Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  Storm Justice

  Pamela Cowan

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication & Acknowledgement

  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 Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  About the Author

  Excerpt: Something In The Dark

  COPYRIGHT

  Running Horse

  125 S 1st Avenue #401

  Hillsboro, Or 97123

  503-810-1817

  In partnership with Windtree Press

  818 SW 3rd Avenue, #221-2218

  Portland, OR 97204-2405

  855-649-0821

  Copyright © 2013 Pamela Cowan

  ISBN-13: 9781942368731

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages for an article or review.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to those who have worked with victims and/or offenders and have seen too much, heard too much and know too much.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my husband and best friend, Jim, for being the amazing person he is. I’d also like to thank Jeanne, who counts being locked in the trunk of a car and driven down a bumpy road as only one of the fun experiences that comes with being the daughter of a thriller writer.

  Also, I would like to thank the members of the Northwest Independent Writers Association, especially Tonya Macalino and Brad Wheeler, who, by keeping the bar high, force me to do my best; the Klamath Writers Guild; Becoming Fiction and all my other writer friends. Through all of our shared experiences—you are my tribe.

  Finally, for their technical assistance and words of wisdom (those that are not so wise are mine and mine alone), I want to thank Sheriff’s Deputy Jason Leinenbach, Washington County, OR Sheriff’s Office; Probation Officer Sheila Clark-White, Washington County, OR Probation & Parole; and Administrative Specialist Araceli Sandoval, Health & Human Services, Washington County, Oregon as well as my long-suffering editors: Charla Billick, Jacqueline Hopkins-Walton, Annie Long and of course, the amazingly kind and brilliant Cathy Speight. I am in your debt.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS GETTING DARK as they drove down Evergreen and turned into the industrial complex. Howard had his keys out and ready before Storm had a chance to back the dark-green Honda into the slot nearest the doors marked Traynor Chemical.

  The keys clattered in Howard's hand, making Storm wonder if he was nervous. She didn't like him being nervous—didn't like having a partner at all—but she had little choice. Storm had the determination and strategy, but Howard had the upper-body strength.

  Storm watched Howard get out of the car, open the back door, and reach in to remove a gym bag. The fading light gave her erratic glimpses of him: short brown hair, starched gray collar, the back of a large, red-knuckled hand. After he slammed the door, Howard moved quickly toward the building.

  Storm climbed out of the car, shut the door softly, and stretched her back. The street lights snapped on, casting a spidery shadow of her tall figure across the asphalt.

  It wasn't as dark as she would have liked, but it was quiet. The only sounds were the occasional car going by on the other side of a sheltering row of evergreens, the shrill peeping of tree frogs, and the steady hum of the lights.

  Howard returned and opened the trunk, releasing a whiff of oil once spilled on the trunk liner, and the stronger stench of sweat.

  Mr. Everett was awake and beginning to struggle. It wouldn't do him any good. Storm had zip-tied his wrists in front of him and wound duct tape from his wrists to his elbows. She’d stuffed a wad of paper towels in his mouth and pulled a pillowcase over his head, winding tape around it so he couldn't talk or see. If he tried to make a sound, he'd start to swallow the paper towels and then he'd vomit—and then he'd die.

  Grabbing Mr. Everett’s shirt, Howard half lifted, half dragged him out of the trunk.

  “Let's grab all your crap, why don't we,” Howard said. He reached back into the trunk and took out a bag, similar to the one he'd already carried into the building, and swung its strap over the man's shoulder. “There we go,” Howard said encouragingly.

  Storm shut the trunk and, taking one of the man's upper arms, helped lead him into the building. He staggered, his shoes scuffing the sidewalk.

  Sometimes it felt like she was supporting all his weight, then he'd shift, and she'd only feel the light touch of her hand on his arm. He tried to get away once by backing up, dragging Storm along for a second, and knocking her purse from her shoulder until Howard overpowered him. Storm him not to try it again and poked him in the ribs with the point of her knife. A good inch of the tip went in. He jerked away, making a squawking sound. Storm wiped the tip on his white shirt and held her purse away from the slowly widening blood stain.

  There were four rules: no weapons, no trophies, no connections, no bodies. If they followed the four rules, they might be caught, but they’d never be convicted.

  They took Mr. Everett into the building and down the long hall to the kill room. The room’s designer had never meant for that to be its function; in fact, just the opposite. The room, an oversized shower to be used in case of a chemical spill or splash, was supposed to save people from harm. The irony was lost on Howard but not on Storm. She stepped into the room anyway.

  The rectangular room was about eight feet wide by sixteen feet long, with two doorless entries opposite each other at the near end. Along each long wall, a row of five shower nozzles jutted out of the smooth concrete surface. Each was connected to a flexible hose which could be removed to focus the water. At the far end of the room, an ADA-compliant handrail was bolted into the concrete. In the ceiling, a maze of pipes carried water and other liquids in, out, and through the building.

  Storm watched as Howard reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a dog collar, one of those nasty looking pinch collars she’d occasionally seen worn by pit bulls or Dobermans. He slipped the collar over Mr. Everett's head and around his neck. Next, he snapped on a heavy leather leash he had taken from his gym bag.

  Everyday objects—items that wouldn’t look out of place lying on the seat of a car—were the tools Storm thought they should use. Even her ‘knife’ was only a letter opener.

  Howard tossed the leash over a pipe in the ceiling and pulled. The chain slipped through the metal circle on the collar and tightened around Mr. Everett's neck, bringing him to his toes. While Mr. Everett squealed ineffectually through his gag, Howard walked to th
e opposite end of the shower room to a built-in cabinet. From it, he extracted two plastic-wrapped sets of overalls, complete with booties and gloves.

  He tossed a set to Storm. She caught them and kept going, taking the pack and her purse out of the room and into a back hallway to keep them out of harm’s way.

  She poked a finger into the plastic wrapping and tore it away, then donned the protective gear. When she stepped back into the room, she found Howard similarly dressed. He reached to unwind the duct tape so that he could remove the floral pillowcase over Mr. Everett’s head. He ripped the tape away and stepped aside as their prisoner, gagging and coughing, spit out a wad of paper towels.

  Storm waited, pulling nervously at the cuffs of her sleeves, until the coughing fit was over. When Mr. Everett made eye contact, she spoke his name softly.

  She knew speaking in a near whisper would force him to be quiet and concentrate to hear her. Not that she was worried about noise—the building was soundproof. The desire for his silence and attention was about teaching him respect for others, a lesson Mr. Everett sorely needed to learn, though it was a little too late in coming.

  Storm finally allowed her carefully controlled outrage to rise to the surface, making her hands shake just as much as Howard's had earlier. She hissed at him from between clenched teeth. “You have been found guilty of unforgiveable crimes. You have been judged and you have been condemned. You have nothing to say that anyone wants to hear, and you are now going to die in a way that befits your crimes.”

  “I know you,” said Mr. Gavin Lester Everett. “I know you. You’re . . .”

  Storm waited for it. For the sudden realization as he registered her features and remembered. Ensuring that they saw her so that later they would recognize her was an additional difficulty. It required planning, changes to her schedule, and added a level of complexity that wasn’t necessary—but it was so worthwhile.

  He didn’t disappoint. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he said, “You were in the office with . . . you're a . . . you bitch. What do you think you're doing? I'll—”

  “You will do nothing. On the other hand . . .” Storm nodded, giving the go-ahead. Howard's eagerness was disturbing, but also comforting. This wouldn't take long. Once again, Storm marveled at how very ordinary Howard seemed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but other than that he was nondescript; he had brown hair, brown eyes, average looks, an average car, and an average job. Only when he began to work did one see the deeper person, the dangerous stranger with a hunger for hurting.

  He used a box knife to cut off Mr. Everett's pants. He'd already carefully cut away his shirt with none of that violent, shirt-tearing, button-popping, sloppy bullshit seen on television. When he’d finished, Howard stood back to admire his work. Mr. Everett, his arms still duct-taped, stretched tall, eyes wide, now wore nothing except a pair of green boxers, gray socks, and black shoes. Storm thought he looked as defenseless and scared as a man could.

  She reached into her purse and removed a small, battery-powered curling iron. It was handy for trips or even at the office—perfect for ‘a quick pick-up when the humidity made your curls droop,’ or so said the advertising. She only cared about the part that said it got hot instantly.

  “There were thirty-seven cigarette burns on your son,” she said. “We would be happy to use a cigarette on you, but it would be a mistake to introduce an open flame in a building where chemicals are kept. The sprinkler system is very sensitive, so Howard tells me. We've had to be a bit creative.” Storm flicked the curling iron on. “Have you ever felt a burn? Have you ever wondered what thirty-seven of them would feel like?” she asked.

  “You wouldn't dare. I'll have you arrested. I'll tell everyone what you did.”

  “You won't be telling anyone anything. The only thing you will be—”

  “Storm, are you talking to someone?” asked Howard.

  She looked at him and shook her head. “Of course not.” They never spoke to the garbage. It wasn't a rule, more a suggestion, like in that pirate movie with Johnny Depp, but it was a good one. She touched the metal curling rod with her forefinger. “Ouch. You'd better take this,” she said, giving it to Howard handle first.

  “Thank you,” he said, and he turned to Mr. Everett with a brilliant smile.

  The first burn was on Mr. Everett's neck. You'd think he was a little baby the way he’s shrieking, thought Storm. Why, the iron wasn't even fully hot and only left a red mark, much like a hickey. The second and third burns were on his collar bones. The left one was pink, the one on the right more of a burgundy shade. Mr. Everett didn't yell quite as much with those, but he did struggle to move away and ended up choking.

  Howard waited for him to recover and settle down before dragging the iron down the middle of his chest, again more teasing than cruel. The next two burns though, were pretty fierce. Even Storm sucked in a little air and bit her lips as Mr. Everett's nipples blistered and turned black. After that, there were little touches here and there—such small burns Howard refused to count them toward the planned thirty-seven.

  “It's his own fault if he won't stand still,” Howard growled. Storm could tell by the rough snarl of his voice and the way his eyes had narrowed that he was growing annoyed with Mr. Everett's constant twisting and turning.

  She could tell Howard was beyond annoyed and downright angry when he jerked Mr. Everett's boxers down, grabbed his scrotum and pulled it aside to thrust the hot iron into the space between his balls and his leg, holding it there. When Howard jerked it away, sweat and tears ran down Mr. Everett's face, and urine dribbled down his legs.

  “He was bad,” Mr. Everett sobbed. “He didn't listen.”

  “He was five when they took him away the first time,” Storm said. “How bad can a five-year-old be? But you got him back, didn't you? You got him back two more times, and each time he was bad, very, very bad.”

  Mr. Everett screamed, shouted, but Storm was no longer listening. She held the picture of Mr. Everett's son in her head, and the image had its own beat, a thrumming sound that drowned out any noise.

  Thirty-seven burns take a long time to accomplish. By the time he was done, Howard was using his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead, and Mr. Everett was hanging half-conscious from his chain-link noose.

  Storm turned off the iron and laid it on the concrete to cool. It gave off a smell like old barbecue.

  Storm turned on the cold-water faucet closest to Mr. Everett, took the handheld shower nozzle, and directed the stream at him. He sputtered, jerked back, and rose on his toes, breathing hard and crying. She washed the tears and snot off his face.

  He tried to spread his legs so that the cool water would soothe the burns between them and on his scrotum and penis. Howard laughed at how he jumped around following the water, so easily directed—a marionette whose strings were a release from pain. Storm let him have several minutes of this, moving the water from burn to burn, letting him feel the pain ease.

  “I'm sorry,” Mr. Everett blubbered. “Sorry I done that to Andy. Got fucked up sometimes, drugs and shit, wasn't really me.”

  “I'm sure your son was sorry, too,” said Storm. “Did that stop you?”

  Howard had gone to the hallway to retrieve something from his bag. As he returned he raised his hand to show them a homemade whip made from several strands of clothesline. Braided along its length were heavy metal nuts and washers whose edges he'd sanded thin as a blade.

  Storm said, “Give me a minute,” and hurried to the far end of the room, out of the splatter zone. This was how Howard took his pay. She knew it was beyond the punishment she would have inflicted, but she needed Howard, and he needed this. To alleviate her guilt, to punish herself, Storm stood witness to every moment of brutality.

  The whip came down on Mr. Everett's red and quivering flesh. Each slash of the whip sent droplets of blood spray against the walls. He danced in his confined circle, exposing his back, his front, then his sides. Blood ran in rivulets from the gashes. H
oward moved from legs to buttocks to torso. He left the head and face for last, knowing that once he gave in to the impulse to erase that face, it would be over very quickly.

  He didn't wait long.

  Half an hour later, one of Mr. Everett's eyes had been whipped into a mush that dripped from a half-empty socket. His upper lip was torn in half, exposing broken teeth. His bottom lip was a swollen lump covered in blood and saliva, and still he persisted in living. He didn't move much, just the occasional twitch and groan, but it was frustrating, infuriating.

  Finally, becoming more worried about the passing of time than how messy she might get, Storm decided to step in. She took the whip from Howard's tired hands, brought it around Mr. Everett's ankles and jerked his feet out from under him. He dangled, his breath cut off, his face going from red to blotchy to bluish gray until finally he stopped moving. She held his legs up a few moments longer to be sure.

  Panting, Howard leaned against the handrail, his hard-on evident. “What do you say, huh beautiful?” he asked, looking down at himself and giving her a thin smile.

  Storm shook her head. “I told you before. I'm married, and even if I weren't, I would still never get involved with you. Do what you need to do, but leave me out of it. I'm going to get the cart. And hurry up. We’ve spent too much time here already.”

  Howard nodded and reached in the pocket of his coveralls for a fresh pair of gloves.

  The torture and killing necessary for Howard's sexual release was knowledge Storm thought might be useful for controlling him. Losing even a shred of her control over him at any point would have been very dangerous. He was a stone-cold killer, a real sociopath. What if he decided he no longer wanted a partner? Well, at the worst, he would torture her slowly to death. A fate she'd observed him deliver twice. At best, he would end their relationship. She had to avoid that as well. The truth was, she needed him. He was a means to an end, a path to justice.

  Storm went through the back door of the shower into the hall. The lights, on at half power to save energy, made everything dim and conveyed a sense of peace, even sleepiness. She stepped into a women's restroom, using her elbow to switch on the light. There was a row of stalls and a counter with three sinks and soap dispensers. A pretty silk orchid, a bottle of lily-scented lotion, and a box of Kleenex were arranged in one corner. The ordinariness, the pretty little touches, bothered her in a way she couldn't explain.