Vengeance

by Shana Figueroa

  She took a hot shower, washing away the grime from her mad dash down Chet’s alley. Her clothes still felt damp, and she recoiled from the musty smell they’d acquired after sitting in a wet pile all night. Wrapped in a towel, she padded to an adjacent room, also impeccably decorated with no personal touches, and rooted through a dresser drawer until she found a men’s dress shirt and boxer shorts for temporary coverage. She descended the stairs to the first floor, now awash in the early morning sun that filtered in through glass walls overlooking the crystal waters of Lake Washington. Her stomach growled, and she opened the stainless steel fridge to find it bare save for bottles of ketchup and mustard and other assorted condiments that would keep well into the next decade. She shut it and grumbled, shivering and hungry for a moment, then noticed the outline of the guest house through the window, behind a crop of trees. Val took a deep breath, steeling herself for the biting chill of the morning air, then opened the side door and ran across the cobblestone path to Max’s house.

  Strains of rock music reached her about halfway down the path, and she was grateful she wouldn’t have to wake him up as she pounded on his cherrywood door. A few seconds later the door opened, and Max’s eyes widened when he saw her outfit. She couldn’t help gawking at him, too, shirtless in a pair of drawstring shorts and light boxing gloves, rippled muscles glistening with sweat. Her hands itched with the urge to touch him, and by the look on his face, he was thinking the same thing about her. Then she remembered how the last two times she jumped into bed with someone on a whim had ended in disaster, and she kicked the attraction away as she shoved past him.

  “I need to talk to Barrister today,” she said, rubbing the cold out of her arms. Stepping inside the doorway, she froze for a moment as Max’s essence overwhelmed her. The scent of his workout infused the studio-style house, musk and male with overtones of sweat. She took in the worn punching bag still swinging from a chain in the corner, as well as his bed shoved against the wall, a tiny kitchen, and a bathtub shower all in the same space. It had the same aesthetic feel and open floor plan as the main house, except someone obviously lived here. Clothes lay piled in a corner, one of his expensive suits crumpled on top. Another suit was sheathed in plastic and draped across a love seat. A couple dirty dishes sat in the sink. Shelving with a hundred or more books took up the spot where a television would have been, next to more books stacked on the ground and a whiteboard with equations scrawled across its face.

  Val felt as if she’d walked into a physical version of his mind, intimate and fascinating. Though she felt a little guilty for invading his personal space, she immediately liked it, and knew that was bad if she hoped to keep her distance.

  “Funny,” he said as he closed the door behind her, “you don’t strike me as the suicidal type, but I’ve been wrong about people before.” He pushed a button on his phone mounted atop a couple small speakers and the music turned off.

  In his kitchen, she slathered peanut butter on a slice of bread she found paired together on his countertop. “We know he’s somehow connected to Robby’s and your father’s deaths.” She ate between sentences. “He’s our only viable lead right now. If we move fast, he won’t be expecting us. We can catch him off guard, rattle his cage.”

  “If he’s involved—which we don’t know for sure yet—then he’s capable of murder, or at least fine with having other people do it for him. We don’t know what he’ll do if you confront him. It’s not a good idea.”

  “Fine. You stay here. I’ll go and let you know what happens.”

  He sighed and ripped the Velcro straps off his gloves, pulled them off. “When?”

  “Now.”

  “May I suggest you put some real clothes on first?” He cocked his head to a stack of neatly folded women’s garments on his bed.

  Val finished her peanut butter bread, walked to the edge of the bed, and picked through the clothes. She was surprised to see them all in her correct size, including a pair of soft leather boots. “I’m impressed your girlfriend was able to guess my size after seeing me for only a few minutes.”

  “Who, Kitty?” He slipped off his shorts, and then his underwear, so he stood completely naked as he pulled his shower curtain back and turned on the water.

  Val gasped and tried to avert her eyes away from his toned muscles and full endowment; she failed. A collection of deltoids, quadriceps, biceps, and abs filled her vision, all rippling beneath a sheen of sweat. A few long scars on his back and legs marred his smooth skin, and she wondered where he got them, what they felt like. For a fleeting moment she imagined licking all that salty water off him.

  “Jesus, Max,” she said after she came back to her senses. “Some people consider spontaneous nudity to be rude.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not prepared for company in the guest house. Anyway, I don’t have anything you haven’t seen before.”

  Of course not, but he still made her mouth water. Whether he was naturally fit or worked hard to look that way, his body matched his face for beauty in a way that confirmed how unfair the universe truly was. To give one man the build of a quarterback without the bulkiness, the face of a cologne model, the intelligence of a college professor, and millions of dollars seemed like a cosmic joke at everyone else’s expense.

  “And Kitty’s not my girlfriend,” he said as he stepped under the steaming showerhead, then whisked the curtain shut so only his head was visible. “I don’t have a girlfriend. It’s not practical with our condition. Women don’t like it when you’re always passing out during sex.”

  “I’ve had some decent relationships. You just have to work around it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You can just lay back and enjoy the ride. I’m expected to perform.”

  Val hadn’t thought about what her ability might be like for a man. He made a compelling case for how much worse it could be, especially for someone like Max whose looks, intelligence, and money allowed him access to almost any woman he wanted—women with high expectations. His perceived deficiency between the sheets could be crippling.

  While he finished his shower, she picked out a leggings-skirt combo and a long-sleeved cashmere top; not her usual style, but she needed all the help she could get in the fashion arena. She looked around for somewhere to change and found none. There really was no opportunity for privacy in Max’s home. Even the recessed bathroom was missing a door. It must’ve been quite a while since he’d had a visitor’s comfort to consider.

  She doffed her borrowed shirt and boxer shorts and changed, telling herself that she didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen, either, while pretending to ignore his half-second glances in her direction. So he liked the way she looked, too, made him squirm a little like he’d done to her. Val bit her lip to hide a smile. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

  “Why do you own a sex club?” she asked as she pulled the boots on. “Are you just into freaky stuff?”

  “There’s some of that, I guess,” Max said with a laugh. “I—” He stopped lathering his hair and looked away for a moment, as if considering how honest he should be. “I originally intended to use it to conduct randomized experiments on people.”

  Val cringed. “That’s sick.”

  “I eventually came to that conclusion, yes. But by then I’d already bought it and done all the refurbishing, so it became an escape instead, and the observation room my office.”

  “Observation room?”

  “Poor choice of words—”

  “Were you watching me?”

  “No,” he said with a sliver of anxiousness, enough to convince her he was lying.

  Val felt her cheeks heat up. Oh God, he’d seen her with Dirty John. She’d hoped to go through life pretending the unfortunate incident never happened, but now she had a damn witness. Of course Max had probably seen freakier people doing freakier things a million times before, but he’d still violated her privacy—like she’d violated his when she barged into his house. Maybe they were even—almost. She stood and ma
rched to the shower.

  “The existence of the observation room is in the contract people sign,” he said. “Everyone consents. You would’ve known about it if you’d come in through normal channels—”

  She whisked back the curtain with one strong yank. He gaped at the sudden intrusion just as she slapped him across the face. “Pervert,” she said, and snapped the curtain shut again.

  “Damn, you hit hard,” he said, rubbing his cheek and eyeing her over the shower rod. “If I had seen you in one of the Red Raven’s rooms, it wouldn’t have been on purpose. Sometimes I’ll do a general look around the club from the observation area to make sure everyone’s safe and—”

  “Yeah, whatever. Make it up to me by getting your ass out of the shower sometime today. And buy me a gyro for lunch.”

  She thought she heard him chuckle softly before the shower turned off. Val picked through his books and pretended not to notice his erection as he toweled down and got dressed.

  “All right,” he said after he’d changed into jeans and a black V-neck sweater that killed all the anger she had left. Did he always have to look so good? “I’m ready to go do something incredibly ill advised. You?”

  “Just a sec.” Val ran back into the main house and returned a minute later with her coat and handgun. She checked the magazine, slapped it into the hand grip and racked the slide back, then slid the gun into the shoulder holster under her jacket. “Okay. Let’s go talk to Norman Barrister.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Barristers’ white Colonial-style house in Arbor Heights reminded Val of something a Civil War general’s wife might run out of to hug her husband returning from battle, but surrounded by evergreens instead of weeping willows. Val and Max drove past the house, not too slow to be suspicious, then parked a block away.

  “How do you plan to catch the conscience of the king?” Max asked, baseball cap pulled down over his face again to avoid being recognized by passersby.

  “What?”

  “Catch the conscience of the king—convince him to incriminate himself. It’s from Hamlet.”

  Val snickered. “You are such a nerd. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. A showboat like Barrister will want to talk.”

  “At what point should I charge in to save you?”

  “Give me thirty minutes, or until you hear gunshots. Then call the fire department. I think they’re less likely than the police to try to murder me.”

  Max’s lips tightened like he might try one last time to talk her out of it, but instead he said, “Be careful.”

  “Being careful doesn’t get shit done,” she said as she got out of the car, “but thanks.”

  Val walked down the sidewalk, past white picket fences with immaculately manicured lawns of green grass turning brown with the season, up to Barrister’s heavy white door with a wreath of red and gold polyester leaves propped on the front. She rang the doorbell, heard the BONG-bong on the inside. A few seconds later, a prim brunette in her early fifties answered. Val recognized her from Norman’s campaign ads as his wife, Delilah.

  “Good morning, I’m Val Shepherd. Is Colonel Barrister home?”

  Delilah smiled a big toothy grin, exposing teeth as perfect as the milky white pearls strung around her neck. “No one’s called him that in a while.”

  “I served under him while I was in the Army five years ago. Best commander I’ve ever had. I want to offer to help his campaign, testify to what a great leader he is. I’d like to say ‘hi’ and catch up first, before going to his campaign headquarters.”

  “That’s sweet of you. Come on in, I’ll take you to him. I think he’s doing yard work out back.”

  Val followed Delilah through the house, an homage to French country living that was a spiritual twin to the Carressa mansion—beautiful and soulless. As they crossed through the kitchen, Val saw flyers for the Washington State Ladies for Family Values, a conservative action group based out of Olympia, stacked on the countertop. Delilah must be an active member. It made sense, given her husband’s Republican leanings.

  Past the kitchen and out the sliding glass door, the backyard extended for a quarter of an acre and included a rock garden with foot bridges over wildflower beds. Delilah asked Val to wait while she announced Val’s presence to her husband. Norman Barrister, a six-foot-plus hulk of a man, stood at the edge of his yard, his back to the house and a shovel in his hand, watching something next to his iron fence posts. Tight piles of raked leaves were scattered about, waiting to be scooped into his meaty arms and dumped into the nearby compost heap. Val watched as Delilah walked to her husband, and at her words Norman smiled and waved Val over. Delilah met her halfway.

  “Norman loves meeting people he used to serve with; so do I. It’s the highlight of his campaign, really. Unfortunately I’ve got a meeting with the Washington State Ladies I need to go to.” Delilah touched Val’s shoulder like a doting mother. “It was great meeting you, Val. I hope I’ll see you again.”

  Val forced out a warm smile in response.

  After Delilah left, Val approached Norman where he stood at the edge of his lawn. A scraggly cat with a tail like a toilet brush dug its teeth into a dish of soft food at the base of the fence.

  “We get a lot of stray cats around here,” Norman said to her. “Poor things, half starved. No one will take them in.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir.”

  Norman smiled at her, making his battle-weathered face somehow soft and approachable. He had a mug cut like granite, a thick jaw and flat nose, with piercing brown eyes tempered by laugh lines at their edges. It was a face a person could rally behind, friendly yet strong. Charismatic. Maybe she’d been wrong about him—though she remembered thinking the same thing the last time she’d laid eyes on the colonel, right before he sent his troops into an ambush.

  “I’m Valentine Shepherd. Used to be Staff Sergeant Shepherd, part of the 510th Infantry Regiment. We met very briefly in Afghanistan when you went on a tour of the forward operating bases. It’s okay if you don’t remember me. You probably shook hands with thousands of people.”

  “Ah yes,” Norman said. “I do remember you, actually. One of the first women assigned as a squad leader on the front lines, correct? How could I forget that red hair of yours?”

  She smiled. “Your memory is impressive, sir. I hadn’t realized that you grew up in the Seattle area until I saw your ads. I wanted to offer my help with your campaign, if you’ll take it.”

  “Of course I’ll take it.” He laughed. “I’ll take any help I can get, Sergeant. I’m behind in the polls right now, but not by much. This city needs some positive change, and fast. The crime rate has spiked under Mayor Brest, you know. This city runs through my veins like blood—yours, too, I’m assuming.”

  Val suppressed an eye roll. “You are one hundred percent right about that, sir.”

  He brushed some leaves off his flannel shirt and put his hands on his hips while he took a closer look at the woman in front of him. Val held the controlled demeanor and passive smile she’d perfected in the face of scrutiny by a superior officer.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you packing?”

  She glanced down at her coat, surprised he could tell. “For protection, just in case. The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun, right?” She pointed her index finger at his chest, thumb pointed up, and pretended to shoot him. She chuckled like she’d made a joke.

  He grinned, a little tighter than before. “So true. A lady can never be too careful. I didn’t want to put you all on the front lines. I’m sorry you had to bear the consequences of the liberal faction’s misguided attempts at ‘equality.’ The things they do to women in the war zone.” He narrowed his eyes at her, the tempering laugh lines falling away to leave only piercing brown. “Awful things.”

  He took a step toward her, his grip tightening on the shovel as he stared her down. Her breath caught in her throat. Jesus, he was big. His hands were nearly the size of her head. He could
snap her in half if he wanted.

  Don’t let him intimidate you. She steeled her nerves and took a slow, deep breath, in and out through her nose. No way he’d try anything in his own home.

  “So I’ve heard,” she answered, forcing calm into her voice.

  He switched his shovel for a rake and began corralling leaves. “What did you have in mind for this ad of yours?” he asked, chipper again.

  “I wanted to get your opinion on that. I got the idea from a friend of mine who worked on your campaign. Chet’s his name.”

  Norman stopped raking.

  “I met him at this art class I was taking at a community college. He told me that he knew you well. He said I should do a TV commercial where I talk about what a great commander you were, and how you’re the epitome of honesty and integrity. He was supposed to meet me here this morning to talk to you, but I guess something else came up.”

  Val tried not to hold her breath as she waited for his reaction. He stared at the leaves for a long moment, his face blank. When his gaze met hers again, his eyes were so cold she’d have sworn the dead of winter had rushed over them in the span of a few seconds.

  “Chet, huh? I do know Chet, but not well. He was caught stealing from the headquarters building, so I fired him. You should think twice about who you associate with, Sergeant Shepherd.”

  “Are you sure you don’t know him well? Because he sure seemed to know a lot about you. He said you guys were tight. He also told me how broken up you were when you heard about Lester Carressa’s death. Was Mr. Carressa a friend of the family?”

  Norman’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a fanged smile. He tossed the rake to the side, then picked up the shovel again and gripped it to his chest with white knuckles. Adrenaline surged through Val as she stood motionless before him, doubting she could reach her gun before he could swing his shovel, but refusing to back down.