Storm Vengeance

by Pamela Cowan

  That would take care of Dannisha. The bigger question was, what was she going to do about Lauren.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS STORM TURNED THE CORNER onto her street, she was surprised that there were no cars in her driveway. Where was Dannisha’s battered station wagon? Worried, she sped into the driveway, hit the brakes, shut off the engine, and was out the door and dashing toward the house before the car stopped rocking. The white picket fence that lined the driveway side of the yard forced her to alter her straight course.

  It did not delay her for long. It was late, but the halogen light mounted above the garage door helped her find the latch to the gate. In moments she was through and racing up the back steps. She swung open the door, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the kitchen and beyond.

  “Where is everyone?” she called out, not quite shouting.

  Tom appeared, responding to her urgency by rushing from the living room down the hall and into the kitchen. “Babe. Where have you . . .?” Then, noticing Storm’s condition. “What in the world happened?”

  Storm let him cup her elbows, back her under the stronger light of the kitchen fluorescents.

  “You’ve got cuts and dirt all over. Is that blood? Are you all right?”

  Lindsey and Joel galloped down the hall, seconds behind their father, and exploded into the kitchen.

  “I’m fine. Why are you guys still up?”

  Tom turned and put up his hands to ward them off. “Wait, don’t trample your mom. She’s hurt.”

  “Mom’s got owees?” five year old Joel asked, worry making him revert to a younger self.

  “Little ones. Teeny, tiny ones. It looks worse than it is,” she assured her family. She reached out and gently tugged eight year old Lindsey’s blond pony tail. She was studying the dried blood on

  her mother’s cheek, but less with empathy than with a sort of scientific curiosity.

  “Head wounds bleed a lot,” she told her mother solemnly. “You might need stitches.”

  “What I need is a shower and some clean clothes. I got into a fight with a bunch of blackberry bushes, and the blackberries won. But hey, I still want to know why you’re all up so late.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault. They were so excited about me being home they wouldn’t settle down,” explained Tom. “But I think maybe you guys better go hop into bed. It really is late, and I’m going to help your mom clean up and put some band aids on those owees. Lindsey, can you tuck your brother in for me?”

  “Sure. Come on, brat,” she said to her brother, enjoying her moment of superiority.

  Tom adjusted the temperature of the shower while Storm got out of her dirt and blood-speckled clothing. She was surprised when Tom stripped and stepped into the shower before she was fully undressed.

  “Come on, you’ll need help,” he said, answering her quizzical look. “I don’t know how bad that cut on your head is, but that finger looks nasty. Are you sure it’s not broken? What exactly happened?”

  At first all Storm had wanted was a hot shower and clean clothes. Now she needed more. She needed Tom to believe the story she’d invented for Dannisha. As she stepped into the shower, she said, “It was a really stupid thing. I got off work early, and the weather was so nice I decided to take quick trip to Hagg Lake. I wanted to get a last run around the lake before the rain shows up and the trails all turn muddy and slippery.

  “Funny, huh? Worried about slippery mud and it was dry and perfect, and I still managed to fall. I’m not sure what happened. I guess I got too close to the edge, or the trail was eroded at that . . . ouch . . . spot.”

  “Sorry.” Tom dabbed gently at a cut on the side of Storm’s head, cleaning dried blood from the place where Lauren had struck her with the gun.

  “The ground gave way,” Storm continued, and me and several good-sized rocks bounced, rolled, and tumbled all the way to the bottom. You’d have laughed.”

  “I would not have laughed,” Tom told her, separating strands of her long hair with the utmost delicacy.

  “Well, maybe not. I did smack my head pretty hard. It knocked me out for a while. When I came out of it, I realized I’d rolled into a patch of blackberries. Most of the damage is from getting free of the vines. Nasty thorns on those things.”

  “You really do have some owees,” agreed Tom. “This might sting.” He began to rub shampoo into Storm’s dark chestnut hair, gently turning her until she stood with her back to him and he could work the soap the length of the strands. Tom finished shampooing her hair and reached for the sponge.

  Storm closed her eyes. As the sponge was firmly swept across her skin, she realized how fully exposed her scars were. For years she had kept them hidden from him as best she could, dressing in the bathroom, wearing pajamas to bed, and insisting they make love in the dark.

  That had changed a few months ago, during a special Christmas getaway at a ski lodge on Mount Hood. The first night they were there, she’d finally told him the truth—or at least part of the truth—about her family. She’d shared that she’d been born Willow Tina Dean, but that she’d changed her name to Storm on her eighteenth birthday. Her mother had once explained that she’d chosen her name because willows bent but didn’t break before a storm. Storm chose her name because no matter how strong a willow might be, she preferred to be the storm.

  After her confession, they’d made love on a couch in front of a flickering fireplace and though, as usual, she’d tried to hide her scars, this time Tom had not allowed it.

  Their relationship had risen to another level that night. She’d taken a huge step in the direction of truly trusting someone. Now she was lying to that same person. She knew it was wrong. But what else could she do? Life could be so unfair.

  Storm yielded easily as Tom turned her to face him, then guided her under the shower’s spray to rinse her hair. This time the sponge swept across her neck. She drew in her breath. The thin cuts stung as the soap touched them.

  “These are strange,” said Tom. “Like you were garroted.”

  “Garroted?”

  “Yeah, you know, strangled with piano wire or something.”

  “You watch way too much British television.”

  “I guess. But those bruises look funny too. What would leave a mark like that?”

  Storm opened her eyes. Looked down at herself. Across her torso a line of bruises, several dark red lines as straight as a ruler, stood out against her otherwise pale skin. She remembered shoving herself into the table in the basement.

  Storm wasn’t sure if she saw suspicion in Tom’s eyes, or whether his questions were innocent and she was projecting. She slid her hands over her stomach. “Oh, I know how that happened. When I was climbing out, I reached a ledge made out of railroad ties. When I tried to pull myself up, I slipped and fell on my stomach.”

  “That would do it. You know, most of these scratches are pretty minor. Even that one on your head—Lindsey was right—head wounds do bleed a lot, but it’s not that deep.

  “I think the bruises are going to hurt a while and I’m not happy with the looks of that finger. I don’t even want to touch it. You want to try and clean it up yourself?”

  “Sure.” Storm took the sponge and dabbed at her finger. The nail had turned dark blue at the edges and an angry red at the center. She wondered if she’d lose the nail and whether her knuckle was broken. It was swollen, and the hot water had awakened a deep, throbbing ache.

  “You can bandage it up after our shower,” said Storm. “If it’s not better by tomorrow, I’ll get an x-ray.”

  “Good idea,” said Tom. “Are you sure this was all from blackberries? I’ve been in my share of blackberries, and those cuts on your neck . . .”

  Storm slipped her good hand down Tom’s stomach and gently grasped him, squeezing lightly.

  “Hey, you’re far too beat up for sex,” Tom tried to argue.

  “You’re right,” Storm said, slowly sinking down to her knees in front of him. The water spraying Tom’s che
st cascaded across her shoulders. Resting her injured left hand on his right calf, she used her good hand to guide him to her mouth.

  As he slid across her wet lips into her warm and welcoming mouth, she flicked her tongue back and forth across the sensitive area underneath. He moaned and put his hands on the back of her head. She could feel his body tense as he resisted the urge to pull her head hard against him. She rewarded him by taking more of him into her mouth.

  He had been slightly soft when she’d first touched him. There was nothing soft about him now. Her lips were stretched wide to accommodate him, and she kept them closed around him, sucking hard, finding his rhythm.

  Losing control, he moved faster, plunged harder, until he was reaching the back of her throat and she felt like she was swallowing him with each thrust.

  With a final, driving lunge Tom came. She felt the hot, fast pulse and swallowed convulsively.

  When he grew flaccid, Storm drew a deep, shuddering breath but did not try to get up. Instead, she cupped Tom’s balls and nibbled him into her mouth with delicate, teasing nips of her teeth. With a sense of power, she felt him start to grow hard again.

  Hearing Tom groan, Storm stopped what she was doing, swept her wet hair back, and looked up at his heavy, hooded eyes. There were no more questions in them.

  Satisfied with her work, she began again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ON THEIR SECOND ATTEMPT, Storm stood at the edge of the Tualatin Hills Nature Park, stared into the parking lot of the neighboring apartment complex, and experienced a sense of déjà vu.

  This night there was no thunder and lightning and no wind, just a muffled stillness. A dusting of snow lay on every surface. Under the gentle light of the moon everything looked clean. The air smelled fresh.

  Though the half moon was bright in the cloudless sky, and the street and car lights cast a soft, ambient light, they were well hidden in the shadows of the trees. Both women wore dark clothes, black spandex pants, long-sleeved black shirts, black running shoes. Lauren wore a tobacco brown barn coat, Storm a black vest.

  Lauren stood beside Storm quietly, as promised. Storm was not sure that she would continue to behave. Just how much could she trust the woman who’d kidnapped her? But then, she didn’t have much choice. Or did she?

  With a figurative shake of her head, she told herself to stop thinking about it. The circular argument would make her crazy if she didn’t. She’d spent the last two weeks struggling with why she hadn’t called the police and turned Lauren in. After all, she’d not only kidnapped her, she’d threatened her and smashed her finger with a hammer. She flexed her hands in her coat pockets. Yes, the finger still hurt. Not much, but enough to arouse her anger.

  In the basement she’d surprised herself by telling Lauren about the justice killings and trying to convince her that she too wanted her father dead. It had worked, and Lauren had set her free with the threat that she’d tell the police about the killings.

  It was an empty threat, and she was fairly sure Lauren knew that. After all, what if she did go to the police? Who would they believe, a contributing member of the community, loving wife and mother, who was also a probation officer, or a woman with an obvious reason to seek vengeance? It wouldn’t take much for Storm to raise the thought that Lauren, unable to find the man she hated, had turned her attention and desire for revenge on that man’s daughter.

  Plus, even if the police did become suspicious, there was no evidence to tie her to any of the killings. She was free and clear. She could walk away and Lauren wouldn’t be able to do a thing.

  Yet, here she was.

  Was it boredom? Could it be as simple as that? Was her life not fulfilling enough? Or was it something more than that?

  “There she is,” whispered Lauren.

  “Well,” Storm whispered back, “one thing you can say for her, she’s damned predictable. Let’s go.”

  Moving quickly, the two women left the shadows of the trees and moved to the sidewalk. They appeared to be hardcore runners, willing to run in any kind of weather. Not really a deception on Storm’s part.

  They turned into the parking lot of the apartment complex where the woman they planned to kidnap was opening the trunk of her car to unload two brown paper bags of groceries. At least that’s what she would be doing if she had stuck to her well-researched routine.

  They walked directly to the car. Though it was night, the snow reflected all available light. Storm felt as if they were walking across a well-lit stage set, an audience behind dozens of windows eagerly watching the show. The night had become maddeningly loud. The stillness of earlier now broken by the crunch of their shoes on snow and the draining patter of their own practiced chatter.

  The woman heard them and turned. Only a few steps away, Storm raised her hand and waved. “Hey Aislynn, do you want some help?”

  The older woman was short and shaped like a barrel. She wore blue scrubs, pants tucked into white snow boots, and a heavy jacket with a rabbit fur hood that rested on her shoulders. Her gray hair was tightly curled and thin enough to show a lot of pink scalp. Her cheeks were also pink, Storm thought probably from the cold. Otherwise she looked pale and unhealthy, like someone who spent most of their time doing very little and doing it indoors from a comfortable chair. This should be easy.

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” the woman asked, her voice managing to be both high pitched and raspy. She was leaning into the trunk of her car, her hands wrapped in the handles of two bags of groceries. She had paused in the act of removing them.

  “I know you,” said Lauren. “How you been Ms. Clevidence? Or should I say Nurse Clevidence?”

  Storm threw Lauren a cautioning glance and moved quickly to take her place on the woman’s left side. Lauren had positioned herself on her right.

  Storm pulled the gun from her pocket and pressed it against the woman’s side. Not sure if she could feel it through the heavy coat, she jabbed hard. “Feel that?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “Good,” said Lauren, ignoring her question. “That’s a gun. You’re going to do what we say. Let go of the groceries. Get your hands out of there.” The moment her hands were clear, Lauren slammed the trunk shut loudly. Storm sent Lauren a look and she grinned sheepishly, then shrugged and mouthed “Sorry.”

  “We’re going for a walk,” said Lauren. “You walk between us. Walking is good for you.”

  “I walk plenty.”

  “Well good,” Storm said, breaking in. “Then you won’t mind this.”

  “I might. What do you want?”

  “We’ll tell you soon.”

  “I think you should tell me now.”

  “Don’t cause any trouble, you old witch,” warned Lauren. “You don’t want to piss me off.”

  “You don’t scare me.”

  “She doesn’t have to,” said Storm, tiring of a discussion that should never have begun. “Now move.”

  Wrapping her hand around the fur hood on the woman’s coat, Storm turned the woman in the right direction. Lauren took her arm and tugged until she began to walk. Storm let go of the coat and took her other arm. After that, momentum did much of the work.

  “You’d better tell me what you want or I’m going to start yelling. You want money? My purse is in the car.”

  “Faster,” said Storm.

  The trio moved rapidly down the sidewalk. Behind them the apartment complex was quickly hidden behind trees at the edge of the park. Following the footsteps they’d created earlier, the two women half led, half dragged the befuddled woman into the forest.

  Increasingly agitated, the nurse stopped, pulled free of Lauren’s grasp, and dragged Storm into a half turn.

  Lauren threw herself shoulder first into the woman’s back, knocking her down. Standing above her prone form, Lauren pulled her booted foot back.

  “Lauren, stop. Don’t,” Storm hissed. “She’s an old lady. You can’t do that.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”
Lauren said between gritted teeth. “You know what she did to me?” Her green eyes glittered as she rounded on Storm.

  “I know. I know. But let’s just . . . let’s do what we said we’d do. Stick with our plan.”

  “Get up, you old witch, and thank whatever gods you believe in that I’m not alone out here with you,” said Lauren.

  “Lady. Aislynn. You need to listen to her,” Storm said.

  The older woman’s breath had been knocked out of her but she nodded. After a moment Storm was able to help her up, and they again took their positions, like three friends walking in tandem, hand in hand.

  Unlike the sidewalks along the apartments, the trail through the woods had been shoveled clear of snow and they were able to move much more quickly. In no time they passed between the park buildings, lights off and windows dark, and into the parking area.

  Adopting Lauren’s wire noose method of restraint, Storm slipped the waiting wire around Aislynn Clevidence’s throat and, with a quick series of twists, around the passenger seat head rest. She left it to Lauren to explain the purpose and deliver the cautions.

  Aislynn Clevidence. She would memorize that name. Soon she’d be adding it to the list. The only trophy Storm had allowed herself to keep, her only way to remember each of the kills was by memorizing their names. She could recite them all, in sequence, and name their crimes.

  There were some names she would never add to the list. Names of those who were gone because of her, by her actions, but not by her intent. These were mistakes, collateral damage. For them she had another list, and for them she mourned.

  Lauren used three zip ties on the nurse, one around each wrist and one to join them. She noticed Lauren didn’t bother with a scarf or glasses as she had with Storm. The windows of her Lexus were tinted, and the heavy coat and hood arranged around the telltale wire were all the concealment she probably felt they’d need.