Weekend Warriors Page 3

  “Are you talking about going outside the law to…to…avenge these women? Are you talking about taking the law into your own hands and…and…”

  Myra’s head bobbed up and down. “Charles can help. He dealt with criminals and terrorists during his stint at MI 6. You’re an attorney, a law professor. With your brains, Charles’s expertise and my money, we could right quite a few wrongs. It would have to be secret, of course.”

  “And you just now came up with all this?” Nikki said in awe. “No!”

  “Yes,” Myra and Charles said in unison.

  Nikki looked at her watch. “Just eight hours ago, give or take a few minutes, you were practically comatose, Myra. You didn’t want to live. You were so deep in your misery and your depression I wanted to cry for you. Now you’re all set to take on the judicial system and dispense your own brand of justice. You’ll get caught, Myra. You’re too old to go to jail. They aren’t kind to old people in jail. NO!”

  Myra took a long pull from the highball glass. “If I can’t satisfy my own vengeance, maybe I can do something for others where the system failed.” She spoke in a low, even monotone. “Kathryn Lucas, age thirty-eight. Married to Alan Lucas, the love of her life. Alan had multiple sclerosis as well as Parkinson’s disease and lived in a wheelchair. They owned an eighteen-wheeler, Alan’s dream. In order to keep his dream alive for him, Kathryn drove the rig and Alan rode alongside her. One night when they stopped for food and gas, Kathryn was raped at a truck stop by three bikers. Alan was forced to watch and could not help his wife. Rather than report the rape and destroy what was left of her husband’s manhood, she remained silent. She did nothing. She carried it with her day and night for the next seven years until Alan died. Needless to say, whatever was left of the marriage after the rape, died right then and there. The day after she buried her husband she went to you, gave you all the information she had on the case and you turned her away because the stupid statute of limitations had run out. You told me she had a partial license plate, her husband took pictures, and she said one of the bikers was riding an old Indian motorcycle. You said she told you they belonged to the Weekend Warriors club, probably white-collar professionals out for a fling. Charles said there aren’t many Indians in existence and they’re on every biker’s wish list. It shouldn’t be hard to track it down. You just sit there, Nikki, and think about three men raping you while Jack is forced to watch. You think about that.”

  “Myra, I don’t have to think about it. I feel terrible for Kathryn Lucas. Yes, she deserves to have something done but she waited too long. The law is the law. I’m a goddamn lawyer. I can’t break the law I swore to uphold.”

  “The circumstances have to be brought into consideration. I need you to help us, Nikki.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “We could form this little club. You certainly know plenty of women who have slipped through the cracks. Like Alexis, Kathryn, and many others. We’ll invite them to join and then we’ll do whatever has to be done.”

  Nikki stood up and threw her hands in the air. “You want us to be vigilantes!”

  “Yes, dear. Thank you. I couldn’t think of the right word. Don’t you remember those movies with Charles Bronson?”

  “He got caught, Myra.”

  “But they let him go in the end.”

  “It was a damn movie, Myra. Make-believe. You want us to do the same thing for real. Just out of curiosity, supposing we were able to find the men that raped Kathryn Lucas, what would we do to them?”

  Myra smiled. “That would be up to Kathryn now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t believe I’m sitting here listening to you two hatch this…this…what the hell is it, Myra?”

  “A secret society of women who do what has to be done to make things right,” Myra said solemnly.

  “It could work, Nikki, as long as we hold to the secrecy part,” Charles said quietly. “There is that room in the tunnels where you and Barbara used to play. You could hold your meetings there. No one would ever know. I know exactly how to set it all up.”

  Nikki struggled for a comeback that would make sense. In the end, she said, “Jack Emery will be prosecuting Marie Lewellen. We’ll be adversaries.”

  “I see,” Myra said. She slapped her palms on the old, scarred tabletop. “Then you have to get her out on bail and we’ll find a way to whisk her and her family away to safety. I have the money to do that. It will be like the Witness Protection Program. Charles can handle all that.”

  Nikki sat down with a thump. “If I don’t agree to…go along with this, what will you do?”

  Myra borrowed a line from her favorite comedian. “Then we’ll have to kill you,” she said cheerfully. “So, are you in?”

  “God help me, I’m in.”

  Chapter Two

  Eight months later

  Lightning ripped through the darkness, a crazy-quilt of fireworks in the sky. Thunder sounded like a sonic boom as the worst storm in five decades slaughtered the state of Virginia. Vicious waterfalls of rain reduced visibility, forcing the procession of vehicles to a halt.

  The lead car’s brake lights came to life as the driver waited for the electronic gates to swing open. In mid-swing, an arthritic limb from one of the three-hundred-year-old oaks crashed downward to land on top of the electrified fence of Myra Rutledge’s McLean, Virginia, estate.

  The occupants of the cars shivered as the limb sizzled and crackled, flames shooting upward to meet the savage lightning attacking the night.

  One by one, the cars proceeded to inch forward only to stop when the lead car sounded its horn and ground to a stop because the opening wasn’t large enough to drive through. Doors swung open, rain-clad figures huddled, arms waving, their shouts carried away on the gusty, hurricane-like winds.

  A piercing whistle, the kind heard at ball games, shrilled in the stormy air. “Back up one at a time. Give me enough room and I’ll take down the gates,” a voice ordered with authority.

  With visibility at zero minus, the occupants of the cars did their best to follow the order. Bumpers and front ends collided as a blast from the last vehicle in the procession of cars came to life with a savage bellow.

  The eighteen-wheeler driven by Kathryn Lucas skirted the cars with long years of expertise. With a mighty roar that matched the rolling thunder overhead, she crashed through the massive iron gates. “God, I always wanted to do something like that,” she chortled gleefully. “Oh, Alan, I wish you could see what I just did. If it wasn’t for this big rig, we’d all still be sitting outside those monster gates. Can you just see that ancient Rolls or the Benz tapping those gates! I swear those gates are made of something besides iron. I wouldn’t be surprised if I did some serious damage to this fine vehicle. I love you, will always love you. Remember that, Alan. This is Big Sis signing off.” Talking to her late husband always made her feel better. Believing her husband was still with her in spirit gave her great comfort. It didn’t mean she was nuts, or that she was losing it. All it meant was she felt better and she was sharing with the only man she ever loved or would love in the future.

  The portico as well as the old farmhouse was awash with light, beckoning warmth and safety to the drivers of the vehicles. The Honda Civic, the customized Jag, the BMW and the Benz lined up in formation and parked two across. The ancient Bentley parked behind the eighteen-wheeler.

  Umbrellas were raised only to sail upward in the sixty-mile-an-hour winds. The five women sprinted toward the light spilling from the main doorway that was being held open by a tall, stately looking woman: Myra Rutledge. Rain poured through the open doorway, soaking the beautiful heart of pine floor. “Welcome to Pinewood,” she said.

  Charles Emery used all his shoulder power to shove the monster bolt into the lock position on the solid oak door. The bolt, the lock and the door itself dated back to the days when the slaves were routed through Pinewood to the underground railroad.

  “Come, come. We have dry clothes for you all,” M
yra said as she handed out thick, luxurious towels that were as large as bath sheets along with a flat, white box containing candles.

  “The power will probably go off soon and there seems to be something wrong with the generator that lights this part of the house, so we’re going to be using candlelight until we can get the power working. Take any room at the top of the steps. Follow me, please,” Charles said.

  The moment the women were out of sight, Myra lowered her body to the third step from the bottom of the breathtaking circular staircase. Her gnarled hand reached out to touch one of the polished oak spindles. She remembered all the times her daughter had whooped her way down the bannister, Nikki right behind her. They had both continued to do it in the years to come. It was all so long ago. Two years since that fateful day when her daughter had been killed. An eternity. Tears gathered in her eyes. She wiped at them angrily.

  Now, it was payback time.

  Myra looked around the foyer that was half as large as the church she worshipped in.

  There was no life here, no indication anyone truly lived here. Suddenly, she wished for flowers, huge bouquets of colorful Shasta daisies, green plants, cacti, anything to take away the museum-like look of the house. Flowers these past two years hadn’t been a priority.

  The chandelier overhead flickered, thanks to the rickety old generator. A moment later the only light to be seen came from the candle in Myra’s hand. She wished now she had listened to Charles and replaced the generator, but in the scheme of things, generators hadn’t been a top priority in her life these past two years either. She’d been too busy grieving, living in a cocoon of pure hell.

  “We’re coming down, Myra,” Nikki shouted from the top of the stairs. “Hold the candle high!”

  Myra thought she heard a giggle from one of the women and then, in the blink of an eye, Kathryn Lucas was whooping her pleasure as she slid down the polished bannister, her candle straight in front of her, Nikki behind her. Long years of practice allowed Myra to reach out one long arm to break the younger woman’s fall. Nikki slid expertly to the floor and was on her feet a second later, a wide smile on her face.

  “Now that was fun! If I had a staircase like this, I’d be sliding down it morning, noon and night. Did you ever slide down, Mrs. Rutledge?” Kathryn asked.

  “Call me Myra. I did it once on the day of my fiftieth birthday. I wanted to do something outrageous, something silly. I was sore for a week, since there was no one at the bottom to catch me.”

  “You know what I always say…I say whatever turns you on. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about some of the way-out things Alan and…never mind. That’s a whole other story and a lifetime ago.”

  Myra smiled. She liked this rambunctious young woman.

  “Ladies, if you’re dry and comfortable, I would like you to follow me,” Charles said.

  When the tight procession reached a solid wall of bookshelves, Myra stepped in front of Charles. With a trembling hand, she counted down the various carvings on the intricate molding that ran the length of the bookshelves. At the same moment her fingers touched the lowest carving, the wall moved slowly and silently to reveal a large room with wall-to-wall computers that blinked and flashed as well as a mind-boggling, eye-level, closed-circuit television screen showing Kathryn’s rig crashing through the electronic gates. Each wall seemed to be made up of television screens. MSNBC was playing on the south wall, CNN on the north wall. From somewhere, fans whirred softly and there wasn’t a window to be seen.

  “This,” Myra said waving her arms about, “Is our command center and we have Charles to thank for insisting on putting in a cutting-edge, solar-powered electrical system. In spite of our current weather, there’s enough stored power to last a month.

  “We installed a modern-day ventilation system years ago when my girls used to play here. It’s been updated recently. At one time this was just a storage area with a trap door. This is where my ancestors took the slaves and routed them to safety. Beneath the house is a maze of tunnels. Charles and I hung bells at each entrance and exit so the girls wouldn’t get lost. The tunnels have all been shored up by Charles in case…in case…we ever need to use them. Please, take your seats,” Myra said, indicating a large round table surrounded by deep comfortable chairs. On the table in front of each chair lay a bright blue folder.

  Kathryn Lucas whirled and twirled around as she looked at everything, the engineer in her appreciating what she was seeing. “It looks like a war room,” she said, excitement ringing in her voice.

  Myra smiled. “That’s exactly what it is. When you go to war you need a war room. Please, take your seats.”

  Myra stood up, the palms of her hands flat on the tabletop. She looked at each woman in turn. She’d rehearsed a pat little speech but suddenly she couldn’t remember the words. Barbara had always said, “cut to the chase, Mom, spit it out.” “You all know why you were invited here,” she began, her voice shaky. “You all agreed to the rules as Nikki outlined them to you. All of you here this evening are victims of a justice system that doesn’t always work. We can’t save the world and we can’t right the wrongs done to us, but we can avenge ourselves. I see us as sisters under the skin, a sort of sisterhood if you will.”

  “I like the way that sounds,” Kathryn said, settling back in her chair.

  Myra paused to take a deep breath, to marshal her courage, to pray to God she was doing the right thing. “Two years ago my daughter Barbara was struck down and killed by a hit and run driver, who had diplomatic immunity.” Tears welled in her eyes as her gaze swept the room. “I want the man who killed her to pay for what he did.” She swallowed hard and then continued. “I know each of you here tonight has suffered a loss that also went unpunished. We’ll go over each case momentarily. Afterwards we will vote to see which case needs the most immediate attention. As I point to you, please give us your name and your profession.”

  “Isabelle Flanders, architect.”

  “Alexis Thorne, securities broker. Actually, I’m an ex-securities broker and a felon. I am also a personal shopper.”

  “Julia Webster, plastic surgeon.”

  “Kathryn Lucas. I’m a cross-country truck driver. I’m also an engineer.”

  “Yoko Akia. My husband and I own a flower shop.”

  “Of course you all know Nikki Quinn,” Myra said. “Nikki spent several years with the FBI before opening her own law firm. She also teaches law at Georgetown University.”

  Myra held out her hands to Charles. “Last but certainly not least, Charles Martin, my right hand and my left hand. Charles has many special talents, as you will find out. To protect ourselves from each other, should any of you decide to expose our accomplishments, Charles will videotape each of our meetings.” She squeezed Charles’s hand. “If you will open your folders, we can get started.”

  And God help us all, she thought.

  “Inside each of your folders you will find your own case history and the case history of your sisters. We felt it necessary for each of you to get to know one another. However, reading about someone doesn’t quite give you the same feel as seeing that person go about their daily routine. The stills and videos you are about to see were taken to help your sisters know you better. Please refrain from commenting until Charles turns off the screen. I’m sure you’re all going to be a little surprised at what you see,” she said as the first picture appeared on the screen…Nikki in a courtroom standing before a jury. “We’ve been working on this presentation for some time now, so there is quite a bit of footage even though it has been carefully edited.” The picture switched to Yoko working in her flower shop.

  Hearing Yoko gasp, Myra said, “Yes, we’ve been spying on all of you. We wanted to make an impression on you here tonight, to show how technologically capable we are and to show you that we mean to ensure the secrecy of this organization.”

  The women stared, transfixed as their images flashed across the screen. When the screen turned dark, twenty-seven minutes later, Kat
hryn Lucas was the first to speak. “I don’t see how videotaping me in my flowered underwear will help anyone get to know me better or ensure the secrecy of the Sisterhood.”

  “How did you get in my house?” Julia Webster demanded.

  “You filmed me buying Tampax,” Alexis Thorne grumbled.

  “You actually watched me buying groceries and saw that humiliating moment when I didn’t have enough money to pay for them at the checkout?” Isabelle Flanders said angrily.

  “It is no one’s business but mine that I mix manure with peat moss for my plants,” Yoko Akia said quietly, her eyes lowered.

  Nikki Quinn’s eyes apologized and accused at the same time. “I can’t believe you videotaped me, Myra. Me, Myra. Christ, I’m the one who agreed to help you form the group! So what if I cried and kicked the door and threw the whole damn case file down the courthouse steps. So what, Myra. I hate to lose. I hate it when scum-bags win and the good guys have no other recourse but to cry. I didn’t see you or Charles on that damn film, Myra.” Her tone was so vehement, the other women sat up straighter in their chairs.

  “It was done to remind you of why you’re here, Nikki.” There was no apology in Myra’s voice. It’s to show you what we can do, what we’re going to be doing from here on out. Think of it as your security blanket.”

  Nikki wasn’t about to give up. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Miles and miles of tape. It’s all safe and secure. None of you have a thing to worry about, since it’s for your own protection. Yes, we were intrusive and yes, we were thorough. The reason Charles and myself aren’t on the tape is because we’re old and we’re boring. And…we’re paying for this party. End of discussion.”

  The women looked at one another but no one offered up a comment.

  Myra picked up a bright red folder. Her movements were slow and deliberate. The women leaned forward expectantly.

  “Alexis Thorne, you’re here because the brokerage firm you worked for pinned a crime on you that they themselves committed. You did a year in prison for their crime. They ruined your life and you are now a felon with a new identity, thanks to Nikki Quinn.