Storm Vengeance: Storm, #2

CHAPTER ONE 

STORM SET HER PURSE on the floor of her car and began to climb across the passenger seat and into the driver’s seat. She was reaching for the steering wheel to steady herself when she felt something small and hard jammed into her lower back.

Do you feel that? Raggedy Ann asked.

Storm froze. She did feel it, and she knew exactly what it was.

The woman told her anyway.

"That is a gun. Right now it’s aimed at one of your kidneys. If I pull the trigger, it will explode up through your kidney and into your heart. That will hurt—for a little while.

The unpleasant memory of that moment played through Storm’s mind as she stood and listened to the wind roaring through the trees. Branches twisted and clattered against each other with a sound like hollow bones. The smell of damp soil and decaying leaves rose from the ground. Leaves swirled around her, caught in her hair, settled on her shoulders. Hidden in deep shadow, Storm ignored both the leaves and the wind and stood, gun in hand, ready to move at the right moment.

For almost an hour she’d been watching an apartment complex at the border of the Tualatin Hills Nature Park, 222 acres of forested wildlife preserve that afforded her a perfect place to wait unobserved. However, her patience—never a strength—was wearing thin. Stress danced along her nerves, a jittering energy fed by the electrical storm that crackled through the dark clouds above. 

Shoot her!

Storm flinched. The shouted command, as sudden and brutal as a slap across the face, startled her, but she recovered fast, going from surprise to dismay to anger in the space of a heartbeat.

She grabbed Lauren’s shoulder and dragged her backward, deeper into the woods. They stumbled, almost fell. The moon was hidden, the ground uneven and covered with underbrush, low branches and vines at tripping height.

Luckily, their target hadn’t  heard Lauren’s shout. Under the dim glow of the only working street lamp, Storm watched as the woman continued to wrestle two bags of groceries and an oversized purse out of her car. She hip bumped the door shut and, with arms full and head bent against the storm, hurried toward her apartment, her pants fluttering in the wind.

Storm holstered the gun, then released her tight hold on Lauren’s shoulder. Idiot, she said.

Without another word she made her way through the trees, searching for the narrow asphalt trail that would lead her out of the park. She didn’t wait to see if Lauren followed.

Storm was a tall, brown-eyed brunette with a slender swimmer’s body, wide shoulders, narrow hips and a ground-covering stride.  Lauren was a short, green-eyed redhead, as knife thin as a marathon runner. Her shorter legs were no match for Storm’s. Nevertheless, by the time Storm reached the trail, Lauren had caught up and fallen into step, her breath coming in quick gasps between words. What are you doing? she asked. I thought we were—"

You thought we were what? snapped Storm, striding even faster. You thought we were hoping for some jail time? Just how stupid are you?

That’s not fair.

Really? Storm stumbled again. Lauren caught her arm to steady her. It was only ten o’clock, but the sun had set hours ago.

Storm pulled a mini flashlight from her pocket and aimed its narrow beam at the ground. The light showed a branch lying there. Furiously she kicked it off the trail. 

As the stick rattled into the underbrush, much of Storm’s anger drained away. I told you how we were going to do this, she said with a tired sigh. We were going to walk up to her, show her the gun, then walk her back through the woods to your car.

I know, agreed Lauren, but it was such a perfect opportunity. Why waste all that time when you could just shoot her?

Worried she might have sprained her ankle when the branch rolled under her foot, Storm put her weight on it cautiously. It seemed fine, barely a twinge. She continued walking, but more slowly and with her flashlight on. Why waste all that time? she asked. Well, let’s see. What  would we have done with the body, out there in the middle of the parking lot? Don’t suppose any tenants might have poked their noses out.

We’d have left it there, of course.

With a bullet from my gun inside? With traces of gunshot residue, GSR, on my clothes and skin? I suppose you think that would be my problem. After all, my gun, my clothes, my problem.

Come on, don’t be like that, whined Lauren. I just thought it would be easier. All this plotting and planning is boring.

Boring beats a lifetime in prison, said Storm. But maybe you want to get caught? Maybe you’ve got some sort of compulsion.

Compulsion? Are you calling me crazy? I’m not crazy, Lauren said, swinging around to face Storm.

The intensity in her light green eyes was unsettling. I never said you were crazy, Storm said quickly. Of course I don’t think that. I’d never do this with someone I couldn’t count on.

Lauren, with a mercurial change of mood, practically danced back to Storm’s side and gave her a friendly hug.

Sure. I know that. I know you’re right. We should have gone with the plan. I just got excited, that’s all. I promise, from now on I’ll do what you say. I’ll follow all the rules.

Storm felt the tension that had been winding tighter all evening begin to relax. With the lessening of stress, ironically, came a headache, a slow throbbing above her left eyebrow. She rubbed at the spot, wanting nothing more than to go home, take a long shower, forget all about tonight, yesterday, the four weeks since she’d met Lauren. But that was impossible and potentially dangerous. Storm knew all about dangerous partners. In fact, the best thing she

could do was treat Lauren, not like a partner, but like a friend.

I know you’ll follow the rules, she said. I know you’ve memorized them.

I have, agreed Lauren, moving back into step with Storm. As she spoke, her soft voice sounded more like it belonged to an eager-to-please child than to a woman in her thirties. There are four rules: no weapons, no trophies, no connections, no bodies.

And why do we have those rules? Storm asked, falling into her role as teacher and mentor.

So we don’t get caught. No. That’s not right, Lauren corrected herself. It’s so we can’t get convicted.

Very good, Storm said.

The Nature Park Interpretive Center loomed ahead. A pair of buildings with high walls and clerestory windows. The buildings held conference space, classrooms, library and exhibit areas. Storm’s children loved the place. Her daughter slept with a stuffed owl she’d bought in the gift shop there.

The center was closed now, its rows of darkened windows reflecting the swaying trees and racing clouds. As they walked past, a flash of lightning lit up the windows. Almost immediately the lighting was followed by a crash of thunder.

"Lightning travels at the speed of light, thunder at the speed of sound. That close together means the

storm is close, probably right above us, said Storm. We’d better hurry. It could start raining any minute."

Like an oversized camera flash, another strobe of lightning lit up the sky, and the two women stooped slightly as they pushed into the wind.

The asphalt path changed to a broad concrete sidewalk, sparkling with bits of mica. What I don’t understand, said Storm, putting away the flashlight as they moved into the well-lit parking area, is why you memorized the rules if you weren’t going to follow them?

Lauren shrugged, I don’t know. I’ve waited a long time for this. I just couldn’t help it. Sometimes my emotions get the better of me. You know?

Storm nodded. Most of her life she’d had to  suppress rage and the impulses born of it. She did know, more than most, how emotions could overpower reason.

Okay, I get it. But I need you to do more than memorize the rules and be able to repeat them. This isn’t History 101. This is survival. I have a family to think of. I have to know you understand why—

But I do understand. They make sense. No weapons because guns and knives are easy to spot and hard to hide, but a garbage bag and a roll of duct tape can kill just as easily. No one thinks twice if they see those in your car.

Exactly. What about trophies? Storm asked, as they crossed the parking lot to Lauren’s nearly new Lexus sedan, white paint glowing pale yellow under the street lights.

Trophies is how they catch everyone, said Lauren. Like someone opens your freezer and, wow, what’s up with the frozen heads? Or maybe they dig up your backyard to put in a new phone line and think they stumbled onto an old burial ground, except it’s not old.

Wow, what’s up with the frozen . . . heads? Storm said.

Laughter was out of place, inappropriate, on a night when the goal had been to kidnap and kill someone.

What’s up with the . . . ? Storm put her hand over her mouth, but that didn’t stop the giggles that welled up and overcame her. She couldn’t stop laughing. Bent half over, clutching a stitch in her side, Storm laughed all the way to the car. The sound torn by the buffeting, ever-shifting wind.

Inside the car, Storm wiped at her eyes, tried to slow her breathing and control herself.

Lauren sat with her arms crossed atop the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Now and then she’d peek at Storm without moving her head. Storm would catch the movement of her eyes and fall into another paroxysm of laughter.

Eventually Storm was able to stop laughing. Do go on, she insisted, her voice hoarse. I think we were up to no connections.

No connections means they can’t trace a victim back to us, said Lauren. So we don’t kill people in our circle. If I want someone I know killed, you do it, and if you want someone you know killed, then I pull the trigger. So to speak, she corrected herself.

Right. said Storm. And it’s also why we can’t be seen together. For that to work, we have to move in entirely different circles.

Yeah, I guess, said Lauren.

Okay, good enough, and the last one’s the same idea, but instead of making sure there are no relationships to trace back, we make sure there’s no physical evidence.

Lauren nodded. I always thought I’d be a good killer. I just needed the right teacher.

Unsure how to respond, Storm reached for her seat belt and buckled herself in. She felt frustrated that they hadn’t finished what they’d set out to do, but there was nothing she could do about it, and tomorrow was another day. 

Let’s go, she said to Lauren. I just thought of a fifth rule.

What is it?

Never forget to pick up 2% milk on the way home so the kids can have cereal for breakfast.

CHAPTER TWO

SITTING ALONE IN HER CAR after she’d been dropped off, Storm realized it was easier when Lauren was around. So much easier to still the voice in her head that kept asking: What the hell are you doing? Do you really plan to give up your peaceful life and go back to being a vigilante—a killer?

For nearly a year she’d been free of the urge to seek vengeance. Yes, there were still people out there getting away with worse than murder and, yes, she had once felt the need to intervene and set things right. However, that had been another life, and she had been another person.

As more and more time passed without incident, or any need for violence, she’d come to believe it was possible to leave that whole, twisted episode behind, let it become a disturbing aberration. Sometimes she thought it was best to think of it as nothing more than the lingering memory of a bad dream she didn’t have to revisit. 

But what if that time of violence and, yes, admit it, excitement, wasn’t an aberration? What if it was her purpose, the very reason she’d been born? Because here it was happening all over again. What were the odds that twice in one lifetime a person would be given the motive and the means to kill?

But was she examining the idea of destiny or just engaging in wishful thinking? Maybe all this rationalization was nothing more than her way to find an excuse for embracing that desire for vengeance that never really went away.

Even before the fire, she’d known there was a dark part of her soul. A place of black rage and red chaos. She’d become adept at hiding it. Controlling her emotions had become instinctive, as natural as breathing.

She could remember the first time she’d consciously suppressed her emotions. Her father had come home from work drunk. His being drunk was not remarkable, but coming home that way was. Normally he arrived home sober and used the afternoon and evening to reach that level of stumbling, drooling stupor that he preferred.

Got fired, he snarled as soon as he crashed through the front door. His tone made the announcement a challenge.

Storm had been trapped in the dining room, her homework spread out in a fan across a good third of the table. She kept her eyes down, locked on her books.

Why would they fire you? her mother asked, coming from the kitchen.

Beats the hell out of me, her father roared. Don’t matter does it? All that really matters is we’re gonna be broke again. Can’t afford all this fancy shit no more.

Moving past Storm and his wife, he started opening cabinets. No more fancy cereal in a box. Bag of Cheery-fuckin’ O’s is what we can afford. No more of this fancy coffee. Back to instant.

Coming from the kitchen back into the dining room, he bumped into the hanging cage that held their pet parakeet. Can’t afford feeding no more mouths either. ‘Specially ones that don’t contribute a damn thing. He slid open the cage door and reached inside. Ruby the parakeet screeched and her wings fluttered. Fuck! It bit me, he shouted.

When he jerked his hand back, the roof of the cage broke free and Ruby, seeing a way out, flapped into the living room. She ran into the curtains on the big window and for a moment Storm thought she’d get trapped, and there’d be time to catch her, but Ruby freed herself and found the open front door. Storm watched as her pet flew into the wild and the unforgiving cold of a winter evening.

Storm knew that her father had said something but she had no idea what it was. Her ears were filled with a muffled buzz, like the sound of the ocean when you hold a seashell to your ear.

She walked down the narrow hall to her room. It was good that she knew the way so well. She was seeing through a blood-red haze as her heart pumped so hard she could feel the pulse behind her eyes. 

She climbed onto her bed and laid flat. Shallow, panting breaths shuddered from her lungs and she could feel the bed vibrate beneath her, though she knew it was she and not the bed moving. 

Hands entwined and held tight against her stomach, she imagined her anger as a green mist that slipped like a scarf twisting down her throat, passing through her heart, winding around her organs, too tight, too tight.

She took deeper breaths, willed the dizziness to pass. Now she imagined a pile of worn red brick, like the ones they’d used to build the new church she passed every day on her walk to school. She reached for one. It was warm and rough in her hand. She placed it on the ground and added others until she had a circle. She did not build a base. The base was already there, a dark circle of oily dank liquid that slowly oozed up to reach the top of the first layer of bricks. As she added each layer of brick and the walls rose, the level of darkness also rose.

She knew that she was not quite sane but thought perhaps if she could get ahead of the darkness, build fast enough, well enough, that maybe she could survive.

After a while her breathing slowed and the level of bricks began to rise more quickly. The darkness could not keep up. When she was five rounds above the darkness, she found a way to close up the well. She imagined a cap made of worn planks, smoothed and shaped into a perfect fit. It had no handle. Once placed, it could not be removed. This suited her. She set the top of the well in place.

Just then, her mother came in, sat on the bed beside Storm, took her hand. Your fingers are icy, she said.

Storm said nothing, but she heard each word, understood them.

I’m sorry about Ruby. Maybe she’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll leave the door open.

Storm did not say, With him home? though that was what was on the tip of her tongue. Instead she said, Don’t worry about it. She was getting old anyway. Freezing is supposed to be an easy way to go.

Are you okay? I thought you’d be more upset. I thought I’d find you crying.

Storm sat, swung her legs off the bed, and stood. I’m fine, she said, in a voice that seemed too toneless. She added a touch of warmth when she asked, So, what’s for dinner?

Since that first time, Storm had been able to pry loose a brick, gather any errant emotion, and send it into the darkness of the well. Sometimes she thought the thing that lurked inside the well was her soul, and sometimes she thought that dark, festering place was simply her madness, controlled. She was afraid of it and she needed it, the way a person with lung cancer needs a cigarette.

Working with Howard had been like that, a craving for a toxic substance, a compulsion to stand too close to the edge.

She was his probation officer and met him at his intake appointment soon after he’d been assigned to her caseload. There was nothing remarkable about him. An average man of average height and average looks, even his offense hadn’t been noteworthy.

He’d been in a bar fight and swung too wide,  accidentally hitting a police officer trying to break up the fight. That slice of bad luck led to jail time and probation. Aside from a handful of parking tickets, he

had no other record. Such a low-risk offender should have passed through the system with few glitches.

For some reason she couldn’t recall, she’d set up an appointment to see him that day. Maybe he’d been behind on his fees, or had missed a court-ordered sanction.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the day he’d been in her office was the day everyone in the courthouse had been talking about an article in the paper that morning.

It was about an incident that had happened earlier that year. Two local children whose father had punished them for some minor infraction—after all what could a six and eight year old do that was so bad?—by ordering his two pit bulls to attack them.

The photo that accompanied the article showed the two kids