Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  Stepping up to the counter, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The harsh white light highlighted the streaks of auburn in her dark-brown hair, made her olive skin seem sallow, and cast deep shadows around her brown eyes.

  She didn't see any blood but took a tissue, and dabbed her face, and then carefully slid it over her hair, still pinned into a tight chignon. She checked the tissue and found it spotless, except for a small amount of beige residue from her makeup. She dropped the tissue into the first stall toilet and flushed it away.

  Taking her time, in no hurry to interrupt Howard, she walked to the copy center and took one of the cars used for hauling out recycling.

  By the time she returned, Howard was lowering Mr. Everett to the floor. With no further conversation, Storm helped him load everything into the cart: Mr. Everett, his clothes, the whip, and the curling iron. Howard took the cash from Mr. Everett's wallet and tossed the wallet on the pile. After one final look around, Howard pushed the cart out of the room and down the back hallway, his destination the incinerator in the room at the end.

  The building was leased to a company that manufactured acids used in the creation of computer chips. By-products were destroyed in a special incinerator called a thermal oxidizer. The oxidizer was basically a series of large barrels, the first big enough to hold two men if they hunched a bit.

  The first barrel used intense heat to incinerate anything placed inside it and then fans pulled the gases formed through various passageways and filters, finally releasing supposedly harmless water vapor into the atmosphere.

  This was usually done at night so that the billowing clouds of white smoke didn't bother anyone, particularly those pesky, environmentally conscious anyones.

  As soon as Howard left with the loaded cart, Storm took a bottle of cleaning solution from a storage cabinet. Using the blast of the shower hoses and scrubbing at the worst of the stains with a small towel, she was done in no time.

  Carefully, she removed her overalls and booties and rolled them up around the towel. Howard returned, shoving the now-empty cart under a shower head. After he washed down the cart, he dried it with a towel from his pack. Removing his outer garments and adding them to hers, he picked up the bundle.

  With Storm pushing the cart they headed back down the hall.

  After returning the cart, they went on to the incinerator room. Howard had placed Mr. Everett’s body, curled in a fetal position, inside the oxidizer. Their tools had been thrown in with him. Howard stepped forward and placed the rest on top of the pile and then stripped off his gloves and added them. “I get it all?” he asked, taking a slow look around the room.

  Storm pulled off her gloves and stooped to place them into the incinerator. “I think you did,” she told him. “I don’t think we forgot anything.”

  “Cool.”

  She stood up straight and took a step back. Howard gave her a smile as he slammed the heavy metal door, turned a dial, held down a button, and flipped a switch. With a throaty hum, the incinerator came to life.

  This, for Storm, was the worst part. She had to leave not knowing whether the incinerator had done its job. There was no glass to allow her to see inside, and she couldn't open the machine again until it had cooled off—far too long to hang around. Storm simply had to take it on faith that it was functioning correctly. Faith. That was something she didn’t have in great supply.

  “Let's check the floors on our way out,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Howard. “How come you always have to remind me of everything?”

  “Just trying to be careful,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess, huh?” They stopped at the door to the shower room. It looked damp, but would be dry by morning. The smell of disinfectant was strong, but it always was, and using the familiar cleaner wouldn’t raise any alarms.

  Storm sighed audibly. It was over. If someone were to enter the building unexpectedly and catch them there, they'd sheepishly apologize and confess they were using the building for a romantic liaison. Embarrassing, but not life in prison, or worse.

  They walked out to the car. The quiet, the relative darkness, and the cool air made the night feel strange, the way it sometimes did after going to a movie on a sunny afternoon and leaving in the dark.

  Only Howard’s car was in the parking lot. The cars going by on the road were infrequent and ghostlike, a whir of sound, a splash of light, and then gone.

  Howard reached into the backseat and removed the leather belt he'd left there. As he settled the belt, with its night stick, flashlight, and bundle of keys around his narrow hips, light played across the silver badge pinned to his shirt.

  It read Traynor Chemical and beneath that: Security.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HER HEADLIGHTS SWEPT across the house as she pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage door. To her right, she could see the bone-white vinyl fence bordering her front lawn and the roses that clung to it. The light and shadows made the last of the season's dark-red blossoms look like bloated clots of blood. She shook off the gloomy image, knowing it was simply her mood, the aftermath of the killing, and that it would soon pass.

  One of her rules was that she didn’t take trophies, but she found she wanted to remember the men they’d killed. It was a way of paying respect. She didn’t think the two men they'd dealt with deserved to live, but she didn't think they deserved to die unremembered. Taking a moment,, she recited their names and a little something to help remember their crimes. “Jeffrey Franklin Malino, dogs. Gavin Lester Everett, burns.” There, now she would never forget them.

  She left the windows open and switched off the engine. The smell of roses was heavy in the air. Closing her eyes she focused on the scent, allowing her body to relax as her mind filled with the concept of being home with nothing ahead but dinner and spending time with her family. No more blood or bones. No more screams. As the soft night breeze washed against her flushed cheeks, she felt herself sink into the warm leather seat. She felt the throb of her pulse slow and the knotted tension in her forehead ease. She had survived, would continue to survive and fulfill the promises she'd made.

  The cooling engine made a ticking sound. Tick. Tick. Tick. It made her think of clocks and time, and suddenly, she was no longer drifting; she was right there, right in the here and now. And in that now, she was a busy, married, working mom with a very long to-do list.

  And one of the things on the list was dealing with Tom, her husband. No doubt he'd be angry with her again. He hated it when she was late, and that night she was later than usual. No, don't think about that yet, she told herself. Relax, smell the roses, and feel the wind. How nice it would have been to let everything float away on the breeze. Forget Tom's anger, Howard's lust, the past, the present, all of it.

  “I'm home,” she announced. After dropping her bag on the table in the entry, she moved through the living room and into the kitchen.

  Dressed in jeans, red tennis shoes, and her favorite Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, Storm's daughter, Lindsey, was still young enough at seven to think that a parent's arrival was exciting. She leapt from her chair at the table, where she'd been coloring, to give her mom a hug and download a day's worth of information.

  “Mom, guess what? My teacher said we’re going to have a substitute next week because she’s going away to have a baby, and the new teacher has a bearded dragon lizard and she’s bringing it to class. And guess what else? Grandma called and maybe she’s coming to visit but not until winter but that's not long, right? And guess what else?”

  “Hold on, Sugar Pop. Where's your dad?”

  “He's in giving Joel a bath. We had pahster, and he got sauce all over his hair and everything. It was sooo gross. How come you call me Sugar Pop?”

  “Pasta,” Storm corrected automatically, amused by the passion and energy of her eldest and by the question about her nickname, a story she'd told at least a dozen times. “I call you Sugar Pop because, when I was going to have you, all I wanted to eat
was Sugar Pop cereal. Sugar Pops for breakfast. Sugar Pops for lunch.”

  “Sugar Pops for dinner,” they both chimed in.

  “So that’s why you are my Sugar Pop,” explained Storm.

  “But my name is really Lindsey, right, Mom?”

  “Yep. Lindsey Sugar Pop Mackenzie.”

  Joel skidded through the kitchen, his father in stocking feet, stomping close behind.

  “I'm the towel monster and I’m going to get you,” her husband, Tom, yelled.

  Joel dashed past his mother and sister, headed for the living room and the usual confrontation on the couch, where the towel monster would finish drying his hair, and then stuff him into his pajama tops. It was a nightly routine, and mom and daughter ignored it, turning their attention to a school assignment that required the deft use of coloring crayons.

  After a few moments, victim and monster returned to the kitchen. “Hello, wife,” said Tom.

  Storm saw Tom was still in his office clothes and must have cooked in them. Pasta stains dotted the front of his shirt, and water from Joel's bath had plastered the rest to his slightly tubby stomach. His shaggy blond hair was in disarray, and a light sheen of sweat across his forehead spoke of his need to hit the gym a bit more often. Well, she hadn't fallen in love with his body; she fell for his sense of humor and the way it was reflected in his twinkling green eyes.

  “Hello, hubby,” she replied. “I see you've cleverly cornered the child again. Smiling, she reached down to smooth a lock of damp hair out of Joel's eyes. He hugged her leg by way of greeting and climbed into the chair next to his sister to see what she was doing.

  “Yeah, it was tough,” Tom said. “Kid's getting too fast for the old man. They're both getting too big. Guess we should stop feeding them.”

  Storm smiled. “Ah yes, food. I assume you guys have had dinner already.” It was a statement, not a question. Her eyes swept across the piles of dirty dishes and pots and pans covering every surface.

  “Saved you some in the microwave. Figured you'd be home late. What’s this . . . the second time this week and it's only Wednesday?”

  Storm threw him a stern look, and he nodded, his lips turning up in a phony smile. He had promised not to argue in front of the children. Sometimes she had to remind him of that. Usually, a look was all it took. His expression said fine, but they'd discuss it later.

  She loved her family. Her kids were great. She was still crazy about her husband, but she hated always having to explain where she'd been and with whom. Coming up with excuses to explain the time spent staking out her targets was proving more and more difficult. She'd have to give it some thought. Maybe invent some sort of club that she'd like to attend and he'd never venture near—maybe a woman's book club or something to do with knitting. She smiled softly.

  Absently, she took her daughter's ponytail out of the elastic band, ran her fingers through the fine strands of blond hair, the color identical to Tom's, and redid it so that it was centered correctly. “I'll tidy up the kitchen and heat up the dinner you made. It smells great.”

  “Do you mind if I catch some TV?”

  “Of course not.” Her thoughts moved on to important issues such as what she'd prepare for the kids’ lunches, where she'd put that permission slip for Lindsey's field trip, and how she would find her next target.

  Storm rinsed the last of the soapy dishes, wiped down the counter tops, prepared a crustless PB&J sandwich, half a banana, three Nilla Wafers, and a carton of juice for Lindsey's lunch. She found, signed, and slid the field-trip permission slip into Lindsey's backpack, which she hung on its hook by the front door. She laid out clothes for both kids, remembering at the last minute that she had promised to take a change of clothes for Joel to his day care. She read Damien and the Dragon Kite to Joel and made sure he was asleep before checking on Lindsey, whom she caught reading under her covers. It was just her average weekday evening.

  After a final look around to be sure everything was in place and ready for the next day, she rewarded herself. She heated the plastic-wrapped plate of spaghetti Tom left for her in the microwave, poured a glass of wine, and settled down to enjoy a late dinner.

  Tom entered the kitchen. The television in the family room was still playing in the background; the sounds of screeching tires and sirens were a clue that he'd been watching one of his cop dramas. “Finally getting something to eat? You must be starving.” He stood behind her and gently rubbed her shoulders. ”Rough day?”

  She sighed, sat up straighter, enjoying the feel of his fingers digging into muscles she hadn't realized were tense. “Yeah. These late trainings are going to kill me. But we can't have all the staff gone during work hours, you know?”

  “I know. I don't mean to give you a bad time about it. We miss you is all—me and the kids. Maybe we should go away somewhere. Have you all to ourselves.”

  “That sounds great,” she enthused, though inside she cringed, knowing she'd already taken most of her vacation days in the pursuit of her most recent target. Maybe she could arrange some unpaid leave or pretend she was ill and take some of her sick time.

  Tom's hands left her shoulders, sliding down her arms and up again. His fingers slipped to her neck, softly moving across the tender skin. He took the comb from her hair, and it fell loose around her shoulders. “Why don't you hurry up with that,” he said, with a catch in his voice.

  Storm took one last bite of spaghetti, emptied the glass of red wine, and leaned back into the luxury of his hands moving across her skin. She felt his strong fingers slip through her hair, gently pulling on the strands. A welcome chill slid down her back.

  “Let me up,” she said hoarsely. He stepped back, to pull out her chair. She stood, half-turned, and he kissed her, his body moving into hers so she could feel his need. She moaned against him, wanting him just as much. He took her hand and led her down the hall toward the front of the house and their bedroom. When they stepped into the room, he switched on the light. She turned it back off.

  “Honey,” he said.

  “No.” It was an old argument, which she never lost. The light stayed off.

  They moved toward the bed, and as soon as she felt it against the back of her knees, she let herself fall, soft and boneless, onto the comforter. Unable to see her, his hands fumbled and then found her narrow hips and slid to the zipper in front of her slacks. He unzipped her pants and pulled her shirt loose, unbuttoning it from bottom to top.

  “Stormy, Stormy,” he whispered, using the pet name only he was allowed to use, his voice soft as a caress. He continued undressing her until she lay naked, vulnerable, waiting, and then removed his own clothes.

  Kneeling between her legs, he leaned forward and kissed the inside of her left knee. His tongue flicked out to trace circles across the soft skin of her thigh. He licked unhurriedly, moving up her leg. She gasped, tense and waiting, but he teased her, moving to kiss her right knee and working his way slowly up that leg. Finally, he kissed her mound, nuzzled her, and slid his hands upward until they reached her breasts. He curled his fingers around them and squeezed.

  Storm panted and rolled her hips toward him. His thumbs found her rock-hard nipples, rubbed across them just as he wrapped his tongue around her sensitive and tingling center, bringing a spasm of pleasure. She reached down and dug her fingers in his hair, pulling his warm mouth tightly against her.

  He let go of her breasts and moved his hands to her legs, pushing them farther apart. His tongue traced circles and flicked against her. Her hips jerked forward as the surge broke, and the waves of an unexpected orgasm forced an exhalation and a strange broken noise from her throat.

  From that place, she descended reluctantly. Her breathing slowed. The momentary respite from her thoughts, fears, and needs ending far too quickly.

  Unwanted images flashed through her mind. Once again, she saw the face of Mr. Everett, recalled the sound of Howard's dreadful whip as it sliced through the air and met flesh. Had it been just a few hours ago? She shuddered
and tried to push the thoughts away.

  Tom helped. His warm hands slid up her stomach; his mouth followed, leaving a trail of kisses, and his teeth nipped at her skin lightly, almost, but not quite hurting. When his hands found her breasts, her nipples were hard again, her body impatient and hungry for more.

  “I want you,” she moaned, unnecessarily. Scooting back, she slid her hands across his arms and tugged him toward her. Climbing onto the bed, he placed his knees between her legs. His arms held the majority of his weight as he lowered himself onto her. She rocked her hips, reaching for him. He responded to her invitation and slid hard and fast into her tight wet warmth.

  “God, you feel good,” he said, his voice ragged. He took her wrists and pinned them above her head, then rolled over, taking her with him, never losing the connection between them. Pulling her wrists free of his hands, she sat up, astride him, and began to move, grinding her hips, taking him in as deeply as she could. Her hands were splayed across his chest. His hands clutched her waist and moved to her thighs.

  He rose to meet her, twisting, and then thrusting hard, hesitating for one long moment, and then repeating the movement. Their rhythm grew faster and faster, their breathing shallow and quick. His strong fingers dug into her skin, and she felt it: that breathless place, that quiet waiting moment. She threw back her head, squeezed her eyes shut and let the sensations overwhelm every thought.

  As the tension in her body grew, she tightened around his shaft. He groaned but kept up the rhythm she craved. Sweat slid down her back, slicked her thighs, and still she went on. She took shallow panting breaths. Then her breathing stopped altogether. Her entire being focused on the physical sensation. The pulsing orgasm came from her toes, drew from her fingers, rushed to the center of her being, and she fell. That was what it was like: a sudden, devastating, crashing free-fall.