The Future Scrolls

by Fern Michaels

  The first month she’d come here to live, Myra had knocked out two walls and turned this room into a two-girl bedroom. They’d spent so many hours in here, huddled in their beds, giggling, telling secrets, talking about boys and sharing all their hopes and dreams. Even the bathroom had twin vanities, twin showers, twin toilets. Myra didn’t stint and she didn’t favor one over the other. She simply had enough love for both of them. She looked now at the twin desks, the colorful swivel chairs, the bright red rocking chairs. It seemed so long ago, almost like a lifetime. She stared at the colorful rockers and at the cushions they’d made at camp one year. Barbara’s was perfect, her stitches small and neat. Her own was sloppy, the seams loose. But it wasn’t the cushions that held her gaze. The chair was rocking, moving slowly back and forth. She looked up to see if the fan was on. A chill washed down her spine. She shuddered as she reached for her robe. Maybe Charles had left some coffee in the pot. If not, she could make some more.

  Nikki walked down the long hallway to the back staircase that led to the kitchen. She blinked when she saw Myra and Charles sitting at the table, highball glasses in their hands. She blinked again. “I couldn’t sleep,” she mumbled.

  “We couldn’t either,” Myra said.

  “After what we saw on television this evening, I can understand why. I’m going to make some coffee.”

  “Nikki, Charles and I want to talk to you about something.”

  Nikki reached for the coffee cannister. There was an edge to Myra’s voice. A combative edge. Something she’d never heard before. “About what, Myra? I said I would take Marie Lewellen’s case.”

  “I know. That’s just a small part of it. Do you remember a while back when you told Charles and myself about two young women who came to see you? Kathryn Lucas and Alexis Thorne, only that wasn’t Alexis Thorne’s real name at the time.”

  “I remember,” Nikki said, measuring coffee into the stainless steel basket.

  “You helped Alexis by going outside the law. You couldn’t help Kathryn because the statute of limitations had run out, but if there was a way to help her, would you do it?”

  Nikki felt herself freeze. “Are you talking about inside the law or outside the law, Myra?”

  “Don’t answer my question with a question. Would you help her?”

  “I can’t, Myra. There’s nothing I can do for her. I looked at everything. Time ran out. Yes, I feel sorry for her. I understand how it all went down. She waited too long; that’s the bottom line.”

  “You looked the other way for Alexis. You knew someone who was on the other side of the law and you got her a new identity; you helped her start a small home business as a personal shopper and you made it happen for her. You believed in her when she told you her story. She was a victim; she didn’t deserve to go to prison for a whole year. She can never get that year of her life back. The men and women who turned her into a scapegoat walked free and are living the good life and her life is ruined. Kathryn is a victim and no one is helping her. Marie Lewellen could spend the rest of her life in jail unless you can get her off. Legally.”

  Nikki sat down across from Myra and Charles. “I think this would be a real good time for you to tell me exactly what you two are talking about.”

  “The system you work under doesn’t always work,” Charles said.

  “Sometimes that’s true,” Nikki said carefully. “For the most part it works.”

  Myra looked at Nikki over the rim of her glass. “What if we take the part that doesn’t work and make it work? What if I told you I was willing to use my entire fortune—and you know, Nikki, that it is sizable—and use it to . . . make that system work? For us. For all the Maries, the Kathryns and the Alexis Thornes who got lost in the system.”

  “Are you talking about going outside the law to . . . to . . . avenge these women? Are you talking about taking the law into your own hands and . . . and . . . ?”

  Myra’s head bobbed up and down. “Charles can help. He dealt with criminals and terrorists during his stint at MI-Six. You’re an attorney, a law professor. With your brains, Charles’s expertise and my money we could right quite a few wrongs. It would have to be secret, of course.”

  “And you just now came up with all this?” Nikki said in awe. “No!”

  “Yes,” Myra and Charles said in unison.

  Nikki looked at her watch. “Just eight hours ago, give or take a few minutes, you were practically comatose, Myra. You didn’t want to live. You were so deep in your misery and your depression I wanted to cry for you. Now you’re all set to take on the judicial system and dispense your own brand of justice. You’ll get caught, Myra. You’re too old to go to jail. They aren’t kind to old people in jail. NO!”

  Myra took a long pull from the highball glass. “If I can’t satisfy my own vengeance, maybe I can do something for others where the system failed.” She spoke in a low, even monotone. “Kathryn Lucas, age thirty-eight. Married to Alan Lucas, the love of her life. Alan had multiple sclerosis as well as Parkinson’s disease and lived in a wheelchair. They owned an eighteen-wheeler, Alan’s dream. In order to keep his dream alive for him, Kathryn drove the rig and Alan rode alongside her. One night when they stopped for food and gas, Kathryn is raped at a truck stop by three bikers. Alan is forced to watch and cannot help his wife. Rather than report the rape and destroy what’s left of her husband’s manhood, she remains silent. She does nothing. She carries it with her day and night for the next seven years until Alan dies. Needless to say, whatever was left of the marriage after the rape, died right then and there. The day after she buries her husband she goes to you, gives you all the information she has on the case and you turn her away because the stupid statute of limitations has run out. You told me she had a partial license plate, her husband took pictures and she said one of the bikers was riding an old Indian motorcycle. You said she told you they belonged to the Weekend Warriors Club, probably whitecollar professionals out for a fling. Charles said there aren’t many Indians in existence and they’re on every biker’s wish list. It shouldn’t be hard to track it down. You just sit there, Nikki, and think about three men raping you while Jack is forced to watch. You think about that.”

  “Myra, I don’t have to think about it. I feel terrible for Kathryn Lucas. Yes, she deserves to have something done but she waited too long. The law is the law. I’m a goddamn lawyer. I can’t break the law I swore to uphold.”

  “The circumstances have to be brought into consideration. I need you to help us, Nikki.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “We could form this little club. You certainly know plenty of women who have slipped through the cracks. Like Alexis, Kathryn and many others. We’ll invite them to join and then we’ll do whatever has to be done.”

  Nikki stood up and threw her hands in the air. “You want us to be vigilantes!”

  “Yes, dear. Thank you. I couldn’t think of the right word. Don’t you remember those movies with Charles Bronson?”

  “He got caught, Myra.”

  “But they let him go in the end.”

  “It was a damn movie, Myra. Make-believe. You want us to do the same thing for real. Just out of curiosity, supposing we were able to find the men that raped Kathryn Lucas, what would we do to them?”

  Myra smiled. “That would be up to Kathryn, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t believe I’m sitting here listening to you two hatch this . . . this . . . What the hell is it, Myra?”

  “A secret society of women who do what has to be done to make things right,” Myra said solemnly.

  “It could work, Nikki, as long as we hold to the secrecy part,” Charles said quietly. “There is that room in the tunnels where you and Barbara used to play. You could hold your meetings there. No one would ever know. I know exactly how to set it all up.”

  Nikki struggled for a comeback that would make sense. In the end she said, “Jack Emery will be prosecuting Marie Lewellen. We’ll be adversaries.”

&
nbsp; “I see,” Myra said. She slapped her palms on the old, scarred tabletop. “Then you have to get her out on bail and we’ll find a way to whisk her and her family away to safety. I have the money to do that. It will be like the Witness Protection Program. Charles can handle all that.”

  Nikki sat down with a thump. “If I don’t agree to . . . go along with this, what will you do?”

  Myra borrowed a line from her favorite comedian. “Then we’ll have to kill you,” she said cheerfully. “So, are you in?”

  “God help me, I’m in.”

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  Copyright © 2001 by Fern Michaels

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  ISBN: 978-1-4201-2710-2