Shadow of Vengeance (5 page)

Not that she wanted him to confess to being hypnotized by her smile, or tell her that looking into her eyes was like staring into deep pools of emeralds. She’d heard her mother’s past conquests spew that sort of flowery drivel enough to know empty compliments were worse than none at all. Hence the reason she preferred to date nerdy, nice guys who admired her intelligence and computer skills, and had no idea how to fake a relationship. Unfortunately, with those men foreplay would be pizza, wings, and maybe a discussion about the latest Mobile Ad Hoc Network they’d created. As for sex…discussing the Scalable Link Interface was usually more exciting. Regardless, she’d rather date bland and boring, than mix herself up with men like Owen.
 

Too hot. Too confident. Too good of a kisser.
 

Why was she even thinking about any of this? He’d admitted to relying on her skills and she’d turned that one, itty-bitty flattering remark into so much more.

Remember he’s a bottom feeder. Stick to business. Think about Sean. Quit wandering into the past.

“Okay,” she began, refocusing. “Maybe I think it’s odd that whoever is behind taking these frat boys hasn’t stopped. Not in twenty years. Or maybe…”

“What? We’ll find the roommate on a china platter?” He glanced at her. “Sorry, bad joke.”

“Very bad joke,” she said, and shook her head as another thought occurred to her. “Maybe Hell Week is the anniversary of…something.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, like how about Hell Week? Did the sheriff mention how many years in between disappearances? Because the more I think about it, if the Hell Week note wasn’t left behind, one could consider these disappearances random rather than deliberate.”

“The sheriff said he’d fill me in on everything when we meet. But you’re right, if it wasn’t for the note…”

“And that the kids go missing in January. But doesn’t that seem too obvious? Twenty years of abductions, at the start of a weeklong fraternity ritual, and the local authorities haven’t come to the conclusion that whoever is behind this might harbor a grudge about Hell Week itself?”

“Or it could be that the person behind this had been a victim of a Hell Week hazing,” she said, then began typing. “I’m going to find everything I can about Bola, Wexman University and the long list of missing persons.”

“Might as well go in armed with info. That sheriff sounds clueless.”

She thought about Sheriff Jake Tyler. While they’d spoken, her focus had been on Sean’s condition. She’d still caught the frustration in the sheriff’s voice when he talked about the missing persons and the Michigan State Police. “I don’t know about that. He couldn’t be that clueless if he was smart enough to ask CORE for help.”
 

“Oh, come on, Rachel,” he said. “This Hell Week thing has been going on for twenty years. Your sheriff is probably old and counting down the days until retirement. The only reason he wants us involved now is probably because the university and the people living in or near Bola have had enough and want answers.”

“He didn’t sound old. Actually, he had a nice voice,” she said, then popped the pencil in her mouth and began researching Bola.

“A nice voice? Whatever.” He snorted, then a few minutes later asked, “Hey, Beaver, do you plan on chewing that pencil the whole time we’re in the car?”
 

Without looking at him, or removing the pencil, she mumbled, “Yep.”

He turned on the radio, then released a deep, exasperated sigh. “This is going to be the longest six hours of my life.”
 

*

“Remove all of your clothes.”

The chains cuffed to the pledge’s wrists shook. “Why are you doing this?” he asked on a sob.

“Junior, hand me the baseball bat. No, not the wooden one, our pledge deserves metal.”

After Junior gave him the metal bat, he wrapped his hands around the base, and moved into a batting stance. “You have two seconds to comply. If you don’t, or you ask another ridiculous question, I’ll use your genitals for batting practice.”

Sniveling, the pledge quickly shucked his jeans, kicked them off, then removed his boots and socks. When he reached for the waistband of his underwear, Junior gasped.

“You’re right,” he said, and leaned against the bat as if it were a crutch. “Keep the underwear in place. The male genitalia are too vulgar for a delicate woman’s eyes.” He smiled to Junior.
 

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Should I go upstairs to the laundry room and check the hose?”

“The hose is fine. But I do need you to turn on the faucet. Cold, please.” With no running water in the basement, he’d learned to improvise. Connecting the garden hose to the sink in the laundry room had worked well.

The old farmhouse he’d inherited from his parents had been built in the early 1880s. While the house itself had been modernized over the years, the basement had been left in its original state. Researching the home that had belonged to his family for more than one hundred and thirty years, he’d learned that the builder, his great-great-great grandfather, had used dynamite to blow a hole in the rocky ground near the Menominee River. He’d then covered the eight hundred square foot, dank, rocky cavity with the farmhouse. He’d learned the basement had been initially used to keep food items cold. Even in the summer, the basement maintained a comfortable sixty degrees. But in the dead of winter, the room could dip into the fifties and even the forties. Not a pleasant place for the pledge. But this wasn’t Holiday Inn, and his pledge wasn’t here for rest and relaxation.
 

He glanced up the ladder. His parents had sealed the basement access door after he’d been born. They’d worried over him constantly, and had feared he’d fall into the gaping hole and perish should he play with the old trapdoor. After he’d taken possession of the house, he’d found where the old access had been, and had reopened the basement. Thinking about the moment he’d climbed down the ladder and stepped onto the worn limestone still aroused him. Not in a sexual way, of course. A lewd, crude exchange of bodily fluids, sex was for animals. Only one time had he given into his body’s disgusting needs. While he’d achieved physical gratification, emitting semen into his lover had stupidly resulted in an unwanted child.
 

“And here she comes now,” he said, then offered his hand when Junior had reached the last few rungs of the ladder.

“The water is on,” Junior said. “I also made sure the extension cord was plugged in, too.”

“Good. Now hold this for me. I’m tired of watching this pathetic puke try to undress.” He stopped short of the struggling pledge. “If he tries to harm me, break his knee cap.”

She raised the metal bat. “Yes, sir.”
 

When Junior had brought the pledge to him, the puke had been wearing boots, jeans, and a black-hooded sweatshirt with Wexman University emblazoned across the front in the university’s trademark colors of green and gold. In his haste to rid himself of the sweatshirt and the long-sleeved thermal shirt he’d worn beneath, the fool had managed to tangle the material in the chains secured around his wrists.
 

With a schedule to keep, he drew a hunting knife from the belt at his waist and moved closer to the pledge.
 

The puke’s eyes widened. His breath came in harsh bursts. “I did what you told me,” he wailed, his voice echoing off the rock walls.

“Shut up,” he ordered, then stabbed the material bunched between the pledge’s wrists.
 

In seconds, the sharp blade tore through the fabric. Taking a step back, he glared at the devil’s spawn. Naked save for a pair of underwear, and the torn clothing around his wrists, the pledge—if his memory served him well—was the spitting image of the demon who had tormented him for more than two decades.
 

With this year’s Hell Week, his life would come full circle, and then he would pass the torch to Junior. She’d showed up on his doorstep eighteen months ago, as welcomed as a burning paper bag filled with dog excrement. He’d been immediately angered by her presence. But then he’d learned that her mother, Vivian, the vessel he’d once used to slake his lust, had died. Apparently Vivian hadn’t told Junior about him. Instead, after cleaning out her deceased mother’s files, his child had discovered not only who he was, but that he’d given up his rights to her when she’d been born.
 

That balmy, summer night eighteen months ago, he’d sat on the back porch with Junior, drinking iced tea and listening to her talk. He’d learned that Vivian had all but ignored her. That, as a child, Junior had taken to torturing small animals. Later, she’d been fired from babysitting jobs due to the physical abuse she’d doled out to the children. And later still, she’d slit the throat of the man who had tried to rape her of her virginity. In that moment, he’d realized he might have found a kindred spirit in his daughter, that she could be the son he’d always longed for. The person who could share his vision and continue his legacy.

After their initial meeting, he’d spent months testing her. Spent nights ensuring that she not only respect, but fear him. Junior might be his protégé, but as her father, it was his God given right to mete out punishment. And while Junior had already made the mistake of bringing him two pledges when he’d distinctly said one—this one in particular—he couldn’t stay mad at her. Like he had been in the past, she’d been overzealous with power the night she took the two pledges. He had learned, from her stories of neglect and physical abuse, she’d hungered for power all of her life.

He glanced at her. Her eyes, so much like his own, were fixated on the nearly naked pledge. They shimmered with what he assumed was excitement, and a small, triumphant smile played across her lips. Yes. She would definitely continue his legacy.
 

“Keep alert,” he said to Junior, then using his fists, shoved the pledge against the rock wall. The pitiable crybaby sobbed and groaned. He ignored the blubbering and secured the pledge’s wrists to the metal hooks he’d drilled into the rock years ago. After he replaced the shackles around the pledge’s ankles, he did the same with those chains, then took several steps back. With the way he’d been chained to the wall, the pledge reminded him of Da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
diagram, minus the extra set of arms and legs of course.

“Are we ready?” Junior asked, and handed him the metal bat.

“Yes. Care to do the honors?”

“Definitely.”

“I thought as much,” he said, retrieved the hose, then handed it to her. “Begin.”

Without delay she squeezed the nozzle, and at full throttle, sprayed the pledge in the face. He coughed and spat, shook he head as if doing so might thwart her efforts.

“Make sure you get the rest of him,” he reminded her.
 

She did as he’d directed, and doused ice-cold water across the pledge’s young body.
 

Minutes later he instructed her to turn off the nozzle. After coiling the hose, then placing it on the far wall, he turned to the pledge. The puke shivered, and his teeth chattered hard enough he wondered if the pledge might actually chip a tooth.

“What’s next?” Junior asked, and pulled her heavy coat tight against her chest.

“We leave, then resume this evening after dinner. I thought we’d have roast beef.”

She furrowed her forehead as she stared at the pledge. “It’s freezing down here, will he survive the cold?”

“According to the thermometer, it’s forty-nine degrees. Through my research, I’ve learned that hypothermia, for someone as unclad as our pledge, usually develops between the temperature ranges of thirty to fifty degrees. That, of course, is if he remained dry, had the opportunity to move and stay active, and the floor was well-insulated.”

 
She half-laughed and shook her head. “Then I guess we’ll be disposing of a body after dinner.”

“Never fear, I will not leave you disappointed.” He moved back to the wall, picked up the space heater, then set it on the rock floor approximately five feet from the pledge.

“Now I know what the electrical cord was for,” she said. “No offense, sir, but giving him the heater…forcing him to strip, then hosing him down seems more like a show to me.”

He shrugged. “Not a show, what I’m offering is false hope. I have the heater set on a timer. Every half hour the heat will turn on for ten minutes. As I explained to you, I’ve been doing this for a while, and know that the small amount of warmth will be enough to eventually dry the pledge and keep him from succumbing to hypothermia. We won’t be removing a body…today.”

“F…f…fuck you,” the pledge stuttered, while his body shook.
       

In four strides he stood in front of the pledge, then gave him a swift, hard backhand to his wet face. “A lady is present. If you continue to use foul language I will remove the space heater and allow you to freeze to death. It’s only Monday, I guarantee I can find a replacement pledge. Do you understand?”
 

The boy nodded.

“Good. Now apologize.”

Tears streamed down the puke’s wet cheeks. “I…I…I’m s…s…sorry.”

“Good.” He pulled a piece of cold, burnt toast from his coat pocket. “Open wide,” he instructed the pledge, then shoved the toast into his mouth.