Vengeance Bound (7 page)

Hank blinks at the question. When he realizes the bartender is talking about me, he tosses back his beer and stands. He watches me, and I sense a split second of hesitation. It’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for, but some part of him, buried deep under the tainted part of his soul, rejects the lust for violence. That part is too small to make any difference, though, and he gives me a grin that sends chills of warning down my spine.

It’s disappointing how easy this is.

Hank stretches like an old hound. “I left my truck at the yard. But we can ride there and then go pick up your car. It’s sixty-five dollars for the tow. Cash only.”

I nod slowly, like I’m mulling it over. In the back of my mind, They gnash Their teeth in excitement. “Okay. Sounds good.”

Hank nods, and slaps a ten down on the bar. He slides into a dirty, dark blue mechanic’s jacket, his name on a patch on the front. He belches loudly, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and shoots me a gap-toothed smile. “You comin’ or not?”

I follow Hank out to his truck. Excitement makes Them flutter in the back of my mind, and for once I don’t try to silence Them. By the time I climb into the passenger side of Hank’s truck, I shake, as much from the cold as from anticipation.

This is the part where once upon a time I would have tried to talk myself out of it, to fight the inevitable. Until the last, final, unavoidable act I would try to reason with Them, try to spare the life of the guilty man about to receive his sentence. For a while it worked. I thought I could regain control, return to a normal life without giving in to Their bloody demands.

That was before Dr. Goodhart’s betrayal at Brighter Day and the long waking sleep of Saint Dymphna’s. I trusted him. I worked hard to follow his suggestions when my parents sent me to him at Brighter Day. And he turned me into a lab rat the first chance he had.

Sometimes when I think back on everything that’s happened, I imagine that Dr. Goodhart actually helped or that my parents didn’t die in a car accident, that it was them who saved me from Brighter Day and not my grandmother.

But it didn’t happen that way. My parents died, I went to live with my grandmother, and I betrayed her by giving in to Their cries for justice. If there hadn’t been an eyewitness to a judgment, if I hadn’t been covered in the same sooty residue as the dead guy, I never would’ve been arrested.

But I was. And it broke my poor grandmother’s heart.

After I made my escape from Saint Dymphna’s, after I listened to Their advice, after They taught me how to survive, I knew They were right. One must be ruthless and unforgiving. That is the way of justice.

And justice is the only thing that matters.

There will be no amnesty for Hank Meacham.

Hank starts up the truck, and classic rock fills the interior. He drives through the parking lot, and before we’ve gone far, I can tell he is entirely too drunk to be driving. He swerves over the center line several times, and I hope he doesn’t drive us off the road into a ditch. That would be inconvenient.

I clear my throat. “So, Hank, are you a religious man?”

Hank gives me a sidelong glance, and chuckles. “I s’pose so. Why? You about to give me a religious experience?” His hand snakes across the distance of the bench seat, and he grabs for my thigh. I scoot as far away as I can, just out of his reach.

This irritates him, and he suddenly turns wide down a narrow side road. Gravel pings the underside of the vehicle as he guides the truck back from the shoulder onto the paved road. The back end fishtails, the remnants of last night’s snowstorm an added challenge for drunken Hank. “You know, if you don’t have the money, we could negotiate something else.”

I shake my head. “No, I can pay. I just want to get my car and go home.” There’s a quaver to my voice, a little bit of acting so Hank doesn’t get suspicious. The Furies push at the front of my brain, anxious for release. I shush Them.
Soon.

Hank chuckles. The sound would make any sane person nervous. “Maybe I don’t want your money.” He pulls into the parking lot of an ATV repair shop, the truck’s headlights reflecting off the airbrushed plywood sign. The only light in the lot comes from a sickly overhead lamp that turns the snow the color of piss. Snow-covered fields surround the lone garage, and beyond there is darkness.

I realize with amusement that I’ve miscalculated. Again. I thought he would try something once we got to his junkyard, since that was his habit for such a long time. Pick a girl up, do his dark business, stuff the body into the trunk of a car, and crush it. It’s one of the reasons the authorities found only four of his victims. How many other girls got turned into scrap metal?

Hank has changed his routine since his stint in prison. It intrigues me that I’ve overlooked the possibility, and I wonder where he dumps the bodies now. Cornfield? Junkyard? Maybe it’s still the trunks of the victims’ cars?

While I’m thinking, he grabs for me. I’m already out of the truck and sliding across the snow slush gravel of the parking lot. During our drive it started snowing again, and flakes fly into my eyes as I jog. My muscles are still loose from my earlier run, and my head pounds as They seek their freedom. The frigid night air burns my lungs, and I breathe deeply, enjoying the pain. Hank’s footsteps sound behind me. Even from a distance I can hear his labored breathing. He’s an old hound, but he’s not about to let his bone get away.

I haven’t gone far before he catches me. I could have easily outrun him, but that would have defeated my purpose. This show has all been for his benefit. It’s so much better when they don’t see it coming.

I’m a few steps from the field when he grabs me by my right shoulder and spins me around, holding me upright when I would fall. I swing at him with my left hand, awkward and ineffectual. I could drag this out, savor it and fight him for real, but Hank bores me. With the exception of his choice of location, he’s predictable. Plus, he stinks.

He laughs at my weak punch and hauls me up against him, pinning my arms at my side. It doesn’t matter. By the time I need my hands, They’ll be free.

He says something to me, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. I am beyond hearing him. All I can think about is how much They’re going to enjoy what’s about to happen. His hands are roaming over my body now, and I swallow my revulsion at being pressed up against him. With a giddy laugh I release the hold I have on Them.

It’s like releasing a long-held breath, the whoosh of air replaced by a rush of wings and the soft sliding of scales. I sigh happily. Hank frowns, confusion overriding his glee. I wonder if he can sense what is happening in his inebriated state.
Hank, buddy, you really shouldn’t have had that last drink. You look a little tipsy.
His expression goes flat, and I smile.

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Hank Meacham.” The voice is mine and yet, not. It’s deep, throaty, like a stripper who smokes too much. Tisiphone’s voice given life by my throat.

Hank releases me and takes a couple stumbling steps back. His eyes are wide with horror. My hair whips around my head, driven by a scalding wind. The night is suddenly hotter than an August day. The snow around me melts and evaporates, and steam shrouds me. My vision splits into three. We see three separate Hanks turn to run. A force blocks him, the serpent reaching out invisible coils to restrain his flight. He shoves at the air, a terrified mime in a box. His stupor is gone, fear wiping away the alcohol-fueled haze. He’s screaming now, shouting unintelligible words. Some of them sound like prayers. He blubbers through his panicked tears, pleading with an absent God for mercy.

We shuffle forward and point at Hank, now curled up in a ball on the ground. “Judgment must be passed,” Megaera hisses, her voice sibilant and high. It’s pretty much pointless to tell him his crimes. He’s petrified with fear. I stride toward Hank. The chains that link me to Them rattle as I move, silver links dragging over the gravel parking lot. My fingers wrap around his chin, dragging him into a sitting position. The grip causes him to wince. With a little more pressure I could shatter his jaw. I hesitate, and They urge me to break it, Their voices rising and sliding over each other until the sound is deafening. Their cries echo in the still night. I want to resist, but Their lust for pain is stronger than my will. With a grimace I give in.

The jawbone breaks with an audible crunch, turning my stomach. Hank’s screams shatter the night, like an otherworldly choir. We sigh as we savor the sound. The bone crackles as it heals. They could do this all night, breaking and then fixing him, just to do it again. I remind myself that I’m the only thing keeping Them from indulging in Their fun.

I have to be stronger. It’s time to stop dragging this out.

Poor Hank begins to sob and call for help, but he knows as well as we do that there will be no rescue, no witnesses. He picked this spot for just that reason.

His whimpering is getting old, so I compel Hank to look into my eyes. He is powerless to resist my will. The Furies crowd close.

In Hank’s wild, bloodshot eyes Tisiphone reads the truth of his crimes, and I do as well through our shared vision. Revulsion turns my stomach, and part of me, the part that’s still a little bit human, shrinks away from the violence. But I have to know that he is guilty of the crimes They say he is. I will not kill an innocent, which is more than I can say for Hank Meacham. Megaera’s sight reveals how much he’s hurt people. It’s more than I can stomach.

“Guilty,” I say, my voice flat.

“Guilty,” the serpent whispers.

“Guilty,” Tisiphone announces in her husky voice, her verdict dissolving into a manic giggle. I release Hank, and he falls back onto the ground. He sobs loudly. His terror is almost palpable. My three-way vision melts into one, and I alone stand over Hank. I can still sense Them with me, but tonight this last part is my responsibility alone. They have had Their fill of fear this week, and are finally satisfied. I feel a sense of relief, despite the work I still have to do.

I look down at him, and he cries harder. “Please,” he moans, his hands covering his face. “Please, just let me go.”

“How many of your victims begged you for mercy?” I ask. My voice is hard, and realization slowly dawns in Hank’s eyes. He scrabbles backward across the parking lot. The sight fills me with a fierce joy, and I smile. “Justice has no room for mercy, Hank Meacham.”

I hold my palm out. Chains hang from my arms, links of metal that surge forward, swirling into my palm. A gleaming silver sword materializes. It shines with an inner light, and the unnatural flash makes Hank sit up. He tries to run away, scampers across the gravel parking lot on his hands and knees, but I plunge the sword through his back. I know the exact moment when it pierces his heart. A shudder passes through me, and my entire being tingles.

It’s better than anything else I’ve ever felt. Joy, love, elation, righteousness, and release all crash through me in a discordant symphony. It’s only a fraction of what They feel, but it’s enough. There wasn’t time to savor it last night, but tonight there is. For a second I let the finality of Hank’s death wash over me, and I revel in a job well done.

I can understand why They crave justice so much. There’s an addictive quality to the feeling of vengeance. It’s more than the pleasure of knowing that a monster like Meacham will never kill again. It’s the satisfaction of a job well done coupled with the adrenaline high of jumping off a cliff. I’m more alive when I hand down justice than at any other time in my life.

I would feel worse about handing down Their justice, but I know my way is more humane than Their method. If They could, They would burn away his soul, leaving nothing for the afterlife. I just stop the hearts of the guilty, ending their lives quickly and quietly. I’m not religious, but I like to think there is some kind of final judgment for the men we kill. The fate of their souls is left to the deity who cares. It’s not Their way, but we have an agreement. A clean death, and They get to choose the criminals and have my full cooperation. It’s better than how things are when They have full rein.

They sigh in relief as They return to Their space in my subconscious. We have completed our justice.

Yet I am the only one still standing in the parking lot.

I slowly withdraw the blade, and Hank falls onto his face. There is no blood or torn clothing, no sign at all of what I have just done. When the newspaper reports his death, if they even bother to report on it, they’ll say he died of a massive heart attack. Natural causes. I release my grip on the sword. It and the chains wrapped around my arms dissolve into nothingness.

I bend down and pull Hank’s wallet from his back pocket before I step over his body and head to his truck. There is $680 in his wallet. Today must have been payday. I stick the money into the hip pocket of my jeans before wiping my prints off the battered leather, just to be sure. I toss the wallet onto the floor of the passenger side. Rent will be due soon.

Besides, it’s not like Hank needs it where he’s going.

The keys are in the ignition of the truck, and the engine is still running. I drive back to my car in a fog of lazy satisfaction and park a little ways down the road from Loose Lucy’s so no one asks me why I have Hank’s truck.

I’m taking a risk, leaving Hank’s truck so far from where he died. But it’s cold and snowy, and I’m feeling lazy after last night’s trek through the snowstorm. The smart thing would’ve been to leave the truck near the ATV repair shop. But chances are that the cops will just think that Hank was robbed after picking up a hitchhiker, the heart attack the result of his panic. The snow is still blowing around. It should hide my footsteps well enough.

I run to my car. The afterglow wears off during the short sprint. I shake uncontrollably by the time I start up my battered Toyota, the euphoria of justice fading into bone-deep fatigue. The drive home blurs into stops, turns, and starts. By the time I crawl into bed, I’m exhausted and ready for sleep.

Even though I’m tired, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time. I will my brain to still, to stop thinking about Hank Meacham and the terror in his eyes. It’s done. There’s no taking it back now.