Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

She refused to let up, kept the sawing motion going, pushing through the ache in her arms, feeling the tape weakening, loosening, until at last it released her.

  Her teary squeal blended into a laugh as she massaged the soreness from her wrists, her arms, replacing it with strength and renewed determination.

  Wait!

  Flipping on the small flashlight, she replaced the spent tape so that it would appear she were still bound if she touched her wrists together.

  “Okay, that’s good.”

  Jolene then raked the small beam of light over the door and examined its hinges. Three steel hinges, secured by three flathead star-point screws. She positioned Carrie’s car keys, separated the one with the largest thumb pad. Its sharp corner fit nicely into the screw head.

  Using all of her strength she turned counterclockwise. Nothing moved. She tried again until her thumb and forefinger became numb.

  She waited, taking deep breaths, then tried another.

  The result was the same.

  Jolene growled with frustration until she recalled something she’d seen on a home-repair show. She removed her shoe and began whacking the hinge and screw heads.

  Then she began prying at the pin holding the hinge.

  Nothing budged under the pressure she could apply with the small key.

  But Jolene refused to stop.

  She put her shoe back on and kicked at the hardware over and over.

  Again, she wedged the key’s corner into the screw head forcing all of her strength into the twist, cursing and begging for cooperation until she heard a high-pitched squeak.

  “It moved!”

  Her hopes soaring, Jolene stood and, with unrelenting determination, twisted the head a half rotation, then another half, then another and another until she removed it.

  “YES!”

  Okay, eight more to go.

  At that moment, a sudden jolt staggered her as the transmission ground down and the truck decelerated.

  55

  Across the country, alone in his study, Karl Styebeck inserted a DVD into his computer.

  He should’ve followed his first instinct to let it burn in the trash drum.

  But a darker, stronger fire had raged within him and he’d plucked it from the flames.

  He’d hidden the DVD under a shingle of his neighbor’s garage roof.

  Brent and the others never found it when they searched his house.

  Styebeck had surrendered his personal computer to them, as a sign of his cooperation. Then he bought a new one, which he used now to review Bernice Hogan’s last moments.

  He needed to see her again.

  Bernice was his favorite.

  He ached to see her—even like this. He craved one last look.

  He shouldn’t do this.

  This was a mistake. Destroy this DVD now. That reporter, Gannon, was getting too close. Orly had threatened to send Gannon a copy of this recording.

  But there was still time.

  Time to fix everything.

  Time to enjoy one last session of pleasure with Bernice while Alice was out. As the DVD loaded, his urges battled his conscience, tearing him apart. He had to take steps to protect his family, his life. Still, he yearned for Bernice and the other women because the murder had brought the dark side of his life to a standstill and he couldn’t take it much longer.

  Was he mourning Bernice?

  Blurring images of her swam into focus before him. Her face, even though she was terrified, had ignited an explosion of wicked desire. Seeing her, hearing her, even in the throes of death…

  “Mr. Styebeck please, I beg you…Oh God no…please, Karl…NO!”

  This was wrong.

  Get a grip, he told himself. Orly had forced her to use his name, incriminating him. He had to stop his brother, had to fight back, before he lost everything.

  Something crashed.

  “What are you doing, Karl?”

  Startled, he turned to find Alice standing over the heap of groceries she’d dropped on the floor.

  “That’s the murdered woman! That’s Bernice Hogan! Karl, what are you doing?”

  He removed the DVD, slid it into his pocket and stood.

  “This is part of the investigation.”

  “What? No, I don’t understand. I just don’t.”

  “Alice. I told you, its part of the investigation. Some of the people I deal with on the street want to hurt me.”

  “No, no, Karl, I don’t understand. First we get strange calls, then that reporter writes that horrible story.”

  “Alice.”

  “Then I saw you with that strange man who came to our house that night. I pretended I didn’t, but I saw from the window. Karl, you were holding your gun!”

  “Alice, calm down!”

  “Then the police search our home, and I see you burying things at night and burning things and now this!”

  “Alice, I told you, I’m helping with the investigation. Some of my informants have accused me, they’re trying to implicate me. And they’ve told Gannon lies. I’ve been working on this.”

  She stared at him hard then stared at the computer monitor where she’d seen and heard a terrified woman plead for her life. Then she looked back at her husband, as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Tell me the truth, Karl, please.”

  He said nothing.

  “I heard that reporter ask you if ‘it runs in the family.’ What was he talking about, Karl?”

  “He was fed lies, Alice.”

  “Stop it, Karl! Answer me. Are you involved?”

  “Yes.”

  Alice covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Yes.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I knew Bernice Hogan. She was an informant. Yes, I was on the street that night trying to find her, trying to talk to her about a case. And I’m being implicated by people who are all linked to it all. But I did not kill her.”

  Alice took several moments to digest his explanation.

  “Are we safe?” she asked. “Should I take Taylor with me to my sister’s in Rochester?”

  “That’s not necessary. You have to let me handle this. I’m going to get us through this, okay?”

  Alice nodded then bent down to pick up the groceries.

  It was difficult because her hands were shaking.

  56

  The loud hiss of brakes echoed through the tranquil forested hills.

  Dusk and an eighteen-wheeler arrived outside a tumbledown building that clung to Interstate 84 east of Portland, near The Dalles and the Columbia River. Not far from the end of the Oregon Trail.

  A pair of snakeskin boots stepped from the cab.

  Stones crunched under them as the driver walked across the gravel parking lot, approaching a line of pickup trucks. He shot a glance at the worn sign above the entrance: Wolf Tooth Food & Beer.

  He horked and spat before he entered.

  Inside, it felt as if the place were a mausoleum for motivation. A gloomy grocery store offered milk, bread, smokes and outdated magazines, then it morphed into a dark and dingy bar.

  Unshaven men with stomachs straining plaid flannel shirts, and plain-faced women in tight tops and jeans, sat at Formica tables on hard-backed bingo-hall chairs. They joked between swallows of beer while a basketball game flickered on the muted set perched on a high shelf, next to the beer signs.

  A country song sought mercy from a cracked speaker.

  Five full minutes after the driver sat alone at a two-chair corner table and memorized the laminated menu, the bartender decided to take his order.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Steak and eggs. Side of beans, coleslaw. White toast.”

  “To drink?”

  “Coke and coffee.”

  “That it?”

  “I’ll also take a burger platter with fries to go with a bottle of water in a bag.”

  “Sure. Noticed your rig. Where you coming from, friend?”

  The bartender saw smaller versions of hi
mself reflected in the dark glasses that turned to him. The driver did not smile as an icy moment passed.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Just being friendly.”

  “I got a long way to go.”

  “I’ll get that order up.”

  While waiting, the driver went to the bar’s phone booth, stepped inside, closed the door, deposited a stream of coins and dialed.

  Later, as he finished the last of his meal, the bartender left the bill and the grease-stained bag holding his take-out order. The driver probed his teeth with a toothpick as he reviewed his bill. Reaching into his pants for his cash, he was distracted by the woman who’d invited herself to sit in the empty chair facing him. Her ample breasts pushed her navy T-shirt and the words Let’s Go Crazy at him.

  “Got a minute, there, handsome?”

  She was shapely, appeared to be in her early thirties. Could’ve been younger, for her face looked like it used to be pretty before something in her life broke. She had a butterfly tattoo on her neck and her left nostril had a diamond stud. She dropped a large bag at her feet.

  “A minute for what?”

  She leaned forward.

  “I need to get out of this town and I’ll make it worth your while if you take me as far as you can.”

  He began flipping through his thick roll of bills. Her eyes lingered on his tattoos, which transmitted The Power and the Glory across his powerful forearms. The guy looked like he was made of steel.

  He left two new tens on the table.

  “You’ll make it worth my while, will you?”

  “I’ll blow your mind, buddy.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Mmm, hmm.”

  “You live here?”

  “Hell no. Got left here this morning. Just traveling through. Like you.”

  “Got some ID to prove that?”

  “What? You a cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I’m not showing you that.”

  “You already showed me a lot of nerve.”

  She frowned.

  “What the hell.” She fished a state-issued card out of her bag. He studied it. It looked recent. She was twenty-four years old and from Joplin, Missouri.

  “Leeandra Lake,” he said more to himself.

  “I go by Lee.” She snatched her ID back. “So, how ’bout it?”

  “I’m going far.”

  “How far? Like Seattle, or San Francisco?”

  “So far, you might never find your way back. Think it’s wise for you to go down that road?”

  Her smile was reflected in his dark glasses.

  “You make me tingle, handsome. Take me with you.”

  He stared at her unsmiling.

  “You know what you are, Lee?”

  Her smile shrank a bit as he let a long moment pass, then another, enjoying the crimson blossoming in her skin.

  “What am I?”

  “My guest.”

  It was nearly dark as they walked across the gravel parking lot to his rig and to the passenger side of the tractor.

  “Swift Sword?” She read the lettering on the door as he reached up to open it for her. “What’s that?”

  “That’s what I am. Hop in there.”

  She climbed in. He shut the door then walked to the trailer’s side. He opened the side inspection door. It swung out. Then he began opening the interior door, which swung in.

  He pushed it and froze.

  It felt different.

  “Hey!” Lee looked back from the side mirror. “Whatcha doing, handsome? Let’s go!”

  He set the bag of food inside on the dark foul-smelling floor, closed the doors then climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the rig’s big engine, set it in gear and began to roll.

  “You know, I never even asked you your name?” Lee said as she inventoried the truck’s interior.

  “It’s not important. What’s important is for you to accept what you are.”

  “I’m your guest,” Lee said, gazing at the prism-colored sky over the Columbia River Gorge. “That’s what you said.”

  “No. You’re a goddamn dirty whore!”

  She turned to see his face contorted with rage.

  “Stop this truck,” she said. “I want out now!”

  He upshifted.

  “Say it! Say, yes, Karl, I’m a goddamn dirty whore!”

  Frantic, she tried to open the door but it was locked.

  “Stop this fucking truck, asshole!”

  “Say, I’m a goddamn dirty whore and my judgment day has come!”

  As she struggled with the door he reached under his seat for the cattle prod. No one heard her screams as the truck vanished into the lonely Oregon night.

  57

  In suburban Buffalo, Karl Styebeck lying in bed next to his wife, opened his eyes to the glowing numbers of the digital clock: 1:07 a.m.

  Alice barely stirred as the cordless phone on his bed stand rang again softly. He grabbed it.

  “It’s me,” Orly said.

  “Wait.” Styebeck kept his voice low and moved to his den.

  “I’m damn tired of shouldering the burden, Karl. When will you accept what you are and do your share?”

  “Never. I’m not like you. Or her. Or like him. Turn yourself in.”

  “We’re blood. You’re no better than us, you’re exactly like us.”

  “Why do you want to destroy me?”

  “I’m trying to help you correct the error of your life before it’s too late.”

  “What you’re asking is wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong! It’s what we were put here to do. Belva is dying. Accept your responsibilities. We need to eradicate this world of the whores and whoremongers, which is what you are, Karl. I tried to help you in Buffalo and now my new work in Wichita should inspire you.”

  “Wichita? What did you do?”

  “I have seen the glory, Karl! Listen!”

  Styebeck’s stomach lurched. Static hiss led into a recording.

  “…Mr. Styebeck, please…oh God, let me go…Karl, I swear I won’t tell a soul anything…about Bernice Hogan…about what you did to her in Buffalo…noooo! PLEEEEAAAASSEEE! OH GOD!”

  The recording ended.

  “Orly, turn yourself in.”

  “My work is righteous. And I got more coming.”

  “I’m coming for you. I’ll bring you in, I swear.”

  “I don’t think so, Karl, you’d go down with me. Your whores will tell them about you, like the one I judged told me before she died. And I’ll see to it that the police get my recordings. And like I said, maybe that reporter that nailed you should see copies.”

  “Those women are being forced to make false statements, I am not involved.”

  “I’ve got you good Karl, because it is righteous to carry on with Deke’s work. Belva needs to know where you stand before she passes on. You owe her. You owe him. You owe me. We have work to do.”

  “Deke was sick. You’re sick. We’re all sick. It’s like we’ve been cursed. You need help.”

  “I have seen the glory, Karl, and I’m not going to stop until you do what has to be done! Time to come home, brother! Time to come home!”

  The line went dead.

  Styebeck switched on his computer then found news stories out of Wichita, Kansas. In less than a minute, Carrie May Fulton of Hartford, Connecticut, was staring out from the electronic pages of a Wichita newspaper. Above her face was the headline:

  New England Woman Victim of Ritual Slaying Police say ties to out-of-state killings “can’t be ruled out”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  His breathing quickened as he read. He was living a nightmare. He’d come from a bloodline that was cursed, a curse he had to escape.

  Styebeck looked at the framed pictures of him with Taylor and Alice.

  He got up and took down a large framed painting of a sunset. Hidden in the paper backing was a thick envelope of old files.

  It was time.<
br />
  He dressed then went to the garage for the bag he’d packed earlier. He got a trowel then went to the backyard and dug up a plastic-covered box containing several thousand dollars and a disposable cell phone.

  Then he stood there in the dark staring at his home.

  He saw Taylor’s bicycle, the ceramic pots Alice was working on. He saw the dimmed lights of the appliances in the kitchen window. He knew the calendar on the fridge was marked with Taylor’s games, games Styebeck might never see.

  Then he picked out the bedroom he shared with Alice.

  As a man, he knew he’d been blessed with fortune he didn’t deserve.

  As Deke and Belva Styebeck’s son, he loathed himself for what he was.

  As a cop, he knew how to travel without leaving a trace.

  As he sank into the night, Styebeck braced for the battle ahead and replayed the one he’d fought against his father in Texas….

  Karl tried to understand why Deke needed an electric chair in their barn. His concern grew.

  But he told no one.

  As time passed, Deke continued fussing over the chair while Belva helped by making the padded restraining belts. Then Deke came home with a huge diesel generator from military surplus hitched to his truck.

  He positioned it in the barn, wired the switch box for the chair, then connected the box to the chair and the generator.

  They tested the chair with an old scarecrow Orly had dragged in from one of the fields.

  It was a grotesque thing.

  Deke fashioned it into a satisfactory test subject. They dressed it in his old clothes, reinforced the arms and legs with stovepipes. A rusted metal bucket served as the head. Orly got a brush and can of red paint and carefully stroked the word GUILTY on the bucket’s face.

  Then Deke secured the “condemned” into the chair and fired up the generator. Its rumble was deafening. When all was set, Deke threw the switch. The generator kicked and growled. The scarecrow vibrated as if it were alive before it exploded into a sizzling, sparking cloud, splitting the bucket and rendering the torso a stinking, eviscerated, smoldering heap.

  Deke Styebeck smiled.

  Belva smiled, too.

  When the remains cooled, Deke instructed Karl and Orly to haul them out to the woods. While Orly, who worshipped his father, was excited to be part of this exalted work, the incident had left Karl puzzling over how executing a scarecrow fit in with his daddy’s mysterious vision.