Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

  But Polly was the diner’s youngest, most outgoing waitress. She liked to flirt and always worked extra hard to earn a smile and a large tip—especially from strangers. At seventeen, Polly thought herself worldly.

  “Can I get you anything else?” She picked up the man’s empty plate. “We’ve got some fresh homemade pies. They are so good. I’m talking dyin’-and-goin’-to-heaven good.”

  Karl Styebeck looked her over.

  She was young. Lovely skin, nice white teeth, hair in a loosened working-girl ponytail. And those hoop earrings, those innocent eyes. He considered her potential and released the beginnings of a smile.

  “I love pie,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “What kind are you offering?”

  “Pecan and peach.”

  “How about a slice of pecan to go?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Styebeck watched her disappear into the kitchen, then shoved his dark desires out of his mind. Disgusted by his own sickness, he sought refuge in the cold fact that whatever he was, he was not like his family.

  Not like Deke. Not like Orly.

  Every day he’d carried the secret of knowing what he’d come from and what his family had done. Every day he’d lived in the desperate hope that the steps he’d taken to sever himself from his past would keep it from finding him.

  He’d worked so hard to build his life with Alice and Taylor.

  The right kind of life.

  And he’d do anything to protect it.

  He turned to the window and his thoughts glided over the Texas plains back to what had happened….

  After he’d read all of his father’s hidden letters, after he’d considered the earring he’d found in the woods, the terrified woman in the chair, he confronted Deke late one night in the barn.

  Metal clinked against metal as his father worked on the large generator.

  “There’s something wrong with our family,” Karl said.

  Deke didn’t acknowledge him until he set the secret papers on the ground next to him and placed the earring on top.

  The clinking stopped. Deke stared at them.

  “I read all these papers you had hidden and found the earring in the woods. I know everything. You’ve got to stop.”

  Deke’s shadow fell over him as he stood.

  In one swift motion Deke seized him by the shirt. With one powerful hand he lifted him off his feet, inserted him in the chair, fastened the straps and harness.

  “No, Daddy, please!”

  Deke’s big rough hand slapped his face.

  “Tell me who you told?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “You stole my papers! Stealing’s a sin!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know what I did to sinners in The Walls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No, you don’t!” Deke groaned and held his head as if in agony. “You know nothing! Your mother and Orly don’t know. Nobody knows. OH JESUS, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND DO THIS? WHY? WHY? WHY?”

  Deke stared into the darkness as if something terrifying awaited him.

  “You don’t know what I had to do because of what we are.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “We are the cursed spawn of Clydell Rudd,” Deke shouted to the ceiling, spittle spraying from his mouth. “I am an inbred bastard! A monster! I lied to myself my whole life saying it’s not me. I tried to end it. With every execution I tried to erase his evil but I couldn’t wash it away, couldn’t undo what’s done! His poison runs through our blood!”

  Deke grabbed the papers and earring, walked out of Karl’s sight toward the electric-control box.

  He paused there.

  After a moment, he left the building. He returned minutes later. Karl heard the pump, a shotgun blast, and his father’s corpse hit the ground at the side of the barn.

  The time after Deke’s funeral was a blur to Karl.

  Although Belva and Orly ached to know what had happened, all Karl revealed was how Deke had flown into a rage, put him in the chair and started shouting about losing his job.

  As soon as he was old enough, Karl Styebeck left Texas, never went back, and never contacted his family again. He disappeared into military service, and after his discharge, whenever he filled out forms and applications, he adjusted a digit in his social security number, or the spelling of his name, knowing that it would hamper any records search. That was all that was needed, and for years he’d succeeded in burying his past.

  He thought Deke’s suicide had ended it.

  But they found him, several months ago, when he got the letter from Texas.

  Now, Styebeck lifted his map from the diner table and looked at it.

  Addressed to him care of the Ascension Park police. It came with photocopies of Buffalo news clippings on him rescuing children from the fire, and a profile on his outreach group’s work to help troubled women who were abused, runaways, addicts and hookers.

  The letter was written in his mother’s hand.

  At last we’ve found you, Karl. With me so ill and close to death. When Orion found these articles and the pictures and showed me, it tore at my heart. I will never recover from the wound you caused when you abandoned your blood, me, your brother and your father’s honor. Now, we find you’re helping harlots, helping feed the evil that your father battled to his dying day!!!

  YOU SHAME US!!!

  You’ve left ORLY to honor your daddy’s legacy to pass judgment on the guilty all by himself.

  YOU’RE A WHOREMONGER WHO MUST BE CLEANSED IN THE HOLY WATERS OF RIGHTEOUS JUDGMENT!!!

  Karl, as your mother I order you to change your ways, to get down home now so we can DELIVER YOU TO THE RIGHTEOUS LIGHT WHILE THERE IS TIME!!!

  If you disobey me, I’ll have ORLY unleash HIS WRATH and USE THE SWIFT SWORD OF JUDGMENT ON YOU!!!!

  I PRAY FOR YOUR SOUL AND THE DAY I CAN CALL YOU MY SON AGAIN.

  Belva

  Styebeck took a breath and considered the truth about Clydell Rudd and his bloodline.

  The evil thrived in Orly.

  Styebeck had to put it all to rest.

  Exhausted, Karl Styebeck removed his cap, ran his hands through his dyed hair, replaced it and stared out at the highway. He could not turn Orly in because Orly had implicated him with those recordings. Styebeck contemplated and calculated the distance between him and what had to be done.

  He should have acted on this long ago.

  He reviewed the map again. He could be there today.

  The waitress returned and put a white box on his table along with the bill.

  “I gave you a little extra piece. On the house.” She winked.

  Styebeck nodded his appreciation, left a ten and two ones, collected his map, and side-stepped two troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol entering the diner as he exited.

  That was close.

  He walked to the far edge of the diner’s lot, which led to a small picnic area. His car was parked on the other side of the outdoor restrooms under a shade tree, unseen from the diner and the patrol cars.

  No other people were around.

  Styebeck’s car, an older Ford Taurus, was in good shape and ran well. It had clean Ohio plates. He’d gotten the car through a connection to one of his informants, on a kind of unofficial rental basis.

  All cash. No questions. Nobody knows.

  He tossed his map and papers into the front seat. Then, as was his habit on this trip, he unlocked the trunk to double-check its contents. His bag was there, and under a blanket he inventoried: the Mark 4 assault rifle, the Remington 870 shotgun, the rounds and shells.

  All there. Good.

  Ready to go, he touched the Glock 22 pistol that he wore in his ankle holster, then checked the Glock’s magazines. Four in the trunk. Check. And one in each front pocket of his jeans.

  Styebeck froze.

  Only one magazine.

  He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets but nothing changed.
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  He’d lost a fifteen-round magazine. Must have happened when he went to the washroom.

  Damn.

  He shot a glance back to the diner. What should he do? Go back and look for it, or keep going?

  There were two Oklahoma troopers in there.

  His prints were all over the magazine.

  Styebeck looked around.

  Go, he told himself. Just go.

  He got behind the wheel, started the engine and drove away, expecting at any second to see flashing red lights in his rearview mirror.

  70

  After the flight to Chicago landed, Gannon had forty-five minutes to make his connection to Houston.

  Hurrying through O’Hare, he checked his phone for messages.

  Nothing.

  Not one of the editors he’d queried on a freelance story had shown any interest. Maybe he’d try to sell it to a Texas magazine. But he couldn’t deal with that now.

  He had things to do.

  He arrived at his gate half an hour before his plane was to board. He switched on his laptop, charged Internet service to his credit card. He made an online reservation to rent a small car at Bush Intercontinental.

  He checked his files and reconfirmed his route to Orion Styebeck’s address near Lufkin. If Karl Styebeck was a fugitive, his brother’s home in Lufkin had to be the first place police would look.

  It had to be.

  Gannon studied the Internet map and driving directions. It would take some three hours on 59 north, out of Houston.

  Done.

  Gannon then checked the secondary address in the older records. It was a rural property on Dead Tree Road; the farm where Karl and Orion had grown up. But the records showed it was sold long ago. Gannon could go there for color later, get a sense of the place.

  “This is a general boarding call for flight…”

  As Gannon switched off his computer and prepared to board, his cell phone rang. The call was coming from New York City.

  “Gannon.”

  “Hi, Jack. It’s Melody Lyon.”

  “Hello, Melody.”

  “Have you got time to talk?”

  “I’m about to get on a plane.”

  Lyon took about two seconds to assess the situation.

  “Is your trip in pursuit of the Styebeck story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m not tipping the WPA, Melody, I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “I’ll give it to you straight, Jack. I have a full-time opening and you’re my choice.”

  Gannon’s spirits lifted.

  “But,” Lyon added, “and I’m going to be blunt—there are complications. Because of your history, people here don’t want you considered for the WPA.”

  “I understand.”

  To buy time, Gannon went to the end of the long line that was boarding.

  “I’m alone in supporting you,” she said, “because I believe Nate Fowler somehow screwed you over and that in fact you’re onto something solid with this Styebeck story.”

  “Thanks, but what does that get me?”

  “Let me propose something to you.”

  “I’ve got about two minutes here, Melody.”

  “The WPA is hot on this Styebeck story. And, from what I’m picking up, so are the Associated Press, CNN, the New York Times, and the Chicago Tribune. We’ve learned that the number of victims could now be three, in Buffalo, Wichita and California. We’ve just learned that Detective Karl Styebeck is tied to the case, as you’d first reported, and will soon be announced as one of the FBI’s most-wanted fugitives in the country. I think a huge story is going to break at any moment, but don’t know where the next development will be.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Jack, I believe you’re a few steps ahead of everyone, but they’re gaining on you.”

  Gannon got his ID and boarding pass ready as the line moved.

  “What’s your proposal?”

  “Tell the WPA everything you know.”

  “What?”

  “If your information is good, I give you my word you’ll get full credit, freelance pay, and it will strengthen my case for your hire.”

  “And if my information is wrong? What happens, Melody?”

  “We’re done and the WPA hires somebody else.”

  Gannon was about ten people away from the desk.

  He stepped out of earshot and lowered his voice.

  “I’m going to Lufkin, Texas, to the address for Orion Styebeck, an independent trucker operating Swift Sword Trucking. He’s Karl Styebeck’s brother. I believe Orion Styebeck is involved in the cross-country murders, and that Karl is on his way there now.”

  Lyon was writing notes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Keep your phone on when you land. Our Houston and Dallas people will work with you.”

  71

  Nearly three hours later, Gannon’s jet landed in Texas.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Houston. On behalf of Captain…”

  The attendant listed connection information as the plane taxied to the gate. When it stopped, seat belts clicked, passengers rose, collected their belongings and began disembarking.

  Coming through the jet bridge to the terminal, Gannon’s attention went to the bank of overhead television monitors tuned to CNN, Fox and a CBS affiliate.

  His jaw dropped.

  They showed the dramatic red bars advising, “LIVE: BREAKING NEWS: LUFKIN, TEXAS,” with aerial images of a heavily treed property, dotted with run down outbuildings, eviscerated cars, trucks and trailers.

  The news crawlers at the bottom of the screens flowed with: “The World Press Alliance citing unconfirmed sources reports the FBI, along with Texas state and local authorities, have converged on the property of a truck driver suspected in the cross-country murders of three women. Ritualistic slayings in New York, Kansas and California are linked. FBI launches manhunt for fugitive New York detective implicated in the case…”

  This was his story and he’d lost it.

  He was too late.

  It was over.

  Hang on.

  He sat down, eyes fixed to the TVs, and took a few deep breaths.

  Think.

  Just keep going. Keep going.

  He started walking fast to the rental desk, going over his plan as if it were a prayer. Get the car. Get to Lufkin. Hook up with the WPA. Maybe something can be salvaged. His computer bag bumped against him, reminding him he still had exclusive material on the Styebecks from Canada.

  The car-rental company was quick.

  On the shuttle to his car, Gannon checked his phone and laptop for messages.

  None.

  It was hot and humid as he headed to the car. Once he was behind the wheel of his Ford Focus, he cranked on the air conditioner, adjusted the mirrors and seat. Then he entered the Lufkin data into the car’s GPS navigation system, grateful the airport was on the north side of the sprawling metropolis.

  As a precaution, he studied his folding map. He was north of The Loop and Beltway 8 and needed 59. Lufkin was a two-hour drive. He rolled from the airport and in minutes was working his way north on one of the country’s busiest freeways.

  He turned on the radio for any news on Lufkin but nothing new came up. As he neared Livingston, his phone rang. He pulled over near an on-ramp, stopped on the shoulder and took the call.

  “Gannon.”

  “Jack Gannon, from Buffalo?”

  “Yes, who’ve I got?”

  “Wes Coleman, World Press Alliance, Houston. New York told me to call. Where are you?”

  “On 59, on my way to Lufkin. What’s happening?”

  “I’m in Lufkin at the property with a photographer. We’ve been here for hours. Police are tight-lipped. They set up, went in and are still searching the property. But we’re getting the feeling that this is a huge goose egg. At least there’s nothing here in Lufkin.”

  Gannon could hear impatienc
e in Coleman’s voice.

  “Jack, do you have any other information to pass to us?”

  “I’ve got exclusive background. Can we talk when I get there?”

  “Nothing to pass to us now that we could get started on?”

  Gannon hesitated, watching traffic stream by.

  “Anything at all that we can act on, Jack?”

  He’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much to give up everything.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

  “Well, when you get to Lufkin, just ask at the perimeter to be directed to the command post. We’ll hook up with you there.”

  After the call, Gannon entered new coordinates into the GPS.

  He’d take a detour.

  On his way to Lufkin, he would first visit the old Styebeck place near Huntsville, see if he could learn more from anyone who could remember the family. But his GPS beeped a refusal to accept Dead Tree Road, the address he’d taken from the old Texas property records.

  GPS didn’t recognize it.

  The system would get him seven miles north of Huntsville to Pine Mill. All right, he’d go there then proceed the old-fashioned way by asking for directions.

  At Livingston, he took 190 West, cutting through dense sections of East Texas forest for nearly an hour before he came to the outskirts northeast of Huntsville and Pine Mill.

  Other than an old church, a boarded-up depression-era school and a few buildings scattered on either side of the empty road, there was no sign of life until he saw the TS Convenience Store & Gas Station.

  Gannon stopped there.

  The temperature was in the high nineties when he stepped from the rental. The porch creaked as he entered the store. Transom bells rang; the dog resting on the floor made the effort to lift its eyebrows. The old woman in a rocking chair behind the counter smiled with as much energy as the dog. The store’s big windows were open. Wooden venetian blinds, with some slats missing, kept out most of the sun while letting in the weak breezes. Gannon got a bottle of Coke from the cooler, used the opener tied to the string to pry off the cap.

  “How much?”

  “That’ll be one dollar, young fella. Where y’all from?”

  “Buffalo, New York.”

  Gannon paid and took a long drink. The dog yawned, then yipped and the woman hushed it.