went for
help, and he'll be ready."

"911. What's you're emergency?"

"This is Stephanie Bradshaw at 2150 Terrell, and
someone just tried to kill me. No, I'm all right. I
got of of the house, and I'm at a neighbor's. Yes,
2152. Oh, I'm safe, all right. Doug will blow them
into the next county if they come over here. Don't
worry, I'll have him put it away before the officers
come. I don't know if he's still in the house. Maybe
not--I think I heard a car. No, I didn't see it,
dammit. How soon? Good. What? No, I can't stay on
the line. No, I have to call someone else." Pause.
"So sue me."

She hung up and began dialing again. "Doug, put that
away. The police will be here any minute now."

"I have a permit, this is my own house. Why should
I?"

"Because no matter what your rights are, we're about
to have cops here, and they will be armed and on
nervous alert for anyone who even looks armed."

The phone was picked up on the other end. "Three
Sisters."