Storm Vengeance

by Pamela Cowan

  “The guy at the store told me this thing is full of lead shot,” Lauren said in the same calm voice, as if nothing had taken place. “That way it takes a lot less strength to use. I bet they used something like this to fix your dad’s car after he ran over me.” She raised the hammer high and then slammed it down again, this time inches from Storm’s right hand, which was clenched as small as she could make it.

  “You know,” Lauren said, “If you open your hands and lay them out flat, I could just do one finger at a time. That way you could probably still use your hands some when we’re all done.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Storm said. She was panting, sweat dripped down her face, stinging her torn eyelid and the cuts around her neck. “I don’t know where my father is. He was in prison. He was—”

  “Yes, I know,” the soft voice coming from that painted skull’s face was dissonant, completely at odds with the intent in the hands that lifted the hammer for the third time. “They sent me a letter.”

  Storm knew the letter. She’d been at work when she received hers. Had read the return address on the envelope and suspected what it contained. She’d opened the letter with her silver letter opener, one smooth slash, then she’d smoothed the creases and read. “This is to inform you that Joe Donald Dean will be released . . .” She had gone still inside. The child-self that her counselor had told her she must love and nurture had whispered her presence from the darkest corner of Storm’s soul. Hidden as always, afraid, a coward, that child, born Willow Tina Dean, that unlovable inner child, had whimpered and reminded Storm of everything she’d ever hated about herself.

  Lauren placed the hammer on the table. “I’m going to give you a little time to think about it. I’m not a monster, you know. I never left anyone all busted up and bleeding on the sidewalk. But I can learn. When I come back, I want to see one of your hands flat on that table. See, I’m being nice. I’m giving you a choice. But if I get back and one of your hands is not open flat on the table—well I’ve got these nails.” She picked up the box of galvanized nails and shook them. They made a low and not unpleasant sound, like a baby’s rattle. “I’ve even got some good old-fashioned hammers made just for driving nails.”

  “You are sick—twisted.”

  ”If you can’t do it,” Lauren continued as if she hadn’t heard. “If it’s too hard to choose, I will have to help you hold them flat, and I can do that. I’m willing to do that.” She shook the box of nails again and set them down between Storm’s clenched fists. Then, smiling, she turned and began to walk away.

  The horror of having to choose which hand to sacrifice sent waves of ice through Storm’s veins. A picture of her wedding ring flashed through her mind, that small platinum and gold ring with its carefully chosen diamond, worth so much more than it had cost. She could not bear the thought of destroying that symbol of Tom’s love for her. But no, the ring was on her left hand and Storm had always been profoundly right handed. Without her right hand . . .

  No, this was wrong. She couldn’t be sitting here thinking these thoughts, giving up, making a choice. That was Willow’s thinking, and she was not, would never again be, Willow.

  Raggedy Ann was halfway up the stairs when Storm said, “I am not going to do that.” Her voice was steady and resonant. “Listen to me. I understand the power you have over me. I realize I will never leave this basement unless I can convince you that we’re on the same side.”

  Raggedy Ann turned, her lace petticoats rustling like the wings of a thousand moths. “The same side? You do understand,” she said, “that I’m trying to find out where your father is so I can kill him?” She walked back down the stairs and took up her place, standing opposite Lauren.

  “Yes, I understand,” Storm said. “You want justice. You want revenge. So do I. Do you think you were his only victim?”

  Lauren raised her eyebrows, a puzzled look on her painted clown face.

  “Look at my back,” Storm said.

  Lauren didn’t move.

  “Do it.”

  Frowning, Lauren cautiously made her way to the back of Storm’s chair.

  “Lift my shirt.”

  Storm felt the tentative touch of Lauren’s fingers closing over a fold of fabric, felt her take a stronger grip and tug until the blouse pulled free. The basement air touching her skin felt like an assault, but worse was feeling a stranger’s eyes on her.

  Lauren gasped. Storm shut her eyes against the note of revulsion. She knew what Lauren was seeing. She’d seen it often enough in the mirror.

  Across her back was a tracery of raised flesh that was too white, surrounded by gouges of flesh that were too pink. The border of this melted, tortured flesh was an uneven and unnatural series of straight edges. Skin grafts that had been applied to replace the skin and tissue burned or melted away. Chills slid across Storm’s skin. Goose flesh dotted her arms. It was not cold in the basement, but still she shivered.

  After a moment, Storm felt Lauren pull the hem of her blouse back down, heard her as she moved around the table and took her chair.

  “Your father?” Lauren whispered.

  Storm’s dark brown eyes opened, caught Lauren’s lizard green ones.

  “My father.” She nodded, then dropped her gaze to a spot on the table between her bound arms. “My father set me on fire when I was thirteen. You see. I have every reason to want him dead—maybe more reason than you do.”

  After a long pause Lauren said, “Maybe not more, but maybe just as much.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  LAUREN LEANED ON THE TABLE, resting her weight on her forearms. “Now what?” she asked. “I paid a private investigator a small fortune to find your father. What did I get? I got you, and a possible lead on your mother. That’s it, and that’s not enough. Your father’s like a ghost.”

  Reaching across the table, she picked up a hammer, one of the common ones made for hammering nails. For a moment Storm tensed, but Lauren seemed to have picked the hammer up only for something to do. She rested the head on her thigh and rhythmically tapped the wooden handle against the edge of the table. Tap, tap ,tap, pause. Tap, tap, tap. It went on and on, a strange sort of pacing.

  When she couldn’t stand it any longer, Storm barked, “Knock it off!”

  Lauren’s eyes flew wide. “Oh, uh, sorry.” She set the hammer down on the table top and smiled, a strangely ingratiating smile.

  Storm realized there had been a shift in the dynamics of the room, an exchange of power that she had not expected, and would not have predicted. “Look,” she said, in a no nonsense tone. “It sounds like we both have the same goal. We want to find my father.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why not join forces?”

  Lauren laughed. “You must think I’m an idiot. I kidnapped you. I held a gun on you, threatened to smash your hands, and you’re bleeding from a nasty cut on your neck. If you could, you’d turn me in and see me sent to prison in a second.”

  Storm almost smiled. Lauren had no idea of the things she was capable of. Putting this dreadful little woman in prison had not been one of the revenge scenarios she’d played in her head. “Look, I know you don’t think you can trust me, but that’s not true.”

  “Oh please.”

  “No, really. You think I’m all about the law and getting you arrested.”

  “Well call me dumb, but you are a probation officer. Doesn’t that sort of go with the job?”

  “It would, if that was all I was, but I’m more than that. I’ve done things, bad things. The sort of things that if you knew about them would convince you that you could trust me.”

  “You mean I’d have dirt on you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It would have to be very damn good dirt. I’m not just trying to find your father so I can yell at him. We’re talking about murder.”

  “So am I.”

  “Quit trying to play me,” Lauren demanded.

  “I’m not. I’m trying to save myself by convincing you we not
only have the same goal, but that I’m capable of carrying it out. That I’m capable of killing someone.”

  “And I’m not? I hate your father.”

  “I know. But are you sure that hate’s enough?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Wanting to kill someone and actually going through with it are two different things. You won’t really know if you can do it until you have done it.”

  Lauren seemed to think about this for a moment. Finally she said, “You’re saying that you have.”

  Storm nodded. “For a good reason, yes. As a vigilante. You know what a vigilante is?”

  “Of course. Someone who takes the law into their own hands.”

  “Exactly. Someone who does what the courts can’t do. Remember last year there was a story—it was picked up by a lot of papers—about a man who set his dogs on his own kids, but instead of going to prison, his case got kicked out of court?”

  “Sure I heard about it. He ran. Couldn’t face his kids, I guess. Or maybe just all those doctor bills and bill collectors. I imagine they’re still looking for him.”

  “Probably, but they’ll never find him. He didn’t run. Maybe he would have, but he never got the chance.”

  “You’re confessing that you killed him.”

  “We executed him, and not just him. There were others, also child abusers. We couldn’t let them keep doing what they’d been doing, so we stopped them. I can you give you names, dates . . .”

  “And I’m supposed to believe this and free you to help me kill your father?”

  “Execute,” Storm corrected her. “An execution carried out to protect others, to prevent the victimization of others.”

  Lauren rubbed her fingers across her lips, smearing the black and white paint. Then, sitting back, arms crossed, she let out a long breath of air and said, “So, what kind of proof do you have that you did these things?”

  Storm shook her head. “I don’t have any physical proof. I have rules: No trophies, no blood, no connections, no bodies. I don’t want to get caught so I’m damn sure there isn’t anything to lead to me. All I have are names and dates. I guess if you took that information to the police and got someone interested, you could get an investigation going. They might discover something. I’m smart, but I’m not perfect. But is that what you want? Do you want the police to investigate me?”

  Lauren licked her lips, her pink tongue smearing the paint even more. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking for a partner. This is crazy. I’m supposed to just let you go and believe you’re going to help me hunt down your own father? It’s too unlikely.”

  “Unlikely?” snapped Storm. “Did you see my back? What he did to me? He did things to my mother too. Bad things he needs to pay for. Yes, you can believe it. We’ll do it together. Find him and make him pay. I swear it. Just get this goddamn wire off my neck.”

  Storm’s frustration had grown to recklessness. Across the cap of the deep well, where the storm raged forever, cracks had formed. She tried to fight it. To gather the scattered cords of the emotions swirling in bruised purple and blood red, but the gathering was too strong. The muscles of her neck corded with her effort to stay still, but she couldn’t, and she threw herself forward. With rage taking control, the constricting wire digging into her skin was just fuel further feeding its intensity.

  Snip. Snip. The wire cutters snapped through the wire around Storm’s neck, and unsteady hands drew the pieces away and threw them into the room. “Are you crazy? You could have killed yourself. Do you want to die in here?”

  “Why not?” Storm yelled. “Why not die in the dust with the smell of stinking wine all around me. It seems appropriate. Very goddamned appropriate.” Free of the wire she slammed forward, her ribs smashing into the edge of the table. The fresh pain helped. Pain from outside always helped still the pain inside. She took a deep breath, rested her chin on her chest. The freedom of motion was nearly freedom itself.

  The stillness lasted a couple of moments and then, in the quiet, as if she hadn’t heard Storm’s proposal, Lauren asked, “Did you choose which hand?”

  At the unexpected question, Storm raised her head and smiled. Her hands were slick with sweat, palms creased with the half-moon shape that her nails had dug into her flesh. She opened both of her hands, and placed them flat on the table.

  “Fuck you,” she said softly, but firmly. Then she closed her eyes against the pain to come.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The handle of the hammer ticked out a rhythm against the edge of the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “You win,” said Lauren. “I believe you.”

  Storm opened her eyes. “We’re going to find my father—”

  “And kill him.”

  The blur of motion was so unexpected Storm didn’t have time to react. The steel head of the hammer came down on the forefinger of her left hand, mashing it against the table. Blood, from where the fingernail had driven into flesh, spattered the table and Storm’s arms and face.

  Her hands reflexively curled into protective fists and she slammed herself back into the chair while air hissed through her clenched teeth. There was no pain, yet, but she knew it would come. And then it was there, a throb that matched her rapidly beating heart. Somehow it was worse because her arms were still restrained, leaving her unable to cradle the damaged finger.

  “That was just a reminder,” said Lauren, “that you are not running the show. Not that I don’t admire your intelligence. If you really did kill some people, and if you really did hide the evidence so well that even you can’t come up with it. Yeah, you’re smart. But I’m not stupid. You still want to be partners?”

  Storm had swallowed a lot of bitterness and anger in her thirty-four years. Despite the practice, it took everything she had to nod and say, “Yes. I still want to be partners.”

  “Good. But there has to be a test first.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes. I believe you don’t care if I kill your father. I even believe you think you’d be willing to help.” She raised her hand to stop her as Storm began to protest. “I believe you believe, and that’s enough. But to trust you, it’s like you say, I need to have something on you. You say you were a vigilante, that you would kill only if someone had abused a child and deserved it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I was a child. I was abused. And not just by your father. After he ran over me, I was in and out of hospitals. I had a lot of doctors and nurses taking care of me. So many that they’re all sort of a blur, except one that stands out, one I can’t forget. I’ll tell you all about her and what she did.”

  Lauren leaned forward in her chair, her unblinking eyes staring hard into Storm’s, and said, “If you agree that what she did to me was abuse—and I know you will—then you have to agree to help me give her what she deserves, an unhappy ending.”

  “Tell me about her,” Storm said.

  “Her name is Aislynn Clevidence. She was the night nurse and she was mean. More than mean, evil.” Lauren then told a story of pain-filled nights, of begging for medication that never came, or if delivered, didn’t seem to work.

  When Lauren finished telling her story, she tucked the gun into the waistband at the small of her back, then unstrapped Storm’s arms.

  Storm rubbed the red creases in her skin with her palms, careful not to bump the damaged finger.

  “You have blood all over you, all over your shirt. Do you want to use the restroom to wash up?”

  Storm shook her head. “I have to go home.” They’ll want to know what happened. She thought for a moment and then asked. “Are there any blackberry bushes growing around here?”

  “Blackberries?”

  “Yeah, you know, blackberries, raspberries, anything with thorns.”

  “Oh,” said Lauren, as understanding dawned. “Just down the road. There’s a pull off, no traffic, just cows.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good. I’ll drive.”

  Lauren drove down the narrow dir
t lane, turned the car off, but left the headlights on. By their light Storm found the berry patch. First she bent and rubbed her palms in the powdery dust along the roadside. A moan broke from her lips as her injured and swelling finger came in contact with the ground.

  Bringing her now dirty hands to her face, she drew streaks across her forehead and one cheek. Then, after taking a deep breath and blowing it out, she covered her eyes with her hands and plunged from the road into the most tangled patch of blackberry vines she could find. The thorns jabbed and tore at her arms viciously, some digging through her blouse. Spots of blood welled from new scratches. With a sound like Velcro, Storm turned, ripped herself from the clutches of the vines, and hurried back to the car.

  The two women spoke little on the way to the parking structure but Lauren did say, “I’ll contact you in a couple days. We’ll meet for lunch and talk about what we do next.”

  “How will you contact me?” Storm asked.

  “I have your work number. I’ll call from a payphone.”

  Storm nodded. “Okay.”

  Lauren pulled Storm’s car into the space next to her own, left the keys inside and got out. “You’ll be hearing from me,” she said. Then she hurried to her car, a slash of black and white motion, climbed in and sped off. Storm heard her tires squeal as she rounded each corner a little too fast.

  Storm got out of the car and made her way to the driver’s side. She was wired with the last vestiges of adrenaline but exhaustion was beginning to settle and there were still things to do.

  With shaking hands and a smashed finger, starting the car was awkward, but she finally managed to twist the key in the ignition. She drove to a nearby construction site where the ground had been leveled but nothing had been built. There should be no security patrols, no cameras.

  Reaching into the backseat, she opened her gym bag and quickly changed into a long-sleeved knit shirt and running pants, and exchanged her work shoes for running shoes, though she found she couldn’t tie the laces. Damn that woman for smashing her finger. Damn her for everything.

  She was right back to her old life of being late and making up excuses. She was already rehearsing what she’d tell Dannisha. She was sorry she was late, but she’d gone for a run, slipped and fallen down a slope into a patch of blackberries. It would explain everything, the injured finger, the cuts on her neck and arms, even the bruises.