Vengeance Road (30 page)

A
fter packing, Gannon took a cab to the airport.

At the counter, he asked the airline-ticket clerk to get him on the next flight to Houston.

“I need to be there now.”

“Certainly, sir.” The clerk launched into swift keyboard tapping. “We may have something.”

Gannon's cell phone rang. It was Adell Clark.

“Jack, where are you?”

“At the airport. I thought you were out of town.”

“I just got back. Things are happening. Big things.”

“I know,” Gannon said. “What've you got?”

“They've found another victim. White female.”

“Another one? Where?”

“California. In a remote part of the Sierra Nevada. I've got friends at the San Francisco Field Office. They're moving fast on this one. They checked ViCAP then called Wichita. It's fresh, brazen display, same pattern. A hiker found her.”

“They ID the victim? Is it Jolene?”

“I don't know, but there's more. They moved on Styebeck but lost him.”

“Lost him?”

“He's gone. They'd sent Tactical to his home with a warrant.”

“He's been charged?”

“With accessory in the Hogan and Fulton cases. But when they went to get him, he wasn't home. Wife says he disappeared over a day ago.”

“Where?”

“No one knows. He's going to make the FBI's Most Wanted.”

“He may be headed to Texas.”

“What'd you find?”

“Remember, Styebeck's from Texas. He's got family in Texas.”

“What's the connection?”

“He's got a brother there. The story's in Texas and I'm trying to get there as fast as I can.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the clerk interrupted Gannon. “I can get you on a flight that goes to Chicago with a very tight connection time for a flight to Houston. It's boarding now. No time to check in bags.”

“I heard that, Jack,” Clark said. “Get going and call me if I can help you with anything.”

“Thanks. Yes, I'll take that flight. I've only got carry-on.”

“You've got fifteen minutes.”

The clerk reached for the phone and alerted the crew, then worked full bore to get Gannon his boarding pass. He rushed from the desk, excused his way through the lines and cleared security in minutes.

S
ome thirteen hundred miles away, on a back road south of Oklahoma City, Polly Lang warmed the coffee of her customer who sat alone, hunched over his map in the far booth of Tony's Home-style Diner.

Her steak, fries, Coke and coffee order.

He was unshaven, wore a paint-stained ball cap and the haggard countenance of a man not to be messed with.

But Polly was the diner's youngest, most outgoing waitress. She liked to flirt and always worked extra hard to earn a smile and a large tip—especially from strangers. At seventeen, Polly thought herself worldly.

“Can I get you anything else?” She picked up the man's empty plate. “We've got some fresh homemade pies. They are so good. I'm talking dyin'-and-goin'-to-heaven good.”

Karl Styebeck looked her over.

She was young. Lovely skin, nice white teeth, hair in a loosened working-girl ponytail. And those hoop earrings, those innocent eyes. He considered her potential and released the beginnings of a smile.

“I love pie,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“What kind are you offering?”

“Pecan and peach.”

“How about a slice of pecan to go?”

“Coming right up.”

Styebeck watched her disappear into the kitchen, then shoved his dark desires out of his mind. Disgusted by his own sickness, he sought refuge in the cold fact that whatever he was, he was not like his family.

Not like Deke. Not like Orly.

Every day he'd carried the secret of knowing what he'd come from and what his family had done. Every day he'd lived in the desperate hope that the steps he'd taken to sever himself from his past would keep it from finding him.

He'd worked so hard to build his life with Alice and Taylor.

The right kind of life.

And he'd do anything to protect it.

He turned to the window and his thoughts glided over the Texas plains back to what had happened….

 

After he'd read all of his father's hidden letters, after he'd considered the earring he'd found in the woods, the terrified woman in the chair, he confronted Deke late one night in the barn.

Metal clinked against metal as his father worked on the large generator.

“There's something wrong with our family,” Karl said.

Deke didn't acknowledge him until he set the secret papers on the ground next to him and placed the earring on top.

The clinking stopped. Deke stared at them.

“I read all these papers you had hidden and found the earring in the woods. I know everything. You've got to stop.”

Deke's shadow fell over him as he stood.

In one swift motion Deke seized him by the shirt. With one powerful hand he lifted him off his feet, inserted him in the chair, fastened the straps and harness.

“No, Daddy, please!”

Deke's big rough hand slapped his face.

“Tell me who you told?”

“No one, sir.”

“You stole my papers! Stealing's a sin!”

“I'm sorry.”

“You know what I did to sinners in The Walls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, you don't!” Deke groaned and held his head as if in agony. “You know nothing! Your mother and Orly don't know. Nobody knows. OH JESUS, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND DO THIS? WHY? WHY? WHY?”

Deke stared into the darkness as if something terrifying awaited him.

“You don't know what I had to do because of what we are.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“We are the cursed spawn of Clydell Rudd,” Deke shouted to the ceiling, spittle spraying from his mouth. “I am an inbred bastard! A monster! I lied to myself my whole life saying it's not me. I tried to end it. With every execution I tried to erase his evil but I couldn't wash it away, couldn't undo what's done! His poison runs through our blood!”

Deke grabbed the papers and earring, walked out of Karl's sight toward the electric-control box.

He paused there.

After a moment, he left the building. He returned minutes later. Karl heard the pump, a shotgun blast, and his father's corpse hit the ground at the side of the barn.

The time after Deke's funeral was a blur to Karl.

Although Belva and Orly ached to know what had happened, all Karl revealed was how Deke had flown into a rage, put him in the chair and started shouting about losing his job.

As soon as he was old enough, Karl Styebeck left Texas,
never went back, and never contacted his family again. He disappeared into military service, and after his discharge, whenever he filled out forms and applications, he adjusted a digit in his social security number, or the spelling of his name, knowing that it would hamper any records search. That was all that was needed, and for years he'd succeeded in burying his past.

He thought Deke's suicide had ended it.

But they found him, several months ago, when he got the letter from Texas.

Now, Styebeck lifted his map from the diner table and looked at it.

Addressed to him care of the Ascension Park police. It came with photocopies of Buffalo news clippings on him rescuing children from the fire, and a profile on his outreach group's work to help troubled women who were abused, runaways, addicts and hookers.

The letter was written in his mother's hand.

Styebeck took a breath and considered the truth about Clydell Rudd and his bloodline.

The evil thrived in Orly.

Styebeck had to put it all to rest.

Exhausted, Karl Styebeck removed his cap, ran his hands through his dyed hair, replaced it and stared out at the highway. He could not turn Orly in because Orly had implicated him with those recordings. Styebeck contemplated and calculated the distance between him and what had to be done.

He should have acted on this long ago.

He reviewed the map again. He could be there today.

The waitress returned and put a white box on his table along with the bill.

“I gave you a little extra piece. On the house.” She winked.

Styebeck nodded his appreciation, left a ten and two ones, collected his map, and side-stepped two troopers with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol entering the diner as he exited.

That was close.

He walked to the far edge of the diner's lot, which led to a small picnic area. His car was parked on the other side of the outdoor restrooms under a shade tree, unseen from the diner and the patrol cars.

No other people were around.

Styebeck's car, an older Ford Taurus, was in good shape and ran well. It had clean Ohio plates. He'd gotten the car through a connection to one of his informants, on a kind of unofficial rental basis.

All cash. No questions. Nobody knows.

He tossed his map and papers into the front seat. Then, as was his habit on this trip, he unlocked the trunk to double-check its contents. His bag was there, and under a blanket he inventoried: the Mark 4 assault rifle, the Remington 870 shotgun, the rounds and shells.

All there. Good.

Ready to go, he touched the Glock 22 pistol that he wore in his ankle holster, then checked the Glock's magazines. Four in the trunk. Check. And one in each front pocket of his jeans.

Styebeck froze.

Only one magazine.

He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets but nothing changed.

He'd lost a fifteen-round magazine. Must have happened when he went to the washroom.

Damn.

He shot a glance back to the diner. What should he do? Go back and look for it, or keep going?

There were two Oklahoma troopers in there.

His prints were all over the magazine.

Styebeck looked around.

Go, he told himself. Just go.

He got behind the wheel, started the engine and drove away, expecting at any second to see flashing red lights in his rearview mirror.

A
fter the flight to Chicago landed, Gannon had forty-five minutes to make his connection to Houston.

Hurrying through O'Hare, he checked his phone for messages.

Nothing.

Not one of the editors he'd queried on a freelance story had shown any interest. Maybe he'd try to sell it to a Texas magazine. But he couldn't deal with that now.

He had things to do.

He arrived at his gate half an hour before his plane was to board. He switched on his laptop, charged Internet service to his credit card. He made an online reservation to rent a small car at Bush Intercontinental.

He checked his files and reconfirmed his route to Orion Styebeck's address near Lufkin. If Karl Styebeck was a fugitive, his brother's home in Lufkin had to be the first place police would look.

It had to be.

Gannon studied the Internet map and driving directions. It would take some three hours on 59 north, out of Houston.

Done.

Gannon then checked the secondary address in the older records. It was a rural property on Dead Tree Road; the
farm where Karl and Orion had grown up. But the records showed it was sold long ago. Gannon could go there for color later, get a sense of the place.

“This is a general boarding call for flight…”

As Gannon switched off his computer and prepared to board, his cell phone rang. The call was coming from New York City.

“Gannon.”

“Hi, Jack. It's Melody Lyon.”

“Hello, Melody.”

“Have you got time to talk?”

“I'm about to get on a plane.”

Lyon took about two seconds to assess the situation.

“Is your trip in pursuit of the Styebeck story?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I'm not tipping the WPA, Melody, I'm sure you'll understand.”

“I'll give it to you straight, Jack. I have a full-time opening and you're my choice.”

Gannon's spirits lifted.

“But,” Lyon added, “and I'm going to be blunt—there are complications. Because of your history, people here don't want you considered for the WPA.”

“I understand.”

To buy time, Gannon went to the end of the long line that was boarding.

“I'm alone in supporting you,” she said, “because I believe Nate Fowler somehow screwed you over and that in fact you're onto something solid with this Styebeck story.”

“Thanks, but what does that get me?”

“Let me propose something to you.”

“I've got about two minutes here, Melody.”

“The WPA is hot on this Styebeck story. And, from
what I'm picking up, so are the Associated Press, CNN, the
New York Times,
and the
Chicago Tribune.
We've learned that the number of victims could now be three, in Buffalo, Wichita and California. We've just learned that Detective Karl Styebeck is tied to the case, as you'd first reported, and will soon be announced as one of the FBI's most-wanted fugitives in the country. I think a huge story is going to break at any moment, but don't know where the next development will be.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Jack, I believe you're a few steps ahead of everyone, but they're gaining on you.”

Gannon got his ID and boarding pass ready as the line moved.

“What's your proposal?”

“Tell the WPA everything you know.”

“What?”

“If your information is good, I give you my word you'll get full credit, freelance pay, and it will strengthen my case for your hire.”

“And if my information is wrong? What happens, Melody?”

“We're done and the WPA hires somebody else.”

Gannon was about ten people away from the desk.

He stepped out of earshot and lowered his voice.

“I'm going to Lufkin, Texas, to the address for Orion Styebeck, an independent trucker operating Swift Sword Trucking. He's Karl Styebeck's brother. I believe Orion Styebeck is involved in the cross-country murders, and that Karl is on his way there now.”

Lyon was writing notes.

“Thank you,” she said. “Keep your phone on when you land. Our Houston and Dallas people will work with you.”