Storm Retribution, page 5
part #3 of Storm Series
The kitchen was large, with ceiling-high wood cabinets and butcher block countertops. A granite topped island held a commercial-sized coffee urn, an electric kettle and a tray of white ceramic coffee mugs. Lisa poured for each of them then she and Joe carried their black coffees to an oval table in front of a yellow curtained window that overlooked the back deck. Instead of chairs there were benches, one on each long side.
Storm took her cup and busied herself adding cream and sugar she found in a basket. She kept her back to her parents, her hands were still shaking and when she tried to tear a packet of sugar open it ripped in half, spreading sugar across the otherwise pristine surface. She swept it up with the edge of her hand, found a garbage can at one end of the island and threw it in, rubbing her hands together to get rid of the sticky grains. By the time she joined them she felt calm enough to not spill her coffee. She was even fairly sure she could speak without her voice cracking and giving her away.
She took a seat next to her father, and across from her mother. Her mother. Storm couldn’t help but study her. Her hair was several shades of gray, from a sort of dirty nickel to cotton ball white. Soft strands had come free from the bun and framed and softened her look. Her face was the same shape as Storm’s, a long oval. Her features were also similar, brown eyes, slightly arched brows, a nose that was a little too long, lips a little too thin. It was an average face, Storm thought, enriched with a tracing of laugh lines around the mouth and a smattering of crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes.
“. . . but they aren’t a problem,” Storm heard her mother say as she tuned back into their conversation. “In fact, one of them gave me a ride around the lake this morning, just for fun.”
“Just for fun? You looked white as a ghost when you walked in that door,” said Joe.
“Maybe that was because of you.”
“Bullshit, you hadn’t even seen us yet.”
“Nothing changes, does it, twenty years and you’re still calling bullshit on me.” She smiled then picked up her mug and sipped at her coffee, clearly not intimidated. “I did get a little motion sick on the bike. Getting a little too old for that kind of thing,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug.
Storm realized that though they hadn’t seen each other in a long time there was history there. A familiarity with each other and here she’d been expecting guns at twenty paces.
She picked up her own coffee, took a tentative sip and still burned her lip, looked across the table and noticed that she and her mother held their cups the same way, cradled in two hands. Inside, deep in that well where Storm kept her emotions safely at bay, something stirred. Something rose up, sharp as dragon’s teeth or cat’s claws, a bright and keening pain that brought with it the prospect of tears. She swallowed it down. This was not the time.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Lisa said, looking at Storm, and tears did appear in her eyes. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long.” She knuckled the tears away, then looked down at the table, staring hard at the scarred wood surface. “But I knew I didn’t deserve having you in my life. I figured, if you wanted to see me you’d let me know. If you didn’t, well, that was my price to pay, my sentence, you know?” She looked up and her eyes swept them both.
Joe shook his head. “I get how you feel that way, but you can’t blame yourself for having a breakdown. You were not well, and I put you there. It’s on me, all of it. You need to let it go. Both of you do,” he said looking into Storm’s eyes. “This is a chance for a new beginning, a new future, for the two of you.”
“Maybe,” said Storm, “but first we need to deal with whatever’s going on now.”
“What is going on?” Joe asked. “Who are those men?”
Lisa sat back in her chair, her lips pursed. “Jackie called you? I knew the two of you talked from time to time. Don’t look so surprised. I’m not a moron,” she said, addressing Joe. “You shouldn’t put too much stock in what Jackie says. She’s been a lot of help and I consider her a friend, but she’s also a drunk and not always to be trusted.”
“A drunk?” asked Storm.
“Yes. She’s what they call a binge drinker. She’ll be fine for weeks, even months, then something will set her off. She’ll find a bar, or three, and drink herself blind until closing. Then she goes back every day for a week or more. Eventually, I’ll get a call, sometimes from her, sometimes from a bartender who knows her story. I’ll pick her up, put her to bed or take her to the hospital if the withdrawal is bad. In a few days she’s fine and back to work until it happens again. It always does.”
“You’re saying we can’t believe her?” said Storm.
“I’m saying it depends on what day it is,” agreed Lisa. “She gets paranoid sometimes. I’m guessing this is one of those times.”
“So, these bikers aren’t forcing you to let them stay here?” asked Joe.
Lisa’s eyes went wide. “Why, heck no. How would they do that? Why? That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard all year. I mean, sure, they look a little rough and their language might not be up to some folk’s standards, but they pay and, if you look around, you’ll notice we could use some money around here.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Not the needing money part,” Joe said with the first smile Storm had seen, “but we thought maybe they were taking advantage of you. You’re right, Jackie is worried they’re up to something and that you’d kick them out, but they won’t let you.”
“Won’t let me? In my own place?” Lisa’s outrage seemed real, thought Storm. But there was something just a little off, like a song you know well, played in a different key. “You should know better, Joseph Dean. Did you drag my Willow, I mean Storm, away from her family for such a silly thing? Sorry,” she said to Storm. “Your aunt told me you changed your name and I try to remember but . . .” She spread out her arms in a gesture meant to convey how hopeless the attempt.
Storm had cringed at the use of the name her mother had given her. “Willows are amazing,” she’d told her young daughter, “They bend but never break before a storm.” But Storm hadn’t wanted to bend, she’d wanted to be the storm, so she’d had her name legally changed as soon as she turned eighteen. No one had called her Willow for a long time.
“I guess I did sort of drag her here,” said Joe, in answer to Lisa’s question. “Though she did the driving. But even if it was for no good reason I’m still glad. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Is that something you want?” Lisa asked, leaning forward, her dark eyes locked on Storm’s, anxiety written on every line of her face.
“I . . . I think so.” Storm managed. She’d always wanted that. Had always wanted her mother in her life but now that she had the chance she struggled with admitting it. She’d barely arrived, and it felt like things were going so quickly and this woman, whose more youthful face she saw in flashes of memory, this woman was virtually a stranger.
“I’m so glad,” Lisa said, and she reached across the table and put the tips of her fingers on Storm’s forearm. The touch was like an electrical connection, crackling with suppressed power, and emotion.
Just then the same man that had ridden in with Lisa walked into the kitchen. Storm struggled to remember his name. Leo?
“Time for a refill,” he said, giving them a friendly smile and reaching for the coffee pot.
Storm noticed details she hadn’t seen at first. There was a line drawing of a winged skull on the front of his tee shirt. There was a tattoo, some sort of tribal design around each bicep. He was well groomed, his beard neatly trimmed, his light brown hair almost as militarily short as her father’s. He had regular features, and Storm thought most women would find him attractive. He was average in height and his body looked strong, tight, as if he worked out regularly, or had been blessed with good genetics. So far, the few times Storm had heard him speak he’d sounded friendly and polite. Nothing about him seemed particularly sinister or rang alarm bells, but she knew that meant little. More than once one of her clients had surprised her by pairing an ordinary appearance with extraordinary actions.
Once he’d filled his cup he raised it to them in a mock salute then strode out of the kitchen. As soon as he left the conversation resumed.
“I’d sure like to know what the whole deal is with him and the rest of them.” said Joe. “You say they’re just guests, but they sure rattled Jackie, and from what you’ve said about her she’s no saint. If she hangs out at bars regularly she’s had to have seen some pretty rough characters. Why would these ones worry her so much?”
“I already told you. You and Jackie are inventing problems where there are none.” Lisa stared hard at Joe, as if maintaining direct eye contact would convince him she was telling the truth. At the same time, she unconsciously reached up and brushed the side of her nose and cheek with her fingers.
Storm recognized the gesture as one associated with lying. Body Language 101 had been one of the more interesting classes she’d taken as preparation for her job as a probation officer.
“I’m being a terrible host,” Lisa said, changing the subject. “Have the two of you eaten? We keep scones in the fridge or I could whip up some bacon and eggs?”
“We ate at the motel,” said Joe.
“I’m good,” agreed Storm. “Where’s Jackie?” She wanted to get the other woman aside and talk to her. As much as she wanted to believe her mother, she’d still like to know what the woman had seen or heard to convince her that they were forcing Lisa to host them.
“Haven’t seen her since I got back. Probably dusting something, or out in the garden. It’s a nice day and she never stops moving.”
“A good trait in an employee,” said Joe. “Probably makes up for the other stuff.”
“It does,” agreed Lisa.
Storm found the stilted conversation both fascinating and boring. She hadn’t imagined what she’d be dealing with, but none of her imaginings had included small talk.
“I’d like to see your garden,” she said, thinking if that was where Jackie was, it would be a good place to be.
“Of course,” said Lisa, getting up so eagerly she bumped the table, spilling some of Storm’s barely touched coffee. Storm grabbed a crocheted wash cloth that was hanging near the sink and wiped up the spill. Lisa gathered their cups and the two women awkwardly bumped into each other. Storm turned back to the sink, rinsing and re-rinsing the cloth. This had been a mistake. There was nothing going on here. She should be home, with Tom, Lindsey and Joel. She should be with her family, not with these strangers. Well, she would be soon. She’d see the garden and then she’d get out of here. There was only one nagging problem.
The dog.
The view from Meadowlark’s window included the group of white barked trees where the dogs were chained. Each time Storm thought of the poor, terrified dog, curled in a fetal position in a failed attempt to protect itself, it made her feel sick. She couldn’t leave without that dog.
“The garden’s right off the back deck,” Lisa was saying brightly. “Makes it easier to haul things in for the kitchen. Jackie’s got a bunch of herbs potted back there. She drags them onto the deck when the weather gets cold. Not that it ever gets that cold, of course. But still, we do get the occasional hard freeze.”
Storm followed her parents out of the kitchen and into a huge room that served as both dining and living area. Three unmatched wood tables with a variety of chairs took up the space at the back of the house, near a wall of windows and close to the kitchen. Beyond it, toward the front of the house, the living area held a rock fireplace, gleaming pine walls, overstuffed leather furniture and an old piano. Decorative touches included baskets of sugar pine cones and carved wood bears. It was rustic and inviting. Near the fireplace a built-in bookcase formed a cozy niche. A recliner and reading lamp had been arranged in the space. The bookcase held dozens of selections, and lots of framed photographs hung close together.
Immediately drawn to look at the pictures, Storm crossed the room gazed at them, then froze, her mouth dropping open. Most of the photos were of her. Her as a child on a bike, at the front of a class she didn’t remember, her with a gap-toothed smile receiving some sort of award with a ribbon. Her high school graduation, with Aunt June’s arm around her shoulders. There was even a fairly current picture of her with her family, Tom and both the kids in the yard of their home. The familiar white picket fence and red roses were unmistakable. She even remembered the day. They’d bought a funny, squiggly thing you attached to the end of a hose. It jumped around sending streams of water randomly. The kids had loved it, running to escape the water creature, laughing like maniacs. But who had taken the picture? She turned to Lisa. “Where did you take . . . ? How did you . . .?”
“I’m still your mother,” she said softly. “Even though I wasn’t there I wanted to know how you were. Aunt June helped, she ordered doubles of pictures she’d taken or she’d get copies for me, like your picture from the yearbook. Sometimes, if there was a public event she’d let me know and if I could manage it I’d show up, hide in the audience.”
“But you never told me you were there.” Storm said, not sure how she felt about that. Was she angry? Sad? Happy? She would need to time to think about this.
Lisa shrugged. “You were better off without me. At least, that’s what I thought. I know you’ll never forgive me. I was never the parent that you are. I’ve seen you with your kids. You take my breath away. They’re so amazing. I didn’t know what it would feel like to be a grandparent.” She held up her hand, palm toward Storm as if to forestall what she might say so she could say it first. “Yes, I know, I haven’t actually been a grandparent. I’ve never even met your children, but for some reason I still feel a connection to them, a love for them that was a huge surprise to me. I’d like to meet them someday. They wouldn’t have to know who I am. I’d just like to . . . oh it doesn’t matter.” She rubbed her arms as if they were cold. “Let’s go find Jackie so she can tell you she was mistaken, and you can get out of here and get back home to them.”
CHAPTER SIX
STORM AND HER FATHER followed Lisa out back to find Jackie. The four men Lisa claimed were just guests sat at one of three round teak tables on the back deck, playing cards and drinking beer.
They sat slouched and casual, just a few friends hanging out. Except that each wore, or had draped over the back of their chair, a black leather jacket with the image of a skull. The skull was broken down the middle and set, about two inches lower on the right side than the left. Beneath it the letters LOA were embroidered in dark yellow.
Storm spotted an embroidered patch that read “1%” on one of the sleeves. She didn’t know a lot about motorcycle clubs, but she’d once read that some motorcycle organization had stated that ninety-nine percent of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens, which meant at least one percent were outlaws. To openly wear a such a patch seemed like a truly stupid thing to do, thought Storm. Sort of an advertisement asking the police to pay attention to you. But then most of the criminals she’d met in her career hadn’t exactly been geniuses.
As they neared the table Lisa said, “You’ve met, Leon.”
Leon, not Leo. Storm again recognized the man who’d come in with her mother. He was white, with light brown hair, dark brown eyes, shadowed by thick brows, and a trimmed beard. He had a ready smile and white, even teeth. He wore a tight black tee shirt, torn blue jeans and lace up leather boots.
“This is Martin,” she said, and nodded to the man sitting across from him.
That one shared a similar build, wide shoulders, narrow hips, not terribly tall, though that was hard to judge since he was sitting. His skin was darker than Leon’s, Latino maybe Storm thought. He was a good-looking man, with strong features. His dark hair a little long, a little messy. He wore a gray tee shirt, tight around his biceps, washed out jeans and black square-toed boots.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce your name,” Storm’s mother said to the third man.
“Perro,” he said, rolling his r’s and dropping his chin in a strange little bob. He was darker than Martin but with a narrow face, and a bedraggled beard too thin to hide a weak chin. He was almost skeletally thin. His tee shirt was black, the white tape of a bandage peeking out at the neck and he wore black jeans and boots.
“And this is Bud,” Lisa said, finishing the introductions.
The last was an old white man with a thin moustache and a thick white beard, except around his lips where it was stained yellow. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with the word Sturgis air brushed across the front, tucked into worn jeans. His boots looked like military issue, laced up and cracked with age.
Bud waved a half-full bottle of beer in a gesture of greeting. On the table in front of them sat a shared ashtray half-filled with cigarette butts. The rest of the table was littered with empty cans bottles, cards and cash.
Storm thought that the way they sat, with their sun-burnt faces close together, their voices low, that even without the matching jackets she’d have guessed they belonged to some sort of brotherhood full of secrets and conspiracies.
After a quick assessment of them, Storm took a quick glance at the surroundings. To her right the lawn sloped down to the trees where the dogs were tied. Directly ahead was the rugged hillside topped with the trees and rocks she and her father had hidden behind the night before. To her left a set of wide steps led off the deck to a well-kept garden. Rows of seedlings held promise of a good crop. Pots of well-tended herbs dotted a narrow, packed gravel path that divided the garden into sections. At one of these sections Jackie was kneeling, loosening the soil with gloved hands.
Lisa smiled at the men and gestured toward Storm. “I’d like you all to meet my daughter, Storm and my ex-husband, Joe.”
Storm brought her full attention back to the men. Leon’s smile grew even wider. “Good to meet you.
