Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery) (23 page)

Sam found ways to fight her fear and keep busy the rest of the afternoon as she waited for nightfall and the workday to end. The Canal Island detectives working April’s disappearance had already called twice. She told them everything she knew about the morning she last saw April and Esther as they walked toward the bus. Sam didn’t want to admit she had little faith the Amber Alert would do any good in locating her daughter. April, she knew, was already where the kidnappers wanted her to be. Sam tried desperately not to focus on thoughts of April and Wilson being held somewhere against their will, cold, cramped and hungry. It was, however, almost as impossible to do as telling herself not to breathe. Miserable images of bare twin bed frames positioned against filthy walls in a room somewhere in this city kept filling her thoughts.

David left a few minutes before five for the city council meeting. He stopped at Sam’s desk just before he left the office. He made her promise again that she would call him tonight. Sam held up her right hand and made the promise, fully intending to keep it.

She had the address from Sergeant King and figured even though she had never been to the meth house on Chester Street she could find it. Once she found it, however, she wasn’t exactly sure what she had planned to do. But when it came to her daughter, she planned to do whatever she had to do. Second thoughts weren’t an option.

Sam waited to give David enough time to get in his car and drive from the parking lot. She collected her things and headed up stairs to say good-bye to Anne. Sam realized when she placed her hand over the handle of her briefcase it was cold and clammy. For the first time she began to question what she was about to do and almost considered taking David’s
advice and waiting until morning to tell Nick.

But what would she do all night? How could sh
e make it through the darkness waiting for some kind of message? How could she live with herself knowing that her daughter and Wilson were unaccounted for? She couldn’t. She would go home change her clothes, get the other items and head to Chester Street. When Sam reached the top of the stairs, Anne was just gathering her things to leave. She saw the somber look on Sam’s face, the way her shoulders turned inward and her face sagged with fatigue. It made her stop what she was doing. “Sam, you want to come over tonight?” Anne asked. “You could have dinner with us. I’m going to put a meatloaf in the oven when I get home. You’re welcome to come over. That might help take your mind off things for a little while.”

Sam had reached Anne’s desk and gave the impression that she was at least considering the idea. Then she shook her head. “Thanks, Anne, but I’m just going home. I need to be there just in case there’s a phone call or something. I can hardly stand to live with myself now. I don’t know what I’d do if I missed that phone call, too.”

“Well, if you change your mind, Sam, there’ll be plenty of leftovers.”

The women walked out of the building into a cheerless gray drizzle. The
ir breath rose in wisps, drifted off and disappeared above them. Anne pulled her coat across her chest and tucked her hands deep in her pockets.

“They said to expect snow by tomorrow,” Anne said. “Sure will be glad when spring gets here, this snow and cold weather is for the birds. I’m tired of shoveling walks and clearing
snow
off the car window.”

Sam nodded and the women walked the rest of the way to their cars in silence. Sam thanked Anne again for her offer.
She waited in the Accord until Anne drove from the parking lot and then started the car. She waited a time for the engine to warm up, looking at the radio dial, mesmerized by it and remembering the sound of Wilson’s voice.

Sam, it’s Wilson. They, uh, they tell me you’re all right. That’s really all I wanted to know, as soon as you were safe and doing okay then, I could live with that.

The car heater began to blow warmer air and Sam put the Accord in gear and drove from the parking lot. Wilson’s voice remained with her.

I’m okay too, but not for long.

She turned off Wadsworth Boulevard and headed west on Sixth Avenue, unaware that at the convenience store on the corner, just before the on ramp to the roadway, the shiny black sedan had been parked, waiting for her to leave. The engine roared to life and the car pulled slowly onto the roadway, merging with the rest of rush-hour traffic. From this distance, they could see the taillights of the Honda Accord and Sam at the wheel.

She pulled into the parking lot at her apartment,
quickly took the stairs and entered her apartment completely out of breath. Morrison greeted her at the door and she picked him up, nestled her face in his belly and carried him into the kitchen. She set him down and opened a can of cat food. Before she could place the food inside the cat dish, something attracted her attention. She set the can on the counter and looked inside. It was a yellow sticky note...

check the cassette player in your home stereo system

Sam turned and cast a sideways glance toward her stereo in the living room, refraining from giving it her full attention. She walked slowly toward the unit and looked at the ‘play’ button for a long while before she placed her index finger over the button. She took a deep breath and pressed play. She heard Juan talking to Wilson about his watch. Then she heard what sounded like a struggle, followed by Wilson shouting obscenities. When Sam heard Wilson’s deep-throated scream, she dropped to her knees and buried her face deep in her hands. She began to cry uncontrollably, heaving sobs so great, her shoulders shook. “No! No! dear God! This can’t be happening!”

A sharp knock came at her apartment door and
Sam immediately stopped crying. “Who’s there?” she croaked. She waited and fear continued to build in her chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. “Who’s ... there?” she said again. She waited, uncertain what she should do, stay nearly frozen where she was, or work up the nerve to go to the door and confront whatever awaited her. She eyed the stereo again and slowly got to her feet and forced herself to go to her door. She put her hand on the knob and turned. She opened the door slightly, allowing it to go only as far as the gold security chain would allow. She looked through the crack and noticed a small box wrapped in brown mailing paper on her welcome mat. The black handwriting easy to see against the brown paper...

for your eyes only

Sam quickly unlocked the door, grabbed the box and slammed her apartment door shut. She held the box tightly with both hands, her heart thundering so hard in her chest, she was afraid it might burst.
Should I call David?
Her thought was only fleeting before she dismissed it. She walked to the kitchen counter and set the box down. Slowly she began to open it. The brown paper gave way to a white box. Her mouth went dry as she began to open it, unable to stop herself from thinking of the mannequin hands she found with David the other night. The thought made her hands pause in mid air.
No, not again, please, please no.

Sam took a deep breath and pulled the box top off. Another yello
w sticky sat on top of something wrapped in more brown paper...

why bother with a mannequin hand when you can have the real thing?

Sam buried her hands in her face and began to sob, trying to speak through her tears. “Wilson, I am so sorry! This is all my fault! How can you ever forgive me!?”

She willed herself to o
pen the package. One quick look confirmed her worst fears. Wilson’s left, lifeless hand was positioned over crumbled brown paper. Sam covered her mouth with her hands and screamed. She backed away from the counter, ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. She stood against it for several minutes, trying to regain her composure. “No,” she finally said in a voice filled with fury and rage. She stopped crying and stood straight up. “No. They
will not
do this to me! They
will not
win!
No, no, no!
April, honey, Mommie is coming. Wilson, I will be there soon! Please, please try to hang on!”

Sam
pushed herself away from the door, opened it and ran back into the kitchen. She grabbed the box tenderly and placed it in the freezer, because she simply was at a loss on what she should do with Wilson’s hand. “Forgive me, Wilson, please,” she said and dashed back into her bedroom.

Sam
changed from her dress slacks and sweater into a black turtleneck and black jeans. She pulled on a pair of black socks and hiking boots. She looked at herself in the mirror as she pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail.

From the drawer by her nightstand, she pulled out a flashlight. She pointed it into her walk-in closet and a spray of light lit up the darkened space. The handle of the flashlight was covered with small rubber bumps designed so that it wouldn’t slip from the holder’s hand. It also had a skinny black strap that she could pull over her wrist.

She reached into the nightstand and pulled out something else. She didn’t know why she kept it, more for show than anything else. It was one of Jonathan’s service revolvers. The make and model, she hadn’t a clue. He had wanted her to have it. She turned over once, twice in her hand recalling the day her now deceased ex-husband gave it to her.

“For what?” she had asked him when he put it in the palm of her hand.

“What do you mean for what?” Jonathan asked and rolled his eyes. “To use it just in case you have to.”

Sam scoffed at his remark. “Jonathan, if anyone ever came in my house and there was a fight to use this gun, the burglar would end up using it on me.” She had handed the weapon back to him, but he had insisted she keep it. She complied, albeit reluctantly, and had stashed it in the drawer of her nightstand.

Sam turned the weapon over again in her hand, slipped it back in the drawer and closed it. A lot of good it would do her to carry the gun. She couldn’t remember where the bullets were anyway and she wasn’t going to take the time to look for them. Instead she reached down by the corner of her bed and retrieved an axe handle that Howard had made for her. The stick was about two feet long, thick and sturdy. He had put a smooth finish on it and drilled a hole near the top of the stick just wide enough to draw a rope through. Sam stuck the rope around her hand and gripped the handle. It was smooth to the touch. She tapped it firmly several times into the palm of her left hand. It stung and left a red mark in the center. Satisfied, she turned and left the bedroom.

She grabbed a dark wool jacket and a hat from the hall closet. She pulled the hat down over her head, covering her blond hair. She grabbed her purse and car keys, pulled the door open and left with Morrison sitting silently, watching her every move.

Sam walked slowly to the car. The night was cold against her face. She was glad she had grabbed a hat. The rain had stopped. Clouds, reflecting the city lights, parted some to reveal a thin line of light from a waxing moon. Other clouds, thick with moisture, drifted by the slip of the moon in bunches. The air in the apartment complex smelled thickly of burning wood. She saw no one, as if the cold and dark of this late winter night had driven everyone inside.

Sam opened the car door and looked in the back seat before she slid inside and locked it. As she waited for the interior to warm, she studied a map of Grandview, a sprawling suburb on Denver’s West Side, on her cell phone.
The city had been aptly named. It was positioned east toward Denver and the rising eastern plains by day and by night a sweeping view of a city filled with city lights that stretched toward those darkened plains. Chester Street looked to be about a twenty-minute drive north of her apartment. She knew the area only slightly, namely that a number of drug raids and arrests for meth and other hard drugs had once been conducted in the area because drug dealers liked its somewhat rural location.

Her big story, however, had put a stop to everything. Justice had been done. Or had it? It was the reason Wilson had been kidnapped
and no longer had a left hand. And April, too. Sam gripped the steering wheel hard. Breathing heavily with fear and anger, she put the Accord in gear and pulled slowly from the apartment complex. During the drive, she glanced frequently in her mirror, thinking of the shiny black sedan, hoping she wasn’t being followed.

Twenty minutes later she reached Chester Street. Sam knew from the address that the house was located on the left side and near the end of the street. She started driving slowly down the street filled with nondescript houses. Lights were on in some of the homes, making them look safe and inviting. Others were dark.

Sam checked the addresses as she moved along the street. The next one would be the meth house. She slowed the car to a crawl as she rolled by the single-story, vinyl-sided house. The inside was dark as she expected it to be. After the bust, Sam had heard talk from some of the police officers that the residents on the street wanted the house burned to the ground.

From this distance, she could not tell if the house was light brown or cream colored. Long branches from a tall cottonwood tree in the middle of the yard covered most of the large front window that looked out to the street. Remnants from the last snowfall remained at the foot of the tree. Yellow tape police used to warn people to stay out of a restricted area was still wrapped around a portion of the tree. A piece of the tape flapped in the evening breeze, the only evidence remaining to suggest that something requiring police action had happened here.