by Pamela Cowan
“That wouldn’t be such a big deal for us,” he continued. “But one thing is going to stand out. You know what it is?”
Storm wasn’t sure, but she suspected what he would say next, and she wasn’t disappointed.
“Four people on your team. Three people missing. Each one of your team has got someone missing except you. Your clients are all right where they should be. That seem funny to you? It might seem funny to someone.”
Storm thought about it. Was he right?
“Also,” Howard went on, “I sort of need this one. Your unexpected appearance ruined things for me, and you know what happened with the last one. You owe me one,” he said.
“I owe you one?” Storm repeated, a sense of helplessness crawling down her spine as cold as the snow melting from the collar of her jacket.
“Damn right. In point of fact you owe me two, but I’m letting that second one go. What I do expect is, you make sure the next one is a woman—and not some heifer either. Truth is, a man can only last so long with Rosie Palm. I need some real, well, you know,” he said, his cheeks unexpectedly flushed a blotchy red. “Next one has to be a woman, and I get to have some alone time with her. Make up for you ruining my fun with this one.”
Storm contemplated Howard having sex with the poor woman whose body she had helped him dispose of, a body that was torn, bones broken—an innocent woman.
No, she couldn't think about that. If she dwelled on it too long she was afraid some essential part of who she was would change. Already she felt remorse, a terrible clawing guilt she could barely stand. Dark moments, deep regrets. If she succumbed to them, she might have done something stupid. She could have turned Howard in, maybe even herself. The prospect of peace through repentance appealed to her. The idea of a calm mind, untroubled by anger or a need for vengeance—was that even possible?
She couldn't afford such thoughts. Tom needed her. The kids needed her. She'd made a mistake choosing Howard for a partner. This was her punishment for that mistake, to carry the guilt and the memory. The woman had tried to signal her. Had she been trying to save herself or Storm? It was the kind of question that would haunt her nights.
But she was tough. She’d survive those nights. All the things she’d lived through had made her exactly what she was and had led her right to this point. Yes, the woman was innocent, and killing her was wrong. But she had not killed her. The guilt was Howard’s. Her kills were clean. They were in the service of justice and of the innocent.
Storm sighed deeply. “Okay, Howard, you have a good point, and yes, I guess I do owe you one. But we’ll do it my way. I’ll select the target. Got it?”
“Not too old or ugly,” he said, sounding like someone at a drive-through placing a special order. Hold the pickle, no onions.
“No, of course not,” she promised. “I'll set it up. But this is the last time, you remember that. After this one the justice killings stop. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” said Howard. “Over and out.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TUESDAY, according to studies, is the most productive day of the work week. That was probably why, on that Tuesday, Storm found herself staring at three files arranged across her desk.
Each of the files represented a woman in her caseload. They all shared similarities. All three were reasonably attractive, as Howard had requested. Each had been suspected, but never convicted, of child abuse or neglect. Odds were they would continue being abusers, destroying innocent lives and never fully paying for it. They'd all been arrested on drug charges, done some jail time, and been freed to make their children's lives a living hell again.
Studying the files, Storm realized that choosing one of these women as a target was different than her other choices. For one thing, she knew them. She had met with each of them at least twice, and though that was not the basis for a warm and fuzzy relationship, it did make them seem more real and therefore harder to pronounce sentence on—and turn over to Howard.
On the other hand, since whichever one she picked would already know her, there was no need to take all the convoluted steps to guarantee the target would later recognize her as an officer of the court. Something Storm felt added a certain legitimacy to carrying out the sentence they deserved.
Furthermore, in the beginning, she'd been absolutely sure she was doing the right thing. The evidence of what those people had done to their kids was in their files, complete with police reports and graphic photographs.
This time, she wasn't as sure. She had to be honest and admit that this one was less about justice and more about appeasing Howard.
This would be the last one, she promised once again—just four. There had been four rules, and there would be four killings. The symmetry seemed like a good sign. After this, she would be free of Howard and of finding and killing targets. In fact, if what Tom said was true—that she’d be able to quit her job—she would soon be free of probation and parole entirely. No more dealing with offenders. No more glimpses of children with haunted eyes and scarred bodies.
She fantasized about what she'd do after she quit the department. Stay at home with the kids? It sounded good for the short term. There were some projects she'd been putting off. But after that, maybe part-time somewhere? She could take a class. She'd thought about an art class, maybe watercolor?
There was a watercolor in the cafeteria of the Washington County Public Service Building across the street from the courthouse where she worked. She walked over there a couple times a week to buy coffee from Cappuccino Corner, the coffee shop just inside the main doors. She preferred their blend to the ubiquitous Starbucks on the corner. After getting her coffee, she'd wander down the hallway to the lightly used cafeteria to admire a row of paintings someone had donated for display there.
The first time she'd seen them was during a retirement party held in the cafeteria. Their realism stood in contrast to the other donated art around the county building, mostly modern pieces that looked like a child's temper tantrum in bas-relief.
Her favorite watercolor was a snow scene. It showed the distant roofline of a barn, the tops of fir trees, and in the foreground, a snowy hill with a few stalks of yellow hay poking through the snow. The smoky-gray clouds and sense of stillness was calming. She would have loved to have been able to paint like that.
Sensing a presence, Storm looked up from her desk to see Carrie, the young receptionist, standing in the doorway. She was a freckle-faced natural redhead, who kept her hair braided, rolled, and pinned like Heidi from the old Swiss story. She tended to wear baggy sweaters and pants that were too short. Poor Carrie was also obviously and embarrassingly in love with Big Ed, who was, as far as Storm knew, very happily married.
“Hi, Storm. Norma's out sick, so I'm delivering the mail,” she explained, stepping into the room and laying a handful of large inner-office envelopes and a single standard white envelope on her desk.
“You could have just put it in my mail slot,” Storm noted, feeling slightly annoyed but not sure why.
“Oh, but I wouldn't get to say hi, and besides, I'm bored. Not much to do today. Always slows down around the holidays, doesn't it?”
“Yeah, I guess. Well, thanks,” Storm said, and turned toward her computer, trying to appear busy. Carrie looked like she wanted to talk, but Storm wasn't in the mood, and reluctantly, Carrie seemed to realize that and left her office.
For a moment, a very short moment, Storm had been thinking about such pleasant things. Carrie had pulled her out of her daydream and into the nightmare of her life. She had to join Howard for one more high-risk justice killing. No, call it what it is: another killing. How could it be justice when she wasn't even sure about her choice?
The woman she'd finally selected, Angela Ruiz, did have the Department of Human Services Child Welfare Division involved in her life. From what Storm could tell, DHS had been called in more than once to determine if Angela's kids were safe.
Once, a year earlier, all four of her kids had been r
emoved, but only for a couple of weeks. She'd kicked out the guy who had given her oldest daughter a black eye, and that was proof enough for DHS to believe she'd made her kid's welfare a priority. Storm wasn't so sure.
She'd only met with Angela twice, but the woman hadn't made the best impression. She was tiny and a little overweight. Despite that, she wore blouses so low-cut, they showed the string of lace-edged hearts tattooed across her breasts and jeans so tight they pushed a roll of fat over her belt. Her shoes had four-inch heels, and she smelled like she bathed in gallons of perfume.
She also looked hard, and her attitude was just on the edge of hostile. Her dark eyes, rimmed in charcoal-black liner, never seemed to make contact. Most of the time she just stared at her long, perfectly manicured nails and answered, 'uh-huh’ or ‘nu-huh’ to every question Storm asked. Sometimes she'd flick her ironed, Cher-length hair back over her shoulder and make brief eye contact, but there was no real exchange.
The problem was, Storm didn't want to select someone one the basis of an active but personal dislike. She continued to struggle with the knowledge that her selections, up to now, had been made carefully, based on plenty of information and a sense of outrage sometimes shared by her coworkers. This one . . . was this one even justice?
Sighing, Storm picked up the file. She'd made the selection. Angela Ruiz was young and attractive. The women in the other two folders were older, one in her late fifties, the younger one with a face ravaged by years of using meth.
All three had histories that made them potential targets, but only Angela fit Howard’s criteria. Is this what It had come to? Storm tried not to think about it as she took the file to the copy room and scanned the page with the information they would need to find Ms. Ruiz.
Once they found her, Howard would incapacitate her, Storm would tie her up and help get her to the kill room. After that, all she wanted was for it to be over, and fast.
She guessed, however, that it wouldn't go that smoothly. Storm suspected that Howard would drag it out, use every moment of the ‘special’ time he'd demanded. She knew the most horrific thing wasn't whether she'd help Howard rape and kill Ms. Angela Ruiz. She knew she would. The only real decision was whether she'd force herself to watch.
For the first two killings, she'd made herself stay and be a silent observer, flaying her conscience and refusing to hide from the result of her choices.
This time it felt different, and it was. The victim was less chosen by her own actions and fate and more by Howard. But perhaps that was only a justification, a way to give herself an out so she didn't need to participate, even as a witness, in what was sure to be a brutal and violent death.
At least it would be the last time. Storm dreaded what he would say when she made that clear. Luckily, she’d been trained in dealing with conflict, knew how to stand firm. He would, inevitably, have to deal with it. Still, it wouldn't be pleasant.
Storm felt restless. She got up and grabbed her coat. She wanted to move. The walls felt like they were closing in. She decided to walk across the street and get some good coffee. The stuff they made in the break room smelled like burnt tar and gave her heartburn.
There were usually two or three pleasant young women working at Cappuccino Corner, but that day the owner, Dan, was at the front counter. She always liked seeing Dan. He started running the café about the same time she'd started at the county, so in a way, he was one of her oldest work friends.
He was tall, not hard to look at, but most importantly he was invariably friendly and had an inner calm that seemed hard to ruffle.
“How's your day going?” he asked, “And what's your poison?”
“Fine,” she answered. “Sugar-free vanilla latte. Extra foam, please.”
“You got it, sister.” He flashed a wide smile as he reached for the coffee measure.
“How's your day?” Storm asked.
“Beautiful, just beautiful.” His smile seemed completely sincere.
Storm marveled, not for the first time, at how Dan managed to keep so steady. Even when he was upset about something, he didn't show it, except perhaps for a slight crinkling around his eyes.
“How do you always manage to seem so darn happy, Dan?” she asked.
She expected an evasive answer, but he seemed to consider it carefully and said, “I guess it's because I'm a born-again Christian. I know, I know. I'm not preaching here. But you asked the question and that's the answer. I wasn't always this easygoing, so I guess there's something to that saying, give it up to God. I mean, when you give up all the stuff you're carrying around, the anger and the negative stuff, well, it makes every day a pretty nice one. That'll be three ten, by the way, unless you want something else?”
“No, that's all. Thanks.” Storm said and handed over her preloaded coffee card.
Coffee in hand, she wandered into the cafeteria. ‘Cafeteria’ was something of a misnomer, because although the room was full of tables and chairs, there was no food service. She wanted to look at the watercolors. Unfortunately, her timing was bad, and the room was unusually crowded with people nuking their lunches in the two available microwaves or sitting at long tables, eating bag lunches or reading.
She headed back to work, pushing through the two sets of double doors and into the chill November wind.
God. Religion. Those were topics she didn't want to think about. How would God look at her justice killings? What religion would accept them as necessary?
In a way, it was funny. Religion had always seemed to her to be nothing more than just another set of rules, judgments, and punishments. Of course, wasn't that what she had been doing? She had judged the people who had broken the rules of a decent society, hurting the very people they should have been kindest to, and she had punished them.
She looked at her targets the way some people looked at cop killers. If a person could kill a man sworn to protect him, well, that person would stop at nothing and was a danger to everyone.
The ones she had gone after weren't that different. They had hurt the innocent, the children in their trust, and if they could do that, what weren't they capable of?
Someone had to protect children from such monsters. Someone had to eliminate the threat to innocence these monsters posed. To hell with people and religion and their judgment of her.
God, though, was a different story. Was there a creator who saw all and judged all? Would he, she, or it, really judge her actions or her intentions? Was there even such an entity?
She didn't know. All she really knew was that she was freezing. Dashing across the street, jaywalking like every
cop, lawyer, or judge returning from getting coffee, she hurried back to her building.
After a quick ride up the elevator, she checked in on the board. She hung her coat on a hook and was back at her desk, wide awake and ready to do some work.
First things first: she picked up the envelope on the top of the stack of mail Carrie had placed on her desk earlier. The white envelope was marked, State of Oregon, Department of Corrections.
She picked up her silver letter opener, ripped the envelope open along the top crease, and pulled out a single sheet of white paper.
Storm unfolded it and read it, then read it again, her face slowly paling until it was nearly the color of the paper. Chewing her lower lip, she placed the document on her desk. She slid her hand across it, smoothing out the folds, and read it again:
This is to inform you of the release of Joseph Don Dean.
Storm carefully folded the letter along its fold original lines.
This is to inform you . . . may pose a risk . . . parole board . . . has served . . . Joseph Don Dean . . .
The words pounded through her head like a roll of thunder. She could not stop them. Coffee forgotten, she stood up, grabbed her coat, and slipped it on.
“I'm not feeling well. I have to go home,” she told Carrie at the front desk.
“Oh no. Are you okay to drive? Do you need anything?”
“I'm
fine. Cramps,” Storm whispered. In her normal voice, she said, “Actually, could you call Big Ed and let him know I had to leave early? You don't have to say why. He won't care.”
“Of course,” Carrie said, her face lighting up with the prospect of calling him. “I hope you feel better soon. You look terrible.”
Storm gave her a wan smile. “I'll be fine. Probably in tomorrow. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Sitting in her car, Storm felt like the whole world could see the expression on her face, read the fear, and wonder at it.
She knew she was being crazy, paranoid, but she couldn't help it. The parole board had released him. The stupid, idiotic, evil parole board had released Joseph Don Dean.
Her father.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JOE DEAN, ex-military, booted out after fourteen years and one too many fights. That all around good guy—most of the time.
That guy, who came home on his first leave and looked up one of his high school sweethearts, not the girl he planned to settle down with, but the neo-hippy chick with the good weed.
After busting ass for six weeks, the weed went a long way, made it easy to ignore a torn condom. That led to a quick wedding and, soon after, a baby girl.
By the time she was thirteen, that baby girl knew she was smart and thought she had the world figured out. Sure, Dad's drinking was a problem, but it was episodic. You kept your head down, stayed quiet and out of the way, and you would get past it. Find yourself on the other side.
It was like a summer lightning storm. The rumble of thunder a long way off, you knew it was just a warning. Then the lightning came, a crackle of sound, a harsh snap, like the crack of a belt across bare skin.
Seeing a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch at home, that was thunder, but Joe Dean noticing you—that was lightning.
So many of the kids at school played the my-old-man's-a-bad-ass game. She'd sit out at recess, her hand cupped around the stub of a cigarette, counting on the chill wind and the laziness of teachers to keep her from being caught smoking, and listen to them.