Shadow of Vengeance (18 page)

 
“This isn’t a buffet and I don’t have any more toast, well, toasted. I do have some leftover maggots in the refrigerator. I could climb up the ladder and—”

“No.” The pledge shrank against the rock wall.
 

“No, what?” he asked and cupped his ear.

“No thank you.”

Smiling, he withdrew the water bottle. “Because you’re chained to the wall of a cold, damp, dark, rat-infested basement doesn’t mean manners should be forgotten. And because of your politeness, I’ve brought you this.” When the pledge jerked his head away, he said, “No tricks this time. This is nothing but pure water. You have my word. You don’t doubt me, do you?”

Eyes wide and alert, the pledge hardened his jaw and stared at the water bottle. Seconds passed, then he shifted his gaze to him and shook his head. “No. I don’t doubt you.”

“Good. Now open.”

The pledge obeyed, then greedily drank the water.

“Slow down before you regurgitate it back up along with your breakfast. I’d hate to have to force you to clean your mess again.”

Nodding, the pledge took his advice. He slowly drank until he emptied the bottle, then he licked his chapped lips and said, “Thank you.”
 

“You’re welcome. See, now. You’ve stopped shivering. All you needed was a little nourishment. I’ll be sure to bring you something more substantial for dinner. Do you like fish? It’s very good for you.”

The pledge glared at him for a moment, confusion and uncertainty clouding his eyes, then he looked to the ladder.

“Ah, you must be wondering where Junior has gone to. Unfortunately she had a previous engagement, but sends her regards. Don’t worry. She’ll be with us this evening. She’s looking forward to what I have planned, I know I am. I’d tell you all about it, but would rather keep it a surprise. I love surprises, don’t you?”

He actually hated surprises. Hated happenstances. Hated not having control. He hadn’t been able to control the circumstances of the Hell Week his pledge’s father had put him through. Since that week twenty-five years ago, he’d had very few incidences that he hadn’t been able to control. With the exception of fathering Junior, he’d always made sure to think through every decision, consider all worst and best case possibilities. He refused to ever allow another person to influence his life, his decisions, his destiny.

This pledge, this particular Hell Week, would define him and close the gap of what he considered the circle of his life. At the week’s end, no one would doubt his legendary status. Not the Townies, the students at Wexman, or even those rent-a-cops from Chicago. They might never know his real name, or that of Junior’s, but they would know and understand the true meaning of vengeance—without a shadow of doubt.

Wrinkling his nose, no longer able to bear the stench, he took a step back from the reeking pledge.

“Wait, please,” the pledge said and yanked on his chains.

He glanced at the metal clasp secured to the wall, to the taut chain, then back to the pledge. “There is no more food or water at this point. You will have to wait until dinner.”

“No…I…the woman, Junior. I know her.”

“I expected as much.”

“I know you, too.”

“Of course.”

The pledge’s eyes clouded with tears. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you?”

He tilted his head and considered how to answer. If he told the pledge the truth, the whiny puke might give up, refuse to eat, and become a useless pawn in this final match of Hell Week. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Killing the pledge would be easy. After all, he’d killed ten others. With the exception of one, he’d held no regret. With this pledge, regret would not come into play, at least not on his part. The pledge’s father?
 

Looking at the pledge, at the similar traits the puke shared with his despicable father, he lifted a shoulder. “You will eventually leave. In what fashion? That will be up to you.”

“I don’t understand,” the pledge said in a rush and continued to pull on his chains. “If it’s money you’re after, my father is wealthy. He can give you—”

Gripping the stinking, pitiful puke by the throat, he slammed him against the rock wall. “I want two things from your father.” Ignoring the disgusting odor, he leaned closer and tightened his hold. “His son and his…confession.”

Eyes bulging and watering, skinny face purpling, the pledge’s chains knocked against his arms as the boy tried to pry his hands away. Spittle frothed around his cracked lips. He opened his mouth and whispered, “Please.”

Releasing the pledge, he took an immediate step back, then reached for the garden hose. “Understand something. Unlike your father, I am not a sadist. I abhor brutality and under normal circumstances, I’m not prone to violence.” Against his palms the garden hose pulsated, the pressure of the water mirroring the mounting force, the overwhelming need for revenge straining every fiber of his being.

“My dad’s not a sadist,” the pledge shouted as tears streamed down his sunken cheeks.

“I’ve seen your academic records. I doubt you even know the definition of sadism.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder you managed to gain entry to the university. I suppose having a father who had not only graduated from Wexman, but has extremely deep pockets, helped.” Mentioning that he’d played a part in the pledge’s admittance to the university seemed, at this moment…gratuitous. “Hmm, well, enough of that. Time for your morning toiletries.”

The pledge opened his mouth as if to speak. Sure that the boy would defend his cruel father, he aimed the nozzle of the garden hose at the puke’s face and sprayed. With the water pressure on high, he coated the pledge’s head. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, turned his head from side to side. He kept the nozzle aimed at his head until the pledge finally opened his mouth and drew in a ragged breath. Water hit the puke straight in the mouth. He coughed and spat, threw his body against the wall.

Satisfied and certain the righteous puke would say nothing further with regards to his father, he directed the nozzle to the rest of the boy’s body. After he’d sprayed his lower half, and hopefully washed away some of the stench, he turned off the hose.
 

The pledge continued to cough and sputter, but now shivered, his body shuddering with tremors. A shiver ran through him as well. The basement temperature had dropped overnight and he worried it might become too cold for his pledge. Death by hypothermia wouldn’t work in this instance. The boy’s death would have an effect no matter what, but if his death came from the abuses of Hell Week, the effect would be that much sweeter.
 

He pictured the agony, the utter desolation the pledge’s bastard father would experience once he saw his only son dead. His rotting corpse showing the evidence of the horrors the boy would endure. The same horrors
he
had endured twenty-five years ago.
 

No, death by hypothermia wasn’t an option. He moved the space heater a little closer to the pledge. Close enough to offer intermittent moments of warmth, but far enough that the pledge couldn’t do anything foolish with the heater. Not that the boy could move his feet far, but erring on the side of caution had helped him sustain the last nine Hell Weeks.
 

Nostalgia wrapped around his heart. That this pledge served as his tenth Hell Week astonished him. The English proverb, time flies while you’re having fun, came to mind. Like the powerful, fast moving current of the Menominee River, time had swiftly swept past him. He’d spent the five years after his own tortuous Hell Week planning his revenge, then the next nineteen years hoping his plans would erase the memories and give him the power and control he’d needed.
 

According to another English proverb, time heals all wounds. He’d gamble that the person who had fashioned the absurd proverb hadn’t experienced what he had twenty-five years ago. Physically, he’d healed. Psychologically? The shame, the terror…the sheer degradation had never left him.
 

As he stared at the pathetic puke, imagining the father’s revulsion, shock and overwhelming grief once he saw his son’s corpse, he realized there might be some truth to that English proverb after all. This pledge, his death, would heal him. The father’s tears would cleanse him. It might have taken twenty-five years, but he would have righted the many wrongs he’d suffered.
 

Smiling, he coiled the hose, then climbed up the ladder. After he placed it into the utility room and turned off the faucet, he snagged a towel, then he returned to the basement. “I’m afraid our time has come to an end,” he said, drying his hands and moving toward the pledge.
 

While the boy continued to shake violently, he met his gaze. “P-please…I…won’t t-tell.”

“Silly puke,” he chuckled. “I’m not going to kill you. Don’t forget, fish is on the menu for this evening’s dinner.” He took the towel and wiped the pledge’s face. “No, what I meant was that our time has come to an end…for now.”
 

“You’ll be back,” the pledge said, not with fear, but with… expectancy.

He stroked the towel over the pledge’s hair. “You’re worried I’ll leave you to rot in the basement. Strange. I would think you’d rather I leave you alone.”

The pledge’s chin wobbled and tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want to die like this,” he said and jangled his chains.

 
Smiling, he tossed the towel over his shoulder, then walked backward toward the ladder. “I told you I was a man of my word and you believed me, yes? Well, my dear puke, I promise that you won’t die like this.” He swept his hand around the former root cellar with the dramatic flair of a thespian, then turned off the lantern. The basement now bathed in blackness, he stepped onto the ladder and began his ascent. When he reached the top, he said, “No, you won’t die like this. But after tonight, you will wish you had.”
 

As the pledge screamed, he sealed the trapdoor.
 

Chapter 8

Rachel leaned into the leather seat, enjoying the Lexus’s butt warmer, but loving the way Owen clenched his jaw even more. His “crabby face” gave her pleasure, especially with the way he’d treated her last night. Screw him. Who was he to say whether or not she could or should mix business with pleasure? Who was he to judge her or assume Jake wasn’t interested? Again, she wanted nothing to do with Jake. Although not hard on the eyes, and a nice, intelligent guy, he just didn’t do it for her. Why Owen did, she still couldn’t be sure. He’d shattered her confidence when he’d left her under the mistletoe last year, and had knocked her ego down a few pegs last night with his assumptions.
 

Still, she couldn’t help the deep satisfaction warming her more than the Lexus’s seat. She might not have the skills of a field agent, but she could read people. Owen normally kept his emotions hidden behind a smile or joke. This morning, he hadn’t hidden anything. He’d been clearly ticked off. She’d assumed his anger had something to do with her blowing off his advice about Jake. Once Jake had entered the House of Joy, she’d realized she might be wrong. With the way Owen had acted—surly came to mind—toward Jake, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was…jealous.
 

No. That made zero sense. Other than their make out session under the mistletoe, which he’d abruptly blown off, he’d never showed any interest in her outside of CORE.
 

She chanced a glance at him. He sat straight, as if someone had slipped a yardstick down his sweater, clutching the steering wheel, his jaw shoved forward, and his eyes narrowed on the road. Back at Joy’s, he’d narrowed his eyes at Jake, too. At the way the sheriff had draped his arm along the back of her chair.
 

Jake
had
been sitting a little too close. She hadn’t thought much of it, though. He was a nice guy. They’d had a nice conversation last night. Maybe that was the problem with Jake. He was just too damned
nice
.
 

Slipping the pencil from behind her ear, she placed it into her mouth and bit, then reached in her computer bag for her notepad. Rather than worry about Owen and whatever might have him wearing his crabby face, she should be thinking about their upcoming interview with Dean Xavier Preston, and the questions they would ask him.

“
Must
you chew on that thing,” Owen said, breaking the silence. “It’s not only hell on your teeth, but annoying.”

“
I’m
not annoyed by it,” she said. “Besides, what do you know about teeth? Oh, wait. That’s right. You went undercover as a dentist when you were in the Secret Service, so now you’re an authority.”

“Har, har. And I didn’t go undercover as a dentist…I was an oral surgeon.”

“Oral surgeon? Then in that case you must know what you’re talking about.” She gnawed on the pencil, exaggerating her bite. “Did you look over the list of questions I have for the dean?” she asked and flipped open the notebook.

“I did and added a few suggestions.”

Thank God, she thought and slipped the pencil from her mouth. The interviews with Bill Baker and Professor Stronach had given her some confidence, but after they’d brainstormed some ideas this morning, the nervousness she’d felt yesterday had returned, knotting her stomach. They had little to no evidence, only “what if” possibilities. Like what if the kidnapper worked for the university?