Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  “Yeah, they’re great kids all right. That’s why I don’t want you anywhere near them.” The handgun’s muzzle moved as if under its own volition, rising slightly.

  “Hey, come on now. I told you, I was just trying to make sure they were all right. I don’t know what the hell the deal is between you and your dad, but if he’s badass enough to bother you, well, he bothers me too. Besides, what if your family was dead in that house? You think I want you to find something like that? I know you don’t believe it, but I do think we are more than just partners. I like to think we’re also friends.”

  Storm put the gun in her pocket.

  “I’m not so sure we’re friends,” she said. “But we are partners. I just wish you hadn’t made all those phone calls. Those calls felt very threatening, Howard. They pissed me off.”

  “What calls?” asked Howard, his forehead wrinkling as his brows drew together.

  “That day you called about the grandmother who killed her grandkid. I said no and you got mad and called me all night, hour on the hour.”

  “Bullshit. That never happened. Sure, I was ticked and I did call and tell you that, but I’m not in high school. I don’t phone-prank people. I waited a few days until I cooled off and called. Only I didn’t get through. I just got this canned voice telling me the subscriber is out of the service area. It’s been like that ever since, which is why I couldn’t reach you to tell you about your dad.”

  “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  “How should I know?” Howard asked, his attitude much less deferential now that the gun was out of sight. “My guess? Your father did it. Maybe he just wanted to hear your voice, huh? He’s your dad after all. Been away for twenty years. Maybe he wants to hear his kid, see her, maybe see his grandkids.”

  “That,” said Storm forcefully, “is not going to happen.”

  “I gathered that,” Howard said. He looked up and gave her a smile full of warmth and understanding. The kind of smile only someone close to you can give.

  Storm sighed. She had been forced to reassess her feelings about Howard yet again. “Thanks for looking out for my family. I know you understand why I was so angry. What we do together, the justice killings . . . that’s not the sort of thing sane people do. It makes it hard to believe you’re not crazy or that you won’t do crazy things.”

  “Same goes for you,” said Howard.

  “Yes, it does,” she agreed. “Plus, there’s that other thing.”

  “What other thing?” asked Howard.

  “You know, the way you’re always hitting on me. I’m married and I’m not interested, but you’re a dangerous man. How do I tell you I’m not interested? How can I be honest without being afraid?”

  “Damn, Storm. I never meant to make you feel like that,” Howard said, closing the distance between them. He stopped within arm’s reach. “Don’t you get it? We’re partners, huh? We got this stuff to do and we get it done. You see me for who I am and you don’t turn away. That makes you special to me. I know I wanted more, but when you made it clear that no was no . . . well, hell, Storm, I thought you understood I was backing off.”

  “I’m sorry, Howard. I should have trusted you more.”

  “No need to be sorry. I wasn’t listening to you. Telling you about that crazy killer grandma right after you told me we had to lay low. That wasn’t right.”

  “It really wasn’t,” Storm agreed. “But I could have handled it better myself.” Storm smiled. It was a genuine smile that reached her eyes. She had just realized her kids were safe. Her father was not going to harm them. If she was lucky, he’d never even get a chance to speak to them.

  Howard was not the problem; he was the solution she’d been looking for.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Now we both get what we want. If you can find my father once, you can find him again.”

  “I can,” Howard promised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “HOW MUCH TROUBLE am I in?” Storm asked Big Ed, who had managed to lower his oversized frame into one of her visitor chairs.

  “No one’s in trouble,” he assured her. “Look, we all make mistakes now and then. You forgot about buying the dumb seeds. You don’t remember who you got them from, but at least you do know the guy was legit. That’s got to make you feel good. There’s no longer a threat.”

  “It does. But it also makes me feel like a total ass. I called the police. I called you. I dragged my family to a hotel.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say you did the wrong thing, you’ll be waiting a very long time,” said Big Ed. “If you’re afraid for your family or your own safety, you take steps, you take action. That’s what you did, Storm. Now, stop making me repeat myself, or it will start to seem like you’re fishing for a compliment.” Ed shot her a big smile and Storm felt better. Then he made her feel worse.

  “What I’m more concerned about is what you told the police about feeling as if you’re being followed. What is the basis for that? Do you have anything you can share with me?”

  Storm crossed her ankles, crossed her arms, and leaned forward, staring down at her desk. What should she have said? The truth? That she’d felt as if she were being stalked from the moment she’d learned her father was out of prison? She wasn’t about to tell him that. She’d rather let him and everyone believe one of her clients was the stalker or even that she was being paranoid.

  She put her palms flat on the surface of her desk. She could smell Big Ed’s cologne. It was nice, but a bit overpowering in the confines of the small room.

  “I’ve been thinking about quitting,” she said softly, looking up and meeting his eyes. “My husband hates that I work with offenders, and I think this whole thing shows I’m sort of freaked out.”

  Big Ed seemed to consider this and said, “Storm, you had your arm broken recently. You haven’t been out of a cast for very long. A dustup like that—the memory must still be pretty fresh.”

  “No. This was going on before that. It didn’t help, of course. But I don’t think getting hurt that night and working here are related. That was just me being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I see. Have you considered taking some time off? Maybe you’re just tired and need a break. We could arrange a leave of absence.”

  “Maybe,” Storm agreed. “I’ll have to think about it some more. Talk to Tom.”

  “Of course.”

  Carrie popped her head inside. “Big Ed, there’s a call for you. It came into the main line.”

  “Can’t you just send it to my voice mail?” Ed asked, noticeably annoyed.

  Blushing, Carrie said, “It’s someone from the FBI.

  Big Ed rolled his eyes. “They’re people. Carrie, just people.” But he got up and ducked through the doorway anyway. “I’ll talk to you more about this later. Okay, Storm?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  * * *

  The Mackenzie family swung through the drive-through pizza on the way home from the hotel, picking up a pepperoni for the kids and a vegetarian for the adults.

  “Pizza. Come on, you guys. No pizza dance?” Storm watched Tom try to get the kids to cheer up. It was painfully obvious he was failing.

  “Pizza sounds good,” said Lindsey, “but I’m not very hungry.”

  Even Joel was quiet, and apparently engrossed in opening and closing the lid on the backseat cupholders. Snap. Click. Snap. Click.

  When they got home, they ate, and Storm was glad when it was over and the kids moved into the TV room to play on their game system.

  Storm hated to park kids in front of electronic babysitters, but there were times she needed it, and this was one of them.

  “I’m so sorry about putting you through that,” Storm told Tom as soon as they were able to speak alone.

  “I’m just happy we’re back home,” said Tom.

  “Kid’s aren’t so happy. They were having fun, and I went and ruined it by remembering I did buy those seeds. God,
I feel like such an idiot.”

  “Well, if you’re an idiot, I’m right there with you. I should have tried to keep you calm, given you time to think. We both know you haven’t been yourself lately. This thing with your dad and then your aunt. It’s been rough. I’m so used to you being logical, reasonable. I should have been there for you. I should have been the voice of reason and logic for once.”

  Storm nodded, but she was wondering how reasonable and logical Tom would have been if he knew what she knew, that her father not only had their address, but had been watching their house.

  No doubt, Tom would have wanted to lie in wait and have some words with the old man. He’d probably have told tell him he wasn’t welcome, would never be allowed to speak to his grandchildren, and would have to leave or have the cops called on him.

  Tom’s belief in the efficacy of the system and in a world where good conquered evil was both sweet and almost fatally stupid.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s going to get better, I promise.”

  “The only way it will get better is if I take up Big Ed’s offer of some extra time off and you take me on another much longer trip to the mountains,”

  “Liked getting away from here that much, did you? Can’t just stay home and rest for a few days?”

  “Boy, you just don’t get it. This house is another job to me. I can’t relax here. There’s always something that needs to be done, fixed, cleaned, something.”

  “You’re right,” said Tom, unexpectedly. “And since we can’t afford to jet you off to some foreign destination with fantastic room service, we’re going to have to prove you wrong. We’re going to have to prove you can be a lazy, slovenly, vacationing mess at home.”

  “It will never happen,” scoffed Storm.

  “Ah, but it will. Saturday, you’ll get up, but you’ll stay in your pajamas all day. No cooking. You’ll be waited on by your willing staff. No cleaning. We’ll take care of that too.”

  “I’m starting to like this idea,” said Storm, meaning it. Absently, she reached for the box she’d received from her aunt’s nursing home. It was too heavy to slide toward her with one hand, so she got up and grasped it with both, dragging it across the table. She opened the top and reached inside, remembering it was half filled with what appeared to be folders containing documents. Though once important, they were probably no longer of interest to anyone.

  Storm took out the top folder. “Looks like car stuff. What do you think?” she asked Tom, sliding the folder across the table to him.

  “Yep. She must have been one of those people who keep every receipt for everything she bought or had done for her car’s maintenance.”

  “I don’t think she even drove the last five or six years. Funny, the things people hang on to,” said Storm.

  The next file held copies of tax returns dating back twenty years. The one beneath that was a thin photo album, but rather than the expected photographs, it was filled with cards, old ticket stubs, and the faded remains of a few dried, pressed flowers.

  A puff of dusty musty scent filled the air, and Storm sneezed. She closed the box and pushed it away. “I think there might be a better day for me to deal with this stuff. Let’s go hang out with the kids and pretend yesterday never happened.”

  “You mean forget that you totally lost your mind and made us go into hiding? No way.”

  “Oh boy,” said Storm, “Something tells me you’re going to be using this one a long time.”

  “A long, long time,” agreed Tom. “But for the moment, if I’m nice, can we have popcorn?”

  Storm stood up and slapped the top of the box of folders. “I’ll make a deal. You put this box away in the bedroom closet and I’ll pop your corn.”

  “You always do,” said Tom, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  Storm dug the air popper out of a bottom cabinet while Tom carried the box into the bedroom. She measured out the kernels, let them slide into the machine, and enjoyed the sound they made as they fell into place.

  There was a muffled crash and Tom’s voice. “Damn—I mean—darn it,” he said, catching himself.

  A moment later, he entered the kitchen. “Drop something?” Storm asked, keeping one eye on the popper while reaching for a bowl to slip beneath it as the first kernel popped.

  “Let me do that,” said Tom. “Here. He handed her a white envelope and took the bowl from her hands. “The bottom of the box fell out, and this was in it.”

  “I think whoever packed it flipped the contents over. I’m pretty sure this letter was meant to be on the top. At least, it’s addressed to you.”

  Storm took the white business-sized envelope with her name scrawled across it in her aunt’s shaky handwriting.

  What had she written? She could only imagine the anger and the pain it contains. “Do you mind?” she said to Tom, looking toward the now frantically popping corn.

  “No, you go,” he said.

  Storm, her mouth twisting, nodded. Stiffly, she walked to the bedroom, shut the door, and fell across the bed.

  Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, ripped open the small end of the envelope, and fished out three lined pages covered in her aunt’s familiar handwriting.

  Dear Storm,

  I know this is going to come as a shock to you, and you’ve already had more than your share of those. I feel like your life has also been filled with partings. Losing your mother, not being able to continue your relationship with me—and your father, well, that was a parting as well.

  I’m sorry for any role I had in making your life hard. It is sometimes difficult to know what is right and what is wrong, where to place your loyalties and your trust.

  Your mother was not just my niece, she was also my friend. I have remained loyal to her and kept promises I made to her for a very long time, but I cannot go to my grave knowing you might never know the truth.

  I had hoped some day you would come back into my life. When that day came, I planned to tell you everything, but the years have slipped by, and I understand your need to distance yourself from a past you have not been able to forgive or forget.

  I do not ask or expect your forgiveness but hope you don’t hate me even more when I finally unburden myself of this terrible secret.

  I know that you believe that your father killed your mother in a drunken rage while you were in the hospital. That is not true.

  Your mother was unable to cope with what your father did to you. She went to see you in the hospital. They were keeping you unconscious, and when she saw the burns, she simply couldn’t deal with it. I’m still not sure how aware she was. Was it some sort of disassociation, her mind shutting off the memory of who she was? Or did she just run away? The truth may be somewhere in between. I don’t know, and I guess I don’t want to know.

  After your mother disappeared, she ended up in a series of homeless shelters. At the time, I wasn’t aware of that. I too thought she had been killed and her body hidden.

  It was only later, after she and I reconnected, that we were able to reconstruct where she’d been during some of those lost years. She had made calendar entries. We found some notes in a diary and a few other things.

  The first I knew that she was alive was three years after she’d disappeared, when one of the shelters contacted me.

  They’d found my number in her things and took a chance and called. She was very sick, and they sent her to a hospital. The hospital said that it was lung cancer and that she had very little time. I was in shock, of course. I couldn’t believe she was alive. It was a miracle. But she was dying. It was horrible.

  I decided not to tell you. You were doing well in school. You seemed to be putting things behind you. Your father had been sent to prison for driving drunk and hitting that poor girl. Telling you that your mother had run away seemed too cruel. Asking you to watch her die was unthinkable.

  I told you I was going away to help a sick friend for a couple weeks, remember? I didn’t completely lie.
When I got to the hospital, I found out they’d made a mistake. Your mother didn’t have cancer, she had pneumonia.

  She was still very sick, but with a warm place to stay and decent meals she eventually regained her health and slowly regained her memory. However, even with her memory back, she knew she was in no shape to be your mother. She’d been using drugs and wasn’t sure if she could stop. She felt you’d already had to deal with one addicted parent and didn’t deserve another.

  I want you to know that she did straighten herself out, though it took another year before she managed to stop for the last time. By then, you were in your final year of high school.

  Your mother and I kept in touch. I sent her pictures of you, lists of your accomplishments. She never stopped caring. I hope I haven’t implied that she did.

  We kept meaning to tell you, but one year went by and then another, and well, after a while, you met your husband and you seemed happy. You didn’t need me and I was sad, but also happy for you.

  So now, here I am. Cancer finally got one of us, but it wasn’t your mom. What a funny universe we live in, full of irony and bad jokes.

  She doesn’t know I’m sending you this letter. I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t want to make her run away again. She’s been hiding a long time.

  She lives in Crescent City, California, where she runs a lodge-style bed and breakfast out in the redwoods. It belonged to an old man she took care of, and when he passed on, he left it to her.

  It’s called Flat Lake Lodge. You won’t have any trouble finding it if you look. I really hope you do.

  Take care of yourself. I have always loved you like my own. I hope there are still some shreds of love for me in your heart after you read this.

  Love always,

  Aunt June

  Storm waited for some sort of emotion: shock, anger, pain, hurt—something. She was numb.