Vengeance Before Virtue

by Tyler Porter

  “Chelsea, I need you to get the jet to Manhattan Regional Airport as soon as you can.” Manhattan Regional was the closest commercial airport to Council Grove, and was located just outside of Manhattan, Kansas. “Two passengers only⸺just Andi and Riley.”

  “You won’t be coming back with them, Sir?”

  “No, not right now. But I need them out of here as soon as possible. Call if you need me; otherwise get that jet moving.”

  He hung up and tossed his cell phone onto the passenger seat. There was a lot he didn’t know, but there was one thing he did: something dangerous was happening, and whoever was behind those notes knew where he, Andi and Riley were staying. They knew where his parents lived. They knew too much. And his girls weren’t safe. For the time being he’d checked them all out of the hotel they were in and dropped the girls off at an outlet mall near the highway.

  Without any better options, he wanted them both surrounded by people where they couldn’t be taken or attacked in the open. He had told Andi to stay there until she got his call; then she could get a taxi to the airport and get on the jet back to Chicago. He had already made arrangements with the general manager of his condo building to have security at his door until he got back. That was one potential threat taken care of, but he still felt beads of sweat sliding down the sides of his forehead. Whoever left the notes also knew where his parents lived.

  The last note had openly threatened the life of his mom, and he was driving as fast as he could. He had left immediately after getting it, so whoever left it couldn’t be far ahead of him. That wasn’t to say that the mystery person was acting alone and a partner couldn’t already be at his parents’ house. He was flying down a country road going over 100 miles per hour, pushing the pedal as far as it would go. But as fast as he was going, he had a gut feeling that it was not going to be fast enough.

  He flew into town and quickly maneuvered his way to their street. As he approached the house, he pulled into a neighbor’s driveway five houses down so that the Tahoe was not visible from the front porch of his mom and dad’s house. He snuck around the back and cut through the four properties that were between him and his destination. When he arrived at the edge of his parents’ lawn, he quietly worked his way around the garage to the side door and, again, found it unlocked.

  No matter what he was walking into, it would do nothing but good for him to be armed. He hadn’t brought a gun with him, since they had crossed state lines, but luckily he knew where an obscene stash of guns were hidden: the secret room at the back of his dad’s garage. He did not tread nearly as carefully as the first time he had stumbled into the neatly kept space. He wasn’t in a hurry the first time around. This time, seconds could be the difference between life and death.

  He reached the door to the hidden room, opened it, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him. For a moment, he listened for anyone following him inside the garage. Someone could have been watching from inside the house and followed him, but he heard nothing. After waiting five seconds counting Mississippis, he reached up and pulled the light string. Fuck. That was the first and only thought that entered his mind.

  Empty. Completely cleaned out from top to bottom. Not so much as an ammo box remained in the space. It had been a day since he’d been in this space, and it had been stocked full. Had he imagined it? No. This had been a war room; now, it was just an addition that looked like the owner hadn’t decided a purpose for it yet. Where were all the guns? The bulletproof vests? The cop-killer bullets? All gone. He could have sat there the rest of the day contemplating the reason why, but he didn’t have time for that.

  He left the garage and climbed the stairs up to the back door. He tested the knob⸺locked. His next idea was the window next to the door that led into the kitchen. He leaned over and pressed up on the lip of the window, and surprisingly it gave. He slid it up an inch at a time, stopping intermittently to keep from causing too much noise. Once he got it as far open as it would go, he climbed up onto the sill and lowered himself inside.

  Matt dropped down from the counter onto the linoleum floor and listened; he heard nothing. He crossed to the far drawer closest to the refrigerator and slid it open. He grabbed the biggest knife he could find: a ceramic bread knife that was bigger than a steak knife but smaller than a butcher knife. At least it was something, which was better than being completely unarmed walking into what could be another death-trap.

  He moved through the kitchen and around the corner toward the living room, listening intently with every step. He kept his back against the wall, the knife at his side, stopping before the living room entrance and leaning his head back against the wall. His heart was punching its way out of his chest, and he couldn’t get his breathing under control no matter how hard he tried. He gathered the courage that he could and stepped out from cover and into the opening. He immediately tasted bile rising in his throat. He wanted to get sick, but that would have taken some percentage of his attention, and every bit of it was on the body lying on the ground.

  Matt couldn’t tell the cause of his mother’s death from looking at her, mainly because more of her body was covered in blood than not. Her eyes were still open, seemingly staring at the ceiling, and her face was petrified in place⸺as if her attacker had surprised her, but killed her so fast that her face hadn’t changed positions. Her arms were both lying flat at her sides, and one leg was twisted under her like she’d crumpled from whatever had happened.

  He wanted to run to her, weep over her, hold her until he had no tears left. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her and how sorry he was that he hadn’t been able to get there sooner. How sorry he was for leaving her all those years ago. How sorry he was for not being the son she deserved. He wanted all of that and more, desperately, but there was one thing standing in the way of that: the man standing over her, who was now staring back over his shoulder at Matt.

  Chapter 12: A Father’s Love

  Patrick O’Bannon’s face was so calm and focused it could have been carved from stone. His eyes concentrated on Matt for several long moments before he moved away from his wife’s body. Matt had been away for a long time, but there were certain things he just couldn’t forget, his parents’ relationship for one. They had met in high school; he was a senior and she was a freshman. Her parents hadn’t liked it at first⸺the age difference⸺but eventually they’d relented, and the two had dated. They married a month after her high school graduation and had stayed madly in love ever since. This year would be anniversary number thirty-six. Thirty-six years of love and affection destroyed in what couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. That was about the same amount of time it would have taken his mother to hit the ground.

  His father stepped two paces away from the body and into the center of the living room. It was only then that Matt took inventory of what his father was holding in his right hand. The snub-nosed shotgun that had previously been hanging on the wall in the secret room of the garage. Matt did not try to hide the fact that he was focusing on the weapon, nor he did not try to hide the fact that he was holding a butcher knife in his own hand. Neither said a word, maybe because no words were necessary. It was very clear what had happened in the house.

  Patrick had finally snapped all the way through. The mood swings and gun collection were just the beginning; now it was official. He was gone. That could have been the reason for the silence, or, maybe it sat in the air like thick smoke because there were no words that would make a difference. No words that would change anything. What was done was done. The only question remaining was what would happen next. Matt didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. Patrick lifted the shotgun up, resting the barrel in his other hand, pumped another round into the chamber, and aimed it at Matt.

  Boom! The shot was so loud it was a wonder the windows didn’t shatter. Matt had dove to the side just in time and onto the concealed stairway to the second story. He almost hadn’t moved, because part of him did not want to believe that his fat
her could actually take a shot at hi, that he could turn a gun on his own son. Matt silently thanked God he’d chosen correctly. He moved, rapidly, up the stairs to the second floor, crawling on all floors. He could hear the boot-covered footsteps moving from the living room to the bottom of the stairs.

  He was running out of time. He rolled around the corner at the top of the staircase right before the second shot burst through the air. He looked behind him and several holes were showing in the ceiling right above where he’d been just seconds before. He no longer had any doubts; his father could, and would, kill him. He heard the same heavy footsteps working their way up the stairs. They were slower, because his father knew he had the knife and could jump out from the turn at the top of the stairs. Matt now drew that knife close to his body and, keeping low to the ground, moved as quietly as possible into his sister’s childhood bedroom.

  He opened the closet door slightly, careful to leave it open just enough to draw his pursuer’s attention. Then he laid down on the other side of the full-sized bed and waited. All he heard for the longest time was his own breathing, shallow and fast. It was one skill he had never mastered. He had never been able to consciously control his breathing, slow it down. Force them to come deep and slow. It was only when he heard the slightest creak in the old floorboards just outside her bedroom door that he drew in a long, deep breath, and held it.

  His lungs, full and bloated, felt like ticking time bombs. He didn’t know whether they were going to explode or if he would pass out first. He had no clue where his father was; he could only hope that he was in the room and that he would take the bait. The hope paid off. He suddenly heard the door of the closet being ripped open and clothes hangers rapidly being thrown around. Matt made his move and jumped onto the bed, took two steps, and pounced.

  His father screamed in pain as the knife pierced the skin on his shoulder and sank at least two inches. It had purposely been his right shoulder, and as the numbness spread through his arm, the shotgun fell to the floor. Matt’s emotions were flooding through him, guiding him every which way and then no way at all. He had been in more life-or-death situations than most people could imagine, and every time before, he had had one goal: kill. Kill, or be killed. However, this time was very different.

  During his faceoff with Detective Will Chaser, he’d been fully ready to take Chaser’s life all the way up until the end. He’d forced himself to stop, because he wanted to believe he was a different man than the night he’d killed Michael Vincent. That night, there was no stopping, and there was no question. He hadn’t gone there to kill him, but once he started, he could not stop. In both cases, he viewed the opposing man as a vile, vicious predator who would only cause pain until they were put down.

  This time around, it was his own father. The man who’d raised him. Who’d taught him the difference between right and wrong and what it meant to be a man. The one who’d taken him fishing and camping. The man who’d loved him unconditionally and so fiercely that it showed in his eyes every time he told Matt he loved him. He didn’t want to kill him. Yes, Matt felt rage for what his dad had done to his mother, but he felt so much more sadness. His mom was gone, and now he had only two choices: die, or take his other parent out of the world.

  Matt pulled the knife from his father’s shoulder, lifted it above his head, and hesitated for just an instant. It was an instant that changed everything. Bam! Patrick’s elbow connected clean to Matt’s temple, forcing him tumbling backwards onto the bed and at the same time dropping the knife. Patrick picked it up and straddled him, bringing the knife down toward his throat. Out of instinct, Matt put his hands up and caught his dad’s wrist. Man versus man. Father versus son. That was the battle at hand as Matt fought with everything to keep the cold, sharp steel from piercing his flesh, and Patrick fought just as much to see the blade plunge into his own flesh and blood.

  At first they both stared intensely at the knife as if the one who stared the hardest would be the one to gain the kill, but then something happened that surprised them both. The two men, set on killing one another, really looked at each other for the first time since Matt had entered the house. In one moment, both realized that the other was shedding tears as they fought against each other. Matt wanted to hug his father, but the past was over, and no bond in their history could change was had been done. That was his moment. He drove his right up hard into Patrick’s left side.

  He grunted hard and fell, slightly to his right from the momentum of the blow. Matt held onto his wrist with one hand, keeping the knife in sight, and with his other, he reached up and grabbed a fistful of his dad’s shirt. In one swift motion, he rolled himself backwards, pulled the shirt with his hand, and thrust his hips up, flipping his dad over him, off of the bed, and onto the floor. He was certain he would be disoriented momentarily from the fall as he landed on more of his head and neck than his back. This was the time to make the kill, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He lifted himself up off of the bed on the other side and left the room.

  Matt moved down the stairs as fast as he could, and just as he reached the bottom, he heard the shotgun being loaded once more. He ran to the front door, threw it open, and jumped from the front porch down the steps, breaking into a sprint toward the neighbor’s property where his vehicle was parked. As soon as he arrived, he jumped inside, fired up the engine, and floored the gas pedal, squealing the tires while the SUV sped backwards into the street. He backed up into the road with his backend facing the direction of his childhood home, and then slammed on the brakes. He immediately threw the shifter into drive, but he hadn’t even gotten his foot back on the gas pedal before a shot rang out and his back window shattered.

  He looked back to find his father, standing in the middle of the street, shotgun in hand, loading more shells into the weapon. The tires smoked as they fought desperately to grab asphalt. When they finally did, the Tahoe carried him just far enough out of reach to be clear of the second shot, but not far enough away not to hear it crack out in the atmosphere. He paid no mind to stop signs, lights, or other vehicles as he raced through town. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to, but he knew he had to drive. In that moment, it seemed like the only thing that he knew, so he held onto it tightly.

  Matt reached the edge of town and turned onto County Road 163. The number 55 was printed on the little, white square sign, but that didn’t have any effect on the speedometer which read 87 mph and was climbing. His foot was all the way down, but he felt no adrenaline. At least when he’d had a knife coming toward him, he had some other emotion to blunt the sadness. Now the sadness was all he had. He kept hoping to go numb at some point, but no such luck would fall upon him. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t sob, he could only endure.

  Endure the deep, emotional pain that no one ever truly learns how to deal with. The pain felt when a loved one passes away. The pain felt when someone’s spouse leaves them for another. The pain felt when the doctor enters the room with a stone face and gives the news that the baby didn’t make it. Very few instances in life resulted in the pure sorrow that engulfed him.

  He made it six or seven miles before it was too much and he was forced to pull over to the side of the road. He engaged his hazards and threw the shifter into park, then buried his face hard into his hands, massaging his forehead and eyes. He stayed that way for a long time, until his neck ached. Once he became too uncomfortable to ignore it, he laid his head back against the driver seat and closed his eyes. Although darkness covered his vision, he could not stop seeing his father standing over his mother, looking back over his shoulder at him. His face, so cold and so emotionless, showed no regret. His eyes were filled with hate, the same look he’d given Matt when he’d first come home.

  At some point he must have finally dozed off, because he jolted his eyes open some time later, momentarily reminding himself where he was, and instantly feeling again that he was running from something. He couldn’t just sleep that off, and it remai
ned in full effect. The only thing that he knew of that had a chance of easing his grief was Andi. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, opened the screen, and scrolled down to My Love in his contacts. It didn’t even ring once before going to voicemail. While her bubbly, high-energy message played asking the caller to leave their information and a short message, he checked his watch: 5:37 p.m.

  Straight to voicemail meant her phone was off. This would have worried him, but he had a text from her letting him know they had gotten to the airstrip. A wave of relief came to him for an instant as he imagined her and Riley doing coloring books on the jet on their way back to Chicago. They were safe, and that was enough to bring him some hint of joy. He left a short message letting her know that he loved her and asking her to call when they landed. He told her that he had some things to tell her, and that he didn’t know for sure when he was coming back, but that he would as soon as he could.

  Matt pressed the little red circle at the bottom of the screen and clicked the button on the side of the phone, causing the screen to go black. Just like his life. He stared at the small, rectangular device. and with the passing seconds he grew angrier. Not being able to stare at it any longer, for fear that he might explode with the cocktail of emotion that was like a hurricane in his heart, he turned and threw the phone onto the backseat. He put the Tahoe back into drive, but stayed put. Where was he even supposed to go?

  He’d come back to make things right with his family, but what family? His sister disowned him, his mother was dead, and his father wanted him dead and was on the hunt to make that happen. There was nothing left for him in Council Grove. This was his initial thought. Then he thought, again, about Mariah. Yes, she’d had him arrested and chosen her drug-dealer-slash-pimp over him, but she was still his little sister. No amount of nudity in exchange for money or drugs could change that, and now her life was in danger too.