Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  He’d long crafted the reputation of being a very private man, a loner, who divulged very little if anything about his personal life outside of the bureau to anyone. Liv was one of few people who made him feel comfortable enough to keep it real. To be himself. She asked him many questions—most of them unabashedly direct—which he found impossible not to answer. She had that effect on him.

  Since she took leave, he had called her every day, but she’d refused to take his calls. He hadn’t understood why, but he decided not to visit. Instinct told him it might worsen the situation for her. So not talking with her didn’t bother him. Her letter did.

  She had resigned. No mistaking her intent. That’s why she’d refused to talk to him. She didn’t want him to try to convince her to stay. She was quitting to work with her family’s mining business. She wasn’t going to report back to work today as she had previously been scheduled to do.

  And at five minutes after eight, he would notify Calvin Lemley in DC that he was declining the SAC position in Denver—instead, he’d ask for a transfer to the Rapid City field office. He’d made up his mind. He didn’t care how she felt about him. He needed to be near her.

  Even if at a distance.

  He refused to leave her alone and had spent every moment with her in the first few days after they experienced Linwood’s death together and she decided to go home to South Dakota.

  During her leave, he’d called Liv’s parents. Garth and Jeanne Bergen were wonderful people. And he’d talked with different siblings from time to time. She had so many of them … They reported that she had regained some perspective while working through her grief. Based on her progress and determination, the reports he’d been receiving daily from the psychologist confirmed her mother had been correct. The doctor had agreed to release her for work today as long as she agreed to continue her daily counseling and assessment sessions, at least for some period of time. He knew her well enough to know that not only would she continue with the required therapy, but she would also pursue mental healing on her own time with intense self-determination.

  She was strong. She had probably already commenced her routine of running at least five miles a day. He was sure of that.

  He wrapped the comforter more tightly around his bare shoulders and gripping the mug, he sipped. He had finally made a decision: When she was fully recovered, he’d ask her out on a date. He had such tender feelings for Liv that he feared his romantic inclinations for her might damage their tenuous relationship if he didn’t approach her with much care and caution.

  Staring out into the silvery shade of darkness, he listened to a persistent coyote crying mournfully to the full moon above. The coyote’s howl sounded desperate, and he somehow felt a connection to and a kinship with the beast.

  He sunk deeper into the large comforter and wondered at what precise moment their relationship had changed for him. He pictured her, pacing in his office at the Denver division only weeks ago. She was a vision of perfection in its most pure, yet human, form. With hands firmly planted on her athletic hips, the thirty-something special agent often paced back and forth, thinking about a case.

  Whether she wore jeans or an elegant evening dress, she was a spectacular blend of beauty and genuineness. His favorite memories of her were when she was dressed most casually, wearing her worn blue jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and a baseball cap with her auburn hair in a ponytail.

  He tried to imagine her beautifully brilliant green eyes staring back at him, rare and alluring like shallow water over a sandy beach. He’d noticed the small diamond earrings she always wore. And that she favored no other jewelry. He wondered about their significance. He wished he could craft a pair of earrings made of glass from an antique green bottle that had washed ashore with someone’s love note from centuries past. Only that type of gem should be worn so close to such a beautiful woman.

  Her attire—at once casual and proper—complemented her relaxed nature. Her studious, intelligent manner sometimes seemed incongruous with her elegant beauty and dazzling smile. Completing her perfection for him was the fact that she seemingly had no idea how extraordinary her appearance and how intimidating her talents were to those who knew her. She was genuinely a kindhearted and thoughtful person with the intensity, loyalty, and voracity for her work that the federal government only dreamed of finding in an agent … and he dreamed of finding in a partner. For life.

  There was only one flaw: She was more than a decade his junior.

  Was she really mentally healthy? Had she really had such a quick recovery? He began to worry. She showed no emotion at Linwood’s memorial service. Perhaps the grieving process hadn’t fully begun for her. Particularly given how quickly she became embroiled in trouble at Deadwood. Had she truly accepted the gritty reality of what actually happened?

  Then again, he wasn’t sure how he expected her to react. He wasn’t surprised by her insistence in postponing her sabbatical until after Linwood’s burial in California. The doctors refused to let her go, at first, but then allowed her to attend the service in Denver and to fly to California for the internment as long as he accompanied her.

  She showed no emotion and shed no tears. And neither of them spoke, other than what had to be said to get from here to there and back again. When he brought her back to Denver, she had simply relinquished her bloodhound, Beulah, to his care (as mandated by the doctor who had insisted on complete separation from anything and everything bureau-related) and had driven off to South Dakota without another word.

  In the deep quiet of night, the soft squeak of the screen door against the frame startled him, and he bolted with a start from the deck chair to his bare feet.

  A red nose emerged from inside the house, and his shoulders relaxed as the adrenaline-rush tension melted away.

  “Beulah, you scared me,” Streeter said and settled back down in the chair.

  Liv’s big, red bloodhound with droopy ears and sagging jowls squeezed the rest of the way out the door and lumbered over to him, plopped down next to the chair with a grunt, and rested her nose on Streeter’s lap, hoping for a rub. Rewarded with long, slow strokes and intermittent scratches behind the ears, Beulah groaned with satisfaction.

  “You’ll be going home soon,” he comforted the dog. “Let’s give Liv a few days on her own to acclimate. Alone. Then I’ll take you home so she can care for you.”

  The bloodhound shivered in the cold night air and retreated to the screen door, waiting for Streeter. He rose and opened the door and watched as the gentle dog’s large, ferocious-looking shadow crept around the wrought iron furniture closer to the stone fireplace. Eager to snuggle up to the warmth of the flickering fire, the shadow shrunk to a harmless mound as Beulah slumped into a ball of slumber.

  He had forgotten how comforting it was to have a dog around the house. He had enjoyed having Beulah with him while Liv was on leave. She would be happy about his decision to keep Beulah with him for a while longer, rather than kenneling her at the bureau’s canine unit. She adored that dog and was going to have the hardest time saying goodbye to her when she left the bureau.

  As if she would show up today, he scoffed, chastising himself as a dreamer. There would be no sad goodbyes over the dog because Liv wasn’t coming back. He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Three-thirty. He had a few more minutes before he had to get ready for work. He padded back and got under the comforter to ponder Liv’s decision to resign from the FBI.

  But what if she didn’t?

  The coyote’s lovesick cries sounded hopeful.

  A smile played around Streeter’s lips as he sank down once more and gazed at the canopy of stars overhead.

  SNAKE GLARED AT HIS spotter, who was standing above him by the workout bench, and asked, “Ready?”

  Squeeze nodded, shifted from one large foot to the other, as he glanced around the empty weight room looking bored.

  Snake heaved the bar away from his chest and out of the brackets. Wiry, but deceptively strong, he arched his back. L
iked coiled springs, his muscles stretched, and his biceps bulged and trembled under the strain of the weights. His sweatshirt—made sleeveless by his own careful alterations—revealed tattoos of viperous serpents along his forearms, which rippled with every strained movement.

  He loved this time of day.

  No one was awake at this hour at the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution south of Denver in Littleton. Not even his spotter, Squeeze.

  But he could get anyone to do anything.

  He’d convinced the guards to let him work out before dawn, arguing that the rest of the prison population would appreciate his absence during regular weight-training hours.

  He’d convinced Squeeze that he should join him; that waking up early every morning to be his spotter would be better than not waking up at all.

  He held the bar, counting in his head, feeling the small, padded bench against his lower back and planting his feet firmly on the ground. The smell of iron, plastic, testosterone-soaked rubber, and old sweat permeated his nostrils as he breathed through the lift. His freshly powdered hands gripped harder around the bar above his shoulders as a wave of fatigue flooded his muscles. With a grimace, he lowered the bar into its support brackets with little help from Squeeze, who continued being distracted.

  Snake sprang to his feet. Angry, and with sweat dripping off his forehead, he charged the large man who’d been absorbed by something near the door. Snake put his nose into Squeeze’s massive chest and was not the least bit intimidated by the size disadvantage. “What the hell? I almost lost it! I asked if you were ready!”

  The spotter blinked stupidly. Only then did Snake really notice the two men who had entered the weight room. One, a guard. One, a prisoner. The prisoner was Jeremiah Coyote Cries, aka The Reverend. The only prisoner tougher than him. The only prisoner more connected.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Why was he here?

  Wishing he’d grabbed the shank he kept hidden under the lip of his sink back in his cell, Snake felt his fingers twitch. Never had he seen anyone in the weight room at five in the morning except when the guard came to take him and Squeeze back to their cells. It was well before wake-up for the rest of the population.

  Squeeze, who got his nickname within days of his arrival at the prison because of how he killed his victim in a bar fight, said calmly, “I was ready. But then The Reverend came in with the bull. I was checking him out. Seemed more important than you, Snake.”

  The Reverend stood next to the prison guard, glowering. They were both too far away for Snake to hear what they were saying to each other. He wondered what the guard was telling The Reverend. Whatever it was, it probably wasn’t good.

  Snake’s anger with Squeeze instantly vanished. A renewed rage welled from within him toward the guard. Traitor. He would pay for his disloyalty.

  The spotter added, “Besides, you didn’t need me anyway.”

  Snake grinned at his weight-lifting buddy and revealed his gold front tooth—the only straight one—before lifting his fists in the air. He flexed the muscles in both arms and kissed the muscle that bulged in his bare right upper arm. “You’re right. I didn’t need you. But now I do. If either of them comes near me, kick his ass.”

  “Right. A guard? The Reverend? Dream on, little man.”

  “Oh, come on … ignore them. Probably here just like me. To work out before the population wakes up.” Snake motioned for Squeeze to follow him, sounding far more confident than he felt. “I need to work some more on my pecs.”

  They walked over to the universal weight-lifting equipment. Snake laid his sweaty torso down for horizontal pull-downs and instructed his big friend where to put the pin for his initial set of repetitions. With the palms of his hands turned toward his face as he lay supine, Snake reached up and grabbed the bar. The cables attached to the weights behind his head strained along with his muscles. He pulled the handle toward his chest and the heavy weights slid up the metal tracks.

  After the initial rep, Snake instructed Squeeze to move the pin down. That added more weight to his load. A lot more weight. He struggled to pull the bar to his chest.

  Snake counted the last seconds of his second rep. He felt the burn. The fatigue. When he was about to release the handle, allowing the weights to slowly lower down the cable supports behind him, Snake felt somebody yank his hair.

  He let out a low yelp. His slick-with-sweat body slid along the vinyl until his head stuck off beyond the bench. He felt his ears scrape against the cables. The heavy bricks of weight hovered above his wide eyes. He held fast to the bar. His arms were aching.

  A quiet, guttural voice cautioned, “Better hold on tight to that, Snake. Or those weights are going to come crashing down on that ugly face of yours.”

  Snake glanced up.

  It wasn’t Squeeze. It was The Reverend.

  The Lakotan’s black, lifeless eyes stared back at him like a shark stalking its prey. His features were sharp and angular. His face, hard. The Indian’s thin nose was underscored by the slash of a tight smile. Long grey hair hung over each shoulder, framing his inverted face.

  Snake had never been more terrified in his life. He knew The Reverend’s reputation.

  Staring into his hostile face, Snake wriggled slightly to test the man’s grip. The Reverend tightened his fingers and yanked harder on Snake’s hair, pinning his head in place.

  Snake was staring at his throat from beneath the hovering stack of weights, and The Reverend hadn’t even broken a sweat. This was child’s play for him. This bastard was stronger than he’d heard. No exaggeration.

  “Keep slithering, Snake. You’re wasting what’s left of your energy—and time—by trying to wriggle free. Your strength is dwindling. Fast.”

  Snake’s eyes desperately darted around the room.

  “Guard’s gone. Took your spotter back to his cell. That’s keeping the bull occupied. And me without any training on how to be a spotter. Guess all you have going for you is your ability to hold on to that handle.”

  Snake swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

  The Reverend snarled. “I hear someone’s been ratting me out to the bulls.”

  When The Reverend tightened his grip, Snake let out another moan of pain.

  The Reverend’s voice returned to a monotone that was unsettling. “I’ve been working real hard for Jesus for two decades. Hard time. Some may call that oppression. But me? I see it as redemption. I’m only days away from getting out on parole.”

  The fingers of one of The Reverend’s hands twisted a clump of Snake’s hair. The large Indian placed his other hand on the weights and pushed down. The load was heavy enough, but with the added pressure, Snake felt his muscles strain even more as if the tissue in his arms would snap like overworked rubber bands. The stack was nestled against his delicate windpipe. If he lost his grip, the weights would break his neck in an instant.

  “I have them convinced that I’ve found religion. I don’t need some rat ruining my chances. If it’s necessary, I’ll waste whoever’s talking about me.” The Reverend’s wide chest was rising and falling with every breath he took.

  Snake pleaded, “Reverend, listen. It ain’t me. I swear. I ain’t no rat. Please. Believe me.”

  “Have you read the book of Jeremiah?” The man’s grin left Snake cold. “Or do you use the pages of your Bible to wipe your ass?”

  Snake shook his head. His sweaty hands slipped on the bar, the cold metal smashing his windpipe by nearly a half inch. He croaked, “I can’t … hold this … much longer. Please.”

  His arms quivered with the strain from the weight. He held tight with only his fingertips, which were slipping. Knowing his life hung in the balance, he struggled with every ounce of concentration and determination to grip the bar, keeping the weights away from his throat.

  “Jeremiah 20:4 unless you answer me honestly.” The calm of the Lakotan frightened Snake. He had no clue what was said in 20:4, but he suspected it wouldn’t be good news for him. �
��Who’s been talking about my stash with the bulls?”

  “I don’t know,” said Snake, with sweat dripping from his face.

  The Reverend lifted the weights easily with his free hand, relieving the pressure from Snake’s arms. Then he shoved Snake’s body a couple of inches away from him and let the weights drop. Snake seized the bar for dear life. He caught the load just before his face was crushed beneath the stack of weights, which now hovered precariously above the tip of his nose.

  The Reverend said, “20:4 says ‘Behold, I will make thee a terror to thyself, and to all thy friends.’ Is that what you want?”

  Snake screamed, “I swear, I don’t know. The Fish, maybe. He’s always chumming with the bulls. Maybe it’s him, the new guy. Nobody trusts him. He don’t even have a joint handle yet, and he’s been here three weeks already.”

  Snake thought he saw the slightest softening around The Reverend’s eyes. Although soft for Coyote Cries was harder than granite.

  “I’ll find out. I can learn things. Please.”

  The Reverend’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at Snake, who felt a shiver skip down his strained neck and spine. Without a word, Coyote Cries released his grip on Snake’s hair and walked slowly and quietly away. Snake used every ounce of strength to slide from beneath the weights, and the bar slipped from his grip. The stack of weights came crashing down inches from the top of his head. He rolled onto the floor and gasped for air. He was grateful to be alive.

  He was terrified, shaken, and exhausted.

  He pulled himself back onto the weight bench and rubbed his throat and his nose. He massaged the ache in his arms and chest. Only now did he realize he was totally alone. The Reverend was gone. If Coyote Cries had wanted to kill him, no one would have been around to contest his story about him not being trained as a spotter. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and his body trembled with fear.

  He would live to see another day—after having a one-on-one with The Reverend. No one did that.