Dark Vengeance

by R. T. Wolfe

  MollyAnne Melbourne took one long step and entered his viewpoint.

  It was surprising how out-of-context she seemed in society. In a regular home, wearing regular clothes versus the orange jumpsuit at parole hearings. He held back his need to bolt and wrap his hands around her throat.

  "Hello, Duncan," MollyAnne purred. "What brings you to our lovely home?" She wore her hair straight and long with bangs that hid most of the scarring. He knew under the platinum were the remnants of a badly burned ear and jaw line. That's what happened to people who tried to blow up their child nemesis and an eight-year-old boy.

  Letting himself in, he smiled. "I'm here to ask you the same question."

  "I'm here having coffee with my beautiful mother."

  It sickened him to see her reach down and kiss Lucy on her fragile cheek. Although MollyAnne was her only daughter, Lucy had remained neutral through the trial.

  "Duncan." Lucy groaned. "She did her time."

  "I'm wondering about what she's been doing with herself since her time."

  He watched as MollyAnne's gaze moved to her left. Creating an answer. "I don't have to answer to anyone anymore, Duncan." She smirked without showing any teeth. "My, my, my, you're not a scared little boy anymore."

  He heard car doors. They must have decided against sirens. "I'm afraid 'yes' is the answer to both, actually. Yes, I'm a man now and yes you do have others to answer to. I believe I hear your ride outside now."

  "Why you little—"

  "Just as you said, Melbourne, I'm not little anymore."

  * * *

  Carefully, Duncan tamed his emotions as he walked back over the Black Creek bridge and onto his aunt and uncle's property. He'd waited to watch as they stuffed MollyAnne in the back of the squad car, but it didn't have the soothing effect he'd expected. Now, he'd been gone long enough his aunt would be over-the-top with suspicion. Half his mind spun with the steps he needed to take next. With the other half, he would put coffee with Brie in the forefront.

  And then he came around from the back of their house.

  He found a handful of cars lined in the extensive drive along with a bright red ladder truck. His mood lightened at the thought of the homecoming visitors who apparently dropped in to welcome her. He predicted a dozen or so firemen were in the mix, current and retired.

  As he opened the thick, wooden front door, he heard dishes clanking and rumbles of gentle laughter. Making his way to the kitchen, he realized he never truly understood the depth of the connection Brie had with the fire department. He knew she frequently brought food to the firemen on their different shifts, especially on Giants' game nights. He stood in the entrance of the kitchen and thought of how profoundly different the scenario was to the one he'd just left. The scenario only a few acres away from his aunt.

  Several men and one woman worked comfortably around her kitchen as four seemed to be keeping guard, keeping Brie put at the kitchen table. He recognized a few.

  Some were too young to have been around during the arson that killed Brie's parents or the night Melbourne tried to reenact the murder with Brie and himself. On the other hand, some were old enough to have fought the blaze during each. And yet, the room was crowded with those who appreciated and supported her. It was hard not to.

  His uncle and the new fire chief set out mugs and sugar. The woman in the mix carried a carton of dairy creamer from the fridge to the table. The chief comfortably slid his arm around her.

  After taking one more moment to gather his composure, Duncan entered the room. He overheard the conversation between his uncle and the chief.

  "Been a long time coming and past due." Nathan offered a hand.

  The chief nodded humbly. "The current chief doesn't officially retire until next week, but I have to admit, it feels good already."

  Brie added, "We should be celebrating for the two of you this morning, Carol." The woman had a simple smile. The chief kissed her before she returned to slicing the sheet of coffee cake the men had uncovered.

  Duncan contemplated avoiding Brie since there would be no concealing his temperament from her. Instead, he decided on honesty. Mostly. Walking straight to her, he pulled up a chair and sat. Without interrupting as a rookie fireman ogled about the last batch of wings she'd dropped off at his station, Brie eyed Duncan as she listened.

  Predictably, when given a short reprieve from acting as guest in her own home, she questioned him. "So, are you going to tell me? And don't tell me it's nothing."

  He waited a moment, gathering his thoughts before he answered. "I won't, because you're right, but I will ask you to wait for the time being. Please."

  * * *

  Thankfully, Brie hadn't pressed Duncan about it. The weights and the heavy bag in his basement had kneaded most of the kinks in his head. The swim was working on the rest. The pool was his preferred place to think. No visual or auditory distractions. He appreciated the repetition as his arms reached and pulled, reached and pulled.

  His cousins were due to stay over that night, and since they looked up to him as the eldest brother, he would fill the role. They deserved it.

  He hadn't been the easiest son to raise, he knew. Scars from his parents' deaths. His secret. They complicated things.

  The twenty-minute drive to just outside of town had given him time to think. He'd stopped at the market on the way home and picked up enough food to feed a small army. A small army or three college kids. He'd gotten home in enough time to hack into the police station database long before his cousins were due.

  He did a flip turn as he thought of how unwise it was to work alone, especially from his home Wi-Fi. Even though his brother lived just down the hill, Duncan had figured he would need to bother him enough as it was in the next few days and weeks. They had a system, were a team. Duncan could memorize the avenues, the pass codes and recognize which security systems the techies used whenever he and Andy decided to... explore. Andy knew how to build an untraceable path into nearly any system and prevent any leftover entrails.

  Savage must be working late. She hadn't turned in the interview report on Melbourne the last time he'd checked.

  He and his cousins would watch the Giants on his big screen, eat crap until they could heave and tell remember-when-you stories. How much longer until the rush of life kept them from nights like this? Hannah would graduate from Rochester U in the spring and the twins only a few years later.

  He sprinted the last lap, drove into the end of the pool, then stood. Next to him was the sliding glass door that led out back. Darkness fell earlier here compared to L.A. His vision extended as far as the security lights allowed. Woods. Thick and peaceful. The air clear and clean.

  Tonight, he would spend with his cousins. In the following days, he and Andy would look into the Melbourne interview and check on her long lost accomplice.

  * * *

  Nickie sat in her end-of-the-row townhouse in the corner bedroom. It was a mess, of course. Clothes and shoes littered every surface, every surface except the small desk in front of her. The only thing she allowed on it was the work she brought home. Tonight, it was a stack of files, all closed at the moment, and her laptop, which was not. She'd enlarged the monitor view to 140 percent in order to read as she plucked.

  Between her legs rested her cello. They held a love/hate relationship. The elderly wood could either bring back the unwanted memories of her adolescence or sooth her soul to the place where answers to the unsolved pieces of her life became obsolete.

  She guessed her parents would be happy to know she still played, but since she hadn't spoken to them in nearly fifteen years, she decided it didn't matter. She loved the fact that they introduced her to the world of music. She hated that they'd never looked for her. Love/hate.

  So, tonight she plucked. Plucked as she surfed, reading about Duncan Reed. The highly sought-after artist within the circle of the wealthy and the famous who occasionally accepted the role of arm candy for one of them.

  In an image search, sh
e found page after page of his work. The variety puzzled her. Landscapes that could be mistaken for photographs, formal paintings of wedding parties. The faces he portrayed looked alive, full of expression and personality. A specific one caught her eye. It was outdoors in front of a sea of blowing golden fall grasses. A young woman stood with her worn boots resting between the slats of a weathered split rail fence, her forehead pressed against that of a horse whose mane nearly matched the color of the field. She recognized the young woman as the sister or, she corrected, cousin who so affectionately ran to Duncan on his arrival at the back of the Reed home.

  There was more to Duncan Reed, more than the gorgeous, confident tycoon, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. And she prided herself with an ability to read men. Pushing the laptop back, she replaced it with the file on Melbourne. She picked up her bow and closed her eyes. The wrist on her right hand remained loose and pliable as her arm pushed and pulled, brushing the long, rosin-filled horse hairs along the thick strings. In contrast, the fingers on her left hand mindlessly scampered over the neck like busy legs on a dangling spider.

  She continued to play and read about the first fire. It was nearly thirty years ago. No wonder Duncan's uncle was so aggressive, pushing to get this wrapped up. A backdraft had been set in his wife's bedroom when she was barely out of college and still lived with her parents. A trap. Whoever opened the door met an explosion as soon as the oxygen hit the room, feeding the starving fire. Only it wasn't his aunt who opened the door. It was her parents. And Brie was the unfortunate witness in the explosion. Melbourne was never convicted of those murders.

  Seven years later, Melbourne came back for another try. This time, she was caught, convicted and sentenced to twenty-seven years for one count of attempted first-degree murder and one count of attempted manslaughter of a minor. Brie was her target again; Duncan had served as spur-of-the-moment, eight-year-old bait.

  Duncan's account of that night was seamless, alarmingly so. He'd been questioned again and again, of course. Each answer was textbook, almost rehearsed. No one gives verbatim for each response, no one. Especially not a child.

  Melbourne's alibi for the more recent night of Brie's fall was, also, rock solid. Also, seemingly rehearsed. What was the connection between these two? Too easily, Melbourne had produced hotel records, eyewitnesses from the clerk to the waitress at the local bakery—all in a small town comfortably located between the Danbury Correctional Institution and Northridge. Melbourne must have not only spoken to the people in each place she visited, but made sure to make a lasting impression. If eye witnesses could verify sightings as well as the witnesses had for Melbourne, the captain might be able to lay off half the squad.

  She stood, sat the cello in its stand and poured a second glass of wine. Setting the file aside, she picked up her laptop once more, then nestled in her oversized chair. Placing the glass within reach, she logged into the station database. Time to dig a little deeper into Duncan Reed and MollyAnne Melbourne.

  * * *

  A blinding light followed the sound of quickly folding, stiff fabric. Duncan pulled his pillow over his face and tucked the sides around his head. "I have a gun," he mumbled into feathers.

  A female voice answered. "We brought coffee."

  He lifted his pillow enough to smell the aroma.

  His brother mercilessly took the pillow and tossed it on the floor. "You know anything about the miles of toilet paper decorating my front yard?"

  Duncan grunted, wrapped his sheet around his waist and slid his legs off the bed. Upright was helpful. "Speaking of, where are our little cousins?"

  "This means war, they should know that." Andy walked over to the project Duncan had been working on the last time he was in town. It was an eighteen-by-thirty-six inch replica of the woods outside his basement sliding doors. "Long drive back to campus. They already missed two days of school on account of Mom's fall."

  Tucking the sheet into itself, Duncan lumbered to his feet.

  "You're gonna need to get off L.A. time soon, bro. Rose and I've already put in hours at work."

  Andy's wife sighed. "And I was hoping to get some free labor out of Hannah before she left."

  "I know how to shovel horse shit from a barn." Andy walked to her and wrapped his hands around her sides, then rested them on her enormous stomach.

  "I'm pregnant, not disabled." She raised a hand behind her and patted Andy on the cheek. "I heard about that one." Rose gestured to Duncan's other tattoo.

  He reached for the steaming mug, picking it up by the handle.

  "It's... exact," she said. "I still get queasy thinking about you doing that yourself."

  He shrugged as he took the first glorious drink. Hanging onto the mug with one hand, he clasped the sheet with the other as he headed toward his bathroom. "Give me a minute."

  As he dressed, he heard the two of them mumbling and set down his coffee. Placing both hands on the vanity, he looked at the tattoo in question. It twined over his left pectoral, designed in blacks and grays like the one on his forearm. This one was a rendering of Black Creek. Watermelon-sized rocks scattered in the water, known for its dark color from the rich mud floor. Young trees lined the floodplain with larger ones creeping up his shoulder in the distance. It served as a reminder of what the creek looked like before the bridge had been made, what it looked like when he was a boy.

  By the time he was dressed, Andy and Rose were downstairs. He found them in the kitchen, Andy riffling through his fridge. "Mikey's wings? You picked up Mikey's buffalo wings and didn't invite me?"

  "I did invite you. You were in bed." He winced as his brother sunk his teeth in the cold, spicy skin.

  Andy shook his head a few times slowly. "So, sexy pregnant chick, we've got manly brother stuff to work on."

  Rose kissed him soundly on the mouth, wiped the sauce from her own then smiled. "You've got illegal hacking to do." She turned to face Duncan. "Make time to see Abigail. She misses you." She smacked Andy's backside and stepped closer to kiss Duncan on the cheek. "Stay in town long enough to finish the painting this time. It's practically my backyard, too, you know."

  "I've been busy." Abigail. He missed the girl, but he had things to tend to first. He thought of the unfinished landscape setting on his largest easel under the skylights of his enormous bedroom. It, too, would have to wait. "I might make time to shovel horse shit if you take care of my unborn nephew."

  When she left, Andy laid his brown leather briefcase on the kitchen table. "I expect you knew you shouldn't look into the Melbourne files without me." He opened it and took out his razor thin laptop. "I also expect you did it anyway."

  "Possibly." Duncan didn't move from where he stood. "I'm thinking the internet café in Binghamton to check on Brusco."

  Andy sighed. "All right. Low level search here to recap the Melbourne status, then a day trip to dig up Rob Brusco. I've got a few things to reschedule first. You think he stayed put after our last search?"

  "We'll find out."

  Andy powered up while Duncan headed upstairs to get his machine. He paused at the unfinished painting. The aged oaks and maples dripped leaves that peaked in autumn browns and blazing reds. The ground below was carpeted in the same. That was months ago, of course, but he could see it like it was there in front of him, could see everything like it was there in front of him. Including the things he'd rather forget.

  Chapter 4

  Duncan had bought the property a few years back, deciding he should have a place to call home. At first, he forced himself to come back to Northridge one weekend a month. Soon after, he found the trips soothing.

  Ostentatious, the house could comfortably fit a family of eight. He liked big. A fireplace rested in each living room, the first floor guest bedroom and in the master bedroom. A large staircase led the way from the foyer to a landing that overlooked the front living room. A second set of winding stairs led up the back of the home off the large kitchen nook that suspended over the walk-out basement.
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  The third floor, however, was his treasure. It was smaller than the rest, more like a studio apartment minus a kitchen. He had set up an area under the skylights for his painting. His best work came from this room, even when the quiet overcame him.

  He'd sold half the forty-acre plot to his brother. What the hell would he have done with forty acres? Andy and Rose lived down the hill, farther than eyesight could reach through the thick trees. As a family favor, Rose boarded Abigail along with the rest of her horses. Involuntarily, his shoulders lifted and his head ducked slightly at the thought of facing the girl after such a long time.

  He liked to call his brother's home the Reed Ranch, complete with split rail fence. It served as home to a variety of the animals Rose cared for and rehabilitated. His cousin, Hannah, especially, loved the horses.

  Yes, he decided. Rose was right. He would finish the painting before he started his next job. It would keep him here a few days longer than he planned, but he missed his time with his family and would accept the grumblings from his next customer. The mayor of Vegas wanted portraits of his grandchildren 'acting naturally' in and around his estate. Duncan looked forward to the job. At least he would be relatively safe from any breakable objects flying at his head.

  * * *

  As she generally did, Nickie passed the elevator and headed for the stairs. The three flights to her office would burn off some of the steam from the botched court appointment she had sat in on. She'd done everything to ensure she stuck to the books and the facts.

  She shoved the door to the third floor open a little harder than necessary as she reviewed how Slippery Jimbo squeaked his way out of another conviction. She swore under her breath as she turned for her office, thinking of how carefully she'd followed protocol in getting him locked up this time. He wasn't a physical guy, but to her, drugs were no different than assault and battery. She locked him up and his weasel lawyer got him out.