THE CHARM OF REVENGE

by Tom Secret

  Donatello looked across the faces of the others. “Does everyone agree that premature closure of an investigation, should trump justice in this precinct?”

  “The evidence says they’re connected,” Lance said. “It’s our job to figure out how.”

  “Watch it, Lance!” Carlson said.

  Lance bristled. “Colby wants the Stark case isolated because he’s buddies with Stark’s boss. If we find more connections with the Walton murder, Colby will be in the shit and so will you, so report what you like; I am gonna follow this.”

  “He’s Captain Colby, and you’d better curb that mouth of yours, or I’ll have you suspended.”

  “Carlson.” Donatello pointed his chin at the door. “Get out.”

  “But he—”

  “Now.”

  Carlson glared at them. “Captain will hear about this!”

  “Out!”

  Carlson spun on his heel, yanked the door, rattling the blinds inside, and stormed through the main office.

  “Sorry, guys. I’d hoped to avoid that.”

  “It’s my fault, Big D. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  Donatello waved it off. “You told it straight, so forget it. But look, guys, I must level with you, I was on a short fuse, and this little tiff cuts it in half. At best, I’ve got a two days before Colby pulls enough strings to overrule Inspector Wilkes, and get me out.”

  “We’re with you all the way, Lieutenant,” Crane said. “Tell us what you need, and we’ll do it.”

  Donatello looked at their faces as they all murmured their agreement. “Thanks, guys, I appreciate it. Here’s what I think; Lance is right that Stark, Walton, and Cilcifus are connected, and it’s no coincidence that another IRS member tried to shake me down. Now, with that in mind, take a look at these.” He withdrew the photos from the envelope and handed them out, watching as his team processed the images.

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like a dead cat, Big D.”

  “Under someone’s rib cage,” Crane said. “Oh gross! Is this Walton?”

  “It was,” Donatello said. “Perp put a dead kitten in place of his liver, then stitched him up enough so a casual observer wouldn’t find it. But he knew we would, so what’s he telling us?”

  “Maybe he’s just pissed,” Lance said.

  “I don’t agree.” Sanjit said, “In some ancient traditions, the cat is a guardian of the underworld, and in Japan, cats are associated with wealth. They use lucky cats the way Indians worship Ganesh.”

  “Anyone else? No? Okay, well, maybe you’re both right, so, let’s try Sanjit’s theory on for size. Kennedy, you look like Wile E. Coyote; want to weigh in before you scoot out the door?”

  “Underworld is synonymous with organized crime, so maybe it’s a message to another gang.”

  “Then why not just whack him?” Lance said. “Why go to so much trouble?”

  “And then stitch him up?” Crane said.

  “If it was a gang-related hit,” Sanjit said, “the perp would know we’d suppress the details to prevent copycats. They wouldn’t risk their message not getting through, so, I believe it’s meant for us.”

  “Okay, Sanjit looks like you’re on. We'll need full financial records on Walton. Get an analysis of his tax returns versus lifestyle. Cross-check credit cards, restaurant expenses, mobile phones—the works. And run a cross-check on everything between Walton and Stark. Go back all the way. If they had coffee at the same place and time ten years ago, we need to know.”

  “We should throw Colby into that scan,” Lance said. “He’s up to his triple chin in this.”

  Donatello took back the stack of photos Lance was holding out for him. “Sanjit, find out if Digital WarRoom or Sherlock will send Colby an alert, and if not, then include him. In the meantime, guys, let’s find this perp. If Sanjit’s even half right, I suspect the bodies are about to pile up.”

  53. LIGHTNING STRIKES

  Friday, 7:44 p.m.

  For the briefest moment, Damian Black thought he had died. There was no feeling, no sound or smell or taste, and no thought. Everything was… peaceful.

  Then a light grew behind his eyes, followed by a piercing ringing in his ears, and now pain. Like fire, searing every muscle and sinew as though he’d been struck by lightning. He opened his eyes to find he was seated on one of the ten chrome chairs surrounding the long breakfast table in the middle of his kitchen. In front of him sat two, gallon bottles, each with a label that read, HAZARD: Sodium Hydroxide, above an image of a skull with a red X through it. Behind the bottles a scuffed doctor’s bag lay open, displaying an array of shiny stainless steel surgical tools.

  Something across his mouth and cheeks felt like tape. He tried to move forward, but his arms were bound behind his back. Turning his head, he could glimpse the doorway, but the hall lay in darkness beyond. His feet were cold and bare. He tried to move his legs, but something around his ankles and shins held them fast to the chair, and though he could lift them slightly, when he let them drop the sound and feel was like metal.

  Now the sense that someone was watching began to creep over him. He craned his neck and, from the corner of his eye, saw a figure standing in the doorway. Thrusting his weight back and forth, he tried to loosen the bindings, and, looking again, he tried to discern the form in dark silhouette. Samantha? He tried to shout, but only a muffled trumpeting sound escaped his nostrils. It had to be Samantha! But then, why the medical bag?

  “Hello, Damian.”

  It was a man! His mind raced to identify the voice, and hairs rose on the back of his neck as the figure approached. He strained to see, but the man came directly behind him. A latex-gloved hand brushed his cheek as it picked at the corner of the tape, then pulled.

  “Ouch!” The tape dropped onto the table next to the bottles. “Who are you! What do you want?” The man walked into view, wearing jeans and a worn blue fleece jacket. He faced Damian. “Fairweather! Have you lost your mind? Untie me this instant!”

  “Where are my children, Black?”

  “How the hell should I—aargh!” Fairweather’s knuckles slammed into his cheek, whipping his head to the side. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as his tongue ran across the abraded flesh.

  “Where?”

  “How should I know? Now, get the hell out of my house!” Damian saw the backhand coming again but bobbed his head too late. Shards of dental veneer filled his mouth and cut the inside of his cheek. He tried to spit them out, but his lips were swelling, and the gob of porcelain-flecked blood landed on his white shirt. “Stop hitting me, bastard!”

  Fairweather slid the medical bag level with the two plastic bottles and pulling out a long kitchen knife with a black handle, then slammed it down beside a red X. “Last chance, Black! Where is Michaels hiding my children?”

  Ding dong, the doorbell chimed.

  Damian couldn’t contain his smirk. “You can ask him yourself, bastard!”

  54. X MARKS THE SPOT

  Friday, 7:56 p.m.

  Brad stared at the kitchen intercom and tried to make out the face leering into the camera at the other end. “Who’s at the door?”

  Black smiled. “Why, it’s Michaels, although technically he’s outside the gates.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “He said he would call by, and my Rolls is on the drive, so unless you want security here in the next five minutes, you’d best untie me and let him in so we can converse like gentlemen.”

  Ding dong!

  Brad’s mind raced through his options. He glanced from Black to the intercom and back. “Get rid of him!”

  “Now, Bradley.” Black’s face contorted as though he was trying to smile despite the fat lip and broken teeth. “How am I going to do that taped to a chair?”

  Ding dong!

  Brad crossed to the intercom panel and now recognized Michaels’s bony face peering back. He pressed the gate symbol, and the buzz of an electric lock came over the speaker as
Michaels jumped in his car, and pulled beyond the camera view.

  Returning to the table, Brad removed the Taser and a roll of duct tape from the med bag, flicked the button to “arm” and placed it on the table while the weapon emitted a high-pitched whine. He drew off a length of tape, slapped it across Black’s mouth and tossed the roll, back in the bag; then grabbed the Taser and knife and rushed along the unlit hallway to the front door.

  Breathing hard, he peered through the peephole as Michaels’s Mercedes pulled up beside the Rolls. The man opened the car window and glanced across the front of the house, then swiveled in his seat, to check the grounds. The car door opened, and he slid out, circled Black’s Rolls, touched the hood, then slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew something shiny that became a blade as he approached the house.

  Brad’s chest and arms tingled with adrenaline as he checked that the light on the Taser was green, gave the knife in his other hand a light squeeze, and pressed the electric latch on the door.

  The bolt snapped back into its housing, the door squeaked open, and the footsteps stopped. Brad strained to hear movement, but the only sound was the pounding of blood in his ears. The scent of musk cologne wafted through the open door as he leaned closer to look through the peephole.

  Michaels was standing motionless, staring at the gap with his head cocked to the side, and the open switchblade in his hand. His head shook almost imperceptibly, he turned, jogged across the gravel, jumped into his car, gunned the engine, and spun the wheels backward, peppering the Rolls as he reversed down the driveway, through the gates and onto the street.

  “Fuck!” Brad slammed the door and hit the ‘gate close’ button on the panel. He stormed back to the kitchen, tossed the gun and knife on the table, ripped the tape from Black’s mouth and backhanded him across the face. “Where’s he going?”

  Black worked his jaw from side to side. “How the hell should I know?”

  Brad grabbed the kitchen knife in his right hand and Black’s earlobe in his left. Pulling outward, he brought the blade to the taut flesh. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me.”

  “Now, don’t do something you’ll regret—”

  “Ten!” Brad tossed Black’s earlobe on the lacquered table.

  “Ya-a-a-ah! Bastard! What have you done?” A plume of red erupted down his white shirt as he squirmed against the restraints.

  “Why have you been screwing me when your beef was with my father?”

  “Because I loved your mother, and you defiled her! Because of you, she chose Fairweather.”

  “My daughter died because of what you did!”

  Black stopped struggling as a glint appeared in his eyes. “Ah, yes, the efficient Ms. Johnson.”

  “The hospital receptionist?” Brad’s jaw dropped open.

  “The very same. She recognized your name from my files and called me; didn’t know she worked for me, did you?”

  “She called the cops on us! They stun-gunned me and left Daisy to die in the corridor.”

  Black’s eyes were gleaming now. “Don’t you love it when a plan comes together!”

  “Well, this plan’s been late coming, but my wife was right. I should have dealt with you years ago.” Brad grabbed Black’s right ear, pulled it away from the scalp, and ran the blade along the groove, drawing a line of red where the cartilage met the skull. “Now, where’s Michaels?”

  “All right! Don’t hurt me, I have children, too.”

  “Where?”

  “Dragon Street! He has a warehouse. Your children will be there.”

  Brad tightened his grip and drew the knife deeper. “And Cilcifus?”

  “Aargh!” Black tried to pull his head away. “His office is on Triad Boulevard! I didn’t mean what I said about your daughter. Let me walk, and I’ll make you rich.”

  “You’re not walking anywhere.”

  Brad tossed the knife down and unscrewed the caps from the plastic bottles.

  The caustic vapors burned his sinuses as he emptied the contents of both bottles into the bucket. “This is for Daisy!”

  55. WHERE’S MARCUS

  Friday, 11:16 p.m.

  As Brad brought the pickup to a halt on the driveway, Marcus’s front door ground open like the entrance to an ancient tomb. He grabbed his bag and trudged to the threshold, where Lola stood, cried dry and haggard.

  She searched his eyes for a sign. “Where are my babies?”

  “Michaels has a second warehouse in Fairfield.” Brad stepped into the hallway. “It was crawling with men taking children inside.”

  “You left them there?”

  “I need to speak to Dad. Figure out how to deal with so many men.” Brad headed toward the kitchen with Lola trailing him.

  “He left at noon. Said he was going to the airport.”

  Brad spun around. “He did what! Has he called?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll bloody murder him!” He slammed the wall with his palm; grimacing as the impact jarred his injured shoulder.

  “Maybe he’s trying to help, meeting with his contacts or something?”

  “He’s not bloody helping. He’s off screwing around, just like he did when Daisy died!”

  “Brad…” Lola put her hand on his forearm. “We need to call the police.”

  He pulled away. “And tell them what, exactly? Someone snatched our children, but we didn’t report it because I was busy killing the bastards involved?”

  “Wait. Killed? Killed who?”

  “Walton first, then Black. Look I’m running on fumes. I need to sit down, and eat something.” He stalked into the kitchen and collapsed down in the breakfast nook.

  Lola slid in across from him. “How… how did you kill them?”

  Brad stared into the darkness beyond the window. “Slowly.”

  She looked down, examining her broken fingernails.

  There was no sound but the humming of the fridge. The soft light from beneath the wall cupboards cast shadows on the fresh lines around her eyes.

  She met his gaze. “We have to do something, Brad.”

  He clambered up, holding the edge of the granite table for support. “Did you eat?”

  “Can’t we make an anonymous call to the police?”

  Brad went to the fridge, grabbed a chicken leg, and closed the door. “Michaels showed up when I was at Black’s, but he figured something was up and ran off.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Ripping a mouthful of chicken, Brad shook his head. “No. But if we call the cops and they send a bunch of flatfoots to his warehouse, Michaels will move Jack and Lilly in a heartbeat, and we could lose them forever. Or maybe the cops will go in, guns blazing, and injure them, so there’s no other way. I have to go.”

  Lola folded her arms. “And remind me how you intend to take on all those men?”

  He took another bite, leaning against the fridge to steady himself. “I don’t know yet. But say we call the cops and they get them out; they’ll question Lilly and Jack, and they’ll want to know why we didn’t report them missing. It’ll turn into an interrogation, and one slip by any of us and its prison for you and most likely the needle for me. All while Lilly and Jack spend years in foster care, since we can’t rely on my father!”

  Lola set her jaw. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No way. You need to stay here; stay safe.”

  “You said you can’t go alone, and you can’t stop me coming.”

  Brad could see the fury burning in her eyes. “There’s too many… it's too dangerous.”

  “I’m coming, and that’s the end of it!”

  He knew this look on her face and arguing was pointless. “In that case, you’ll need the Taser I got you. We leave before dawn.”

  56. DRAGON STREET

  Saturday, 5:33 a.m.

  Brad knew Lola would be furious when she awoke to find the Taser and his note on the kitchen table, but what else could he do? Now, driving alone through the sheeting rain, he peered at the
deserted streets through brief openings between slaps of the wiper blades, and even with the vents on full, the windshield was fogging again. He swiped it with his gloved hand and turned off Knoxborough onto Fairfield Boulevard, leaving civilization behind.

  When the Fairfield scandal broke, it was on every news channel in the state, but that wasn’t where the story began. Twenty-five years ago, to great fanfare, politicians and developers had cut the ribbon on the Fairfield Development Zone. Millions of taxpayer dollars poured into regenerating the area, to turn a sow’s ear into a gilded purse. A few million more had passed under the table to grease the political wheels, and success seemed assured, until ten years ago, when disaster struck in the middle of the lunchtime rush, and a giant sinkhole yawned open, swallowing the Tin Man hardware store and the Delfresco burger bar. Forty-six people went down for the ride. At first, people blamed fracking in the Jordan Hills area, until someone leaked an explosive geology report that the politicians had buried. It turned out they built the whole development atop what the geologists called divergent plates. Six months later, another fissure opened, gobbling almost a thousand yards of retail units, and the stampede was on. Within six months, the entire four square miles had become a ghost town; a graveyard of rubble and broken dreams, with lampposts tilting along the roadside, their power, like the enriched politicians, now long gone.

  Brad slowed the truck and killed the lights as the turn for Dragon Street came into view. Already, he felt like he was being watched as he pulled up beside the nearest wall, shut off the engine and stared down at his shaking hands. Five minutes; then he’d go on foot.

  Swiping the glass to clear a new peephole, he strained to see into the shadows of the deserted street. Nothing was moving, but it felt like the number of watching eyes had doubled.

  He rubbed his face, trying to shake the cloud of fatigue. Where the hell did Father disappear to? Lola was right; he should never have come alone.

  Up ahead, something moved. Brad swiped the misty windshield once more, squinting through the downpour at two men climbing into a car. Twin lights pierced the darkness as they pulled away from Michaels’s forecourt and headed straight for him.