The Avenged

by Charles Prandy

  He shouldn’t have died the way he did, I’d been thinking ever since it happened. Whoever had killed Charlie was a coward, sneaking up behind him and killing him like that. Hopefully, if the stars aligned in my favor, I would be able to confront the person who had killed Charlie and find out what makes a coward tick.

  I leaned forward, placed my elbows on my desk and rubbed my temples. If someone would have told me a few days ago that I’d be thrown into a manhunt for a sniper, investigating a possible corrupt judge, while also searching for Charlie’s killer, I’d have said they were crazy. Stuff like that just doesn't happen in real life.

  So far, there hadn't been any leads in the sniper shooting. Forensics went through the building and dusted everywhere for prints and found no fingerprint match through the FBI's Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification Systems or IAFIS. It’s almost like he didn't exist. However, the more reliable theory was that he has never been printed before.

  In the middle of my thought, my phone rang.

  “Detective Hayden.”

  “Detective Hayden, this is Stephen Carter.”

  My eyes widened and I instantly sat up in my seat. It took my mind a few seconds to register the name, but when it finally did, I quickly asked, “Where are you?”

  “I'll tell you, but you've got to come alone.”

  “Alone, why? I can have uniforms pick you up in a few minutes and safely bring you in.”

  “No. It has to be you.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “I'm fine. Look, are you coming or not?”

  I paused. The detective in me wanted to rush to wherever Stephen was, but my gut also told me that something was not right. I quickly rationalized this in my brain. Stephen Carter was the only link to the person who killed Charlie. He saw who had done it and possibly knew him. The answer was simple.

  “Of course I'll come. Where are you?”

  “In your living room.”

  My eyes widened again. I dropped the phone and raced out of the office.

  Thirty-nine

  I QUICKLY DUG INTO my pocket for my house keys as I raced up to the front porch. Once the key was in the lock, I rushed through the front door and found Stephen sitting on my brown living room sofa. His right eye was bruised.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “This is the only place I could think of where I'd be safe.”

  I looked around the room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The front door was locked, as were all of the windows, and I presumed that the back door was locked as well. I knew because I had checked them before I left the house that morning.

  “How'd you get in here?”

  Stephen devilishly smiled, “I wasn't always a lawyer.”

  “How’d you know where I lived? You were drunk off your ass the last time I saw you.”

  “Really? With today’s technology, you’re asking how I found out where you live?”

  I relaxed a little and made my way to the couch across from him.

  “Do you know that we've been looking for you for the past two days?”

  Stephen nodded.

  “Where have you been?”

  He momentarily looked away as if debating whether to answer, but before he did, I asked, “And what happened to your eye?”

  “I can't answer either question.”

  I pursed my lips. I quickly stood up and motioned with my hands.

  “Get up. We're going to the station.”

  Stephen didn’t move. “I can't.”

  My brows curled and I could tell that my face lightly reddened. The muscles in my body became tense.

  “Look, a good cop died,” I said, pointing my finger. “You obviously know who did it.”

  Stephen shook his head. “Jacob...may I call you that?”

  “No.”

  Stephen hesitated. “I’m sorry about your partner. I really am. I wasn’t even supposed to be there that day.”

  “Who killed Charlie?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I only came here to warn you not to get involved in this. It’s bigger than you could possibly imagine.”

  I clenched my teeth as the words burned through my mouth, “I’m already involved.”

  I reached for my sidearm and unlatched the safety strap. “There’s two ways we can do this.”

  Stephen raised his hands in protest. “Detective Hayden, you don’t want to do this.”

  “You give me no choice. Now turn around and place your hands behind your head.”

  “If I go to the police station, I’m as good as dead.”

  I grabbed ahold of the Glock and aimed it at Stephen. “You could say the same about being here. You broke into my house. I could shoot you dead right here.”

  Stephen slowly stood. “Okay…okay. Just point that thing somewhere else.” He sighed, “I’ll talk to you, but we can’t go to the station.”

  “And why not?”

  “Did you tell anyone that I was here?”

  “No, I came right over.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Why can’t you come to the station?”

  “Because,” he said. Then he paused and sat back down.

  “What?” I was getting frustrated.

  He looked up at me and the silence of his words pierced through my heart. I could tell this wasn’t going to be good.

  “You've got dirty cops.”

  And there it was.

  Forty

  LIEUTENANT ROBERT POLENSKI SAT at a center table in a busy food court, biting into a steak and cheese sandwich. Before he was able to put the sandwich back down, Nathan Hunt approached the table. Lieutenant Polenski leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Nathan.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  Nathan pulled a chair out and sat down. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a thick envelope.

  “Sorry to hear about your detective.”

  “Yeah, Charlie was a good kid.”

  He placed the envelope on the table and slid it halfway. Lieutenant Polenski reached for the envelope and placed it into his blazer's inside pocket.

  “How's the family?” Lieutenant Polenski asked.

  “As good as it can be,” Nathan responded. “My father wasn't doing so well the other day, but he's doing better now.”

  Lieutenant Polenski nodded. “Tell your dad I wish him the best.”

  “Will do. I'm sure he'll be happy to know that you're thinking of him.”

  Lieutenant Polenski grabbed the steak and cheese sandwich and brought it to his mouth.

  “Tell him that I'll come and see him sometime soon. We haven't played checkers together in quite some time.”

  Nathan nodded and then stood up.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Nathan.”

  He walked away just as quickly as he had approached. Lieutenant Polenski took a bite of the sandwich, wiped his hands and then stood from the table and walked away in the opposite direction.

  Forty-one

  A SMALL LAMP ON his desk provided just enough light that Frank didn’t need the overhead light to read his newest case file. The day had ended for most in the courthouse, but the Judge was staying late to catch up on some work that he'd put off over the past couple of days. The only problem was that his mind was somewhere else.

  His eyes glossed over the words in the pleading, but he wasn’t really reading it. He glanced at his watch and realized that the drop off was less than thirty minutes away and neither he nor Nathan had heard from Stephen Carter. He had sent Nathan in Stephen's place to make sure that everything went according to plan. Thirty minutes from now, Frank should be receiving a call saying that everything was okay. Until then, the only thing he could do was worry.

  And think. Stephen's unusual actions the last few days had caused Frank to realize that Stephen had become more of a liability than an asset. Frank had already informed Nathan that after he received the package from the
drop off, he was to find Stephen and put a bullet in his head. The police would be led to believe that the same person who had killed Faraji also killed Stephen. The law firm could operate without Stephen; as a matter of fact, Frank was the real brains behind the operation, so he only needed more puppets to act as the face of the firm.

  The more he thought about Stephen, the warmer his skin began to feel. He clenched his fists and shook his head. How dare someone like that betray me? All that he’d done for Stephen over the years; the cars, the house, the supermodel-looking wife, and the countless vacations to the Caribbean. That was all because of Frank. And this was how Stephen repaid him, by not contacting him for a day and a half and possibly blowing hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  Frank slammed his fist against the desk. He took his reading glasses off and sat back in his chair. This was the first time in his twenty-year career that he’d been this unnerved.

  His phone rang, which brought his mind out of thought. Frank looked at his watch and realized that it should be Nathan calling.

  “Frank Peters.”

  “It’s done,” Nathan said on the other end of the line.

  “Good, good,” he said with a slight smirk on his face. “Now follow up on what we discussed.”

  Frank hung up the phone.

  A partial weight felt lifted off of his shoulders. Part of his worry was done. Now he hoped that Nathan could finish the rest. Once that was taken care of, Nathan’s next project would be to find Faraji’s killer and bring him straight to Frank.

  Part Four: The Thirst

  Forty-two

  NIGHT FELL UPON THE city, and I was in a quandary that I hadn’t felt in over a year. I was thirsting for alcohol again. Specifically, vodka, the drink that had changed my life a few years ago and had almost cost me my wife. I knew that I could never touch it again, and if I did, everything that I worked so hard to obtain would be lost. Still, that didn't stop the craving.

  The thirst had started to come back after I lost the sniper, and then became more intense after Charlie was killed. Now, with Stephen's accusation of crooked cops in my precinct, the only thing keeping me from drowning a bottle was the fact that there weren't any in the house.

  A couple of hours had passed since Stephen had made the accusation. He told me that he would tell me everything if I could guarantee federal witness protection. How ironic, I thought. In my ten-year career, I’d never been asked about federal protection, however in the past few days, I had been asked that question twice. I told Stephen the same thing I told Turtle, that I couldn't guarantee it. I saw the same sparkle leave Stephen's eyes, but the urgency never left.

  Now I had a tough question to answer. Should I believe Stephen or call my lieutenant?

  The past couple of hours, I had tried to read into Stephen's allegations. If Stephen was lying, then why would he have shown up at my house in the first place? If he was telling the truth, then I didn't know who I could call for help. I wanted to call my lieutenant, but Stephen said that he didn't know who was on the take. He was never told, for obvious reasons: he could all of a sudden get a change of heart and reveal to the media which officers were crooked. When I tried to press harder, Stephen backed off. He wouldn't tell me who he worked for, only that his boss was very powerful and influential.

  “Stephen,” I said, “I want to help you, but you've got to give me something, anything.”

  “Like I said,” Stephen replied, “I'll tell you all you want to know, but first I need a guarantee that I'll be protected.” He shifted in his seat. “I mean, if they can kill a cop without worry, then they'll have no problems coming after me.”

  I shook my head. I was about to speak again when I heard the lock on the front door turn. Theresa was home. I quickly looked at Stephen.

  “That's my wife. Not a word about this.”

  Theresa entered the living room wearing her hospital scrubs and carrying a brown paper bag. She smiled when she saw us and leaned down to kiss my cheek.

  “This is a nice surprise. Didn’t think you’d be home.”

  “Took off a little early today.”

  “You should have told me we were having company. I would have brought home more food.”

  We awkwardly smiled. I stood up and gently took the paper bag from Theresa.

  “Sorry, this is Stephen.”

  Stephen stood up and extended his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hayden.”

  “Call me Theresa,” she said. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  Stephen quickly glanced at me and before he could respond, I cut in. “Ah...he actually may be staying the night with us.”

  “Oh?” Theresa said curiously.

  “Yeah, problems at home,” I replied.

  Theresa smiled. “Okay, I'll make sure the guest room has some fresh sheets. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

  She headed into the kitchen while Stephen and I returned to our seats.

  “I'll give you until morning,” I said. “After that, I'll have to contact my lieutenant.”

  Forty-three

  THE MEDIA HADN'T RUN a story on Faraji Owusu's death in two days. The papers pushed the search for his killer to the back pages. The killing of the detective in the law firm stormed the headlines, both on the local news channels and in the newspapers. What did all of this mean? For the sniper, it was a good thing. It meant that the crowded metropolis which was inundated with crime had already forgotten about the murder of Faraji Owusu. The city and its citizens returned to their normal operations, depending on what normal was.

  If normal was kicking back in a La-Z-Boy and watching one's favorite television show while drifting off to sleep, then the sniper would never be normal again. At least not until the job was finished. Even then, normalcy would never be the same. How could it when such a tragedy had changed the sniper's life in more ways than anyone could understand.

  From the sniper’s perspective, normalcy was chaos. Normalcy was anger. Normalcy was revenge.

  The sniper's eyes felt heavy while he laid in bed on top of the blanket, partially falling asleep. Above the bed, a ceiling fan slowly swirled around, offering little relief from the night's muggy heat. The air-conditioner unit in the small studio apartment had finally given out, so the only airflow was from the ceiling fan and an open window next to the bed.

  The pale moonlight shined through the darkness of the apartment and touched the corner of the sniper's face. A film of sweat was along the sniper's skin, which made the pillowcase underneath his head feel like he was lying on soiled linen. It didn’t bother him much as his eyes became heavier and he drifted off for a second, but then they shot open again when he thought he heard something. He lifted his head and looked around the room, and then returned it to the pillow, where his eyes became heavy again.

  This was how the sniper fell asleep every night. If and when he was able to sleep.

  At one time, sleep used to mean simply closing his eyes and allowing his mind and body to relax and then drift off into a peaceful unknown land. Now the only thing sleep brought were bad dreams. Tormenting dreams. Dreams that, on occasion, caused the sniper to jump out of bed, crying and screaming. Hopefully tonight’s wouldn’t be one of those kinds of dreams.

  Just as he finally fell asleep, his cell phone rang. He reached for it on the windowsill and his eyes perked open when he recognized the number. He quickly pushed the talk button and raised the phone to his ear.

  “You alone,” he said.

  “Yes, but not for long,” a soft female voice responded.

  “I hope you have good news.”

  “I found him.”

  “Through his cell phone?”

  “Yes, he finally used it.”

  The sniper sat up and stepped out of bed. He headed to a small desk across the room and clicked on the desk lamp.

  “Give me the address,” he said as he lifted a pen and pulled out a sheet of paper from a drawer.

  “This won't be easy.”

  “
It never is.”

  “No, I mean he's with a cop.”

  “A cop?”

  “The house was listed to a Jacob and Theresa Hayden.”

  The sniper paused before responding. The name instantly rang through his mind and the sniper realized that it was the same detective from the office building. Disappointment settled in, but the sniper didn’t reveal it through his voice.

  “What's the address?”

  “Are you sure about this?” The woman's voice sounded concerned.

  “I'm sure. Now what's the address?”

  “2145 Kalmia Street, Northwest.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sniper hung up the phone after writing down the address. He returned to the bed and laid back down. This time his eyes didn't feel heavy and he knew that sleep wouldn’t come for a couple of hours. There were questions in his head that he needed to figure out, starting with why a scumbag like Stephen Carter would be with a detective like Jacob Hayden. He knew the question would eventually be moot, because by this time tomorrow, Stephen Carter would be dead.

  Forty-four

  DARK GRAY CLOUDS BLANKETED the early morning sky and unleashed a torrential rain over the city. Lieutenant Polenski stood at the corner of P and 14th Street, Northwest, holding a large black umbrella over his head which only kept three-fourths of his body dry. His lower pants and shoes were drenched.

  The city's streetlights would be turning off soon, which would make the streets dark under the gloomy sky.

  Lieutenant Polenski checked his watch again as he waited for Detective Hayden, who should be arriving within a matter of minutes to pick him up. In his twenty-five years of being on the force, he’d seen and heard a lot of things which made it extremely difficult for anything to surprise him. However, when his phone rang at 4 a.m. and Jacob was on the other end of the line, saying that Stephen Carter was at his house, he admitted to himself that this was nearly the surprise of his lifetime. He immediately instructed Jacob to pick him up, saying that he had a safe place for Stephen to hide out until they could get the okay from the Justice Department to get him into the witness protection program.