Back in her newly decorated kitchen, which was now so cheerful that she couldn’t wait to go into it in the morning, Paula sat down and poured herself a second cup of coffee. She looked over at the pies sitting on the counter. She hadn’t baked them yet. It was her intention to carry them down the street and bake them there so that when her saviors arrived—and that’s how she thought of the vigilantes—they would have the aroma of the baking pies to greet them. It was a small thing for having her life saved, but it was the only thing she was really good at—cooking and baking. She knew her old friends would understand. She could hardly wait to see them.
She’d almost turned herself inside out the day Nikki Quinn called and asked for her help. She remembered how she’d squealed, “Anything, I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you want me to do.” And Nikki had told her.
Paula Woodley let her mind wander as she waited for the evening home health aide to arrive. She had been on the brink of death, actually waiting to die, due to severe internal bleeding from one of her husband’s beatings, when the vigilantes swooped in to save her. Her recovery had been long, painful, and tortuous. Mr. Woodley had been returned to her by the government several months after she’d gotten out of the hospital. She remembered so clearly how she’d stared at him, wondering who the man in the wheelchair was. She’d already been told that virtually every bone in his body had been broken, but unable to comprehend such a thing, she’d merely chalked it up to media hype.
And then when she’d seen him with her own eyes, she’d acted like a lunatic as she danced around his wheelchair, laughing hysterically. “You’re mine now, Mr. Woodley. All mine, and I will remind you hourly that I am the only one you have, you son of a bitch!” She remembered how he’d cried, how he’d tried to speak but couldn’t.
The first thing she’d done was brew a pot of coffee. When it finished brewing and was scalding hot, she’d poured it into a cup with a huge red #1 on it that someone had given him at Christmastime. She’d filled it to the brim and carried it into the den, where he waited for her. She took up a position right in front of her husband and stuck her finger in the cup. It hadn’t cooled one bit on the short walk from the kitchen to the den. With slow deliberation she’d inched her way forward. Reading the intent in her eyes, Woodley tried to move the wheelchair, but she reached out with her foot and set the brake. With a steady hand she poured the coffee down into his crotch. She knew he was screaming because his mouth moved. A few seconds into the silent scream, he blacked out. When he came to, Paula tossed him a jar of Vaseline and walked away.
The next day and every day that followed, she would taunt him with what she was going to do to him. Though she would rarely follow through on her threats, and even when she did there was no real damage done and very little pain, just knowing he lived in perpetual fear—the way she had during their married life—was enough for her.
Paula turned when she heard a soft knock on the pane of glass in the kitchen door. She got up to unlock it. “Good evening, Joseph,” she said cheerfully. “Your patient is waiting for you. He had a wonderful day and ate a robust dinner. I baked a pie for you. Be sure to take it when you leave. I have to go down the street now. New people moved in today, and I’m in charge of the welcoming committee. Just be sure the door locks behind you when you leave. I might even be back before you leave, but just in case I’m not, I will be at 11063. If there’s a problem, you can always reach me on my cell.”
Joseph Nesbitt was a man of few words. He’d heard the stories, the rumors concerning his patient and the beating he’d taken at the hands of the vigilantes. He wasn’t sure if a woman or a group of women would have the stomach to do to the man what had been done to him. When he voiced his opinions to his wife, she’d laughed in his face and added a few more things that could have been done that the vigilantes had skipped. Every evening when he got home after settling his patient for the night, his wife would quiz him. Ethel was a big vigilante fan, as were all her friends. Sometimes he made up stories just to entertain her. She’d always clap her hands and say that the man should die already, and that his wife was a saint. He wasn’t so sure about the saint part. Sometimes he thought Mrs. Woodley hated her husband. She was good to Joseph, though, always making him pies and cakes or sending him home with a complete dinner. She paid for his gas and travel time and was more than generous during the holidays. He hoped Woodley lasted a long time so he could reap even more benefits. His wife loved Mrs. Woodley’s apple pies. He hoped he would remember to pick up some ice cream on his way home.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Woodley. Take your time. I’ll stay an extra hour and read the paper to Mr. Woodley. He likes to be kept up on the goings-on in government.”
Nesbitt waited until Paula settled the unbaked pies on a baking sheet and left the house before he cut himself a slice of pie and ate it. It wasn’t until he was done that he realized he forgot to put ice cream on it. He slid his dish and knife and fork into the dishwasher and turned it on before he ambled down the hall to his patient, the day’s paper folded and stuck in his hip pocket.
Just when Joseph was getting his patient ready for the night, Paula Woodley was sliding her pies in the preheated oven and set about seeing to the house. She fluffed up the cushions on the chairs and sofas, checked the sheets on the beds, and made sure there were plenty of towels available, along with an assortment of bath salts, powders, combs, brushes, toothbrushes, and everything else for the comfort and convenience of seven wonderful women.
Back in the kitchen, she savored the aroma of the baking pies as she checked the contents of the pantry and refrigerator. Earlier in the afternoon, when she was frying her own chicken, she’d cooked up a huge platter and had had to make two trips to carry it and a tray of her macaroni and cheese for the women to eat on their arrival.
She’d shopped in the morning, filling the refrigerator with vegetables, fruit, juice, eggs, bacon, and milk. Yesterday she’d laid in a supply of coffee beans and even bought a new coffeemaker. Six of the vigilantes were big coffee drinkers, as she recalled. She’d also purchased all kinds of teas, not knowing which blends the little vigilante liked best.
She looked around. The kitchen was a pretty one, with light oak cabinets, and red-checkered curtains and place mats. She’d added a bright bowl of autumn flowers to the middle of the table. The vigilantes’ home away from home. She did take a moment to wonder where the women actually lived these days. Then again, it was none of her business. What she did know was she would go to her death before she ever admitted she’d helped them. Their secrets, whatever they were, were safe with her.
By nine o’clock the pies were done and cooling on the counter. She’d turned down the beds and turned on the outside lights. Satisfied that she had done all Nikki had asked of her, she left the house by the kitchen door and walked down the street to her own home.
It would rain before morning, she thought. When it was damp and rainy, Mr. Woodley was in a great deal of pain. When she said her prayers at night, Paula Woodley always prayed for rain.
She was about to walk up her driveway when she noticed her neighbor walking his dog, a delightful little fur-ball named Maxine. She passed a few pleasantries with her neighbor, then went into the house. She was glad that Joseph was gone. She wasn’t much in the mood for small talk this evening.
Paula checked to make sure the aide had taken his pie. He had. She poured herself a glass of milk and cut a slice of pie for herself. She did love apple pie. When she was finished, she washed and dried her dishes and made her way to her bathroom, where she ran a hot bath. While the water was running, she walked back to the little room where her husband now lived. She opened the door, poked her head in, and said, “I think it’s going to rain before morning. Good night, Mr. Woodley.”
Paula pulled the door shut and locked it. There was no need to lock the door, but she did it anyway because she slept better knowing her husband was behind a locked door. She also locked her own bedroom door.
&nbs
p; Paula looked at her naked body with all its scars, her eyes narrowing in momentary anger. Still, this was the part of the day she loved best, settling down into the warm tub with the rich cypress-lavender blend of salts she favored. This was when she turned her mind off and truly relaxed.
An hour later, as she was turning down her own bed, she saw a pair of headlights sweeping down the street. She sighed with happiness as she peered out the window to see a white van pull into the driveway at 11063 and into the garage.
The vigilantes had arrived.
Paula Woodley slept like a baby that night.
Chapter 15
Erin Powell knew she looked like she’d been ridden hard and hung up wet. Right now she’d give her right arm for just a few minutes of sleep, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Humiliated and chastised by the director himself for her running of the task force and the mistakes he’d said she made rankled big-time. There was nothing worse than being made to look like a failure in front of your colleagues, but she’d bitten the bullet and sucked it up, more determined than ever to make it all work for her. Although it wasn’t like she had anything worthwhile to work with. Sightings, mostly bogus, were virtually impossible to sort out. The vigilantes covered their tracks. It had taken her hours to come to terms with the fact that there simply were no clues worth focusing on. But, according to the director, the clock was ticking.
It was close to midnight when she realized that she wasn’t getting anywhere, but then she opened a thin folder of newspaper clippings. She knew immediately that she was onto something when she tried to match the vigilantes’ profiles against the articles in the folder. But then again, she’d thought she was on the right track when she’d ordered her agents to bring in the key players for interrogation. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was right, but the director had chopped her off at the knees. Everyone had lawyered up with the same damn woman, Lizzie Fox. That alone told her more than she needed to know. She had a wild and crazy thought that maybe the director himself was setting her up for…for what? She had no clue, and the idea that he might have a hidden agenda was preposterous—wasn’t it?
Erin looked down at her watch.
She had second-guessed herself last night and decided to stay and work late rather than lug all the heavy file boxes home. “Late” had turned into an all-nighter, and she was paying for it now.
She should go to the lavatory to freshen up a bit before her colleagues arrived. She thought about the long trek down the hall to the bathroom and nixed the idea. She ran her fingers through her hair and added some lipstick. She didn’t feel one bit better.
The empty coffeepot glared at her. She’d sent her secretary/assistant, Althea, home at three o’clock and told her to be back at six. It was almost six now. She wasn’t sure if she could drink another cup of coffee, but maybe the aroma would help to keep her awake.
It was Althea who had compiled the short list and explained why she thought it was the most credible. Althea was analytical to the nth degree. She was one of those rare people who could look at a maze and figure it out within minutes.
Erin remembered exactly when Althea had come to stand over her desk, and said, “Seven women, right? So, seven happenings or episodes or whatever you want to call them. Acts of vengeance would be my words of choice. All we have to do is find mention of seven acts of vengeance, and we’ll be able to nail it down.
“Remember now, when we first heard about the vigilantes, there were supposedly seven women. We know this because they were apprehended in California when they zeroed in on that movie star. But—and this is the big but—there was someone new to the seven, that countess whatever her name is.
“I remember reading about her a year or so ago. She lived on some mountain in Spain and was a wealthy recluse. Her entire family was wiped out in a storm in the ocean. And, get this, she grew up with Myra Rutledge, as did Judge Easter. That’s all background.”
“And this means what? Seven women, seven acts of vengeance. So what?” Erin asked.
“What it means is the countess wasn’t in on it in the beginning. She stepped in at the end. Why? Did they lose a member of the group? In one of those articles, I think it was the one that talked about the national security advisor, he said there were six women. All we have to do is pinpoint the dates, find out who died at that time, or something over the top that made the papers, and we can attribute it to the vigilantes.”
“That’s all well and good, Althea, but what is that going to get us? Is it going to help us find them? Will the people involved even talk to us? They’re not going to want the notoriety, and they’ll all lawyer up in a heartbeat. We need to know where the vigilantes are so we can catch them and put them in prison where they belong.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Erin, but you are not going to catch those women. They are so well connected it’s unbelievable. Just think about the circuses that took place when there was a sighting—like Elvis, only seven times bigger. The public is behind them. One hundred percent.” Althea’s voice was so flat and sounded so ominous that Erin flinched. “And you know what else, I think you’re right, and this is all a setup. You’re the Judas goat on this one.”
To a certain extent, it all made sense, but the big question was, why? Judas goat, my ass, had been Erin’s first thought.
But now she was so fuzzy-minded that she was inclined to go along with Althea’s way of thinking. Should I play this close to my vest, or should I share it with the members of the task force? Her heart kicked up an extra beat at the thought.
She let her mind run wild. Why would the director set her up? Why would he put the FBI in such a position? Was he secretly on the side of the vigilantes? He was a personal friend of Judge Easter, he’d gotten Mitch Riley’s job when the vigilantes tossed him to the feds. Did the vigilantes go after Riley so that Cummings could step into his job? Stranger things had happened. Was this task force just something the director started up to throw everyone off his trail or was it to appease…who? Certainly not the media.
Erin rubbed her red eyes, which were full of grit. When she opened them, she saw Althea already standing by the coffeepot. She could hear the slow, steady drip, which was almost mesmerizing.
“I see you didn’t go home. You look awful, Erin. You don’t owe this place your life, you know. Did you come up with anything?”
Erin tapped a file on her desk. “I read through the vigilantes’ profiles at least ten times each. At this point I know just about everything there is to know about them. I crosschecked their files with the incident files that you pulled. And, yes, there are seven. In some instances it might be a stretch, but I think we can tie all seven together as long as we don’t use glue.
“For instance, Myra Rutledge’s daughter was killed by a Chinese guy with diplomatic immunity. He thumbed his nose at all of us, and nothing was done to him. Then suddenly he disappears, and everyone connected to him is recalled to China. Ted Robinson somehow came up with the theory, or be it fact, that Myra’s Gulfstream plane made a trip to China. Not long after that, there were reports that John Chai, the man who killed Barbara Rutledge, was seen in the province where he lived. The rumor, according to Robinson, was that the man had been skinned alive and was insane. I think that was Myra’s revenge.
“Moving right along here to Alexis Thorne. She went to prison for something she claims she didn’t do. The two people who framed her, Arden Gillespie and Roland Sullivan, ended up in prison with tattoos all over their bodies but mostly on their faces. The name that was tattooed was Sara Whittier. That’s Alexis Thorne’s birth name. That’s two down. She was cleared and her record expunged. She walked away with a tidy sum of money when guess who sued on her behalf? Lizzie Fox was her attorney. No one ever mentioned that. That proves to me that Lizzie Fox knew at least one member of the vigilantes before she represented them at the end when they were caught.
“I can’t connect a particular vigilante to what happened to the national security
advisor. It might have been a freebie, for all I know. He, by the way, is more or less a vegetable. His wife takes care of him. That makes three.
“Four is Senator Mitchell Webster. There was talk he was going to be Cartwright’s running mate for the presidential election. He disappeared off the face of the earth. His wife was Dr. Julia Webster. She disappeared, too. Her car was seen at Myra Rutledge’s estate more than once, along with the other vigilantes’ cars. This is all according to Ted Robinson, who verified it with pictures in which Julia Webster’s license plates are clearly visible. Their story was they played cards or dominos or some damn thing. For whatever reason, the countess is the one who replaced Dr. Webster. Robinson said there were rumors that the senator had HIV. Which would then lead you to believe he infected his wife. It’s possible that she died. We have no solid proof on any of it. Mitch Webster was never seen or heard of again.
“Five is Kathryn Lucas. I searched for hours and couldn’t find anything the vigilantes would or could do for her. Until I came across an article sent by one of the wire clipping services—about three guys in California who got their balls chopped off and mailed to them. In Ziploc bags, no less. Now, ask yourself who could or would do something like that? A doctor, and Julia Webster was a doctor. The article said the testicles were surgically removed. The deed doesn’t seem to fit any of the other vigilantes, so I’m giving it to Lucas. I’m thinking she might have been raped, but that’s just a guess on my part. Slicing off some guy’s balls is making a pretty strong statement. Three guys getting their jewels hacked off is an even bigger statement. Those women are cold and heartless. They fit the bill.”
11. Collateral Damage Page 13
