Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  “Because you think you have to work them out all alone. You don’t, Stormy. You have me.”

  “I’m so glad. I was feeling sort of, I guess, disconnected,” Storm said. “In the same house but miles away.”

  “Well, you’re right here, right now, and so am I.” Tom leaned forward and kissed her softly. “You taste salty,” he joked. “Very tasty.” He kissed her again.

  Almost dizzy from the emotional ups and downs of the last ten minutes, Storm let herself fall into the kisses, let a surge of desire wrap around her, filling her with something that was much more welcome than fear—lust.

  Storm slid her hand tentatively down his stomach, waiting to see if he pushed it away. He did not, and she fumbled awkwardly with his belt buckle. He reached down to help her, and she knew it would be all right.

  The buckle made a clanking sound and Tom stilled it. They sat breathlessly until they were certain the sound had not roused the kids.

  “Close the blinds and turn off the fire,” said Storm. Tom scrambled out of his jeans and ignored her. He hooked his fingers inside her jeans and panties and stripped them off. “Not this time,” he said. “No more secrets.”

  Storm had no fight left. She fell back on the couch, reached for Tom as he climbed between her legs, and slid inside her. It was not so bad, making love in the light. Within a few moments she was able to forget her scars and join him, move with him. She didn’t think an orgasm was likely; she was too attuned to catching the sound of her children if they stirred in the other room. Still, she enjoyed the bliss of knowing Tom still loved and wanted her.

  It was only when Tom stopped, pulled out, and rose to his knees that she began to feel the old fears rise up. “Show me you trust me,” he said.

  The fire’s warm, golden light was like a searchlight tracking across her skin. With her eyes closed so she couldn’t see Tom watching her, Storm turned awkwardly onto her stomach.

  She was grateful she still wore her long-sleeved shirt that covered most of her scars.

  As if he’d read her mind, Tom grabbed the edge of the shirt, slowly pushed it up above her shoulder blades, and unhooked her bra.

  Tom took his shirt off and slipped onto the couch beside her. He put his arm around her and pulled her against him. Her scarred back was against his chest.

  She could feel his skin against hers, something she had always avoided. He held her, not speaking, not moving.

  Her heart beat began to slow. She relaxed against him. Only then did Tom kiss the edge of her shoulder, the back of her neck, the slope of her shoulder. Her anxiety rose again, but only for a short time. Slowly, carefully, he coaxed her onto her stomach and began to make love to her again. It felt good, so very good and perfect and right.

  Afterward, they spooned again. Storm drifted, all tension gone. All she knew was the warmth of the fire, its golden light flickering across her skin. She felt the weight of Tom’s leg thrown across hers and the softness of his breath against her neck.

  She would have fallen into a deep sleep, but Tom nudged her. “The kids.”

  Groaning, they struggled into their clothes. Tom lay down, his back to the couch. Storm was nestled between his warm stomach and the fire. She had not been so relaxed and content in months.

  As she drifted off to sleep, she realized she’d crossed a threshold with Tom. In some hard-to-describe way, she was no longer on a pedestal—a fragile and precious thing—and that felt a bit like a loss. She was not the clean and pretty princess she’d been an hour ago.

  On the other hand, she now seemed—in some fundamental way she also couldn’t fully explain—a bit messy, far from perfect, but somehow more real.

  Yawning, she tried to further analyze the events of the last hour, but sleep took her before she could frame another coherent thought.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HOWARD CALLED on a Saturday in early January. His timing was perfect because it was one of those rare times when she was home alone. Tom had taken the kids to Out of This World Pizza and Play to give her a break and some quiet time to work on their taxes.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed the throwaway cell phone to her ear and listened to his plans. The excitement in his voice was contagious.

  “She lives with her sister and her sister’s husband. Plus, I think either a boyfriend or just some random guy that’s renting a room or something. There’s, I don’t know, maybe six, seven kids in and out. Not sure who belongs to who. They might mostly be the neighbors, but I think at least five live in the house.”

  “So the house . . .”

  “Yeah, the house is out. Way too many people. But, that’s not going to get in the way. There’s a better place. It’s busier, but it will work for us. Your friend’s a drinker. Did you know that? Oh, of course you knew,” he said, correcting himself. “She’s a real fish, that one. Goes to the same bar just about every Friday and Saturday night. A place called The Cooler. You know it?”

  “Not really. I’ve driven past it twice a day for several years on my way to work and back. I’m not big on hanging around in bars. You’ll have to tell me why you think it’s such a good place to grab her. It seems to me like there would be too many people around.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “What with TV Highway being right there, you’ve got lots of traffic going by, as well as people pulling into the lot. But look, if you were on probation and your PO showed up in the parking lot of the bar you were heading out of, what would you do?

  Storm shrugged. “Head back in?”

  “Or pull your shit together, act sober as a judge, and say hello.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe. I got it all worked out. I’ll pull through one of the parking spaces so I’m nose out and able to take off quick. You park closer to the door. We’ll both watch, and we’ll be on our phones so you’ll be able to tell me when you see her. When you do, you’ll get out, call her over, and start chatting.

  “Once you get her attention, you work her back to the side of your car or, I don’t know, whatever car is handy. Tell her you’re there to check out one of your clients, not her, and you don’t want him to spot you. Ask her to step out of view of the bar. See how easy this is?” Howard enthused.

  “Soon as you get her out of view of anyone coming out of the bar, I’ll step up, give her a little tap on the head. When she drops, you’ll help me get her to her feet. After that, she’s just our drunk friend we’re helping out. We’ll walk her to my car and put her in the back seat. No trunk this time. Too many witnesses. Brilliant, right?”

  Storm thought about it. There were plenty of ways in which Howard’s plan could have gone wrong. Primarily, she was afraid of being seen and recognized. Most of the clients she worked with had problems with alcohol, and The Cooler was just the kind of place that would appeal to them. Still, it wasn’t a bad plan. Once it was over, she’d be done with the justice killings and, except for one more small task, done with Howard.

  Nodding, she said, “I don’t know about brilliant, but yes, I think it might work.”

  “Damned right it’ll work. We’ll do it Friday night,” he said, as happy as a boy learning snow was falling and school was cancelled.

  Annoyed by his enthusiasm for another kill, she asked, “And if she isn’t there Friday night, or if she is there but she’s not alone?”

  “If she isn’t alone, we wait and try another time—but she’ll be there. That I can almost guarantee. I don’t think she misses too many Friday nights. I suppose if you want to be sure, you could ask her to come see you Friday. That way she’d be plenty pissed and have a good reason to tie one on.”

  “No thanks,” Storm told him. “I want as much distance as I can between us. I’m not crazy about being this connected as it is.”

  “But you still agree with me that it looks odd that you’re the only person on your team who doesn’t have a missing client?”

  “Oh yes, I agree. If they ever notice there are missing clients. So far, it’s just the last one
that’s seemed suspicious to them. We need to keep it that way.”

  “We’ll keep it that way by following your rules,” he said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. The fact that this was his way of reminding her she’d broken most of them was not lost on her.

  “That’s the only reason you talked me into doing this,” she said. “I screwed up, and this is my way of making it up to you.”

  Which, Storm knew, was a lie or, at best, a half truth. Storm did think Howard was right about how funny it would look if the only missing people were from her teammates’ caseloads. She also felt she owed him for helping her with the last kill. But there was more to it than that.

  Joe Dean was out there somewhere, a threat to her family, to her peace of mind, and to the life she’d created. Thinking about the possibility made her stomach twist, her hands clench into icy fists and her heart pound as if she’d just done five miles at a dead run.

  She had shared her fear with Tom, her concern that Joe could have shown up at their home and introduced himself to their children as their grandfather. Tom seemed to think she had a magic list of friends who would stand guard at her door and provide security for her children. He thought being a probation officer gave her special protection.

  The truth was that in her work world she was exposed to the worst in people. She knew exactly what the species was capable of, and she never felt safe or protected. There were monsters out there, and one had to be hyper vigilant and ready to defend their family. She also knew that the best defense was a good offense; Howard was that offense.

  She was going to ask Howard to kill her father.

  The idea of that—of having her father killed—filled her with warmth and a sense of well being. For the first time in days, she felt she could breathe.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  STORM HAD PARKED in The Cooler parking lot at 10 p.m., expecting a long wait. The place was bright as daylight. There was light from the cars, from the front doors, and, like a row of minor suns, from the two rows of spotlights highlighting the billboard that straddled the lot.

  She had pulled in alongside one of the thick concrete legs holding up the billboard. The nose of her car was facing the front door, and a shadow cast by the post helped disguise her presence to anyone going in or coming out of the bar.

  Howard had shared that Angela Ruiz liked to close the place down or at least, come awfully close to it. She rarely left before the early hours.

  The lot was not as full as it had been earlier. She’d driven by several times. Her nerves dictated she check out the area as thoroughly as possible. She had even gone on Google Maps and looked at pictures taken of the building and surrounding area from both the sky and the ground.

  It was just as Howard had described it. The place where he planned to park would allow him fast access to TV Highway—not highway in the strict sense of the word but a four-lane main through street, where the top speed was 45. They would definitely not be breaking any speed limits.

  Storm was to park close enough to see the front door but not too close. They had agreed they should arrive early before it got too busy, but since pulling in over an hour before, only three cars had joined the five already there. Customer parking was the striped asphalt at the front. Staff parked along the side of the building among the weeds and gravel. Four cars and an RV with a flat tire sat there, half hidden in the shadows.

  Only two people were in sight, lounging under the roof of the open-air smoking area to the right of the door. They didn’t seem to know each other and stood apart, not speaking and smoking their cigarettes as if there were a contest to see who finished first.

  She didn’t recognize either of them, though with the flickering light and changing shadows, she wasn’t certain. One of her fears was running into a client. The Cooler had a bad reputation and was just the kind of place to attract many of her addiction-challenged clients.

  Her phone chirped and startled her. She picked it up from the passenger seat where she’d placed it.

  “You didn’t see me,” he said.

  “I haven’t seen your car,” she agreed. “Where is it?”

  “You see the gray pickup that just pulled in?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s my car for the evening. Borrowed it for the occasion. Don’t worry,” he said, forestalling her complaints, “No one will miss it for days, and by then I’ll have returned it. Just thought it made more sense than driving my car in case someone caught my plates.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” she agreed.

  “You look nice,” Howard told her. “Checked you out when I drove by.”

  Unconsciously, Storm twisted a long strand of dark hair between her fingers. She had tried to look like someone who might hang out there, someone waiting for a date. She’d left her hair down and lined her eyes with dark pencil.

  She had also traded her usual ubiquitous garb of designer workout clothes, known locally as ‘The Beaverton Mom’ look, for faded jeans and a stretched-out gray knit sweater with a hood, worn over a black tank. Only her Nikes seemed familiar and comfortable. She had considered wearing platform heels but had worn the sneakers, in case she had to run.

  “Haven’t seen her yet, have you?” Howard asked.

  “No, haven’t seen her. There have been a few people, and a couple guys who were outside smoking just went in, but I haven’t seen anyone else.

  Sitting in the parking lot, talking to Howard in low tones, made Storm feel very much as if she were taking part in a secret tryst with a lover.

  “Her car’s here,” said Howard. “Black Range Rover about three cars from you toward the bar. See it?”

  Storm nodded. Realizing he couldn’t see her, she said, “See it. I’ll call you if I spot her.” She hung up, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, and sat back.

  Near the end of the first hour, Storm grew increasingly worried that someone would be curious about why she was just sitting in her car. Her invented excuse—that she was waiting to meet someone—wouldn’t wear well if she sat there much longer. No one was worth this sort of wait.

  In the middle of the second hour, Storm started yawning. She hadn't been getting much sleep, and the rhythmic sound of the cars passing on TV was becoming a lullaby.

  Three hours went by, and traffic into the parking lot picked up with each of them. On one occasion, she caught the profile of a man who reminded her of her father. She caught her breath until the man turned, and she realized he didn't really resemble him. She shook it off. Paranoia was not going to help her get through this.

  After a while, the adrenaline rush from thinking she’d seen her father faded. She was tired, and the car seat was warm from her body. The heat seemed to wrap around her back and shoulders like a hug. She sank back into it and let her eyes close. Her thoughts drifted lazily and illogically. There were yellow squares under her lids, the after-image of the lights in the parking lot. She studied the shapes, saw a dresser, the moon, a capital A. Now she was lying in an open field, a warm wind blowing across her face. A wide wheel rolled across the hills, heading leisurely toward her. She welcomed the weight of the thing as it pressed her into the ground, rolling slowly over her feet, up her legs, over her torso. The ground was warm, welcoming. She was asleep.

  Storm woke up with a jerk. What the hell was she thinking, drifting off like that? This wasn't some dark movie theatre. Tom wasn't there to nudge her awake. This was a woman's life, or rather . . . death. It was an occasion that deserved more attention and surely more respect than curling up for a nap.

  Adrenaline-charged and guilt-driven, Storm fumbled across the passenger seat to search for her phone and checked the time. How was she going to explain this night excursion to Tom? ‘I couldn’t sleep and decided to go for a drive and I had a flat’ didn’t seem like the kind of excuse that would cut it with him anymore.

  The door of the bar swung open several times, spilling light and noise into the parking lot. Each time a group or individual emerged, she became more
and more nervous. But none of them was their target.

  Barely able to sit still, frustration an ever-tightening knot in her stomach, she was about to call Howard and suggest they try again another night.

  That was when the door opened. She heard loud high-pitched voices and spotted Angela Ruiz and five or six women staggering from the bar into the parking lot. They were laughing, bumping hips, having a great time.

  Storm watched as the entire group of women climbed into Angela's car. They didn’t pull away immediately, but Storm knew that, for all intents and purposes, Angela Ruiz had made her getaway.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FOR THEIR SECOND attempt, Howard stole a dark-gray van. “White would have looked sort of suspicious, you know. The killers in books always drive those white panel vans,” he explained.

  Not in a mood for levity, Storm had clenched her teeth and managed a painful smile. She couldn’t think of anything to say. At least this time she realized there was no need to arrive so early. The Cooler wasn't that popular a night spot. Parking was not going to be an issue.

  She’d also made up a better excuse for Tom. One of the admin staff was retiring after thirty years, and as was customary, several of her coworkers were joining her for drinks at a local watering hole. Such events could go on pretty late. She ran home before going out, ostensibly to change clothes.

  “Don’t wait up for me,” she told him. “So glad I don’t have work tomorrow. Why don’t you think about something fun for us to do?”

  “Will do,” Tom agreed. “Promise you’ll call if you need a ride.”

  “I will. But don’t worry. You know the plan—drink early, drink much, spend the rest of the night sobering up.”

  “Totally sober, or you call,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear.” Feeling like a kid sneaking out, a mixture of excitement and guilt rolling through her stomach in a not completely unpleasant way, Storm escaped.

  Despite the lights around The Cooler, it was definitely nighttime. The shadows were deep and black. There was also a stillness and chill to the air and on the street, an air of Friday-night impatience.