by Pamela Cowan
She began to turn in his arms, forcing herself not to tense up and telegraph her intentions. He pulled her against him with crushing force, then spun her around and slammed her, face first, into the wall.
Her nose broke with a crack that reverberated through her entire body. Her forehead also struck the wall, and pain and tears instantly blurred and darkened her vision. Her legs felt rubbery, and only Howard’s muscular arms kept her upright.
When she was able to stand on her own, he loosened his grip, pulled her gun out of its holster and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.
“Oh Stormy, so predictable. You vibrate like a live wire when you’re angry. Did you know that?” She tried to jerk loose but only managed to move them both a step away from the wall. Warm blood from her broken nose gushed over her lips. Her head pounded and she wanted, needed, to break free.
Howard let her turn away and then drew her back against him, his breath hot against the back of her neck.
Keeping his left arm around her waist, his right hand slid clumsily up, found and cupped her breast, and squeezed.
Black and orange points of flame erupted before Storm’s eyes. She was there again, trapped in her father’s arms, his rough hands grabbing, his strong fingers pulling, twisting and hurting.
With the memory came a bleak and horrifying revelation. A secret she had hidden even from herself.
At the nexus of that memory, immersed in the shock and the pain, hid a dark and lurid ugliness that tore her from time and place and transported her to her childhood home.
She remembered that for a second—no—a mere millisecond of time, but time enough, she had responded to her father’s drunken caress.
Her body, pressed against that warm flesh, her nostrils filled with that familiar scent, her body pinned, and breasts bruised and aching, had responded with a throb of intense heat, a hunger so forbidden it couldn’t be survived.
The moment had created a schism, a division between the Willow that had been and the Storm that would be.
Was she wife and mother who tried to serve justice and help others to pay for their crimes, or a vicious, unrepentant murderer? She was both. She was Willow and Storm, dark and light.
This, Storm realized, returning to the here and now, was the nexus. This was the truth and the origin of who she was. But the truth did not set her free. It caged her in bars of self-loathing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IT WAS NICKY who brought Storm back to the present. Though she’d gone quiet at Howard’s command, the sight of her friend struggling in his grasp reanimated her. Nicky screamed, the sound rising to a shrill note.
Storm did the only thing she could think of. She went completely limp. It caught Howard unaware, and he let her dead weight fall from his arms. She crumpled to the floor, cracking her knees on the hard ground, but she ignored the pain and rolled as fast and as far as she could. As soon as she was free of his reach, she jumped to her feet. He lunged at her, his fingers catching the back of her blouse, but he didn’t have enough fabric, and she pulled free easily. Then she did something she was very good at. She ran.
Sprinting across the shower room, she plunged through the doorway, slid around the corner, and ran for the exit.
Behind her, she heard the stomach-dropping snick of a round being fed into a chamber. She was nearly to the door. She tried to remember that the odds of him hitting a moving target were small.
“Handguns are terrible weapons to take someone down,” one of her instructors, a SWAT team captain, had told her. “People can be shot with a small caliber round and keep coming at you. If you really want to stop someone, use a rifle.”
“I can’t fit a rifle in my purse.”
“Get a bigger purse,” he’d joked.
That such an insanely out-of-place thought should be in her mind at such a time added a bizarre tone to her flight. The doors were close.
“I’ll put the first one in her knee!” Howard shouted, pulling her own gun from his waistband.
Storm skidded to a stop. She grasped the door handle as she spun around to face him. She couldn’t leave Nicky.
He wound the rope around Storm’s throat twice, tied a knot, and tossed one end over one of the pipes that formed a maze in the ceiling. Howard’s lips were set in a grim line and didn’t speak as he worked. Storm thought she had never seen him so angry.
He pulled on the rope until it was tight around her neck, and then he pulled more so that she had to stand on tiptoe. Even then, the rope cut off her breath. She grasped the rope and managed to pull herself up and steal a gasp of air. Too quickly, her arms grew tired, and the rope slid through her hands. She was certain she was going to die. Her body fought, legs kicking, hands scrambling for a better grip on the rope, no thoughts, only instinct.
“Not yet,” Howard said. “We’ve got way more fun ahead of us.”
He let out some of the rope, enough so she could stand flat—breathe. She coughed and took panting breaths through her mouth. Her throat was sore, and the taste of the blood running down the back of her throat from her broken nose made her nauseated.
He grabbed her wrists roughly and pulled them behind her back, turning her in the process so that she faced Nicky. He tied her wrists together with his homemade whip.
“I. Can’t. Believe. This,” said Howard, emphasizing each word as he tied another knot in the whip. The sharpened edges of the washers sliced her skin, but she didn’t make a sound. He moved around to face her.
“I thought we were partners. I thought, maybe even friends.”
Storm remained quiet.
“You really piss me off. I’m fucking hurt. You know what it’s like to be hurt?”
Storm looked down, afraid her stare might increase his rage.
“Your friend knows. Want to see what hurts her the most, what she really hates?”
Storm shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said. No, don’t.”
“This,” he said, ignoring her. He walked the few steps to Nicky, bent and picked up the bottle of cleaner that Storm had stumbled over earlier. He shook the bottle, which was half full. Nicky whimpered, her eyes rolling wildly.
“No!” screamed Storm. “Not her. Me, Howard. You’re mad at me.”
Again, he ignored her. He uncapped the bottle and shook the contents over Nicky’s ravaged skin. She screamed, a horrible scream that went on and on.
Nicky took deep ragged breaths. Her body shook. Tears ran down her face. “Storm,” she heard Nicky whisper hoarsely.
Storm blinked several times to clear her sight. She watched as Howard dumped the rest of the cleaning fluid over his hands and reached between Nicky’s legs, brutally inserting his fingers and laughing as she screamed.
“Clean up our messes. That’s what we do. Right, Storm? Look at you,” he said with a note of surprise. “You’re practically vibrating.”
It was true. Storm’s anger had reached such a pitch that her body could not contain it. It felt as if every cell in her body was trembling.
Howard wiped his fingers on Nicky’s back, then left the room.
“I’m sorry, Nicky. I’m so sorry.” Storm didn’t think Nicky heard her. She stood swaying, her eyes closed, breathing heavily between clenched teeth. Storm was afraid she would faint and hang herself. “Hang on, Nicky. Don’t stop fighting.”
Howard returned with a cart.
“Let her go,” Storm pleaded. “Please let her go. I’ll do anything, Howard. Please, I promise—anything. I’ll go away with you. Anywhere you want. Do anything you want.”
Howard held the short leather-covered club he sometimes carried when he was in uniform. He put the thicker end of it under Storm’s chin and pushed her head up. “Sex, you mean? A blow job maybe? I wouldn’t trust you not to bite my dick off,” he told her. “Your promises are worthless.”
He pulled his arm back. Storm couldn’t help herself. She flinched, anticipating the blow. But instead of hitting her, he spun on his heel and slammed the club into Nicky
’s face.
Storm screamed. She screamed and screamed as Howard, all pretense of control gone, methodically beat Nicky to death.
When it was finally over, the sounds only echoes that would live in her mind forever, Storm let go. The rope tightened around her neck, cutting off her air. Her body struggled, but only feebly, and darkness, a kind and welcome friend, crept from the edges of her vision.
Panting as if he’d run a marathon, Howard dropped the blood- and bone-encrusted club and hurried to tug the slip knot loose and lower Storm to the floor.
He was prepared to provide CPR, but as soon as the rope was drawn from her neck, Storm coughed and took a deep breath.
When Storm reached full consciousness, she found that Howard had tied her ankles together, leaving about a foot of rope between them.
“Uppy, uppy,” he said, leaning down to grab her arm and help her stand. “Look at that—you went and pissed yourself.”
Storm realized her slacks were soaked with warm liquid. She couldn’t have cared less. There were more important things to deal with—like killing Howard.
Howard had different ideas.
“Time to clean up our mess.”
Storm staggered to her feet and turned to look at Nicky’s body still hanging from the pipe. She heard an anguished howling, realizing the sound had come from her. She wanted tears, tears to wash away her sins, but she couldn't cry. Instead, she threw up, over and over until her stomach was empty and it felt as if she were attempting to rid herself of her soul.
Afterward, he made her clean it up. Not just the vomit but the brutalized remains of Nicky’s body. As she helped lower the body into the recycling cart and wheeled it, step by small step to the back of the building, Storm prayed for her friend’s salvation and her eternal life in heaven.
They placed Nicky in the oxidizer, and Howard, taking Storm’s fingers in a crushing hold, forced her finger tips to press the on button.
They returned to the kill room to finish the cleanup. Howard made Storm put on a pair of protective coveralls. She wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. She no longer cared about blood on her clothing, and she had lost the belief that she could control anything. Her face throbbed, especially when she had to bend forward. A lump had formed on her forehead, and it too ached, but the emotional pain made the physical pain seem unimportant, even distant.
She had learned many things about the world that night. One of them was that there were worse things than an angry drunk setting a fire, that there was a different kind of cruelty: cold, sober, organized, and as intentional as a sharpened blade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
STORM THOUGHT she was numb to anything more that Howard could have done. There was only one thing she wanted—to kill him. That was the only goal, to get her hands on her gun. She had to concentrate on that.
“Where did you put the things you say you have on me—the gloves, the whip? Where are you keeping them, huh?” Howard asked, his voice rising to be heard over the sound of the water as she rinsed the walls and floors.
“I don’t have them,” Storm confessed. I never had them. It was a bluff. I just wanted you to leave me alone.”
“If it’s true—and I’m not sure it is—your bluff sure as hell backfired.”
Storm nodded, shut off the water, and hung the shower nozzle in its holder. Her hands were cold, fingertips wrinkled from being in water so long. Damp, untidy strands of hair hung in her face.
“You look like hell,” said Howard. “Let’s get you stripped out of those coveralls. Toss them in the garbage. Fuck the oxidizer.”
Storm looked up at him in a way she hoped seemed fearful, even timid. If he thought she’d lost the will to fight, he would let down his guard. She might still have been able to surprise him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to do anything to you, not now. We’ve got all night for that.”
Storm obediently removed the overalls. They were sopping wet to her knees, and she had to struggle to peel them off, but eventually she managed. Howard grabbed them from her hands and stuffed them into a nearby garbage can, never once taking his eyes off of her.
She was afraid he would tie her up again, but he’d burned the whip in the oxidizer. Besides, he had the arrogant attitude of someone who knew he was stronger.
“We’re going to leave now,” Howard said.
She was surprised. The entire time she’d been erasing any trace of Nicky’s murder she’d been awaiting her own death. She’d never expected to leave the kill room or the building alive.
Understanding her puzzled look, Howard reached out and grasped her wrist, grinding the bones together and making her wince at this new pain. “No, it’s not over yet. I was mad when you wanted to break up our partnership. I was pissed when you started bossing me around, but when you threatened me . . . well, honey, that was the last straw. I went past get mad to get even. That’s a place you probably didn’t want me to go, huh?”
Part of her urged compliance. Another part of her however was silently shrieking, and she couldn’t completely fight the urge to run. She tried to pull free of his grip.
Howard laughed at her feeble, half-hearted attempt and tugged her along with little effort. “We’ll take your car,” he said. Your husband won’t think twice when he sees it pull in.”
“W . . . what?” asked Storm.
“You heard right. We’re going to your house. I told you, you shouldn’t have threatened me. Besides, you might be lying. You might really have that glove and that piece of the whip, enough evidence to put me away. Can’t take the chance, so guess what we’re gonna do? We’re going to take a ride to your house. I’m going to tie your husband and your kids up. Guess what happens then. Come on, you want to guess, don’t you?”
Storm’s jaw clenched so hard on the words that she dared not say it made her face ache. A fresh trickle of blood slid over her chin.
“Okay, you don’t have to guess. I’ll tell you. I’m going to set your house on fire. Won’t that be fun?”
Storm slammed her shoulder into Howard’s side, trying to bowl him over, knock him off balance. He moved aside easily, shifted his hold so that she was in a wrist lock, her right arm pinned behind her. Slowly, he exerted more pressure, bringing her to her toes.
She whimpered as the pressure increased. Just when she was sure her wrist would snap, he loosened his hold, though he kept her arm bent behind her back. Feeling defenseless and frustrated to the point of tears, Storm stood mutely as he checked her pockets and found her car keys.
“Let’s go. You ready for a ride, huh?” he asked, pushing her ahead of him. After they went through the door, he stopped to make sure it locked behind them. No one would find anything unusual in the morning.
They walked to Storm’s car, Storm in front, Howard half a step behind, his hand wrapped around her throbbing wrist.
The night was dark, warm, and breathless. The sound of cars, evidence there was something more than this horror, were few and far between. Up above, a large plane growled its way across the sky, its blinking lights showing its line of descent toward the Hillsboro airport.
Bringing her to a stop against the cool metal trunk of her car, Howard took a moment to lean into Storm, his hips rolling against her. “Soon,” he promised. “Here, open the trunk.” He handed her the keys then squeezed her wrist, to remind her he was in charge.
She took the keys inexpertly in her left hand and nearly dropped them. Her fingers were cold, stiff, and still trembling. There was enough light from the streetlamps to allow her to see, but the key skittered across the lock, nonetheless. Finally, she got the trunk to pop open.
Howard reached past her, grabbed the edge of the trunk lid, and pushed it all the way up. She knew he was going to make her climb inside. The trunk was spacious and empty but for the red canvas bag she kept there. It was partially unzipped.
Without thinking, Storm slid her left hand into the bag. She felt a familiar shape, but slid her fingers forward to be s
ure. Yes.
Jerking the screwdriver from the bag handle forward, she drove it back past her left hip and into Howard’s thigh.
He bellowed and let her go. She spun right and ran.
Dashing through the parking lot, shards of pain and fresh tears half blinding her, she reached the row of evergreens along the edge of the parking lot. She broke through, branches scratching at her arms, and reached the sidewalk.
More certain of the footing, she ran faster, expecting Howard to be close behind. She heard her car start up and the heavy thump of a car door. She knew she was in trouble. Howard would run her down without hesitation. She needed to flag down a car, but there were so few cars at that time of night. Far in the distance, she saw a set of red taillights. Surely there would be more in time, if she only had time.
Moving away from the four-lane road and the possibilities it offered, she turned into the wide-open field of roughly shorn grass and wildflowers. What had once been a hay field before the onslaught of business that created the Silicon Forest was now a haven. Storm raced across the uneven terrain, hoping to reach a nearby orchard. The rows and rows of trees would protect her.
She reached the trees. Underfoot, years of unharvested hazelnuts crunched with each step. She was in an hazelnut orchard, no doubt soon to be cut down to make way for more industrial buildings.
Storm paused, a stitch in her side burning, her eyes wide as she searched for Howard. The car rolled to the exit of the parking lot. Storm expected it to come barreling across the street. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to run.
The car’s left blinker came on, and it turned slowly, even sedately, and drove away. Soon, it was nothing but a blur of red taillights.
“No. No. NO!” The scream was sub-vocal, heard only in Storm’s mind. Howard was driving to her house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
STORM COULD RUN the distance. Her children and her husband were only six miles away. But she couldn’t run fast enough to save them.