THE CHARM OF REVENGE Read online

  He marched to the garage door and yanked it open. In the center was an enormous dust sheet covering a pile of rubbish, tools, and materials. The extension ladder lay along the side wall, but the roof boards that should be with it had vanished. He pulled the sheet off, launching a plume of plaster dust into the air. Squinting and holding his breath, he peered between the gaps in the junk. There was no sign of the boards, and without them, the roof battens might not hold his weight.

  Hauling the ladder outside, he extended it to full length and guided it beneath the guttering high above where the soffit boards joined the wall. Back to the garage, he grabbed the wooden shaft of the hod and loaded eight tiles into it from the stack on the floor, nestled the V of the hod onto his shoulder and carried it outside to the ladder. The aluminum rung was cold to the touch. A shove confirmed it was secure, but it rattled and creaked as he climbed toward the eaves; rested the pole on the third rung from the top he eased the V forward onto the first row of tiles above the guttering. He lifted four tiles out, stretched up and over, winced as the corner of the aluminum jabbed into his ribs and placed them below the gap on the left. The sequence repeated on the right; he plucked the hod from the ladder rung, held it to the side, and let go. One, two, three, thump, into the soft soil of the flower bed.

  He ascended the last few rungs, placed his hands flat on the tiles rough surface, lifted his right knee above the gutter, rested it on the roof, then brought his left leg up and placed the sole of his boot on the top rung.

  His heart skittered as he glanced at the twenty-foot drop between him and the unforgiving earth. He moved a tile into position below one gap, rested on his left hand, and used his right to lift the tile above to expose the hook protruding from the batten. Shit, this was tricky! He now had to keep the tile raised while he slotted the replacement onto the hook with his left hand. That means no hands and just one knee on the roof to take most of his weight, which was beyond stupid, but here goes; deep breath, he shifted his weight onto his knee, and… bingo! One down, seven to go. He reached across for another tile, brought it into position and… Crack! Brad’s hands and face smacked the tiles, shredding his skin as he slid down, while the ladder arced away and crashed to the grass. The hooded man sprinted out of the gate as Brad's head hit the ground.

  13. INSTINCTS

  Saturday, 10:10 a.m.

  The first sound Brad heard was the ringing in his ears. The realization followed that he was laying on his back with closed eyes, and, as the fingers of his right hand touched the tilled earth, that the abrasive roof tiles had shredded his palms.

  Shards of light pierced his optic nerves as he focused on the guttering two floors above, silhouetted against the racing clouds. A wiggle of his feet fired a bolt through his back. He tried his arms, raising them an inch before collapsing from the ice pick stabbing in his left shoulder. For a long moment, his brain sought to assess the damage before trying the arm once more. This time, a dull throbbing replaced the shooting pains, but nothing felt broken.

  With a grimace, he rolled onto his front and, with the muscles in his back screaming protest, used the wall to leverage himself upright.

  Hooking the end rung of the ladder with the toe of his boot, he lifted it off the grass, caught it with his forearm, dragged it into the garage, dropped it alongside the wall, and locked up.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later his bloodied hands guided the Ford up the long, icy driveway to the front of his father’s house and stopped beside Lola’s pink Beetle. He stumbled onto the gravel and kicked the pickup door shut as the front door to the house swung open.

  “What on earth happened to you?” Marcus asked from the doorway.

  “Lola and the kids are here again I see,” Brad said.

  Lola stepped up beside Marcus. “Oh, my God, Brad! What happened to your face? And your hands are bleeding.”

  Brad tried to shake his head. “Some tiles were missing from the roof, and someone stole my roof boards, then kicked the ladder away while I was up there fixing it. Can I please get by?” He nudged past them into the hallway.

  “Was it that Henryk who threatened you?” Lola said.

  Brad waved his hand, crossing to the guest bathroom. “I fell off the roof, is all; it’s no big deal, but I have to get this crap washed off.” He turned on the tap and placed his lacerated palms beneath the flow.

  “You can’t let him get away with this,” Lola said, appearing beside him and looking down at the red-tinted water splashing the sink.

  “She’s right,” Marcus said, stepping behind her in the tiny bathroom. “You were set up, and you need to counterattack before he has time to plan his next volley.”

  “Oh, come off it, Dad this isn’t one of your covert missions. Henryk’s a hairy-ass builder, not an Afghan rebel leader. He isn’t even a sideshow, he’s a wannabe sideshow.”

  Lola's lips clamped into an angry line. “That’s great! Leave that thug to have another go, and maybe next time you won’t be there, and it’ll be Lilly and me on our own! I’ll get to say I told you so all over again, except—no, wait, I won’t, will I? Because I’ll be dead!”

  “Why does everything have to turn into a rerun of what happened to Daisy?”

  “Because you’re my husband and you’re supposed to protect your family. So damn well man up!”

  Marcus placed his hand on Lola’s shoulder. “Brad’s had a bad fall, why don’t you go make us all a drink while he gets cleaned up?”

  She glared back at Marcus. “He can make it himself. Oh, and Brad, I know about juve.”

  Brad eyed Marcus as Lola strode along the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. “You told her I was in prison?”

  “I tried to soften the blow. The term I used was Juvenile Corrections.”

  “Which it wasn't, but did you tell her why?”

  “No, but you should have told her a long time ago.”

  “That's right! I should have.”

  “But you didn’t. Lola’s had a rough time, and she doesn't need you keeping secrets.”

  “She won't let me keep them now! Shit, this is such a mess.”

  “Lola needs to be able to trust you.”

  “She wants revenge for Daisy, Dad.”

  “I know… she asked me for a gun.”

  14. DIALYSIS

  Sunday, 6:42 p.m.

  Rohn Stark hunkered down in his stone-gray Chrysler as fluffy snow drifted down in clumps, deepening and smoothing the blanket already covering the city. The IRS surveillance had picked up the text to the nanny, confirming what she’d told him, they would be out tonight, and right on cue, he watched as the young couple walked from their house, tottered along the slippery drive, and clambered into the relative safety of their Grand Cherokee. Rohn watched their silhouettes wave back to the boy and the little girl standing in the doorway under the watchful gaze of the attractive blond nanny.

  Despite the chill, Rohn’s palms were sweaty. He rubbed them on his black chinos and, to calm himself, began counting under his breath from one to a hundred.

  The Cherokee’s reverse lights flashed on, and he watched the husband twist around to check behind as they backed out; then the brake lights came on, and the reversing lights disappeared as the man faced her.

  Shit! Rohn hunkered down. What the hell are they talking about? Whoa! Strike that—yelling about. Look at her go! He could have told the poor guy she was a harpy. When she’d been married to Rohn's brother her complaining had damn near killed him. Made him wonder why she was always kind to him.

  Thank God, they were moving again. The tires spun until they burned through the snow and the Jeep started forward. The guy did not seem a happy camper, and it would not get any better tonight.

  Okay, Rohn, focus. Still too soon to make your move. Make sure they haven’t forgotten something, or the nanny’s boyfriend doesn’t turn up for a little slap and tickle. Just watch and wait.

  The clock showed 7:13. Getting to the warehouse by nine would be tight, and
if the Mom and Dad came back now, he'd never make it. He reached into the glove compartment for his black leather driving gloves, slipped them on, then took out his standard-issue black-handled kitchen knife. He stowed the knife in the pouch pocket of his sweatshirt, looked around to make sure a nosy dog walker hadn't seen him and scrunched farther down in his seat. The flakes of snow settled on the windshield and melted into tiny rivulets that ran away from him—like every other good thing in his life.

  He breathed a heavy sigh. How had it come to this? All those years of study, flipping burgers on the graveyard shift to put himself through college. Top of his class in math and business, and a master’s in forensic accounting. All those years, yet here he was, and for what? A few bucks to pay for another session or two on the liver dialysis unit, while he prayed for one of the organ-harvesting gangs to find a match for his “alien” blood type, as Randall called it.

  What would Father say if he saw me now, he wondered, shaking his head in disgust? He would have beaten me to a pulp if I hadn’t burned the house down with him in it.

  Hood up, he grabbed the bag off the back seat, opened the car door and slipped into the semidarkness. Crunching through the fresh snow, he took the path that led past the lawn to the tall side gate. A final check for prying eyes, he reached up and grabbed the top of the gate, grimaced at the pain as he pulled himself up, swung his legs over the top, and eased himself down the other side. As his feet touched terra firma, he stared at the unlocked gate and wanted to smack himself. Remember that for the back door, schmuck.

  He stayed low and close to the side wall of the house, as he crept toward the kitchen door, then leaped backward, almost crashing into a bush when the light came on. Pressed back against the wall, he waited for his racing heart to calm; inched toward the door and peeped through the glass. The nanny was on the phone, curling the ends of her blond locks around her finger as she joked and laughed. She took three mugs and a jar of hot chocolate from the cupboard, filled the kettle and stood with her back to him, waiting for it to come to the boil.

  Rohn considered his options; if the door was open, he could rush her; but if they'd locked it, she would hear him. Come to think of it this had to be the dumbest thing he’d ever considered. He should never have offered. So what if the buyers walked? Without a transplant, he was already dead.

  He peeked again. The nanny hadn’t moved. Inside the pouch pocket of his sweatshirt, his fingers closed around the black handle as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His mind raced through the options. Maybe he could knock her unconscious. But he'd brought a knife, not a baseball bat.

  Damn it, this would be messy. Perhaps if he punched her lights out, like in the movies; a nice roundhouse to the base of the jaw; then she won't have to die. But if she lives, she'll pick you out in a lineup, so stop being such a pussy and do the deed.

  The nanny finished her call with a smile, put the phone on the worktop, and poured the boiling water into the mugs.

  Rohn turned the doorknob as far as it would go, peeped again, and applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

  Oh, no way! Dumb shits left it open!

  He lunged into the kitchen and grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with his left hand as he slid the knife in deep between her ribs.

  15. KARMA

  Sunday, 7:58 p.m.

  The man glanced over at his wife as they drove back home. “Are we talking yet?”

  She continued staring at the road ahead. “It was our first night out in months without the children.”

  “I know, Honey. I said I’m sorry.”

  “And I was so looking forward to it.”

  “I swear, I thought the invites were here.” He could see her shaking her head from the corner of his eye.

  “It makes no sense why we weren’t on the guest list.”

  “We were, Honey, but I didn’t have my ID.”

  “Right, because it was in your wallet. Why didn’t you say I’m the mayor’s niece?”

  “With a crowd of over a thousand people, they couldn’t call the mayor out, and even if they could, it’s not like he gives a damn.”

  He made the home turn onto Sunset Crescent.

  “He does, too.”

  She was pouting now, he liked that; it meant things were looking up. “You’re right. At election time he does.”

  “Shh!”

  He flashed her a glance. “That’s rude!”

  “No, shush a minute and look! What’s that man doing?”

  He squinted to focus ahead between the streetlights. “Are those kids he’s pushing into the trunk?”

  “Why are they hooded? Oh, my God, look at those sneakers! Are they our babies?”

  “Quick, dial nine-one-one! I’ll cut him off.”

  The man in the hoodie spun around as the Jeep dropped a gear and roared toward him. He dived into the car on the driver’s side, shutting the door just as the Jeep tore past, shearing off the side mirror and sliding to a halt across the front of the Chrysler.

  * * * *

  The husband leaped from the Jeep as Rohn hit the door lock, fired the engine and slammed the Chrysler into reverse, but his assailant had covered the distance between the cars and grabbed the door handle.

  Rohn floored it, and the wheels spun backward in the snow, but the husband held fast, running, slipping, and smacking his free hand on the windshield and hood to keep from falling. Sliding and stumbling on the snow, the husband lost his grip on the door handle. He staggered, recovered, and came sprinting after the reversing car.

  With the pedal flat on the floor, Rohn pulled away from his crazed pursuer. Whipping the big sedan around 180 degrees, he threw it into drive and gunned it to the end of the road, spraying snow, and ice as he broadsided around the corner.

  With his cargo safe and secure in the trunk, he sped along the dark back streets, toward the anonymity of the busier freeway. He checked his mirrors for signs of pursuit, but the road behind was empty.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Rohn wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and began to relax. It would take almost an hour to get to the warehouse, but it should be plain sailing now.

  He clicked on his favorite country station and settled into the journey. Just watch your speed; wouldn’t want to break any laws, now, would we? He scanned the direction signs at the approaching intersection, then slowed to a stop as the light turned red.

  The sky was crystal clear now, and the surrounding fields were glistening in the moonlight. Like a scene from a fairytale, Rohn thought, as he marveled at the beauty, and felt, for the first time in his life, a profound sense of peace.

  The time lapse between the red and blue flashing strobe lights registering in his brain, and the whoop-whoop of the state trooper’s siren hitting his ears, seemed an eternity.

  Rohn glanced at the trooper and instinctively slammed his foot on the gas pedal to send the Chrysler catapulting forward, past the red light and into the intersection.

  * * * *

  The driver of the school bus had just dropped off the last worshipper on his Sunday evening church-run and was heading back to the pound. He wasn’t speeding though he might have slowed a little had he not been so keen to get home for the roast chicken dinner his wife had waiting for him. He didn’t see the police cruiser until he had passed the green light, but when the red and blue caught the corner of his eye, he expected to see it hurtling toward him. It was only an instant, the tiniest fragment of time, yet somehow infinite, as his awareness stretched into a slow-motion video.

  * * * *

  Rohn shifted his attention from the flashing lights as he hurtled forward in perfect time to catch the bus.

  16. TICKET TO RIDE

  Sunday, 8:59 p.m.

  The fleet of police cars blocked the intersection from every direction; their turret lights changing the snow from white to blue to red, to violet when they overlapped. Donatello parked and surveyed the media commotion from the warmth of his car; sensing the hand of a master pu
ppeteer, moving its characters with invisible strings.

  Beyond the cruisers, the police cordon had established a secure perimeter around the crash scene. Here, the snow was different; trampled to slush and lit by the fading orange glow of the burning Chrysler. What should have been a sacred zone had taken on a garish, almost festive air as the captain and the inspector stuck close to the mayor, determined to be in the same frame with him, as the TV crews jostled for camera shots and comments.

  Past the brass, in the center of the cordoned area, Donatello saw two small forms on the ground, covered in plastic sheeting, collecting snowflakes. They were the reason he was here, and why he did what he did, seeking justice for the innocent. Like those poor parents, huddling grief-stricken beside a cruiser. For everyone else, though, tonight was a one-ring circus. Kidnappings were rare, but killing a nanny to abduct the children of the mayor’s niece, then burning them alive in a T-Bone flameout with a school bus? Well, that meant prime time, and what news crew could ask for more?

  Donatello buttoned his trench coat as he approached the officers, flashed his badge, and ducked under the yellow tape, hoping to stay clear of Captain Colby.

  He passed the fire trucks dousing the remains of the blaze knowing that in a few hours, the show would be over, and the bodies gone. The ambulance was already a memory, decamped with the driver of the Chrysler.

  Donatello approached Sergeant Carlson. “Anybody run the plates?”

  Carlson pulled his gloved hands from his coat pockets and dusted the snow from his shoulders. “It’s a government vehicle, Lieutenant—IRS Special Investigations, issued to one Rohn Stark.”