Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  Poor Paula. She’d had no training. She must have been utterly horrified.

  I silently prayed that the knock on the door hadn’t belonged to Streeter Pierce. I hoped it was a concerned neighbor who’d heard the muffled shot, or an unsuspecting delivery boy stumbling innocently onto the situation.

  Ashamed at my wish, I didn’t change my mind. I truly hoped an innocent party was at the door. Just not Streeter, who would be forced to witness my last breath.

  I couldn’t bear to think of how that would finish him.

  He wouldn’t think to come here, would he? Surely he would search his own house first. And mine, next. That knock couldn’t possibly belong to him.

  But when I saw the knob slowly turn, I knew it was him. Streeter had indeed come here to save me.

  My heart sank, and for the first time since Coyote Cries had abducted me, I wanted to cry.

  He’d gripped the clump of hair more tightly in his left fist and had pressed the blade closer to my throat with his right hand. I felt his left knee grinding into my spine.

  I tried, but wasn’t able, to call out a warning to Streeter.

  The door flew open. Streeter crouched and leveled his pistol at Coyote Cries. His face contorted into a tortured grimace when he glanced down at my bloodied face.

  As he made his way into the living room, inching nearer to me, his animalistic growl was nearly unrecognizable. “Drop it or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Coyote Cries shoved the knife closer against my throat. I felt the blade bite my skin. I winced, and my blood began to flow.

  “Put the knife down.”

  Coyote Cries’s response was calm. “Now, really. You are in no position to make demands of me. On the contrary. You drop it, or I’ll cut your girlfriend’s throat. Just like I did to your wife.”

  Streeter’s steady hand began to waver.

  “Drop it, Pierce. I mean it.” He dug the sharp knife even deeper into my skin. I couldn’t see the crimson trickle spilling onto the shiny blade. But I could smell it: two distinct metallic odors—blood and wet metal.

  Streeter’s hands trembled.

  His face twisted at the sight of my blood.

  He dropped the Smith & Wesson and held out his empty hands. He fell to his knees on the floor.

  He pleaded with Coyote Cries. “Let her go. She didn’t do anything to you. It’s me you want. Let her go. Please.”

  Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  THE PAIN IN MY throat was nothing compared to the ache in my heart for the horror Streeter was reliving.

  “You sound like your girlfriend, now,” Coyote Cries said with a knowing grin. “She practically used the same words when she was pleading with me to spare the bat’s life who lived here. It didn’t work though. You’re a betting man. Your chances with me?”

  “What do you want?” Streeter demanded.

  “Do you want to know what your wife said just before I slit her throat?”

  Streeter swallowed hard and stared at Coyote Cries. His eyes were wild with confusion and pain.

  I couldn’t see Coyote Cries’s face at this angle. But I imagined that he stared back with those dead eyes of his. “She told me that more violence wouldn’t help matters. She was wrong. More violence is exactly what I need in my life. It makes me feel … productive.”

  I knew that Streeter was holding Coyote Cries’s stare but could see me in his peripheral vision. I’d noticed numerous quiet and quick shadowy movements in the hallway under the door. I darted my eyes in their direction to warn Streeter.

  And hoped he understood. I knew he needed to keep Coyote Cries talking. He had.

  “Why did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  Coyote Cries answered, “She was whiny, a wimpy bitch. Not at all like this one. This one has some spunk.”

  I noticed Streeter grimace.

  “Your wife was pleading with me to spare her child. She said she hadn’t even told you about it yet. Was that true?”

  Streeter paused and nodded.

  “I’ll bet that’s been eating you up all this time—knowing I knew she was pregnant before you did.”

  I strained to clear my mind, to determine if I’d truly seen movement outside the window of the apartment. I had. I saw the faintest movement of shadows. I recognized Chief Tony Gates dangling from one of the rappelling ropes, frantically directing his people to move into position.

  No matter what happened to me, I found solace in the thought that at least they’d nail this bastard.

  Streeter responded calmly and slowly. “That did bother me. But not as much as how you goaded me into making a fool out of myself on the day of your sentencing. You were clever. I bet you laughed many times about that while you were behind bars.”

  “That was clever, I must admit. And you never were able to pin her death on me,” he said.

  “A bit of a problem controlling your rage just like the prophet Jeremiah. Am I right? I paid a visit to your mother after you’d stopped by the other day.”

  I felt Coyote Cries stiffen at the comment. I wasn’t sure what Streeter had in mind, but surely he understood that he was being antagonistic. And he hadn’t told me about visiting Coyote Cries’s mother, so I assumed he was bluffing.

  Coyote Cries growled, “You ruined everything for me. I had a nice business. I had a good life. Then, you pop into my world with your Dudley Do-Right attitude and destroy everything. I got myself busted by a stupid rookie cop.”

  “I’m an agent, not a cop,” Streeter corrected.

  I noticed more shadows of movement under the crack of the apartment door. Gates’s men were getting into position to break down the door.

  I felt something dig deeper into my throat, and I closed my eyes. I asked God to have mercy on me, to make death come swiftly.

  In a split second, my world erupted. I heard a crash, a shattering of glass, the splintering of wood, thundering footsteps, and voices hollering in front of us and behind us.

  “Freeze!”

  “Don’t move!”

  Coyote Cries tensed.

  Realization flickered in Streeter’s eyes.

  I felt the knife cut deeper, and I felt a weight fall away from me.

  I watched as Coyote Cries rolled off toward Streeter.

  The movement confused me until I realized he was launching himself toward Streeter’s discarded gun.

  I tried to warn Streeter, but I heard nothing except a gurgle coming from my throat.

  I felt a warm gush from the gaping wound and instinctively moved to stave the flow, realizing my hands were still bound behind my back. I told myself to forget about the blood and awkwardly scrabbled after the pistol that was lying right behind Coyote Cries. I slipped on my own spilt blood, and my chest hit hard on the dirty carpet.

  Streeter dove for the gun in the same instant, and both men wrestled for the piece.

  Clearly bigger and stronger, Coyote Cries twisted Streeter’s wrist to force him to drop the gun.

  Streeter’s strength dwindled.

  He was outmaneuvered by Coyote Cries, who quickly grappled with him and slung Streeter onto his back and then splayed his large body across him.

  I scrambled on top of them both and used my teeth to gouge out one of Coyote Cries’s eyes. He let out a screech.

  An army of men instantly appeared from the hallway and through the shattered windows. Guns were leveled on the two men wrestling on the floor. I’d rolled onto my side to allow the men a clear shot of Coyote Cries.

  Streeter managed enough strength to wiggle free from the Indian’s powerful grip.

  A single, muffled shot was fired.

  Everyone froze. Guns were leveled on the pair.

  I could see the two men freeze, staring at one another. Neither was moving. Both were in a death grip.

  Then, Coyote Cries’s arms dropped. Streeter shoved the man, and he tumbled to the floor with a thud.

  Streeter pushed himself away from the lifeless body of Jeremiah Coyote Cries.
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br />   The Lakotan lay supine on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, with the blossom of red spreading quickly across his chest.

  I’d half expected the floor to open up and swallow him like in every horror movie I’d ever watched. Jeremiah, the Devil’s breakfast.

  In the commotion that followed, I felt my energy drain.

  I could do nothing but stare at the man’s lifeless, hateful eyes and his angry mouth mocking me, even in death.

  I collapsed onto the floor.

  One of the officers grabbed a towel and pressed it to my throat. I felt a tug on my wrists as someone cut the binds. My arms flopped to my sides, too thick and numb to use. My eyelids grew heavy. But when I managed to lift them, all I could do was search for Streeter. I couldn’t find him.

  People were running, moving, scrambling.

  My world blinked in and out of focus.

  I was in a white room with white walls. No windows.

  I saw my brother, Ole. Then my dad. They were smiling, telling me they were safe. Then all my sisters and my younger brother Jens joined them. And my beautiful mother. She was standing beside Mully hugging his waist, like he was one of us kids.

  My mind struggled to understand what was happening. I was further confused when my grandpa stepped forward. Wearing white. He’d died when I was six. I was so confused. There was lots of light. Jack Linwood joined my family. Wearing a white robe. Like a frigging angel. Holding his hand out for me. I wanted to reach for it.

  But I didn’t.

  I blinked.

  I opened my eyes again, and I was back on the dirty carpet of the old woman’s apartment lying on my back. Streeter knelt beside me on the floor.

  It hurt to talk. My throat gurgled, and my words sounded garbled. But I managed to say, “You did it. Finally. The monster. Slain.”

  I wanted to cough but couldn’t.

  Streeter glanced over at the dead man, who was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. He shook his head. “He’s nothing to me. You’re everything. The monster was my fear of losing you.”

  He scooted closer on his knees, wrapped his arms around my body, and pulled himself close against me. His hug was tender and loving.

  Neither of us had noticed that Tony Gates had joined us on the floor. Maybe Streeter had seen him come in, but I ended up in the white room again with all the light. And my family. At once, weird and wonderful. And pain free. I wanted to stay there.

  But I heard Tony say, “The lab confirmed Coyote Cries’s DNA on the work clothes found up at Alcott’s mountain mansion, along with some of his other belongings. Plenty of proof that he killed Dan Alcott and Victor Webber.”

  I’m not sure what all he said, but I caught that much.

  Streeter stared down at me and studied my face and neck. He dragged his finger lightly around my split cheekbone to avoid the swelling bruise and gash from the pistol-whipping I’d been given by Coyote Cries with my own gun.

  “You need a doctor—soon,” Streeter said to me.

  Then he lay down beside me, his breathing heavy.

  Tony snapped his fingers, and EMTs appeared out of nowhere.

  I heard one of them say, “He’s been shot. She’s been cut.”

  They descended on both Streeter and me. I realized then that it was Streeter they’d been referring to when they said he’d been shot. Not Coyote Cries. The EMTs helped both of us with our injuries.

  I drifted in and out of the white room—out of pain, in terrible agony, then back again.

  I glanced over at Streeter, whose stare never left me. I warned, “Hands on plow. Move forward now.”

  I kept repeating the mantra over and over, hoping he understood.

  Gates frowned at me. “She’s in shock. Get her help. Hurry.”

  I heard commotion, but I couldn’t make out their words. Every time I slipped back into the other room, the white room, with all my family and friends, my head felt better and the searing pain along my throat disappeared.

  Then the pain was back when I felt Streeter grab my hand, when I heard him say, “Stay with me. I love you. Always.”

  I tried to speak but couldn’t. I wanted to tell him to look forward. Not behind.

  My energy drained. I’d lost far too much blood. I couldn’t resist going back into the white room. And staying there forever.

  The last thing I remembered was Streeter pleading with me. “Stay, Liv. The nightmare’s over.”

  Maybe for me.

  But not for him.

  1. At one point in the book, Liv says to Streeter, “There are worse pains than broken bones and bruises. You of all people should know that.” Discuss what this means in the context of the plot and the major characters in the book.

  2. Streeter and Liv have openly declared and expressed their feelings for each other. Discuss how you felt when their relationship seemed to finally be on the path forward. Discuss how you imagine their future together.

  3. Discuss what part of Jeremiah’s Revenge took you most by surprise, either positively or negatively, and why?

  4. Discuss Coyote Cries’s childhood and what impression it made on you in the context of this story. Discuss the use of the Bible references in the book and why they were especially effective in highlighting his character.

  5. What was your general feeling when the book ended? What point did the author make about revenge?

  6. Discuss how you felt when you read how Streeter’s wife had died. How did this change your thoughts about him and Coyote Cries?

  7. Why do you think the author chose to have Liv physically resemble Streeter’s wife, and why did Streeter never tell Liv about the resemblance?

  8. Discuss the following passage in light of Liv’s character and what you think it means when she says, “worry had a hold on me.” What significance does the quote from Luke have in the bigger context of the story?

  “Then stop worrying,” I scolded. “I’ve remembered a quote from the book of Luke ever since I was young, because worry had a hold on me even back then. It was something like, ‘No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit to prosper.’ Something like that.”

  9. Discuss which scene or scenes will be your most lasting memory of Jeremiah’s Revenge and why. Discuss which scenes you think the author meant to be the most memorable and why, in terms of this book and the Liv Bergen Mystery Thriller Series as a whole.

  Q: Would you describe when and how the Liv Bergen and Streeter Pierce characters first came to you and who, if anyone, they are modeled after?

  A: I love these two people. I have no idea who they would be most like today or how they came to be the wonderful people they are, other than they spoke to me through the pages during the seven journeys that are the Liv Bergen Mystery Thriller Series.

  When I started writing, I had a particular fascination with the FBI because I admired and revered two very beautiful friends who were both FBI agents—Sue Hillard and Mick Sherer. I remember being struck by Sue’s picture in a magazine. She was suspended in a harness picking through the debris of Pan Am Flight 103 from Lockerbie trying to retrieve evidence of the terrorist bombing and the remains of loved ones for the 270 families who were affected. I had worked on the 747 at Boeing and knew what a chore it must have been to search that massive area inch by inch to retrieve what she could. Her courage and dedication to her work were incredibly impactful to me.

  And Mick was always there for me as a protector and friend until his death in 2012. I miss him. He even attended a book signing with me once, during a time when he was afflicted with dementia, and signed books as Streeter. I’m willing to buy one of those treasured books from a reader, if any of you lucky recipients are willing to part with your book.

  Sue and Mick were my original inspirations for Liv and Streeter, although both were much more fascinating than the characters they inspired in these pages.

  Q: In Jeremiah’s Revenge, did you decide to edit anything out after you had written the initial manuscript, and if so, why?

&n
bsp; A: As a matter of fact, I did rewrite several scenes in Jeremiah’s Revenge because of some wonderful and necessary coaching from the lovely Danielle Dosch, my FBI beta reader, and two Lakotans who read the manuscript for me. Life on and off the reservations can be so harsh for some families. Ask any teacher, any priest, any grandmother, any FBI agent, or any tribal police officer. I don’t think the world is ready to admit or acknowledge what a tragic destiny we sentenced our native people to for generations. We rounded them up like cattle in 1830 to live on reservations and then paid for our sins by doling out stipends. Monetary handouts, rather than meaningful hand ups, have not worked. They were doing fine until we Europeans came along. And most people don’t know what tragically happened in 1830 under President Andrew Jackson when the Removal Act was passed by Democrats and fought voraciously by Whigs. I was coached that deleting the party reference might be the wise choice, which I did for the former, leaving in the Whigs. My intention was not to alienate one current party or another. This isn’t about the parties. It’s about a nation. The Indian Nation.

  My intention was to show the goodness in those hard-working Native people living on and off the reservation who are dedicated to their traditions and culture. I wanted to show the temptations offered by a few evil people who live among them, who are trying to oppress them, shame them, and keep them from their greater purpose. But in my attempt to show how difficult the situation can be, the character of the longtime FBI agent working on the reservation appeared callous and hopeless about whether life there would ever change, and I feared the readers would believe he might be borderline bigoted or prejudiced. So I changed him. But my opinion on how hard life must continue to be for those dedicated teachers and priests, steadfast tribal officers and FBI agents, and welcoming grandmothers to provide hope for so many people remains firm. God bless them for all they do for so many.

  Q: What were the most difficult and most pleasant scenes to write in Jeremiah’s Revenge and why?

  A: Streeter’s ultimate cleansing, if you will, about what happened to his beloved wife who was murdered, had been overdue for six books. His hair turning white overnight should have been a clue to readers that he suffered a terrible shock. And allowing the readers in on that secret along with Liv as Streeter shared the details, it was extremely difficult for me to write, yet necessary.