Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series)

by Josh Handrich

  Years’ worth of anger and rage built inside him were released as Tyler head-butted Deon and then sent a roundhouse sucker punch to the side of his face. The assault sent Deon flailing onto the tile floor, knocking out several teeth in the process. Deon took a split second to figure out what was going on, as Tyler swung at the other guys like a madman. Deon regained his composure and raged like a bull into Tyler, impacting him with enough force to knock the wind out of Tyler. As hard as he tried, Tyler was outmatched as the four of them pinned him onto the ground with Deon resting his entire body weight on top of him.

  Tyler looked into the face of Deon, his mouth a bloody mess as he exhaled gobs of blood and spit into Tyler’s eyes, nose, and mouth. Deon shoved his left hand against the base of Tyler’s chin, forcing it upward, making it difficult for him to breathe. Tyler’s eyes and cheeks were already beginning to swell from the beating. With his right hand, he took a 9mm 1911 pistol from under his shirt and stuffed the barrel into Tyler’s mouth. Tyler’s eyes instantly went wild as he gagged and hyperventilated from fear.

  “Want to die, mother fucker? Is that what you want, you faggot?” Deon pressed the gun as far as it would go. Drool dripped down the barrel as Deon spit more blood on him. “Tell me, why should I let you live?” All Tyler could do was mumble some incomprehensible words. “I didn’t hear you. Why should I let you live?” he roared. Tears flowed from Tyler who believed these were probably his last moments. Deon lifted the gun out of his mouth to let him speak. “Last chance, faggot.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” Tyler pleaded as he broke down.

  “If you ever try that bullshit again, I’ll put a bullet in you and your ma. Got dat?” Deon brought a nasty right hook around and cold-cocked Tyler with the butt of his gun, rendering him unconscious.

  *****

  The room before him looked fuzzier than a golden retriever puppy. As hard as he tried, it was impossible for his eyes to focus. He felt woozy and disoriented. Tyler’s brain tried to figure out where he was and why he felt so strange. He leaned forward, but a stabbing pain below his left nipple prevented any further movement.

  “Hey, baby, you just relax now, you hear,” said the soothing female voice. “Tyler, my name is Naomi, and I’m your nurse. Can you hear me?” Tyler nodded weakly. “Baby, you’re at Saint Mark’s Hospital in the recovery room. You took quite a wallop, you know. Broke a rib and your nose. Do you know who did this to you?” He shook his head no. “Don’t worry about a thing. Naomi’s going to take good care of you, you hear?” She spoke with a thick Jamaican accent.

  Again he nodded, his vision still blurry. “Aggmmmuph,” is the only sound he could muster.

  “Don’t try to talk, honey. We had to put a tube in your throat, so it’s gonna feel scratchy and dry.” Naomi reclined his bed and adjusted his I.V. tube and heart rate monitor. “You in any pain, baby?” He made no reply as he tried to figure out if he hurt anywhere. “We got you on some good drugs, so you ain’t gonna feel a thing.”

  The room began to evolve from organic, fluid shapes to one with linear lines and symmetry. As his vision returned to normal, Tyler let out a sigh of relief and finally put a face to the name. His nurse—a short, rotund African-American woman with streaks of gray in jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail—hummed while she worked. Her purple eyeglasses hung from the tip of her nose. To Tyler, the woman looked like a librarian with an attitude. Naomi’s voice dropped an octave as she got serious on him. “Honey, a police officer is coming by in a few to ask you some questions. Do you want to talk to him, or should I tell him you can’t talk right now?” He shook his head as fast as his bruised muscles would allow. “That’s fine by me; you don’t need to be talking to nobody. He can come back later. You’re Shantell Cogan’s boy. We called her to come pick you up, but she says she’s busy. Can you believe the woman has the nerve not to come and see her boy?”

  Actually, yes. She wouldn’t visit me if I were on my deathbed.

  The nurse noticed the distant and sour expression on Tyler’s face at the mention of his mother. “You two don’t get along, do you?” He closed his eyes and wished she hadn’t brought her up.

  “By the way, there’s two men waiting for you in the waiting room. One is Mr. Johnson, who says he’s your teacher at school.” Naomi pulled out a note from her pocket and read it. “And the other is a big football player-looking white boy, name is Dan Monroe. Says he’s your best friend.” She watched Tyler perk up upon hearing the names. “They thought you might want some company,” she said, trying to jostle him out of his funk. She brought a cup of water over to him and held it to his lips.

  The splash of water invigorated him as he felt the coarseness in his throat go away. “Ye…” he mumbled. “Yes. Cou… Could you bring them in?”

  “Sure, babe, I’ll be right back.” She gave him more pain medication and then left.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when the door opened and two men walked in. He recognized them instantly, and he couldn’t have been happier.

  Mr. Johnson and his friend, Dan, walked to his bedside and took turns giving him a hug. They surveyed the damage done by Deon and his buddies, but neither gave any indication that they were worried.

  “How you holding up?” asked his teacher.

  “Not bad.” Tyler felt his right eye, swollen shut from the fight. “They’ve given me medication so I feel pretty good. Maybe I can even go to school tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know. I talked to your nurse, and with a split lip, a broken rib, and some bruises, you should be back to normal in a few weeks. The rib will take a month, but it’ll heal on its own. Promise me you won’t get into any more fights—”

  “Deon did this,” Dan said. “He and his buddies should be thrown out of school. I can get the football team to nail these ass—”

  “Now just hold on,” Johnson interrupted to prevent the conversation from getting heated. “As much as anyone wants to kick them out, there were no witnesses. Tyler, did Deon do this to you?” Tyler shook his head no. “Tyler, you were found on the floor in a bathroom stall by another student. They didn’t see anyone there. Unless you tell me who did this, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Hatred is one thing, but ratting someone out is another. It didn’t matter how badly he was hurt, he couldn’t rat on Deon.

  “I can’t,” he said as a tear rolled down his cheek.

  Prodding would do no good. Johnson patted Tyler’s knee. “I don’t want to see either of you get hurt. I want to nip this in the bud, so I’m going to talk to the principal and have a meeting with him as soon as he gets back from conference.” He ignored the pleading look in Tyler’s eyes and continued, “Dan has offered to give you a ride home, and I’ll give you two some time to talk.” Mr. Johnson shook their hands and left.

  Dan sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand on top of Tyler’s. They shared a moment of silence before Dan spoke up. “What do you want me to do?” he asked with concern.

  “You know what, we can do something,” Tyler answered, a plot beginning to materialize in his head. “But if we do it, you’ll have to promise me once you agree there’s no turning back. It’s all or nothing. We could go to jail for this. What do you say?”

  Dan held up Tyler’s hand in his with their palms facing inward in a show of strength and unity. “I’m in,” he said with a devilish grin.

  CHAPTER 11

  Coming back from a fancy Caribbean vacation is never easy, especially when the weather back home stinks and you have a boss who’s cranky. In his vanity, Rich hoped his tan would last another week. Then back to tanning beds.

  The clock on his desk read “Monday 8:02 a.m.” The three cups of coffee had eased his moodiness. Rich fit the night-owl type to the tee; he could drink a pot of coffee at one in the morning and be out cold five minutes later. His boss and producer, Sarah Kinney, had insisted he come in early to catch up on the weekend’s events. In all honesty, he didn’t really give a damn what had happened. He ne
ver got used to it—the notion he could die at any given moment and the world would just keep on going without him. But that was true of ninety-nine percent of the population. It wasn’t narcissism—it was cold reality.

  Sarah popped her head into his cubicle for a brief chat. “I see you enjoyed your weekend dive trip. Must be nice being tanned the real way.”

  “Good morning, Sarah. Gabe and I had a good time. How was your weekend?”

  “Wow, you’re unusually pleasant for a Monday morning. We’ll have to send you off to the Caribbean every weekend if you’re not careful,” she teased.

  “That could be arranged.”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “About Mayor Cogan? Yeah, she’s a nut. But I’m just a liberal media type, and she blames us for all of her success and free media exposure. She hates us for it, but what do I know?” Rich said sarcastically.

  “You think she’s hot.” Sarah smiled.

  Rich didn’t miss a beat and played it up. “Like Salma Hayek hot? Now you’re talking. Hell, I might even vote for the hack. Her problem is no one would ever take her seriously if she looked like a troll, even if she is the next Einstein. Women like her because she’s easy to relate to, and men like her because they want to fuck her.” Then he turned serious. “What else you got for me?”

  “It’s a slow news day. The biggest news is the Bears lost their preseason game to the Vikings.”

  “If they bring Favre out of retirement, they just might have a chance this year.”

  “Isn’t he, like, sixty?” she asked.

  “I’ve heard the AARP is already sending him mail.” Sarah waved him off in fun and left.

  “Oh, hey, Sarah.” She returned, and he said, “Hey, could you sit down a sec?”

  She pulled out a chair at his metal desk. The furnishings were modest, and he had a few pictures from local artists on the walls. The chairs were vinyl and comfortable, but nothing fancy. A large purple orchid bloomed on his desk, a gift from a florist he had interviewed and later slept with.

  “Sure, what’s up?” Rarely, if ever, did he ever ask her to sit down. She sat with her legs crossed and listened attentively. Sarah was a former reporter who had the brains to go head-to-head with the toughest interviewees. Her problem was she came across as cold and detached on camera. Her personal life could also have been better; at fifty, she was widowed, with only her three tabbies to keep her company at home. Most men she had dated were intimidated by her strong-willed personality and intellect.

  “I talked it over with Gabe, and we want to go international. I’ve sat on this for the last few months, but I’m not getting any good stories. Wayne has dibs and cherry-picks. The guy is a—”

  “Stop while you’re still ahead.” She weighed her answer carefully. “Rich, we don’t do that here, you know that. You’re obviously looking for a different style of reporting you won’t learn about here. It’s just not a good time; you should be grateful to have a job. You’re good at what you do. Keep doing it.”

  What she said and thought mattered. Officially, her job title was senior studio producer, so she decided which stories to run and who got them. The more senior journalists always got the best and most lucrative projects. The only way to bypass the seniority was if, by some chance, his ratings went up substantially or if someone wielding lots of power happened to drop his name.

  “I know, but I need a break. I know I’m good, but I haven’t done anything really noticeable. I want to be up there with the Cronkites and the Dan Rathers of the world. They’ve covered wars, famine—you name it, they’ve done it.”

  “You think if you get shot at, it’ll make you a more complete person? That’s tempting fate. Have you talked to Ted Burke?”

  “Yeah, talked to him the other day. I could have talked to him for hours. All I’m saying is, I’m tired of people’s bullshit lies and spin.”

  “No offense, but you’re only twenty-eight. You can’t be cynical and jaded until you have a wife who’s left you with half of everything you owned and have kids who only see you on the weekends. Then you can be miserable like the rest of us.”

  To Rich’s chagrin, their discussion ended almost as quickly as it started.

  Once Sarah left, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms behind his head. He itched for an opportunity, but he knew he needed to relax and let it come to him. All he had to do was be smart enough to grab it when it arose.

  CHAPTER 12

  Coming back to school on Monday morning was a traumatizing experience for some kids. Tyler spent the weekend at home nursing his wounds and plotting revenge against Deon. No matter how much time he spent planning, he figured there was no better way of moving on. The swelling had gone down over his right eye, and he could finally see again. The broken rib hurt like hell when he laughed and coughed, even with medication.

  Questions agonized him: How badly should I hurt him? Is it worth being thrown out of school or being imprisoned? What if I get hurt? Malevolence was not in his nature, but he felt extremely motivated to act on his emotions.

  Monday morning came and went at a glacial pace. Tyler’s nerves made him hypersensitive and jumpy. Piece-of-shit clock. He peeked at the clock a thousand times during the last period before lunch. A weight lifted off of him as soon as the lunch bell rang.

  Tyler walked with the other students out to the cafeteria where he met up with Dan. Now the waiting began as they ate lunch outside on the lawn.

  “See ‘em?” asked Tyler.

  Dan looked around just to make sure he hadn’t missed them. Deon’s crew was impossible to miss because they made enough noise to wake the dead. “Nope.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yup.” The conversation grew strained and awkward.

  Every two minutes Tyler twisted his head and scanned the area—still no Deon. The only time he consistently saw his tormentors was right before lunch ended, when they drove back from whatever hangout they had chosen. If everything went according to plan, Deon would be clueless about what hit him.

  “Sorry, man, they’re not here. Maybe we’ll see them tomorrow,” Dan said in defeat. They separated and made their way toward their next class.

  Deon and his buddies were strutting their way down the crowded hallway when Tyler caught a glimpse of the kid he hated most. Tyler kept his head low and walked toward the guys. He wiped his hands against his shorts and then grabbed the straps of his backpack near his chest. Deon purposefully walked in his line of path and bumped him as he walked by.

  “Watch where you’re going, mother fucker,” Deon taunted as the boys ganged up on Tyler.

  “Oo, look at him. Deon fucked you up. How’s the rib doing, by the way?” Labron taunted.

  “How are your teeth?” Tyler asked Deon.

  “That’s a pretty gutsy thing to be coming out of your pretty faggoty lips.”

  At precisely two minutes before the next period started, the crowd in the hallways thinned as students went to class.

  Tyler looked around in time to see Dan coming toward him. He locked eyes with him and exchanged nods. A moment later, his expression soured; he narrowed his eyes in malice and determination. It was now or never.

  Dan, with Tyler at his side, began a stare-down with Deon. The thugs made no jokes as they realized the same guy who beat them easily stood confidently only an arm’s length away.

  “What do you want, snow white? This ain’t your fight,” Deon spat at Dan.

  “You guys think for some reason you can bully someone because they’re different? If you haven’t noticed, he’s black too,” Dan said in disgust.

  Deon stepped forward and put his index finger on Dan’s chest and pushed. “I don’t know who the fuck—”

  With lightning quickness, Dan grabbed Deon’s hand in a practiced motion, twisting and bending it backward toward the ground and holding it until Deon screamed in agony. It was a move bouncers used to subdue unruly drunks. By now, a dozen onlookers had stopped to see the drama. Da
n’s luck ran out when Labron reached for a gun stuck in Deon’s belt under his basketball jersey.

  “Hey, mother-fucker, let my boy go!” he ordered as he pointed the pistol at Dan. The other students screamed and ran for cover.

  Ever so slowly, Dan released his grip and stood up slowly, his arms raised in surrender.

  Although his ego was burned, Deon raged with fire. “Man, you should cap those mother fuckers for what they did to me.”

  Then all hell broke loose. In a span of ten seconds, over a dozen gunshots rocked the school, and all went silent.

  CHAPTER 13

  As their WSNO television van inched closer to the school, Rich realized walking might be a better option. With less than a half-mile to the property, traffic had come to a screeching halt. Word spread faster than a wild fire that a major shooting had occurred inside the school. Speculation ran rampant as to who fired the shots and who was shot and if anyone was killed. Freaked-out parents acted in desperation mode as they made phone calls and stood in line in traffic to find out if their child had been hurt. The police sprinted from one end of the school to the other with shotguns in hand to secure and cordon off the school grounds, making it difficult for Rich and Gabe to make their way through. Crowds of people began to congregate near the police barriers in huge masses. Without knowing any of the details, fearing the worst was easy.

  Rich and Gabe were in a unique position. They knew that even though events unfolding were tragic, the bloodier and more gruesome the details, the more viewers would tune in and watch with morbid fascination. The adage If it bleeds, it leads was the first rule one learned in journalism. Reporters were no better than the ambulance chasers they chastised. In truth, reporters were always digging up items others tried to sweep under the rug. Rich did both. He had the ability to sift through the grit and grime in a murder investigation and the tenacity to figure out who was responsible.