Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  Susie was quiet. Pensive. Roy considered making conversation, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, this was their last day of vacation. He preferred to focus on being in the moment and enjoying the beauty that surrounded them.

  After a few hours, they headed back to the condo, where Susie changed to head out for a spa appointment. It was early afternoon. They agreed to meet back at the condo around 6:00 p.m. and then get a drink before dinner with Deb and her husband.

  Roy showered and went shopping after dropping off his snowboard at Christy’s for a wax and tune. After some browsing, he eventually bought himself some glove liners at Burton. He then returned to the condo and set about packing all his gear.

  At 4:30, and with everything neatly squared away, he was bored. He pulled on his jacket and headed up to the 8100 Bar to start his pre-dinner drinks early. He ordered a Macallan 18 on the rocks, then began checking email.

  He was halfway through his scotch and tapping out an email reply when he sensed another man take the seat next to him. He overheard him order a club soda, but Roy continued to focus on his email.

  “Do you believe in fate, Roy?”

  Roy looked up. The man was about his age, though smaller-framed, sporting neat gold hair speckled with grey. He was well-dressed—mountain clothes, Patagonia. The Submariner watch on his left wrist winked under the overhead lights. The man smiled.

  “Roy Cruise, right? Miami? UT Law?”

  “Have we met?” Roy asked, a bit uneasy. Roy has a good memory for faces. It bothered him that this man knew who he was, and that he was at a loss.

  “Founder of Cruise Capital?”

  “That’s me.” Roy smiled, shifting on his bar stool.

  The stranger glanced around the room, then at his glass. He stopped smiling as he asked, in a lowered voice, “Father to Camilla Cruise?”

  In primitive man, the appearance of spear-wielding enemies or aggressive animals triggered the acute stress response. The body responded to threats by firing adrenaline into the bloodstream, preparing for “fight or flight.”

  For modern man, different threats exist. Social norms define “safe” behavior. When words or gestures vary from acceptable norms, we experience uncertainty that our lizard brain equates with danger.

  The mention of Camilla’s name by the stranger fired adrenaline through Roy’s body like an electric shock. His heart pounded. His neck and shoulder muscles tensed. He fought to control himself, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. He inhaled sharply, and exhaling somewhat raggedly, hissed, “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man recoiled a bit at Roy’s aggression. He quickly responded, hands slightly trembling, “I’m a father, like you. Suffering, like you.” His eyes still discreetly scanned the room.

  Roy continued to glare at the stranger, saying nothing.

  The man added, “I’m Tom Wise. You met my wife yesterday, Deb.”

  Roy’s expression didn’t change. He sat, waiting.

  “The name Wise doesn’t ring a bell? Wise, from Austin, Texas?” the man asked. His voice softer now. Sad.

  Roy, still reeling from the man’s unwelcome familiarity, vaguely recalled the name.

  “Kristy Wise? Joe Harlan... junior. The senator’s kid?” the man continued.

  Roy remembered bits and pieces. It had been a few years before. A sexual assault. He’d read about it online. The guy, Harlan, was a UT student. Sophomore maybe. Roy wasn’t sure. The girl Harlan raped was a freshman. It happened on Halloween night. There was alcohol or drugs involved. They’d had sex. She’d claimed rape. He’d claimed consent. The jury found him not guilty. There was an outcry. Claims of political interference. Tainted evidence. The father was a state senator. The young man ended up back in the news not long after—beaten up at a grocery store by the girl’s father. Wise. Tom Wise. The man sitting next to him.

  Roy nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

  The bartender was mixing drinks, out of earshot. Wise leaned in and said, “Listen, I won’t take up too much of your time. Just hear me out, okay? Would that be okay?”

  Roy considered the request. There was an eagerness in the man’s tone that felt like desperation. He nodded, but turned back to his scotch. “Go ahead.”

  “Look, we’re normal people. You guys met Deb yesterday. But, it wasn’t an accident. That you met, I mean. We’re here with Kristy. She’s still trying to get over everything. It’s been hard. Not just, you know, what happened. But the son of a bitch getting away with it. You can imagine. It’s been hard for all of us. Hardest for her.”

  The man shook his head, lips pursed, as if weighing what he was about to say next. “Yeah, I beat the crap out of him. It was... just coincidence, really. Bad luck. I ran into the little fucker at Whole Foods of all places.” Wise half-chuckled. “I... I went for him in the parking lot. Then security got all over me and, well, I don’t remember much except the feeling of hitting him. Feeling my fist pound his face.” He gritted his teeth, fist clenched. “God, it felt so fucking good. I mean real good, to give that little son of a bitch just... to make him suffer...” The words died in his throat as he winced. “My baby girl…”

  The man wiped tears from one eye with the back of his hand. He took a breath, swallowed to recompose himself. “Well, it was kind of stupid. Spur of the moment, and I got caught.” He forced a smile, waiting.

  Roy was silent. He was wrestling with the knot that this man, this stranger, had stirred in the pit of his belly. His own eyes watered. He knew it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was because he was also a father. Dad to a little girl who had been hurt by someone else.

  “So, anyway, when I heard you guys the other night,” the man continued. “You and your wife, I mean. Talking about justice. About people needing to suffer for their sins.”

  Roy turned and looked at him.

  “Yeah. We’re staying here too, next building over. Your balcony isn’t that far from ours and, well, quiet night, snow. Sound carries.” Wise leaned in conspiratorially. “Thing is, I know who you are. I read about you in The Alcalde a while back. You. Your company. Everything. Then I saw you in the lobby the other day. I recognized you and made the connection.”

  Roy leaned back. “Look, man,” he said, “I don’t know what you heard, but I have to tell you, I don’t appreciate the eavesdropping.” He signaled the bartender, who was at the other end of the bar, for his tab.

  “Just one more. Please. Just one more minute,” the man said, touching his arm. “It’s important. I read about your daughter, what happened. It was about the same time as the stuff with Kristy. And I felt for you. We both did. Deb and I. And we took comfort. I know it’s sick, it sounds sick, but we took comfort, you know, that at least Kristy was still alive. But you see, she isn’t alright. Not anymore. Not how she used to be. Ever since what happened. Well. She’s changed. For her, this thing, sometimes, well, it feels like it’s never going to go away.”

  Tom Wise took a beat. Looked around the room and then back at Roy. “So, when we heard you, like I said, the other night, talking about justice. The God of Abraham. Old Testament justice. Well, I think that was fate.”

  “So, we wanted to meet you. The rest wasn’t an accident. That Deb met Susie, I mean. We’re normal people. We wanted you to see that. Normal people dealing with abnormal circumstances. I mean, we wanted to have dinner and everything, you know, so you could get to know us. To see that we’re like you. But I’m thinking that it’s probably best we don’t. Best we have... less contact, you know?”

  The man’s last line was delivered in a lower voice as the bartender approached with Roy’s tab, then walked away. Tom watched him go.

  Roy frowned. “Less contact?”

  Tom looked at Roy, sipping his club soda. “Yeah. So they can’t connect us.”

  “Connect...?” Roy’s frustration got the better of him. “What the hell are you talking about, man? Actually, you
know what, don’t bother. I need to get going.” Roy dismounted his barstool and picked up his bill with one hand, reaching into his pocket with the other.

  Tom placed his hand on Roy’s arm. “We’re parents, Roy. Just like you. We love our daughter. Just like you. And we want justice. Old Testament justice. Just like you. Will you help us?”

  There was the desperation again. It was palpable. Roy took a few seconds to study the man—chewed fingernails holding Roy’s arm; droopy eyes, dark rings under them; ears flushed red; pursed thin lips slightly quivering. Desperation, but also determination.

  “Help you what?” Roy asked, reluctantly.

  Tom Wise stood close to Roy, furtively scanning the room, then leaned in, and in a quivering voice said, “For Kristy, and for Camilla, will you kill this fucker Harlan, for us?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “No fucking way,” Susie exclaimed. “So, what did you do?”

  She poured Roy a glass of red, downed the water from her drinking glass, and then refilled it with wine as well.

  When she’d returned from the spa, she’d found her husband lying on the sofa staring out the window at the mountains. He’d come to the kitchen and shared what happened at the bar with Tom Wise while she opened a bottle of pinot.

  “What do you think I did? I got up and left. Slung a twenty on the bar and didn’t even wait for the change. It was like something out of a fucking movie.”

  “Holy shit...”

  Susie was energized, wanting to know more details. “But you’ve never met the guy before. He’s a complete stranger. That’s crazy.”

  “Bat-fucking-shit crazy,” Roy echoed.

  They stood in the kitchen in silence.

  “Well, I guess dinner’s off,” he said, flippantly.

  Susie laughed. “Ya think?” She drank from her glass. “What’s nuts is that she seemed so normal. Did he?”

  “Well. He kept telling me he was fucking normal. That they were fucking normal. Normal people just like us, but then he mentions Camilla and…” Roy let the words hang in the air as he ground his teeth. “Nothing fucking normal about that,” he mumbled.

  Susie put down her glass. “I meant how he looked.”

  “You mean, did he look fucking crazy? No, of course not. Yeah. He looked like any other guy. Average height. Mid-to-late forties. Not exactly an athlete but not out of shape either.”

  “Did he at least offer to pay the tab?” Susie asked with a smile.

  Roy laughed. But it was forced. He was staring into space, reliving the conversation in his head.

  Seconds ticked. Someone laughed outside. A door slammed.

  Susie picked up her glass. “Do you think you’re the only person he’s propositioned?” she asked, taking a sip.

  Roy studied her, pursing his lips. “I have no idea.” He drank from his wine glass. “I mean, maybe. In fact, I think, probably yes. He made it sound personal. By that, I mean personal to us. Apparently, his daughter went through her ordeal around about the time that it happened to us. And then they heard us talking on the balcony.”

  “You mean they heard you philosophizing after a little too much vino,” Susie interjected with a smile.

  Roy pulled a face and shrugged. “Well, anyway, yeah, they took that to mean that we’re like them.”

  “But we were just bullshitting about a TV show… come on!”

  “I know. He’s nuts.”

  “How the hell do you go from overhearing someone’s drunken conversation to asking them—a perfect stranger—to kill for you? It’s fucking ridiculous!”

  “You’ve got to admit, though, it’s pretty ballsy,” said Roy, indicating with his wine glass.

  “They must really be hurting. I mean, it’s risky is what it is!”

  “Yeah… what’s to keep me from going to the cops?”

  Susie pondered. “That could get messy. I suppose he’d just deny it. It’s his word against yours.”

  “It’s sure as shit not the way I would do it, Suze. If you really wanted this guy dead, you’d need to approach someone you’d think was disposed to doing it, right? You do some research, some planning. You don’t just hit someone up because you feel they can relate to what you’re going through.”

  “Well, maybe they think that’s enough.” Susie’s eyes widened. “You did tell him you weren’t interested, right?”

  “Of course I fucking did!” He scratched his head. “At least I think I did. Maybe I just got up and left.”

  “Roy!” Susie exclaimed. “He doesn’t think that, maybe...?”

  “Suze. I up and left. I don’t think I needed to say much more than that, do you? Besides, I don’t even know how to contact this guy, let alone…” Roy trailed off. He began looking around the kitchen.

  “Where’s your phone?” he demanded, spotting Susie’s iPhone on the breakfast table by her purse. He rushed over and picked it up. “Did she give you her contact info?”

  “I think so.” Susie walked up to her husband and looked over his shoulder.

  “You think so? What? You don’t know?” he asked, tapping the screen.

  “Hey, don’t get pissy with me. You’re mister ‘eye for eye’ Old Testament justice. What are you doing? Are you deleting Deb’s number?”

  “Fuck yes. We’ve no clue what these people are capable of. It’s best not to have anything to do with them.”

  “There.” He pressed the delete button and grunted in satisfaction.

  “Make sure you delete the chat, too,” Susie offered.

  Roy tapped the screen a few times, then, “Done.” He handed the phone back to his wife.

  “Let’s hope we never hear from either of them again,” she said with a bite of the lip. And then she added with a shrug, “So. What do we do about dinner?”

  “Did you reserve or was she going to?”

  “She was going to reserve.”

  “Then we just don’t show.”

  “Right,” Susie agreed with a nod. Although, if Roy had looked closely, he would have seen that she was disappointed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The senator will see you now.”

  Detective Art Travers stood and followed Meg, Senator Harlan’s assistant, to the senator’s office. The detective tried to keep his eyes up and off Meg’s ass, but her skirt was of a length that made that difficult.

  Meg opened the door for him and stood aside, flashing him a coy smile and a wink.

  This was not the first time Travers had been to see the senator, though it was the first time he had been to this office.

  The two men had met a few years earlier as a part of the investigation into Joe Harlan Jr.’s assault on Kristy Wise. Travers had been assigned to the case by the chief of police because of his reputation for diplomacy and discretion.

  Senator Harlan was also a lawyer, and today Travers had been summoned to the man’s law office, a very traditional space paneled in wood and cluttered with law books and prints of English foxhunts. It was barely three blocks from his office at the capitol.

  The nameplate on the door read Of Counsel, which Travers understood meant that the senator wasn’t so much a lawyer as a rainmaker. He didn’t participate in the law firm’s equity, only got paid for the business he brought in. Not hard to do considering that he could use the contacts he made as a senator to get clients for the firm and line his pockets in the process.

  A sleazy, but perfectly legal, practice.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Harlan Sr. said with a velociraptor smile. The words carried a slight Texas drawl, and the senator said them while rising and coming around the desk to shake Travers’ hand. He wore a stiffly starched white dress shirt with a red tie, navy blue suit pants, and black cowboy boots. His suit jacket hung from a hook near the door, a double U.S. flag/Texas flag lapel pin prominent against the blue.

 
; “Good morning, Mr. Senator.” They shook hands.

  “Stand up, son,” snapped Harlan Sr., “and greet our guest.”

  Joe Harlan Jr. stood from a nearby couch and shook the detective’s hand. The kid had a solid handshake, though his hand was moist.

  Travers discreetly wiped his hand on his pant leg, hoping the slime wouldn’t leave a stain.

  Harlan Jr. wasn’t a big guy, not as tall as his father, but wiry like him. His father stood close to six feet with his trademark boots.

  “Please, take a seat,” the senator offered, indicating the chairs in front of his huge oak desk. He took the power seat behind the desk, leaving Joe Junior to resume his place on the sofa.

  “Now, Detective,” the senator began, steepling his fingers, “we’ve talked long and hard on this and, as I’ve said a million times before, we want nothing more than to put this terrible misunderstanding behind us.”

  After criminal charges had been levied against his son, the senator had refused to call the sexual assault allegation what it was—rape. Instead, he referred to it as the “situation.” The process, from investigation through trial, had taken almost eighteen months. It was a far cry from the rash of law and order shows that made it seem that criminals went to trial in the space of weeks. The reality was very different.

  When Joe Junior was acquitted, the senator had adopted new phrasing, abandoning the “situation” in favor of the “terrible misunderstanding.” Travers wondered if the senator had spin doctors who came up with this shit or if he did it all on his own.

  “But the law is the law,” the man was saying, “and the law has spoken. Joe must be free to go about his life as he pleases. He’s been through hell and back already and the last thing he needs is to be lookin’ over his shoulder and wondering if this kook is gonna ambush him again.”

  “So, while we don’t want any more press and we want this, this,” he fumbled for the words, “thing to be over, what assurance do we have that this man is under control?” The senator’s voice rose. “I mean, I know that there’s a restraining order and all, but how can we be sure he’ll abide by it, and how can we be sure he’s going to leave my son the hell alone?” The senator’s nostrils were flared. His eyes were wide, boring holes in his guest. It was an impassioned delivery, one that might have impressed the average person on the street. But, it was delivered by a lawyer who was also a politician. To Travers, it was largely show.