Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  Pain pierced her heart at the remembrance. “But I was fixated. We struggled.”

  The ear Kahlil had torn throbbed. She touched behind it, feeling the stiff thread of stitches.

  Her next breath almost strangled in her throat. “I grabbed the gun in his pocket and shot. I don’t even know if it hit him. Then I pushed him over the dam. He bounced and twisted and…” She imagined the sickening crack and splinter of Kahlil’s bones, sounds she knew she couldn’t have heard above the wind. Yet her imagination made them real. She began to tremble again.

  Rosenbaum moved to sit on the couch beside her. He gripped her upper arms as if he meant to shake her. She recoiled against the pain of her bruises but he didn’t let go. “Listen to me, Tawny. He damned near succeeded in committing deliberate homicide. The only reason you’re not lying in the morgue next to him right this minute is because you kept your head and luck was with you when that guy showed up early for work. You have as strong a case for self-defense and justifiable homicide as any client I’ve ever had. But do not ever repeat to anyone what you just told me. Do you understand?” His dark eyes bored into hers. “You have been through hell but you don’t want to put yourself in an even worse mess out of some misguided sense of morality.”

  Tawny pulled away from him, hugging the blanket around herself. “I hated him but now I hate myself for killing him.”

  Rosenbaum shot to his feet, fists whipping through the air in frustration. “Goddammit, Tawny! You are the most aggravating client I’ve ever had.” He stalked around the living room, hammering his thighs. “This motherfucker uses you, pins a federal rap on you, almost destroys the country’s infrastructure, practically kills you, and you feel guilty about stopping him? I don’t believe you.”

  The door to Virgie’s bedroom crashed open and she rushed out, looking from Tawny to the lawyer and back again. “Baby, are you all right?”

  “It’s OK, Virgie,” Tawny answered. “I have a talent for annoying him.”

  Her friend studied the situation for a moment longer then backed into her bedroom. Just before closing the door, she lasered a warning glare at Rosenbaum.

  The lawyer paced across the living room, which only required three steps because of his long legs. Finally, he flopped in the chair before Tawny.

  “OK,” he started, “let’s hit rewind. Let’s say you didn’t push him over the dam. What the hell do you think he would have done with that magnanimous opportunity?” Rosenbaum’s long arm swept through the air so fast that she felt the breeze. “Is he going to whip out an antidote and save your life? Is he going to call off the attack he’s been working on for years? Is he going to turn himself in, name names, and bring down whatever network of terrorists he’s affiliated with?” He stared at her, hands spread, demanding her answer.

  Tawny closed her eyes. Of course, Rosenbaum was right. When Kahlil had handed her the bottle of tainted water, he fully expected her to die. Maybe he felt remorseful but he did it nevertheless.

  “There’s surveillance video,” she said. “They’ve seen exactly what I did. They know I killed him.”

  “Sacrificing yourself on a pyre of misplaced guilt doesn’t undo anything, Tawny.” Rosenbaum leaned forward. “You believed you were dying. With your last ounce of strength, you did what you had to do to prevent a diabolical plot that would affect millions of people. You stopped a vicious terrorist. And that’s what you will say to every single person who questions you, from the FBI and Homeland Security, on down to the dog catcher and the meter maid.”

  Tawny pondered his words. She did stop a catastrophe. If Kahlil had lived, he meant to spread his destruction across the country. She did save the lives of thousands, maybe millions.

  Rosenbaum cocked his head to the side. “You’ve got to ditch this Pollyanna conscience of yours. I can’t properly defend you if you won’t defend yourself. Are you with me on this?”

  She looked into the depths of his harsh dark eyes. She had saved her own life only to live with the pain of killing.

  Rosenbaum’s expression changed. A flicker of…what? Understanding? Wisdom? “Do you believe in the Ten Commandments?” he asked.

  “Yes.” What was he driving at?

  “Did you know that both Hebrew and Greek translations say ‘you shall not murder’? Murder is different than kill, Tawny. You killed, but you did not murder.”

  Tawny leaned her head against the couch and closed her eyes. Was Rosenbaum right? Could she learn to live with her acts? Maybe…in time.

  She had to trust in a greater understanding than she had.

  The chair squeaked as Rosenbaum stood. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “OK. I’m with you.”

  “Good. Let’s get back to work.” He offered his hand.

  She grasped it and let him pull her to her feet, head woozy from the movement. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay you. Do you think you can get my money back?”

  He snorted. “After this? Piece of cake.” He gestured air quotes. “Widow foils terrorist plot, saves the grid. By the time I get done, you’ll be a cross between Joan of Arc and Wonder Woman.”

  Tawny held onto furniture for support. “Hardly. I’m just a small-town widow with dyslexia who can barely operate a smartphone.”

  Another eye roll from Rosenbaum. “Your humility is charming but stuff it.”

  She sank into the chair at the dining table. “I’m a pretty troublesome client.”

  He gripped his pen. “No client who worries about paying me is troublesome. However, I must admit, only one other woman has irritated me as much as you do and I married her.”

  Tawny smiled weakly. As he’d said before, he might be an asshole, but he was her asshole. “I hope that’s not a proposal because I’ll have to turn you down.”

  Rosenbaum grinned. “Proving beyond any reasonable doubt that you are a very smart woman.”

  * * *

  For the next two days, Tawny met with a rotating kaleidoscope from multiple alphabet agencies, FBI, JTTF, DHS, FDIC, Bureau of Reclamation, county detectives, too many to keep track of. Rosenbaum sat close beside her, one hand always on her arm. Sometimes he squeezed to stop her from answering certain questions, other times, he patted gently, letting her speak. She didn’t always understand why he objected but went along, trusting he knew how to keep her out of prison.

  Tawny’s children arrived home. Emma hugged her as she wept through extra-long false eyelashes that looked as if she’d borrowed them from a carousel pony. Fresh colorful tattoos ran down her arms like long sleeves, although she’d ditched the boyfriend. New lines creased Neal’s handsome face, aging him, making him look more like Dwight. Tawny’s heart swelled every time she rested her gaze on them, savoring the sweetness of reunion.

  Neal spent most of the time either on his laptop or cell, talking to comrades in the intelligence community. One afternoon, he left for several unexplained hours. When he returned, he’d somehow teased out new information on Kahlil and his plot.

  At the breakfast bar, over the dinner of macaroni and cheese Emma had microwaved, Neal filled them in. “Shahrivar had worked at Grand Coulee, Bonneville, and other installations, from Seattle to Minneapolis, south as far as San Francisco.” Neal tipped back a bottle of Moose Drool then continued, “In his house, they found hard drives indicating he’d hacked into computers at electrical utilities all over the country.”

  “Who was he working for?” Tawny asked.

  Neal shrugged one broad shoulder. “Don’t know yet. Have to follow the money, see who financed him. We may never know for sure. One of the counter-terrorism guys thinks he and his wife might have been lone wolves who started their own cell with family members. His sister-in-law is being interrogated.” He grinned at Tawny. “You sure did a number on her. Fractured skull. Never would have figured you were so feisty.”

  Tawny tried to swallow a bite of macaroni. It stuck like a lump of steel wool, scouring her insides. “I—I’m glad she lived.”

  Neal gave her a pl
ay punch on the arm. She tried not to flinch from the pain of her bruises. “I’m proud of you, Mom. For an old lady, you swing a mean mop.”

  So like the way Dwight used to make her laugh away sadness. She couldn’t help but smile and half-rose from the bar stool, as if to lunge toward her son. “Not too old to whup your butt.”

  Neal raised both hands in surrender. “Abuse! Emma, call Child Protective Services. Ma’s beatin’ on me again.”

  Emma rolled her eyes and spooned more macaroni onto his plate. “Eat up and shut up, bro.”

  He shoveled in a big bite. “Hey, this is almost as good as Kraft’s.”

  Emma grunted. “It is Kraft’s, stupid. My crowning achievement in the kitchen.”

  Tawny squeezed her eyes tight so tears couldn’t flow from the fullness in her heart.

  Neal finished the beer and reached behind him to the refrigerator for another. “Bizarre how Shahrivar wound up renting Mr. and Mrs. Roth’s place.”

  Tawny crumpled her napkin. “It was intentional. I think his wife set off the bomb that killed the Roths in Jerusalem. He moved into the neighborhood to get close to me.” She bit her knuckle at the remembrance.

  Neal studied her, frowning. “You told the investigators that, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He planted an elbow on the counter, rolling the beer bottle in circles. “While the evidence techs were processing his house, they turned up an old newspaper clipping from nineteen-eighty-two. The article was about this brilliant scientist-engineer who’d fled Iran with his family in seventy-nine when the Shah was deposed. He took his research to D.C. and testified in front of Congress, claiming he’d developed a method to harvest unlimited hydroelectricity from ocean waves. He was discredited and started railing against the government, saying they deliberately destroyed his invention to keep the power status quo.”

  “So?” Emma put on her bored face.

  “So,” Neal went on, “the guy went home and overdosed his wife and three little girls with Valium then killed himself with a knife in the heart.”

  Emma grimaced. “How awful.”

  Kahlil’s image tried to drift up from Tawny’s memory but she pushed it back down.

  “There was another kid,” Neal added, “a boy, eleven, they never found. Figured dad must have done away with him someplace else and disposed of the body. Why would the Roths hang onto a morbid old newspaper story?”

  “It didn’t belong to the Roths,” Tawny murmured, remembering the clipping she’d found the day she first discovered Kahlil living in her old friends’ home. He’d thrown it in the wastebasket but must have retrieved it later.

  Emma’s butterfly attention span skipped ahead. “Hey, did anyone bring in today’s mail? There’s gonna be coupons for sixty percent off at The Buckle.”

  Tawny stared down at the bright orange cheese staining her plate. She couldn’t suppress the memory of Kahlil’s haggard face and faraway eyes as he’d related the story of his father. She barely noticed Emma leaving the breakfast bar, and returning a moment later, shuffling through the mail.

  “Look at this, Mom.” She held out an envelope hand-addressed to Neal Lindholm and Emma Lindholm with a return address from Mailboxes, Etc. “That’s weird. Who’d be writing to both of us?”

  Weariness pressed Tawny’s shoulders. “You better open it and find out.” She closed heavy eyes and listened to the ripping of the envelope, the rustle of paper unfolding, then Emma’s sharp gasp.

  Her daughter stood holding the letter, hands trembling, gray with fear. “Jesus, Mom, it’s from the guy who tried to kill you.”

  Neal grabbed for the letter, knocking over his beer. Dark foam fanned across the counter.

  Wooziness swept through Tawny. “Read it, please.”

  Her son recited:

  Dear Neal and Emma,

  I am the man who took your mother’s life. If you receive this letter, I am also dead. If my plan succeeded, this letter may be delayed for months or years. Perhaps you will never receive it. I pray your anguish will lessen with time.

  Please be reassured your mother did not suffer. She drifted off to sleep and felt no pain. She was a remarkable woman who brought great joy into my heart.

  Everyone I ever loved in my life has died, including your mother. Death is a friend who brings peace and an end to suffering. Your beautiful mother is at peace, as am I, at last.

  Kahlil Shahrivar

  * * *

  On a balmy October evening, with the cinnamon tang of fall leaves in the air, Tawny and Virgie sat in the patio behind Tawny’s house, drinking wine.

  Virgie dipped a cracker into a plate of melted Brie. “So, what do you hear from your crazy lawyer?”

  Tawny stretched her legs and wiggled her toes in sandals. “My case is still working its way through all the different jurisdictions, federal, state, county. He thinks he’s finalized a deal to get the charges ruled as justifiable homicide without going to trial. Knowing what a showboat he is, he’d much rather have his day in court but I want it over and behind me. Besides, he got plenty of attention with the media coverage of my arraignment and preliminary hearing.”

  “That was brutal. All those bloodsuckers.” Virgie shook her head. “One good thing about the media. They’ve got the attention span of a three-year-old. Now they’ve moved on to the United Bankcorp scandal.”

  Tawny tugged on her braid. “Rosenbaum told me the latest on that. Seems the bank was complicit in terrorist money laundering.” She spooned Brie onto a cracker. “And get this, after that asshole manager skipped town, he tried to flee to Belize with other bank officers in their Learjet but got left standing on the tarmac. Seems they took off without him.”

  Virgie laughed. “Sometimes a little justice prevails.”

  Tawny watched the sky turning pink and orange as the sun dropped. She wondered if memories of Kahlil would ever recede far enough for her to review them like an old movie, events that happened to someone else while she watched.

  Virgie poured them both more wine and lifted her glass. “From here on, only good times.”

  Tawny clinked glasses. “OK by me.” She sipped then remembered her other news. “Hey, I might finally have a job.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Rosenbaum’s starting a class action suit by people who had their assets wrongly seized by the government. He wants to hire me to interview them and do research.”

  “Oh really.” Virgie’s lips puckered, trying to suppress a grin. “You know, if he ever stops with the motor mouth, he’s kind of cute. So, tell me, is his divorce final yet?”

  Tawny glowered at her friend. “Don’t even start.”

  “How do you know I’m not asking about him for my own interest?”

  “Because, Virgie, he’s too tall for you.”

  “But the perfect height for you.”

  “Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Or the next…”

  THE END

  Acknowledgements:

  Many friends and colleagues offered invaluable assistance with this story.

  Sincere thanks to editor Ray Rhamey (Flogging the Quill); tech guru Tom Kuffel; cover designer Brian Hoffman; ever-patient critiquers and beta readers: Betty, Bev E., Val, Katie, Bev Z., Marie, Ann, Karen C., Karen L., Debbie E., Sami, Dawn, Constance, Leslie, Sarah, Sue, Holly, Jenn, and Phyllis.

  Their help and encouragement can’t be measured, except by the depth of my gratitude.

  Most of all, love and gratitude to Tom. Because of you, I’m living the dream.

  A Message from Debbie:

  Thanks so much for reading Instrument of the Devil. I hope you had as much fun reading the book as I did writing it. I’d greatly appreciate a brief review of it on Amazon.

  Visit www.debbieburkewriter.com for updates on new releases.

  What’s in store for Tawny next? Check out this sneak preview of Stalking Midas.

  Sneak Preview of

  STALKING MIDAS

  Stalking midas


  Chapter 1 – Whiteout

  Cassandra Maza targeted cranky old folks, ones so ornery that only ankle-biting Chihuahuas or feral cats could tolerate them. Their bitter isolation from family and friends made her work easier. Case in point: her eighty-two-year-old neighbor, Lydia, in whose great room Cassandra now sat.

  A January blizzard rattled the windows of Lydia’s condominium at Golden Eagle Golf Resort. The woman slumped in her recliner, feet propped up, eyes half-closed. An empty tea cup dangled from a finger. She'd finished the brew Cassandra had prepared for her and it was working nicely, giving blessed relief from Lydia’s incessant complaining about her arthritis.

  Cassandra rubbed lotion into Lydia’s bare foot, toes warped and twisted. “Doesn’t this feel nice, dear?”

  “Muggins,” Lydia whispered. Her Shih Tzu’s name. The ragmop dog yapped from inside the coat closet where Cassandra had secured him.

  “I’ll take very good care of Muggins, darling,” she murmured as she lifted Lydia’s robe to expose gaunt thighs and cotton underwear. She slipped a syringe from her pocket and removed the plastic cap with her teeth, then slid the needle into the deep crease in the groin where a puncture would never show. Her aim was good.

  Lydia jerked but Cassandra held firm until the potassium emptied in the femoral vein. She used her elbow to compress the flesh for thirty seconds to prevent bleeding.

  The fragile teacup crashed to the floor.

  By the time Lydia’s heart stopped, Cassandra had recapped the syringe, returned it to her pocket, and was rummaging in the dresser drawer.

  The dog’s barking rose to a high-pitched staccato.

  Cassandra plucked a ruby and diamond choker from a jewelry box and admired the light dancing in the facets. Had Lydia’s late husband once cherished her? More likely, Cassandra thought, the foul-tempered old woman had caught him cheating and extorted the necklace as penance.