Storm Vengeance

by Pamela Cowan

  Storm’s next step was to drive to a parking lot in the Tanasbourne Shopping Mall. She pulled in and found an empty space near the center of the lot, between a Thirsty Lion Pub and Grill and a Lenscrafters.

  The surrounding businesses would begin to close at ten, but the grill would be open late. That meant she should be able to get at least a couple hours of sleep. If anyone saw her, they’d just think she was waiting, for someone who worked in the area or had hung out a bar too long and was sleeping it off.

  It should have been a good way to kill some time, or so she’d thought. The lot was dark enough, with cars pulling in and out with enough frequency to become a sort of white noise.

  The problem was the voices. Everyone seemed to be talking loudly, even when they were just on the phone. With this evidence of people all around her, Storm felt too vulnerable with her seat reclined, and too uncomfortable with it up.

  Also, it was a damp, cold night. She had to start the car every so often so she could run the heater. After two hours and about fifteen minutes of fitful sleep, she gave up and drove to a nearby McDonalds. She went inside, ordered a small burger and a large cup of coffee, then found a pile of newspapers and settled in.

  After an hour spent reading, doing two crossword puzzles, and drinking copious amounts of coffee, she was cross-eyed with fatigue and wired up on caffeine. It was finally time to pick up Lauren.

  Though it hadn’t snowed, the temperature was low enough to turn the mist into a light sleet that had blanketed her car and the streets. Storm drove carefully, looking for the telltale sheen of black ice.

  She pulled into the parking area for Elmonico. There were only a handful of cars in the lot, and the only tracks in the frosty layer of sleet were her own.

  She pulled through a parking space so she was facing the tracks and checked her watch. Half an hour to go. Rolling her window down allowed the cold inside. She expected it would help her stay awake, but she was wrong. A deep silence wrapped around her like a soft blanket.

  The clatter and squeal of the train as it slowed and stopped only a few yards away startled her awake. She scanned the parking area first. Nothing seemed to have changed. Same cars in the same places. No people in sight. Then she looked back to the train and it’s one disembarking passenger: Lauren.

  No one else got off the train and, with a lurch, it drew away. It seemed to pull all light and sound with it. Storm thought the silence it left behind felt empty, like something was missing. Shaking off a sense of unease, Storm pushed the door unlock button just as Lauren reached the car.

  The drive to the Prentice house was uneventful. Questions about Lauren swirled incessantly through her mind, but Storm forced herself to set them aside. Later, after this was done. Then she’d confront Lauren, or whoever she was, and make her explain why she was pretending to be the girl her father had hit with his car. For now she’d just have to keep a wary eye on her and try to quit thinking about it. It was distracting, and tonight she had to focus.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STORM DROVE PAST THE house, and then swung just wide enough to pull off a tight u turn and drive back, parallel parking half a block away so she was facing but on the opposite side of the house. After all the time she’d spent studying it on the Internet, the Prentice place seemed familiar. It was a split level, painted light gray with dark gray trim. A long driveway that could hold four cars was covered by two ugly car covers, their white P.V.C. legs splayed erratically. The white plastic covering them was mottled with green and black mold and shuddered when the wind picked up. Under them, two cars were parked in a single row.

  The front lawn was green and neatly mowed. A brick path, more decorative than functional, wound from a random place on the street to the double front doors.

  If they found no better way in, they’d knock on the doors and then push their way inside. Storm hoped they wouldn’t have to resort to that. Best to surprise the couple sleeping and not give them much chance to react. Unfortunately, the flicking blue light in a front upstairs window told her someone was watching television. After a few minutes, it went off.

  “We’ll wait awhile. Give them some time to settle down, fall asleep, and then see if we can get in,” Storm said.

  Lauren nodded and continued to watch the house. She seemed eager, but contained. Lauren was acting the part of the perfect partner. But who the hell was she?

  Reminding herself that this wasn’t the time to let herself be distracted, Storm turned her attention back to the task at hand and surveyed the street. There was little to see. It was an old neighborhood with smaller than average houses tucked on bigger than average lots. Luckily, there were lots of mature trees, blue spruce with sweeping branches, shaggy pines, and tall

  hedges which kept most of the nearby houses hidden from view.

  Only two houses might present a problem. The one whose driveway was just past the nose of her car and the next-door neighbors, on the other side of the house. That one was almost invisible behind a thick row of arborvitae. Only a row of windows on the second floor was visible, and they were dark. As for the other, it was obscured by a boxy hedge of blood-red photinia. All Storm could see of it, in the dim glow of a porch light, was the closed door of an attached garage.

  Everything was quiet but for the sound of cars from a distant thoroughfare and the relentless barking of a dog a few blocks away.

  “Tell me again how we’re going to do this,” Lauren asked.

  “You tell me,” said Storm.

  “Well, first we’ll find a way in, then we’ll find the Prentices. Hopefully they’ll be sleeping in their bed. You’ll hold the gun on them while I tie them up with some duct tape, and then we’ll shoot them both up with insulin. As soon as we’re sure they’re dead, we’ll pick up all the duct tape and whatever. Then you’ll start a fire. You got the stuff, right?”

  Storm patted the pocket of her rain coat. “Yep. Organic fire starter. They’re supposed to burn clean and not leave anything behind.”

  “An accelerant that doesn’t leave a trace. That’s beautiful,” said Lauren.

  “It is,” agreed Storm. “Only . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been wondering,” said Storm. “Maybe we’re going at this all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Storm could tell Lauren was ready to go. In fact, she seemed to be panting, taking short, shallow breaths. At that moment Lauren reminded Storm of a guard dog on a chain, straining to be released.

  “I’m not saying we’re not going to do this. I’m just saying maybe we need to look at our tactics again. We want to make sure it doesn’t look like a murder.”

  “Of course. That’s why we decided on the fire.”

  “I know. It’s just, don’t you think it will look sort of fishy if they have their kids taken away, and then suddenly they both die in a fire? Someone might think that looks like revenge.”

  Lauren twisted in her seat, drew one leg up under her body. “I guess, but maybe people will figure God was getting revenge. Isn’t God supposed to do that?”

  “Maybe, but God doesn’t set fires.”

  “Tell that to Moses,” said Lauren, her teeth flashing white as she smiled at her own joke.

  “Funny,” said Storm. “But being serious here, think about it. How do most couples die?”

  “How do they . . .?”

  “When they die together I mean,” explained Storm. “It’s always the same. They’re in some tragic accident, a car wreck, a plane goes down. But when it’s not an accident, how do couples die?”

  There was so little ambient light, Storm could barely see Lauren. A flash of white eyes or teeth, a dark against dark shape, that was it. But she could tell by Lauren’s stillness that she was thinking hard.

  “They kill each other,” she finally offered.

  “Exactly. Murder-suicide. If it looks like murder-suicide, no one will question it. Two people upset, angry about losing their kids. Maybe they blame each other. Maybe onl
y one was abusive and the other was a victim who refuses to take it anymore.”

  “What if that’s true?” asked Lauren. “What if one of them was being abused by the other?”

  Storm snorted, her unreserved dismissal of the idea perfectly clear. “Allowing yourself to be abused is one thing. Not defending your children? Not so much.”

  “No forgiveness there, huh?”

  Instead of answering, Storm said, “Let’s wait a few more minutes. Give them time to fall asleep.”

  A thin fog was settling in and their breath condensed on the car windows, making them more and more opaque. The car seemed like a boat set adrift on a starless night. Storm wanted to get out, get moving. Jittery with unexpended energy, she took another sip of the bottled water she’d brought for the wait and nodded to Lauren.

  They both took gloves from their coat pockets and drew them on, then slipped out of the car and softly closed their doors. Lauren followed Storm as she walked along the far side of the cars inside the carport, then slipped around a splayed leg and along the side of the house.

  Storm found the gate into the backyard, pressed down on the handle, and was relieved to both hear and feel something metallic slide. She pushed and the door swung wide with only the thinnest creaking sound.

  Reaching up, Storm pushed back the hood of her coat. Though it had restricted her peripheral vision, she’d kept the hood pulled up while she drove and while she waited in the car. It covered her hair, which was swept up in a tight knot and tucked into a frilly shower cap, and disguised her gender.

  Lauren followed Storm’s lead. She too had tucked her unruly red hair into a cap. Hers a dull red-rubber swimming cap. They thought the caps and gloves would keep them from leaving loose hairs and fingerprints behind. The fire they’d planned might not destroy everything.

  Once inside, the two women paused to look around. A sagging six foot fence circled the yard, marking a clear line to divide the Prentice property from the unkempt green belt behind and on one side. The back yard was an empty stretch of patchy lawn with a small metal storage shed in a far corner and a bare concrete slab at the back door. Maybe in summer patio furniture and a barbecue would sit on that slab, but now it was just a bare surface, swept clean.

  There was a porch light, but it either wasn’t on or the bulb was burned out. Luckily there was enough ambient light to make out a pair of sliding glass doors and a thick off-white curtain behind them.

  Storm tried the door. It was locked. She took her small flashlight from her pocket and shone the light at the base of the door. Luck. There was no bar blocking the door from sliding open. Most people put a broomstick handle there for extra security. The Prentices apparently felt secure enough. They were about to learn that was a mistake.

  Reaching into an inner pocket, Storm withdrew a small cat’s paw, a tool that resembled a pry bar but was more flat. Handing the flashlight to Lauren and motioning for her to keep the light on the lock, Storm slid the catspaw between the frame and the door. Pressing hard and pulling at the same time, she felt the tin give, bending under the bar like butter under a knife. With more room to work, she repositioned the thin edge of the tool, pounded on it with the heel of her hand, and wrenched again. This time it wasn’t as easy, but the squeal of distressed metal let her know she was making progress. One more time Storm reset the tool, seated it as deeply into the door as she could, and heaved. The lock popped open with a metallic ping and the door slid back a few inches in its track.

  Storm and Lauren exchanged a look of triumph, and then Storm took the flashlight back, slid the curtain aside, and eased into the house. The back door led into a glassed in sunroom. Overgrown houseplants hugged the walls and a smell of chemical-laced potting soil and stagnant water filled the space, reminding Storm of the plant nursery where she’d bought roses for the yard.

  The French door into the house proper stood half open. The two women sidled cautiously through and into the dining room. Dirty dishes from that night’s dinner sat on the table. To the right was a good-sized kitchen. Pots and pans, too numerous to have been from just that meal or even several meals, were piled in the sink. Food prep, including things that should have gone into the refrigerator, had been left on the counter: a bowl of cooked spaghetti, half an onion, half a tomato that dripped thin blood-colored juice down the front of the cabinet. The place was a mess, and it smelled like an Italian restaurant that should be shut down by the health department.

  Storm moved through the dining room into the living area. The big picture window she’d seen from the street was right in front of her. Light blue curtains were pulled closed across it. To the right was a stairway to the upper rooms. Storm held her hand over the flashlight, letting just enough light through a gap in her fingers to show them the treads. She gestured to Lauren to take the left side while she ascended on the right. The women moved carefully, keeping to the edge of each tread where the stair was least likely to creak. Even so, Storm was careful to let her weight down and take it up slowly each time.

  They made it to the top of the stairs without incident and found themselves on a small landing, from which stretched a short hallway with four doors, all painted white. Storm guessed the two doors opening off the landing were bedrooms, the door half- way down the hall would be the bathroom, and the one at the end of the hall would be the master bedroom.

  Moving to the first of the doors, she twisted the knob and pushed. When she shined the flashlight inside, she saw two twin beds and, between them, a dresser, the kind called a tallboy, painted white. The posters on the walls and pink bedspreads made this the room the girls had shared. She caught a faint scent of bleach. Compared to the messiness of downstairs and considering it belonged to young children, the room was uncluttered and surprisingly neat. But Storm didn’t take too much time to think about it. Instead, she slipped down the hall and carefully tried the next door.

  That room held a futon and a sewing machine. A couple of partly finished quilts were thrown over the back of the futon and there were stacks of fabric piled everywhere. A hobby room that was maybe used for guests now and then. The next door opened to a cluttered bathroom that smelled of damp towels, soap, and hairspray. They’d seen no one. Storm was now confident she’d been right. The room at the end of the hall was the one they were looking for.

  Lauren moved up so that she was on Storm’s left. Storm handed her the flashlight and pulled the gun from its holster. She looked at Lauren, asking the question with her eyes. Are you ready?

  Lauren gave a curt nod and held up the flashlight so it shone bright and sharp on the door. Storm pushed it open.

  They stepped into the room and to the side, Lauren going left, Storm going right. Then they froze, the light and the muzzle of the gun trained on the bed.

  Nothing happened.

  The room reeked of sweat, bad breath, and some kind of apple cinnamon room freshener. Storm could hear rasping breaths and snoring coming from the two forms lying on their sides on the king-sized bed, each buried neck high under a sheet with a floral print. After a moment she could discern that the snoring came from the bulkier shape of the man, while the soft rasping was the woman.

  She took a deep breath, let out some of it, then swept her hand across the wall where she expected to find the light switch. She flipped it up and a pair of lights hanging from chains at the head of the bed came on with a metallic snap. Light filled the room, reflecting from the chalk-white walls and driving the shadows away. Most of the space was taken up by the bed. Around it, piles of dirty clothes and shoes were strewn, a formidable obstacle course. Walking through the room, even with the lights on, would be tricky.

  Storm gestured toward the left. Lauren stepped around the bed until she was directly next to the woman, who seemed to still be sleeping. Storm took two long sidesteps until she was next to the mountainous man, who was lying there with his back to her. His low-pitched, rumbling snores were rhythmic, almost sleep inducing.

  It was the woman who stirred first. She ga
ve out a breathy groan and her forearm came up and covered her eyes, which she hadn’t opened. A moment passed and then the arm came back down, and this time her eyes did open. She blinked, obviously bothered by the light. Then, seeing Lauren staring down at her, she started, her head lifting from the pillow and then slamming back down, as if she was trying to draw away. “What the hell? Who are you? What . . .”

  Pushing herself up into a sitting position, she skittered back until she came up against the headboard. She reached for her husband’s arm and shook him. “Bret. Bret! Wake up. Wake up.” Her eyes were wide with panic.

  The woman was in her mid-thirties. Her dark hair was cut short and her dark eyes had blue smudges under them. There was a row of acne along the edge of her jaw. She was as thin and shapeless as a ruler and wore a black tank top with bleach spots over white cotton underwear.

  Her husband finally gave a loud snort and opened his eyes. He struggled to swing his legs over and get up, but Storm batted his legs aside and he lay there, a helpless pile of unwieldy weight. Growing frantic at the sight of the gun, he tried again to hook an ankle on the edge of the bed and leverage himself out of bed. Storm slammed the pistol into his shin, and he jerked his leg away and lay still.

  His voice was higher than Storm had expected. “What the hell?” he asked querulously. To be certain she was out of his reach, Storm took a step back and leveled her gun on a spot between the two of them. “Don’t move,” she told them both.

  “Lauren, get them taped up.”

  Lauren bent down and picked something up off the floor. It was a large shirt, the husband’s, obviously. She tossed it to him, then found another and threw it to the woman. It landed on her knees, which were poking up under the sheet. “Put it on,” Lauren instructed.

  The woman didn’t move to take it. Instead she said to Storm, “I know you.”

  “Yes,” said Storm, “you do. Now put on the shirt.”

  “It’s not mine,” the woman said.

  “Mrs. Prentice, put the shirt on and don’t talk,” said Storm, swinging the muzzle of the gun so it lined up with her forehead. She did as she was told and in a moment had the ludicrously large shirt draped around her, her hands pulled far into the sleeves. “Put your