Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

  “Yes, you can call me collect, or e-mail me. Mr. Dunphy, it’s important and kind of urgent.” Gannon gave him his contact information.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Dunphy said.

  Gannon hung up, sensing that Dunphy knew more than he’d revealed.

  The room turned icy as he stared at the papers of his research spread on his kitchen table, struggling to make sense of what he’d just learned about Karl Styebeck’s family.

  Less than thirty minutes later he received an e-mail from Lester Dunphy.

  Mr. Gannon:

  I spoke with my friend Julie Pruitt about your research. She’s willing to tell you a little more about what happened to Orly Styebeck, provided it remains confidential. Her daughter had some unpleasant dealings with him last year. Call Julie at 409–555-1212.

  Les

  62

  In her office at the World Press Alliance in Manhattan, Melody Lyon watched helicopters lift off and land at the West Thirtieth Street Heliport near the Hudson.

  Beyond that, she saw New Jersey and jets approaching Newark.

  Lyon was under pressure to fill the opening she and Carter O’Neill had on their special investigations team. They were falling behind in the staffing schedule and could face a budget problem. But between meetings, calls and duties, Lyon searched the skyline for an answer to her quandary over Jack Gannon.

  It had been a couple of days since Carrie May Fulton of Connecticut was identified as the victim of the murder in Wichita. While Kansas investigators would not rule out the “possibility” that Fulton’s death was linked to homicides in other states, they’d refused to name one.

  Lyon sensed a bigger story here; so did the WPA’s competitors.

  Which is why she’d ordered the bureaus in Wichita and Hartford to make the homicides a priority and push their police contacts.

  But no one was talking. Nothing new had leaked in the past few days.

  And since the Times released its speculative piece out of Wichita, nothing about New York links to Kansas and Connecticut had hit the New York papers. Earlier that morning she’d called Ted Kollock, the WPA’s Buffalo bureau chief.

  “No, Melody, not a word here about any connection to the Kansas killing. And nothing new on Karl Styebeck in the Sentinel or the News.”

  “What’re you hearing on Styebeck?”

  “Not much. Word is he’s keeping a low profile and might be getting ready to sue the Sentinel.”

  “What about the local murder of the nursing student?”

  “Nothing new about the Hogan murder, or the disappearance of her friend, Jolene Peller, other than weak updates on inside pages, or metro briefs, you know.”

  “On another matter, and this is just between us, are you hearing any scuttlebutt in the wake of Jack Gannon’s firing?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Did you ever hear anything at all about him abusing drugs or alcohol?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just that he was a helluva good reporter who’d earned his Pulitzer nomination. Why?”

  “Just curious. Thanks, Teddy. Keep digging. Something big is going to pop on this story. I can feel it in my bones.”

  It was Jack Gannon.

  He’d made Lyon uneasy for so many reasons.

  Asking her for a job in the wake of being fired from the Sentinel. Then there was Gannon’s call about having inside information, his cryptic e-mail about the murder of Bernice Hogan and the possible link to the murder of another woman found in another state. Gannon’s e-mail came before the Wichita story broke.

  She hadn’t heard from him since. Maybe she should call him. What if he was on the right track to breaking a major story? What if he was dead wrong and his career was about to crash?

  Lyon’s phone rang. The extension came up for Beland Stone, the WPA’s executive editor. Her boss.

  “Lyon.”

  “Got a minute to come and meet me and Carter in my office?”

  “Yup.”

  Beland Stone was an institution.

  Before rising to the WPA’s top editorial position, he had been chief of the Washington bureau. He’d covered five presidential campaigns and won two Pulitzers for breaking international stories out of Africa. And he’d written two best-selling books on global poverty.

  Tough, gruff and smart—that was Stone.

  Lyon entered Stone’s vast corner office with its panoramic view. Carter O’Neill was sitting in one of the plush visitors’ chairs.

  Stone was standing at his window pondering the Empire State Building while twisting a rubber band.

  “You were supposed to fill that position on special investigations weeks ago.” Stone turned from the window. “Carter says you’re delaying.”

  Lyon shot a look at O’Neill.

  “Don’t blame him, Mel, I saw him in the hall and asked him. What the hell’s the delay?”

  “I’m considering Jack Gannon from the Buffalo Sentinel—”

  “Formerly of the Sentinel.”

  “We were going to hire him once. He was nominated for a Pulitzer—”

  “I know about Gannon. He’s a liability now because of that recent blunderfuck in Buffalo. Jesus.”

  “Nate Fowler runs that paper.”

  “I know. Fowler’s a bit of a flimflam man. Never liked him. Tried to interest me in a timeshare when he worked at the Washington bureau.”

  “I think,” Lyon said, “that in spite of everything, Gannon is onto breaking a major story.”

  “You got proof of that?”

  “No, just a sense of it. Beland, I think he’s so deep into it that it would be a mistake not to consider it.”

  “Well, consider this, Mel. The World Press Alliance has a reputation for excellence. It’s our duty to uphold it. But if you want to risk your ass on Jack Gannon, then make your stand and do it. You know I respect people with a spine. If you’re right, we bring him in, maybe break a story, and we’ll all applaud your judgment. But given the current news climate, if you’re wrong, Mel, you’ll pay an enormous price. The board would ask for your head.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve got three days to give me the name of your new hire.”

  63

  In some far corners of northern California’s Sierra Nevada region, the chug of a semi might be overlooked.

  Take the isolated reaches between Yosemite and Desolation Valley, where paved roads thread through the forests of the glorious mountain range. The rumble of a big forestry truck, or a flatbed hauling heavy equipment for a road crew, wouldn’t draw a second look here.

  And so it was that no attention was given to the dull throb of the rig with out-of-state plates, its big diesel roaring, black exhaust pluming from its stacks, as it sliced along a deserted stretch of stunning mountain highway.

  The people who lived here were physically, and psychologically, removed from those caught in the sprawl of the Bay Area and southern California. Here, neighbors kept to themselves and, depending on which parts you ventured to, the only sign of civilization was the occasional mouth of a private road that greeted visitors with a chained gate and a No Trespassing or Keep Away sign.

  The truck moved on with purpose.

  Only the driver knew its destination.

  The crank and whine of its big engine scattered birds as it came to a stop. The driver then made a slow left turn into the forest, meticulously guiding the unit onto an unpaved road.

  The entrance was invisible to an outsider’s eye. Hidden by overgrowth, it was marked with a small faded sign that warned: Private—Keep Out.

  The driver knew this area well, knew all the characteristics of its highways—140, 120, 4, 88 and 50.

  And he knew this isolated property’s history.

  Formerly a long-abandoned gold mine, the property’s title had changed hands countless times over the years, until the land was bought a decade ago by a Chicago lawyer intending to build a resort.

  That dream died with the lawyer.

  The lan
d, forgotten by his estate, was isolated and neglected.

  But eight years back, one of the lawyer’s last actions had been to have the road graded. It horseshoed for about a quarter mile into thick forest and exited back to the highway, easily accommodating a large vehicle, if it was driven with care.

  Now, as the rig proceeded, it was swallowed whole by the towering sequoia and pine. The sweet scent of the trees filled the air. Glorious shafts of light beamed through the forest.

  The semi crept down the road that rolled and twisted along slopes and inclines webbed with old trails leading to lakes and streams, ancient camps and other forgotten places.

  The loud grind and hiss of careful driving echoed through the trees.

  After several minutes, the rig stopped in a meadow bordered by stands of lodgepole.

  The driver set the brakes then killed the engine.

  He stepped from the cab and stretched.

  Then he took a long, relieving piss while enjoying the area’s beauty until he finished.

  Time to go to work.

  He walked into the forest with a sense of complete freedom to do whatever he wanted as he scouted locations. Satisfied with the one he’d found, he returned to his truck, walked to the trailer and opened a lower storage box to withdraw tools and ropes.

  Taking his time, he positioned them at the site then returned to the truck, humming. It was perfect weather. He’d enjoy today’s judgment. His keys jingled as he approached the trailer’s side inspection door.

  He started unlocking the steel padlock, but hesitated.

  Sounded like something had moved inside.

  Something felt different. He blinked and thought. To be safe, he went to the cab, got his cattle prod and returned.

  Be ready for anything, he cautioned himself as he finished unlocking the side door, grunting as he reached for the lower handle.

  Weird.

  Pulling it open, he found it moved freely—like it was pushing from the other side. Before he realized what was happening, the cognitive command to act was overtaken by the sudden, overwhelming force that fired from the truck directly at him.

  Guttural screeching amid a typhoon of fists, fingernails and feet crashing into his face, throat, chest, hurling him to the ground.

  The women were free.

  The cattle prod rolled away, his head thudded. He saw an explosion of white, heard the women squealing, scrambling.

  One was running off.

  He managed to react, moving with lightning speed, reaching for the woman who’d fallen near him. He got his fingers on fabric, felt jeans, a belt loop, a leg convulsing, a foot kicking. His hands slid down, grabbing at a thigh, a calf, an ankle.

  He seized hard on afoot.

  “Jolene! Help! He’s got me!”

  He twisted the foot just enough to subdue her while he scanned the area for the other woman.

  Futile.

  He began dragging his screaming captive toward him, intent on smashing her face, binding her, then hunting down the other one and—Something hammered the back of his skull and his thoughts vanished in a starburst.

  64

  Jolene Peller stood over the prone driver.

  She was still gripping the brick-size rock in both shaking hands, one thought drumming in her mind: Run!

  Her heart was galloping, fueled by fear and the instinct to flee as Lee struggled to her knees then leveled a mule kick, driving her heel into the driver’s temple.

  “Kill him, Jolene! Smash his head!”

  “I think he’s dead!” Jolene tossed the rock and pulled Lee away. “Come on! We don’t know if he’s got friends here! Move your ass!”

  Numb with shock, they fled, chanting the license plate of the tractor as they fled. Did they have it right? Go back! NO! They kept running.

  Jolene glanced back.

  Oh no! The driver was alive!

  He’d staggered to his feet and was trotting after them.

  “Faster!” Jolene jerked Lee’s hand. “This way!”

  They veered from the road into the thick, dark forest, stumbling down a steep incline. Underbrush and branches tore at their faces, hands, their clothing.

  Pushing themselves, they moved faster, lurching toward the bottom of a slope. They crossed a clear running stream. The icy water took their breath away, cold shot up their feet and lower legs. They splashed ahead, steadying themselves on deadfall, and disappeared into the tangle of brush and forest on the other side.

  They were running for their lives.

  They didn’t dare stop.

  He could be a heartbeat behind them, he could have friends, a rifle.

  Anything.

  Their only advantage, the only way they could stay alive, was to keep moving.

  The wild terrain with its exposed rocks, hidden cliffs and drops was dangerous and exacted a toll. Muscles ached, skin was ripped and bleeding. Their lungs burned, their bodies craved rest. Panting, gasping, they ran without stopping for half an hour.

  As they crested a jagged rise, Lee cried out.

  “Jo—stop.” Lee collapsed. “My ankle!”

  She’d twisted her foot in a narrow fissure.

  “Oh God, it hurts! Owww!”

  Jolene knelt down and helped Lee extract it. The skin had been scraped clean to the anklebone.

  “Owww, it hurts, it hurts!”

  Jolene tore off part of her shirt. Scanning the woods behind them, she saw no sign of the driver. She made a crude pressure bandage for Lee.

  “Let’s rest. Over there.”

  Jolene positioned Lee behind a thicket as they searched the view below while catching their breath. Jolene nodded to the peak of a rise forty yards ahead.

  “Listen. I hear rushing water. I’m going to climb up there to look down the other side and see what’s in the valley. Maybe there’s a town or something.”

  Breathing hard, Lee nodded and massaged her injured leg.

  Jolene scrambled to the top and studied the valley, which was divided by a stream. Within seconds, the glint of sunlight on a mirror flashed to her.

  The mirror belonged to a solitary white SUV, parked on a riverbank.

  No sign of life near it.

  A fisherman? A hiker?

  Still, it was hope. Parked one hundred yards away.

  Jolene returned to Lee.

  “There’s an SUV parked on the other side. I’m going down for help. You stay here, Lee. Stay low and don’t move! No matter what, I’m coming back for you, okay?”

  Lee nodded, tears filling her eyes.

  “Just hurry! He could be gaining on us! Please hurry!”

  Jolene clambered down the slope as fast as she could, navigating around jutting rocks and gullies. All the while, she eyed her surroundings for any sign of their pursuer.

  The SUV was locked. It looked and smelled new.

  Jolene shouted for help over the river’s rush.

  She froze.

  What was that?

  She thought she’d heard something just as a big black crow sped by, screeching. Feeling an unseen threat closing in on her, Jolene’s pulse raced. She had to act. Had to do something.

  What?

  A note.

  Leave a note with details. She glanced around and spotted a fast-food take-out bag and a tossed beer bottle. The bag was faded. Others had been here. People knew this spot.

  Jolene’s mind raced.

  She had an idea—a stupid one, but an idea nonetheless. She smashed the beer bottle, cut her finger with a shard. Using a sharp-ended twig like a pen tip, she dipped it into the blood bubble on her finger and wrote a short plea for help on the take-out bag.

  Jolene slowed her breathing and steadied her hand. All the while her brain screamed Hurry!

  When she finished, she approached the SUV, seized a large rock, smashed the driver’s-side window. Glass rained into the interior. The alarm and horn blasted and the lights flashed.

  Jolene left her message on the driver’s seat then fled back up the slop
e to Lee.

  This was life and death.

  As she scrambled up, her hand dripping blood, the alarm rose around her, filling the river valley. Jolene prayed the owner would come. She and Lee could watch from a safe distance. But while this may summon the SUV owner, it could also alert the trucker to their location.

  Had she made a costly mistake?

  She wasn’t thinking.

  Had she overlooked the chance to search for a spare key, a cell phone, or for someone who could help? Did she even know what to do? She fought back tears, her body quivering as she reached the peak.

  Alarm rang everywhere as she trotted to the location where she’d left Lee.

  She was nowhere in sight.

  What happened? Where’d she go?

  “Lee!”

  This was the right spot. There’s the bush! This was the spot!

  “Lee!”

  Jolene looked around then froze. There was no sign of Lee until a faint cry rolled across the land to Jolene.

  She saw the trucker carrying Lee over his shoulder just as they disappeared into the dark woods in the direction of his rig.

  Jolene ran after them.

  65

  “Les told me you’d be calling. Something to do with your research on the Styebeck family,” Julie Pruitt said on the phone to Gannon.

  “Yes, there have been some tragedies in the New York and New England areas that may be linked to them. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll try. That family is well acquainted with tragedy.”

  “I’m interested in Orly. Les said your daughter had dealings with him?”

  “That’s right, but this must be kept confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “Orly was a patient at the hospital where my daughter works.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Pruitt suddenly appeared to be besieged with second thoughts.

  “I understand it was a mental hospital?” Gannon said.

  Pruitt was pulling back on him.

  “Julie, please, this is important.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable telling you more. I’ll call my daughter and let her decide. I’ll call you back.”