The Harbinger of Vengeance: A Revenge Thriller

by Jon Athan

  The Harbinger of Vengeance

  A Revenge Thriller

  Jon Athan

  Copyright © 2016 Jon Athan

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information on this book or the author, please visit www.jon-athan.com. General inquiries are welcome.

  Twitter: @Jonny_Athan

  WARNING

  This book contains scenes of intense violence and unpleasant themes. Some parts of his book may be considered violent, cruel, disturbing, or unusual. If you have a history with bullying, this book may trigger certain emotional responses. This book is not intended for those easily offended or appalled. Please enjoy at your own discretion.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Before The Storm

  The cordial waitstaff pranced from table-to-table in the bustling diner. Families, couples, and friends chattered and bantered, slobbering over their meals like hyenas over a dinner table. The tantalizing aroma of pungent coffee, succulent steak, and delectable baked goods wafted through the bijou eatery, drifting in-and-out of baited nostrils. A wave of balmy sunset sunshine poured into the diner like a tsunami. The tranquil evening was crawling to an end.

  Shawn Scott knocked on the surface of the aluminum-edge table, noisily grabbing the meandering attention for himself. The empty dishes and filthy silverware rattled with each thudding tap. The remaining effervescent soda in his glass cup swirled from the blows.

  Shawn smirked and asked, “Come on, are you really telling me you never thought about tasting something... something different? You know, you never thought about what a monkey taste like or a dog? Really?”

  Maribel chuckled and shook her head as she shuffled on the crimson padded seat. She hopelessly searched for the elusive comfort she sought from the awkward situation, but to no avail – the comfort was always beyond her grasps. The bizarre question teased her thoughts. In disbelief, she leaned back and carefully examined her husband – she hoped to pry into his mental well-being.

  Shawn Scott stood a respectable six-one with a sturdy physique – a sinewy figure. His resplendent, straight black hair was parted to the right. He had lustrous brown eyes and stubble on his chiseled jawline. He wore a black flannel shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. His dark blue jeans perfectly veiled his legs – not too tight, not too loose. The diner's fluorescent lighting gleamed off his freshly-polished black boots.

  Maribel nervously smiled and shook her head, then responded, “No. I've never thought about that. I mean, really? Is that what goes through your mind during the day?” She figured a vacuous question deserved a smug response. She placed her index finger on her jaw, glanced towards the ceiling, and mockingly said, “Hmm, I wonder what monkeys taste like?”

  Shawn simpered like a conniving child as he leaned back in his seat, desperately trying to stop himself from bursting into laughter. He loved goading his wife. Her reactions were priceless. He held his trembling hand to his mouth and gazed into Maribel's vibrant brown eyes – eyes glowing like the moon at night.

  Maribel Scott proudly stood with a short stature – an entire foot shorter than her beloved husband. Her straight black hair reached down to her narrow shoulders. She donned a blue slip-on dress. The garment reached down to her kneecaps. From above the table, Shawn could hear her sandals slapping the tile flooring – her habitual foot tapping was incessant. Shawn recomposed himself as he stared at Maribel's protruding belly.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Shawn said, “26 weeks...”

  Maribel nodded and repeated, “26 weeks.”

  “So, how many weeks do we have left before we march to the prison of parenthood? Huh? Like 14 measly weeks of freedom?”

  With downcast eyes, Maribel responded, “You make it sound so much worse than it really is. I mean, jeez, Shawn, can you really be any less appreciative? Some people call this a miracle, you're practically calling it a death sentence.”

  Shawn sighed as he gazed at Maribel. He could feel her sudden dejection from across the table. His words were like jabs from a heavyweight boxer, each blow more devastating than the last. He slowly shook his head as he contemplated his next move. The next wrong word could spiral into a vicious argument.

  Shawn coughed to clear his throat, then said, “What are we going to name this... this little guy or girl? To be honest, I was thinking something like, I don't know, Reginald or Wilkins. You know, something classy.”

  The black cloud pouring pessimism on Maribel's head was suddenly whisked away with Shawn's jest. As much as she wanted to pout and sulk, she couldn't help but chuckle and smile. She could see the effort in Shawn's joke. Shawn returned the beam, grinning from ear-to-ear.

  Maribel responded, “Reginald or Wilkins? Those sound like butler names.”

  “Yeah, I know. I mean, what's classier than a butler, right? We'll give him a spiffy suit, a bow tie, and all that good stuff. His teachers can call him 'Sir Wilkins.' Besides, it won't feel like prison if the kid's at least bringing me a beer every now and then. You have to take advantage of these kids while they're young, Maribel. They're going to revolt sooner or later. I need to get a few more years out of this.”

  Maribel giggled, then asked, “And, what if it's a girl, smart guy?”

  “I guess I didn't think of that,” Shawn responded. He smirked and said, “Alright, let's scratch that idea. It was silly, anyway. We'll stick to the basics. We'll go with a classic. Boy or girl, we'll call it 'Lucky.'”

  “Lucky?” Maribel repeated in a dubious tone. She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat, then murmured, “You've got to be kidding me...”

  Shawn shrugged and asked, “What's wrong with Lucky?” He attempted to keep a poker face – a deadpan expression to keep his facade afloat. Shawn explained, “I'm serious about this, Maribel. Look, Lucky is a universal name, okay? It fits with boys and girls, and it's, well, lucky. And, this is also our first child, right?”

  “So?”

  “So, everyone names their first dog 'Lucky.' Everyone. It's like the law of the land. It's something that must be done. I didn't make this unspoken law, but we have to follow it. It's our duty as self-respecting parents to name our first child... Lucky.”

  The pair gazed at each other with straight-faced expressions. Not a shudder through their bodies or a wink of their eyelids – a showdown of self-restraint. The same unfathomable stakes were at risk, the agreement was tacit. Yet, Maribel was incapable of holding her steady face. She burst into a guffaw of joy.

  Shawn wagged his index finger and said, “You lost this one, sweetheart. You're doing those dishes before bedtime. They've been there since morning, so you better get started quick.”

  Maribel giggled, then said, “Yeah, yeah. Well, I'll do the dishes as long as you stay far away from naming our baby. I'm not raising a Reginald, Wilkins, or a Lucky. You can go find a mistress and raise a butler of your own.”

  Shawn chuckled, then asked, “You ready to go?”

  ***

  Shawn retrieved his brown leather wallet and flipped it open. His billfold was
brimming with cash – twenties, fifties, and hundreds only. He flicked away the clinging lint, knowing it would inevitably return in the near future. He slipped out a fifty-dollar bill, then planted the crisp note atop the wrinkled receipt. A fifty-dollar bill on a twenty-three dollar and some change tab left a hefty twenty-six dollar tip. Shawn had a smug face knowing his tip was larger than the bill. He only hoped someone would be impressed by his ostentatious generosity.

  He helped Maribel out of the booth and said, “Come on, let's go home and get you to those dishes.” Maribel shook her head and giggled as she lightly slapped Shawn's sturdy arm. Shawn continued, “What? The longer you wait to get your hands dirty, the more the gunk gets stuck on those damn plates. You know how it is.”

  The pair strolled through the swamped diner, sauntering towards the entrance. Maribel's black leather bag swung from her shoulder with her ponderous steps. Shawn walked with swaggering steps, strutting with arrogant strides. Although his wife trudged along ahead, Shawn was preoccupied with thoughts of his posture – thoughts of his appearance and performance in front of his oblivious audience.

  As the couple reached the exit, the door chime echoed through the diner. Maribel nodded as a man held the door open – a virtuous deed. She strolled through the doorway, then walked towards the black four-door luxury sedan in the parking lot. As Shawn walked through the doorway, the friendly man blocked his path.

  Shawn smiled and asked, “Can I help you?”

  The man did not respond. Shawn furrowed his brow as he stepped back and gazed into the man's dull brown eyes. The man stood five-eleven with scrawny limbs and a stout belly – skinny-fat. His scruffy, wavy black hair protruded from beneath the hood of his black sweatshirt. He had patchy stubble on his round jaw – barely noticeable from afar. His cheeks were covered with small craters. The pitting acne scars on his face were blatant. He wore a black-and-white button-up shirt beneath his hooded sweatshirt, rumpled khaki pants, and scuffed black dress shoes.

  Shawn waved his hands in front of the man's face and asked, “Hello? Are you there? Do you need something from me?” The man did not respond. Shawn shrugged and said, “Okay, I guess. Can you get out of my...”

  The man sniffled, then asked, “Do you know what a harbinger is?”

  Shawn smiled and raised his brow. He responded, “No. Should I?”

  The man nodded and said, “A harbinger is a person who announces the approach of something. A warning, for example.”

  “Okay, so? This isn't an English class. What are you trying to tell me, sir?”

  The man chuckled, then repeated, “Sir?” He held his hand to his mouth as he snickered. The man shook off his laughter, then said, “I like that. I never expected to hear you call someone 'sir.' It seems out of this world when I look back. It's so... It's so surreal. I feel like I've crossed into another dimension, you know?”

  Shawn narrowed his eyes and asked, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  The man's mind trailed as he gazed at the flowers planted in front of the diner. The gardening was blatantly artificial, but the plants caught his attention. The beauty and grace of nature was hypnotizing, even when it was fabricated.

  Shawn snapped his fingers in front of the man's face and repeated, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  The mysterious man asked, “I was in the middle of something, wasn't I? What was it?” His eyes widened as his mind stumbled upon his original stream of thought. The peculiar man said, “A harbinger, right? I'm the person announcing and I come bearing gifts. I am the harbinger. Vengeance is coming to your door. You're going to see it coming, but you won't believe it when it knocks. You've been warned....”

  Shawn furrowed his brow as he diligently examined the man. He delved into every crevice of his brain, trying to put a name to the face to no avail. He tried to decipher the man's ominous words, but Shawn wasn't a man of genuine regret. If vengeance sought him, he wouldn't know where to begin.

  Shawn huffed, then said, “That's great, man. That's real great. Listen, I don't know what you've been through or what you've seen, I don't even know if we've ever crossed paths, but you can't place your problems on me. There are homeless shelters and government programs to help you out. Truthfully, I couldn't offer you a helping hand even if I wanted to.”

  The man murmured, “I don't want your money...”

  Disregarding the man's statement, Shawn pointed his thumb back into the diner and said, “You think the economy is bad for you? I just had to wash dishes to pay for my wife's meal. That's bad. That's downright humiliating. I'm about to leave in... in my stepfather's car. I know it looks expensive, but we live in that car. That's my home! I'm sorry, man, I can't offer any cash. Good luck to you, though.”

  Shawn shrugged as he dug his hands into his pockets. He couldn't help but smile smugly knowing he was fibbing. There was an inexplicable adrenaline associated with deceit and he loved it. Shawn's smile immediately vanished as the bizarre man grinned from ear-to-ear. The man's smile was eerie and unnerving.

  From the opulent sedan, Maribel shouted, “Come on, Shawn! If I'm going to do those dishes, I want to do them now! If you're not in this car in 30 seconds, you're cleaning that mess up! You better hurry!”

  With his eyes locked on the man, Shawn shambled out of the diner and trudged towards the car. The man gazed at Shawn with keen eyes, analyzing each lumbering step and every twitch of his face. He scanned every inch of Shawn's strapping body with his conniving eyes – disrobing him with his ocular examination.

  Shawn whispered, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Shawn sat in the driver's seat, staring at the disquieting man from afar. Maribel gazed at her husband, then peered towards the helpful man. She smiled and furrowed her brow. She had never seen her husband in such a ruminative state.

  Maribel asked, “Do you know him?”

  Shawn turned the key in the ignition as he shook his head and said, “No, no. He was just... He was just begging for money.” He turned towards Maribel and smiled, then said, “Let's get home and get those dishes cleaned.”

  Chapter Two

  The Arrival

  The pristine kitchen sink generated a garble of noise as the tepid water spurted from the faucet. Wearing thick yellow gloves up to her forearms, Maribel vigorously scrubbed the mucky dishes. She lost the bet and had to suffer the consequences. To her utter disappointment, wagers could not be exchanged for friendly favors – the implicit bets were carved in stone.

  As she peered out the window overlooking the kempt front lawn, Maribel whispered, “What was that?” She weaved and bobbed her head, peering into the ominous shadows swallowing the couple's two-story home. As the water streamed across the white ceramic plate, Maribel murmured, “Is that... Is that...”

  Maribel gasped and hopped back, recklessly releasing the dish from her grip. The plate rattled as it plummeted into the sink, clanking and cracking with each rhythmic thud. She stepped in reverse until her back hit the hardwood round table in the kitchen; the tile floor screeched from the table's movement. Her eyes widened and her body trembled as she gazed out the kitchen window. Fear struck her tender heart.

  From the modest arch entrance to her right, Shawn stumbled into the kitchen. He asked, “What's got you all worked up?” Maribel did not respond, she simply gaped at the window. Shawn planted his palm on her shoulder and asked, “What happened? What's wrong with you?”

  Without taking her eyes off the glass barrier, Maribel pointed at the window and said, “I think I saw someone. It was a... a... a prowler.”

  Shawn huffed, then said, “It was probably a shadow, sweetheart. No need to get all worked up over nothing.”

  “No. There's someone outside, Shawn. There's a... a person lurking around in our lawn. It's a damn prowler, I swear.”

  Shawn nonchalantly shrugged and asked, “Well, what do you want me to do about it? Huh?”

  “You have three options: You go out there and check it out for yourself, which is probably
pretty damn stupid; you call the cops, which is what I'm about to do; or, you sleep alone because I'm not sleeping in this house with some freak watching me.”

  Shawn waved his hands and turned towards the archway. He said, “Don't call the cops, don't call your mom, don't call anyone. You'll just waste their time. I'll handle this, princess.”

  Maribel scoffed as she crossed her arms and shook her head. Shawn sighed and shambled past the simple arch entrance – the ground transitioned from tiles to floorboards. The sturdy front door waited to his left. To his right, the room transitioned into the living room. Directly ahead, a staircase led to the second floor. It was a moderately spacious and snug home.

  Shawn flicked the light switch to illuminate the porch, then opened the front door. The porch and the front lawn were seemingly empty. Shadows drifted across the lush yard. The falling sun barely pierced through the dense black clouds – a storm was brewing. The twilight sunshine hardly illuminated the neighborhood. A cool, moist breeze swept into the home. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Shawn whispered, “I guess she's going a little cuckoo from the pregnancy. I better inform the parents and get her committed...”

  Before Shawn could finish his joke, a man jumped out from around the corner. The man was hidden by the darkness, a silhouette sauntering through the shadows. Shawn gasped and lifted his clenched fists to his chest. He gritted his teeth and glowered at the man, prepared to pummel the devious prowler with all of his might. The man gently chuckled as he entered the porch light. The dazzling light illuminated the prowler, whisking away the mystery and apprehension.

  Shawn slowly lowered his arms and furrowed his brow. In a dubious tone, he said, “You?”

  The man smirked and responded, “Me.”

  The enigmatic man from the diner trudged up the cement porch, then stopped in front of Shawn and lowered his hood. Shawn nervously smiled as he gazed into the visitor's hollow eyes, like gazing into an abyss of nothingness. He was baffled by his mere presence and disturbed by his mysterious intentions.