THE CHARM OF REVENGE Read online

  Brad watched as Lola bowed her head for a moment, then met his eyes across the gravel abyss.

  “It’s over, Bradley.” She put Lilly down and led his children into the house.

  There was no goodbye. No one waved or stole a glance at him standing by the blue pickup, tears streaming down his broken, bloodied face. There was no sound but the soft thud of the metal door closing, and the mechanical whoosh as the steel bolts slid shut on his life.

  61. DRAGON’S LAIR

  Saturday, 8:45 a.m.

  Donatello marched across the parking lot toward Lance and the corrugated-steel warehouse, already sure this grim day was about to get a whole lot worse.

  “We missed the mother lode, Big D,” Lance said. “The press will flail us for this.”

  “I heard it on the wire. Let’s walk and talk.” Donatello passed him without slowing his pace, forcing his officer to quickstep and catch up as they entered the warehouse. “What’s that on the floor?”

  “Forensics said it could’ve been blood, cleaned up and doused with bleach, same as Black’s and Walton’s.”

  “Jeez, this guy’s good; what’s back here?” Donatello strode toward the rear of the warehouse.

  “A ton of empty cages where they were keeping the children,” Lance said.

  “Who called it in?”

  “Parents. Said their son phoned them this morning and told them a superhero rescued them all.”

  “All?” Donatello stopped outside the cage room.

  “The kid said at least forty more.”

  “My God!” Donatello ran his eyes along the rows of filthy cages and children’s toys. Ronnie’s words rang in his ears. “Lance, they were trafficking children! We need that boy’s statement, and we need him in front of a sketch artist right away.”

  Lance shook his head. “No can do, the parents took him straight to the hospital.”

  “Then find him! We needed this yesterday! Any other parents call?”

  “None reported.”

  “Who owns the warehouse?”

  “Kennedy’s on it now.”

  “Has Sanjit finished cross-referencing the records from the other cases?”

  “He’s not working this weekend.”

  “Damn, I keep forgetting.”

  “Big D, you’re not gonna want to hear this, but the parents said we ignored their calls to find their son, and that this guy even gave their kid a cell phone when he released them. They said they’re gonna tell the press we did nothing, and that it was a hero that saved their son. A hero! Colby’s gonna go apeshit when he hears.”

  Donatello closed his eyes. “Lance… we really screwed up this time.”

  Lance studied him quizzically.

  “The missing kid. Remember? The five-year-old?”

  “Oh, no way! The one Colby wanted us to investigate, and you told me to read the police report. I’ve fucked up, I’m sorry, Big D. Fuck!”

  “Okay, Lance, no use giving yourself a public flogging. I’m sure Colby will make time to rip the skin off both our backs. Who has the phone now?”

  “Phone? Oh! That the hero gave them. Err, I guess the parents.”

  “Don’t guess, find out. This could be our break. Get hold of Crane and have it picked up and make sure he runs the data from it against the other three cases.”

  “If our hero is the same guy that did Black and Walton…”

  “You’ve got it; he could have been searching for his kids, only instead of calling us, he found Walton and Black on his own, and they pointed him here.”

  “Which means those two are involved in this.” Lance signaled with his thumb toward the cages. “So, Walton and Black were what, vigilante killings?”

  “Or justice.”

  Lance motioned over Donatello’s shoulder. “Look out!”

  “What are you doing at my crime scene, Donatello? You’re on suspension!”

  “Inspector Wilkes reinstated me. Didn’t you get the memo, Captain?”

  “Wilkes can’t protect you from me, so keep going with the smart mouth.” Colby looked deadpan around the cage room, then faced Lance. “Give me something good, I got press coming… don’t look at Donatello, he’s on suspension pending dismissal.”

  Donatello bit his tongue as Wilkes’s words came flooding back. Don’t take the bait. Bide your time and bury the sack of shit. He glanced at Lance, willing him not to give anything away about the parents who called it in.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Lance said. “This has hit us out of the blue. I got nothing for you until forensics finish.”

  Colby glared at them. “You think I don’t see what’s going on.” He jabbed his index finger to within an inch of Donatello’s nose. “You dodged me once this morning, but you should’ve dodged me twice! Now, get out of my sight!” He glared at Lance. “Report. My desk, first thing Monday! I want a simple explanation I can sell for this shit, capisce? We don’t need citizen Schmuck getting their panties in a bunch ’cause the police department doesn’t do what they pay us to do.”

  Colby stormed away through the warehouse.

  “Big D, did you catch that?”

  Donatello shook his head. “Unbelievable. Not a flinch when he saw the cages; and he wants to sweep this under the carpet along with Stark, Walton, Black. It’s an exact rerun of Jonah’s murder.”

  Lance looked at Colby’s back as he lumbered across the parking lot. “Could he have been here before?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  62. LAST RIDE

  Saturday, 9:02 a.m.

  The knot in Brad’s stomach was growing in lockstep with the traffic jam, as he rolled down the window and leaned out; craning his neck to peer along the sea of traffic ahead. Squinting into the distance his heart froze; was it a trick of the light or a state trooper’s top light?

  He kneaded his chest, glancing in the mirror for movement beneath the tarp that covered the bed of the pickup. Michaels was sedated, for now anyway, but the phenobarbital would soon wear off, and if the tarp bobbed in this traffic jam, it would be him and not Michaels receiving the lethal injection. Not that it mattered much now that Lola had struck the mortal blow.

  Another look along the unmoving line of cars to see if the trooper was before the turnoff he needed, but he still couldn’t tell. Taking the black pouch from his breast pocket, he reached across to the glove compartment, grabbed the folded envelope, opened the flap, and tipped it up. One of the two remaining charms slid onto his palm. He rechecked the mirror, then slotted it onto Daisy’s bracelet and thumbed the nine delicate silver trinkets. “Thank you, Daisy, for helping me find Jack and Lilly,” he murmured. “Only Michaels left, then both of us can rest in peace.”

  A horn blared.

  Brad bolted up in his seat as the driver behind stood on his horn again. He lifted his hand in apology and pulled forward, massaging his aching chest.

  He had given himself a shot of thiopental to numb the pain in his face and shoulder, but it didn’t bring down the swelling or hide the dark purple color, and people were staring. Fortunately, most people didn’t remember a face unless you made eye contact, so he ignored them and kept his eyes on the road.

  There it was, thank heaven! Another hundred yards, and he’d be able to turn onto Franklin Ulysses Drive, miss the road check, and, with luck and a tailwind, get a clear run around the outskirts of town before threading back to San Sebastian and the end of the road.

  As the traffic ground forward, he made a final mirror check on the tarp to be sure other drivers hadn’t been staring because they’d seen it move and the jig was already up.

  He took the turn and lucked out. Franklin Ulysses went nowhere most people wanted to be, which was probably why the troopers had ignored it, and precisely what he needed. The road was his, and with the heater blasting full, he drove through the chilly gray morning, musing at the idea that Michaels could save him a job and freeze to death. On second thought, Jack, Lilly, and the other children he’d released deserved a mo
re fitting requital.

  But what about Lola? What did she deserve? For six years, she had wanted justice for Daisy, while Brad had resisted, to honor the oath he made to himself in prison. Now he had broken that oath and taken revenge while telling himself it was for Lola… but was it? Was he laying this at her door so he could live with his failure to act when Daisy was still alive? Lola said he should have stopped them, and deep down he’d known all along she was right. He should have done something… anything; but he’d been a rabbit in the headlights against the lawsuit that cost them their home. So, had his actions been to assuage his own guilt? The truth was, it no longer mattered, because after Michaels, there was nothing left for him. He rested his hand on the thick braided rope lying on the passenger seat, then took the turn off Franklin and wended his way between the frostbitten fields. Five minutes later, he was on San Sebastian approaching their final destination.

  63. WESTSIDE GANG

  Saturday, 9:05 a.m.

  Randall hadn’t felt his energy crackle for days, but now it was buzzing from his fingertips as he slammed through the revolving door of the Salvador Street IRS building and hobbled full speed across the entrance foyer, leaving Snyderman outside waiting for the door to slow. He flashed his ID at security and continued toward the elevator.

  “You need to sign in, sir!” The security guard rose like a basalt column from his comfy-ass chair, but Randall had already entered the lift and hit the button for the fourteenth floor, and the doors were sliding shut.

  By the time the elevator opened, Randall was halfway along the corridor to Jeremiah Piest’s office.

  Breathing hard, he faced Piest’s door, took two paces back, paused, and, with a one-two forward step, brought his foot up and hit the door with all his might, just inside the handle.

  The cheap pinewood around the latch exploded splinters into the room as the door slammed around into the wall of the office and Randall barreled in toward the man seated at the desk. “Where the fuck is my cargo, Piest?”

  Piest didn’t move. His right leg remained crossed over his left knee, displaying his buff Italian-look leather boots as he rocked back and forth on his deep-cushioned swivel chair and studied Randall. “Your cargo, Mr. Cilcifus? I do not recall having received the recompense for our labors; to wit, title to the cargo must remain ours.”

  “Don’t get tricky with me, you maggot! I was at the warehouse, and the little screamers have gone, so where the fuck are they, and where’s Michaels?”

  Piest raised his chin to acknowledge Snyderman as he appeared in the splintered opening. “Mr. Cilcifus, Why are you defiling the sanctity of my office? You know the rules, and your violation is all the more heinous for taking place on a Saturday.”

  Randall straightened up as the fog of rage cleared and a long-forgotten fear crept into his bladder. “You haven’t taken them back?”

  “Not that I wish to debate this with you further, but such action would be contrary to the terms of our engagement, and even absent a formal agreement, my word is my bond.”

  Randall glanced from Snyderman to Piest. “Well, if you haven’t taken them, who the hell has?”

  Piest steepled his fingertips beneath his chin. “It would appear you face a prickly conundrum, Mr. Cilcifus. In light of your outrageous behavior, not to mention foul language, I must insist that you discharge your liability in full or return my cargo forthwith.”

  “But, but, I haven’t… I can’t…” Randall hesitated, “wait, it’s Fairweather! It has to be. He knew Walton and Black, and they would’ve told him where to find Michaels. We’ve got to find Fairweather!”

  Piest swiveled toward Snyderman, who remained stoical beside the door. “Will you lend any credence to this fantasy, Charles?”

  Randall held his breath, eyes darting between them as the last of his bravado seeped away, while Snyderman weighed up his options, and Randall knew, as the urge to urinate gripped him, that the hunter was about to become the hunted once again.

  “Sorry, Mr. Piest, but Cilcifus is a delusional despot with no intention of honoring his commitments to either the Westside gang or what remains of his own unit.”

  “You fucking traitor!” Randall screamed. “This is a fucking setup! You parasites are in this together!”

  “Silence, Mr. Cilcifus!” Piest spun himself around in his chair and locked eyes with Randall. “As you know, I hold Charles and his opinion in high regard; however, I am honor bound to give consideration to the fraternity we are part of. I am, you understand, referring to the brotherhood of the Internal Revenue Service, to which we have sworn the same oath of fealty. My verdict is therefore that you return my cargo by Monday, and my team will then assist you in tracking down this Mr. Fairweather. At which point, if appropriate, we will dispatch him from this earthly plane. Fail to return my cargo or settle your account by Monday, however, and you will experience the full force of my wrath. Good day, Mr. Cilcifus.”

  64. HASTA LA VISTA

  Saturday, 9:30 a.m.

  Brad shut off the engine and stared at the old abandoned barn where he and his boyhood buddies had hung out when the future had been full of promise. Now, he had come full circle, and the promises had turned into lies.

  Nine days ago, the IRS and his builders were trying to extort money from him, and he’d felt persecuted by the injustice of the world, yet now, looking back, that seemed like a good day.

  He grabbed his med bag and rope from the passenger seat, clambered out, dropped the tailgate, grabbed the plastic tie around Michaels’s ankles, and heaved backward, letting him slam to the ground.

  Brad looped the rope around and between Michaels’s ankles, tied it off, and wrapped it twice around his own waist, then dragged the unconscious man over the frozen mud, into the derelict barn.

  The room was at least twenty feet by twenty, with an uneven, stony floor of hard-packed earth. He sat Michaels up against the side wall and crossed to the far end of the room, where a dust-covered, green plastic crate rested on its side. Flipping the crate over, he seated himself and placed the med bag between his boots, then opened it, withdrew a scalpel, and waited.

  “We meet again, Michaels,” Brad said, as Michaels began to regain consciousness.

  “What the fuck… where am I?” Michaels’s head whipped from side to side as he tried to get his bearings. “Let me go! Let… me… go!” The wiry man fought against his restraints, kicking up a small cloud of dust, he toppled over, then twisted and flapped on the floor like a fish on the dock.

  “Let me know when you've finished, Michaels, I’ve got all eternity ahead of me.”

  Michaels looked over from his prone position, breathing hard. “Help! Help! Somebody, help!” He thrashed and flapped again, then lay motionless. “What are you going to do?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “Help! Help!”

  “Knock yourself out. There’s nobody for miles.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  Brad looked down at the scalpel in his hands, then back at Michaels. “I want closure.”

  “What? What does that mean? Let me go, and I swear you’ll never see me again. I’ll…” Michaels strained to get his hands free, but the tape held firm.

  “How many IRS gangs are there, doing what you do?”

  “Why the fuck should I tell you, fucker!” He thrashed his legs, kicking more dust in the air.

  Brad shook his head. “Mad Dog Michaels—that’s what they call you, isn’t it?” He felt the cool metal in his hand. “Do you know, my father wanted me to be a surgeon. He always said there was money in vanity, but I thought it was grotesque.”

  “You want money, Fairweather? I’ve got money—lots of money, just name your price.”

  “You’re six years too late for that, I’m afraid.”

  “It wasn’t like that, believe me. I only wanted you to merge Revolution with my company.”

  Brad felt his jaw hang open. “Is that what this has all been about? Walton said it was because yo
u lost your money, but all these years, it was because I didn’t agree to the merger? You didn’t even have a viable business to start with!”

  “Bet you wish you’d done the deal, though, don’t you? Your little daughter might still be alive—what was her name?”

  Silently, Brad rose and approached Michaels, as his hand tightened around the scalpel.

  Michaels grinned. “Come to think of it, it’s a shame she had to die. We could’ve got a premium selling her now.”

  Brad stood over the trussed man on the ground, feeling the rage build inside him. “Keep talking,” he whispered.

  “Want to know what we did with your boy, Fairweather?”

  “Shut your mouth, my boy's fine!”

  Michaels coughed. “You didn't notice a flush to his cheeks? A vacant stare perhaps?”

  Brad closed his eyes as a sea of red filled his mind. “What did you do to my son?”

  “Oh, not me, Judge Seymour, he likes young boys that one, the sick fuck!”

  “No!” The blade lashed down, opening a four-inch gash in Michaels’s coat sleeve and parting the flesh beneath like butter.

  “Arghh! You…” Michaels stared transfixed as blood filled the deep gash in his biceps. His eyes rolled back, and his head slammed against the hard dirt floor.

  Brad’s legs buckled as he doubled over and emptied his stomach. He rose to his hands and knees, but another wave racked him as memories flooded back, of Jack in the car, cheeks flushed and a lost expression on his face.

  As he stared at the rope, tears stung his broken nose and lips before dropping to the dirt. He’d thought this was the end of the road, but that was before. Now, a new name had appeared on his list, and he wanted revenge. He grabbed the scalpel from the dirt and crawled over to the unconscious Michaels.