Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge

by Vivien Sparx

  A single light on a pole, haloed by the moist night air, threw a dull yellow glow over the alleyway, darkening the shadows.

  Stone walked on.

  He came out on a side street and walked back towards the Lexus. The town was quiet. The door to The Cage was shut and padlocked. Heston’s Cove was asleep.

  Stone tossed the bundles of money he had won into the trunk of the car and settled in behind the wheel. He took a deep breath.

  The night had gone better than he had expected, but he knew he was minutes away from facing the biggest danger of the evening.

  Celia would still be tied, naked to the bed.

  And she wasn’t going to be happy.

  Twenty-One.

  The Dom came down the passage. He had his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, and a brooding, dangerous scowl on his face. He saw the blonde girl up against the back door of the club, bent at the waist with her panties down around her spread thighs. His guard had his trousers unzipped, thrusting into the girl with vicious pumping strokes that drew a new sobbing gasp from the girl every time he lunged.

  The Dom clamped his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Don’t take too long,” the Dom said, barely glancing down at the girl. She was weeping quietly, her tiny hands balled into fists as she braced herself against the driving impact as the guard used her for his pleasure.

  The guard nodded, and there was a sudden curious expression of alarm on his face.

  “Problem?”

  The Dom nodded. “The guy who just left is coming back. Maybe in an hour or so. He’s going to have a diary. I want you to search him when he arrives. I want that book.”

  The guard nodded. “And then…?”

  The Dom raised an eyebrow, like he was surprised the question even needed to be asked. “And then you kill him, of course,” he said. “But get the diary first – or you’ll be the one in a dumpster.”

  Twenty-Two.

  It was just a few minutes driving from The Cage back to the hotel. The streets were deserted. There was no traffic. Stone slowed down to take the turn off the main road, and saw a police car parked across the hotel’s entrance. Stone braked and pulled into the curb.

  It was a Crown Vic black and white. The car was dark, but as Stone killed the engine in the Lexus, he saw the driver’s side door crack open and the overhead light in the cop car came on. He saw two officers. They looked young. They both had short, military-like haircuts. Serious faces.

  Stone got out of the Lexus. Pushed the door shut. Stood by the hood and waited.

  The driver got out of the cop car. He was a young broad-shouldered guy, maybe twenty-five. He was wearing a tan uniform shirt covered in badges and insignias, and dark brown trousers. He left the door of the car open and adjusted the big belt around his waist. Rested his hand casually on the top of his weapon holster. Not tense. Not strung out like he was expecting trouble. Just like it was a precaution, or maybe just good training that had turned into an even better habit. He stared at Stone but said nothing.

  The other cop was still in the car. Through the open door Stone could hear the distorted voices of radio chatter. The guy picked up a microphone and spoke quickly, his eyes on Stone as he reported in. Then he got out of the car and came around the trunk, so the cops were approaching Stone from both sides.

  Stone leaned against the hood of the Lexus and waited.

  “Evening officers.”

  “Evening,” the guy who had been in the driver’s seat said. “You’re Jack Stone, right?”

  Stone nodded.

  “Mind if I see your license, Mr. Stone?”

  Stone shrugged. He reached into his wallet and handed over his license. The driver passed it to his partner. The guy was holding a long heavy flashlight. He studied the license. Glanced back at his partner and nodded. Then he handed the identification back to Stone.

  “What’s this all about?” Stone asked.

  “Routine,” one of the cops said vaguely.

  “Routine what?”

  “Routine traffic stop,” the cop said again, and then his tone became a little more formal. “We need you to come with us.”

  Stone frowned. “Where? Am I being charged with something? Are you arresting me?”

  The cop closest shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Stone paused. The two cops weren’t giving him attitude. They weren’t bristling, or tense. They weren’t on edge. They were just polite and formal. Doing their job. Following orders. “Then what is this all about?”

  “I can’t tell you that, sir,” the cop said.

  “Then what can you tell me?”

  The two cops exchanged brief glances. “The sheriff wants to talk to you. He’s waiting,” one of them said.

  “At the police station? At this time of night?”

  The cop shook his head. “No, sir. He’s waiting for you at another location. We’ve been instructed to take you to him.”

  Stone thought quickly. “Is it far away, officer? I have someone waiting for me in the hotel. She’s expecting me.”

  “It’s not far, sir,” the cop shook his head. “You can follow us in your vehicle.”

  Twenty-Three.

  The police car headed out of town. Crossed the bridge, and blew past the big roadside billboard welcoming visitors to Heston’s Cove. Then just kept on humming north and east at a steady seventy miles an hour.

  The night was dark. There was no moonlight. Low thick cloud had blown in off the Pacific since sunset, hanging overhead like a heavy blanket. The woods closed in tight around the Lexus as Stone kept the cop car’s taillights in sight. The road narrowed, and then began to twist and turn upon itself.

  Then suddenly – in the middle of nowhere – the cop car’s taillights flared red and urgent, and the vehicle’s speed bled away quickly. Stone reacted. He squeezed the brake and felt the Lexus dip down a little on its front suspension as the car slowed to a crawl. The cop car was turning off. Turning onto a dirt trail that branched at right-angles away from the road and disappeared into the dense dark woods.

  Stone followed. Saw a mailbox on an old wooden post. Saw a name and number but couldn’t make anything out in the dark. He flicked his lights up to bright and the extra glow cast the towering trees that pressed in on each side with an eerie, menacing glow of highlights and black twisted shadows.

  The track was just a pair of deep parallel ruts put there by the passage of time. There was a raised hump of loose gravel between them and the Lexus lurched and bounced as the trail dipped then rose again following the natural contours of the land it had been cut into. Bushy outcrops rose left and right, scrubbing against the car as the woods closed in all around like a black impenetrable wall.

  Stone glanced down at the dashboard. Figured they had gone a mile or so from the road, still following the billowing cloud of dust that was thrown up by the Crown Vic. The cop car was bouncing and swaying and rolling like a boat, crawling deeper into the night.

  Finally the track seemed to widen. The dense wall of trees filtered and faded away until all Stone could sense was dark wide-open space to his left, and more dark wide open space to his right.

  The track became smoother. Stones and rocks smacked and skidded under the car, crunched under the tires. Then the cop car was slowing to a crawl, turning hard right, and parking on a wide area of beaten down earth.

  The Lexus’s headlights swept over the wide dark shape of a house, built up off the ground. Stone saw a verandah and steps. Saw another black and white police car parked up alongside the house. The vehicle was turned nose-out facing back down the track. Right next to it was a dark colored little compact.

  He eased the Lexus to a stop alongside the cop car and killed the engine. The two cops were already out of their car, waiting for him with their thumbs hooked into their bulky belts and their hats on their head like they were on a parade ground about to undergo inspection.

  Stone got out of the car. It was quiet. Not city quiet – country quiet. There were
no ambient sounds. No familiar distant hum of traffic, no sense of energy or activity. No sense that other people surrounded him.

  There was just nothing but real silence.

  “The sheriff is waiting for you,” one of the cops said. “He’s inside.”

  A lamp came on suddenly, lighting a pool of area around the porch steps and the front door of the house. A moment later Stone saw the door crack open. Then another floodlight on a high post came on, and the whole area was lit up. Stone could hear the sudden hum of electricity, and somewhere in the distance the sound of a motor. Maybe a generator, he guessed. Maybe in a shed somewhere out back. He saw no power lines leading to the house.

  There was a man standing in the doorway of the house, silhouetted against interior lights. He was just a heavy, broad-shouldered shape. Stone started walking towards the steps.

  The house was old – a sprawling clapboard farmstead that had probably seen a hundred summers. There were dark screens on the windows and a chimney jutting up through the roof. The steps were a simple wooden assembly, four thick faded slabs of timber that creaked with every step under Stone’s weight, and the porch was weary with neglect and sagging on its supports.

  Stone stood under the lamp and caught his first real sight of the man waiting in the doorway.

  He was a couple of inches shorter than Stone, and about ten years older. He was a big man, not muscled and toned, but a man who might once have been – before too many donuts and too many hours behind a desk had turned muscle to fat and turned a bulky chest to a solid gut. But he had bright, intelligent eyes. They were the kind of eyes that had seen a lot, and knew a lot. Searching eyes that had survived enough perilous situations in their time to now be guarded and calculating.

  In another life he might have become a carpenter, or a farmer, or maybe a forest ranger. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who enjoyed the outdoors and working with his hands.

  The man was wearing a thick dressing robe, tied loosely around his waist over a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. The man had white skinny legs. His hair was black, but streaked with the kind of grey a man earns the hard way. His hair was tousled, like he had just been woken.

  They didn’t shake hands. Stone didn’t think it seemed like it was that kind of moment. The guy looked like he had plenty he wanted to say. It was all there in his face – frustration or maybe concern and worry, Stone wasn’t sure. He stared at Stone for long moments and then opened up with both barrels.

  “Son, my name is Sheriff Walter Ripley,” he said in a deep drawling voice that sounded like it had its origins back in Texas. “And you are a giant-sized pain in the ass.”

  Twenty-Four.

  The sheriff ushered Stone inside the house and Stone’s eyes took it all in quickly. He was standing in a small living room. The walls were wallpapered with a gentle floral pattern, the dark wood floorboards covered with thick rugs. The furnishings were minimal; just a two-seater sofa and a huge old leather armchair that was worn and loosing its stuffing from constant use. There was a lamp on a small table and a glass-fronted cabinet that stood to the height of his chest. It was an old antique piece filled with the kind of china ornaments that grandparents used to collect.

  To Stone’s right, through an arched opening, was a large kitchen lit by the bright glare of fluorescent bars. The area was evidently well used. There were pots, pans and plates in a sink. The bench tops were cluttered with appliances and Stone could hear the noisy hum of the refrigerator, loud in the silence.

  The sheriff raised his arms in an all-encompassing gesture and glanced at Stone.

  “My wife died two years ago,” the sheriff said heavily, as if the passing of his wife explained the untidy kitchen and the bare living room area. Stone simply nodded.

  The sheriff led him through a dark hallway. There were doors left and right. He pushed open one door and suddenly they were standing in a small office.

  The walls were dark wood paneling. There was a single narrow window shuttered against the night. The furnishings were all dark; old bookshelves lined with rows of carefully collected editions of cheap western novels that had probably been bought through a subscription service decades ago. There was a bulky winter coat hanging on a stand in the corner. The coat was one of those plaid-lined pieces men wear when they go and do things like duck hunting. It was worn at the elbows and grimy around the collar with constant wear.

  In the center of the room there was a big black swivel chair on heavy castors tucked in behind a steel desk that looked like it had been bought from a government supply sale. There was a straight-backed wooden chair right across from it. On the desk was a framed photograph – one of those small wooden things with a cardboard tongue on the back to stand it upright, and spread out all around it was a stack of cardboard folders and medical charts lit by the soft yellow glow of an old desk lamp.

  The sheriff sagged back into the chair behind the desk and waved Stone to sit down.

  “You’ve been busy,” the sheriff said, rocking the chair back on its springs with his big hands clasped across the expanse of his stomach. “You’ve been in town just a couple of days and you’re already raising hell.”

  Stone said nothing. He locked eyes with the man across the desk.

  The sheriff reached into the stack of folders at his elbow and found the one he was looking for. It was a slim, flimsy cardboard thing, still stiff along its folds. Stone saw his name written in black marker pen along the spine.

  The sheriff flipped the folder open, laid it flat on the desk. Stone saw three or four pages; typed reports, military documents. He sat patiently and waited while the sheriff went through the pretense of apprising himself of the report’s contents. Stone didn’t doubt the man knew every word already.

  Finally the sheriff looked up.

  “Your military record is outstanding,” he said, and his voice was inflected with a tone of grudging respect. “And it seems you’ve been in no real trouble with the law since mustering out.”

  Stone said nothing.

  The sheriff sighed. “So why are you in Heston’s Cove suddenly raising hell?” he frowned accusingly. “I’ve spoken to detective Harrison. He tells me you broke into an apartment unit. I’ve also had a report that someone fitting your description was involved in a physical altercation at a local waterside bar…”

  Stone said nothing.

  “And now I have a report that there was a disturbance at an adult club in the Cove earlier this evening. Do you have anger issues, son? Or is there another reason all this trouble seems to have followed you into my town?”

  Suddenly the sheriff leaned forward and slammed the folder shut, the sound of his hand on the table a loud ring in the silence of the night. He stumped his elbows on the tabletop and peered hard at Stone.

  “I came here to help find a missing woman,” Stone said evenly.

  The sheriff sighed. “Katrina Walker.”

  Stone nodded. “And when your detective told me she was dead, it turned into a search to find her killer.”

  The sheriff shook his head heavily. “And your idea of a ‘search’ is to fight your way through every bar and club in Heston’s Cove?”

  “No,” Stone said. “I’ve already found the man who killed Katrina Walker. Now I just need you and your officers to get off their fat asses and do something to bring the man to justice.”

  Another long silence, this one bristling with hostility like an electrical charge. The sheriff pushed himself to his feet and leaned over the desk, a big intimidating mass that would have cowered most men. Stone didn’t budge.

  “Now you listen to me, Stone,” the sheriff said slowly. “You have no right to go around my town putting your nose into things that you know nothing about. No right at all,” the sheriff hissed. His body was suddenly racked with tension. “You are fucking up my investigation.”

  “Into who, sheriff? Who are you investigating for the murder of Katrina Walker?”

  “The Dom, you reckless damned fool. Dominic D�
��Astinga. And just because my officers don’t go around breaking chairs and beating down doors, doesn’t mean we aren’t doing our job. Son, do you know what it means to be subtle?”

  “I only know what it means to be effective,” Stone said.

  The sheriff shook his head in frustration. “I am right in the process of preparing a case against the Dom,” he snarled. “I have him on sex-trafficking, drug matters, intimidation, extortion…” he counted the points off with his fingers.

  “What about murder?” Stone cut the sheriff off. “You’re forgetting about Katrina Walker.”

  “No, damn it. I’m not!” suddenly the sheriff’s voice was a bull roar. His face flushed red as an angry rash rose from beneath the collar of his dressing robe and surged up the length of his neck.

  He bit down hard on his temper. Did a thing with his mouth like it was a physical effort not to keep shouting. Mentally he counted to ten and let out a long steady breath. Lowered his tone until it was just a strained whisper.

  “I’m asking you to walk away,” the sheriff said. “I’m asking you to leave town, Stone. Forget about Heston’s Cove – and I’m asking you for the good of everybody concerned.”

  Stone shook his head. “I can’t do that. It’s a question of honor. I gave my word to Katrina Walker’s sister. I told her I would help, and I won’t stop until The Dom is brought to justice and made to account for his actions. Either the legal way…. or my way.” He said it in a quiet matter-of-fact voice, not moving. Just stared back at the sheriff calmly.

  Sheriff Ripley nodded his head slowly, like he knew Stone’s answer before he heard it. He looked across the desk for long seconds and his expression seemed almost sorrowful. Finally, he kicked back his chair and stomped out of the office. Stood standing and waiting impatiently in the hallway until Stone slowly got to his feet. Apparently the issue was closed. The sheriff waited, simmering in the hallway like a volcano ready to erupt.