Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  “I’ll be right there.” He rushes off to where his car is parked.

  Within a few minutes, after a blur of scenery flashes past my window, the detectives pull into the driveway. I sit, waiting for them to open my door. Once again, I’ll be entering a house that will be painfully empty and silent.

  It’ll be desolate of the laughter and love that once filled it to the brim. There won’t be a little girl excitedly calling out my name when I walk through the front door, ready to throw her arms around me and hug me tight.

  My father won’t be there to greet me with a smile and eyes filled with pride and love.

  My husband won’t be waiting, his dark eyes smiling down at me as he holds me in his arms.

  No one will greet me in this house ever again.

  Detective Clairborne opens the car door and helps me out, steadying me with his firm grip on my upper arm. They walk me to the front door, and Doc Hogue unlocks it with his spare key before we step inside.

  Doc eyes me with obvious concern. “Why don’t you use the restroom and grab your toiletries and whatnot?”

  I tip my head in the direction of my bedroom and en-suite bathroom, uncertainty plaguing me as I address the detectives. “I’m going to…”

  Detective Warren nods just as his partner’s cell rings, the sound shattering the awkward fog surrounding us. Detective Clairborne glances at the screen before wincing and excusing himself outside to take the call.

  I walk down the hall, holding my breath as I enter the bedroom, and avoid looking at the bed altogether. As soon as I make it to my bathroom, I close the door behind me and relieve myself. Once I’ve washed up, I brace my hands against the top of the vanity and force myself to drag in deep lungfuls of air.

  The faint tap at the bathroom door has me stiffening with dread. It’s time to face the facts. This is it.

  Slowly pulling the door open, I find Doc standing before me with a wad of clothing tucked under one arm and one hand holding my dark gray boots Dad bought me last Christmas. He steps inside, crowding me, and closes the door.

  “Listen to me, Caitlin,” he whispers, his expression fierce and tense. “I have your father’s bag ready. You know where it is. He always said there were a few other things you’d need to add to it, and you’d know where to find them.”

  I stare at him in shock. “What? I can’t—”

  “Caitlin.” My name emerges from his lips softly, yet it sounds so ragged and desperate, I rear back in surprise. “You need to get out of here while you can. This won’t end well.” Worry bleeds into his expression. “My two buddies at the Marshals office have their hands tied. Can’t get evidence that’ll stick to the Dixie Mafia.” His gaze is pleading, and fear courses through me at the sight of it. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

  I’ve never witnessed Doc appear anything other than confident and composed. But the man standing before me isn’t simply a family friend worrying about me because the preliminary trial went awry. This is a man who can see the writing on the wall. And what he sees written there is etched on his features: this place will be the death of me. Except I won’t be granted a quick one like my family was.

  “But what about you?” I whisper-hiss.

  “I’ll be fine.” There’s a faint uptick to his mouth, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye. “You just worry about getting out of here. Far away, too.”

  My heartbeat speeds up so rapidly I partially expect it to beat out of my chest while panic bleeds into my veins. But when he offers me the clothing and turns around to face the wall to allow me to change, I don’t hesitate.

  Instead, as I pull on the dark pants, shirt, a black ball cap, and boots, my mind races back to all the times I thought my father was crazy for still insisting a “go bag” was necessary to keep around here “just in case.”

  Dad didn’t trust many people—I can count on one hand those he did, and Deacon and I would be two of them—but one other person he trusted implicitly was Doc Hogue.

  The two were the best of friends, and from my childhood, I distinctly remember sitting in the bonus room Dad turned into a designated workspace that housed all his equipment for making bullets. Doc Hogue, Dad, and I would sit and work side by side for hours on end, making ammunition. I thought it was fun, being around the two men who didn’t treat me like a kid.

  Sure, it was unconventional by the average family’s standards, and my mother would sometimes have to bribe me into doing more “feminine activities” like shopping, but as the only child of a former Marine, making bullets became our family’s kind of normal. I was in charge of the reloading press, where I’d carefully use the equipment to press the bullet down into the casing. I’d been taught how to handle and to always be respectful of weapons.

  “It’s not like in the movies, baby girl,” Dad had told me sternly. “These can take a life in the blink of an eye. Every action has consequences, and you have to be prepared for them.” His features had turned fierce, and I remember my entire body had stiffened in response to the ferocity of his expression. “But when you’re in danger, you shoot to kill. Don’t mess around. You empty the chamber in ’em if need be.”

  I never thought I’d find myself relying on those words, reeling from the utter desperation to dig myself out of the mess I’ve been embroiled in.

  Once I’m dressed, Doc tips his head toward the bathroom door, and I nod while simultaneously wondering how I’m agreeing to this. Panic has my hands shaking violently as I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ears.

  Running from the police? This isn’t me. But what choice do I have right now?

  Doc opens the door, and we quietly step into my bedroom. I peek out and scan the hallway for the detectives but only hear their muted voices as they talk. I tiptoe across the hall to my father’s bedroom and open his closet door.

  I quickly grab the bag sitting at the bottom of his closet. I already know its contents: water purification, compass, knife and multitool, freeze-dried foods, and much more, all compact and lightweight, and designed for emergencies and natural disasters.

  The far-left floorboard. He’d made me memorize that and promise not to tell anyone. I pray the stupid piece of wood will be silent as I stick my fingernail in the gouge my father had purposely put there and lift it up.

  Carefully, I reach in and grab the items there. These are a different kind of necessities: a few handguns and additional clips of ammunition, a burner cell phone, and inside a fireproof bag are a few forged passports with different aliases and thick stacks of cash, tightly rubber-banded.

  My hands shake when I realize Dad had these passports made for all of us. Throat growing tight with anguish, I force myself to leave the others behind and only take the ones he made for me, stuffing everything else inside the bag.

  But what really has me trembling are the number of bundles of cash. Sure, Dad always said to have a grand in a fireproof bag, but this—this is far more than he’d ever mentioned.

  What were you planning for, Dad? Did he somehow know something like this would happen?

  Shoving the unsettling thoughts aside, I stuff the phone in my back pocket and step out of the closet. I tug the black ball cap down over my head and secure the straps of the black and dark blue camouflage backpack over my shoulders before I turn and find Doc waiting at the door, his expression tense.

  He glances down the hallway, and seeing that it remains clear, rushes me back to my bedroom. Carefully, he opens the window leading to the backyard. His eyes lock with mine, and when I brace my hands on the windowsill, his hushed words stop me. “One last thing you need to do.”

  Anxiety and adrenaline pulses through my veins. “What?”

  “You need to punch me.” He turns his head to the side and taps an index finger to his jaw. “Here. And make it count.”

  My lips part in utter disbelief, but before I can object, he hisses, “You’ve got to. It’ll buy some time and keep us both safe. That way when you come back”—his expression turns fierce as a
cavernous crease forms between his brows—“I’ll still be here to help you.”

  He swallows hard. “I’ll always be here for you, Caitlin. I promised your father I would.” Something in his eyes shifts and shows a hint of the softness I recognize. “And I keep my promises.” Quickly, he grabs my hand, stuffing a thick, banded paper in it before backing away and preparing himself for the hit.

  Shoving whatever he’d given me deep in my pants pocket, I wince when I curl my fingers into a fist just like my father taught me years ago. Then I swing and connect—hard enough to send him reeling back—before turning to hurtle myself out the window.

  I run as fast as I can, the backpack secured to me, with my father’s words echoing in my mind. Always be aware of your surroundings, Caitlin. I welcome his voice, his reminders, because not only does it make me feel close to him, but it also helps me remain more vigilant.

  Run, Caitlin! Run!

  As if I’ve conjured my father in my mind, urging me to flee faster, it gives me strength, sending a powerful surge of adrenaline mixed with desperation to increase my pace when I hear the shouts echo in the far distance from my house.

  And not once do I dare look back.

  Her

  PRESENT DAY

  OCTOBER

  The blood doesn’t faze me. I suppose the part of me that might’ve blanched at the sight of a man with blood pooling and brain matter scattered around his body is long gone by now.

  It has to be, in order for me to carry out my plans. To make them pay.

  Leaving behind the bodies of Buford Freeman and Johnny Chapman ensures the others will find them. We’ll see if they’re smart enough to eventually make the connection because Buford was one of the gunmen that fateful night. Johnny had been the lawyer who’d gotten them off scot-free.

  And now, they’re dead.

  Just like the family they took from me.

  I admit to having a little fun roughing them up beforehand. It’s not like they didn’t deserve it. The opportunity was far too easy to pass up.

  On my way out, I stride past the kitchen but hesitate at the sight of the crispy bacon still sitting in the pan. Reaching out my gloved hand, I tear off a paper towel and grab two slices before I exit the house.

  With my bow is safely stowed in my bag, I crunch on the bacon and tug my trucker’s hat low over the dark sunglasses shielding my eyes.

  Then I disappear into the wooded area bordering the house, no one the wiser.

  Three days later

  The wonders of liquid latex and skilled makeup application are what transform me into a wrinkled, weathered old woman. Legs encased in support hose, a thick, shitty-looking housecoat draped over my body, gray wig in place with gaudy, neon-framed sunglasses disguising my eyes, I push the rusty shopping cart filled with discarded cans and bottles down the sidewalk bordering the police precinct.

  Seven years can take its toll on a person. The stress of the job has clearly affected Detective Warren, who sits on one of the benches, eating a sub sandwich on his lunch break with another man I don’t recognize.

  They don’t pay me any attention, not with how I look and my unsteady gait, thanks in part to a false limp. Nor do they pay any mind to the man passed out on the bench a few yards away from them, the bundle of newspapers under his head serving as a makeshift pillow. And certainly not the short, stout man about twenty feet away on their other side who’s embroiled in an animated conversation with a trash bin.

  Seaside Cove’s police station is situated on the outskirts of town along the west end which borders the more unsavory part of Wilmington. The accompaniment of these “typical” distractions allows me to draw near enough to overhear their conversation.

  “Five victims in the span of a few days?” Detective Warren shakes his head. “Just doesn’t add up.”

  The other man makes a derisive sound. “Word is, they ain’t happy about it.”

  Detective Warren frowns before taking another bite of his sandwich and chewing thoughtfully. Speaking around his food, he mumbles, “There’s gotta be a connection somewhere.”

  “Probably a rival gang or whoever, trying to challenge them,” the man mutters.

  The detective shakes his head. “My gut’s telling me there’s more to this. Who sets fire to a building the Dixie Mafia used to transfer smuggled guns?” He shakes his head again with a deep frown.

  All the other man says in response is, “Hmm.” But I can hear the dismissal in it.

  Apparently, so can the detective because he narrows his eyes on the man. But when his mouth parts, the sound of a cell phone ringing delays his response. He reaches for the phone clipped to his belt and answers.

  “Detective Warren.” There’s silence as he listens to the person on the other end. “Yes, sir. We’ll be right there.” He slides the phone back in the clip at his side, messily folds the paper wrapper over his sandwich and shoves it inside the bag before rising from the bench.

  “Lunch break’s over, Simms,” he says to the man. “Chief needs us in the conference room.”

  As the men disappear back inside the building, I push my cart away, putting more distance between the police station and myself.

  I need to prepare for my next visit.

  It’s time to see how Judge Milton is doing these days.

  9

  Her

  Malicious satisfaction courses through me as I watch him from where I stand at the far end of the dining room table. He has no idea I’m here.

  Returning from what was presumably a rousing game of golf, Judge Milton struts through the house, walking right past the dining room doorway on his way to the kitchen. Evidently, being on the Dixie Mafia’s payroll elicits such a sense of security that he doesn’t feel the need to arm his home security system.

  I have a clear view, my shoulders low with my grip on my bow while I stand poised with the bowstring drawn back. I imagine if my broadhead arrow embodied my emotions, it would be antsy as hell to rip this asshole to shreds.

  Judge Milton moves in a relaxed manner that’s so confident it’s almost pompous. He reaches inside the refrigerator to withdraw a bottle of water. As soon as he uncaps it, tipping it to his lips to take a drink, I release the arrow.

  The judge’s feminine-sounding scream is shrill and high-pitched as the steel arrowhead pierces the bottle, pinning it to the stainless steel refrigerator door. Water spurts out, and he jerks his hand to his chest, mouth agape at the sight. I draw another arrow, ensure my grip and stance are still precise before inhaling deeply as a surge of adrenaline pulses through my veins.

  “My bad. Did the arrow catch your fingers?”

  His head snaps around, and when he sees me, his eyes widen as he cradles his injured hand, blood dripping from his fingers.

  “What do you want?” He’s trying to appear calm, but his voice wavers. He’s scared shitless.

  Exactly how I want him.

  Without taking my eyes off him, I tip my head to indicate the nearby chair. “Come. Have a seat. Let’s chat a bit.”

  His eyes dart to the doors leading to the patio.

  “Try it, and I guarantee you’ll be dead before you take the first step.” I lift my chin in the direction of his bloodied fingers. “I was being gracious with your hand.” Hardening my tone, I command, “Sit down.”

  With jerky movements, he makes his way over to the table. I tip my head, gesturing to the chair I already shoved out for him a few feet away from me. He slumps into it clumsily, causing the legs to scrape noisily against the sleek hardwood floor.

  “W-what do you want?”

  I study him for a beat, reveling in his unease while I remain silent. “You don’t remember me?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

  “No? You don’t remember my voice? How I cried in your courtroom when you failed to carry out your oath?” I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Well, then, this’ll be extra fun.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “For me. Not so much for you.”


  He whimpers like the spineless fuck he is.

  “I have to say, Your Honor…” I let out a sad-sounding sigh. “I’m disappointed you don’t remember me. After all, you even visited me once. At my home.” I pause, and when he remains quiet, I tsk. “You don’t recall the time you were there when I was threatened and physically assaulted in my living room?

  “Although I must mention, my very favorite moment was when you decided the men who murdered my family didn’t have to stand trial, but that I had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation.”

  His features pale as the recognition hits, and horror bleeds into his expression.

  Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, I aim my arrow at him. “I suppose now that evaluation might be more suitable.” I huff out a caustic laugh and singsong, “Too late, though.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” His words of protest quake with fear. “They made me go along that night and told me to throw out the case because—” He stops abruptly, and when I wait him out, his extended silence makes it evident he has no intention of finishing his explanation.

  “Because?” I prompt, fixing him with a dark glare.

  He hesitates visibly. “Because…I told them I wanted out. That some cops were catching on. But they were blackmailing me and said I had to go along with Jeremiah and scare you out of talking to the cops.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Blackmailing you with what?”

  The judge pales, his tan turning sallow, and his mouth flattens in refusal to answer me.

  I aim the arrow at his other hand. “Don’t wanna share? That’s cool. I’ll just—”

  “No! Please!” he cries out, panic lacing every syllable. “They threatened to share photos of me and…” He trails off, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “Of me and, uh…”