Vengeance Is Mine Read online

  Bishop Donahue gave Sister Cecelia an approving nod. She’d done exactly the right thing. While they all were in the chapel he could study his board. The loss of his White Rook was significant. Now Black held the upper hand. Somehow Bishop Donahue had to turn things around to his advantage.

  “Look, Brian, I don’t have to go. Everyone’ll understand if I beg off tonight.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Greg. I’m counting on you to take my place. I’m fine, now . . . really.”

  “Well, all right. I should be home by midnight at the latest. You know how my parents are. They’ll want to go out for breakfast before they drive back to the farm. Do you want to meet us at Perkins?”

  “I don’t think I’d better. Steve said to stay out of public places for a couple of days.”

  Greg gave him a long, hard look. “I can make some excuse to my parents. They’ll understand.”

  “No, don’t be silly. You haven’t seen them in more than a month. And wear my moon boots. It’s supposed to get down to zero tonight. If your feet are warm, the rest of you won’t get cold.”

  “You sound just like my mother.”

  Greg laughed as he pulled on Brian’s silver and black moon boots. They were clunky-looking things, but Brian was right. His feet started sweating almost immediately.

  “I love you, Brian. Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”

  “Now you sound like my mother.”

  Brian put on the chain when Greg left. He wiped a space clear on the frosty window and watched as Greg pulled his Rabbit out of the garage. He struggled not to call Greg back. He didn’t want to be alone tonight. Norm Ostrander’s death had shaken him much more than he’d let on.

  There was coffee left over from dinner, and Brian poured a cup and put it in the microwave. Sixty seconds ought to do it. He still had trouble believing he’d killed a man, but Norm Ostrander was dead.

  Brian pressed the START button on the microwave and watched the time tick off on the digital display. Fifty-nine, Norm was dead. Fifty-eight, dead and gone. Fifty-seven, bit the big one. Fifty-six, crossed over. Fifty-five, passed away. Fifty-four, deceased. Fifty-three, expired. Fifty-two, departed. Fifty-one, croaked. Fifty—He had to stop this. Maybe some booze would help.

  Greg kept a bottle in the cupboard by the water glasses. He liked Benedictine in his coffee. Brian wasn’t all that fond of it, but he poured a shot in his coffee anyway. Greg had been in the seminary for a while, until he discovered that religious life wasn’t for him. Drinking booze out of a bottle shaped like a monk probably tickled Greg’s sense of humor.

  Brian carried his coffee up the steps to the attic. Perhaps work would get his mind off Norm Ostrander. Painting was supposed to be good therapy. They used it in mental hospitals. Brian frowned as he thought of all the paint-by-number bowls of fruit that came out of Willmar State Hospital. At least he wasn’t that unhinged.

  “Pull over, Gross. I gotta take a leak.”

  Junior Ostrander had the door open before Alan Gross pulled his ’68 Buick Skylark over to the side of the street and slid to a stop. Junior came close to falling as he staggered over to the fence by Bernick’s old bottling plant.

  “Go out there and make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.” Alan nudged Lyle Skuza. “I promised my dad I’d keep an eye on him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Alan watched as Skuza waded through the snow to the fence. Poor Junior. Their attempt to cheer him up wasn’t working. Usually Junior was the one with all the wisecracks, but he hadn’t said much of anything tonight except to cuss out the queer who’d killed his father.

  They were coming now. Alan was glad he’d sent Skuza out there. Junior was having trouble staying on his feet. This night was a real bummer.

  “Hey, Junior. You want to drive out to the skatin’ rink and see who’s there?”

  “Naw. Not hungry. Open the beer hatch, Skuza. I’m ready for another one.”

  Skuza crawled into the backseat and pulled open the flap Alan had cut into the trunk. It was the slickest idea they’d ever thought of. You could reach right into the trunk to get a cold beer without getting out of the car. If the cops happened to pull them over, they just threw the bottles in the trunk and closed the hatch.

  “Here you go, Junior.” Skuza handed him the beer. “Well, what do you want to do? We’re wasting gas just sitting here.”

  “Drive past that queer’s house. I’d like to beat that little freak to a pulp.”

  “Hey, Junior, that’s not going to do any good. You really want me to drive past?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, but I’m not letting you out of the car. Is that understood?”

  “You’re an old lady, Gross.”

  Alan shrugged as he put the car in gear. He had fifty pounds on Junior, and Skuza was on the wrestling team. Between the two of them they’d keep Junior in the car. He could understand why Junior wanted to beat up Brian Nordstrom. Alan knew he would have felt the same way.

  They didn’t say much as Alan negotiated the icy streets. The college girls weren’t out tonight, and there wasn’t much to look at as they passed the dorms. Alan turned the corner and parked in front of the Newman Center. The lights were on in Brian Nordstrom’s house across the street, and someone pulled back the curtains and looked out.

  “That’s him.” Junior’s voice was hoarse. “I recognize him from that picture in the paper. I’d sure like to smash him just once for my dad.”

  Alan nodded. He could get behind that. If he thought they could get away with it, he’d back Junior up. Mr. Ostrander had been really nice about taking them to all-star wrestling last year. He owed one to Junior’s dad.

  Skuza nudged Alan and pointed at the nun and priest who were standing outside the Newman Center.

  “Hey, we’d better move on. They’re staring at us.”

  Alan stepped on the gas and drove slowly up the street to the turnaround. He sure didn’t want anyone calling the cops. His dad had given him the Buick for his seventeenth birthday, and he’d take it away at the first hint of trouble.

  “Pretend you’re looking at a map or something, Skuza. There’s one in the pocket on the door.”

  Skuza turned on the map light and unfolded a map of Wisconsin as they parked in front of Brian Nordstrom’s house.

  “Oh, shit! That priest is headed this way. Let’s go, Gross!”

  “That wasn’t a priest.” Junior looked out the back window as they pulled away. “That was a bishop. There must be something big going on at Newman tonight.”

  The more Alan drove around, the more he began to think that Junior was right. The law wasn’t going to do a damn thing to Brian Nordstrom. His dad said the charges would probably be dropped. The only witness left was Herb Swanson, and it was his word against Brian Nordstrom’s. Herb had lied through his teeth so often that nobody’d believe him this time. Alan didn’t know if Herb was telling the truth or not, but it didn’t seem right that the guy who killed Junior’s dad should get off scot-free.

  It took Alan quite a while to make a decision. He knew he was risking a lot, but Junior was a good friend. When McDonald’s came up on the left, Alan pulled into the drive-through and ordered six Big Macs, three large fries, and two coffees apiece.

  “Hey, Gross, what are you doing? I said I’m not hungry.”

  “Shut up, Junior. I know what I’m doing.”

  Alan paid for the food and pulled into a parking space by the kiddie playground. Ronald McDonald looked stupid with snow on his red bushy hair and an icicle hanging from his big plastic nose.

  “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” Alan passed the white bags of food around. “Chow down, both of you. We’ve got to get totally sober. Just as soon as we’re through, we’ll go back and punch that queer out for Junior’s dad.”

  “All right!” Skuza wolfed down half of his hamburger in one gulp.

  “We’ll each hit him once, and then we’re leaving. Is that understood?”

  “Thanks, G
ross.” Junior smiled for the first time that evening. “You guys are real friends.”

  At eight-thirty Brian gave up and cleaned his brushes. He was too upset to do any serious work. Maybe there was something good on television.

  The original dining room was now the den, complete with built-in cabinets for the television and stereo. Brian turned on the set and went through the channels, but there wasn’t anything that he wanted to watch. Tomorrow he’d call and subscribe to cable. The only things he liked on commercial television this season were Murder, She Wrote and Crazy Like a Fox.

  Brian gave up on television and switched on the stereo. The dial was set at KSJR, the local classical station. “Welcome to our special presentation of Symphony Number Six in B minor, opus fifty-four by Dmitri Shostakovich.”

  There was the sound of applause, and Brian settled back in his leather sling chair to listen. He wasn’t familiar with this symphony, but his records were still sealed in cartons. There was no way he’d unpack them tonight.

  It didn’t take long for Brian to realize that he wasn’t in the mood for Shostakovich. The Symphony No. 6 started with a movement that could only be described as brooding. He’d been hoping for a nice light string quartet or maybe a little Tchaikovsky. Music was supposed to soothe you when you felt rotten. Brian turned off the stereo and looked out the front window. There were lights on at the Newman Center. Perhaps there was a special mass for Norm Ostrander.

  “Oh, stop it.”

  Brian spoke aloud. He simply had to snap out of this. He hadn’t started that fight in the first place, and there was no way anyone could blame him for Ostrander’s death. He’d been perfectly justified in defending himself. Even Steve said so.

  A nun and a priest were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Newman Center. Brian watched them walk up and down, trying to keep warm. They must be waiting for a ride. Brian felt sorry for them. It was cold out there tonight.

  As the priest passed under the streetlight Brian noticed the purple skullcap he was wearing. He’d have to remember to ask Greg about it. Red was for cardinals. He was sure of that. But what did purple mean?

  Brian closed the drapes and wandered into the kitchen. It was only a quarter to nine. The hockey game should be in full swing by now. It couldn’t hurt to get out the Volvo and drive past the park for a quick peek.

  It only took a second to grab his parka and take his car keys off the nail by the back door. Brian made a five-minute search for his moon boots before he remembered that he’d lent them to Greg. He’d just have to make do with his tennis shoes.

  The back porch light wasn’t working. Brian flicked the switch a couple of times, but nothing happened. Either the bulb was burned out or there was something wrong with the wiring. At least once a day he discovered another thing to fix. It was just as Greg said: You bought other people’s problems when you moved into an old house.

  He saw it just as he opened the back door. The chicken leg was right here by the light switch. Wait until he showed Judith. Now she’d have to admit he was right.

  Brian locked the back door behind him and headed for the garage. The prospect of making Judith admit she was wrong had done wonders for his morale. The back sidewalk was slippery, and Brian stepped over the worst patches of ice. Wearing tennis shoes was hazardous in the winter, but most of his students came to class in them. Maybe it was macho or something.

  It felt good to have somewhere to go. Brian opened the garage door and hurried to his car. The owner’s manual recommended a full five-minute warm-up in cold weather, but Brian was too impatient to wait that long. He counted to thirty and backed out into the driveway. The Volvo could finish warming up while he closed the garage door.

  Brian didn’t see the nun until he’d shut and locked the garage. She was standing by the car, waiting for him. She looked exactly like the nun who’d been standing in front of the Newman Center. Perhaps she wanted a ride.

  “Good evening, Sister. Did you need a lift?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Her eyes moved to the left, and Brian turned to see the priest in the purple cap. Then something heavy crashed down at him.

  Brian ducked to the side. His reflexes were excellent, but his tennis shoes slipped on the icy driveway. Brian fell awkwardly. He had just enough time to wish for his moon boots before a heavy blow erased the last thought from his mind.

  Sister Kate was dreaming about elevators again, the same dream she’d had for the past three nights. She could hear the motor humming as it rose toward the floor above her. Now the door was opening and the Holy Mother got out. There was a brilliant golden halo around her head.

  She heard the footsteps of the faithful as they came to worship at the Holy Mother’s feet. Sister Kate knew she should go to worship, too, but she had lost the key to the elevator. She was stuck down here alone.

  Sister Kate sat up in bed and switched on the light. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She had to find the elevator key right away.

  “Good heavens!”

  It took a moment to shake the dream, and then Sister Kate laughed at herself. Guilt had a startling effect on the mind. She had planned to look for the elevator key, and she’d forgotten again.

  There was a pad and pen on the nightstand. Sister Kate wrote herself a note in big block letters. “FIND KEY!” Then she switched off the light and settled back down. It was only nine-twenty, but she was terribly sleepy. She’d taken her antihistamine right after dinner and she’d fallen asleep during the first five minutes of ABC’s Monday Night Movie. Everyone had been excited about seeing The Ten Commandments on television. Sister Kate kept her views to herself, but she hadn’t liked the movie when it came out in the fifties. Now that she thought about it, she’d fallen asleep then too. Thank goodness Cissy had offered to tuck everyone in bed for the night after the movie was over at midnight.

  The television was still going in the dayroom. Sister Kate recognized Charlton Heston’s voice as she drifted back to sleep. Perhaps this time she’d dream about Moses parting the Red Sea, especially if Father Murphy took a shower when the movie was over.

  Brian’s house was completely dark. Alan pulled up in front and let the Buick idle for a minute. The nun and the bishop were gone, and there was no one to see them.

  “Do you think he’s gone to bed already?” Junior sounded disappointed, and Skuza patted his arm.

  “Naw, it’s only nine-thirty. Drive around the back, Gross. Maybe we can see something from there.”

  Alan turned the corner and pulled in the alley. He parked next to the row of tall pine trees that lined the back of Brian’s lot.

  Junior opened the car door. “Okay, let’s go. If anyone asks, we can say we’re looking for a lost dog or something.”

  All three boys got out of the car. They walked down the alley and peered through the pine branches at Brian’s garage. The Volvo was parked in the driveway, and the door was open on the driver’s side.

  “He’s just getting out of the car.”

  Junior was so excited he almost forgot to whisper.

  “I’ll sneak up on him. You two wait here and get ready to back me up.”

  Alan and Skuza nodded. Junior deserved to throw the first punch. They watched him approach the car cautiously and freeze as he reached the door.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Junior whirled and ran back toward them. His face was as white as the snow in the driveway.

  “Junior, what happened?”

  Junior’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He turned away and swallowed hard.

  “I never hit him! You guys saw me, didn’t you? I swear I never even touched him!”

  “Sure, you were just standing there. What’s wrong?”

  “His head’s all—oh, Jesus, let’s get the hell out of here. He’s dead!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Pat Krueger glanced up at the big old-fashioned clock over the bar. It was eight-thirty, and the hockey game wouldn�
��t be over until eleven. Then the rush would start. Right now the Tattletale Bar was deserted except for the booth in the corner. Herb Swanson, Arnie Dietz, and Spud Nuhoff were holding a wake for Norm.

  “Bring us another round, Pat. Make ’em doubles!”

  Pat frowned. Herb and his friends were getting a little smashed, but Pat didn’t want to eighty-six them while he was working alone. He’d give them one more weak one and cut them off when Sam Carlson came in at nine. Sam was six-four, and he weighed close to 300 pounds. Nobody argued with the Hulk when he said it was time to leave.

  “Y’wanna join us, Pat? We’ll toast good ol’ Norm.”

  “Can’t do it, Herb. The boss’ll fire me if he catches me drinking on the job.”

  “You’re chicken, Pat. There’s nobody here to squeal on you. You got something against Norm?”

  “Nope. Norm was all right. He never gave me a bit of trouble in here.”

  “They oughta hang that pansy that killed him, don’cha think?”

  Pat grunted a noncommittal reply and glanced back at the clock. Twenty minutes to nine. He didn’t want to get involved in a drunken conversation about Norm, but Herb was still holding on to his arm.

  “Tell you what, Herb. This round’s on the house. In honor of Norm.”

  “Hey, that’s real white of you, Pat. Y’know what we oughta do? We oughta go find that little pansy and fix him so he can’t beat up nobody.”

  “That’d be stupid, Herb.” Spud reached out for his drink and downed half of it in one gulp. “The cops’d know you did it right off. Anything happens to Brian Nordstrom, and they’ll lock you up for it.”

  “Yep.” Arnie nodded solemnly. “They’ll lock you up and throw away the key. You gotta figure out some other way t’get even.”

  Pat shifted uncomfortably. He really didn’t want to listen to this, but Herb showed no sign of letting go of his arm.

  Spud frowned and scratched his head. Even though he’d been guzzling the booze all night, he seemed to be more sober than Arnie or Herb.