The Cost of Ivory

I slammed into Florence with a force I didn't know my aging body still possessed. We crashed against the heavy oak desk, sending lamps and papers scattering across the floor.

“Run, Leo! Run!” I roared.

Leo didn't hesitate. He scrambled out of the chair and sprinted toward the door, darting right past Arthur’s legs.

Florence clawed at my face, her perfectly manicured nails dragging across my cheek. I grabbed her wrist, pinning it against the wood.

“You’re pathetic, Jonathan!” she screamed, kicking my shin hard enough to make me stumble.

She shoved me backward. I hit the floor hard, the wind knocked out of my lungs.

Before Florence could grab the duffel bag, Arthur stepped in front of it. He raised the iron fireplace poker, his chest heaving.

“You used my father’s memory to get close to him, and then you sold me out,” Arthur hissed, his eyes wild.

Florence backed away, raising her hands placatingly. The arrogant thief from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a cornered animal. “Arthur, listen to me. We can split it. Thirty million. Fifteen each. We can both disappear.”

Arthur laughed bitterly. “You think I want the money now? My face is on the hospital security cameras. Jonathan already flagged the accounts. It’s over, Florence. For both of us.”

“It doesn’t have to be!” she pleaded, taking a step toward the window.

While they were focused on each other, I rolled over and reached under the edge of my desk. I pressed the silent panic button I had installed ten years ago. It immediately dispatched armed private security and local police to the estate.

“You ruined my life,” Arthur said, raising the poker higher.

“Arthur, don’t!” I yelled, pulling myself to my knees. If he killed her in my house, the nightmare would never end.

Suddenly, the wail of police sirens pierced the rainy night. The sound was distant but approaching fast.

Arthur froze. He looked at the window, then down at the duffel bag, and finally at me. The rage in his eyes flickered, replaced by cold, crushing defeat. He dropped the iron poker. It clanged loudly against the hardwood floor.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Arthur whispered. “I really am.”

He turned and bolted out the front door, disappearing into the darkness just as the blue and red lights began to flash through the windows.

Florence didn't hesitate. She grabbed the duffel bag by the straps and hoisted it over her shoulder. She ran toward the French doors at the back of the study that led to the garden.

“You’re not getting away!” I yelled, pushing myself up and grabbing the strap of the bag.

She yanked hard, but I held on.

“Let go, old man!” she shrieked, frantically twisting the handle of the French doors.

“You took my wife’s necklace. You hurt my daughter. You traumatized my grandson,” I grunted, twisting the strap around my wrist. “You leave with nothing.”

With a desperate cry, Florence reached behind her neck and unclasped the emerald necklace. She threw it hard at my face.

Instinctively, I let go of the bag to catch the heavy gold heirloom before it shattered against the floor.

In that split second, Florence wrenched the doors open and sprinted out into the torrential rain, the heavy duffel bag slowing her down.

She made it exactly ten yards across the lawn.

Four police cruisers skidded onto the grass, their high beams pinning her against the darkness. Officers leaped out, weapons drawn.

“Drop the bag! Get on the ground!” a voice boomed over a megaphone.

Florence stopped. She looked at the heavy bag of bonds in her hand, then at the officers. Slowly, the fight drained out of her. She dropped the bag in the mud and raised her hands, sinking to her knees in the rain.

I stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, clutching my wife’s emerald clasp in my hand.

Suddenly, I felt small arms wrap around my leg.