Storm Vengeance

by Pamela Cowan

  Storm did as she was told.

  An hour later, alone in the interview room where they’d left her, Storm paced nervously. They’d transported Jackson to the hospital, but she hadn’t heard how he was doing. They’d taken her and Lauren to the Sheriff’s Office in separate cars, and Storm hadn’t seen her since.

  She was still pacing when the door opened and two detectives entered. They were nearly carbon copies—middle aged, tanned, both wearing dark gray suits with white shirts and black ties with small patterns, one red diamonds, the other blue rectangles. They both looked to be in their early forties, with square jaws and thin lips that didn’t look overly familiar with smiling.

  Red Diamonds spoke first, “Please take a seat.”

  The room held a rectangular table and four chairs. Storm chose one of the chairs and the two men sat opposite.

  “Could you tell me how Jackson is doing?” she asked.

  Blue Rectangles flipped through a notebook and looked at her with no sign of warmth. “He’ll live.”

  Storm closed her eyes and felt the adrenaline of the last few hours drain from her body, leaving her feeling exhausted, even frail. She also felt a huge sense of relief and when she opened her eyes, she smiled at the two policeman and said, “Thank God.”

  “My name is Detective Jack Dillard and this is Detective Ray Escolino,” said Red Diamonds. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”

  Storm nodded. “Of course. I’m the one who called you. Or anyway, I called 911.”

  Dillard sat back, losing just a little of his iron posture. Storm continued, “I was at home when I got a call from Lauren Barry. She told me that she had to meet with me. She said she was in trouble. Her ex-boyfriend had found her and she was scared of him. He was violent and had been abusive in the past.”

  “So you just went? You were willing to get between her and some psycho boyfriend.”

  “Well no, not exactly. I didn’t believe in the boyfriend. I knew he didn’t exist.”

  The men exchanged looks. “Let me start from the beginning,” said Storm.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” said Detective Escolino.

  Storm told the detectives how Lauren had initiated a friendship. Then she explained meeting Tristan Garrity, the counselor who, fearing for Lauren’s safety, had shared what she knew about Lauren.

  “Lauren, well it turned out she wasn’t really Lauren Barry. She was a mentally ill woman who had met the real Lauren Barry, the one my father hit with his car when she was fifteen. She believed she was Lauren and seemed to feel some sort of connection to me. When she called me that night, she sounded frantic. I was worried she’d do something to hurt herself. I thought I’d stay with her, keep her calm until her therapist showed up. But then I couldn’t find the therapist’s card. I was sort of freaking out and couldn’t decide whether to call the mental health hotline, pull over so I could really search my purse, or turn around.

  “I finally decided I’d tell Lauren that I knew the truth—that she wasn’t really Lauren Barry. She was Rhiannon. I thought if I explained that I knew who she was, and that I wanted to help her, maybe she’d let me take her to the hospital.”

  “I’m still not getting why you let yourself get involved in all this?”

  “You don’t?” Storm asked, surprise thick in her voice. “My father hit Lauren Barry with his car. He put her in the hospital and ruined her life. Rhiannon’s life was affected too. It all comes down to my father.”

  “You aren’t responsible for your father’s actions,” said Escolino softly.

  “Someone should be,” Storm argued, crossing her arms stubbornly. “Anyway, you can talk to Ms. Garrity. If you give me my purse, I’m sure I can find her card. She’s worked for Rhiannon’s parents for a while, and I know she can tell you a lot more about her than I can.”

  “We’ll do that,” he assured her. “So, you told Lauren what you’d learned about her from,” he checked the notes he’d been making, “Ms. Garrity?” asked Dillard.

  Storm uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “No, I never had the chance. When I got there, she told me she had a surprise for me. She said her ex had attacked her but she surprised him. She’d bought a gun and shot him. When she opened the trunk to show me, and I saw Jackson, I almost fainted.”

  “So, you recognized Mr. Wallace?”

  “Yes, right away, and I knew he wasn’t Lauren’s boyfriend. He had been Nicky’s boyfriend and I knew he was still in mourning. He wasn’t dating, and certainly not someone like Lauren. Nicky was my best friend,” Storm explained. “I’m sure you’ve heard about her, the woman—the probation officer—who disappeared last year.”

  Tears streamed one by one down Storm’s face. Genuine tears that she knuckled away. “I didn’t know what to do. All my thoughts about helping her went right out the window. I could see Jackson had been shot. There was something else wrong with him too. He was out of it. I asked her what she’d done and she bragged to me—can you imagine?” Storm paused to rub another fall of tears from her face with her fingertips. “She said she shot her boyfriend, then injected him with insulin. She wanted me to help her get rid of the body.”

  “And what was your reaction?”

  “I ran to my car, grabbed my phone, and called 911. That bitch was crazy and Jackson—” Storm had no problem playing the part of the angry friend. She bent forward, buried her face in her hands. She knew she was shaking, knew they could see it. Slowly, she looked up. “Do you think? Could she have had something to do with all the things that happened last year? Her counselor told me she disappears all the time. Just goes completely off the radar. What did she do all that time she was missing? Is she the reason Nicky disappeared? Did she work with Howard?”

  “We don’t have those answers but we will be bringing Ms. Garrity in for questioning. I assure you, she’ll tell us all she knows about,” and again Dillard referred to his notes, Rhiannon Welkin.”

  Soon afterward, Storm was released, with a caution to be available for further questioning. Attention had shifted though, from Storm to the much more interesting Lauren/Rhiannon. When Detective Dillard was leaving, he turned and said, “One of the guys on scene says he’s never seen a better one-armed take down. Good job.”

  Storm smiled. “Guess the six weeks of police academy training had to pay off eventually.”

  Escolino gave her an approving nod.

  Six weeks later, on an unusually warm spring day, Storm sat in the backyard and watched Tom at the grill making dinner.

  “I can’t get over how all of it was because of one crazy woman,” Tom was saying. He took a long drink of his beer then reached for the tongs and flipped the two ears of corn that were getting a little scorched.

  Storm leaned back in her lawn chair, enjoying the touch of the sun on her face. Oregonians, at least the ones in her corner of the state, joked that they didn’t worry about tanning as much as they did about rusting.

  “I’m just glad it’s over,” said Storm.

  “I know. But I’m still in shock. She put us through two years of hell and we didn’t even . . . I didn’t protect—”

  “Stop it, Storm demanded. “There was no way we could have known what she was doing. Nothing you could have done to stop her. Just be glad that at least now she’s where she belongs.”

  “What, in a nice, cushy mental hospital? I think she belongs in the ground, like that poor woman she killed. When they found that body in her basement, all I could think was, but for the grace of God, that could have been my wife. Plus, look at what she did to Jackon.”

  “I know. When I looked in that trunk . . . I thought he was dying of an overdose. I didn’t realize he was in shock from being shot. Talk about the grace of God. If she’d used a different type of insulin things could have turned out much worse. Too bad he couldn’t make it today. It would have been good to see him.”

  “He said he’d take a rain check,” Tom reminded her.

  “Do
you think he didn’t come because his leg really was bothering him, or was it because being here reminds him too much of Nicky?” Storm asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I do know he gave up on the private eye he’d hired. Must have decided to accept your theory that Lauren, or Rhiannon, or whatever, was responsible for all of it, Howard, Nicky’s disappearance and of course his own abduction. How such a tiny woman could kidnap a man Jackson’s size. It’s so bizarre.”

  “I know. But they say crazy people can do incredible things. She certainly fooled me. When she called that night I really believed I was running off to rescue her, get her the help she needed. When she told me she’d had to shoot her boyfriend and then popped that trunk and I saw Jackson I thought my heart would stop. Poor Jackson. I still feel guilty.”

  “You are not responsible for being your father’s daughter. You know that, right?”

  “Of course, said Storm.

  “And you understand how truly crazy she is?”

  Storm drained the last of her beer. “Certifiable,” she agreed.

  She thought back to the many aspects of Lauren. Lauren as her kidnapper, her partner, almost, but maybe not quite, her friend. There was a definite sense of loss. Storm pushed the feeling down, burying it deep.

  “Yeah,” said Tom, Definitely certifiable. Some of the things she said . . . that you were the real psychopath and the one who killed the nurse and what, six or seven people.” Tom smiled. “Well, at least we know she won’t be getting out of the nut ward anytime soon. Do you want cheese on your burger?”

  “I do,” said Storm.

  Tom picked up a slice of cheddar and centered it on top of a sizzling burger. Then he took four buns and put them on the grill to brown. Storm’s mouth watered in anticipation.

  “I wonder if they’ll ever find proof that she really was working with Howard Kline?” said Tom.

  “I don’t care if they find proof,” said Storm. “I know and you know that she was behind it, which means that it’s over now. We’re free of her, and we’re free to move to New Mexico. Now, can we stop talking about her? It’s ruining my appetite, and we should be enjoying this time alone. How often do we get that?”

  “Not often enough. Though I suspect we won’t see much of the kids for a while. Mom and Dad are going to spend as much time with them as they can before the move.”

  “I understand that,” Storm said. “I’m totally okay with it. After all, getting all the packing done without them underfoot will be way easier. I just wish your folks wouldn’t worry so much about not seeing the kids. They’ll see them more than they know. We’ll fly home at least a couple times a year, and they said they plan to fly out winters. The drier weather will be good for your dad’s bad hip, right?”

  “Absolutely. Hey, you want to go in and grab some plates. I think the grub’s about ready.”

  “Sure,” said Storm, languidly rising from the chair and yawning. “Want another beer?”

  “Does a chicken have lips?”

  Storm frowned, “I don’t actually know if—”

  The front doorbell rang.

  “Great. Always at dinner time.” Storm grabbed Tom’s empty beer bottle off the table, sprinted up the steps, and opened the back door. Setting the empties on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, she hurried down the hall to the front door. Whatever they were selling, they’d picked the wrong house. After a week of packing, the last thing she wanted was to own more stuff.

  Wearing her best no-thank-you expression, she opened the door. A tall, slightly stooped man with thick gray hair stood on the front porch, a green cap clutched in his hands.

  Storm’s stomach lurched and her blood seemed to slow, as if slushy ice water pumped through her veins. At the same time her heart jackhammered in her chest. Tugging at the cuffs of her sleeves, she looked up through a fringe of bangs.

  “Dad,” she said, in the barest sliver of a voice.

  “We need to talk.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Pamela Cowan writes mystery and suspense thrillers set in the Pacific Northwest. Her short fiction has been published in magazines and anthologies and read on radio. Cowan has worked as an audio producer, a magazine editor, and in the probation and parole side of criminal justice.

  She lives with her husband and a number of four-legged roommates in Oregon, where she is currently working on her fourth novel, Cold Kill, the second mystery/thriller in the Eulalona County series.

  More by this author:

  Storm Justice, First in the series

  Something In The Dark, Mystery

  Cold Kill, Suspense

  Please visit: pamelacowan.com

  SOMETHING IN THE DARK

  “A tense, convincing and powerful psychological thriller.” ~Beshon, UK Reviewer

  “Psychological thrill seekers should find this novel one big roller-coaster of unexpected twists, turns, and loops.” ~ Hodge Podge, Amazon Reviewer

  “Well written and crafted with enough scare factor to keep the pages turning . . .” ~Karen Doering, Little Black Book of Parenting

  “Fantastic story. Full of suspense. Kept me guessing whodunit clear to the end – and I was wrong. ~Jamie McCracken, Charlie McCready Series, Secrets

  “Something in the Dark will quickly pull you in and keep you guessing. Plenty of twists and turns to keep the reader entertained. ~Jackson Cooper, Amazon Reviewer

  “Cowan’s mystery-suspense grabbed me from the start! It was an up and down roller-coaster ride that alternately had me chuckling and guessing whodunit all the way through the many twists and turns. The writer has an easy to read style and a blunt honesty.” ~Anna Brentwood, The Songbird with Sapphire Eyes

  “This one will keep you guessing—and you’ll probably be wrong! ~Mike Chinakos, Dead Town, Hollywood Cowboys

  AN EXCERPT

  And God saw the light, that it was good,

  and God divided the light from the darkness.

  Genesis 1:4

  PROLOGUE

  Building No. 246, US Army Family Housing,

  Pattonville, West Germany

  “I don’t want to play,” Austin said.

  "Sure you do,” her brother, Muncie, insisted. “Come on. All you have to do is sit inside, right here in this spot," he patted the ground inside the doorway, obliterating the tic-tac-toe game she’d drawn in the dirt earlier. "We'll shut the door and the lights will come on. You just have to look around and see what's in there. After we count to ten, we'll open the door and let you out and you'll tell us what you saw.”

  "You promise you'll open it right back up?" she asked.

  "We promise," said Muncie and his friend Brian, both solemnly crossing the area above their hearts.

  "And you promise you'll play hopscotch?" she asked doubtfully.

  "We promise," said the boys.

  "Well, okay,” she agreed reluctantly, glaring at them to let them know they’d better.

  She let them half-lift, half-push her through the doorway. The dirt floor was soft and powdery. It made her sneeze.

  While the boys went back to work unwinding the wire that held the door open, Austin began clearing away the bits of rubbish around her, tossing empty soda bottles and crumpled bits of newspaper deeper into the impenetrable maw of the hole in the wall.

  The place was really creepy and dirty. Maybe she should tell them she’d changed her mind and that they didn't have to bother untwisting the rest of the wire.

  It was too late. The weight of the huge, metal door finished the job for them. The strands sprang apart with a hissing sound, one sharp end slicing Brian’s cheek. The door slammed shut with a sound like thunder that echoed down the long hallway.

  Austin gasped, shocked by the noise and the sudden darkness. Immediately she began to count. “One, two, three.” She couldn't hear anything.

  Were they there? “Four, five, six." She didn't hear them moving, or counting, or anything. “Seven, eight, nine, ten.” Well, maybe she was counting too
fast. She counted again—then again.

  She started to get angry. Creeps. Boys were creeps. They liked to push you down, and break your things, and tell lies about you. She wouldn't ever play with them again. They probably weren't even really going to play hopscotch. They only said that so she'd sit in this dark, dirty hole. There weren't any lights. There wasn't any secret room. It was all a big fat lie. If they lied about that–maybe they lied about letting her out too.

  She blinked her eyes. Were her eyes open? She thought they were, but it was so dark they must be closed. Putting her hands to her face she felt her eyelids quiver.

  Open or closed the dark was just the same. She felt the dampness at the corners of her eyes. They were tears, but she wasn't ready to cry, at least not just yet. She was a big girl, after all. She counted again.

  “One, two.” What if they didn't come back? Her mom would be mad. Her dad would be mad too. They would ask her brother where she was. But what if her brother was afraid to say? What if he thought he'd get in trouble if he told them she was in the hole-in-the-wall? What if he never told anybody?

  She cried a little bit. It made her feel better. Then a new thought struck.

  Maybe her mom and dad would think she was strangulated, like that girl on the television that she heard her daddy say got kidnapped, and strangulated, and dead. That girl was six years old. Horrible things happened to children nowadays. That's what her mom and dad said. Horrible things like getting put in holes.

  Crouched, shivering in the dark, she knocked on the heavy, iron door until her knuckles ached and she had to stop. At least the pain was a distraction, a reassurance that there was something other than darkness, even if she was too young to put those feelings into words.

  After a while, not knowing what else to do, she knocked on the door again, first rapping with her knuckles, then with her balled fists, and finally, with the palms of her hands. Smack, smack went her hands. Just like patty cake. Slap, slap, slap.

  She pressed her face against the door. It was icy cold against her flushed, tear-streaked face. “Mommy. Mommy," she called. "I'm in here. I'm right in here."