by Pamela Cowan
As always, these thoughts made Storm aware of the tight pull of the skin across her back and arm. She thought of her younger self, not with the love and nurturing her therapists tried to convince her was the way to heal her inner child, but with contempt, even shame.
She had been a coward at thirteen—obedient and fearful. She deserved what she got. But Helena Smith's child had been too young to fight back. He didn’t deserve it. He deserved justice. He deserved her angry best.
“So, are you a cop?” Helena Smith asked again.
“You know what I am,” Storm said softly, not wanting to raise her voice and invite Helena Smith to do the same.
“Did you say something?” the woman asked.
Storm ignored her. When she continued to ask questions, she continued to ignore her.
A few minutes later, she heard footsteps on the front walk and a light tap at the door. She practically ran to unlock it. But realizing it might not have been Howard, she slowed down and peeked cautiously around the side of the curtain.
“Thank heaven it's you,” she whispered, opening the door only wide enough for him to slip inside. Nervously, she told him, “She's got some boyfriend named Tim, and she thinks we're here for him. She was screaming so loud a little while ago, I was afraid someone would call the cops.”
“Seriously?” Howard asked with a wry smile. “People don't call the cops in this neighborhood.”
“That's what I was hoping,” she said. “Can you help me deal with this? I need to get her out to Evergreen.”
“What the hell were you going to do with her, all by yourself?”
“I was going to make it look like an accident. Like she fell in the shower.”
“Leave a body? Break your own rule?” Howard asked incredulously.
“I was going to be really careful. I didn't have a choice. You're the only one with access to the incinerator.”
“Damn right. Which is why I should have been with you on this. What were you thinking, trying to pull this off alone?”
Feeling like a chastised child, Storm said, “Your new job.” The half-lie she'd concocted rolled off her tongue effortlessly. “I figured if you moved to Seattle, I'd be on my own, so I might as well get out there and prove I can handle it without you.”
This was the moment she'd dreaded. She didn't want Howard to guess she wanted to break up the partnership. She couldn't risk his anger.
If he thought she had gone out on her own because he had threatened to leave, well, that was one thing. He couldn't blame her. But if he thought she wanted him gone . . . if he had even an inkling she'd considered how to get him arrested and out of the way. . . the repercussions were too awful to contemplate.
She'd seen what Howard did for fun when he was calm. Storm didn't want to imagine what he'd do when angry.
Howard stared at her for a moment, brow wrinkled as if he was trying to decide on a response. Finally, in a patronizing tone that made her want to slap his face, he said, “You sure didn't prove you could go it alone now, did you?”
Storm flushed but squelched her instinct to argue with him. This was not the time or place. Besides, he was right and she knew it. “I guess not,” she agreed. “I thought she was sleeping in her room. She must have been on the couch and heard me walk in. She's not completely stupid, though if she was really smart, she would have run instead of jumping me.
“So, if it makes you feel better, no, I didn't prove I could go it alone. I have no idea how to get her out of that bathroom. Hell, I'm just lucky there's no window in there.”
“You sure about that?”
Storm thought a moment. “I looked inside earlier, but no, I’m not sure.”
“Damn,” he exclaimed. “Where is she?”
Storm pointed to the bathroom door. “She locked herself in.”
“Hey, you in there,” Howard called, grabbing the doorknob and rattling the door. “Come out.”
There was a loud thud followed by another.
“At least she's still in there. Move back,” he said. Storm backed down the hall, keeping her eyes on Howard. Using all his weight, he rammed his shoulder against the door, down low near the lock. It broke open with a tearing splintering sound. He staggered forward into the bathroom. Storm ran in behind him and saw Ms. Helena Smith holding the heavy ceramic top of the toilet tank. A dent in the wall showed where she'd tried to break through.
“What the hell were you trying to do? Break into the next room?” asked Howard. The woman swung the toilet lid at him. Howard grabbed it, tossed it into the bathtub, and punched her in the face. She went down in a heap, falling forward, almost into his arms. He stepped back, raised his hands, and crashed to the floor. “You got it?” Howard asked.
“Yeah,” said Storm. Taking zip ties from her pocket, she knelt and tied the woman's wrists and ankles. As she finished, Helena regained consciousness and drew in a deep breath. Before she could scream, Howard stepped forward and kicked her, the toe of his boot driving into her ribs. She gave a low gasp of pain.
Not seeing a washcloth, Storm ripped a corner from a threadbare towel and stuffed it in the woman's mouth. She tore several pieces of duct tape off the roll and used them to hold the gag in place.
Howard knelt beside Helena Smith and used his thumb to roughly wipe away the tears trickling down her cheeks. “Guess you finally figured out we aren't here for your boyfriend, right?” He patted her shoulder and stood up. “Seems like you've got it all tied up,” he said, smiling at the bad pun. “That about all the help you need?”
Again, Storm was annoyed by the smug look, and again, there was nothing she could do about it.
“No,” she reluctantly admitted. “I still need you to get her out to Evergreen and take care of the rest. It's getting late, and people will start showing up for work. Don't your facilities people get there early?”
Howard looked at his watch. “A little more than an hour. I’d better hurry. One thing, though.”
“Yeah?” she asked impatiently.
“My payment.”
Storm lifted an eyebrow and cocked her head as she tried to understand this new demand. “What payment?”
“Well, there won't be time to play,” he said, indicating his watch, “and I did get woke from a sound sleep to come out and help you. Seems I should get a little something.”
“Like what?”
“Like a kiss.”
“You have got to be kidding?” Disbelief and annoyance tightened her voice.
“Not kidding,” Howard said, and this time there was no smile, just a look, from far inside his eyes. Storm had seen that look before, just as Howard drew back his whip.
“Fine,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and pursing her lips. She was making his demand seem like a minor inconvenience, a joke.
He moved across the bathroom and into the hallway.
His hands wrapped around her upper arms and he pulled her forward with surprising gentleness. She lifted her face and narrowed her eyes. He moved in, his lips finding hers. A shiver ran down her spine and she trembled. He moaned, misunderstanding the cause. Her emotion was not passion. It was fear.
This was a man who could, if annoyed, kill her without hesitation or remorse. Repulsed by his tongue sliding between her lips, she thought of closing her mouth tight against him, maybe even biting him. Instead, she closed her eyes tightly, relaxed her lips, and let his questing tongue inside. She even let the tip of her tongue touch his so that the kiss would feel genuine.
Finally, the kiss ended. He stroked the back of her head, just once, with an unexpectedly light touch. “Get her stuff. I'll wrap her in a blanket, and we'll put her in the trunk.” He sounded like a man offering to help prepare for a picnic.
Storm nodded and hurried to complete her task, collecting the woman's personal belongings, her makeup, toothbrush, clothes and purse, and any pictures she could find, all of which would be incinerated with her.
The other two abusers they'd targeted and killed had been
on probation. They were drowning in fines and fees and facing court dates and further sanctions. When they disappeared, the first thing everyone thought was that they'd skipped. If she and Howard were careful, everyone would believe the same about Ms. Helena Smith.
While Storm shoved the last of the clothes into one of the cardboard boxes in the spare room, Howard carried the night's target into the bedroom like a bride and dropped her on the bed. “You might not want to watch this.”
“You going to do it now?”
“Less trouble and faster. You're right, we don't have much time.”
“Okay, but let me tell her why.”
“Go ahead,” he nodded.
Storm stood at the foot of the bed and stared into the woman's eyes, which glistened with tears. “Helena Smith,” she said. Her voice was clear and strong as she made the pronouncement. “You have been found guilty of unforgiveable crimes. You neglected your son to the point of torture. You have been judged. You have been condemned, and now you are going to die in a way that does not even begin to befit your crimes. Howard?”
Helena Smith tried desperately to roll away from Howard's reaching hands. She drew her knees up and kicked at him. Storm watched as he batted her feet aside and landed a punch to her chest that left her wheezing and weak. He flipped her onto her stomach, slammed a knee into her back, and reached for her head. With a sudden jerk and a wet crunch like the snap of a stalk of celery, he broke her neck.
Storm swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The room turned a dull gray, all the edges losing their sharpness. A roar filled her ears. She reached behind her
for the wall and turned, resting her cheek against the cool surface.
The sudden and unalterable fact of death was overwhelming her. Storm clung to reality as a crazed vision, something she imagined as a wall of roiling black and gray storm clouds filled her thoughts. She fought to stay conscious by pressing her face against the wall until her cheek ached and the pain and the ‘thereness’ grew. In what seemed like forever, but was only seconds, she was able to take a deep breath and straighten her knees.
When she recovered enough to speak, she asked, “Where's your car?”
“Driveway.” He dug in his pocket and tossed her the keys. He was subdued, the smirk gone, hunger abated. “You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m good. I’ll be right back.
Storm found he had backed his car into the driveway. She opened the trunk then returned to the house to get the duffel and hold the door for Howard so he could carry the blanket-wrapped body outside. Strangely, she was no longer nervous about being seen.
She placed the duffel next to the body and closed the trunk.
“I'm going to put everything in the oxidizer and poof, it's all over,” he promised.
“You still have to check. Make sure everything is clean,” she cautioned.
“I will.”
“What about the smoke?”
“It's still damned early. No one will see it.”
“Good.”
“Storm?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“No more going out on your own.”
She shook her head.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“No more going out on my own. Hell, Howard, I didn't get anything right. She didn't even recognize me.”
Howard reached out and squeezed her arm and gave her a smile she couldn’t read. Then he climbed into his car and drove away.
She would have to do something about him. That kiss was just the beginning, a bizarre first-date expectation that was bound to grow. Remembering his mouth on hers made her shudder. Storm rubbed at her arm where his fingertips had dug in and hoped there’d be no bruises.
Mentally, she ran through the list: Jeffrey Franklin Malino, dogs; Gavin Lester Everett, burns, and Helena Smith, car. There were three now, but Storm knew she would never forget their names.
For a moment, she drifted in a daze, her mind momentarily shutting off as if exhausted and unable to process more. Then, suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, she shook it off and rushed to her car, in a hurry to reach the sanity and safety of home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK AFTER the disastrous night at Helena Smith's, Storm sat in her office, enjoying a rare moment of quiet. The days had gone by in a whirlwind of work: clients to interview, narratives to write, appearances in court, trainings, and home visits. It was an unending loop. New clients came in, old ones left.
She hoped the clients she saw gained something from their work with her—not just a fear of punishment and having to answer for breaking the law, but that they could survive without and do well without resorting to committing crimes. She wanted to teach them how to find a job and keep it. Show them they could find help with their addictions. Help them cope with their anger in a world that had not been overly kind. Maybe she should have been a social worker.
There had been more than the normal number of court appearances that week, and she'd made more than the usual number of home visits. Her caseload, which had already been staggering, had recently increased. Even so, there had been a few precious periods of quiet times when no one was making demands.
During those rare breaks, Storm had cleaned her office, rearranging files and retyping numbers and notes. It was her habit to scrawl on bits of paper and sticky notes. She was consciously focusing her energy and pointedly not looking for the next target. She needed a break and to put some welcome distance between herself and Howard.
During one of those rare moments of inaction, sitting in her extremely neat office, she stared idly into the middle distance and let her mind fill with scenes from that night.
The woman's near escape had rattled her. What if there had been a window in that bathroom? What if Helena Smith had escaped and accused her of attempted murder? What if Helena had managed to overpower her, hurt, or even kill her? What would Lindsey and Joel have done without a mom? Or Tom, without a wife?
Maybe it was time to stop this entirely. Not just quit using Howard, but quit.
She'd never set out to be some sort of avenger. The first one—the man who had used his pit bulls to discipline his children—that one had been unplanned, completely spontaneous. She’d been unable to live with the idea that the man who'd let his dogs disfigure his daughter's face and tear off his son's ear was walking around free. She didn't care if the arresting officers had made a mistake. Hell, if she'd seen what they'd seen, she'd have made a mistake, too. She'd have killed the bastard right then and there.
Luckily, the universe had given her a better option, one she had a chance of walking away from, free and unsuspected.
Howard had been in her office for his usual meeting with her. They had talked about the community service hours he had left. He'd complained about the impact on his job and how was he supposed to pay his fines if he was always missing work. She'd only half listened. It was a complaint she'd heard many times before.
He'd switched topics, sharing the conversation he'd heard between two young lawyers discussing the man who used his dogs on his own kids.
Howard had said, “Too bad they can't send that guy to prison. You know how much prisoners love child abusers.”
Storm had, for a moment, forgotten the nature of their relationship and agreed with him. They spoke about the horror of both the crime and the injustice of the man walking away with little more than a slap on the wrist.
Howard had hinted at the dark things he'd do, the justice he'd seek, if only he’d known where the man lived. Storm had slid her fingers across the surface of her keyboard, thinking, wondering.
The shared database held each parole officer's list of clients. She could view the entire database, look at any file she liked. Never sure what had emboldened her to do it, Storm opened the database. She found the address, jotted it down on a sticky note, and handed it to Howard.
Her stomach had flipped, as adrenaline rushed into her bloodstream. Her hands shook as he reached out and took the note
from her. He studied it carefully and looked up at her. On that day, there was no smirk on his lips. He seemed like a man filled with righteous anger, one who craved justice. She identified with the desire.
“Come with me,” he whispered urgently. “Come and stand watch.”
“I can't,” she said, shocked by the idea.
“It'd be a lot easier if you were there to let me know if someone was around. You know, just kept an eye out. Think about it. Think about those kids. Look at the paper again.”
Storm didn't have to look at it again. The image in the newspaper would always be there: the boy, his hand over one ear, a stream of blood running down his neck, his thumb in his mouth, seeking comfort; the girl, fine blond hair, her mouth open to scream, showing baby teeth. A blood-soaked rag hid one half of her face but left far too much to the imagination.
The dogs had been put to sleep. They had savaged the children as if they were ragdolls in a game of tug-o-war, and had earned their deaths. Now it was time for their father's.
Howard had called it a justice killing, and she now thought of it the same way. She didn't feel they had committed a crime. There was no crime in putting things right, though the rest of the world might not have seen it that way. No, what they did was right and just and necessary.
They'd done some good in the world. She and Howard had eliminated three really bad people and by doing so had protected many more. No, she was not sorry about what they'd done, but she was also realistic. Luck had a tendency to run out. It was time to think about stopping.
There was a quick light rap, and Storm looked up to see the anxious Dolph Lundgren lookalike who was her supervisor knocking on the edge of the doorway. “Hey, Big Ed.”
“Hey, Storm. I was wondering if you'd seen Nicky around.”
“No. She took a couple days off. Went out of town.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Can't keep up my own schedule, much less keep track of everyone else.” Big Ed, who was six foot four inches tall and nearly too wide across the shoulders to fit through the doorway, smiled apologetically. “Do you know who's covering for her?”