A Killer Past

by Maris Soule

  He paused, his expression completely serious. ‘Do you understand?’

  She did, and for forty-four years she’d made sure no one knew she’d once been Pandora Coye. Not once had she mentioned – to anyone – that she’d been an agent for ADEC, or what she’d done during those thirteen years of her life.

  It wasn’t as if many in Rivershore knew of ADEC’s existence. Few people anywhere had ever heard of the American Department of Environmental Control, or knew its purpose, and ADEC liked it that way.

  The agency had been created years before she was recruited. Supposedly the president and a handful of high-ranking officials knew the agency’s true purpose, and since it received federal funding every year, Congress must have sanctioned it, at one time or another. Nevertheless, Mary doubted any of the senators and representatives back then – or today – knew ‘Environmental Control’ meant removing unwanted dictators, gunrunners, human traffickers, and drug pushers from the earth.

  She remembered how happy Carl and the other ADEC administrators always were when conspiracy theorists blamed the FBI or CIA for the sudden death or disappearance of a despot ruler. Absolutely no one in the agency wanted Congress asking questions about their operations, and all of ADEC’s agents were warned about what would happen to a whistleblower.

  Mary was sure she never would have been allowed to leave ADEC if the agency itself hadn’t made the mistake. That mistake gave her a new life, but her ticket to freedom had cost a life … the wrong life.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JACK STOPPED AT the station before heading home. On his desk he discovered a manila envelope, just his name on the front indicating it had been hand-delivered not mailed. He took time to hang his overcoat on the hook at the end of his cubicle and grab a bottle of water before he sat down and opened the envelope. The moment he saw its contents, he smiled. As promised, Dr Schell had followed up on their conversation from the day before. On the doctor’s notepaper was the name of another physician – Dr J.R. Barnes – along with Mary Harrington’s name and seven words: Says he saw her two years ago.

  Schell also had enclosed copies of a couple of articles, one from a newspaper, another from the Journal of American Medicine. Both articles had to do with the role of exercise and aging. Jack wasn’t sure if they related to his questions about Mary Harrington or if Schell meant them as personal encouragement. The JAMA report included too many scientific terms and chemical formulas to be considered easy reading, but Jack plowed through it. The second article dealt with satellite cells and how endurance exercise improved muscle stem cells and levels of spontaneous locomotion.

  Although Jack found the information interesting, as far as he could tell, all of the experiments had been done on rats. Mary Harrington definitely wasn’t a rat, and Jack wasn’t convinced that feeling as if one could get up and dance equaled taking out two teenaged boys. With the ratio two-to-one, even if she initiated the attack, she had to have acted before the boys knew what was happening. And since the boys never mentioned being hit by a baseball bat or any sort of an object, and no weapon was ever found at the scene, Jack figured it was hand-to-hand combat. Which meant their attacker had to have had some knowledge of the most vulnerable areas to strike. The sort of training one received in the military, the police academy, Quantico … or through martial arts training.

  Real martial arts training. Not tai chi.

  So when and where did Mary Harrington get her training? And why couldn’t he find anything about her prior to her arrival in Rivershore?

  He knew one person who could help him with an answer.

  Jack waited until he arrived home before he made the call. A child’s voice answered the phone. Jack smiled as he asked, ‘How’s my favorite granddaughter?’

  ‘Your only granddaughter,’ six-year-old Laurie answered, giggling. ‘Did you know I’m going to have a brother?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard. How’s your mother doing?’

  ‘She’s getting fat.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell her that,’ Jack said, remembering how sensitive Barbara was about her weight when she was pregnant.

  ‘That’s what Daddy says,’ Laurie answered, again giggling.

  ‘Is your daddy home?’

  ‘He’s in the garage. Mama says the car has the hiccups.’

  Hiccups. Jack could imagine his son’s response to that automotive diagnostic. He smiled and leaned back in his easy chair. ‘Could you get him, please?’

  ‘Okey dokey.’

  As he waited for his granddaughter to get her father, Jack considered how to make his request. Since Mary Harrington wasn’t wanted for any crime, he couldn’t make this official police business, but if she was the one who’d attacked those boys, she might be a future victim. The attack the night before on the other elderly woman had him worried. If that was a case of mistaken identity, Mary Harrington was in danger. Gang members didn’t take losing face lightly. She would have to be taught a lesson.

  ‘Hi, Dad, what’s up?’ a breathless John Rossini asked, ending Jack’s musings.

  ‘I have a favor to ask,’ Jack said. ‘If you don’t want to do it, just say so, but I have a case that I need some help with.’

  ‘Your captain would have to make an official request,’ John said. ‘I can’t—’

  Jack stopped him. ‘No, this is nothing official. What I need is information about a woman’s past.’

  His son cleared his throat. ‘Wow, Dad. Does this mean you’ve met someone?’

  ‘No.’ Jack grinned, imagining what his son was thinking. ‘This is a woman who may or may not have been involved in a battery case. She’s seventy-four years old, and has lived here in Rivershore for forty-four of those years. Thing is, I can’t find anything about her prior to when she moved here.’

  ‘May or may not have been involved?’ John Rossini sounded confused. ‘Is she unconscious or something? Did they beat her up so badly that she can’t remember her past?’

  ‘Well …’ Jack chuckled aloud. ‘That’s the thing. She’s the one who administered the beating. At least, I think she did.’

  For the next few minutes, Jack summarized the case for his son. ‘I’m thinking the FBI would have the resources to dig into her past. She says she’s never taken a course in martial arts, other than tai chi, but I’m convinced that she must have had some training. And when I mentioned that I’d been checking into her past, she got upset. Now I want to know why.’

  ‘Interesting,’ John said. ‘Give me a minute to grab a pencil and paper.’

  Once he’d relayed all of the information he’d gathered, Jack changed the subject. ‘So, how’s Angie doing?’

  ‘Getting big.’

  ‘That’s what Laurie said. She also said it’s going to be a boy. You’re sure?’

  ‘Yep, the Rossini name will live on. So when are you going to quit that job and move to Virginia?’

  Jack knew the answer. ‘I plan on retiring in two years, but I won’t be moving, at least not while your grandfather’s still alive. Someone has to make sure he’s being taken care of.’

  ‘He doesn’t even know you when you go see him, does he?’

  ‘Most of the time no.’ Rarely if ever, if Jack were honest. ‘But I know him. Your mother would want me to look after her father. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Dad, but we’d sure like to have you close by.’

  ‘What, so you could look after me?’ Jack asked. ‘I’m not ready for the rocking chair. Not yet.’

  ‘Dad, you know that’s not what I meant. I’d just like to have you a little closer. Both Angie and I would. Laurie still talks about the time we visited you. Think of all the things you could do with your granddaughter … and soon-to-be grandson.’

  ‘One of these days,’ Jack promised. ‘One of these days.’

  He hung up after that, and leaned back in his chair. Some days he wished he did live close to his son, days like today when being alone with just his memories made him wonder if life without Barbar
a was worth living.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ON SUNDAY MORNINGS Mary normally attended a yoga class. The hour of stretching complemented the reps she did on the weight machines during the week. But she wasn’t going this morning. Her bruises were too noticeable, and she didn’t want to explain to the instructor or others in the class what had happened, especially since she’d told the detective one thing and her son another. At ADEC they’d taught her to keep a lie simple. Change your story too many times and it will trip you up.

  The wind rattled Mary’s bedroom windows, and she was tempted to proclaim this Sunday a sick day and simply lie in bed. After all, for several nights now she hadn’t slept well. Conflicting thoughts kept tumbling around in her head, questions she couldn’t easily answer. Should she have killed the two boys who attacked her? If she had, an innocent old lady wouldn’t now be suffering with a broken arm and concussion. Wouldn’t be afraid to describe her assailants.

  Pandora Coye was taught to leave no witnesses. Dead people didn’t talk. But Pandora Coye no longer existed.

  Or did she?

  Could a person really change?

  Forty-four years ago she’d left a child alive and her life had changed for the better, but leaving those two gang members alive was not turning out well. She needed to do something to stop others from being hurt.

  But what?

  Lying in bed was not the answer, she finally decided, and with a sigh she forced herself up. Once on her feet, she did a few sun salutations and basic stretches. Just enough to loosen sore muscles and get the blood flowing. It bothered her that two full days and three nights had passed since her confrontation with the boys and her body still ached. There’d been a time when she could have had that tussle on one night and been ready to take on another pair the following night. Back in her teens and twenties, she’d felt indestructible. Now…?

  She hated to admit she was getting old, but the pictures on her bureau showed the progression of years. In their wedding picture, Harry and she had made a striking couple. It was one of the few times after arriving in Rivershore when she’d used her knowledge of makeup, had her hair done, and wore a dress that truly complemented her figure. The pictures of her with Robby recorded his growth and her aging. She knew, compared to some women, she still looked young for her age, but there was no denying the sagging skin and wrinkles. The camera did not lie. At least, the ones Harry bought didn’t.

  ‘Oh well,’ she sighed as she eased herself down the stairs, holding onto the railing. ‘Time marches on.’

  She knew there would come a day when the house would be too much for her to take care of and a retirement home might be an option. She certainly wasn’t going to go live with her son. As much as she loved Robby and Shannon, there was no way she could be around her daughter-in-law 24/7.

  Clare Worthington Harrington, in Mary’s opinion, was a stuck-up snob who valued money and position above all else. Because she was Robby’s wife, Mary kept her mouth shut, tried to be a good mother-in-law, tried not to criticize or offer advice, and tried to help out when she could, and step back when her help wasn’t wanted.

  Nevertheless, a part of her always wondered how Clare Worthington Harrington would react if she knew her mother-in-law’s past. Her real past.

  Once downstairs, Mary headed for the kitchen, her mind on those first few years after moving to Rivershore. Initially she told everyone she met that she’d always wanted to live in a rural area, and when she was a child, it had sounded like paradise. In reality, however, she quickly discovered the change from city life wasn’t easy. For most of her twenties she’d mingled with the rich and influential. Very few in Rivershore fit those categories. The town didn’t offer fancy restaurants, plays, and concerts. Oh, she could have driven to Kalamazoo or Grand Rapids for those amenities, but it wasn’t the same as being in D.C., Paris, or London. And in Rivershore the most important topics of conversation were about the crops, the kids, and soap operas.

  She opened a bookstore because Rivershore didn’t have one, and she felt reading was the gateway to expanding one’s horizons. For a while she carried copies of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times, but she sold so few copies, she finally dropped those orders. Mary sometimes wondered how long she would have stayed if she hadn’t met Harry.

  Dear Harry, who did read the Wall Street Journal and liked to talk politics. Harry, who laughed when she told him she’d used a dartboard to pick Rivershore over the hundreds of other small towns she might have moved to. Of course, she never did tell him it was also Rivershore’s low crime rate that appealed to her. He didn’t need to know she never again wanted to be in a position where she physically had to protect herself or others.

  Not that she let herself go physically.

  Harry supported her devotion to exercise. Even before the new, state-of-the-art gym was built, he encouraged her to stay in shape by running, playing tennis, and biking. And, in turn, Mary had encouraged both her son and husband to play sports and shun the golf carts.

  Forty-four years later, it was her belief in the benefits of exercise that prompted her to agree to that newspaper article. And, she supposed, being in good physical shape had allowed her to overcome those two boys on Halloween Eve.

  But at what cost?

  If they wanted revenge, how long before they zeroed in on her? Or maybe they already had. She couldn’t dismiss the thought that the black car Shannon pointed out was on Maple Street looking for her. After all, a parent watching a child trick-or-treat wouldn’t drive around with the car’s windows rolled up.

  What if those gang members had come to her house Friday night when Shannon was with her? Hand-to-hand combat with two unsuspecting teenagers was one thing; defending herself and her granddaughter would have been a different situation.

  Always be prepared for the worst, Carl had taught her.

  Be prepared.

  Mary closed her eyes for a moment, her mentor’s voice as clear in her mind as it had been years before during her training sessions.

  Think ahead, he’d lectured.

  Doing so had saved her life more than once in the past, and to pretend everything was normal now, that nothing had changed, was foolish. That nosy, irritating police detective had warned her she was in danger. He was sure he could help her.

  Amazing how the police always thought they could protect civilians.

  According to Rossini, all she had to do was admit those boys had attacked her and that their injuries were sustained when she fought back. He seemed sure the legal system would take care of the problem.

  She didn’t believe that for a moment.

  Even if the boys were arrested, tried, and convicted, others in the gang would be looking for revenge. The only difference between what would happen then and what was going on now was the gang would know exactly who she was and where she lived. Innocent old ladies wouldn’t be attacked.

  But she would be vulnerable.

  And until the gang or a member of the gang acted, the police wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing.

  The men who created ADEC understood the weakness in laws that gave criminals the advantage. They shared the public’s frustration when those responsible for so much evil not only profited but lived in luxury. Unlike the public, ADEC did something about it.

  For thirteen years she’d shared their beliefs, followed their orders, and thought she was doing the world a service. And then they made that one mistake.

  ‘So is this my punishment?’ she asked aloud, the words swallowed up by the empty house. Would some punk kid eliminate her as she’d eliminated that mother so many years ago?

  How ironic would that be?

  She gave a sigh and sat at her kitchen table.

  The snow from the day before was completely gone, but the sky remained a bleak gray. Through the window Mary watched the wind whip the branches of the two maple trees in her neighbor’s front yard. One by one the leaves were torn from their moorings to wildly swirl and dance from his lawn t
o hers.

  Her thoughts swirled in similar eddies, guilt entangled with anger. For forty-four years she’d lived a good life, hurt no one. She didn’t deserve what was happening now. Or did she? Should she act or remain passive?

  Damn those pot-headed kids.

  Damn that nosy detective.

  The doorbell rang.

  Jerked from her thoughts, she glanced down at her faded cotton pajama bottoms and Harry’s old T-shirt.

  Were they here? Had the driver of that black car told the others in the gang where she lived? Had they now come to avenge their injured members?

  It would serve her right for not getting dressed before she came downstairs. Well, at least she wouldn’t have a bullet hole or blood on one of her nice outfits.

  Prepared for her demise, Mary limped to the front door, chin held high, spine straight, and shoulders back. She didn’t even bother to look through the peephole, simply removed the guard chain, and opened the door.

  And laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Clare Worthington Harrington demanded and frowned.

  ‘You’re not whom I expected,’ Mary said, tension draining from her body as she stared at her daughter-in-law.

  Tall and slender, wearing a dark-blue jacket and matching knee-length skirt, the color contrasted by a pale-yellow silk blouse, Clare Worthington Harrington could have stepped out of a fashion magazine. Three-inch heels gave Clare a definite height advantage, forcing Mary to look up. In addition to her diamond-encrusted wedding rings, Clare wore pearl studs and a single strand of pearls. Simple but elegant.

  Clare Worthington Harrington did not buy costume jewelry.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ Clare said, her no-nonsense tone emphasizing her words. ‘I’m on my way to church, but I felt this couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Come on in, out of the wind.’ Mary stepped back and motioned for Clare to enter. Her daughter-in-law didn’t budge, even though a stray strand of her salon-dyed blonde hair kept whipping across her face. Finally, Mary asked, ‘What’s up?’