Vengeance Is Mine

by Joanne Fluke

  “Your audience. I told you I’d get them out. George Simonson donated the Winnebagos. I’m giving him a free commercial tonight. And the fleet of school buses was easy. Alex Cooperman’s running for president of the school board again, and I promised to endorse him. Close your mouth, Judith, and start selling tickets.”

  “Here’s another delivery, Michele.”

  Steve set a stack of pizza boxes on the counter and hopped over. The game was in the first quarter, and they’d already gone through three hundred hot dogs. Thank goodness for the steady stream of delivery vans pulling up outside the snack bar with extra food. Margaret had arranged it all. Every pizza parlor in town was sending out its best at a dollar over cost.

  Michele grinned at him and started to dish out pizza. They were selling it by the slice at a fifty-cent profit. Along with the coffee, the beer, and the hot chocolate, they’d already made more in one night than they’d hoped for in the whole hockey tournament.

  Louise came rushing up to the counter, Ken Menke on her tail.

  “Do we have any more WinterGame buttons, Michele? Kenny worked out a promotion. He takes four buttons from each box and marks them on the back. Anyone who buys a button with Kenny’s secret word gets a five-minute ride in a real police car.”

  “They’re under the counter, Steve. That big box on the left. It’s a good thing Judith ordered an extra ten thousand.”

  Steve lifted the box and handed it to Ken. “Good thinking, Kenny.”

  “We give the kids rides every year for our community liaison project. I just figured we’d do it a little early this year.”

  There was a slight break in the wave of snack bar customers, and Michele turned to find Steve finishing the last of a pepperoni pizza. It was his second one tonight.

  “Aren’t you full yet?”

  “I’m getting there. Maybe I’d better save some room. I figured we could go to Perkins after the game for one of their special omelets.”

  Michele laughed and kissed him between bites. She’d been wrong about buying food by the case. They’d have to order it by the truckload.

  Margaret unlocked her front door and turned on the lights in the living room. It was a quarter to eleven, and she was completely exhausted, but she felt marvelous. Every bit of work had been worth it. Margaret knew she’d never forget the look on their faces when she pulled up with those Winnebagos.

  “Grover!” Margaret called before she remembered. Grover was spending the night at the vet’s for deworming. Even though she’d had him for only one day, the house felt lonely without him.

  She slipped off her boots and left them smack-dab in the middle of the living-room rug. Her coat landed on the recliner, which was now Grover’s bed. Margaret went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a bottle of Chardonnay on the bottom shelf, but Dr. Weston had been firm about avoiding alcohol.

  The way Margaret saw it, she had a choice: She could be miserably healthy or happily sick. It was no contest. Margaret got out the corkscrew and opened the bottle. Chardonnay was one of her favorite wines.

  Margaret poured herself a glass. She carried it into the living room and switched on the television. She was just in time to catch the eleven o’clock news.

  It was a relief to get off her feet. Margaret stretched out on the couch and took a sip of her wine. It was an excellent vintage. Even though she was tired, it had been a thoroughly rewarding day.

  Kevin Reilly’s tape came on, and Margaret smiled in satisfaction. The coverage of WinterGame was perfect in every respect. As usual, Kevin had done a crackerjack job. Several large stations around the country had tried to hire him away, but Margaret paid him well, and Kevin was loyal. Margaret believed in rewarding her employees for their talent and loyalty, and she had arranged a special bonus for Kevin. If he was still employed at the station at the time of her death, he would become the new owner.

  Some people might call it macabre, but Margaret took pleasure in planning for her own death. She had no immediate heirs, and her estate was hers to do with as she wished. She had a few surprises up her sleeve, and she wished that she could stick around just long enough to hear the reading of her will. It was undoubtedly the best piece she’d ever written.

  The doorbell rang, and Margaret frowned. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She got up from the couch and pulled back the curtains slightly so she could see her front doorstep. A nun stood on the top step, her finger on the bell.

  What on earth? Margaret was puzzled. She felt like refusing to answer, but that would definitely not be diplomatic. The clergy was probably protesting her coverage of WinterGame again.

  Margaret gave a resigned sigh and reached for the lock. Then she paused. There was no reason why the nun couldn’t come to the station during regular business hours. Ringing her doorbell at half past eleven in the evening was just plain inconsiderate.

  Mind made up, Margaret turned on her heel and went back to the couch. Her station was running That Touch of Mink, and she didn’t want to miss her favorite scene. Watching a drunken Doris Day in a hotel-room bed with an empty liquor bottle stuck on her toe was bound to be a lot more enjoyable than making polite conversation with the clergy.

  The doorbell rang again during the commercial break, but Margaret didn’t move from the couch. A few minutes later she heard footsteps at the side of the house, and then the back doorknob rattled as someone tried to get in. That nun certainly didn’t give up easily.

  When the bumper card came on for the late movie, the doorbell rang again. That did it. Margaret got up and stormed to the front door, fully prepared to give the persistent nun a piece of her mind. She yanked open the door and gasped as she confronted a uniformed policeman.

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Mrs. Whitworth, but Steve Radke sent me over to be your bodyguard. I’m Doug Phillips, and here’s my identification.”

  The handsome young policeman looked nervous, and Margaret smiled to put him at ease. She must have looked like the wrath of God when she pulled open the door.

  “Did you walk around the back, Doug? I thought I heard someone try the door.”

  “No, Mrs. Whitworth. I just drove up a second ago. Wait right here, and I’ll check it for you.”

  Margaret watched as Doug walked around the back of the house, shining his flashlight on the walkway. If Doug hadn’t been at the back door, it must have been that rude nun. She’d definitely corner Archbishop Ciminski at the first opportunity to complain about the manners of the clergy.

  Doug was cautious as he walked around the back of the house. He held his flashlight in his left hand, his gun in his right. The backyard was deserted now and Doug thought about going as far as the garage, but Margaret was in the house alone. Doug’s orders were to protect her, not tramp around in the deep snow, looking for footprints.

  After one last sweep of the yard with his flashlight, Doug turned back. A moment after he had left, two figures dressed in black emerged from their hiding place behind Margaret’s garage. Doug was already inside when they hurried swiftly down the alley and disappeared in the darkness of the night.

  Margaret was waiting by the door as Doug come in again. “The snow’s trampled, Mrs. Whitworth, but there’s no one there now.”

  “Thank you, Doug. I was just getting ready to watch a movie. Do you like Doris Day?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Whitworth. I just love vintage movies.”

  Margaret laughed. As soon as Doug settled on the couch, she went into the kitchen for the bottle of Lafite-Rothschild she’d been saving for a special occasion. She was about to teach Doug Phillips the meaning of the word vintage.

  Henry Corliss washed his hands and went back to his desk. He had been working steadily since seven this evening and he was finally on the right track. It was all due to that book he’d read describing Spilsbury’s techniques when he was the home office pathologist for Scotland Yard.

  His new digital watch gave two shrill beeps for the hour, and Henry spilled his coffee. He wish
ed he could find the directions that had come with the watch. He’d pressed every button on the damned thing, and he still couldn’t figure out how to shut off that beep. It was miserable wearing a watch that had the power to scare the hell out of him twenty-four times a day, but Edith had thrown away his beat-up Bulova.

  It was midnight. Henry picked up the phone and dialed Steve’s number. No one was home. He let the phone ring the recommended ten times and hung up. Steve must have stopped somewhere on the way home from the hockey game. By the time Henry finished up here, Steve should be home.

  Henry poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. It tasted even worse than usual tonight. He guessed it hadn’t been such a good idea to wash the pot. All the flavor must have come from the built-up residue. Now it would take another six months to get decent coffee again.

  There was a can of Snappy Tom in the small refrigerator that Henry used to preserve specimens. His last assistant had been fond of Bloody Marys. Henry opened it and finished it off at a gulp. His ulcer would kick up, but it was worth it. The pepper in the tomato juice would keep him awake while he finalized his results. He had spent the past five hours measuring and doing research. Now he was ready to put it together.

  Henry referred to his notes and carefully punched out the data on his computer terminal. He was using the new calculus program that everyone recommended. First he entered the specific density ratio of bone versus brain tissue, then the downward momentum achieved by raising the human arm to full extension before lowering it again, and finally the average force capable of being applied by the arm muscles in such a position. There was only one variable he hadn’t been able to figure, but the computer could take care of that. It had to do with where the murderer had grasped the weapon. The business end of a baseball bat, grasped at the handle, could deliver a much more powerful impact than a shorter bat of the same heft. Henry had tried to compensate for his lack of information by devising a sliding scale that was exponential. Now everything was up to the computer. Henry punched in the code for the printout and leaned back in his chair, waiting for the results.

  Seconds later the printer activated. Henry decided to wash his face while the computer did his work for him. It shouldn’t take long to print out the possibilities for the length and height of the murder weapon.

  The men’s room at the end of the hall was deserted as usual. Henry stared at his red-eyed reflection in the mirror and frowned. He looked god-awful. He ran cold water in the sink, soaked a paper towel, and pressed it to his eyes. Two minutes should help reduce the redness. He didn’t want the student nurses to think he’d been on a bender down here.

  Five minutes later Henry walked back down the corridor. He opened his office door and stared at the paper that had spewed out of the printer in his absence. Thirty-two pages of calculations, and the printer was still going. He must have done something wrong.

  Henry punched in the STOP PRINT code, but nothing happened. How did he shut this thing off? If he used up all the paper in the box, the bureaucrats in accounting would be sure to bill him. He had to do something fast.

  A quick glance at the computer manual did no good whatsoever. Henry was sure it had been translated from some foreign language. It said nothing about printers running amok.

  Electrical. The whole damn system was plugged in. The moment Henry thought of it, he made a dive under the desk to pull out the plug. Silence. He’d lost all his data, but this modern technology stuff hadn’t worked worth a damn anyway.

  Back to the drawing board. Henry took out his grid paper and his notes. There was only one way to do this, the old-fashioned, tedious way. Earlier in the day Henry had taken more than fifty precise measurements of the wounds of the four victims. From visual examination of the wounds he knew that the murder weapon consisted of two bars that crossed at a ninety-degree angle. By comparing the impression made on the skulls and brain tissue of the four victims, he was able to use the intersection of the two bars as a constant and reconstruct an overlay of the various blows. This resulted in an accurate picture of the configuration of the murder weapon, even though he had no way of knowing the actual size.

  It was close to twelve-thirty when Henry was through. Both bars were two inches wide, but that didn’t help much. The thing that caught his attention was the intersection of the two bars. It wasn’t flat. Instead, there was a raised semi-oval surface with three sharp points near the top. He already knew the prongs were high-grade silver. He’d analyzed the one that had broken off in Les’s skull.

  He was just too tired to think. Henry called Steve’s number again, but he still wasn’t home. Perhaps a cup of decent coffee and a light breakfast would help. He could call Steve again from the hospital cafeteria.

  The basement of the hospital was deserted. Henry pressed the button for the elevator and changed his mind after waiting for more than three minutes. He’d use the stairs. The exercise would take the stiffness out of his legs.

  “Good morning, Dr. Corliss.”

  A pretty red-haired nurse greeted him as he opened the stairwell door. She looked fresh and dewy-eyed, filled with the early-morning enthusiasm that only professional nurses seem to have. Henry smiled back, but he could see in her eyes that he looked like death warmed over. He’d been in the office since six this morning, and he’d gotten a total of twelve hours’ sleep in the past three nights.

  The corridors were bustling with activity. Nurses were changing shifts, and Henry stepped into the chapel to avoid a group of twittering students. He didn’t feel like greeting anyone. He just wanted to show Steve his results and go home to bed.

  A crucifix hung on the wall at the back of the chapel. Henry stared at it and rubbed his eyes. It had always struck him as morbid to worship a deity dying in agony on an ancient instrument of torture.

  “Holy shit!”

  Henry’s eyes widened as he stared at the two intersecting bars of metal with the figure of Christ forming a bulky oval at the center. He moved closer and squinted at the crown of thorns on the figure’s head. Sharp prongs. High-grade silver. He had to get to Steve right away.

  Sister Kate gave up and turned on the light. She couldn’t seem to go back to sleep even though she was tired. She might as well read for a while.

  The courthouse clock chimed once as Sister Kate reached for her book. It was one o’clock in the morning, and she had to get up at six. Thinking about the day to come should be enough to make her sleepy again.

  She’d had the elevator dream again. If she told Dr. Sullivan about her dreams, he’d insist they were related to sexual frustration. Dr. Sullivan was in his Freudian phase again, complete with his pointed little beard. Sister Kate had worked with the doctor for more than five years, and she’d watched him alternate between Skinnerian conditioning and Freudian psychotherapy. She preferred the Freudian. At least she didn’t have to keep track of reinforcement schedules every time her patients burped. No, she wouldn’t bother Dr. Sullivan with her dream. She was positive it was caused by the missing elevator key.

  Cissy had helped her look today. They’d gone through Father Murphy’s room, inch by inch, even though he’d insisted that he hadn’t seen it. She simply had to locate that key before Father Gregory was admitted next week. The elevator ran from the attached garage to the upstairs rooms, and Father Gregory was confined to a wheelchair. She’d never get him up and down the stairs without the elevator.

  Her mind was racing, and Sister Kate knew she had to relax. She got out of bed, slipped into her robe, and walked softly to the kitchen. She’d have a nice hot cup of latte, just the way her Italian grandmother used to make it.

  Sister Kate poured milk into a saucepan and turned on the stove. She waited until the milk was steaming and added a scoop of sugar. Then she stirred it and poured it into a cup. Nonna Rosa’s latte had always put her right to sleep.

  The latte was too hot to drink. Sister Kate carried it back to her room and set it down on her night table. Then she went up the stairs to do one final check on her pat
ients.

  The major and Father Murphy both were sound asleep. Monsignor Wickes was snoring again, and Sister Kate shut his door tightly. Cissy was sleeping in a fetal position, and she whimpered as Sister Kate opened the door. There were tears on her cheeks.

  Sister Kate moved quietly to the bed and smoothed back Cissy’s hair. It must have been a bad dream. At the touch of her hand Cissy smiled slightly and burrowed down under the covers. That was better. Now she was sleeping like a baby.

  She heard the noise the moment she opened Gustie’s door. Sister Kate hurried to the bed and smiled as she realized what it was. Gustie was smacking her lips as she slept. She was probably dreaming about a twelve-course meal.

  Mother Superior had kicked off her covers, and the room was ice-cold. Sister Kate tiptoed in to shut the window and tuck her covers in tightly. Mother Superior’s Pope John Paul II paper doll was propped up on her dresser. She’d cut out the green chasuble and dressed him in the pontifical attire he’d worn for his visit to Washington, D.C.

  Only one room remained, and Sister Kate forced herself to open the bishop’s door. He was sleeping flat on his back with his arms held rigidly at his sides. There were looming shadows on the walls from the chess pieces again, and Sister Kate backed out as quickly as she could. Bishop Donahue’s room always made her nervous, especially at night.

  Sister Kate knew she should try to get over her prejudice toward the bishop. He’d been extremely pleasant in the last few days, but she still didn’t feel comfortable around him. There was nothing concrete. It was probably just a silly notion, but Bishop Donahue’s congeniality reminded her of the lull before the destructive force of a tornado.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Just a minute, Pete. I brought you something.”

  Michele opened her purse and took out the hot dog she’d saved from this afternoon. The ketchup and mustard had leaked through the paper napkin, but Pete didn’t seem to mind a bit.