Vengeance Road (17 page)

“I can hear 'em Bel. The voices of all those vile creatures on the row at Ellis. I hear them cacklin' now because the moratorium has come to pass.”

“It's out of your control, Deke.”

“No. No, it's not. I'm fixin' to do something about it. I have seen the glory!”

“The glory? Deke, I don't understand. I've begged you not to drink.”

“It helps me see. Look.”

He lifted his lamp so the light lapped on the barn wall illuminating the list of names of every prisoner he'd executed. Deke's list ended with a question: “Who is next?”

“See, Bel. It's not over. Our war is eternal. This is all part of His plan. See now, it's up to you and me to carry out prosecutions against them all.”

“Against who, Deke?”

“The wicked. Every last one of them….”

 

After Styebeck patted the earth in his backyard, he lit a fire in the old steel drum in the corner of the yard where he incinerated trash. He went into the garage and got several items he'd hidden under his workbench.

One of them was the DVD of Bernice Hogan begging for her life.

Flames lashed from the drum when Styebeck tossed them in, deciding at the last moment to rescue one from the fire. Watching the rest burn, he took stock of his home and the life he loved.

He would protect it, as he'd done before. As long as he took care of matters his way, nothing would stop him.

Still as a statue, Alice stood at the window of their unlit kitchen.

She'd risen from bed to get a glass of ginger ale. She'd been there long enough to secretly witness Karl burying something in their yard then burning something in the trash.

Cold fear coiled up her spine as she returned to bed before her husband.

M
elody Lyon held the power to change Jack Gannon's life.

She was quite aware of that fact as she dripped cream into her tea and resumed reading files on her BlackBerry.

The legendary news editor was sitting alone at the Wyoming Diner in Manhattan. It was late afternoon and the lunch rush had ended. A tired-looking waitress and a bored short-order cook chatted at the counter over coffee.

Savoring the quiet, Lyon returned to her dilemma.

Should she offer Gannon a job, or write him off as a tragic figure?

Scrolling through his news articles, she reviewed his brilliant work on the jetliner crash, which had earned him a Pulitzer nomination, her respect and a job offer.

Gannon was an outstanding reporter. He had the innate talent, instincts and drive to excavate a good story. Skills Lyon searched for to strengthen her special-investigation team at the worldwide wire service.

She was disappointed that it never worked out after Gannon had declined her job offer. Strangely, around that same period, when they were checking Gannon's references, the WPA got an anonymous tip alleging Gannon had a drug problem. She'd always questioned the validity of that claim and the timing of it.

It was as if someone was trying to prevent him from leaving the
Sentinel.

But that was then.

Now, Lyon found herself in a new predicament with Gannon.

She and her fellow editor, Carter O'Neill, had one opening on their special-investigations team. They'd nearly come to a decision among four strong candidates, a reporter from Seattle, one from Berlin, another from Toronto and one from London. Each was a seasoned, award-winning journalist of the highest caliber.

Then, only days ago, Gannon had resurfaced, calling out of the blue, offering to freelance a story to her.

Most people in the business knew he'd been fired from the
Buffalo Sentinel.

“Forget about him, Mel,” Carter said. “Given the recent history of scandals at major newspapers, the last thing we need is to bring in a tainted reporter. Our SI team is the best of the best.”

Still, Lyon, a well-connected force in the craft, remained skeptical because she knew Nate Fowler, the
Sentinel
's managing editor, had a reputation for being slimy.

When Lyon measured what she knew about Fowler against what she knew about Gannon, it didn't add up. Not in her book.

Sirens echoed near Madison Square Garden as Lyon walked west along Thirty-third Street back to her office.

She thought carefully about Gannon's controversy. It concerned his reporting of a cop under suspicion for the murder of a Buffalo nursing student, which had led to a retraction and Gannon's termination.

If Gannon was wrong, he was finished as a reporter. If Fowler had somehow pressed him to back off, then there
was every chance a bigger story and, more important, an injustice, would go unreported.

How this would unfold was anyone's guess, Lyon thought as she passed a private academy. It was a beautiful stone building a block from the World Press Alliance.

The WPA was situated in a twenty-story building in midtown Manhattan's far west side, in the heart of the Hudson Yards. It was close to Penn Station and the Lincoln Tunnel, and offered views of the Empire State Building and the Hudson River.

In the lobby, Lyon swiped her ID badge at the security turnstile and stepped into the elevator.

She was fifty-four years old. Widowed at age thirty-one. Never had children. She'd been a journalist most of her life, reporting on every major story around the globe. Her news judgment rarely—some said never—missed. And people who crossed her did so at their peril.

Lyon lived a private life but kept a tight circle of friends that included former heads of state, film stars, billionaires, as well as goatherds, seamstresses and children living with AIDs in the poorest regions on earth.

Journalism was not just her life, it was her lifeblood. She had earned her place as one of the world's top editors running one of the world's largest news services.

While its push for excellence had earned the WPA twenty-two Pulitzer Prizes, Lyon was wary of its global competition, chiefly: the Associated Press, Reuters, Agence France-Presse, Deutsche Presse-Agentur, Bloomberg, China's Xinhua News Agency and Russia's fast-rising Interfax News Agency.

Lyon got out of the elevator at the sixteenth floor, the need to make a decision on Jack Gannon weighing heavily on her.

She embraced the pride she felt passing through recep
tion; the walls displayed WPA news photos of the world's most compelling moments captured over the last one hundred years.

Lyon walked across the thick gray carpet of the newsroom, with its low-walled cubicles and polished wooden desks where reporters and editors worked nonstop, under flat-screen monitors streaming video and data from around the world.

Arriving at her corner office, she stood at her desk and was considering calling the number she'd jotted on a pad next to Jack Gannon's name when she was interrupted by two soft knocks at her open door.

Carter O'Neill entered.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready?”

“Mel, I don't know where the heck you've been, but we're supposed to meet now to decide on that reporting position for Special Investigations. Don't tell me you forgot?”

Lyon flipped through her calendar.

“That's next Tuesday, Carter.”

“No, it's today. We've already delayed. Let's get to it.”

Keeping his eyes on the pages in the folder he was holding, O'Neill flopped into the plush sofa chair in the small meeting area of her office, unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie.

“Now,” O'Neill sighed. “I told you I really like Dieter, the guy from Berlin. I had Thomas at our Bonn bureau confirm his references. And this woman, Dianne Gray, from Toronto, is very impressive. Are you with me, Mel?”

Lyon was tapping her pen on her calendar and checking her cell phone.

“Carter, I'd like to delay filling the post for a couple more weeks.”

“Delay? What the hell for? We're already a month behind on this.”

“I know. Look, I've got a meeting at the
Daily News
in thirty minutes. Then I have to fly to D.C.”

“Hold on a sec.” O'Neill looked hard at Lyon. “You're still considering Jack Gannon in Buffalo, aren't you? I thought you were kidding after you told me he'd contacted you.”

“Carter, we've made no decisions on the position yet.”

O'Neill left his chair, stood before her and removed his gold-rimmed glasses. He was a former war correspondent and she regarded him as a professional equal, but she outranked him in the WPA's management hierarchy. His cold blue eyes held hers.

“I know you helped build this team, Mel. But you would be going out on a limb bringing a guy like Gannon into our organization. Hell, he's just been fired for fucking up a story. That kind of thing does not usually get you a better job. How can you give him any serious consideration? Remember that tip we got about Gannon's rumored drug problem?”

“I smell Nathan Fowler all over this thing at the
Sentinel
and the claim about Gannon using drugs. Look at Gannon's work. Come on, Carter.”

“Even if you're right about Fowler, do you want to bring the
Sentinel
's problems here? We don't need it. And, need I remind you, this is an unforgiving business. Managerial mistakes are expensive.”

“I have a gut feeling about Gannon,” she said.

“Are you going to risk your own reputation on it? And maybe more? You'd better think long and hard about the implications here, kiddo.”

“I have. I want to delay for two more weeks. I want to see if Gannon can pull himself out of this nosedive. See
what he's made of. Two weeks, Carter, that's all I'm asking.”

O'Neill replaced his glasses, closed his folder and shook his head.

“Fine, but it's your funeral.”

J
olene Peller felt hope slipping further and further away.

Minute by minute, mile by mile. Abandoning her to fall deeper into the never-ending darkness, the divide between life and death closing on her like massive jaws.

No. Please.

She drifted in and out of sleep as they rolled to the uniform rattle and hum of what had to be a large truck. To where, she didn't know. For how long, she didn't know.

It could've been days.

She gave up trying to guess. There were no clocks in this hell. No minutes or hours. Time here was measured in torment and agony.

How long had it been since they'd heard voices and machinery so near to them? One, two, three days ago?

No one had heard her cries for help.

No one came.

At times she questioned whether it had ever happened. Was it some sort of illusion? Was she losing her mind in this rotting hellhole?

She ached everywhere. She was hungry. Thirsty. She smelled bad. She was unclean. Soiled. Her teeth were caked with something disgusting.

She was too damn tired to fight anymore.

A low sound of pain rose from the floor.

The other woman stirred again.

The woman was terrified, in shock, and her condition was worsening. Jolene wanted to help her but could do nothing. Hot tears ran down Jolene's face. As she lifted her heavy, bound wrists to brush them away, she felt her locket.

Her beautiful locket.

A gift from her mother for turning her life around.

Clenching her fist around it filled Jolene with love and strength. She was not giving up.

Not while she was still alive.

She had to find a way out of this.

Think.

Think of the positives.

Their gags had loosened more, making it easier to breathe and talk. And the salt of her sweat had loosened her bindings, although the duct tape still held her wrists like a vise.

Jolene summoned a mantra from her school courses: Plan your work then work your plan.

She patted her pockets. She had the flashlight and the keys. Tools. She stood and ran her hands over the familiar rough walls, touching protruding nails, then metal seams and hinges indicating a door or window.
Find the contact cap for the flashlight. Inspect the hinges. Use the keys to work on removing them.

Jolene crawled on her hands and knees, her fingertips feeling for the cap. She felt again under the other woman, who groaned.

“Carrie.”

Jolene stopped.

“What?”

“My name is Carrie May.”

“Hi, Carrie May. I'm Jolene Peller.”

“I remember.”

“Remember what?” Jolene continued feeling for the cap.

“What happened. How he got me.”

“Tell me.”

Carrie coughed and began to speak slowly.

“I was done my shift at the drugstore at the mall. I needed a ride home but all my so-called friends were gone.”

“Where was that?”

“Hartford, Connecticut. I'd argued with them. It was my third shift at my new job. They wanted to go downtown and do drugs, I didn't. You know, at some point you just want to grow up. They took off and left me. So I walked to the truck stop across the turnpike. I had other friends there.”

“Is that where he was?”

“Yes. It was real foggy that night. When I got there, my friends weren't there. I was pissed off. I bought a six-pack for my dad then tried to figure out how I was going to get home—walk or take the bus. When I came out, he was there hanging around the door.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, God no!”

“What happened?”

“He started talking to me, saying he was worried about the sick little girl he had in his truck. Said he had no health insurance and saw me in my uniform and begged me to come see his little girl.”

“Uniform?”

“My white drugstore smock. I figured that to him I looked like a nurse, or something. I took it off and put it in my bag. I told him I worked in a drugstore not a hospital. But he was desperate and sounded so convincing. A little voice told me not to go, but he had a little girl. Against my better judgment, I walked off to the far end of the truck stop to his rig. It was so dark.”

“Did you see a girl?”

“No. I never even saw his face. He had his ball cap pulled down. The last things I remember were his boots, his keys jingling and him saying that for me to buy beer was ‘mighty sinful.' Then everything went dark.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I can't tell. Two or three weeks, maybe longer. Everything just went black, and when I woke up here in the dark, he was inside yelling at the other girl.”

“Me?”

“No, before you. Another girl.”

“Was her name Bernice?”

“No. Melissa maybe. That's all I know.”

“What happened to her?”

“She's gone.” Carrie's voice broke.

“But what happened?”

“I think he killed her.”

Carrie sobbed. As Jolene moved to comfort her the truck jolted, its air brakes swooshed. They slowed and turned onto another road. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as they went for what seemed like half an hour, maybe longer, then turned again onto a softer road. They could hear weeds and brush slapping against the truck.

Jolene's breathing quickened.

She sensed they were driving deep into an isolated area. As she began to struggle with her mounting fear, she felt a small point at her ankle and reached down.

She'd found the flashlight contact cap.

It took a few seconds of fumbling but she screwed it into place, switched on the light, pointed it to the floor.

Blinking at the hope, or horror, it would bring, Jolene swallowed.

“Carrie, I know he hurt you. I need to look at your injuries, see if I can do anything.”

The truck was now crawling, like he was strategically positioning it.

Jolene moved the small beam of light toward Carrie's face, revealing a bloodied patchwork of abrasions, contusions and torn flesh. One eye was swollen shut; her lower lip bulged abnormally.

“You see?” Carrie sobbed. “What he does?” Carrie's good eye released a tear.

“Wait,” Jolene's fingers hovered over Carrie's forehead. “I see letters written on you. Let me figure out what it says.”

The truck stopped. He killed the engine.

Carrie nodded, her good eye widening with terror.

“He marks you.”

“Why?”

“For judgment.”

Jolene read the letters and gasped.

“Turn the light on yourself,” Carrie said. “He marked you, too.”

At that moment they heard someone directly outside.

A man's humming, the swish of tall grass, then the clank of steel tools being dropped on the ground. The jingle of keys, locks being unlocked, the squeak and metallic roll of a door being opened, allowing the dim illumination of twilight and fresh air to rush in.

Any thought of hope died.

Gloved hands gripped the frame. One of them held a steel pipe. No. Not a pipe. Jolene had seen that before. A cattle prod.

Carrie whimpered, rushed to a dark corner, wedging herself into it.

A snakeskin boot balanced on the lip of the door.

A man hoisted himself inside.