Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

  Randy was neither surprised by the sight in the dining room nor apologetic for his intrusion. He sniffed the air by the kitchen sink where Deirdre had been working. Charlie could still smell her perfume himself.

  “Did I interrupt something? You hiding a hot chick on me?”

  “Not that hot. A new employee. She left a while ago.” Charlie grabbed the remote and changed the channel to the Red Sox game.

  Randy’s footsteps stopped at the threshold behind Charlie. “Too bad you didn’t invite me. I would’ve liked to meet her.”

  “Sure, she’s got a pulse,” he said without turning around.

  “Listen to you, Marston. The Lord alone stands in judgment. All his children deserve pleasure.”

  “And you personally make sure every woman gets her share.”

  “I do what I can.”

  Randy retrieved a beer from the fridge and positioned himself between Charlie’s comfortable chair and the television near the door.

  “Since when are you a Sox junkie?” Randy had never seen the point in athletic competition. He preferred the kind of speed you could only get with an engine.

  “What else am I going to do?”

  “Let’s blow this place and party.”

  “Look at me.”

  “Don’t be a wimp. They didn’t hit you that hard.”

  “Not that hard? I can barely move. I’ve got four bruised ribs, thirteen stitches, and a concussion.”

  “You can’t have fun and not expect to get a bump or two once in a while.”

  Charlie’s jaw ached with every word, but he could barely keep himself from yelling. “What kind of shit was that anyway?”

  “What? That asshole’s too stupid to realize he’s a sucker.”

  “You stacked him the ultimate bad beat.”

  “I could have gone for a royal against a queen-high straight flush.”

  Randy had pulled off an impressive stunt. If he hadn’t heckled the guy, he would have gotten away with it. “So you admit it.”

  “It’s no big thing.”

  “What were you thinking? I was going to place.”

  “I didn’t know he’d hit me.”

  “Bullshit! What else could he do? He’d never live it down otherwise.”

  “Get real. You think I wanted to fight that guy?”

  “You gave him no choice.”

  “I was doing ok until his buddies got in.”

  Charlie was flabbergasted by Randy’s proud smile. “I’m done with this shit. Your stunts are going to get someone killed and it’s not going to be me.”

  They already had.

  Randy faked a sniffle. “You sound like your father.”

  “Get yourself a new playmate. I’m done with bar brawls and driving down sidewalks in the dark. Find someone else to try and kill.”

  “If I were trying, you’d be dead.”

  “That’s real comforting.”

  “Don’t turn into a pussy on me, Marston. I’ve got a lot of time into you. You’ve almost learned to drive.”

  “I’m done. Don’t ask me to go piss in some guy’s air vent or stuff fish in his couch.”

  “What about the bugs and the mice? And don’t forget the holes in the roof; that was the best part.”

  “You’re twisted. What are you doing, hiding in the bushes and watching them freak out? Or are you videotaping it?”

  “Twisted? You think that was twisted? Damn, Marston. You can’t fathom how warped I can be. You have no appreciation for the commitment it takes to make someone suffer. Complete devastation takes planning. Truly intense agony is art. I thought I’d taught you better, but someday you’ll understand.”

  “Just keep me out of it. I don’t want any part of your juvenile bullshit.”

  Randy paused, doorknob in hand. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

  “I’m done. Find someone else to terrorize.”

  “No one could take your place.”

  Randy disappeared with his beer leaving Charlie feeling odd, as if he hadn’t been in a real argument. Randy wasn’t angry and he wasn’t hurt. He simply came, nosed around, took a beer, and left. He said some things and he’d said them loudly, but this wasn’t the reaction Charlie expected. In fact, he hadn’t planned the exchange at all. If not for the outcome, he would have felt Randy had pushed him to it. He listened to the car start outside, half-expecting Randy to burst in screaming a string of obscenities, but the ignition started and the car rolled away. Charlie felt strangely out of place alone in his own chair.

  …

  From the second floor window, Deirdre watched the Mercedes door swing upright. Randy slid inside and pulled it back down, his face in full view as the car backed away. She aimed the camera, but didn’t snap the picture. She hadn’t thought to disable the flash and she didn’t dare expose herself to the lunatic yet. She knew he’d make good on his promise. She’d seen underneath the wild exterior to the evil creature hidden there.

  She’d already drawn a Mercedes emblem on her notepad and snapped a picture of the car while Randy was downstairs arguing with Charlie. As the car turned for the road, the license plate came into view for a few seconds. In the darkness it looked like AVVR, which she scrawled on her notepad. The car raced down the driveway into the darkness. She hoped the picture and the scrawled letters would be enough to track him down.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Charles stood in front of the post box, key in hand, glancing nervously over his shoulder. For one hundred euros, the mail carrier had agreed to sift through the Marston’s daily mail and redirect everything from the United States to this box. Mail delivery at the chateau still made Charles nervous, but nothing had slipped through. Fortunately, Elizabeth hadn’t commented on his afternoon trips to town.

  He turned the key and slid out an envelope with the familiar Westport return address and fancy cursive font that looked handwritten. He’d been expecting this note for days, wondering how much it would cost him. He stuffed the envelope inside his jacket and hustled toward the car. When he got there, he slouched in his seat, tore open the envelope and read.

  Charles,

  How does one keep such evil bottled up inside, yet appear so cultured on the surface? Surely that’s what Elizabeth thought until she read my note. She did read it, didn’t she?

  Your trouble with Liz is only the beginning. It is time to repent for your sins.

  Deliver $50,000 to the old tractor in Westport. The money appears by Saturday midnight or this photo will be front-page in Paris.

  The photo showed Charles passing a briefcase to two members of the wine quality panel. That same panel failed Claude Porier’s wines for three consecutive years. With virtually no sales and mounting debt, Claude was forced to sell Chateau de Piolenc for a fraction of its value. The parade scene pictured in the background confirmed the time of the exchange – six months before Claude’s troubles began.

  Charles could barely catch his breath. This blackmailer was no angry vineyard hand. He was hauntingly well informed, like a ghost living within his own walls. Even Elizabeth didn’t know about this meeting, yet it was captured in full 35mm splendor. Only an expert could wrangle into position for this shot.

  There was a handwritten note scribbled on the back of the picture:

  Ever wonder where these two do their banking? I know.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A shadowy figure billowed down the stairs, faceless, formless in the murky blackness. It hovered several inches above the treads, amorphous, yet Charlie could feel its penetrating concentration on his body in the chair. It silently drifted closer. A fluttering cloak took shape and Charlie could feel the swirling power beneath. The creature floated to within inches of his face. So close he could have felt its breath if it had any, but its only emanation was a soul-consuming guilt.

  Charlie was overwhelmed with self-loathing. He watched two powerful hands extend from the cloak and latch onto his chest. He felt relieved that his punishment had come and that he woul
dn’t have to run any more. The pressure intensified, compressing him until he was sure he wouldn’t survive. When he finally felt the pain, he commanded his legs to run, but his numb body lay lifeless in the chair. His arms ignored his desperate pleas and his eyes refused to open. All he could do was feel the shifting mass of energy crushing him as the creature peered down through narrowed eyes.

  Something outside startled the creature. It whirled toward the front door then spun back for a brief glance at Charlie. Terrified, it streaked directly through him to escape whatever had frightened it. Formless, it passed through his body, sucking his breath away and replacing it with bottomless sorrow. The creature vanished into the depths of the chair and Charlie’s breath returned in a gulp.

  Another shadowy figure bled through the locked door. This second creature followed the path of the first with deadly resolve. It radiated an electric mix of anger and hate that Charlie could feel from across the room. This one was stalking, hunting, closing in on Charlie as he lay in his chair. This one would surely kill him.

  Charlie woke in a panic, gasping for air with his heart racing and his body slick with sweat. He was alone. The television murmured in the corner. He cut his eyes all around in search of the phantoms until a sharp pain stung his ribs, reminding him to keep still. He clicked off the television and listened. The wind blew through the moonlit trees. All else was still.

  His arms draped heavily toward the floor and his eyelids ached for sleep, but his churning mind kept his heartbeat quick and steady. He tried to recall the images of the two demons he’d seen in his sleep. They were featureless blobs, but the feelings were unforgettable. The first phantom brought a wave of intense sorrow that carved a gulley through his chest. The second was so driven by hatred that Charlie was forced to open his eyes trembling in the darkness. For an instant the hatred was his and he felt the joy of blindly releasing his rage. His subconscious was screaming a warning through his dream. He’d heard the same warning from his parents and heeded it. Randy was gone. So why couldn’t he sleep?

  As the early morning hours passed, Charlie thought about Deirdre, the first, sorrowful phantom. He’d spent most of his day listening to subconscious whispers that she was after something more than a job. Still, her true motivation eluded him. He imagined a bizarre emotional transference that had her fixated on him in place of her dead husband. That scenario had charm, but lacked realism.

  In darker moments, he wondered if she had indeed come for revenge. Seeing her husband killed was fuel enough, but Charlie couldn’t imagine she was capable of hurting anyone. In his dream, he could feel her sadness and guilt, but he could also feel her punishing him. Charlie counseled himself that Deirdre was no vigilante. The danger was past, but still, his ears pricked up at every creak in the house and every shift in the wind. Whatever her motives, Deirdre never came downstairs during the first night.

  The sun inched up through the trees highlighting various tangles of sticks on its climb into the sky. Since he couldn’t sleep, Charlie decided to take his doctor’s advice and start exercising the knee again. The walk down the thousand-foot drive and back was more than enough. It felt good to move again and Charlie resolved to retrieve his barbells from his parents’ house and start lifting as soon as he had healed. He hadn’t done arms and shoulders for a month and aside from the rickety, beaten-up feeling in his joints, he felt wobbly and loose. Two more days and I’ll start to tighten up, he thought as he reached the paved road.

  The paper carrier drove up right on cue and handed Charlie the paper. As he began the trek back, Charlie flipped to a photo of a magnificent home with three fire trucks parked on the lawn. Hoses gushed into a gaping hole in the roof. Charlie recognized the row of garage doors on the left and the ocean peeking over the bluffs. The caption above read “Local Banker Suspected of Arson.”

  Wow! The anguish Randy visited on this man was horrific. Bill Caulfield was his name and he looked much older than the woman Charlie had seen on the lawn. Fixing the problems in that house had been as futile as holding back the tide. When Caulfield thought his problems couldn’t get worse, Randy burned his house down. And for his final insult, Randy framed him for arson.

  A wave of guilt smacked Charlie. If he’d mailed the note, the house wouldn’t have burned and this man wouldn’t be under investigation for arson. Caulfield would still have his house, but it was too late to help him now. The woman on the lawn had seen Charlie clearly. There was no way he could have sent that note.

  The entire next page was dedicated to the story. At the top was a photo of Rosemary Barrett, the claims adjuster who had broken the story. The column detailed the anonymous letter she received explaining a series of problems the Caulfields had been having with their house. On the right were a series of photographs of plumbers, pest control contractors, and an oil company van. A dozen different workers entered or exited the house.

  Hadn’t anyone thought the evidence was too tidy?

  Charlie walked inside and crumpled into his chair with the paper.

  Deirdre was awake and making coffee. “You sleep ok?”

  Charlie ignored her as he breezed through comments from the firemen. Several things made the fire suspicious in addition to the letters and photos that were delivered to Ms. Barrett. All three electrical panels were switched off before the firemen arrived, suggesting that whoever set the fire didn’t want it to start too soon. Four melted gas cans were found scattered throughout the house even though there was no equipment on the property that ran on gasoline, except for cars, of course. One new-looking can was found freshly emptied in the garage, without its cap.

  The arson lieutenant got three paragraphs. His assessment was that someone turned off the electricity to protect himself from accidental ignition. He then poured gasoline on the walls and floors in the center of the house. The damage seemed to indicate a large volume of accelerant which tied well to the capacity of the empty gas cans. He indicated that they had identified the starting point, but wouldn’t divulge details while the investigation was in progress. Mr. Caulfield was in deep.

  Deirdre walked in and rubbed her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “What’re you reading?”

  There was no way to hide the story, nor did she have any way to discover his link to it. Charlie flipped back to the front page. “Look at this.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Beautiful house, huh?” Charlie asked.

  “It’s huge. Look how small the fire truck looks in front.”

  “Can you believe this guy burned it down?”

  She didn’t appear the least bit suspicious. “Why would he?” she asked.

  He flipped to the next page, showed her the photos, and gave her the highlights from the article.

  “Did you know this guy Caulfield?”

  “Never met him. Why?”

  Deirdre smirked. “Don’t all you rich guys know each other?”

  “No. There’s no secret club. If there is, they haven’t let me in yet.” Charlie reached onto the table behind her for the remote and came face-to-face with the sheer tank top she’d worn to bed. He lazily switched the television to the Channel 4 News and swiveled his head around toward the screen, but his attention refused to move.

  Deirdre stepped toward the television, bringing herself back into view. “How are your ribs today?”

  Charlie feigned interest in the news. “I’m ok. I’ll be good tomorrow.”

  She leaned over and kissed his closest cheek.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Hiding me from Randy last night.” She trailed away toward the kitchen.

  “Anytime.” Charlie craned his neck after her, following the sway of her light shorts and ignoring the pain in his midsection as she turned and swished around the counter toward the stove.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Air brakes blew out a vehement hiss at the loading dock. Somehow Charlie had missed the groaning diesel powering its way down the long drive as he considered the end of his friendship wit
h Randy and the strange situation developing with Deirdre. Outside, the cab door creaked, slammed shut, and a pair of boots dropped onto the gravel. Charlie got up and labored through the cellar to meet the driver, bemoaning Sebastian’s carelessness letting the staff get so lean.

  When he reached the loading area, he saw warehouse aisles packed so tightly with shrink-wrapped pallets that the forklift could no longer maneuver inside. The machine was parked with its rear end nudging into the bottling room. Charlie needed to focus on driving sales volume, not stacking supplies. He opened the overhead door hoping the delivery was a small one. It wasn’t.

  The sight of the grey container jogged his memory and spurred his brain to action. Momentarily overwhelmed, Charlie stared blankly ahead as his mind rushed to organize his work. He needed to unload the trucks, find the money-laden barrels, and stash his share without anyone seeing what he was doing. Suddenly Sebastian’s bungling with the staff seemed opportune. There were no idle hands volunteering to help, no one in the barn to watch what he was about to do. He only needed to worry about Sebastian and Deirdre and they would be in the vineyard all day. If he was careful, he’d have the money hidden long before they saw the barrels from Piolenc.

  The driver cleared his throat and waggled a clipboard in his outstretched arm.

  “Sorry.” Charlie signed the paperwork and handed the clipboard back.

  “It’s tight getting in here and I’ve got another truck five minutes behind.”

  “No problem.” Charlie pointed to the overhead door to the fermentation room, seventy feet away. “Back up over there and I’ll get you unloaded.”

  The driver stood and stared as if Charlie had asked him to carry the barrels on his back. He’d aligned his truck with the warehouse loading platform and wasn’t eager to move it. Charlie wheeled around toward the packed warehouse as if to ask, “Where would you like me to put a hundred barrels?”