Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

He abruptly stopped talking, as if afraid he had said too much. He put on his coat. “Mrs. Mooney, if you don’t mind, I need to catch a flight to Atlanta tonight . . . is there anything else I can do for you?”

Beth was suddenly exhausted, like she had spent twelve hours on her feet at the hair salon. “No, I’m going to be with my girl. Thanks for making it so I can spend the night next to her.”

The second smile of the evening. “My pleasure.”

THE NEXT FEW days went by in a daze of working at the salon, being at the hospital, and then being at the rehabilitation facility when Janice was transferred. There, Beth was pleased to see her little girl — all right, young woman! — recovering well. The bruises faded some, and she could walk up and down the hallway without leaning on someone or having to stop to catch her breath.

Beth should have been encouraged, but so many things were bothering her. Janice was always one to talk her mother’s ears off about the latest political scandal, the latest celebrity wedding, and the latest news on whatever online or off-line technology she was involved with at that moment, but now, she just stayed in her bed and watched television or read paperback books. Beth had once offered to bring Janice’s laptop in, but with some curt words, Janice said she was no longer interested.

Beth was confused and scared, but still, it was good to see her daughter get better, week after week. And as promised, a weekly check made out to her arrived, and she caught up on all her bills and even managed to start a savings account, a first. But truth be told, she always felt a bit self-conscious depositing the checks, like she was doing something bad. Yet Janice was slowly improving, and Janice didn’t say anything more about the senator’s son, so Beth let everything be and kept hoping for the future.

And so it would have remained, if it weren’t for the night of the Iowa caucuses.

IT HAD BEEN a long day, first at the rehab center in the morning and then at the hair salon in the afternoon. Beth had accidentally double-booked two of her clients, so she had to work later than expected. Dinner was a quick takeout from McDonald’s and after she got home, she went through the mail — another stipend check and an electricity bill from PSNH — then washed up and went straight into her bedroom.

There she switched on the TV, and instead of her usual Law & Order, there was a special report about the Iowa caucuses being held that night. In the dark bedroom, covers pulled up around her neck, she watched the panel for the news discuss the Iowa results, and something chilled her feet when she learned that the senator from Georgia had squeaked out a victory. He was now the front-runner, but as some of the commentators stated, he was still on shaky ground. A win in three weeks in New Hampshire could make him unstoppable.

The view of the camera switched to the senator making his victory speech at an auditorium in Iowa. His face was happy and lit up as he stood in front of a large blue curtain and waved to the cheering crowd, the supporters holding signs high. And there was the senator’s man Henry Wolfe standing to one side, applauding hard, smiling as well, sometimes ducking his head to say something to somebody on the stage.

She picked up the remote to change the channel, and her hand froze. Just like that. A young man was there as well, cheering and laughing and looking very, very happy indeed.

The senator’s son.

In Iowa. In public. On the stage!

He didn’t seem to have a care or worry in the world, looked fine indeed as he applauded and cheered his winning father —

Beth stumbled out of bed, raced to the bathroom, and made it to the toilet before vomiting up her small fries and Quarter Pounder with Cheese. She washed her face with cold water, wiped it down with a towel, refused to look at herself in the mirror, and went back out to the bedroom.

The senator was speaking, but Beth muted the television, stared at the screen. His son Clay . . . out. Free. Not punished at all.

While her daughter, Janice, was still in rehab, still trying to form words and sentences, still refusing to use her computer.

Beth went to her bureau, roughly pulled out the top drawer, went through a few things, and came back out with Henry Wolfe’s business card with the handwritten phone number on the reverse. Hands shaking, she sat cross-legged on her bed and dialed the number.

It started ringing. And kept ringing. With the phone up to her ear, she watched the television, and it was like being trapped in one of those horror movies where you saw something bad happening and couldn’t do anything to save yourself, for what she saw was . . .

Henry Wolfe onstage, listening to his boss speak, and then pausing. Reaching inside his coat pocket. Pulling out his phone or minicomputer or whatever they called it.

From little New Hampshire to busy Iowa, she was calling him, was calling him to find out what in hell the senator’s son was doing up there onstage. What about the promise, the pledge, that justice would be served?

She stared at the television, willing herself not to blink, for she didn’t want to miss a thing.

Henry Wolfe stared down at his handheld device. Frowned. Pressed a button, returned it to his coat.

And her call went to voice mail.

Later on during the night, she called the number six more times, and six times, it went straight to voice mail.

AFTER A RESTLESS night, she woke with her blankets and sheets wrapped around her, moist from her night sweats, her phone ringing and ringing and ringing. She reached across to the nightstand, almost knocked the phone off the stand, and then got it and murmured a sleepy hello.

The voice belonged to Henry Wolfe, who started out sharply: “Mrs. Mooney, I don’t have much time, so don’t waste it, all right?”

“What?” she asked.

He said brusquely, “I know you called me seven times last night, and I have a good idea what you’re calling about. And I’m telling you don’t waste your time. You have a signed nondisclosure agreement with a very attractive compensation package and a very unattractive clause that will open you up to financial and legal ruin if you say one word about the senator and his son.”

She sat up in bed. “But he’s free! That bastard Clay, I saw him last night! The one who hurt my daughter! You promised me that he’d be sent away!”

Henry said, “And he was sent away.”

“For three weeks? Is that all?”

“His doctors judged that he had recovered well, and —”

“Doctors you paid for, I’m sure!”

Henry said, “This conversation isn’t productive, Mrs. Mooney, so I think I’ll —”

“Is that what you people call justice? Throwing some money around, making promises, and walking away? You promised me justice for my girl!”

By then, she was talking to herself.

THE NEXT DAY she met with Floyd Tucker, an overweight and fussy lawyer who had helped her sort through the paperwork when she had divorced Joe. He sighed a lot as they sat in his tiny, book-lined office. He flipped through the pages of the agreement she had signed for the senator, sighed some more, and finally looked up. “Beth, you shouldn’t have signed this without running it by me first.”

“I didn’t have the time,” she said.

“This agreement” — he held up the papers —“there’s a good compensation package, no doubt about it, but the restrictions . . . Hell, Beth, if you even hint at breathing what’s gone on with the senator’s son and your daughter, you open yourself up to lawsuits, financial seizures, and penalties totaling tens of millions of dollars. Do you understand that?”

“I do now,” she said, staring at the polished desk. “But I didn’t have the time.”

“Beth, you should have called me,” he said.

She reached over, plucked the documents from his hand.

“I didn’t have the time,” she whispered.