by Pamela Cowan
“Oh, okay. Well, anyway I just wanted to let you know you can quit worrying. You can even change your mind about New Mexico. I know you were really only going because you were freaking out about that investigator, but I’ve taken care of it. He won’t bother you.”
“Lauren,” Storm said slowly and softly, keeping her temper under iron control. “I told you not to mess with him.”
“I didn’t. I grabbed his boss, the Jackson Wallace guy.”
For a moment the hardwood floor between Storm’s feet seemed to twist as her body reacted to the shocking news with a bout of vertigo. Storm couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“Are you there?” Lauren asked.
Bending forward at the waist, Storm tried to slow her breathing. She closed her eyes and counted, inhale, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four. When the room stopped spinning and she was able to open her eyes, she sat up slowly. She put the phone, which she’d been clutching in both her hands, back to her ear.
“Is he . . . dead?” she asked.
“Not yet. He wouldn’t get in the trunk, so I shot him in the leg. He’s bleeding some, but not bad. I hit him with the Taser after I got him in the trunk. Did I tell you I bought a Taser? It’s really cool.”
“What are you going to do with him,” Storm asked, trying to sound curious while desperately masking her true feelings of shock and growing anger.
“I’m taking him to the house; taking him to the basement. Once I get him settled into a chair, I’ll give him some insulin. I’ve only got the slow stuff, so it’s gonna take a while.”
“Don’t . . . don’t do it,” Storm blurted.
“What?” Lauren asked, her confusion evident.
“I mean, don’t do it yet. I want to be there when you do it. You understand. It could be our last time to bring justice to one of these bad people. Our last time working together. Pull over and I’ll meet you, go with you to the house.”
“Why don’t you just drive out to the house?”
Storm’s mind went blank. She couldn’t come up with an answer that made any sense.
“I get it. You don’t think I can handle him alone,” said Lauren.
Storm shut her eyes and said a quick thank you to the powers of the universe. Her hands were slick on
the phone she held so tightly, as if it were a lifeline, and for Jackson it just might be.
“I just want to be there. Of course I think you can handle him.”
There was a pause and then, “I don’t totally believe you, but okay, I’ll wait.
“I’m driving down 99 from Portland, and I’ll be in Sherwood soon. The only place I can think of that’s safe is maybe the church. Yeah, that’ll work. Just on the other side of Sherwood is a church with a huge parking area. It’s called the Timberline Baptist Church. I’ve gone there four or five times. Now don’t pick on me for being a Baptist,” Lauren insisted.
Storm couldn’t tease Lauren. Her throat was so tense, she didn’t think she could form words.
“I’ll park in the farthest corner I can find,” said Lauren. “Shouldn’t be hard to find me. We can leave your car there and come back for it when we’re done, okay?”
“Okay,” Storm managed to croak. “I’ll get there as fast as I can. Don’t do anything without me.”
“I won’t. Unless he gets noisy. If he does, all bets are off.”
“Of course,” agreed Storm. “See you soon.”
Storm burst from the bedroom and raced through the house. In the kitchen her family turned startled faces to her, but she didn’t pause. “Gotta go,” she said as she grabbed her purse and jacket and kept moving toward the back door. “Call you later.”
Then she was outside, down the stairs, banging through the gate. She unlocked the car and tossed her coat and purse inside, slid in, turned the ignition, pulled her smart phone out of her purse, punched up her navigation app, and typed in the name of the church. As the machine looked for the location, she checked for traffic. Luckily the road was clear. Her tires chirped as she backed onto the street, and chirped again as she put the Camry in drive and hit the gas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“PROCEED WEST ON TUALATIN Valley Highway, then turn left onto Oregon 219, Southwest Hillsboro Highway. Stay on the roadway, said the carefully enunciated voice with its British accent. Storm obeyed, even though the voice, so calm and unaffected, sent shards of annoyance jangling along her nerves.
Oh God. Oh no. Please no. That crazy bitch. She’d better not hurt Jackson. Storm hadn’t known him well, but Nicky had loved him. Love with the big L, the once in a lifetime one, the one you can fight with and never think to leave. That was Jackson to Nicky. Oh Nicky. Images of the only best friend she’d ever had flashed through her mind, memories she’d suppressed so that she could function, so that she could get up every morning, eat, drink, sleep, now came flooding forward. Flash, Nicky with her short pink hair. Flash, her wide blue eyes and long eyelashes. Flash, her round red-apple cheeks and pointed chin. Flash, her fancy lace and fuzzy white faux furs. Flash, Nicky’s smile, her laugh, her lips done up with glossy pink lipstick, her droll, “Oh Storm . . . seriously?” The look of concern on her face, the touch of her fingers resting on Storm’s arm as she’d shared her concern about Joel that time he’d had pneumonia. The way she never took anything too seriously, unless you did. Her loyalty. Her friendship.
Then the ugly images. The thud of the bat, the blood, the emptiness of her eyes that said her spirit had been broken long before Storm had come, too late to rescue her.
All of Storm’s self-loathing welled up, allowing her to drive at a breakneck speed and with a lack of caution that only the truly suicidal could attain.
It was dark, the streets gleaming with the rain that had just stopped. Traffic was heavy as late commuters headed for home. Storm pushed the heavy car in and out of lanes, charging, braking, fishtailing her way through the traffic, ignorant to the honking horns, the extended middle fingers, and the convoluted screaming faces she left behind. In her favor, a five-car pileup on I-5 had diverted many of the patrol officers that might have tried to stop her.
Highway 219 was a narrow two lane that ran perfectly straight, except for sudden, inexplicable sharply angled turns. It went up and down over hills covered in a patchwork of farm fields, orchards, and wide stretches of plowed earth, sitting rain drenched and bare. The smell of damp earth permeated the car.
As she got farther from Hillsboro, traffic thinned and moved faster. She fell behind a fast-moving black Eclipse, letting it’s brake lights warn her of upcoming turns and stop signs. She tried to catch her breath, to think.
Her gun was in her purse. She’d been carrying it since learning Lauren wasn’t who she pretended to be. She’d use it if she had to. She’d do what had to be done to save Jackson. How she’d explain it to the police, she’d worry about later. But what about Tom? What about Lindsey and Joel? They’ll be fine, she told herself. They’d be better off without her. That’s not true. Who could love them more than you?
“Damn it. Why did she have to take Jackson?” Storm shouted aloud. She didn’t know who she was talking to, God, the universe, or herself. It didn’t matter. No one was going to answer.
In two hundred yards, please turn right onto Highway West 99, Southwest Pacific Highway.
Storm drove onto Highway 99 and almost immediately saw the church on her left. It was painted a mustard yellow-orange with brown trim, and aside from the tall flag poles at the entrance and a huge sign with its name, it looked more like an unusually large two-story house than a church. As Lauren had mentioned, it sat in the middle of a huge parking area. A handful of cars were clustered near the entrance and, at the far corner, a gleaming white car that must be Lauren’s sat all alone.
Storm forced herself to slow down and drive through the parking lot in a way that would not bring unwanted attention. Reaching into her purse, she found her gun. She leaned forward and tucked it into the waistband of her pants at the small
of her back. Then she pulled in on the passenger side of Lauren’s Lexus. The cars were just at the edge of a cone of light from one of dozens of street lights, but there was enough light for Storm to see the outline of Lauren sitting in the driver’s seat.
Storm got out of the car, pausing as if to tuck in her shirt, but using the motion to reach behind her and settle the gun in place more firmly.
As soon as she did, the window on the passenger side of Lauren’s car slid down and she caught a flash of teeth in a welcoming smile. “You made it,” Lauren said.
“Yeah. Couldn’t miss it,” Storm replied, leaning in through the window but not yet opening the door to get in.
“Well, you might already have,” said Lauren.
“What do you mean?” asked Storm, smiling back at Lauren, though it was almost painful to do so.
“I told you if he got noisy I’d have to stop him. Well, he’s a big guy. Taser didn’t last long. He started thumping around in there, and I was afraid someone was going to hear him. You can see someone’s at the church.” She gestured to the cars parked near the front of the building.
“Could just be cars the church owns, parked here all the time,” said Storm.
“Maybe,” said Lauren, “but I couldn’t take that chance.”
“What did you do?” Storm asked again.
“I opened the trunk. He was waking up. I could either shoot him or shoot him up, so I shot him up.”
“Oh shit.” Storm opened the car door and climbed across the passenger seat, reaching for the keys. She wrenched them from the ignition as Lauren jerked back against her seat, an uncomprehending look on her face.
“What the hell?”
Storm backed out of the car and ran to the trunk. She fumbled for the right key, ran the tips of her fingers across the trunk until she found the indentation for the key. It was so dark. So hard to see. She scraped the key across the trunk, found the keyhole, and inserted it. It turned smoothly and there was a subtle click. Then the trunk popped open and rose with the soft hiss of well-built hydraulics.
The smell of blood and expensive cologne mingled in the air. A row of lights embedded in the trunk lid showed Jackson curled in a fetal position. His dark skin was slick with sweat. Sweat stains marred the starched white shirt he wore. One of his tasseled cordovan shoes had been kicked free and was resting on its side near his foot.
“What are you doing?” Lauren hissed. She’d climbed out of the car and run to the back.
“How much did you give him? How long does he have?”
“A lot. I don’t know. He’ll be gone before we get him back to my place. Why do you care? What’s going on?”
Storm reached into the trunk and put her hand on Jackson’s cheek. His skin was cold but slick with sweat. At her touch he moaned and his eyelids flickered. Insulin overdose. He needed sugar. Sometimes Joel would leave a juice box in the car, but not this time. She’d just cleaned the car. It was empty. What she’d give for a sleepy hollow.
Backing around her car, never taking her eyes off of Lauren, Storm opened the passenger door and reached across the seat to the center console where she’d set her phone. She began thumbing 911 before she’d fully retrieved it. It rang twice before an operator answered.
“This is 911. Please—”
“I need an ambulance at the Timberline Baptist Church on Highway 99 near Sherwood,” she said in a rush. “There’s a man in an insulin coma. You need to hurry. Did you get that?”
“Yes. Please hold—”
“Send the police too.”
Storm turned the phone off and tossed it on the seat. Lauren had followed her around the car and now stood, hands on her hips. “Are you out of your mind?”
“He’s a friend, you crazy bitch,” said Storm, all the anger she’d been holding bubbling to the surface at once.
“I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know?” Lauren whined. “We gotta get out of here.”
“No, I’ve got to stay with him.”
“You can’t. We have to go. I’m leaving.”
“Then go. But help me get him out of your car.”
“No, he’s too heavy. It’ll take too long.”
“Then you aren’t going anywhere.”
“Try to stop me.”
Lauren turned and ran back along the length of Storm’s car, put her hand on the trunk, and swung around the back. Storm sprinted after her, vaulted around the back of the car, and just as Lauren was reaching for the keys still dangling from the trunk lock, slammed into her.
Both women hit the ground and rolled away from the cars and toward the edge of the parking lot, where asphalt became gravel.
Storm ended up on her back, the sharp edges of loose gravel digging into her skin as Lauren straddled her. The smaller woman was cat quick and caught handfuls of Storm’s hair in her hands, using it to pull her head up and then slam it into the ground. The impact made Storm’s teeth click and a wave of gray moved in from the periphery of her vision. She couldn’t afford to pass out. She twisted, and was able to cushion the blow as Lauren again tried to smash her head into the ground.
Lauren’s hands were in her hair, her arms inches from Storm’s face. Despite the sharp pain and the loss of several strands of hair, Storm jerked free and rolled away from Lauren, got to her knees, reached behind her back, and drew her gun. Lauren’s feet lashed out, striking Storm’s arm and knocking the gun loose. It slid away, ending up under Storm’s car.
Lauren kicked at her again, one booted foot caught Storm’s jaw, the other the middle of her chest. The blows knocked her onto her side, and before she could move, Lauren was again kneeling over her, sharp fists flying. One punch connected with Storm’s nose and pain ripped through her head. Half blind with tears, Storm flailed and pushed at Lauren, brought her knees up, trying to break loose.
Between grunts and gasping breaths and the sound of gravel sliding between her body and the asphalt, Storm caught the distant sound of a siren. Then it was gone, a vagary of the wind.
Squinting away the tears, Storm saw Lauren’s fist, a flesh-colored blur, and jerked away at the last moment. The fist slid by her ear and landed against the unforgiving asphalt with a sharp smacking sound. Lauren let out an anguished groan, and Storm turned her head and sank her teeth deep into her wrist.
Lauren jerked her arm back, but Storm had clamped down hard, and all she managed was to lift Storm’s head a few inches from the ground. Storm bit down harder, grinding her teeth in, feeling her canines slide across something slick, like bone. Lauren scrambled to her feet, slapping at Storm with her free hand and screaming, “Let go! Let go!”
As soon as Storm was able to get up, she let go. Lauren jerked her bleeding arm free, holding it tight against her stomach and backing away. “You stay there. You leave me alone.”
Storm wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing Lauren’s blood across her face.
Time had slowed to a crawl. Every sensation, every sense was heightened. She could taste Lauren’s blood, smell it and the mix of old oil, antifreeze, and dust ground into her clothes. She could feel her own blood from a dozen small cuts on her back sticking to the cloth of her blouse. She could hear Jackson stirring in the trunk of the car and, steady now, the ululation of sirens coming toward them, coming fast.
“Give me your keys. Let me . . . let me take your car,” Lauren pleaded. She was gasping, short of breath. The fight had taken a lot out of her. Storm shook her head. Stood her ground. They waited in the semi dark as traffic slid past sporadically, both attuned to the sirens.
“You’re really going to do this. Give it all up and go to jail for him?” Lauren demanded.
“He’s innocent. Even if he wasn’t my friend, this would be wrong. We kill bad people, Lauren,” Storm explained slowly, as if to a child. “We don’t kill good people.”
“I’ll tell them everything. About you and Howard. About how you helped me kill the nurse. All of it.”
“Go ahead,” said Storm.
/> “They’ll kill you. They’ll put a needle in your arm and you’ll be dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”
“Oh hell, Lauren, I was mostly dead long before I met you. Didn’t you know that?”
“What’s that supposed to—”
The siren grew abruptly louder as a Washington County Sheriff’s car crested the hill. The pulsing red and blue lights got closer and closer. Then the car was bumping across the low curb and the entrance and heading right for them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I’M INJECTING GLUCOSE,” the paramedic said into her radio. Storm had begun waving her arms in the air the moment she’d seen the police car. They had arrived first, and after a quick assessment of the situation, had radioed for the ambulance, staged a short distance away.
The ambulance had rolled right to the back of Lauren’s Lexus, come to a rocking stop, and out of it had piled two paramedics, a short muscular man, and a tall, slightly overweight brunette woman with a commanding presence.
“He’s been injected with insulin. He’s not diabetic. His blood sugar is too low,” Storm had told them, as soon as they were near enough to hear.
Moving quickly past Storm and Lauren who, despite the blood on their clothes appeared to be in no danger, the team went to work on the unconscious man in the trunk.
The female paramedic tested Jackson’s blood sugar level, squinted at the reading, then set the case she carried on the ground, popped it open, and pulled out a syringe. “I’ll give the glucose, then retest. He should regain consciousness, but we’ll want to transport,” she told her partner.
Seeing that Storm was distracted and watching the paramedics, Lauren suddenly turned and darted toward Storm’s car. It was obvious she planned to take it and run.
As Lauren raced past, Storm reacted instinctively. She grabbed Lauren’s wrist, locked it against her hip, then pivoted, using Lauren’s own momentum to drive her to the ground. Storm then straddled her and wrenched her arm up toward her shoulder blade. She wasn’t going anywhere.
“Don’t move,” a policeman snapped.