Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

  A sketch artist arrived with a notebook computer in place of the artist’s pad Charlie expected. Elizabeth, Deirdre, and Charlie split their attention between her and the movie as she flashed a series of facial features on the screen. The artist displayed a large light-bulb-shaped head that resembled Sebastian. She added bushy eyebrows, a protruding nose and close-cropped hair. Her image captured him so well it could have been a black-and-white photograph. Oliver was more difficult since Charlie had only seen his face sans whiskers for a few panicked minutes. The women had been with him longer, but couldn’t offer much help with his features either. They agreed on a likeness before the artist left, but no one was enamored with the result.

  Several minutes after the movie ended, an officer came in with a second report on the search. He announced his news this time, rather than whisper. The troopers followed the trail for two miles through the forest and into the dunes around Horseneck Beach. The wind-driven sand and thousands of scents made tracking impossible.

  Oliver Joyet was gone.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  As day faded into evening, the fire apparatus, police cruisers, and curious onlookers parked around the winery dwindled. Dueling news crews reported one last live segment. When they packed up and drove away, all that remained of the crowd were two police cruisers stationed in front of Charlie’s house. In the last few hours, Charlie had given his first interview since leaving Ohio State. Later, he watched himself rebuff several questions about his father’s relationship with Oliver Joyet. The artist’s renderings also played on the newscast and it was stunning how much the images resembled Oliver and Sebastian. Anyone who watched the news would have seen them by now and their hope for going unnoticed anywhere in Massachusetts was slim.

  The chief was uneasy after witnessing what Oliver had done; probably because one of his officers was responsible for letting him go and if any more harm came to them, it would smack of incompetence in the papers. He argued to move them somewhere safer until Oliver was caught, but Charlie refused. He explained his last encounter with booby traps and his need to start settling insurance claims, although his prime reason for staying was hidden beneath the couch. Laroche would be waiting for him the next afternoon and somehow Charlie was going to be there with the money. The police stationed outside would make it difficult, but as darkness fell their presence was entirely welcome.

  The chief’s idea of protection was deterrence. He posted two conspicuous guards round the clock with their cruisers parked directly in front of the house. As if that wasn’t enough, the men wired flood lights all around the house with enough candlepower to illuminate every blade of grass, leaf, and twig within a hundred yards. Motion sensors lined a perimeter fifty yards from the house. Any movement in that zone would flash the yard into artificial daylight. Each officer carried a panic switch in case Oliver eluded the sensors and got close to the house. The lights would keep them safe unless Oliver cut the power again.

  As the temperature dropped, the men donned long blue coats against the chill. Fortunately, the breeze that had blown all day had died down. One man settled into a chair on the porch and watched the front yard. The other alternately paced back and forth across the deck to keep warm and sat at the picnic table five or ten minutes at a stretch. Both men carried shotguns in addition to the 9mm they normally carried.

  The situation inside was nearly as uncomfortable. Neither of the women would sleep upstairs where the body had been found, so they shared Charlie’s bedroom just off the kitchen and he ended up on the couch. He feigned displeasure even though the scenario suited him nicely. He spent the night with his eyes half-open and the loaded .357 the chief had delivered on the coffee table. The floodlights kicked on twice during the night and each time Charlie grabbed the gun and sprang for the window. The first time he saw two does browsing in the grass. The second time a red fox cruised by in search of a meal.

  Sometime around 3:30 a.m., Charlie eased up to the windows and found both officers asleep. He quietly pulled apart the couch and removed the twelve wine cases stacked full of hundred-dollar bills. There was no time to count, so he evened the stacks by eye as best he could then taped them shut and wrapped them with bright-red gift wrap patterned with white Christmas trees. He would have preferred inconspicuous brown shipping paper, especially given the time of year, but the recipients would find the wrap quite fitting. When he finished packing his “gifts” under the couch, he lay on top with his eyes on the ceiling.

  He was still asleep when the first visitor arrived in the morning. After some strenuous arguing the day before, the insurance agent had arranged a delivery from the Volvo dealership, a new black S80 identical to the disabled one. Elizabeth would eventually replace her Mercedes, but hadn’t even considered a new car yet.

  At Charlie’s behest, Elizabeth and Deirdre arranged a trip to visit a local funeral home. The officers escorted the women and left Charlie with the .357 holstered on his hip to protect himself. He waited ten minutes after the cruisers left then loaded the boxes into his car and drove off to meet Laroche. Together they lugged them inside and addressed two boxes to each of the names from Oliver’s list of victims. The young brown-uniformed man took each box as they finished, validated the address information, and moved it onto a conveyor.

  “So, what will your boss say when you come home without your man?”

  “Nothing. He thinks I’m on vacation.”

  “Are all your vacations this exciting?”

  Laroche grinned. “I told the Westport guys what happened in that farmhouse. They promised to call me when they catch him.”

  “You’ll never extradite him, not after what he did to my father.”

  “No. But he paid someone to kill Monique Deudon. I want to stop him before he kills anyone else.”

  The young man behind the counter asked for two hundred seventy-four dollars. Charlie peeled off three hundreds and handed them across the counter. He collected his receipts for the hefty packages and the two men stepped outside.

  “You have the death penalty over there?” Charlie asked.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of a French firing squad?”

  Charlie grinned for the first time in days. “If I catch him, I’ll call you first.”

  They shook hands and Laroche climbed into his rental and headed for the airport.

  All the way back to the house and through the next days corralled inside with guards all around, Charlie thought about Laroche and how fortunate he’d been for his assistance. Without him, Charlie might have been confined in a much smaller space, indefinitely.

  Over the days that followed, information about Oliver Joyet and the Marston family faded from the news. The police had staked out Oliver’s house, impounded his car, seized his bank accounts, and put tracers on his credit cards, but Oliver had disappeared cleanly. Charlie expected no less from a man so thorough in planning his revenge. Oliver wouldn’t resurface until he ran out of cash.

  On the fourth day, the family and a few close friends gathered for the funeral. It was a glorious spring day. Bill Caulfield was in attendance without his soon-to-be ex-wife. The police secured the entire section of the cemetery and, for the first time, Elizabeth appeared with her goons, as Charlie liked to call them. The personal security agents, as they referred to themselves, each measured at least six-four. The chiseled men were always armed and always alert, scanning, watching, ready.

  A week later, Deirdre stood and waited as Charlie hugged his mother goodbye. The two thick-necked men stood with their backs to Elizabeth, scanning the crowd gathered around the gate.

  “Are you going to be ok?”

  Elizabeth patted the shoulder of the man closest to her. “With these guys looking out for me, I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “I wish you weren’t going back.”

  “With your father gone, they need me in Piolenc. And I just can’t imagine staying in Westport now. I don’t
feel safe there.”

  “I know… I’ll come see you soon.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your hands. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll come see you after the crush.”

  “We’ll have a nice Christmas at the chateau.”

  Elizabeth kissed him, looked approvingly at the young man she’d raised, and then joined the slow-moving line to the gate. Charlie watched until she disappeared down the jetway with her security guards ahead and behind.

  …

  Deirdre led Charlie on an aimless trek around the terminal for the next fifty minutes. They looked in shop windows, neither really impressed with the merchandise from Providence, but Charlie did buy her a yellow Cape Cod sweatshirt to add to her miniscule wardrobe. Deirdre kept browsing, walking, anything to keep her eyes from resting too long on Charlie.

  They stopped in a pub for lunch and she watched him with a regretful smile between bites. Charlie paid altogether too much attention to his sandwich, barely looking up. The few times their eyes met, he filled himself with a mournful sigh. The question was not far beneath. He’d asked her to stay the night before, but she couldn’t. Not another farm, not another man with a heart that screamed out for children to nurture. She imagined the faces of Charlie’s children in the families walking by. A sturdy little boy with light hair toddled by and Deirdre had to force her eyes back to her plate to hold back tears.

  When lunch was cleared away and the second boarding call for her flight was announced, Charlie gathered her things and walked her four gates down to meet the plane.

  “You’re welcome here anytime.”

  Deirdre inched closer.

  “The new barn will be up next summer and the ocean’s just two miles away.”

  She laid her head against him and filled herself with his cologne one last time. “God, I’m going to miss that,” she said.

  She could feel Charlie nuzzling the top of her head as she listened to his heart pounding away.

  “What?”

  “That heavenly smell. God, I’m going to miss you.”

  “You can always come back.”

  Deirdre knew she never would.

  She wrapped her arms around his solid chest and squeezed. If only she was fourteen years younger it might have been different. Staying now would just prolong the inevitable. He was a good man, Henri with a worldly spin and a charismatic air. She longed to stay, but she couldn’t give him what he deserved—a young pretty wife and a bunch of kids. If she stayed, Charlie would end up like Henri. He’d solemnly bury himself in his work, too decent to turn her out and too stoic to show he despised the life he lived. Charlie deserved so much more. If only she’d been this honest with herself before she married Henri.

  Deirdre kissed him and pulled away.

  “You are one great man, Charlie Marston. Go make wine and be happy.”

  Chapter Sixty

  The steadily encroaching bushes funneled the new Honda to the center of the drive, slower, and slower still, brake hopping to where the branches threatened to scratch the paint and the girl dared go no further. Up ahead, the old driveway narrowed to little more than a footpath. Oliver was home. He brushed aside his young companion’s straight blonde hair, kissed her, and opened the passenger-side door. The twenty-two-year-old girl had no idea she’d hidden a fugitive for over a week. Oliver had worked hard to make it the best week of her young life. When her longing smile followed his every step around the car, he knew he’d succeeded. She wouldn’t forget him soon.

  “What’s this place?”

  “An old shack I’m fixing up. I haven’t gotten to the driveway yet.”

  “Where do you park?”

  “I have a friend that lives next door.”

  Oliver had inherited this old house from his parents. He hadn’t sold it to the Marstons with the winery and he doubted they knew it was his. He’d planned on living here since he was a child, close to the winery, but space enough for independence.

  “I can see why you wanted to stay at my place.”

  “It’s nicer inside than you think, really.”

  Oliver leaned in and lingered over a final kiss. “I’ll call you Saturday.”

  She beamed at him as she shifted into reverse. He remembered seeing her neon-orange bikini for the first time and he filled himself with a heavy sigh. She waved goodbye and backed erratically down the drive like a snake wrapping itself around a long straight stick. He regretted that he’d never see that smile again.

  She eased out onto the road, mechanically shifted into drive, and disappeared. Oliver turned and walked fifty yards down the driveway until he reached the path that led to Charlie’s house. The leaves were rustled everywhere from dogs and men combing the woods. How surprised they’d be if they discovered he was back.

  Oliver passed his lean-to and settled in at the base of a tree.

  Charlie watched television until about ten and then moved to the back of the house. The lights went out at ten-forty. At two, Oliver slinked through the brush to the front door. The lock was new. He picked it almost as easily as the old and slipped in with barely a sound.

  Charlie was such a sucker. The couch looked the same as when Oliver had been here last. He could hear Charlie arguing with himself about what to do with the money and finally settling on leaving it where it was just like he did in the attic. Fortunately, the couch was much closer to the front door. He lifted a cushion then froze at the sound of a creak in the floor somewhere behind him. Charlie had been asleep three hours and Oliver knew he slept like the dead. He’d walked around his room a dozen times at the chateau at night, testing, knowing a day like this would come. Still, his nerves trembled. Another floorboard creaked, louder this time; a footstep, undoubtedly a footstep. Oliver spun to the next squeak only to be blinded by an intense spotlight that rivaled July sunshine.

  “Nice work getting away from the police and the dogs, Oliver.”

  Oliver couldn’t see, but he knew the voice behind the light. “Cake really,” he feigned casual indifference as his heart began pounding.

  Charlie lowered the light toward the floor and flashed a shiny handgun.

  “The money’s not there.”

  “You’re learning, Charlie. What’d you do with it?”

  “I sent it to those people you wanted to help.”

  Oliver didn’t understand.

  “The winery victims, the people my father stole from. I sent them two cases each; about three million apiece. I thought you’d approve.”

  “How civilized of you.”

  “Vintners are the hallmark of civility. You should know that.”

  “What are you going to do now? Turn me over to the police?”

  “The police? That’s funny. I catch you, truss you up like a calf and they let you go in five minutes. Sure, let me rush right over to the phone.”

  Oliver finished pulling the cushion aside and peered down at the empty space beneath. Charlie wasn’t bluffing, the money was gone.

  Charlie waved the gun in front of the light again.

  “Can you believe the chief of police brought me this gun? He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him. That’s not really an option for you though, is it?”

  The glare reduced the gun to little more than a blur.

  “You’ll never believe what he told me. He said, if that guy ever shows up, you shoot him dead. In the house, the driveway, anywhere, you kill him. Shoot till you’re out of bullets, he said. Not very neighborly if you ask me, but you are something of a problem, aren’t you?”

  A wave of dread washed over Oliver. Charlie could kill him with impunity. Kill him like a dog. Who would blame him for shooting an intruder in his house at two a.m.? Anyone who watched the news would know what had happened. No jury would convict him; no jury would ever hear the case. Oliver was completely at the mercy of a man he’d made it his mission to torment.

  Charlie seemed to be reading his mind precisely. “It’s odd to hold someone’s life in your
hands. This is how you must have felt when you killed that detective and my father.” He let out a low, sardonic grunt. “Is that what I need to do? Do I need to kill you, or should I just shoot you in the knee and let you hobble for the next forty years. You and I could have cripple races.”

  Oliver raised a hand to shield his eyes. This was the second time Charlie held a gun on him, but this time he had no intention of sacrificing himself. He was cornered, nothing in reach but the cushion in his left hand. Furniture hemmed him in. The windows were closed; no time to open them and dive through without getting shot. Charlie stood between the only two exits leaving no way out.

  “I saw the Ohio State pictures. What a fucked up thing to do! You’re one hateful bastard, you know that? You didn’t just screw up my knee, it was my life! In three seconds you took away the dream I’d been working for since I was nine.” Charlie adjusted his grip on the gun.

  Oliver didn’t move, didn’t speak. Justifiable homicide, he thought.

  “I saw your evidence. My father was a prick. What he did to you was wrong and it sucks he got away with it, but he didn’t deserve what you did to him. He didn’t kill your parents. They could have started over. And you? You threw your life away after theirs. What a shame. Fifteen years, your whole adult life, wasted.”

  Oliver flashed to the girl he’d just left. How many women like her had he walked away from? How many years had he pursued Charles Marston and forgotten to make a life of his own?