Vengeance Bound (14 page)

It’s all just too much. I won’t be able to sleep with all of this running through my head. So I focus on something that will calm my nerves.

Alex Medina.

When I was in Brighter Day, I met a boy named Zachary Olmstead. He was there because his parents said he had a sex addiction. Nice guy, even if he was a little high-strung. Besides being a huge fan of naked women, Zach was also kind of a genius. I liked him because he was always willing to help me with my homework. It was because of Zach that I managed to stay ahead even though I missed a ton of school.

Brighter Day was pretty lax, and we had a computer lab, even if there were so many security settings that you were lucky to play solitaire. Late at night Zach would hack through the firewall so he could feed his addiction. I caught him once. I was fuzzy-headed and overmedicated, but I couldn’t sleep. I found him in the lab, and he startled when he saw me.

“Jesus, Amelie. How about a little fucking privacy?” he gasped out, face red as he cleared the screen he’d been looking at.

“Teach me how to do that.”

He ran his fingers through his brown hair. I had a bit of a crush on him, and I loved the way his hair stuck out all over the place. I like to think that he would’ve liked me that way too, if I’d been a little older. “Do what?”

“Break through the security system. I want to know how to go where I want.”

He studied me for a second, and then nodded. “Okay. But it’s not easy.”

In two weeks I was better than him, and logging on to hacking sites to expand my skills.

Now my illegal hobby comes in handy. I couldn’t hack into the CIA or anything like that, but local government websites are easy pickings. Firewalls set up to keep out nosy citizens fall to me, and my laptop becomes a portal to the world of human misery and those who delight in it.

Which is why it makes me so angry that I can’t find Dr. Goodhart. The last hit I got on him was a month ago, when a prominent hospital released a news clipping about opening a new ward for mental disorders. I could’ve sworn that the man in the grainy picture was Dr. Goodhart, but now I’m not so sure. It was enough to bring me back to Pennsylvania, though.

Eventually he’ll turn up. Either They’ll find him, or I will. And when we do, I will ruin his life like he ruined mine.

After a quick Internet search I find a few follow-up articles on Medina that were printed after the one that was stuffed into my locker. Then I check the county records where he was arrested. The police still have an open investigation against him. So why haven’t they charged Medina? Is it because his victims don’t matter? Medina spent his time carving up women who sold their bodies to survive. When he didn’t kill them, he left them scarred for life.

A few more articles, and I have the whole story. Seems the local cops didn’t do such a hot job processing the evidence, which is how Medina got off on a technicality. I’ll do what the police haven’t and make him pay for his crimes.

I find Medina quickly. He now works for a long-haul trucking outfit. His name hasn’t changed, and I pull up his driver’s license to compare the picture to his mug shot. It’s the same guy.

I click through a few more screens and find that the company he works for hauls packaged meat to grocery stores and animals to slaughter. I can’t help but grin at the irony.

I search through the drivers’ logs, handily stored on the website. Skimming through the details, I find that the trucks have embedded tracking devices that update every twenty minutes. No one wants to lose a truckload of filets mignons. I find the location of Medina’s truck, and when I put the lat/long into my browser, I get a real-time picture of a nearby truck stop.

A smile creeps across my face, and I feel almost giddy. It’s our lucky night.

The Speedy Stop Travel Plaza is lit up like a summer day when I pull in and park at the edge of the lot. The place is twice the size of West County High, the paved lot giving way to a dirt parking area for the tractor-trailers that make their lumbering way in from the interstate. Dirty slush over the hard-packed earth creates an icy hazard for truck drivers who come in for the “Cheap Showers” and “$4.99 Steak and Eggs Special.” Carloads of weary travelers stop in every few minutes to fuel up and grab Styrofoam cups of coffee that they sip with grimaces. I watch for a few minutes before getting out of my car and slinking between the trucks, looking for the shamrock logo of Kirkpatrick Trucking.

After making a circuit up and down the rows, I find that of the fifty or so trucks present, there are three Kirkpatrick trucks. I mentally curse myself for not thinking to write down Medina’s plates. I’m about to knock on one of the doors, when someone lets out a low chuckle.

“Well, honey, I gotta say I ain’t never seen someone so fine trolling the lots before.” I turn around, every muscle in my body tensed for action. A hyper-skinny man with jeans and a work jacket stares at me, his eyes lingering rudely on my chest. He’s a weasel of a man, and the gleam in his eyes unsettles me. He spits a long stream of tobacco juice onto the icy slush of the lot, barely missing my hiking boots. “So how much you charging? Going rate for the girls here is seventy-five, but I figure a sweet piece like you is probably worth an even hundred.” He adjusts his pants in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t think I’m selling cookies.

I take a steadying breath and try to give him an indulgent smile. “Actually, I’m already spoken for this evening. I’m looking for Alex. He and I have an . . . arrangement. I’m not sure you can top what he’s offering.” I toss my hair over my shoulder, and the man lets loose with a low whistle.

“So, you’re the reason he always stops in this shit hole. Well, tell you what. It’s your lucky night. I ain’t gonna take up too much of your time, and I’ll still give you your full fee. How’s that sound?”

“Sorry. I make it a rule never to engage in business with men I don’t know.” The excuse sounds lame even to my ears, especially since he thinks I’m a prostitute, but alarm has risen in my chest and slowed my brain. Trucks idle loudly around us, and we’re far enough away that no one will hear me scream or call for help. Not that I would. Still, I’m not here for this scrawny waste of protein. Even if he is something you’d find on the bottom of your shoe, I want to give him a chance to carry on with his pathetic existence.

He takes another step and begins undoing his belt. It’s somewhere around twenty degrees out, but the man has a one-track mind. “Honey, my name’s Chuck, and you can fill in the rest. Now we’re friends. Let’s do this.”

Rage, hot and sharp, surges through me. I snap. I let loose my control on Them, and my vision splits into three.

Before I can think about what I’m doing, our fist whips out and catches Chuck under the chin. His head snaps back, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat. He hasn’t even responded to the blow before we give him a roundhouse kick to the middle. Blood and tobacco juice explode all over my shoe, and a tooth lands on the dirty snow. I look down and distantly realize that the shoe is ruined. I’m horrified, but from a distance I can hear myself laughing.

I’ve completely lost control.

A hot wind whips around me, melting the snow and revealing the gravel lot beneath. We walk forward to finish off the disgusting specimen of humanity, and it’s all I can do to stop Them from killing Chuck just for the fun of it. I have to convince Them that it’s Medina we need to find.

Their urgings to violence tangle around my thoughts. They want me to hurt Chuck. It would be so easy for us to break his neck, to hear the sweetly satisfying grind and crunch of vertebrae giving way.

I try to shake off Their influence and maintain my sanity. “No, we’re here for Medina. He’s the one we want.”

But think of the fun . . .
a girlish giggle before wings beat the air and resettle.

The soft susurrus of scales sliding.
Really, it would take only a second.

Panic swamps me, but I push it back and remain firm. Chains rattle as I cross my arms. “No. We have to find Medina. For all we know he could be leaving soon. Then what will we do? Wait for him to pass back through? We must hand down justice.”

They reluctantly leave the unconscious man and follow me through the rows of trucks. I swallow my relief and focus on our task.

“This way. It has to be one of these.”

We make our way to the other Kirkpatrick Trucking rigs I noticed earlier. At the first a woman sings country music off-key, and we veer away just in time to see the female driver roll down the window and light a cigarette.

That leaves only one other Kirkpatrick Trucking rig. We make our way between the tractor-trailers, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Outside Medina’s truck we press ourselves to the cold metal of the driver’s door, trying the handle first. It’s locked, and I’m just about to break the window when we hear a woman’s sob.

“Please. Dear God, no. I have kids.”

Anger surges through us, and we throw caution to the wind. Tisiphone digs her taloned hands into the door of the cab and rips it off. There’s movement inside as she tosses the door away like a gum wrapper. A short man with dark hair and beady eyes is silhouetted momentarily, a bloody knife in his hand, before he scrambles out the passenger door. I want to check on the woman pleading for help, but They are already pursuing Medina across the parking lot, dragging me along between Them.

Medina runs like a jackrabbit, surprisingly fast for his size. My arms pump as we follow him, dodging in between the slumbering giants. Tisiphone flies ahead of Megaera and me, her wings beating the air heavily. I round a corner and skid to a stop, listening for Medina. Someone pants behind me. As I spin around, he slashes downward, carving through my left shoulder and just barely missing my heart.

Pain blinds me, and I go down with a grunt. They howl in anger, the animalistic sound echoing eerily in the cold night. A scorching wind blows across the lot, and before I can move, They are on Medina.

He doesn’t even have time to scream before They bombard him with punishing blows. If I don’t interfere, They will burn away his soul, leaving nothing for his Maker to judge. I stumble toward the man lying on the ground, and my sword appears just in time to end his life before They do. But pain makes me clumsy. I trip and sprawl across the gravel parking lot, and the sword clatters away before disappearing.

There is a brief moment of silence, and then I hear it. A rushing sound fills my ears, the hot wind of some hell whipping across the lot. I raise my head and watch as Medina claws at his face. Blue flames explode from his eyes and mouth, momentarily illuminating his pain-stretched features before exploding through the pores of his body. For one glorious second he is a fiery blue beacon, and the music of long-dead gods triumphantly fills the night air. But the light quickly fades, and Medina falls to the ground, the thin layer of soot on his skin the only sign of the cause of his death.

They have burned away the man’s sin-stained soul.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. There is no justice for Alex Medina, only oblivion.

I climb to my feet and stumble away, back toward the lights of the gas station. There are no trucks in this part of the lot, only a bare gravel expanse. I’ve made it only a few steps before I fall to my knees and retch, my body spasming until my stomach is completely empty. Once again I’m painfully reminded that They have a very different idea of justice.

Alekto explained it to me once.
Every soul deserves to receive its judgment. My sisters take away any chance for redemption when They burn the soul of the guilty away. Instead there is nothing, only oblivion. It is the absolute worst kind of punishment, and the suffering They inflict makes Them stronger.

Failure weighs heavily on my shoulders, and I raise my head. They stand before me, and it’s a rare chance for me to glimpse Them fully. Usually I have only an impression of Their forms, snatches of wings and scales from the corners of my eyes as We hand down our justice. My weakness has given Them free rein, and I take this opportunity to study Them.

Tisiphone stands to my left, the wings on her back held close to her body. In the dim light I can faintly make out the talons that take the place of human hands. Her wings are breathtaking, the feathers with the same brown mottling as a hawk’s. She stretches them with a grin when she catches me staring at her. Her wingspan is easily ten or twelve feet, and the wings block what little light filters to our corner of the lot from the gas station area. Her face is china-doll fine, the features delicate and perfect, but her eyes are wild, the madness clear even in the dim lighting of the parking lot.

You are injured.
Megaera’s lips don’t move, but her voice echoes in my head. I look down at my shoulder. Blood courses down my arm, soaking my black sweater and dripping off my fingers onto the gravel parking lot. I nod, and the world tilts sideways. It’s only when my face crashes into the icy gravel that I realize I fell over.

Well, at least I missed the puddle of puke.

From the ground I look up at the serpent woman. Her hair is made of snakes, and her entire body is covered in scales. She isn’t pretty like the winged one, and her mouth has a cruel cast that fills me with fear, even more than the fact that I’m dying. She clutches my shoulder, and my scream of pain trails off into a whimper.