Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  She addressed Tom but had to explain the story about the seeds to the detective. As she told him, Storm felt as if she were standing at a distance from herself, watching herself carefully craft the lies, smooth over the inconsistencies.

  “It sounds like Mr. Kline had been interested in you for some time. He set up a way that allowed him to show up at your house and make it plausible.”

  “Except he shouldn’t have had my address. That’s part of the reason I talked myself into believing I bought the seeds from a coworker. A client wouldn’t have access to my personal information. We aren’t listed in any directory.”

  “Yet he did manage to find you.”

  “Yes,” Storm answered, rubbing her hands across her eyes. He knew a lot about me—where I lived, who my friends were.”

  “Nicky?” Tom asked.

  Storm nodded, looked at the detective, and said, “I asked where Nicky was, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said I had a nice family, sweet kids, but I had picked the wrong man.”

  Storm let her exhaustion show, slumping in her seat. She looked up, her lower lip trembling. “He told me he’d met my husband, my kids. Told me he’d be a much better dad. He took off in my car. I knew where he was going and I ran. I ran through the parking lot, down Cornell and all the way to Evergreen. I was running in the middle of the street when that woman stopped to help me and I . . . I.”

  Storm wasn’t acting as hot tears slid down her imperfectly washed cheeks. Rust-red blood stains mottled her skin, and the area at the corner of her eyes was beginning to darken to a twilight blue. She looked every bit as bad as she felt.

  “Did you have any issues with this man previous to this?” the detective asked.

  Storm took a deep, quavering breath. “No. Nothing. He was an almost-perfect client. Got his sanctions out of the way, paid all his fines. I never would have suspected him. I mean, I did feel something was weird lately. I didn’t know who, or why, but I had this feeling someone was following me. I even told Big Ed . . . I mean Ed Lofton, my boss.”

  “I know Big Ed,” said the detective.

  “Good, then you can ask him. He’ll tell you.”

  “Excuse me,” the detective said. The officer at the door was gesturing to him. He got up and left the room.

  Storm turned to Tom and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re all right, that the kids are all right.”

  “Are we?” Tom asked.

  The detective re-entered the room and sat back down. He had a small plastic bag in his hands. He held it up and asked. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Sure,” said Storm. That’s me and the kids. It’s a picture of us at the fair. It used to sit on my desk until it disappeared . . . oh,” she said, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “Do you think he stole it? It went missing weeks, maybe even months ago. Tom’s missing and the kids. He cut them out of the picture.”

  She stared up at the officer, horror and shock making her eyes widen, her fingers tremble as she touched the edge of the plastic bag.

  Storm had used scissors from her desk at work to cut Tom and the children from the picture. She had placed those pieces in the office shredder knowing they’d be safely hauled away and destroyed and no one would ever see them.

  She had intended to plant the photo on Howard. Slip it into the pocket of his jacket or tuck it into his car. Then she’d call the police. Tell them about her stalker and about her concern that one of her clients had stolen the picture. She’d give them a short list of suspects and, with luck, they’d find the picture.

  The idea had come to her the day Howard admired the photo in her office. It was supposed to be another small insurance policy in case he got too far out of line. She never thought she’d be planting it on his dead body.

  “I suspect the guy was obsessed with you, was stalking you,” the detective said.

  “I knew it. I knew someone was following me. I told my boss. You’ll ask Big Ed, right? He’ll back me up.”

  “I doubt it,” he said. Then he explained: “We have no reason to pursue this further. We aren’t questioning what you did, and you don’t have to explain or defend yourself. You aren’t in trouble here. At least, not as far as our office is concerned.

  “Of course. there is the matter of you taking that car. I don’t know if the owner will press charges. We sent someone to take her to the lot where her car’s been towed. They’ll explain the situation. My guess? I don’t think she’ll pursue it either.”

  Storm managed a small smile of gratitude. She hadn’t expected such kindness and still wasn’t sure she trusted it. He must have read her thoughts.

  “Look, there will probably be a small investigation. There was a shooting, but it won’t be you we’re looking at. This guy broke into your home, held your family hostage. You did what you had to do.

  “Now, we need to let you go, and you need to see a doctor. You want us to call an ambulance?”

  “No ambulance,” she said. I’ll go to my own doctor and I’ll go under my own power.”

  The officer nodded. He didn’t say it, but Storm sensed his approval. It went a long way in stilling her sense of panic.

  After getting his permission to wash the blood off her face and put on a clean blouse, she walked down the familiar hallway to the bathroom. It looked the same, but everything felt strange, a little off, as if she’d stepped into a parallel dimension where everything was just a few inches to the left.

  In the bathroom, she stared at her darkening bruises and the dried blood on her face and realized just how scary she must have seemed to the kids. The darkening bruises were worse, and pain crackled across her nerve endings. She dabbed away most of the blood.

  Her nose was so swollen and misshapen, it didn’t look like hers. But the doctor could wait a bit longer. She grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and gently slid four onto her tongue, filled her cupped palms with water from the tap, and swallowed them gratefully.

  They found Alex and Joel playing with a set of dominos, moving them around the living room carpet as if they were cars on a race track. Joel seemed unfazed by it all. Storm envied his ignorance of the danger they’d been in and was hopeful there’d be no lasting affect on him.

  Lindsey, who had cried for a while clinging to her father and refusing to look at her mother before finally allowing Grace to lead her away, could be a different story. If she hadn’t hated Howard before, Storm would have hated him now.

  Lindsey was in the kitchen with Grace.

  “The child is a natural baker,” Grace informed them. “She helps me by decorating the räderkuchen. Look, we have enough to send with you.” Grace held up a plate of oddly shaped donuts that had been dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar.

  “I put the sugar on,” said Lindsey.

  “And just the right amount, too.” Grace patted Lindsey’s shoulder, and she beamed at the woman.

  “I think Lindsey’s adopted you,” said Tom. “Can I call you Granny?”

  “Lindsey can call me Granny. You, not so much.” Grace wagged her finger at Tom but couldn’t hide her smile. “This has been a bad time for you, but it is over, you are safe. Your whole family is safe. Lindsey understands this. We have talked. Right?” Grace asked Lindsey.

  Lindsey nodded solemnly.

  “Good, so now I will wrap some of these for you while you gather your things, and by things, I also mean your brother.”

  Lindsey smiled broadly and skipped out of the kitchen.

  “Guess I’ll go help,” offered Tom.

  “Yes, and help that old man of mine off the floor, too.”

  Tom promised and left the room.

  As soon as they were alone, Storm turned to Grace. “A very bad man,” she whispered.

  “We do what we must,” said Grace.

  * * *

  They buckled the kids in Tom’s car and then stood next to each other at the driver-side door, reluctant to part.

  The sun had risen fully. Birds sang in the trees. Th
e family of robins that came back each year hopped around the lawn searching for worms.

  If not for the police cars lined along the road and the occasional squawk of a radio, it would have seemed like any other day.

  “I’m going to take the kids to the same hotel as last time,” said Tom. “We’ll order breakfast from room service. I’d leave them with someone and go with you to the doctors, but—”

  “You don’t need to tell me. Take them. Get them out of here. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Good. I have some questions.”

  Fear rose in Storm, a rolling cloud as black as doom. “Questions?” she asked.

  Tom nodded. “Can you stand to live here after this? Will the kids need to see someone?”

  Her eyes must have reflected her fear. She thought he was going to call her out about all the late nights, the lies.

  “Don’t think about it now. We’ll work it out later.” Tom reached, as if to caress her cheek and stopped himself. “I don’t think I can touch you without hurting you,”

  Storm smiled, even though that did hurt. “Stand still.” She kissed him gently, softly.

  “Call me when you get to the doctors. I want to know what he has to say,” Tom asked.

  “He’ll say I have a broken node.”

  “Nose,” said Lindsey, who’d been listening through the open back window. Storm’s smile grew even larger. She winced.

  She waved as Tom and the kids pulled away and walked to her car. She pressed down on the trunk and heard the latch catch.

  As she climbed into the driver’s seat, Storm wished she could just sit and think. There was a lot to think about, so many secrets and lies, stories that had to remain consistent, but not too consistent.

  As much as she wanted it all to be over, she knew it was too soon to relax. Despite what the detective said, she was sure there would be those who would want to know more about what had happened.

  One thing was certain. She was done with delivering justice. There was too much danger in being judge, jury, and executioner. Her family had to come first.

  She opened her purse and dug out her keys. In addition to keys to her car, home, and office, there was a card-sized, white, plastic mag key attached. It was the mag key that granted her access to Traynor Chemical and the kill room.

  Her key ring was threaded through a hole at the top of the mag key. Using her thumb nail, she spread the ring, and bit by bit, slid the mag key free.

  She started the car, backed out past the two remaining police cars parked on the street, and drove in the direction of her doctor’s office.

  * * *

  The sun shone hard and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Her headache was still there, but in the background. Her nose throbbed, but the pain was more dull than sharp. Everything was going to be all right.

  Storm clutched the mag key in her right hand. She had decided when she reached the bridge over Beaverton Creek, she’d slow down long enough to fling it into the water. Then she’d drive off, leaving the key behind her, along with all the horror and death. There had been so much death.

  Jeffrey Franklin Malino, who used dogs to discipline his children; Gavin Lester Everett, who used cigarettes on his son; Helena Smith, who left her child on a sodden mattress beneath a car; Angela Ruiz, who hurt her children by dating bad men.

  To the list, she now added Howard Kline, who had killed an innocent prostitute and her best friend, Nicky. He had also gone after her husband and her children.

  Just as she reached the bridge over Beaverton Creek, Storm was gripped by the thought of the children, of all the children, even the one that she had been—a long time ago.

  She reached for her purse on the passenger seat, slid open the zipper, and dropped the mag key inside.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Pamela Cowan writes mystery and suspense thrillers. 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.

  Please visit pamelacowan.com

  Read more novels by the author.

  Storm Vengeance, book two in the Storm Series.

  Something In The Dark, a Eulalona County mystery.

  Cold Kill a Eulalona County suspense.

  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.

  READ EXCERPT

  SOMETHING IN THE DARK

  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."