Vengeance Is Mine (An Owen Day Thriller)

by Rachel Ford

  It started at five minutes. Then, it would be fifteen or half an hour. After that, the site might tell him he needed to reset his password to continue. Or it might lock the account for an hour, or six hours. He’d had that happen once: a colossal pain in the ass, but a decent protective measure.

  He paced the room for five minutes. Then he sat down again and gave it another few seconds. He tried Joshua’s birthday: day and month, and then year. He got nowhere. He tried Brittany’s birthday, and birth year. Nothing.

  He started to think maybe it wasn’t a date at all. Maybe it was some kind of random number. Maybe it was a code. Maybe Rick had used the ASCII representation of his own initials, or Marsha’s, one of the kids’.

  He thought about pulling up an ASCII code table and trying that. But it seemed like a stretch. Rick was smart, cunning even; ruthless, certainly. But he wasn’t particularly imaginative.

  No, whatever the code was, it would be straightforward, and simple, and obscure enough to be safe. Not his birthday, or his anniversary, or his kids’ birthdays. Something that mattered to him, but something he loved less than his wife and kids, then. A pet’s birthday, maybe.

  Then, though, he shook his head. Not something he loved less. Something he loved more. That goddamned house.

  He brought up Google and typed in a few keywords: Wynder replica house complete. The top hits all had to do with Rick’s death, and Marsha’s. But eight articles down, he found what he wanted. The Yellow River Falls Ledger had an article dated twelve years ago about the completion of the grand house.

  He noted the date, and this time he tried the year first: twelve years earlier. Four digits.

  The screen changed again. But this time, it revealed a desktop with a neat line of icons along the left.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Owen scrolled through his search results. He’d brought his tablet with him, and while Tanney enjoyed a second or third beer, he worked on a line of inquiry that had come to him while the old man rhapsodized about coffee stouts.

  The judge and Mrs. Wynder had been killed for reasons that had nothing to do with the serial killer. His focus so far had been on their link to the other killings. He’d taken into account the proximity to the interstate, hunting season, and so on.

  But he’d been looking at it the wrong way around. If Rick Wynder hadn’t been killed by the Midwest serial killer, none of that mattered. He hadn’t been killed because of the time of the year. He hadn’t been killed because the highway ran right by the town, or because he was visible from the road.

  He’d been killed for some other reason. He and Marsha both.

  Obvious, now that Owen thought about it. But he’d been so wrapped up in looking at the case through the lens of the serial killings that he hadn’t really stopped to consider a distinct motive.

  Maybe the serial killer had reasons, like Tanney thought. Maybe he picked out targets in advance and planned the killings. Maybe he didn’t. But this wasn’t the serial killer.

  Whoever killed Rick and Marsha had a reason specific to them. That reason was what occupied Owen’s mind at the moment.

  He started with the obvious red flags. Neither had priors that might hint at a troubled past that could come back to haunt them. As far as his internet search could tell, neither had been involved in any kind of accident or dispute that might cause someone to seek revenge.

  Then he looked at their professions. Marsha Wynder, née Marsha Miller, worked in a high-level directorial job at a healthcare facility. Owen couldn’t tell beyond that what exactly her role entailed. But what it didn’t entail was clear.

  Marsha hadn’t been a doctor or a nurse, or any kind of care giver. So this wouldn’t have been about medical malpractice, or a family member who blamed her for a botched procedure or a failed treatment.

  Which didn’t mean she couldn’t have been a target through her job, for some other reason. Maybe senior directors were the final authority over billing disputes, or financial assistance claims. Maybe someone she’d denied came looking for her.

  It was a possibility, but Owen had absolutely nothing to support it. He didn’t find any stories of lawsuits or claims of malpractice or abusive collections practices. He didn’t see rumors on blogs and forums.

  So he put a mental pin in that tidbit and moved to Rick Wynder. If employment had come into play, Rick seemed like the more obvious candidate anyway. He was a judge, after all. He’d been a prosecutor, a county judge, and finally a state supreme court justice.

  That was the kind of career path that inevitably put someone in the way of unsavory characters. It was the kind of career path that made enemies. Maybe even the kind of enemies who might shoot you and your wife.

  Owen filtered his search results by date, to weed out the hits related to the shootings. In Marsha’s case, that had eliminated almost everything. In Rick’s case, it still left plenty.

  Rick had run for his position as a justice twice. There were archived versions of his campaign website, where he promised to be nonpartisan and fair, to uphold the state constitution and so on. There were interviews and articles about his runs.

  Some were fluff pieces, that beyond a sparse biography, focused on personalizing the candidate. Owen didn’t really care about his favorite beer or ice cream, though. He moved on to the more substantive pieces.

  There were plenty of those, too – some written by neutral parties, and some written by his own supporters, or his opponents’.

  The slant in the latter was obvious, of course, but there were interesting facts to be gleaned anyway. One of his supporters, a law school buddy named Albert Winston, wrote of Rick Wynder’s unwavering work ethic and humble means.

  “Rick Wynder was the scholarship kid who got up at the crack of dawn and worked until well after the sun went down. He stocked shelves and mopped floors and cracked the books, day after day. He worked weekends and holidays and graveyard shifts, because he was a man with a calling: justice.”

  Albert declared he’d never met a more dedicated or passionate professional than Richard ‘Rick’ Wynder. He was no trust fund kid following in his parents’ footsteps, or doing what was expected. He was a kid from hardscrabble roots with a passion for justice so strong he barely slept for eight long years, and worked harder than any half a dozen people to put himself through school with scholarships and internships and part time jobs.

  That was one view of Rick Wynder: hard work, integrity, and justice. The kind Owen would expect from a friend and supporter.

  The other view came from his critics, some of them advocates for innocence projects and fairness in sentencing groups, and some of them supporters of Wynder’s rivals. Rick Wynder had been a harsh judge, one of the harshest in the country. He’d handed down lengthy prison sentences for every offense that ended up in front of him.

  His supporters called him tough on crime. His critics suggested there was more to it than that.

  It took Owen a few minutes to find actual accusations beyond the vague insinuations. These were lawyers and people who would be well-versed in what constituted protected speech versus unprotected. Consequently, they were careful to avoid slander and libel.

  They stuck to opinions and inuendo, to questions and concerns rather than accusations. Owen saw the word “scandal” mentioned repeatedly.

  So he put “Rick Wynder scandal” into the search engine. And then he got his answer.

  Two years before his last term on the state supreme court ended, Rick Wynder had been investigated by the state’s then-attorney general. The investigation centered on his time as a county judge, and the excessively harsh prison sentences he’d handed down.

  Owen had just pulled a few articles on the topic when Tanney tapped the tablet. Owen jumped, and the old man laughed.

  “You looked like you wanted to kill your little computer there.”

  “Tablet.”

  “Whatever. Have a drink, Owen.”

  “I’m driving.”

  “You look like you
could use a beer.”

  “I feel like I could use a beer. But I’m driving.”

  “I can drive.”

  Owen started to argue, until he saw the twinkle in Tanney’s eyes. He was yanking his chain.

  “You’re too serious. You’re going to work yourself into an early grave.”

  Owen again thought that Tanney sounded very much like his daughter – very much like her worrying faze that so annoyed him. But this time, he said so, adding, “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, I think.”

  The old man snorted. “Apples? Trees? What are you, my grandmother? But come on: why were you staring daggers at your screen?”

  Owen told him what he’d read so far. “I’m not really sure what they suspected him of, but I guess they must not have been able to prove anything.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, he finished his term and nothing ever came of it, right?”

  Tanney nodded slowly. “He never ran again though, did he?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe there was more to it than the AG found.”

  “Or maybe there wasn’t, but the political damage was done. Maybe he figured the suspicion would hurt his chances at re-election.”

  Tanney considered, sipping his beer slowly. “Maybe. But if that was the case –”

  Then the waitress appeared, carrying a tray full of food. It looked good and smelled better. Judge Wynder could wait.

  She set their meals down with smiles and questions about refills. “You folks traveling far tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Just down the road.”

  She glanced out the window and nodded. “Well, that’s good. The snow’s already coming, and it looks like it’s going to be a real bear. All I can say is, I’m glad I took the truck. I saw eight inches in the forecast, and I figured hubs gets out before I do…he could have the car today.”

  She wasn’t exaggerating. There was already an inch on the roads by time Owen and Tanney finished their meal and paid. The streets were mostly deserted, but what traffic remained crawled. Even so, some of the cars fishtailed at the intersections.

  Tanney laughed at the other drivers, declaring that they must either be “tourists or imbeciles. No excuse for driving like that, not if you live here.”

  Still, he decided Owen wouldn’t be leaving first thing in the morning after all. “The roads’ll be buried. You’ll have to wait until the plows get done. But I don’t mind. I still haven’t heard from the shop, so you can take me to get a real coffee before you go, yeah?”

  * * *

  He’d found the files he thought he would on the hard drive and deleted them. Rick had set up an automatic backup of his files to a subscription-based cloud service, but the judge had apparently been tech savvy enough to exclude the folder in question, and all its content.

  He checked and rechecked, and only when he felt absolutely confident did he shut the machine down for good. Then he tried to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come. The storm raged outside, with angry winds howling past. The snow fell unyieldingly, hour upon hour.

  Sleeping alone made it worse, somehow, in weather like this. The press of a warm body up against his own while the wind screamed might have quieted the part of his mind that wouldn’t sleep.

  He knew the files were gone. He’d deleted them himself. Now all that remained was to destroy the hard drive and dispose of the pieces.

  Easy.

  But this was his life, his career, his reputation at stake. He had never had problems taking risks or acting decisively and boldly. This was different, though.

  Wynder had had him over a barrel for years. And now, for the first time in years, he was almost free. He could practically taste his freedom, right there, right in front him, for the taking.

  As long as he didn’t mess it up.

  He paced the big house, its halls dark in the late night – and still dark hours later as he walked the same floors in the early morning.

  Once he took a hammer to the drive, there was no going back from that. There was no logging into Rick’s accounts again. He might have guessed his PIN, but he’d never guess his passwords.

  The computer saved all of Rick’s passwords, because the judge had made good use of the remember password and autologin features. So as long as he had the computer, he had access to everything of Rick’s.

  But once he destroyed the computer, he revoked his own access. That’s the piece that was keeping him from sleeping. If he’d missed anything – any cloud subscription, any secret email account – it would be too late.

  He made his way back to the office and set himself in his leather office chair. He stared at the laptop, at the black frame and darkened screen. He passed his tongue over dry lips and raised his hand. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second, and then two.

  And then a shrill noise cut through the early morning stillness, and he jumped and gasped. He threw a frantic glance around the darkened room, but the blaze of light from his phone screen drew his attention.

  His heartrate returned to something like normal. A phone call. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  He chuckled to himself and lifted the phone. Then he stopped chuckling and stopped smiling. He recognized the name on the screen. Or rather, the location, since the caller ID came up as: Private Caller, Jefferson City, MO

  He stared for a long moment. The phone went on ringing. Four rings. Five. Then it stopped, and the room went dark again. He heard nothing but the sound of howling wind screaming by the house and beating against the windows.

  He hadn’t had a call from that number in a long time. But he knew exactly who it was. And he knew exactly why they’d called. He knew they’d call again. There’d be no voicemail. Whatever they had to say wouldn’t be left on a recording.

  The phone rang again. The screen lit up, and displayed Private Caller, Jefferson City, MO. The ring trilled out once, then twice. He waited until the fourth ring before he accepted the call. He tapped the speaker button and said nothing.

  A voice – the voice he expected – said, “Sean?”

  He said nothing.

  “Sean, you there?”

  He licked his lips again and spoke. His voice sounded strangely hoarse to his ears. “You’re not supposed to call me.”

  “I know,” the voice said. “I apologize for that and the hour. But I’m just back in the country, and I saw the news.”

  “What news?”

  There was silence on the other end, and then a small laugh. Not a happy sound: a filler. “Well, I was going to ask if you had anything to do with that, but I guess I’ve got my answer.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s late, Sean. Let’s not waste time with that. You know what I’m talking about. And that was stupid. Very stupid. I thought we’d come to an understanding?”

  “We had.”

  “Then what the hell happened to him? And the wife too?”

  “Marsha was an accident.”

  “No names, for God’s sake.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t know why he was apologizing. He was the victim here, and the more he thought of it, the more it pissed him off. “But I had nothing to do with him. And she was an accident.”

  “Sean, you don’t really think I’m going to believe that, do you?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Sean…we had a deal.”

  “Yeah: I did what you wanted, and the pictures went away, forever.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they didn’t go away, did they?”

  Now, there was silence on the other end of the line – just for a beat, but long enough to know he’d been heard. “Of course they did.”

  “Like hell they did. He still had the printout.”

  He heard a sigh. “Ah. That’s…unfortunate.”

  “And digital copies on his computer.”

  Another slight pause. “That’s worse.”

  “W
hy do you think I went there myself? I had nothing to do with him, but after – I couldn’t leave them there. She – she was an accident. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “You should have come to us.”

  He snorted. “And wait for Marsha to stumble on them, or the kids?”

  “No names.”

  “You should have taken care of it years ago.”

  “He gave me his word –”

  “His word? If his word had meant a damned thing, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

  Silence again: three long seconds of it. Then the voice said, “Did you leave any evidence?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely. I was careful: gloves, mask, etc. And I burned everything I wore afterwards. They’ll never find a trace.”

  Another silence followed, shorter this time. “Okay. Well, what’s done is done.”

  He nodded. “I only did what I had to. I’m sorry about Mar-about her. If he’d gotten rid of the pictures like he said he would –”

  “An accident,” the voice interrupted. “Not your fault. He agreed to the rules, and he didn’t follow them. What happened to her is on him, not you.”

  He nodded. “So…we don’t have a problem?”

  The voice paused for half a second. “No. As long as you were as careful as you say, no problems.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Owen woke at his desk again. He’d fallen asleep working at his tablet the night before. A bad habit, and one he needed to curb, if the ache in his back and stiffness in his legs was anything to go by.

  And finding that he hobbled almost as much as Tanney, he decided it was not to be ignored. He’d make a point of being in bed by a certain time tonight. He’d be home, anyway.

  But not right away. Owen figured that out as soon as he glanced out his window. The snow was piled high all over. He couldn’t make out the road, and his vehicle looked as if it was buried under a foot at least.

  Still, he yawned and packed his belongings. He might not be able to go right away, but he could be ready to go as soon as the roads allowed it. He left out a change of clothes and his tablet.