Storm Vengeance Page 3

  As she walked up, she rehearsed what she’d say. “Excuse me, our cars are a little too close. Could you back up so I can get in without hitting the side of your car?”

  Yes, that should do it. Make it about the other person’s car. Don’t lose your temper. Storm congratulated herself on her grown-up approach.

  Walking around to the side of the white car, she saw that the driver was a woman. She was bent over a phone and appeared to be texting.

  Storm rapped on the glass, a smile pasted on her lips, her speech prepared. The driver turned her head.

  Storm gasped and took a step back. The driver’s face was deathly pale, the skin ripped away from its lips to reveal jagged teeth. The eyes were set deep in

  smudged black shadow. They were the yellowish green of a cat’s with a black vertical slit for a pupil.

  For a moment icy rivulets of sheer horror kept Storm frozen in place. Then a smudged line and a wisp of reddish blond hair peeping out from beneath the black yarn wig gave it away.

  Storm shook her head and gave an abashed smile. She was ashamed of herself. The woman was wearing a Halloween costume. Her face was an elaborately painted skull. She also wore a wig of thick black yarn, its two braids tied with black gingham. Obviously the woman was meant to look like an evil incarnation of the famous doll, Raggedy Ann.

  With a lift of painted eyebrows, Raggedy Ann rolled down her window. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Dropping her hand from where she’d unconsciously placed it, just above her heart, Storm nodded. “Sorry, you scared me for a minute. Good costume.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  “It’s just that your car. . . it’s too close to mine. I can’t get in.” Storm’s rehearsed speech had flown completely out of her mind.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I can’t get my car to start. I called a tow truck. They should be here any time. Do you want to wait?”

  “No,” said Storm. “I’ll just climb in through the passenger side. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m really sorry. I feel so bad about this. I realized I was too close and was going to pull out and readjust, but my car died right then.”

  “I see. Well, don’t worry about it.”

  “Really, I’m sure they’ll be here in a second.” The woman opened her door and stepped out. She was several inches shorter than Storm, who stood five-eight in bare feet. Furthermore, unlike Storm, who was slender but not slim, she was skinny as any walkway model. She wore a belted, black gingham dress with the edge of several white, eyelet lace slips peeking out, white tights, and shiny black Mary Janes.

  “I’m sure your tow truck will be here soon, but I’ve got to get home now,” insisted Storm.

  “Of course. I’m sick of sitting and waiting. I need to get out and move around a little.” She followed Storm around to the side of her own car. “At least let me get the door for you.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Storm clicked the key fob and heard the doors unlock.

  Raggedy Ann grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. “There you go.”

  Storm had set her purse on the floor and started to climb across the seat when she felt a gun jammed into her lower back.

  Storm, thinking she was being mugged, had immediately said, “My . . . my purse is on the floor. I can hand it to you.”

  “Good. We’ll get to that, but for the moment I want you to put your right hand behind your back. Can you do that?”

  Storm nodded but didn’t move. The gun dug deeper.

  “Right hand. Back.”

  Storm slowly moved her right hand to the middle of her lower back. She felt the cold touch of metal as a cuff was placed around her wrist and heard the ratcheting as it was closed.

  Now was the time to fight. She should spin around and try to get the gun. In multiple trainings she’d learned that most people can’t fire handguns with any accuracy. Very few people actually die from getting shot with one.

  Despite what she’d learned, the bruising force of the gun’s muzzle made a stronger counter argument. Besides, those trainers hadn’t been talking about point-blank range.

  She decided the best thing to do was stay quiet, calm, and compliant. Hopefully, once the woman got the money or ID or whatever she was looking for, she’d go, leaving Storm with nothing worse than a raging sense of failure and victimization.

  “Don’t. I can feel you tense up. Don’t even think about it, and give me your other wrist. Hurry up. The faster you do what I say, the faster you’re out of here.”

  “I told you where my purse is. Just take it. You don’t need to cuff me. Or take my car, if that’s what you want.”

  “Your purse will do, but I can’t have you trying anything while I get away. I’m going to leave you cuffed in your car. You’ll figure a way out, or someone will come by, so quit arguing and put your hand behind your damn back.”

  Kneeling precariously on the seat of the car, Storm reluctantly did as she was told. With a sinking sensation in her stomach and a sense of utter helplessness, she felt the pressure of the second cuff go around her wrist and close tight.

  “Now sit up.” The woman took a step back and the pressure of the gun was gone.

  Storm twisted in the seat and got her feet on the floor. As soon as she sat back, something was slipped over her head and tightened around her neck. She leaned forward and felt a burning sting as something cut into the flesh of her neck. She jerked her head back against the seat rest and away from the pressure.

  The woman opened the back door and climbed in. Storm, moving only her eyes, looked into the rearview mirror. She caught glimpses of matte black braids, and the face, all bleached-bone white and graveyard shadows. Cold fingers touched her neck. She fought the urge to pull away.

  “Stupid. Why didn’t you sit still? You could have cut off your head. There’s a very thin wire wrapped around your neck and tied to the headrest. If you move, it will cut you again. Understand?”

  “Yes,” said Storm. She understood. She could feel the trickle of warm blood pooling in the curve of her collarbone. Anger was growing in the pit of her stomach, a tiny ember that was always there and always suppressed. She recognized it for the dangerous emotion it was. She would have to keep it at bay.

  “It was thoughtful of you to wear your hair in a nice, tight bun,” the woman said. “It made getting that loop over your head really easy.” She finished adjusting the wire around Storm’s neck, climbed out of the back seat, and shut the door. Then she reached back into the front seat and found Storm’s car keys where she’d dropped them on the floor near her feet. “You just sit quiet now.”

  Storm, whose every impulse told her to smash her knee into the woman’s face, bit her lip and sat as still as her trembling body allowed.

  The woman closed the passenger door, locked it with the key fob, and walked out of sight. Storm tried to follow her movement in the mirrors and caught sight of her own eyes reflected in the rearview. They were too wide, too frightened. She looked away. A trickle of blood slid from her collarbone down her chest.

  She moved her feet and kicked something. Her purse. Why hadn’t the woman taken her purse? Fear, like a crackle of lightning, flickered through her. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. The cuffs that had felt like ice now felt warm. It was her hands that were frozen.

  The white car began to move backward. Storm experienced a moment of vertigo as she watched it slip away. Her perception was confused and it seemed as if her car was rolling forward, toward the thin barrier and the open space beyond.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and shook off the sensation. When she opened them, the car was moving forward, pulling in next to her car again, but this time at a reasonable distance.

  Though she was only able to move her head slightly or risk another cut, Storm continued to watch for the woman as well as she could. She heard a door slam, the clack of heels, and then her door opened. A wash of damp air swirled through the car, along with the scent of some floral-ba
sed perfume.

  The Raggedy Anne woman stood there, a roll of duct tape in her hands. She leaned inside the car and unwound some of the tape, tore it free with her teeth. “Shut your eyes,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Shut your eyes.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t make me do this the hard way.”

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to shut your eyes,” the woman barked and she jabbed her fingers right at Storm’s eyes, which closed instinctively. Half a second later, Storm felt the sticky tape pressed against her eyelids.

  The smell of adhesive filled her nostrils. She remembered that smell. She and Howard had used the same kind of tape often enough. Their favored tactic was to gag their target with a wadded up washcloth, then put duct tape across their mouths. They also used zip ties to tie their wrists and then wound duct tape from wrists to elbows to further reduce their captors ability to escape. Yes, Storm knew the smell of duct tape very well.

  “We’re going for a ride,” the woman explained. “If you move around, the wire will cut you. If I hit the brakes too hard, well, it could cut you very badly. I suggest you don’t try anything that might cause me to do that.”

  Storm started away when she felt something touch the side of her face.

  “Shh. Settle down,” the woman said. “It’s just a scarf.” The cloth slid across the back of Storm’s neck and was arranged around her throat. Once that was done, a pair of glasses were slid onto her face. “Sunglasses,” the woman said. “Nothing odd about sunglasses. And if you were worrying—nothing odd on camera either. Oh yeah, I know the garage is monitored, cameras on every corner and in the elevator, even on the stairs. Why else the pretty costume? But don’t worry, no one saw the gun or anything too weird. All they’re looking for is someone breaking windows or stealing the cars. Actually, I feel pretty good about leaving my car overnight. I’m sure it will be safe and sound when I get it tomorrow. Don’t you?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE CAR SWAYED and there were sounds, tires spinning, an occasional horn, a loud voice, the rhythmic beep of the crossing lights, someone’s car stereo. There were smells too. The smell of new leather, Raggedy Anne’s perfume, her own sweat. Rolling her shoulders, she tried to keep her arms from falling asleep. The cuffs dug into her skin and her hands were numb. The cut across her throat stung. The pain was minimal, the worst was not being able to see.

  When she tried to open her eyes, the tape caught at her eyelashes. She didn’t care about that. Eventually, by raising and lowering her eyebrows, she managed to move one corner of the tape, but all that did was allow in a sliver of light. Just enough to let her make out the individual strands that made up the tape and a dark line that must be a crease.

  Frustrated to the point of tears, Storm tested the range of the wire around her neck. She could only move about an inch in any direction, and each time the car hit a bump or turned unexpectedly, the wire bit into her neck and a fresh trickle of blood ran down her skin. The only thing she could do was keep her head pressed hard into the headrest, try to predict the turns, and adjust.

  Bringing her hands closer together, she slid her nearly useless fingers across each of the cuffs, testing to see if they were truly locked. They were. She also felt each link looking for any weakness, a dent, something overlooked. Again, nothing.

  Maybe if she could get rid of the sunglasses, someone in a nearby car would see her, wonder about the silver tape, her stiff posture. She wriggled her nose, brought her chin in toward her chest, hoping gravity would help.

  Suddenly the glasses were shoved against her face, pressed hard against her nose until it hurt.

  “Knock it off. You look stupid, like you’re about to sneeze. Those glasses are staying where they are.”

  “You have to let me go. I have children. They need me.”

  “They need you? Are they home alone?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So, their daddy’s home with them?”

  “No, the sitter.”

  “Ah, the sitter. I suppose if you don’t come home she’ll just take off, leave them there.”

  “Of course not, she’d never . . .”

  “What, leave them there alone? Of course not. Someone like you would never leave your kids with someone who wouldn’t take care of them. That means they’ll be just fine. No real need for you to go, is there?”

  “Oh, please. You have no reason.”

  “I’ve got plenty of reason.”

  “Then tell me what it is. Why are you doing this?”

  “I’ll tell you why when we get there.”

  “Get where? Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  “God, you never stop asking questions, do you? You know, I have more duct tape. Do you want to stop talking, or should I pull over and help you stay quiet?”

  When Storm didn’t respond, the woman said, “Much better.”

  After a moment Storm heard a click and a song filled the car. It was an old Journey song, Who’s Crying Now. As a teenager, Storm had lived with her great aunt. She’d borrowed her car and gone for long, restless drives and played her aunt’s music. The collection included Journey.

  Cool air streamed through the driver side window. Its fresh touch caressed her face. The music and the wind transported her back in time. She took a deep breath, let the sweet scent of the air fill her lungs.

  Ever since she’d realized that she, and not her money, was this woman’s target, Storm had wondered if this was her karmic payback.

  It had been just a little over a year ago that she and Howard had begun the justice killings. Culling the files of her fellow probation officers for abusers who had somehow bypassed the justice system, they had stalked, kidnapped, and punished them.

  She’d felt no guilt about their early kills. Those people had deserved what happened to them. But there was a woman, an innocent who Howard had taken on his own, and there were other deaths . . . Deaths that added a new depth to the dank center of her being, the dark well of shattered emotion and memory she kept hidden from the world.

  In the beginning she had looked at their targets the same way some look at cop killers. If a person could kill someone sworn to protect them, who would be safe? These people’s targets were even worse. They had hurt the very people who loved and trusted them

  the most. If they could do that, what wouldn’t they be capable of?

  But now, she wasn’t as sure. Maybe she and Howard had made a mistake. Instead of balancing the scales, maybe they’d tipped them and this women, her kidnapper, was a device the universe had chosen to restore balance. If so, who was she to fight it? Maybe the wrongs she’d done could only be corrected by a punishment doled out in a way similar to the way she and Howard had punished their targets.

  And there were eerie similarities: the avoidance of the cameras, the duct tape, good restraints. But there were differences too. The wire was clever, a good way for a woman to level the playing field. Brains over brawn. Also the length of the car ride. She didn’t know where she was being taken, but it wasn’t close to work or home.

  Howard had supplied their kill room and it had been conveniently close. The room was an oversized shower in a building owned by a company that manufactured chemicals used by companies that made computer chips. The shower was a safety feature to be used in case of an accidental chemical spill.

  In addition to the shower, the building held a thermal oxidizer that destroyed byproducts of the manufacturing process. The special incinerator reduced everything fed into it to vapor. It was the perfect place to kill and dispose of bodies, and Storm still had the thin mag key to the building tucked in her wallet. Of course she wouldn’t be offering that information to her kidnapper.

  How easy it was, Storm mused, to fall into the trap of believing she deserved this. Her self-hate must be truly epic. But did Tom deserve to lose his wife, or the kids their mother? No one could love them more than she, and mir
aculously, they loved her. This was a world-changing fact. She could not give up. No matter how much easier that would be. She would not fail them.

  With this thought, Storm brought her attention back to the car. She’d been trying to pay attention to things like their speed and the number of turns. Unlike on some cheesy cops and robbers TV shows, it was an impossible task. Or maybe she was too rattled. Maybe there was some truth to the expression “being scared out of your wits.”

  A short time later, Storm noticed a change in the sounds outside. At first they’d been surrounded by cars, part of the normal rush hour, or hours, to be more accurate. Now the sound of other cars was only an occasional thing. She could hear their tires against the asphalt and little else.

  Storm thought they must be in the country, but where? A half hour west from downtown Hillsboro, where she worked, was open country. Nothing but long stretches of rolling green hills planted with grape vines, hazelnut orchards, or a few of the ancient walnut trees that had brought wealth to some of the early farmers of the Willamette Valley.

  A new song began to play on the radio, Drive by the Cars. When the singer reached “Who’s gonna drive you home tonight,” Raggedy Ann asked, “Are you laughing? Why the hell are you laughing? What’s wrong with you?”

  Storm said nothing. Where, after all, could she begin?

  The car slowed and then rolled over something that felt sharper than a bump in the road. A low curb, perhaps? A driveway? Luckily the woman drove so slowly that Storm was able to press herself back into the seat and do no further damage to her neck.

  She got ready. As soon as the woman took the wire off and started to lead her from the car, she was going to ram into her, hopefully knock her down. One corner of the duct tape was already loose. She’d find a way to rub it off. Once she could see, she could run. Even though she hadn’t had much time for it lately, she was still a very good runner.

  Also, she believed they were in the country, which meant she could leave the road and get into the trees where a car couldn’t follow. Without a car, the woman in her shiny Mary Janes was no way going to catch her. If being taken and killed was the universe trying to