Days of Reckoning

by Chris Stout

  DAYS OF RECKONING

  a novel

  by CHRIS STOUT

  Copyright © 2010 Chris Stout

  Cover copyright © 2010 Michelle Hess

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places, events and names are all products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons – living or dead – or any location or event is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from Chris Stout.

  Edition: December 2010

  Mount Calvary Summer Camp, Central Ohio

  Thirteen Years Ago

  The plaintive voice of her little brother snaked through Miranda Leider’s head like a twisted mantra. “Donnie made me do something. To his thingy. With my mouth.”

  Justin was eleven, two years younger than Miranda. She’d grown up looking after him. Justin had always been slight and small for his age and suffered at the hands of his peers accordingly. Miranda had inherited her father’s protective genes and hunter’s instinct. She also developed an early sense of reciprocity and had no qualms about doling out equal parts punishment to those who tormented her hapless brother. But she had no idea what could make up for this heinous act.

  It started at night, midway through a three-week stay at summer camp. Miranda was on her way to the restroom facilities when she heard the sound of whimpering. She searched the stalls and showers of the girls’ room, but her side was empty. She left and listened by the door leading to the boys’ facility. The sound came again, from somewhere in there. After making sure no one was watching, Miranda stepped inside.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  The whimpering stopped. “Sis?” a small voice replied.

  Miranda’s throat tightened. “Justin? Where are you?” She went from stall to stall and discovered her brother huddled in the last one. “Jesus! What happened to you?”

  Justin didn’t reply. Miranda knelt by him and examined his battered face. One eye was swollen shut, and his nose was bent at an awkward angle. She tried to put an arm around him, but he winced. “Who did this to you?” He didn’t reply. “Come on then, let’s get you to the nurse.”

  Justin whimpered and protested, but allowed his sister to help him up and lead him out of the bathroom.

  #

  Mrs. Becker, the camp nurse, answered her door groggy and irritated. “What is it?” Her voice was thick with sleep, but the sight of the pummeled boy woke her up. “Good God!” she exclaimed, forgetting she was at a church camp. “Bring him in, quickly!”

  She had seen kids beaten up before, but never here at camp. While she cleaned and disinfected Justin, she barraged the boy with questions. “Who did this? Why were you out so late alone? Where is your counselor?” Justin responded that it was dark, he needed to use the bathroom, and several boys had attacked him there. He hadn’t seen any of them.

  Miranda asked to stay with Justin while Mrs. Becker went to inform the camp director. “Of course, dear, you can use my cot if you like. For certain I won’t need it tonight!”

  After the nurse left, Miranda sat in a plastic chair and kept watch over Justin as he drifted in and out of sleep. She leaned her head back against the wall. The room went fuzzy, and she was out cold.

  #

  “Sis? Sis?” Miranda fought to stay asleep, but the far-away voice was persistent and drew her out of slumber.

  “Phew! Your breath stinks, Justin!”

  “Well yours does too!” Justin knelt by her chair and was quiet while she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Then he said, “I know who beat me up.”

  Miranda bolted upright, remembering where she was. Her body ached from falling asleep in the chair, but she forgot about it when she saw her brother looking up at her through one open eye.

  “Are you sure?”

  Justin nodded. He squirmed into a more comfortable position on the floor. “It was Donnie Andrews,” he whispered.

  That made sense to Miranda. Donnie was a boy in her age group, and was known for being a classic bully. Miranda was surprised, however, that he had beaten someone this severely. “Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Becker?”

  Justin lowered his gaze. “Because…” His voice trembled. “Because Donnie made me do something.” Miranda’s stomach knotted. Please God no – “To his thingy. With my mouth.”

  Miranda wanted to scream, but she had to be strong for her brother. Something like this could destroy him.

  “Please don’t tell anyone, Sis, okay?”

  “We have to tell.”

  “No!” he insisted. “Please! I’ll say it isn’t true!” He trembled as tears streamed down his face.

  “Okay Justin, okay,” she said. She brushed his purple cheek gently with her hand. “I won’t tell. But I swear I’ll get him for you.”

  Justin smiled. “Really?”

  “Yeah. But you’re not allowed to tell anyone when I do. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  #

  The next day Justin went home with their father. Miranda elected to remain at camp. She hugged her Dad goodbye and waved at Justin’s bandaged form in the back seat of the family car. He returned the gesture, putting a finger to his lips. Miranda winked; his secret was safe with her.

  She exacted revenge that weekend, when her group, including Donnie Andrews, went for a nature hike.

  Since they were the oldest campers there, the counselors allowed Miranda’s group more freedom to explore the woods and hills. Donnie wandered off to check out a ravine. Miranda followed him discreetly, using tactics taught by her father when she learned how to hunt deer. They worked; he was completely oblivious to her presence, and none of the rest of the group paid her any attention as she worked away from them.

  The ravine was mostly shale and sand, representing one of the end points of a glacier during the last ice age. Donnie tossed a few small stones across it at a tree stump on the other side. Most of his attempts fell short; the ravine was over fifty yards wide and a good hundred feet deep.

  Miranda’s right toe struck something hard. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and looked down for the culprit. She found a fist-sized rock half-buried in the grass. Keeping one eye on Donnie, she bent down and dug around the rock. The boy remained immersed in his one-sided game of catch. Miranda worked the stone free as he let another one fly. He bent over to replenish his supply. She waited until he stood up and then threw the rock at his head.

  Her aim had always been good, whether it was a softball, baseball, water balloon or hunting rifle. This time was no exception. The rock caught Donnie squarely in the back of the skull with a wet crunch. He screamed once and pitched over the side of the ravine.

  Bullseye.

  Miranda moved quickly to check her kill. By the time she got to the edge and looked down, Donnie was a bloody heap on a ledge about forty feet below. She could see where he had bounced before coming to a rest; while the sides were steep, they were not sheer. She sat down and half climbed, half slid to where the boy lay.

  When she reached him, Miranda felt for a pulse, but the gesture was unnecessary. If her rock hadn’t killed him, the fall had. His neck was broken and the back of his head had been further crushed by the impact of landing. A large, flat piece of shale lay broken in two where his head hit it. Miranda reached into her pocket for a whistle and blew sharply on it three times. The distress call would bring every counselor in earshot running. It would be easy. Donnie wandered off and got too close to the edge. Perhaps the loose sand gave way. Miranda heard him cry and came over to investigate, but there was nothing she could do.

  Chapter 1

  Sparta, Ohio

  Present Day

  Miranda Leider ra
n easily along the path that circled the town’s man-made reservoir. At twenty-six she was a police officer now, and on this night she was hunting again.

  After a mild winter, folks were out at night enjoying the warmth of early spring. The nights were just cool enough to jog comfortably in running tights and a sweatshirt. Over the past three weeks, three women had been assaulted along the jogging trail. Two were coeds from Sparta College, where Miranda was finishing her Masters’ Degree in Law-Enforcement. All the attacks happened on cloudy nights like this one, and all of the women had been running alone. Miranda volunteered to make herself a target. She hadn’t been with the department long, but she’d handled herself well enough on the firing range and in the self-defense courses that no one argued with her.

  The jogging path ran across the reservoir dam, which was well lit, and took a turn into the woods, which was not. Miranda slowed her pace as she neared the turn and forced her breathing to relax. No one had been hit yet in this stretch, but if Miranda were the attacker, this would be the next place she chose. Her sneakered feet padded softly on the pavement. A small Beretta .32 rode gently in a snug undershirt holster. Miranda also had an earpiece with a mic clipped to her sweatshirt. “Just about to turn into the woods,” she breathed. She didn’t receive a reply, so she had to take it on faith that the cruiser parked nearby heard her.

  The trees closed around her. Once upon a time the town had installed small lamps to light the path, but most of them were either burned out or broken. Miranda slowed further to let her eyes adjust to the gloom and maintained an easy, steady pace. A few moments later, she thought she heard her footsteps echoing, but when she adjusted her speed again the sound was mismatched, and Miranda knew she had company. She didn’t remember any other joggers on the path behind her before she entered the woods. This person managed to either move along behind her without being noticed, or had been waiting in the woods for her to pass by. Her pulse and breathing quickened. Miranda forced herself to slow back down. Her father taught her that getting nervous was a fast way to alert her prey, since animals were so sensitive to human sweat and jerking motions. Miranda didn’t speak into her mic. She keyed the mute button three times and hoped someone heard the signal that she wasn’t alone.

  Her first priority was to put the newcomer in front of her. Much less chance of being surprised again that way. She slowed to a mere trot. The footsteps behind her fell and matched her pace. She moved to the side of the path and knelt down, as if to tie her shoe. An ordinary fellow jogger or a smart attacker would have kept on moving past her. This one, however, took her pause as a sign of vulnerability and came upon her in a rush.

  She always believed that simple and direct was always the best policy, so Miranda stayed kneeling. She caught a quick glimpse of a masculine figure in a dark sweatsuit, and a brief flash of steel when he produced a knife. As he fell upon her, she punched up into his groin and rolled out of his path. The man crumpled to the ground with a gag. Miranda reached under her sweatshirt and drew the small Beretta. At the same time she disconnected the radio mic from the unit at her waist. She stood and approached the man who was gasping on the ground.

  He had dropped his knife. Miranda kicked it into the center of the jogging path, away from him but still in sight. She paced around the doubled-over form and listened for the sound of her back-up approaching. Except for the occasional gag at her feet, the woods were quiet. Miranda waited until the man recovered his breath and then she kicked him in the ribs.

  “Here’s the deal,” Miranda said when the man stopped choking. “I can shoot you now and save everyone a lot of trouble. Or you can make a confession and go to jail. There’s a special bus waiting to take you up to London Correctional Institute.” She referred to the state maximum security prison outside of the capital, Columbus. “You and I both know you’ll probably walk if this comes to trial. But if you don’t cooperate now, I know some folks up in London who will make sure that trial never happens. They’ll be happy to break in some new meat.” Miranda knew the value of having contacts on both sides of the law. Her brother had been in and out of trouble since he was a teenager, and to protect him she had made sure to have friends on the inside to keep an eye on him. Justin wasn’t in prison now, but the men she knew who were would be happy to help out if she asked. Even though she was young, a pretty face behind a badge could do a lot to procure special treatment for certain prisoners. Failing that, a new plaything was always welcome.

  Miranda waited another minute. “Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

  The man gasped. “I know my rights. I ain’t gotta tell you nothing.”

  Miranda shrugged in resignation. Her mind was made up. “Very well.” She kicked him in the ribs again, and then in the face until he was unconscious. She holstered her pistol and plugged the earpiece back into her radio. The bastard wasn’t worth wasting a perfectly good bullet.

  #

  Justin Leider tried not to shiver against the cold night air. To the three men with him, it would seem weak, and that was the last thing the young man wanted. He turned to his friend Damon for support, but Damon’s face was hidden behind the long dark hair that hung loosely around his shoulders. Finding nothing there, Justin looked to the ground. The field through which he walked was uneven and thick with natural growth that sprang up while the land was left fallow. It wouldn’t do to stumble. Not now.

  The other two men, both older than Justin and Damon, walked behind them. Justin had known one of them for years; at various times the man had been an inspiration, a mentor and a leader, but never a friend. That would have come had Justin proven himself worthy, but Justin had failed in that task.

  He heard his old mentor sigh. “Okay, boys, this is far enough.”

  “What happens now, Chief?” Damon asked in his thick West Virginia drawl.

  The older man sighed again, but ignored Damon’s question. “Justin, you made a mistake. A big one. There’s nothing to be done for it now. You’ve got to take responsibility for what happened, and face the consequences like a man.”

  Justin wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t his fault, but he knew it would be useless. He’d been spotted when he and Damon had torched a black congregation’s church, killing the pastor and secretary. There were sketches of him out now, and a nationwide manhunt was under way. It was only a matter of time before he’d be caught. But the militia found him first. He tried to explain that Damon had driven off too soon, leaving him exposed as he ran from the blaze, but it didn’t matter. Damon had gotten away clean, and Justin hadn’t. And now there was only one way to prevent himself from being caught, and in the process leading the authorities to the men who had planned the attack.

  The man handed Damon a small blue case. “I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes. Damon, bring that box back with you.”

  The two older men trudged away a few paces, but stopped before they were out of sight. Justin watched one light a cigarette.

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, buddy,” Damon said. “But it’s the only way. Plus, you don’t want to cross the Chief, not with your sister working for him and all.”

  Justin glanced at Damon, wanting to respond to the implied threat, but he kept quiet. Of all the people in the world, the last person he worried about was his sister.

  Damon opened the blue box. He pulled out a single bullet and handed it to Justin. “That’s the only one here, buddy. Just in case you was thinking of trying something. We all got guns, and if we have to use ours to kill you, well… think of your sister.”

  Justin snorted.

  Damon next pulled a black pistol out of the case. He stepped back a few paces and set it on the ground, then drew his own weapon. “She’s all yours, man. Do it right. We’ll be watchin’.” Then he stepped back a few more paces, keeping watch until he was with the other men.

  Justin twirled the bullet in his hand and then stepped over to the pistol. Damon had forgotten to wipe the weapon clean. Justin decided the least he could do was s
how the other men that he was still a team player, so he pulled out his handkerchief, picked the weapon up with it, and wiped it thoroughly. After pocketing the hanky, he pulled the magazine out of the pistol. Sure enough, it was empty. He slipped the round into the mag, loaded the weapon and racked the slide.

  So this is it, he thought. This is it. He took one last look at the three men. Damon with his long hair had his back turned. The bareheaded man smoked a cigarette. The older man doffed his cap, the one that read “Sparta PD.” Justin gave a half-wave and turned around. Miranda’s going to be pissed.

  He imagined for a brief moment what his sister’s reaction would be, and decided he really didn’t want to be around for it anyway. Then he stuck the pistol in his mouth and closed his eyes. His last thought was that he got off a lot easier than those three bastards would.

  Chapter 2

  Sam Connor’s day at the office started with a courtesy call from his former girlfriend, Tracy Oliver. It was a simple reminder of how much she hated him, how glad she was to have dumped him, and how unfortunate the Sparta Police Department was to have him on its payroll. Sam listened patiently to her rant. When she paused to take a breath, he hung up the phone.

  The detective ducked his head out of his office door. Miranda Leider was at her desk. Sam was sure she hated being relegated to office duty, but it was standard procedure after a violent confrontation like the one she’d had a few nights before. At least she improved the atmosphere of the police station. Tough as nails around criminals, she had an easy manner with her co-workers. It didn’t hurt that she was also easy to look at, but Sam didn’t dare mention that out loud.

  “Hey Miranda, can you do me a favor?”