Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  “Of course,” Storm answered, sliding a spoon into the utensil drawer. I just—”

  “I know, you're just tired. I get that. I do. You work hard. You keep a perfect house. You put it all on yourself, though. Me and the kids, we don't need a perfect house, and I never asked for a perfect wife.”

  “That's good, because you sure didn't get either one,” Storm said.

  “What's wrong with our house?” His tone was so plaintive, Storm's heart went out to him. Sometimes the little boy in him shone through, and she wanted to protect him, save him from the big, bad world.

  “There is nothing wrong with our house. It's just not perfect. Nothing is perfect.”

  “Maybe not, but you're pretty damn close, so when you start grease fires, when you show up late with lame excuses, well, we notice.”

  “Look, maybe you're right,” Storm admitted. “Maybe I do need to be here more. I've taken advantage of having you at home. Here, hand me that.”

  She took the bowl he'd been drying over and over and put it in the cupboard. He took another from the rack. “I realize what this new job means, and I promise to cut back on the late nights. No more Avon, Sylvia Jewelry, or Naughty Nights parties.”

  “Hold on there. Don't go giving everything away. Those Naughty Nights parties now . . . we might consider an exception there.”

  Storm grabbed the damp sponge off the edge of the sink and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder and to the floor. At first, he pretended to be shocked and then wound the dish towel and snapped it at her. She turned and ran, and of course, he followed, all the way to the bedroom and a headache cure.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE RESTAURANT'S pretentious furnishings, granite bar, too much wrought iron, and black-framed art-for-the-masses didn't annoy Storm as much as the prissy waitresses did.

  Still, the chef was good, the tomato and basil soup hot and creamy, the grilled cheese crisp and also hot. Hot was important in the midst of November, in the middle of a week when temperatures hovered around freezing and rain threatened to turn the streets into skating rinks.

  Storm sat in a booth at the restaurant across from her friend, Nicky, whose hands were wrapped possessively around a large cappuccino. She was staring as if fascinated at the pattern of a leaf drawn in froth inside her cup.

  “The reason I didn't tell you I was taking time off to go away with Jackson,” she said, “was because I'd done so much complaining about him, I was afraid you'd be mad.”

  “It's your life,” replied Storm. “If you want to go and ruin it . . .”

  “See what I mean?” said Nicky, with a toss of her head. Her newly shorn hair, dyed white blond except for the powder-pink ends, had been so heavily gelled that it stayed in place like a spiky helmet.

  “I was just joking. Heck, I haven't even met the man. Plus, I do feel bad that you guys have broken up again.”

  “Hey, how did you know we broke up? I didn't tell you.”

  Storm laughed. “You didn't have to. Your hair told me. Every time you break it off with him, your hair gets shorter, and weirder. If you want sympathy, well, I'm very sympathetic . . . for your hair.”

  “It's not that weird. Is it? I mean, I can get the dye stripped out. Should I do something else?”

  Storm smiled at her friend. Six weeks and nothing much had changed. Work was the same. Nicky and Jackson were still back-and-forthing. Even Tom's new job hadn't had as much impact as they'd expected.

  It had been a peaceful six weeks—uneventful, boring. But boring had been wonderful, especially since she’d been expecting someone to knock on her door, cuffs in hand . . . and they hadn’t.

  “Not to change the subject, but—”

  “To change the subject,” they both chimed in.

  “Yes, well, remember that client of mine Big Ed talked to you about? That woman who disappeared?” asked Nicky.

  “Sure, I remember. What about her?”

  “I got a call from the sheriff's office this morning. They're calling off the investigation. It won't be completely closed, of course, but they aren't going to actively pursue it anymore. They figure the boyfriend did it—if she was murdered, I mean. He's in jail now, for distributing, and will probably be in prison once he sees the judge and gets his sentencing. Might even end up on your caseload one of these days. So, as far as they're concerned, he's off the streets anyway.”

  “What was he distributing?” Storm asked, not even mildly interested, but trying to hide the relief that threatened to lift her from her chair and send her floating around the room. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could take a deep breath.

  “Meth. What else?” Nicky replied.

  “What else,” agreed Storm, with a shrug.

  Storm tried to call Howard twice that afternoon to give him the news, but each time it went straight to voice mail. Either his phone was turned off or the battery was dead.

  Later that afternoon, Storm called Tom. “I think I might be a little late, maybe just half an hour or so. Will you be able to pick up the kids? It looks like snow, so I need to finish some things up just in case the roads are bad tomorrow and I can’t get in. Plus, I want to get some work together to do from home. Don't want to waste my vacation time.”

  “You're so funny, Storm. Call to tell me you'll be a few minutes late. Forget to tell me you'll be three hours late.”

  “I guess my OCD is intermittent,” Storm joked.

  “You mean CDO?”

  “What?”

  “If you were really OCD you'd get it.”

  Storm pondered a moment. “Oh, the right order alphabetically. I'm going to hang up on you now. That was bad, even for you.”

  “One can only try. Anyway, don't worry about the kids. I'm only working half a day today. Dads need downtime too, you know.”

  “Game?” asked Storm.

  “Game,” Tom replied. “Ducks against—”

  “Spare me the details. Just don't make a mess. Don't let Jeremy eat us out of house and home, and tell Rylan that if he smokes one of his cigars on the porch, to keep the darn doors shut.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOFT AS A KITTEN'S PAWS, fat flakes of snow patted the windshield of Storm's car. It was early for a winter storm. Although snow could fall heavily across the higher elevations, it was rare in the Portland area. Rare enough that even a dusting caused slowdowns in transportation, schools to open late or not at all, and weather guessers to rant tirelessly and with great drama on every local news station.

  Shivering at the chilly touch of the upholstery and the frigid steering wheel, Storm slid the key into the ignition and turned it. The car hesitated as if complaining about having to start on such a cold night but finally, reluctantly, turned over.

  It was midnight. Storm had tried to reach Howard twice more with no luck. Her OCD, or CDO as Tom had joked, would not let her rest until she spoke to him.

  The burden of fear these past six weeks had been oppressive. He—no, they—hadn’t deserved that. Sure, they had played a dangerous, even ugly game, a game whose rules she'd unwisely broken, but they'd also brought a little justice into the world. She felt they'd earned their luck, even if she couldn't trust it to continue.

  She wanted to let Howard know they appeared to be in the clear. Since their last conversation he’d been compliant with her requests to neither call nor visit her at the office. Finding him, telling him the good news as soon as she could, seemed like something he'd earned.

  Storm sat for a few minutes, letting the windows defrost and watching the snow spin in obedience to the wind. As soon as she’d shared the news with Howard, she'd head back home. A hot shower, warm pajamas, and a good book figured heavily in her daydreams. Planning to work from home meant she could sleep in, and she was looking forward to that as well.

  With icy-cold fingers, Storm grabbed the steering wheel and backed the car out, thinking about Howard and how anxious he must have been and the relief he'd feel when he learned they were probably safe. />
  Storm parked in the empty front lot of Traynor Chemical and felt the car tremble, buffeted by a gust of wind. The storm and high winds promised in the weather report were in full effect. Though the snow had stopped falling, the conflicting breezes whipped it up and sent it dancing across the parking lot in spirals and whirls.

  Clutching the far-too-thin fabric of her coat, Storm sprinted for the front door. Normally, she'd have pushed the talk button on the intercom and waited for Howard to let her in. But it was far too cold for that. She swung her purse containing the mag key across the face of the reader. The light on it went from red to green, and there was a distinct click as the door unlocked. She grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

  The vestibule was much less windy but not appreciably warmer. She swung her purse again, and the second door unlocked. She pushed through and stepped gratefully into the warmth of the well-heated building.

  She wasn't sure where Howard would be in the vast maze of hallways and rooms but thought she would find a phone in one of the offices and call him. She would avoid using her cell phone to call him if at all possible.

  The building smelled like bleach and, oddly, curry. No doubt someone's lunch or dinner, maybe even Howard's.

  She moved into the familiar hallway, the one that led to the kill room. As she walked, motion sensors flicked on the lights, so she was always moving toward shadow, leaving behind light.

  If she remembered correctly, there was a phone mounted on the wall just on the other side of the showers. It had probably been put there in the event of a chemical spill so someone could call 911. Probably installed before the time everyone had their own cell phone, she mused.

  Halfway down the hall, Storm heard a sound that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, her stomach clench. It was a shriek of pain, and her reaction was visceral, primal. In any culture, such a sound would have signaled danger. Storm didn’t think the danger was to her, though. She charged forward. Blood pounded in her ears. A steady light ahead drew her on.

  Skidding around the corner of the doorway and into the familiar shower room, Storm saw what she’d expected. A woman was standing, her body taut as she danced on tiptoe, trying to avoid being strangled by the rope that circled her neck, and was tied to an overhead pipe. She was helpless, with her arms tied behind her. She was also unable to speak; duct tape had been wrapped around her head from nose to chin. The woman stared at Storm and then looked quickly to the door opposite the one Storm had entered. Then she repeated the motion. She was trying to warn Storm of Howard's presence.

  “Shit, it's you,” said Howard as he stepped inside the room and leaned a sawed-off wooden baseball bat against the wall. “Heard you coming down the hall and scrambled. What are you doing here?”

  Storm struggled with the question while her thoughts spun frantically. She took in the woman's expression of shock and fear. Blood was running down one of her ankles in a thin but steady stream. She smelled the copper scent of that blood and the musk of sweat and urine. Her mind reeled, and she stepped back until she was against the wall, just as her knees gave way and she slid, as if boneless, to the floor.

  “What the hell?” said Howard. “You okay?”

  Unable to answer, Storm wrapped her arms around her knees and put her head down. She was shaking. Not just on the outside but on the inside as well. She was trembling so hard, she thought she might come apart, her very cells vibrating to broken shards.

  She hugged herself tightly and took deep, calming breaths.

  Howard dropped to his knees beside her, took her hands in his. “Man, you're so cold.” He rubbed her hands.

  After a moment, she was able to lift her head and look him in the eye. “What are you d-doing?” she asked, so hot with anger she wondered if he could see flames dancing in her eyes.

  “Just an experiment,” he said. She heard the echo of her own words from six weeks earlier. “Wanted to see if I could do one on my own, and guess what—I can. Not that I want to . . .” he trailed off, as if to reassure her she would not be left out.

  “You can't do that,” she said, her voice growing incrementally stronger with each syllable. “You can't just kill innocent people.”

  “Oh hell, Storm, she's not innocent. Not by a long shot. I picked her up on 82nd in Portland. She was working a corner. It took me two minutes and twenty-five bucks to get her into my car. Plus, she's an addict. She's got pick marks all over her face, and her teeth are starting to rot. She'll be dead inside a year, anyway.”

  “You can't kill someone just because they're killing themselves,” Storm argued.

  “Sure you can,” Howard said with a tight smile. “Look.” He pointed.

  Storm turned her head and saw that the woman was no longer fighting the noose around her neck. She had either passed out or simply given up. Whatever the reason, she had stopped fighting to stand erect, and the noose had tightened, strangling her.

  Storm rolled to her hands and knees and slowly got to her feet. “Get the cart.”

  After the cleanup, once all signs of the murder—not a justice killing this time—had been burned or washed away, Storm turned to Howard.

  “You can’t do this again. We kill for a reason, to avenge the abuse of the innocent and to prevent the continuing abuse. We’re supposed to be protecting people. You can’t just pick people off the street.”

  “I hear you,” Howard said. “I know that's what it's about. But how do you know what she does when she goes home at night? What if she goes home to a house full of kids who’d be better off without her drugged-out ass?”

  “I don’t know. But we can’t kill someone on a maybe. This has to stop. Promise me you won’t do this again?”

  “Sure. No problem,” Howard reassured her. “I told you it was just an experiment, a one-time thing.”

  “Do you swear?” she demanded.

  Howard crossed his heart and nodded. There was no smile on his face. He seemed subdued and sincere.

  Taking a deep breath, Storm consciously set the past hour behind her. She'd gone there for a reason. “I have something to tell you. I found out the police are dropping the investigation into Helena Smith’s disappearance. They can’t have found any blood or anything else to connect us as suspects. We were lucky . . . this time. That's another reason you can't just break the rules and do what you want. You don't want to blow this, Howard. You don't want to use up our luck.”

  “You sound like one of those Vegas gamblers,” said Howard. “Like luck's something you find, not something you make. Like it's got a life expectancy.”

  “It does. A short one. We're already past ours.”

  “Nah, that's just superstition talkin’. You sound like my grandmother. She used to have all these weird ideas, too. Don't walk under a ladder. Never break a mirror. Sheep on the left is good luck. Stomping kittens is bad luck. None of that stuff is real. Luck is doing what you want, whenever you want, and not getting caught.”

  “Damn it, Howard, that's my point. We could have been caught.”

  “That would have been your bad luck, huh?” said Howard. “Wasn't my blood in that house.”

  Storm had been leaning with her back against the wall. Howard was standing in front of her, arms crossed. Now he uncrossed them and put his the palms of his hands on the wall to either side of her face. The gesture was like a lover getting ready for a kiss or a fighter trapping someone in place.

  She wasn't sure what she was more afraid of: being kissed by him again or of being hit. Neither action promised to lead to a happy ending.

  “Or did you plan to rat me out if you got caught?” he asked. His dark eyes drilled into hers, searching for some sort of truth she might have been hiding from him.

  She shook her head but didn't try to step away or even break eye contact, afraid that in this cat-and-mouse game it was not a good idea to appear too mouse-like. “What would that get me?” she asked honestly. “You think I'd get less time if they found out I had help k
illing three people?” She made a scoffing sound and frowned at him. Her appearance of confidence worked, and he stepped back, dropping his arms.

  “So, what now, huh?”

  “What do you mean, what now?” she asked, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear and stepping away from the wall.

  “We're home free. It's been over a month. I say it's go time,” he explained.

  “Have you not been listening? There is no go time. We are done.”

  “We can't be done.”

  “Why not? You don't give a damn about my reason for doing this. I thought you did, but not after this.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, will you? We do want the same thing, and I screwed up. Do I have to remind you that you broke the rules, too, and for the same reason? We had to prove something to ourselves. Well, we’re done with that. I’ve already said I won’t do this again. So, can we stop talking about justice and start talking about keeping your ass out of the fire?”

  “I just told you, our asses, as you so nicely put it, aren’t in the fire.”

  “I agree with half of that. My ass is just fine. But yours I'm not so sure about.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, I was thinking. The cops got an idea now that this Hannah Smith . . .”

  “Helena,” she corrected.

  “Don’t matter,” he said. “Point is, they think she didn’t just disappear. They think she was killed, huh? That might get someone thinking. Maybe they look at her probation record. Maybe they cast out a little wider and look at a whole lot of probation records. They start to see a pattern. Three people have disappeared and all from your team. That’s what you told me, right, that you heard about these people from your own team?”

  Storm swallowed hard and reached inside her coat sleeve to tug at the cuff of her shirt sleeve. There was a loose thread. She pulled at it until it tore free, then she moved on, plucking all around the edge.