[mattslope]

Half Truth

His fingers and wrists were starting to ache, but if he stopped now the fire would return in her eyes. Back and forth, up and down he kneaded her back, careful to press neither too lightly or hard. The damp, musty fragrance of her Rose-scented perfume would be imprinted on his clothing for the rest of the day, but that was far better than the pain she liked to etch in his mind. He could still remember a time when this had been favorable to the verbal floggings; now it was becoming apparent that he should simply take one big risk.

“You have strong hands, Thomas,” her aging voice rose and fell, matching the circles that he traced along her spine. “Your father was also very strong. But he knew how to show respect, Thomas.”

He cringed when she said his name; actually he cringed when she spoke. His mind raced through all available thoughts trying to find a time that the sound of her hadn’t caused discomfort.

“That’s enough, Thomas.”

He pulled his hands back, moving towards the door. Mrs. Gorman preferred silence when her afternoon back-rub was completed. Thomas was in no position to question that.

Thomas Anthony Smythe had started working at the Gorman Estate when he was still in grade school. His father, Anthony Quinn Smythe, had been working at the Gorman Estate since about the same age. The Smythe family, for that matter, had been serving the Gorman family since before the migration to South Carolina.

He pulled the doors closed on Mrs. Gorman’s room, and started cleaning the hall adjoining the upper floor’s rooms before beginning preparation for this evening’s dinner. Thomas reflected on his upbringing as he gingerly dusted framed portraits of the Gorman forefathers. His hands had tidied and cleaned this house more times than he could remember, he could close his eyes and see the oil-painting faces staring back at him from their lofty perch on the wall.

Thomas wore his house clothing today, as he did every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Mrs. Gorman wouldn’t have him wearing the gardening clothes in the house, even though he had yet to pull one weed or cut one blade of grass. Thomas was to the garden what Mrs. Gorman was to the kitchen; a stranger. But Monday, Wednesday and Friday found him walking the grounds and observing the gardener’s routine nonetheless.

He finished dusting the hallway and placed the dust mop in the mudroom on the main floor. Picking up the broom and mop beside it, Thomas caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His eyes had grown more recessed than he remembered seeing, his frame thinner. Sunken eyes and cheeks, just like his father’s, were the marks of service in this home.

A cold and steady calm gripped his heart a split second after it began to beat quickly with the rage of a thousand nightmares. Now was not the time, he reasoned. Today would not find him guilty of the cool redemption that alone had satisfied him after awaking cold and sweaty so many times before. He could hardly control himself anymore. Thomas realized that he needed to set the plans into motion soon.

Starting in the upstairs hallway, Thomas pushed the dirt that hadn’t been there into a pile that wouldn’t exist. Slowly, he cleaned the spotless house working through rooms that weren’t to be seen towards a grand entrance that wouldn’t be used. Ms Gorman’s slow rumbling snore could be heard through every corner of the large house, thanks to the decision of her late husband to spend more money on horse racing than remodeling.

Tonight would bring local businessmen, politicians and members of the country club elite. Thomas would be responsible for serving them their daiquiris and roasted pheasant. His hands operated on memory these days, his mind free to wander through plots and theories. As Thomas finished the ritualistic exorcism of non-existent dirt, he smiled with the knowledge that tonight would end his torment.

-transfer point-

Sweat collected on her forehead again, threatening to run into her eyes. With a fluid motion she both swept the bead from her brow and checked her pulse; not aerobic yet. Her worn Saucony’s struck the dirt path silently, cushioning each blow from her weak left knee and right hip. Slowly, she increased her breathing rate to accommodate a quicker pace. Today would be a 12-mile run, partly to compensate for the 4 days since her last run and partly to sort through the list of patients that had come in this summer. Renee was training for a marathon coming much to soon, she realized with a groan. Her workload would have to be shifted to allow more training.

Renee Stevens was a small town doctor in a rapidly growing city. Her first practice out of med-school (almost 20 years ago Renee realized with a start) had been successful enough to take on partners, and eventually expand into an office in her hometown of Issaquah, WA. While she loved the scenic beauty and exclusive nature of its inhabitants, the pace was quickly changing to the hurried frenzy of many new homeowners’ native California towns.

With the sun rising over her shoulder, Renee removed her lightweight jacket and tied it around her waist. Autumn leaves lit the Mt. Si trail in dazzling oranges and yellows while the morning sunlight cast its own pink hues. Jogging alone on this trail Renee missed the spectacle enveloping her while focusing on her thoughts. John Lee was the latest victim of the flu that had been slowly marching through her office over the past month, but there was nothing out of the ordinary with a batch of influenza victims in the early fall. Something was nagging at Renee, and she couldn’t force herself to relax and enjoy the run.

-transfer point-

Thomas stood within two steps of the door until all guests were present. Having already placed coats and hats in the nearby closet, his task at hand was the distribution of drinks while the guests mingled. With deferment, Thomas walked the room and took orders per request. The routine of service was second nature by now, but Thomas was beginning to question his nature.

He absently prepared drinks ranging from a Vodka Gimlet (for the Mayor, William Decuire) to a Coors light (for Dr. W. T. Marshall). With a simple shake and toss, each drink was created; flourish suspended for the presence of the guests. Thomas re-entered the large wood paneled living room and began handing the array of refreshment to people whose profession ranged from minister to casino owner. He watched each conversation carefully, attempting to be oblivious as he placed glass into hand.

Walking briskly from the room with empty tray in hand, Thomas joined the kitchen staff in preparing the table. Ms Gorman was very particular regarding the arrangement of flowers and candles, and tonight she would be pleased with the setting. Thomas plucked a wilted Carnation from the bunch and smiled with contentment. Tonight he would pluck the life from a decaying Mistress.

Thomas entered the living room and informed the guests that dinner would now be served. Stepping back to allow the guests to casually saunter from the living room to the dining room, Thomas watched Sheriff Voit with piqued interest; aware that tomorrow would change their relationship considerably.

While the party consumed its meal, Thomas prepared the living room for conversation by arranging the chairs and sofa’s in a circular pattern. Glancing about the room, Thomas collected the remaining drinks and cocktail napkins. Mrs. Marshall often hid her napkin in various corners and crannies within the confines of the room, as though partaking in a bizarre game of hide-and-seek with Thomas. Tonight was no exception, he realized with a sigh.

Thomas dropped to his hands and knees behind the antique leather chair along the back wall of the living room to search the floor. He froze when he heard someone enter the room and close both sturdy doors behind. Thomas was aware that he had no reason to fear being seen in the room, but somehow he felt compelled to keep his presence unknown to the other occupant of the living room.

Slowly, the intruder paced the entryway, as though searching for something. Thomas peaked from his shadowed vantage point and glimpsed the blue dress of a guest that he had not seen before tonight. This newcomer was neither tall nor thin, but rather had an athletic build, one of sturdy frame and toned muscle. The smooth silk of her dress did little to hide the industrial physique beneath. Her dark brown hair was shoulder length and straight, both elegant and simple.

Thomas realized that he was holding his breath, and started to exhale when the woman found the object. At first it was too dark to see clearly, then a single reflection highlighted the 5-inch blade in her firm grasp. His eyes expanded and his pulse quickened. How could she have known what he had concealed only 2 hours ago?

-transfer point-

Renee looked down her desk to the clock that her father had given her two years ago for Christmas. A crystal lens that was set into richly stained maple protected its delicate hands and fine gold face. While she knew it was far less expensive than it appeared, Renee still felt a twinge of guilt for receiving such a decadent gift. At 1:37pm, she was roughly an hour and 37 minutes past lunch, which she had missed again today.

“Can you look at my appointments for this afternoon, Mike?” Renee had to hold the button down to page her receptionist, the locking mechanism in the intercom box had broken last year and she hated to replace an otherwise solid piece of office equipment.

“You have nothing on the books until tomorrow morning, then you are backed up until Friday,” Mike’s southern drawl was a welcome slice of home. “Being that Today is Tuesday, I would suggest that you go get some lunch at Liz’s Café and take the afternoon off, hon.”

Renee smiled. Mike was 71 years old, and had been working for Renee since February. While he couldn’t take a full time schedule, his afternoons in the office had brought a level of calm and cool to both the doctor’s and patients that was unrivaled by even the piped in Neil Diamond.

“Deal. I’ll go to Liz’s, if you promise to go to dinner with me Saturday.”

“Hon, you know I can’t turn down the company of an intelligent lady such as yourself.” Mike’s smile was visible through the intercom, “consider your Saturday booked as well, as I humbly and gratefully accept your invitation.”

“Okay,” Renee switched gears, “and could you look into my appointments from last week? Look for any symptoms that feel out of place. Thanks, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Will do. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

Renee pushed back from her desk after sweeping the paperwork from her last patient back into its manila colored folder and placing it neatly in the “out” box. Her upper body demanded a stretch so she conceded by lacing her fingers palm out and arcing her arms over the top of her head which gently pulled her body up onto her toes. Stretch and paperwork completed, Renee felt as complete as humanly possible within the confines of an empty stomach and nagging thought that she was forgetting something.

-transfer point-

She was standing beside the door, scanning the room slowly. Thomas’s vantage point was apparently sufficient to conceal his body. Her dark eyes were pronounced by blue mascara, two gems set in a blue silk. Thomas watched her, captivated by her sturdy beauty and the blue-steel finish of the ceramic knife in her hand. Just as suddenly as she had entered, she spun on a heel and exited the room, leaving both doors opened as she had found them.

Thomas rolled through his mental catalogue of scenarios in which she, or anyone for that matter, could have seen him place the knife. If this catalogue were printed, it would remain as blank as the list of possibilities appeared to him. As he rose to his feet, the pursuit of a lost napkin now a continent and ocean away, Thomas approached the place that he had concealed the knife only hours ago.

The painting was an old oil on canvas piece, one that had been created by an American artist at least 150 years ago. It depicted hunters and their horses on the trail of large elk or fat turkeys. The wooden frame was large and hand carved, possibly as old as the painting as well. Thomas had chosen it for the knife’s concealment with the thought that he alone would move such a work, let alone glance behind it. Whoever she was, he realized while realigning the work, she was more interested in the weapon than in him.

Thomas turned the lights lower to aid the coming conversations and left the room. As he backed out through the doorway, his confusion read as clearly on his face as the hatred that had been there hours before.

-transfer point-

Liz’s Café specialized in scones and teas. While Renee wasn’t a scone fan anymore than a tea fan, Liz had been more than gracious in making the best Rueben sandwiches that Renee had ever tasted. In fact, because of the frequency that she had ordered a Rueben, it was now the inside-joke between the two women.

“Mornin’, Renee. Take a seat anywhere.” Liz had her hair up today. The chosen profession of her oldest daughter was that of Beautician, so Liz’s hair color went from Caramel to Auburn to Wheat with little warning. Today’s color was a combination blonde and black, with chunky streaks and a skunk like resemblance when worn up. “Jessica has finals this week. I have to go in tomorrow to go back to my natural color. You know, I don’t even know if I’ll recognize my natural color…”

“It’s afternoon, Rueben. And I like the Mocha color she used last week; it went well with your coffee. Oh, I’ll take some of that if you got any. Black, no cream.” Renee smiled and walked to a corner table with the outside light and busy traffic noise floating in through two closed windows.

“Rueben and fries!” Liz shouted to the kitchen through the wide by short window built into the wall between.

Renee opened the Spencer novel that she had just bought. Robert Parker had written so many of the novels that Renee loved, she often lost track of their titles. Mortal Stakes had been published in 1975, and struck Renee as odd that the main character, Spenser, had not yet met Hawk. She plowed through it with the ease of viewing a sitcom, with none of the nasty aftertaste.

Liz plopped a blue coffee mug on the table. Renee smiled a thank you and sipped at the burnt brown liquid as Liz scurried back to the cash register. What the Café’s coffee lacked in flavor, it more than made up for in thickness. The brown goop was both an acquired taste and a known toxin.

“Renee, you need to catch up on the books that I loaned you.”

Her head popped up as Aaron pulled a seat back from the table and plopped down opposite her. His smile was warm and charming, which she hated him for.

“Seriously, these detective novels shrivel your brain.” His thumb lifted the book so he could better see the title, “another Spenser novel? Come on, you need to catch up on the Cuban authors that I sent you.”

“Thanks, Aaron, its good to see you too. Why aren’t you still in Seattle?” Renee liked his company, and attempted some psuedo hostility.

“Crew has no paint, crew does not work.” Aaron’s painting partners were among the hardest workers in the unaffiliated northwestern Snoqualmie valley, on Tuesdays and Fridays. “Thought I might catch up on some Christmas shopping anyway. What do you want this year?”

“Christmas is still 2 months out, man.” Renee felt an honest level of shock. “Do you really start shopping this early? Jeez, that would explain why I feel so far behind each year.”

“It also explains why I get air fresheners and Dr. Scholl’s shoe inserts as gifts from you. You don’t shop until Mid-December, huh?”

“Back off, man. Starting in October is a sign of serious mental health issues. Schedule an appointment at my office, I’ll find you some help.” Aaron swept at the joke with his large hand. “Oh, I want some argyle socks this year.”

“I’m serious! I am not buying you argyle socks,” Aaron’s handsome face contorted at the word socks. “You really want those?”

Renee smiled, “Yes, I actually want argyle socks. You can find them everywhere. Look at Sears or JC Penney. Why, what do you want for Christmas?”

Aaron’s face had always struck her as strangely Sean Conneryesque, but only in the “Gold Finger” not “Hunt for Red October” way. His pale complexion, full lips and dark hair garnered him the “pretty boy” moniker amongst his buddies, and Renee was in no position to argue with that.

“I will let you off easy this year. All I want is a Dwight Yokum album.” Aaron smiled as Renee’s face conveyed confusion. “I heard some Dwight on the radio yesterday. I loved it. Buy me an album and I will love you forever.”

“Gross, Aaron.” Renee shook her head and smiled, “Country is sick and wrong.”

“More than argyle socks?”

“Okay, but I am seriously out of my comfort range on this one.” Renee drew in a dramatic breath, “you had better appreciate this present, pal.”

Aaron stood from his chair and ruffled her previously well combed hair, “gotta go, kiddo.”

Renee went back to her novel as her Rueben arrived via Rueben, and Spenser learned that his investigation would bring him to New York City. The sourdough of the sandwich was her favorite texture.

[Nate]

Ironic thread title. Haha.

The story was too long for me to read tonight... but the title caught my eye.

[mattslope]

I don't think the title was meant as irony, but I suppose it is in this context. Thanks, man! :chucklingoddly:

[mattslope]

an addition:

Wednesday morning officially rolled in at 12:00 am, so Detective Dale Kwiat couldn’t comfortably claim that the sunrise warming the eastern horizon brought with it Wednesday morning. He could claim, however, that the red and blue light show dancing on the white columns and walls of the old country style mansion was a poor way to greet the otherwise beautiful sunrise.

Dale was holding his coffee thermos in his left hand, the mug in his right. The officer overseeing the investigation hadn’t set Dale loose yet. As a homicide detective, he had learned a while ago to bring plenty of warm coffee for situations like this.

Detective Kwiat’s profile appeared in the reflection to his right. His baseball cap, faded and red, concealed the bald spot that he was still feeling touchy about. Light gray fleece jacket zipped to his chin, faded old jeans and comfortable Adidas running shoes completed the look of a man awakened by his beeper some 3 hours earlier, which is exactly what he was. While standing 5’7” and weighing in at 147 pounds, Dale was in decent physical shape, and looked much older than his 29 years. Dale flexed a little while viewing himself in the reflection of a partially broken window on a partially burnt wall.

South Carolina wasn’t known to have many homicides, and even fewer involving 7 dead prominent members of the community. Dale Kwiat sipped his coffee and reflected on the better ways for North Augusta, South Carolina to place itself on the map.

-transition point-

Thomas A. Smythe had no criminal record. There were no outstanding warrants for his arrest, no unpaid or paid parking fines on his record. As far as Detective Dale Kwiat could tell, Thomas A. Smythe had never bent a law. Looking through the one-way glass, Dale couldn’t see too many reasons for Mr. Smythe to be in the smallish room with his hands cuffed. Of course, there was the matter of the blood smeared on his face, jacket and shirt. Dale watched Thomas peripherally while scanning the thin folder and polishing off the last of his thermos’s coffee.

“Sam, we need more information. I can’t see anything here that even hints at what our witnesses claim he did.” Dale tried not to make eye contact with his superior.

“Dale, I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Samantha Burns was more politician than detective since the promotion. “We have witnesses reports. We have a murder weapon with his prints on it. We even have motive. It is an open and shut case. If the victim’s family isn’t consoled soon we will all be job hunting, so don’t give me anymore grief, okay?”

Dale nodded and sipped more of his lukewarm coffee. The folder was still open in his left hand, but the contents had been read several moments before. Why was he stalling?

With some flourish, Sam opened the door and waited for Dale to follow her into the small interrogation room. His mind on the two chairs, medium sized table and non-functioning dummy camera mounted opposite the one-way glass, Dale stepped into the hallway and joined Thomas.

“I want to see my lawyer.” Smythe made little eye contact.

“Do you have one, or would you like us to provide you with one?” Sam’s tone hadn’t changed in hostility during the 13 foot commute.

“I need one provided for me, please.”

Dale looked at Thomas’s hair, which he had just realized was matted down with blood. Chock that one up to the pressure of blood in the human body. What an amazing organ, the heart.

“Thomas, would you like some Coffee or a bagel?” Dale was looking more to calm the man than to establish ‘good cop/bad cop’. “Our bagel’s are actually fairly good.”

“Yes, please.”

No eye contact. Fear was in his voice. Dale was in for a long day.

Sam stayed in the room, pulling up a chair and setting her butt slowly into its embrace as Dale stepped back into the hallway.

Detective school had taught Dale that people caught with a murder weapon in their hand, blood from the victims on their person, and actual witnesses pointing fingers seldom felt fear in the interrogation room. Anger, calm, or happiness were normal emotions for guilty folks.