Law and Vengeance

by Mike Papantonio

  “Let’s not,” said Gina.

  Angus hid his smile behind his upturned glass. “So how are you getting home?” he asked.

  “I am going to take an Uber over to Bryan’s clinic,” Gina said. “From there we’ll be going out to dinner.”

  “How about I give you a ride?”

  “I gladly accept,” she said, “unless your ride is an old Chevy truck. That I only do for true love.”

  Angus pulled his Lincoln Navigator out of the parking garage. His oversized frame fit perfectly in the oversized vehicle. Gina happily sunk into the vehicle’s plush leather seats and closed her eyes. Both lawyers hadn’t been able to leave work without taking home overstuffed briefcases, but working nights and weekends wasn’t anything new to them.

  Gina wasn’t surprised when she heard music coming from the speakers. She remembered Angus and his eclectic musical taste. He liked everything from hip-hop to jazz. When Gina had commented on that, Angus had merely said, “I get my best ideas from great music.”

  The unusual blues Angus was playing now connected with Gina’s mood. The singer was picking and projecting something that touched her. His humming and moaning tapped into a feeling of loss, both sad and beautiful. The two of them listened in silence as both were transported into the mood and sentiment of what was being communicated. When the song concluded, both of them sat silently. The music deserved respectful pause.

  “What was that?” Gina finally asked.

  “That was Blind Willie Johnson singing, Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground.”

  “When he was strumming that guitar, it felt like he was reaching deep inside of me.”

  “Most people who hear it react the same way,” said Angus. “I’m not sure if it’s blues or a spiritual. I only know it’s something unique. I bet you even the extraterrestrials can feel its power.”

  Gina turned her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the Voyager probe,” he said. “Back in the ’70s, Carl Sagan and a bunch of scientists were told they had to succinctly sum up our planet and people in sounds and music. Can you imagine how daunting a task that would be? So they collected all sorts of insects and animal sounds. And they included laughter. I’m glad they did that. And they offered up ‘hello’ in scores of languages. The scientists were also smart enough to include the universal language: music. Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground, was one of their selections.”

  “They chose well,” said Gina.

  “The last I heard,” said Angus, “the Voyager probe exited our galaxy. It’s headed for some star that’s about forty thousand years away. Blind Willie is now singing for the universe.”

  “Play it again,” said Gina.

  Angus was happy to comply.

  “Researchers say Blind Willie wasn’t born blind,” said Angus, “but became that way because of an evil stepmother.”

  “That sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale,” said Gina.

  “Supposedly, Willie’s father caught his wife in bed with another man. And his wife, Willie’s stepmother, threw lye during their fight. The loss of Willie’s eyesight was collateral damage.”

  Gina thought about her own shitty upbringing. At least she’d come out of it with intact eyesight. In fact, maybe her eyes were too wide open.

  “Why don’t you pull up right there,” she said, pointing out an open spot on the street near Bryan’s clinic.

  Angus steered his Navigator into the space. The parking lot of Bryan’s clinic was about half full with cars even though it was almost eight. The exotic exterior jungle motif was striking. It was an unusual looking building that had been Bryan’s dream, but the costs for construction had been a nightmare.

  Gina unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the passenger door. The back of the Navigator suddenly lit up. Someone must have pulled up directly behind them with their brights on. Glancing over her shoulder, Gina tried to stare down the driver. Asshole, she thought, but didn’t say it. The presence of Angus always tempered her cursing. She had one foot out of the car when she turned to thank Angus, but didn’t get the chance. The Navigator’s interior lights dimmed, and then with a squeal of tires the SUV rocketed away from the curb and into traffic. Gina’s door flew open.

  “Hey!” she shouted.

  Cars around them honked their horns, annoyed by Angus’s erratic driving, or startled by Gina’s open front door. She pulled her leg into the vehicle and turned to Angus.

  “What the hell . . .” she started to say, but stopped when she saw Angus looking around bewildered.

  “I’m not in control of the car!” he shouted.

  The steering wheel seemed to be turning on its own and his braking was having no effect. Angus tried to shift the car out of drive, but couldn’t. He took his eyes off the road, looking Gina’s way. As his SUV moved in and out of traffic, her door continued to swing one way and then another.

  Fighting to sound calm, he said, “Gina, you need to make sure your door doesn’t close all the way. Right now it’s the only exit. All the other doors and windows are locked and not responding.”

  Wide-eyed, Gina nodded to show she had heard. At that moment, the SUV began slaloming side to side. The cascading movement almost caused the door to close. As it came towards her, Gina grabbed her briefcase and braced it under her feet, angling it so that part of it hung out the door. As the slaloming continued, the door flew back and forth; its hinges squealing like a wounded animal as it bounced one way and then another.

  Angus pushed and pulled everything within his reach, trying to bring the car to a stop. Nothing was working. It was almost as if the car was possessed. And now the evil spirit possessing it began acting out even more. The car’s high beams went on, then its hazard signal. What was worse was the Navigator was picking up speed. And now the headlights were going on and off, a signal to the cars ahead to pull aside.

  The wind whipped at Gina through her opened door. She didn’t know what to do. “Angus!” she yelled.

  The ram from behind sent them careening.

  “Son of a bitch!” screamed Gina.

  Their SUV straightened out on its own. Angus looked through the rear view mirror. Lights were right on their tail.

  “We’ve somehow been hijacked by the car behind us,” said Angus. “Your only chance of getting out of here alive is to jump!”

  “Our only chance, you mean.”

  “I’m locked in,” said Angus. “They even have control over my safety belt.”

  Gina reached down to her purse and pulled out a folded knife. With a flick of her wrist the three-inch blade popped out. She leaned over and awkwardly began cutting at Angus’s seatbelt.

  “Gina, let me do that . . . and get ready to jump.”

  Angus quickly cut through the restraint, even as their ride grew more perilous. The Navigator’s speedometer continued to climb, going from seventy-five, to eighty, to ninety miles an hour. The bright lights behind them stayed right on their tail. Gina turned around and shaded her eyes, trying to see who was in it. At the wheel was an unkempt man who was maybe twenty-five. His face was obscured because of the cap he was wearing.

  Gina was better able to see the passenger, probably because his face was aglow from the laptop or tablet he was holding. The passenger had a mop of curly hair that reminded her of Harpo Marx, save that his hair was darker. He looked innocuous, like any another millennial in casual garb. The only thing out of the ordinary was the wide smile covering his face as he set about killing them.

  “He’s taking us to the General Forrest Bridge,” said Angus. “That’s where this drive is going to end. He’ll have to slow us down just before the hill and the curve leading up to the bridge. If he has us going more than forty-five or fifty, we’d turn over. The curve is where you’ll have to jump.”

  “That’s where we’ll jump.”

  His eye was on the speedometer. Their vehicle was slowing down on their approach to the bridge as he’d known it would have to. The Navigat
or was now on the shoulder.

  “Now!” he said, grabbing Gina in his arms.

  “No!” screamed Gina.

  She was afraid to be hurled out of the moving car. They were still going too fast. There was no way she would survive. But Angus didn’t listen. He rallied every ounce of strength and focus in his powerful frame, knowing he would have to throw Gina onto the roadway shoulder and clear of the moving cars. There was a confluence of time and space, while everything seemed to slow down as she was being catapulted from the speeding vehicle. Before hitting the asphalt, Gina was sure Angus yelled something. It sounded like “Bull’s-eye,” but it might have been, “Don’t die,” or it could have even been, “Goodbye.”

  She landed on the outer reaches of the shoulder, far enough away from the road to be safe from any traffic. But you don’t exit from a car that’s going fifty miles an hour without suffering the consequences. She rolled and rolled, going over asphalt, to grass, to scrub, leaving parts of her skin everywhere behind her. And then her leg caught on something, but that wasn’t enough to stop her. It was enough to shatter it, though, as she continued on her roller-coaster nightmare.

  As best as Gina could figure it, her body came to a stop at the same time Angus was taking his last breath. Even in her dazed state, she was able to make the connection with what almost sounded like a sonic boom. Angus was right about the Navigator’s final destination. It was the General Forrest Bridge. That terrible sound of impact told her just how fast the SUV must have been going when it slammed into a pillar.

  “Angus!” Gina cried knowing he was gone. Her voice sounded strange to her ears. It was almost as if someone else was speaking. Gina fought off shock. It would have been easy just to lie there, but she couldn’t do that. Gina was aware enough to realize that she had to find a way to move if she wanted to live.

  Blood was everywhere, but the worst of the bleeding was occurring in the vicinity of what looked like a seriously mangled leg. Her greatest fear was that her femoral artery had been severed.

  No one would find her this far from the road, Gina knew. She could hear the traffic. It was close, probably no more than twenty-five yards away, but if she was to be seen, Gina would have to get back to the road.

  She couldn’t walk. Even crawling felt all but impossible. But that was her only option.

  “Don’t worry Angus,” she said as she clawed her way through dirt, “I’m not giving up.” Gina pulled herself forward. “Shit,” she moaned. “Shit.” But as much as it hurt she wasn’t going to stop.

  Her fingers gripped the ground, and even knowing more pain was coming, they pulled. “They don’t know what is coming after them, Angus.” She imagined herself in the galley on a ship, pulling and pulling again. That was how she advanced. “It will be ugly, Angus, real ugly.” She heard the drums, and Gina crossed more ground to their beat, her screams joining in with the pounding in her temples. “They don’t know what’s going to come after them, but they will. They’ll see.” Her good leg pushed off, and pushed off again. Gina’s blood greased her path.

  She fought through the pain and occupied her mind with the thought that the real Gina Romano was just waiting for something like this. She’d been in hiding all this time. But she’s coming out. And she won’t be pretty.

  Somehow, Gina had made it to the road. She raised herself to one knee and began flagging down the passing cars.

  7

  A MANSION BUILT ON BONES

  A text message ordered Kendrick Strahan to Tim Knapp’s Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, home and included his itinerary. There was no explanation other than the directive.

  Despite that, Strahan had a good idea of why Knapp wanted to see him, and that was reason enough for Strahan to not be looking forward to the visit. At least Knapp had sent the company plane for him. That streamlined his travels from DC. The nearest major airport to Knapp’s home was Chicago’s Midway. A driver was waiting there to take him the hundred miles to “the Arbors.” At one time, the homestead had been referred to as the “Arbalest Arbors,” but sometime in the last half-century the corporate nomenclature had been lost.

  Someone hadn’t wanted the trail of blood, he thought.

  Like many nineteenth century tycoons, the Knapp family had bought a summer retreat right on the shores of the lake. They joined other families with names like Swift, Wrigley, and Sears. While those other captains of industry had long ago left the area, the Knapp family had held on. Four generations of Knapps had called the Arbors home. Each generation had added to the mansion. It was now the crown jewel of Lake Geneva. Knapp had himself some impressive digs.

  When Strahan had first visited the Arbors, he and Tim Knapp were at Andover. Back then, Tim had done everything he could to try and impress Strahan. It was almost as if they had reversed positions, with the poor kid from Providence acting like the privileged one. That kind of hospitality had expired long ago. Strahan was the hired help now. The past was buried. He suspected Knapp hadn’t provided him the private plane and chauffeur treatment out of courtesy, but rather out of expediency. Or maybe Knapp didn’t want Strahan to have documentation showing they were having the meeting.

  No matter what the reason was, Strahan decided he might as well enjoy his ride in a Rolls-Royce. The chauffeur’s name tag identified him as Geoffrey. Strahan had tried to engage Geoffrey in several conversations, but the man had proved to be terribly tight-lipped. Maybe he was under orders to not engage with Strahan. Or maybe he didn’t like riffraff in “his” car.

  At least the Rolls came with a stocked bar. There was even an ice bucket. Strahan picked up the tongs, dropped two cubes in his glass, and poured himself a more than generous amount of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve.

  Geoffrey’s disapproving visage could be seen in the rear view mirror. Strahan lifted his glass and saluted him. Then he took a drink, voiced his approval of its contents, and smacked his lips loud enough for Geoffrey to hear even through the glass partition that separated them.

  Left to himself and to his drink, Strahan had time to think about his life. His wife, Patty, had left him five years ago. She’d stuck it out with him after his Secret Service washout, but said “the rot” from his new work was too much to bear. Patty said that being a lobbyist changed Strahan. He wasn’t sure that was true. “The rot,” as she called it, had probably always been in him. His job had just allowed it—encouraged it—to spread and escape. Still, if necessary, he’d use his failed marriage and blame it on the job to try and manipulate Knapp. There was no plan B for Strahan. He needed to hold onto his job however he could.

  The Rolls came to a stop at a private road and an electronic gate. When Strahan was a kid, there had been a guard at the entrance who manually opened and closed the barricade. That gatekeeper was a victim of technology. Geoffrey punched in a code, and the security gate opened. Most people were only afforded a view of the back of the house from the lake. That was impressive enough, but nothing compared to the expanse of the front view.

  The Knapp family had adopted the crossbow as its family crest. Amidst the fine woodwork in the front of the house, the first arbalest could be seen. Some artisan had carved it into the wood long ago. It wasn’t quite in keeping with the current logo of the Arbalest Corporation, but that too had evolved over the last century. Nowadays, they stamped the image of an ancient crossbow on almost all of the company’s weapons of war. It had become a ubiquitous image, at least to those familiar with weaponry.

  Of course Tim Knapp and his family who lived in their mansion on Lake Geneva never talked about the business. Jessica, Tim’s wife, was busy being a mother, at least until the last two of her four children reached prep school age. At age ten, each of them would be shipped away, which would allow Jessica more time for Pilates, golf, and her many Junior League projects. And Knapp served with distinction on a dozen or so boards, all of them far away from any killing fields, or mean streets.

  Without a word, Geoffrey opened the door for Strahan. At least, the driver was consi
stent. Geoffrey motioned for Strahan to proceed toward the house. The two men climbed the steps, and then Geoffrey opened the door. Strahan had seen the grand entrance before, which saved him from having his mouth drop open. It really was a grand entrance, with the kind of elaborate wood and stonework usually only seen in the castles of royalty. A huge chandelier lit up the entrance and offered a perspective of just how high the ceilings were. In the distance, at the far end of the house, windows opened out to the expanse of Lake Geneva. If the water hadn’t been so choppy, Strahan would have thought it was a masterpiece still life painting.

  Geoffrey didn’t lead Strahan far. Knapp was waiting for him in a den, or office, or a room that the family probably referred to with some quaint name. Unfortunately, Knapp wasn’t alone. That bastard, Quentin Carter, was sitting with him. Carter liked to claim he was the Knapp “family lawyer.” That folksy title was far removed from what Carter really was. Mobsters need their consigliere. That’s the kind of counsel he was. To look at him, you wouldn’t know what a slippery snake he was. Carter was small, effete looking, and presented himself in Savile Row suits. Strahan typically referred to him as the tiny avatar created mostly to carry out the company’s dirty work.

  Neither Carter nor Knapp got to their feet when he stepped into the room. There was a third chair near to where they were sitting, one not nearly as nice as their plush leather chairs which could have easily served as monarch’s thrones.

  “Don’t get up, gentlemen,” said Strahan, although he was well-aware that neither was so inclined. Strahan crossed the room and sat in the empty chair. His vantage point was lower than the other two men; he hated being forced to look up to Carter and assumed the lawyer had engineered this disadvantage. In their previous meetings, Carter never hid his disdain for Strahan.

  “I assume you’ve already had your refreshment in the drive over,” said Carter.

  Strahan knew the lawyer’s observation was more an attack than a nicety, but he still pretended to be amused. “I don’t need a drink, thank you,” he said.