Thorns Wear Roses
4
Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
In the vastness of human achievement, no man has mastered the rooster.
The proud male forces a raspy shout into the atmosphere, seeking to frighten the clouds that dull his world. There is, he will swear in throaty screamings, a magnificent sunrise above the persistent overcast. Its squawks have no pity for sleepers. The shaving of a moon uses the clouds to guard her modesty and is reluctant to let her thin figure come to daylit scrutiny.
The lightness seeps through the gray without her consent. A victory for the rooster.
An influx of tractor trailers is similarly cruel. Hill Vista, while not a destination in itself, adheres to the concept that there is a somewhere else to head toward on the other side. Drivers break laws to see that promise fulfilled. Tires rub the concrete raw along Main Street, past the motel and one stop sign at the border of town that pleads for another chance. Only the hollow of soul might loiter willfully within the confines of such nothingness.
Which is unfortunate. Because the masses miss the diner.
The morning special must be brought to the booth one plate at a time, two hands required. The cook has heard of beauty in passing and preserves it in her food. Her tongue has had five decades to learn restraint. Her smile is fixed with plaster.
The female stranger is pleasant but not as social as Ginny likes perspective daughters-in-law to be. Cold as the field but warm around the fencing, like someone practicing civility. By necessity and design. The dark-haired woman's suitability for the waitress's son is further ruined by her companion. Ginny's internal radar is, like many ancient things, a work of craftsmanship. The name for men like this one has no polite alternative, charm sweeter than the blue ribbon syrup and quick to break the temporary things they possess. Still, hers is a wrinkled blush served with hash browns.
DiNozzo assembles his smile, tweaks it at one corner for the audience.
"Is there a map of Hill Vista?"
"Map?" Ginny refills his coffee before he's downed a sip. "Ain't but one road. End to end, won't take three minute's walk to sight-see."
Ziva weighs the decorating scheme, minimalism born of poverty. "There must be side roads off the main."
"You'd think that. Our one alley at the north is actually Lakewood and the little shopping strip at the south end is technically Lawnview."
"So where's the hill of Hill Vista?"
The matron stores embarrassment in the folds of her apron, a complaint to be lodged with the city planners. "Well, about halfway down Main there's a speed bump."
She returns to her pastry rack to worry over the placement of pies. Savory potatoes are attacked. Stuffed omelets are devoured. Tony leans back against the patchwork booth, a man satisfied.
"The vista is best seen from the dizzying heights of the speed bump."
His partner drains her mug. "I shall ready the camera."
The car's grill arrives at the south end before the back bumper has left the diner's lot. Ziva adds a fresh layer of duct tape to the burn phone, their contribution to its stubborn existence. She's not yet secured the final side when it rings.
Forward progress ends outside a farm equipment store in Lawnview, interior lights blazing in the closed hours. A blight to environmentalists and an invitation to thieves. The parking lot is barren and pot-holed. The talk button is pressed, followed by speakerphone and Ziva offers no greeting to the slightly crackled line.
"Some months ago, word arrived of your dissatisfaction with the government-run circus." It is a voice rubbed with turpentine until raw, the sound of a beast composed of oil and grit. "What makes two agents betray the lion tamer and stray from the three rings?"
"We have earned a larger cut of cake."
Beside her, a muttered complaint about slices of pie. The car has been shut off, cold already leeching between the gaps in the undercarriage. A hurried text is being sent to a smart man in a distant office. Contact made.
"You see what the criminals have and you want it?"
"We have seen what they have," Ziva says, "and expect more"
In the moment between, both agents tilt their heads to catch something, anything to suggest the caller's location. There is no ancillary noise for the human ear to perceive and they must trust the circus to detect on playback what they cannot.
"And your partner is in agreement?"
Her grin is a clap of thunder. "He defers to me in these matters."
"Then what of his role?"
"He is the actor. I direct the scene."
A collection of seagulls have strayed from a distant shore to greet the cooling vehicle with warning calls. Tony watches them flap and scurry. Actively deferring, he will later say.
"And I, my friends, write the play. The poet says, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.'"
Ziva blinks against the emerging orange sun. "Is that what you seek? A newer world?"
"You seek the larger cake, the more. I merely invite you to the table."
Explanation has an expiration date timed to the minute. The disconnected line sounds through the rapidly freezing interior and the driver restarts the car quickly. Before the phone can be released, a message arrives. A new address.
"I love it when you talk cinema," her partner tosses into the brittle frost.
This story is may not produce a true end. We shall see. However, I am nearly ready to post the epilogue to Symbiosis, which shall conclude my fanfiction career.
