In the Shadow of Revenge

by Patricia Hale

  The scenery on the drive to Old Town passed in a blur. The only image floating around in my head was the look of surprise that would be on his face when he opened the door to me standing on his front steps. With one pit stop for Starbucks, I pulled onto Kirkland Street just as the sun was beginning to cast late afternoon shadows and parked against the curb a block away. The gray shingles on his three-story apartment building were weathered and more than a few hung askew as though waiting for a strong breeze to set them free. Stairs ran along the outside of the building providing the sole form of entrance to the second—and third-floor apartments. Small porches flanked the entryways. The street was quiet. Old Town was not what you’d call one of Maine’s tourist attractions. Except for the avid anglers in summer and the hardcore hunters in November, the community of eight thousand kept to itself, comfortably nestled against the Great North Woods.

  I stepped out of the car. My hands shook as I retied my sneakers and wiped moist palms on the thighs of my jeans. I felt myself stalling and took a deep breath. Hopefully my timing was right and DeLonge would do his part and get the men in blue to Jarod’s apartment ASAP. But I had to take the risk. I wanted to be the one to confront my brother with everything he’d done. All my life Jarod had made me feel stupid and small and worthless. It was my turn to hold the cards.

  I had just started down the sidewalk when Jarod appeared at the railing on the third floor. He didn’t speak, just watched. I came toward him, carefully choosing my steps on buckling legs. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I checked my watch—six o’clock. I took a breath and started up.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Jarod asked. He took a swallow of his Budweiser and leaned against the railing. It groaned under his weight.

  They say that when you’re in the presence of family, you revert to your childhood persona no matter how old you are, and it’s true. I was seven years old again and my mother was out for the night. I wanted to turn and run from my brother, not take a step forward into his lair. But he motioned for me to follow him inside and I did. He put his empty bottle on the counter. Beside it, flies buzzed above a cardboard pizza box stained dark with grease.

  “Want one?” he asked, taking another Bud from the refrigerator.

  I shook my head, though I would have liked to pour the whole case down my throat—anything to stop trembling. A woman suddenly appeared in the doorway; beyond her the television blared.

  “Get outta here,” Jarod said and pointed toward the door. “Now.”

  “But...”

  He walked briskly toward her and she took a step back, her eyes wary.

  “Are you...?” I hesitated, trying to remember the name of the woman that had filed the order against him. All I could remember was bitch.

  “Sheila,” she said and came forward, extending her hand to me.

  “The bitch.” Jarod laughed.

  She sent him a sly smile. “Not anymore.”

  “That better be true if you know what’s good for you.”

  She looked back at me. “I’m dropping the charges.”

  “Fuckin’ right you are,” Jarod said, then he looked at me. “I talked some sense into her.”

  “If that’s what you call it.” She raised a bottle of Smirnoff to her lips, took a swallow then held it out to me.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Get the hell out,” Jarod said to her again. “I gotta talk to my sister.”

  “Call me,” she said as she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Whatever,” he said to the closed door. Then he walked across the kitchen, pulled the door open and yelled down the steps after her, “If you’re lucky.”

  He was laughing when he turned back to me. “So what made you take a four-hour drive to see your big brother? You have a change of heart too?”

  My stomach twisted with the confrontation about to begin. I could feel my nerve slipping away, my hands clenching and unclenching, searching for strength. There was a deer head mounted on the faded floral wallpaper in the next room.

  “You kill that?” I asked, stalling.

  “With my own two hands.” He winked at me. “And speaking of animals, how’s that cat of yours? Still hanging around?” He bent at the waist and cackled.

  “You son of a bitch.” I took a step toward him, but he straightened up, puffed out his chest and narrowed his eyes. I stopped where I stood.

  “I just got off the phone with Mom. She said you’ve been asking questions about me and cousin J.D.” He let out another giggle, then swallowed half his beer. “I figured I’d be seeing you sooner or later. Did our genealogy surprise you? Well, it must have surprised your little friend at least. Imagine, after all these years to find that it was our cousin who’d raped her and then to top it off, Duane didn’t even give a shit. I’ll bet that packed a punch. A lethal one from what I hear.” He laughed again.

  “Fuck you, Jarod.”

  He stepped past me into the living room. I followed.

  “So let’s hear it. Why are you here?” He sank into a green paisley chair.

  I hoped my voice wasn’t shaking as badly as the rest of me. “I want to know about the robbery at The Cave.”

  “The what? What makes you think I know anything about that?”

  “Don’t lie to me, Jarod. I know you and Dobbs and Wainwright did the robbery together and that you and Dobbs both came back to get your shares. When he didn’t hand it over, you killed him.”

  Jarod laughed. “Where the hell did you get that bullshit?”

  “The cassette I found at Dobbs’s the night he died. It’s your voice on it demanding the money from Wainwright and threatening to kill him. And what a coincidence he turned up dead, but you know that because you videotaped me at the garage and sent the tape to DeLonge.”

  “You have to admit that was nice work, wasn’t it?” He smiled like none of what I’d said mattered, but I could see the change in his demeanor. The arrogance was gone. His lips were pressed into a tight line, his jaw muscles working overtime. He threw back the rest of his beer, went into the kitchen and came back with another one.

  “Did Mom tell you the rest of our conversation?”

  He rolled his eyes like he couldn’t care less, but I knew I’d caught his interest.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like you were a screwed-up kid.”

  His face reddened and he shook his head. “That’s not true, she’d never say that.”

  “You’re a bully. You beat on little girls.” I nodded toward the door. “And now big ones. You killed the McKenzies’ dog.” The words kept coming. “You’re a fuck-up, Jarod. And I won’t help you. I won’t be associated with you in any way. Sheila needs to know what she’s dealing with. Maybe I should make a few things clear for her.”

  He came toward me and reached out his hand. I sidestepped and he tripped on the leg of a chair, grabbed the arm of the couch and regained his balance. “You try anything and I’ll fucking kill you,” he said.

  “Like you killed Wainwright?”

  “That’s right,” he said, coming toward me again until he was standing so close I was swallowing his stale breath. “Just like I killed Wainwright and anyone else who doesn’t do what I fucking tell them. Lucky for me, your dead friend saved me the trouble when it came to Dobbs, but I guess he showed her.” He laughed. “But, uh-oh, now you know the truth.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “What should I do about that?”


  I ignored his threat. If he was going to kill me, he better do it fast. DeLonge had to have cops on the way by now. “Why didn’t Dobbs go straight to Wainwright? Why’d he need Amelia?”

  He took a step back. “It was your dead friend he wanted, her or me. But she was dryin’ out and J.D. and I haven’t exactly kept in touch. Guess he figured you’d lead him to one of us sooner or later.”

  “So why didn’t he pick me up at Gritty’s instead of Amelia?”

  “Probably didn’t want to sleep with his cousin.”

  “How ethical of him. But if Wainwright didn’t have the money, why’d you kill him?”

  “He does have it. He wouldn’t give it up.”

  “With him dead, you’ll never find it.”

  “I get angry when people don’t give me what I want. Anyway, how many places you ever seen that guy go besides the garage and his home? Can’t be too hard to find.”

  “Weren’t you going to split it anyway?”

  “No fucking way. Me and J.D. made the plan. Wainwright just gave us the idea when he mentioned the cash in Big Jim’s safe, but he wasn’t supposed to be there. Wainwright was sleeping off a bender out back. When he woke up and we were in the room he grabbed the bat and started swinging. He was too shitfaced to know what he was doing. Big Jim hit the floor and me and J.D. hauled Wainwright and the money out of there, back to his garage. We left him passed out on his cot and the cash in a plastic bag, inside an empty oil drum. That was the last we saw of either one. Wainwright got hauled off and we tore that garage apart, but never found a dime.”

  “Why didn’t Wainwright turn you both in for a lesser sentence?”

  “That pussy? You’re forgetting I have friends in high places. Those bars in Thomaston weren’t gonna keep him safe. I told him if he breathed a word of the truth, he was a dead man, in prison or out. His daughter too.” Jarod laughed. “She thought getting raped was bad. Remember the McKenzies’ dog?”

  “I never saw it.”

  “Pieces of it all around the neighborhood. I told old Duane that would be his little girl. Only smart thing he ever did was to take me seriously. ’Course I had to whack him later anyway, the stupid shit.”

  “So when you heard he was out of jail, you and J.D. decided it was time to get the money.”

  “Son of a bitch still wouldn’t say what he did with it. He got what he deserved.”

  He laughed again, but it wasn’t the arrogant laugh of control. It was an anxious twitter and that made me even more uncomfortable. He cocked his head and looked at me. I’d seen that look too many times before and knew it meant something was coming. I just never knew what it was going to be. His hand darted toward me like he was throwing a punch. I stepped back.

  “You wearin’ a fuckin’ wire? Is that what all these questions are about?” He grabbed the neck of my blouse and in one downward sweep tore it open to my waist. Buttons scattered across the pine floorboards.

  “There’s no wire.” I pulled away from him, but he was on me again, grabbing my jean jacket and pulling me against him.

  “You go to the cops?”

  I shook my head, but my face must have betrayed me because he took one look at me and grinned.

  “Don’t ever play poker,” he said.

  In a backhand I never saw coming, his oversized turquoise ring ripped open my cheek and sent me to the floor. In the time it took me to get to my knees, he’d gone to the hutch in the corner of the room and opened the drawer. If I’d been a cop instead of a lawyer I’d have known what was coming. Instead, I knelt there watching. When he turned around he pointed a silver pistol at my face.

  “Ever seen the basement of this fine dwelling? You’re about to. Get up, we’re takin’ a tour.” He waved the gun, motioning me toward the door.

  “People know I’m here. You won’t get away with this.”

  “You underestimate me, little sister. I’ve pulled off more than my share of robberies, taken care of our buddy Duane and then some, and I still don’t see anyone knockin’ on my door. They might come lookin’.” He laughed. “But they ain’t gonna find nothin’ when I’m done.” He motioned again toward the door. “Let’s go. And don’t get brave.”

  As slowly as I could I got up from my knees and stood in front of him, my mind racing, searching for a way out. Sweat trickled beneath my hair and down my neck. When we reached the kitchen door that led to the porch, he pushed me aside and stepped out first to check the street before we descended the outside stairs.

  I knew if he got me to the basement, I was dead. I had a minute or two, that was all. To the right of the door was a brick hearth and on it a small woodstove. Leaning against the stove was an iron poker. In the minute it took Jarod to check the street, I grabbed the poker and planted my feet. The second he turned back to me I drove it into his stomach, pushing as hard and fast as I could. Caught off guard he stumbled back, his eyes bugging from pain or shock, I didn’t care which. I drove the poker deeper, pushing him away from me and with a final shove he crashed against the rotted railing that enclosed the porch and when he did, it let go under his weight. He went over the edge airborne, his arms flailing. His gun was still clenched in one hand, the other grasped at nothing. I stepped forward and saw him hit the concrete three stories down. His head and shoulders bounced slightly, then he lay still.

  A minivan came down the street and stopped. I watched a guy get out and stand over Jarod, pushing buttons on his cell phone. I walked slowly down the stairs, listening to the guy giving the 9-1-1 operator the address, then I came up beside him.

  “You know this guy?” he asked.

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Jesus,” he said and knelt next to Jarod, feeling his neck for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I walked to the stairs and sat on the bottom step to wait.

  Almost immediately, I heard a siren. Old Town isn’t that big. An ambulance made the corner and stopped beside Jarod. He hadn’t moved. A cruiser pulled up alongside the ambulance, followed by an unmarked.

  “He’s her brother,” I heard the guy say and he pointed to my refuge on the stairs.

  A uniform came over to me. Just as he was about to speak another guy in plainclothes came up behind him. “I’ve got this,” he said.

  The uniform nodded and rejoined his partner who was standing in the middle of the street watching the EMTs do their thing.

  “Are you Cecily Minos?” The plainclothes asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m Detective Hood. I got a call from Sergeant DeLonge in Portland, said we’d better get over here. Looks like we’re a little late.”

  “I handled it,” I said.

  “I can see that.”

  “You want these?” I held my wrists out to him, expecting handcuffs.

  “DeLonge filled me in. And your brother’s got a gun in his hand.”

  I looked at his face. “And I had a poker in mine.”

  “Fair fight?” he asked.

  “Self defense.”

  He smiled. “DeLonge said you’re a lawyer.”

  “I don’t see the humor.”

  “Sorry.” Hood moved past me and started up the stairs. “Stay here. I’ll take you to the station to get your statement.”

  I sat on the steps and tried to feel something while I watched them load Jarod into the ambulance. Another cop car arrived, men and women in blue hurried up and down the steps. Neighbors came out to the sidewalks in front
of their apartments and watched as the crime scene was processed. A siren wailed and the ambulance began to move, lights flashing. I watched it round the corner and then lost sight of it. I closed my eyes, relieved.

  Somebody took my elbow. I looked up into Hood’s face.

  “What now?”

  “We’re going to the station. I need your statement.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  He didn’t answer, just settled me into the back seat of his car and closed the door.

  “Detective?” I asked when he was behind the wheel.

  “DeLonge said to get a statement and release you. Nobody’s being arrested, except maybe your brother as soon as he’s up to it.” He glanced at me in his rearview mirror.

  I leaned my head against the seat while he drove, numb. No sadness, no remorse, just numb. I thought of my mother. She’d be at his bedside on her knees. That wouldn’t last long. If he lived he’d be transferred to Thomaston prison as soon as he was able. I closed my eyes feeling strangely at peace. Duane Wainwright was dead. Dobbs was dead. And Jarod would pay, if not by death then by spending the next twenty-five years in prison. The pact had been fulfilled.

  At the police station, I gave Hood my statement, some childhood memories and what I knew about Sheila’s restraining order. I repeated the conversation I’d had with Jarod and explained that we’d scuffled, my bloody cheek backing me up, and finally, how I’d grabbed the poker and rammed it into him, seeing that as my only hope before he carried out whatever he’d planned on doing in the basement. He wrote it all down and said he’d forward a copy to DeLonge once he’d finished his own investigation. And then he told me I was free to go.

  I sat there looking at him, my body feeling too heavy to move.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Thought you’d be staying?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I assaulted my brother. He could die, might have already.”