Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge

by Vivien Sparx

  Stone looked back along the street. There was an old white Toyota and a silver Ford compact parked on the side of the road. The compact looked low on its springs, sad and abandoned, its windscreen and paintwork covered in dust and bird droppings.

  Stone put the paper back into his pocket and pushed his way through the big double-doors. Inside was a narrow, gloomy hallway. There were stairs to his right. The building stank of decay and desperation. The carpet was dirty and worn. He went up the stairs quickly and at the end of a short corridor on the first floor he found the door to Katrina’s apartment.

  It was a piece of solid timber with a spy hole. The door handle was worn and loose, but locked. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again, and then pressed his ear to the door. Heard muffled sounds and vibrations coming from other parts of the building, but nothing from behind the door.

  He pulled out his wallet. Behind the photo of his sister Susan were two thin pieces of metal that looked like they belonged in a dentist’s surgery. It took him ninety patient seconds to pick the lock and force his way inside.

  The room he was standing in was tiny and neglected. The air was hot and still and foul. Paint was peeling from the ceiling and there were brown water stains on the outside wall on either side of a small curtained window. There was a tired old sofa in the middle of the room and beside it an old television on a low table. There was a pair of red high-heel shoes beside the front door, and not much else.

  Across the room was a dark hallway. Stone paused. He heard footsteps coming from the stair well. He crossed quickly to the hallway and found a bedroom and a tiny bathroom. The bathroom was just a small shower cubicle, sink and toilet. There were brown rust-like stains in the sink and the hot water tap handle was broken. The bedroom had a double bed that was covered with discarded clothes, and a wardrobe set against one wall. One of the doors was open. Stone saw a rack of expensive looking dresses.

  He came out of the hallway and stood for a moment. It looked like Katrina Walker had left in a hurry – and it looked like she was expecting to come home again.

  Maybe she would. That’s what Stone guessed. He saw no sign of struggle. No evidence that Katrina had fled, or moved on.

  And then suddenly the front door smashed open, slamming back against its hinges with a crash of splintering timber. Stone wheeled round.

  Two armed men burst into the room.

  “Freeze, asshole!” one of the men shouted. He was wearing a suit. Middle-aged, maybe fifty, with a tense, strained expression on his face. The other man crouched in the doorway was a uniformed cop. He was a young guy. Nervous. He had his gun aimed at Stone’s face.

  Stone froze.

  He raised his hands slowly.

  “You’re under arrest,” the guy in the suit said. “For breaking and entering, physical assault – and for the murder of Katrina Walker.”

  Stone said nothing.

  Eleven.

  The police held Stone for two hours. There had been no official complaint from the bartender, and the break-and-enter threat was never mentioned. The guy in the suit introduced himself as detective Harrison. He asked Stone a lot of questions, but answered very few.

  The detective told Stone that Katrina Walker was dead. Told him that her car had been found at the bottom of a thirty-foot cliff a few miles outside of town, three days ago. There were signs of a collision, and a slew of twisting black skid marks on the tarmac that suggested the vehicle had been deliberately run off the road.

  Then the detective told Stone the Heston’s Cove police were treating the incident as murder.

  Stone left the police station at sunset. The sky was filled with fiery blaze of oranges and mauves, reds and purples. Stone barely noticed. He walked back to the hotel. Knocked on room eighteen’s door. Waited.

  Celia flung the door open, her face fraught with worry and tension, and reflecting all the things she had been thinking and fearing while she had waited.

  “Did you find her?”

  Stone shook his head. Stepped into the room.

  Celia’s room was identical to Stone’s, but there was a suitcase on the floor at the foot of the bed, and a second suitcase laying open on the counter-top beside the room’s television. Clothes had been hung from racks, and toiletries and cosmetics were spread across the bathroom sink. Frilly pieces of underwear were folded neatly and stacked on the bed.

  Stone dragged a chair out from the table. He put his hands on Celia’s shoulders, and sat her down.

  “Did you find her apartment, Jack?”

  Stone sat on the edge of the bed. He nodded.

  “Katrina wasn’t home?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find anything? Any clues to where she could have gone?”

  Stone shook his head. “No, I didn’t,” he said.

  Celia stared at him. Stone stared back.

  His tone had filled her with a terrible sense of foreboding and she should have been warned. She began shaking her head slowly in a gesture of stunned incomprehension. Her lips parted, quivering with heartache. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a black sense of dread. She felt the blood drain away from her face as beads of icy sweat broke out across her forehead and her upper lip. She felt the sudden sensation of being overwhelmed – of being driven below a churning surface so that she was unable to breath.

  Maybe she read Stone’s expression. Maybe she just sensed the news was bad. Maybe her mind was reading between the lines and starting to draw inevitable conclusions. Celia’s eyes began to well with fresh tears. She clenched her fists and trapped her lip between her teeth. She started to sob softly.

  Stone sighed. “The police were at the apartment,” he said. “They must have been watching the building. I was taken back to the station.”

  “What for?” Celia asked suddenly and her eyes were wide and confused, her cheeks shiny with tears.

  “Suspicion of murder,” Stone said softly. He let the words register. Saw the sudden shock of final realization in Celia’s eyes. Saw the anguish and pain. Watched her start to cry like she might never stop.

  “Katrina is dead,” Stone said.

  Celia felt her vision flicker. She felt herself swaying. She felt a cold hand clutch at her heart, squeezing so tightly that she thought she might collapse.

  People dealt with grief in different ways. Stone had seen emotional pain in every form during his time with the Venture Group as victims confronted the trauma of a drawn out hostage rescue. Some people went to pieces – just tunneled themselves into a deep dark hole that threatened to bury them. Others went quiet and became withdrawn, internalizing the pain until it ate them alive from the inside out. Some people became distraught and violent, raging against the injustice and the indiscriminant loss of a loved one. And others, like Celia, broke down and cried.

  Stone didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t good with emotion, especially in others. Especially in women.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Celia weep until her agony became too much for him to ignore or to walk away from. He took her into his arms and held her tight. Felt her slim body through the sheer silk of her blouse heave and tremble as the grief overwhelmed her. Felt the racking sobs shake her as she pressed her face against his chest and cried until there were no more tears to shed.

  He stood like a rock, solid and substantial – and Celia’s pain dashed itself in wave after wave of anguish until at last the tension went from her, and her tears became just quiet distressed sobs and shuddering breaths.

  Night had fallen. Outside the hotel room’s window Stone could see fluorescent strip lights flickering into life. He heard cars coming and going, felt the vibrations transmitted through the floor from the parking garages below. Heard doors open and close, air conditioners hum. Heard life going on all around them while Celia grieved her sister’s death.

  At last she leaned back from him, but stayed within Stone’s arms. He looked down into her face. She was pale, her cheeks slick and streaked with tears. Her eyes were red and haunt
ed, her features somehow made gaunt and hollow.

  “Stay with me tonight, Jack. Please,” she said softly. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Stone nodded. Said nothing. He kicked off his boots and took her to the bed. Laid down on his back, still in his jeans and t-shirt, and pulled her to him. She curled up close, molding her body to his with her arm across his chest and her head nestled against his shoulder. Stone wrapped his arm around her. Held her tight. He jammed his other arm under his head and stared at the ceiling. In a matter of moments Celia was sleeping fitfully.

  Stone barely slept. Beside him Celia whimpered and muttered incoherent sounds of torment throughout the night. When sunrise came she stirred slowly against him, waking with the sad reluctance of a person who dreaded the prospect of a new day.

  She sat up. Her eyes were puffed swollen and dark.

  “I want revenge, Jack.” She said the words softly but there was a grim edge of resolve in her tone.

  Stone reached out for her carefully. He put his hand on her shoulder. “No you don’t, Celia. You should leave this to the police. Let them carry out their investigation.”

  She turned on him then, her eyes instantly wild and angry, and her tone was jagged and cutting as glass. “Did you?” she flashed. “Did you, Jack? No, you didn’t. You’re looking for the people who kidnapped your sister. And I want the same justice. I want to find the man responsible for luring my baby sister into a world of sleazy prostitution and sex-slavery. I want the man who forced Katrina into this. And I want my revenge.”

  Stone shook his head heavily. Sighed. “What kind of revenge, Celia?”

  “The deadly kind,” she said bitterly. “Deadly revenge, Jack. An eye for an eye.”

  Twelve.

  Stone went back to his room. He shaved quickly, and then stood under the hot spray of the shower until the water turned cold. Then he changed into fresh jeans and t-shirt.

  Just as he finished dressing there was a discreet knock at his door.

  “Room service, sir.”

  Stone frowned, instantly guarded. “What do you want?” He came out of the bathroom and glanced through the spy hole in the door. Standing on the balcony he saw the distorted image of a young blonde woman holding a tray.

  “I have your breakfast,” the woman said.

  Stone paused for a beat. “I didn’t order any breakfast.”

  “It’s been ordered for you.”

  Stone paused again. “By who?”

  He saw the woman glance down at a paper slip. “Miss Walker.”

  Stone unlocked the door.

  A young blonde woman wearing a tight white coat and black slacks stood in the doorway holding a plastic tray. On it was a can of Coke and a glass of orange juice. In the center of the tray was a silver dome-covered plate, and beside the plate was cutlery wrapped within a white paper napkin.

  Stone held the door open. The woman crossed to the table and set the tray down.

  She smiled at Stone politely.

  She stood about as high as his shoulder, maybe twenty years old. She had long blonde hair, dazzlingly green eyes, and an oval-shaped face of fine features. Stone glanced at the young woman’s name tag, pinned to the pocket of her coat.

  ‘Megan Luckey’.

  “How much do I owe?” Stone asked. He was already heading towards the bedside drawer to retrieve his wallet. The woman shook her head. “It’s all been paid for, sir,” she said. “Miss Walker arranged it.”

  Stone blinked. Stood staring at the woman for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, and then his expression suddenly became curious. He glanced back down at her name tag, and then up into her eyes. “Megan, have you ever done any modeling work?”

  The woman smiled self-consciously. “A little,” she admitted. “A couple of jobs with local photographers.” She had a Texan accent.

  Stone nodded. He went back to his wallet and retrieved the photo of Katrina that he had shown the bartender. He handed the magazine image to Megan. “Do you recognize this woman? She was a local model as well?”

  She stared at the photo for long seconds. “Maybe,” Megan said. “She looks familiar. I might have done a photo shoot with her last year…”

  Stone frowned. “But she’s not a friend of yours. Not someone you know well?”

  Megan frowned. “No. Sorry. I’m not a local,” she explained. “My mom moved here from Greenville, Texas a few years ago and bought the hotel. I’m studying political science in college. I’m just up here for a few weeks from San Diego to help out.”

  Stone nodded. That explained the accent, and the uniform that seemed too tight. He smiled. “Thanks anyhow,” he said.

  Megan nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t help,” she said. “But if you have another copy of the photo, I’d be happy to ask around.”

  Stone shook his head. “This is the only copy I have.”

  “Then lend it to me until I come back for your breakfast tray,” Megan offered. “There’s a Xerox machine in the front office.”

  Thirteen.

  Stone carried his breakfast tray to room eighteen and knocked. Celia opened the door for him. She had showered and changed into grey tailored slacks and a white blouse that was translucent enough to reveal the outline of a lace bra beneath. She had spent time on her makeup. Her expression was solemn, but the only visible traces of her ordeal were at the corners of her mouth and beneath her eyes. But she looked like she had it under control. Looked like she was keeping it together well enough.

  She smiled, a brittle little thing that lasted for just a moment and then was gone again.

  “Thank you for the breakfast,” Stone said. “I thought we might as well eat together.”

  Celia had ordered him eggs and bacon, and Stone ate ravenously while she sat opposite him, sipping coffee and nibbling at toast – and watching him covertly.

  After they had eaten he set both trays outside the door. As he came back into the room, Celia was waiting, standing in the middle of the floor, and Stone sensed the sudden dramatic change in her demeanor, as her voice became brisk and business like.

  “I want to go to The Cage tonight, Jack,” she said. “I want you to take me. It’s the only lead we have as to who might be behind Katrina’s murder.”

  Stone nodded. “I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted. “But I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as you expect.”

  Celia arched her eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

  “Because you said The Cage was a BDSM club.”

  “So?”

  Stone shrugged. “So in my experience, BDSM clubs are for Doms and subs. They are not the kind of club you just walk into. They’re not like a bar, Celia. They’re a lot more exclusive, and a lot more discerning.”

  Celia frowned. For a moment, the determination in her eyes flickered and wavered. She took her cell phone from her handbag and perched on the edge of the bed. Stone watched her touch buttons on the hand-held screen for several seconds.

  “The Cage represents the ultimate BDSM pleasure parlor on the west coast for fetish lovers,” she said, apparently reading this information from her phone. Stone sat on the bed beside her. Their legs brushed together. Celia made no move to pull away from the warm tingling press of Stone’s thigh against her own. She could feel the muscled resilience of him through the denim of his jeans. She felt her cheeks flush brightly.

  Stone leaned close and glanced at the screen of the cell phone. Celia was reading from an internet page. Stone smiled wryly. He had a cell phone, but it was one of the cheap re-charge models that sold for just a few bucks, and if his phone did anything more than take and make calls, he certainly didn’t know about it.

  “Entry is restricted to couples who enjoy the lifestyle. Visiting Masters and their subs are most welcome.” Celia continued reading, plucking out the relevant pieces of text and repeating them.

  On the small screen, Stone could see a couple of interior photos, but they were dark and offered no detail or insight into what they might expect if they
made it through the front door.

  Celia shut down the page. She sighed heavily. Stone sat back and thought hard. “If you want to get inside that club legitimately, then it’s going to have to be as a couple,” he said. “A couple that lives the lifestyle.”

  Celia gazed at him. “You said legitimately. Do you have another option?”

  Stone shrugged. “I could break in,” he said simply. “I could gain entry late tonight and take a look around – but I don’t see how that is going to help us. We need to talk to people. We need to find a couple of submissives who are active members at The Cage, and talk to them,” Stone said, rationalizing his thoughts as he spoke. “Most likely, they will be the people who remember Katrina, and know her. If she really was deeply immersed in the lifestyle, it’s going to be other women in a similar world who will be the most help to us. If anyone knows who might have murdered your sister, it will be other submissive women she associated with.”

  Celia glanced away, and then back again. She took a deep breath. “You’re right,” she said. She sprang from the bed suddenly and started pacing across the floor. Stone watched her. Said nothing. She was taking brisk short steps, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, just as she had the day before, like she was winding herself up the way a boxer might do before a big fight.

  Finally she stopped pacing and turned. She was light on her feet like a dancer, her long legs and the narrowness of her waist somehow emphasized by the way she was standing. She looked long and hard at Stone. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find Katrina’s killer, Jack. Whatever it takes, and whatever that means.”

  Stone said nothing. He held her gaze and waited.

  Celia relaxed her stance. She dropped her hands to her side. Stone watched the rise and fall of her breasts under the sheer fabric of her blouse as she suddenly caught her breath and spoke so softly that he barely caught her words.

  “I want you to make me your submissive,” she said.