Rick Mofina - Vengeance Road

“Karl, is something going on? We’ve had quite a number of strange calls over the last few weeks. And you’ve been so edgy. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Styebeck turned away from his wife and went back to searching the night through the kitchen window.

“No, Alice. It’s all work related. Everything’s fine.”

Jolene Peller surfaced through the haze of semiconsciousness.

A low monotonous rattling sounded in her head as memory and awareness fell upon her in ominous drops.

Where was she? What happened?

Bernice.

She’d had a bad feeling and had gone to help Bernice; had followed her into the night where she’d heard pleading.

Bernice begging in the confusion then a scream.

The man.

Jolene had glimpsed him in the chaos and he saw her; hit her with a blazing light, blinding her, locked onto her, chased her, hunted her.

She ran but could not outrun the darkness.

It was a nightmare. She’d had a nightmare. Okay, then wake up.

Wake up!

SHE WAS AWAKE!

Jolene’s heart thumped as her memory gave way to an onslaught of crushing fear.

What was happening?

Bernice? What happened to Bernice?

What’s going to happen to me?

The blood rushing in her ears roared with the droning.

What was that noise?

Why was this happening?

Why her?

The air smelled of old wood, cardboard and something foul. Oh God. Oh God. She trembled, her stomach roiled. She kept her eyes shut tight, fought to stem her mounting hysteria and clear her mind.

Think.

You’re alive.

You’ve got to get out of this.

She was lying on something padded. A disgusting-smelling mattress. Her tongue burned with an awful aftertaste and her jaw ached. Something between her upper and lower teeth was splitting her mouth open. It felt like a leather belt strapped so tight to her head her eyes hurt.

She raised her hand to try to relieve the pressure, but her hands were welded together by something cutting into her wrists. Some sort of binding.

Breathe.

The stench of the air was choking.

Jolene clawed at the buckle at the back of her head in vain. Her nose was clear. If she stayed calm she could breathe.

Did she dare open her eyes?

She had to.

Okay. All right. Easy. Breathe.

She opened them wide to absolute blackness.

She raised her hands to her face and saw nothing. It was as if she’d been disembodied.

As if she were dead.

She was terrified of the dark.

Terrified of being buried alive.

Overcome with vertigo, she was consumed by a sickening sense of whirling and falling. A muffled whimper escaped from deep in her throat and echoed in the silence.

Breathe, she told herself. Stay calm.

You’re alive.

If you’re alive, you can fight to survive. Be strong. Don’t cry. Fight. The earth shifted.

Jolene was jolted across the mattress. Humming, hissing and, now, mechanical grinding grew louder. What was happening? The world started moving.

Jolene’s dark prison was now mobile and gathering speed.

The next morning, victory called out to Gannon from his front-page story.

On every street corner with a Buffalo Sentinel newspaper box, his exclusive took up six columns on page one, above the fold, under the headline:

Hero Cop Suspected in College Student’s Murder

This was a clean kill against the competition, the Buffalo News. Those guys had squat. Looking at the bank of news boxes while waiting for a downtown traffic light to change, he savored the rush of pride.

Don’t get cocky. Glory was fleeting in this business, where you’re only as good as your next story.

But a cop? Man, he’d hit this one out of the ballpark.

His story was the line item in the Sentinel’s morning edition. It went to homes, stores and news boxes across Buffalo, across Erie, Niagara and eight other counties; everywhere the Sentinel battled the News for shrinking readership. It also anchored the Sentinel’s Web site, where most people went for their news these days.

He had scored. No doubt about it. Buffalo radio and TV morning news led with the story, wire services picked it up.

It was the win he needed.

The light changed and Gannon continued through traffic, turning into the Sentinel ‘s parking lot, concentrating on the reason he’d come in early today: to work on a follow-up. Beating the competition always meant they’d come back at you big-time.

He was not going to lose this one.

He grabbed a paper from the security desk in the lobby before stepping into the elevator. Ascending alone, he studied the front-page photo of Styebeck’s handsome hero face next to one of Bernice.

What a heartbreaker.

During his years on the crime desk, he’d encountered tragedies every day: the deaths of children, school shootings, gang murders, fires, wrecks, calamities, manifestations of evil in every form. He went at things wearing emotional armor.

But something about Bernice Hogan’s tragedy got to him.

Looking at her face, he vowed to see that, in death, she received the respect that had eluded her in life.

The elevator stopped and he went to the newsroom kitchen for coffee.

The best follow-up to this morning’s exclusive would be a feature on Styebeck. He’d go into Styebeck’s life, his upbringing and how he came to be a hero cop and suspected killer. Maybe he’d call some criminal profilers, talk about cases of murderers leading double lives.

He’d need a few days but it might work.

“You’re in early.” Jeff kept his eyes on his computer screen where he was playing solitaire.

“Anything going on out there?”

“It’s deadsville, Jack. Nice hit on the cop. You blew away the Buffalo Snooze.” Jeff nodded to the managing editor’s glass-walled office across the newsroom. “Nate’s been trying to reach you.”

“About what?”

“Don’t know. Can’t be good. I’d give it a minute.”

Gannon didn’t like the scene he saw playing out in the office. Nate Fowler kept jabbing his finger at Ward Wallace who kept throwing up his hands. Their voices were raised but Gannon couldn’t make out what they were saying. As night editor, Wallace never came in at this hour unless there was a problem.

A serious problem.

“What’s going on in there?” Gannon set his coffee down. “What’s Wallace doing here?”

“Beats me. Oh, and there’s a lady here to see you. I told her you usually get in later, but she’s been waiting in reception for about an hour.”

“She say what she wants?”

“No. I’ll get her.”

Gannon did a quick check of e-mails and sipped some coffee before he saw Jeff direct a woman in her fifties toward his desk.

She wore no makeup, had reddened eyes and unkempt hair. Her sweater and slacks had frayed edges. She held a slim file folder, her fingernails were bitten.

“You’re Jack Gannon, the reporter?”

“That’s me. And you are?”

“Mary Peller, and I really need your help, Mr. Gannon.”

“It’s Jack.” Gannon cleared a stack of justice reports from an extra chair for her. “How can I help you?”

“My daughter, Jolene, is missing.”

“Missing? How old is she?” Gannon fished a notebook from a pile, flipped to a fresh page.

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six? What’s the story?”