Jo Robertson - The Avenger

When the blow glanced off his arm, he recognized the weapon as the tire iron from the trunk well. Fortunately, her aim was off and the second blow struck him high on the shoulder. He fell against the fender, blood dripping from his temple, and lashed out blindly.

He cuffed her hard on the side of the face and followed up with a half-assed blow to the stomach. She flew backward and dropped the iron. Instantly, she clambered away from him, staggered to her feet, and swirled around to flee through the wild weeds in the direction from which he'd just come.

Bitch! She shouldn't have fought him. Although his plan called for a noble sacrifice, he could just as easily butcher her. That was one execution he hadn't tried. Maybe, after all, he'd do to her what he'd done to the whore from the bar. Barefoot and half-naked, she wouldn't get far.

His nerves tightened like piano strings and he took deep, calming breaths as he staunched the blood with a rag from the back seat. He pushed the trunk lid down, leaving it slightly ajar, retrieved the tire iron from the dirt, and started after her.

Sheriff Slater drove the patrol car with lights flashing, but no siren, while the Judge sat silently in the passenger seat, feeling no need to be friendly to the natives. ADA Torres and Myron Higgins rode in the back. Slater had given him the bare facts as he knew them. Warren figured the Sheriff knew precious little, but at least he had a suspect, a warrant, and a man searching the suspect's residence.

Slater finally veered off Interstate 80 to Highway 99 south, and ten minutes later, the radio squawked. "What's up, Deputy Harris?"

A deep mellow voice broke through the static. "Just finished the search, Sheriff. At first, we found nothing, but then I checked the desk in the study. The drawers was all locked."

"But you didn't let that stop you." Slater glanced at the Judge who lifted his brows in expectation.

The deputy's laugh boomed over the phone. "No, sir, wouldn't let a little thing like a lock stop me."

"What'd you find?" Slater asked.

"Looks like some kinda property book tucked away in the bottom drawer."

"A ledger?"

"Yes, a ledger that lists a lot of property the family must own. Let me read some entries."

The ledger listed what Warren guessed were the numerous properties belonging to the suspect's family estate.

"Stop," the Judge ordered when Harris named a property that lay west of Marysville about fifteen miles. "Church property?"

"Yes sir, the land belonged to the Catholic Church," Harris explained, "but shut down when the old priest died and mass attendance dropped off."

"What's important about a church?" Slater wondered aloud.

"In the late eighties," Harris continued, "the Randolph family bought up the property, the church and its adjoining grounds, but it hasn't been used for the past twenty years."

"Why would a family buy church property?" Slater asked after he'd snapped shut the cell phone.

"Run a check on Randolph's family," Warren suggested, "especially the mother. There's some religious fanaticism there. Maybe they wanted a private place of worship. An isolated church makes sense. That might be where he's taken the Gant woman."

Slater barreled off the freeway, made a complete circle back, and headed west on Interstate 80 toward Marysville.

"What most people don't understand," said the good-looking ADA leaning from the back seat, "is that almost all serial crimes are sexual in nature."

"Even though no sexual acts are committed on the victim?" asked Slater.

"The killer may not behave in a sexual manner at the crime site, but he gets aroused and has the greatest sexual release at the moment of his victim's death," Torres answered. "When it's over, he can relive the experience in his memory, or with the trophies he takes from his victim."

"Son of a bitch!" Slater struck his fist on the steering wheel.

"And this killer's changing," the Judge added. "He's becoming more aggressive."

"Rape?" Slater asked.

The Judge shrugged. "And torture. He's going to make her suffer and he'll enjoy every minute of it."

"Why change now?" Slater asked. "What happened that's different?"

"Probably a psychotic break," Torres answered. "Prior to this, he's seen himself as a kind of avenger, a disciple punishing those who've committed transgressions."

"And now?" Slater asked.

"Now he's straddling the line between being the religious center in his own morality play and being the demonic figure," Warren sneered, "and I'll bet he enjoys playing the devil.

"If he gets away with killing Olivia – " Torres began from the back seat.

"He won't get away with it," Slater said. "We'll catch the bastard."

Warren glanced over at the Sheriff. He didn't have Slater's confidence. He didn't figure saving the professor was all that important, but they'd better reach the property in Marysville in time to save Jack.

Olivia ran like the devil. Prickly weeds tugged at her legs and branches dipped low to scratch her arms. Damn it! She'd blown her chance, maybe the only one she'd get. She'd found the tire iron by sheer, dumb luck under the carpeted trunk floor and planned a well-placed blow. Lying in the trunk all those long minutes, she'd fantasized about using it on Howard.

When she'd heard the first raspy footfall through the undergrowth, she positioned herself, knees bent, feet facing outward. She clutched the tire iron tightly in both hands, her arms bent over her head. Waiting, her muscles quivering with strain, she scarcely breathed. She kicked outward as hard as she could, catching him in the gut and when he'd gone down, she swung the iron with all her might.

It had glanced off his body like a fly swatter on an elephant.

She swung again, meaning to aim a killing blow. She didn't care if that made her a murderer. Her survival instinct kicked in and she wanted Howard dead. But the blow hit his shoulder and before she could swing again, he punched her, once in the head and then again in the stomach.

The breath whooshed out of her like a balloon deflating noisily. All she could think of was to run. Run! She galloped off into the brush with no idea of where she was going. She just knew she had to get away from him.

The scrapes on her arms, legs, and face stung. She stopped a moment and bent at the waist, hands on knees as she tried to catch her breath. She heard thrashing behind her. How had he gotten so close so fast?

She took off again, pumping arms and legs as hard as she could. A stitch spasmed in her side and her bare feet felt swollen, sliced, and wet with her blood. She ran harder, adrenaline spurring her on, ignoring the cuts of face and feet, the burning in her lungs.

Just as the woods opened into a clearing at the edge of what looked like a parking lot and an abandoned building, a knotted tree root tripped her. She sprawled gracelessly to the ground, her arms outstretched to brace herself, her elbows taking the brunt from wrist to shoulder. Mud, dirt, and leaves covered her bruised and bleeding body.

As she jumped to her feet, poised for flight, Howard slammed her from behind and threw her to the ground. He was on her in seconds, slapping her face open handedly, grabbing her hair in his fist and pulling until tears ran down her cheeks.

His breath was hot and heavy at her temple, and even though he panted, his voice was oddly detached, even calm. "Don't ever run from me again, Olivia. You'll regret it."

She would've been less afraid had Howard raged at her.

Moments later he dragged her to the building and shoved her down three cement steps. She lost her balance and received another abrasion to her knee as she landed at the bottom. Hauling her to her feet, he pushed her toward a corner of a wide, open basement where an industrial sink took up space.