Revenge

By Marilyn Irr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462818907

Marilyn Irr

About the Author: Marilyn was born in Massachusetts but has lived in such diverse places as California, England, and the Bahamas. She wrote her first mystery novel when she was twelve years old. Unfortunately the manuscript was lost when a fire destroyed the family home. Marilyn attended Mass. College of Art, and worked as a portrait artist, interior decorator, draftsman, and color coordinator to the textile industry before returning to her real passion, writing. She wrote for newspapers for several years and had a poem published in an international travel magazine. Now residing in Florida, Marilyn devotes her time to writing, dancing, and travel. This is Marilyns third novel. Revenge (ISBN:0-7388-3150-6) was the first. If you missed her first book in The Howe Family Saga series, order Distant Cousins (ISBN:0-7388-4992-8) from your local bookstore or from Xlibris.com (1-888-795-4274), and watch for the third book about the Howes of the Bahamas, Howe to Kill Harry, soon to be released.

Book preview

Copyright © 2000 by Marilyn Irr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

To Adele Roth

With special thanks to:

Marilyn Campbell,

Raymond Krisy,

and

James Neal Harvey.

CHAPTER 1

Peter connected the telephone modem cable to the back of his new computer. Rising from the floor behind the desk he and Amy shared in their guest room, a wet patch on his trouser leg caught his attention.

Damn! he muttered. Amy, get your ass in here, he bellowed to his wife.

In the master bathroom at the other end of the hall, Amy thought she heard Peter call. She held the dryer away from her and listened. She waited a moment before turning the blower back toward her blond hair. She wished she could have it cut. Forty two was too old to be wearing a pony tail, but that’s the way her husband liked it. And if she knew what was good for her, she would leave it that way.

Amy!

This time she definitely heard Peter’s voice. She flipped off the blower switch.

What, Peter? I didn’t hear you. I’m drying my hair.

I said get your ass in here, he shouted.

The words were still indistinct, but she could not mistake the anger in her husband’s voice. Amy’s heart quickened, and her mouth suddenly went dry. She dropped the dryer and ran. Not sure which room Peter was in, she paused at the door to the hall.

What did you say, dear? She listened with the intensity of a stalked animal.

In the office, Peter growled, the words thick from being forced between clenched teeth.

Amy knew the sound well. Resisting an impulse to run and hide, she rushed down the dark hall, past the children’s rooms, toward what she called their room-for-all-reasons.

As she entered the guest room, Peter grasped her by her still damp hair, forcing her to look up into his eyes. Normally ice blue, her husband’s eyes turned battleship gray when he was angry. He was angry now.

Panic clenched Amy’s stomach. What had she done this time?

Don’t make me do this. You know how I hate it when you make me punish you. His words were softly spoken, belying the ferocity of the slap he delivered across her cheek at the same instant.

Ouch, she said, cringing against a possible second blow. What did I do? As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Lawyers like Peter were accustomed to asking the questions, not answering them. Through half closed eyes, Amy saw her sewing scissors on the corner of the bureau where she had left them. In a flash she envisioned herself plunging the silver points into her husband’s neck; of blood gushing over his chest; of him clutching the wound, trying to stem the flow; of Peter dropping to his knees, bleeding to death all over her favorite Oriental rug. But she did not reach for the scissors laying so temptingly within her grasp. Her head spun, her hand pressed against her burning face. She had to appease Peter somehow. Before… .

That’ll teach you to pay attention when I call you. And don’t you ever dare question me. Christ! We’ve been married twenty two years, and you haven’t learned anything?

Although Amy still didn’t know what offense she had committed, she apologized. I … I’m sorry, she mumbled. She had learned to assume blame for everything. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

How many times have I told you to keep Goliath in the kitchen? If he pisses on the rug one more time, I swear, I’ll kill him. Peter pointed at a dark spot on the rug. Now clean it up. He released Amy’s hair, sat in the chair and swiveled to face the computer monitor.

With Peter’s attention distracted, Amy hesitated. She pushed her hair back behind her ears.

Don’t do that. It makes your look like Dumbo, Peter said, without looking at her. Like her mother, her husband seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

Still waiting for a command to stay or leave, Amy scanned the room. Surreptitiously, she brushed dimples and wrinkles from Granny Jane’s bed quilt. She hoped Peter hadn’t noticed the paw prints there. Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the dog cowering behind the double bed.

As though reading her mind, Peter said, It’s about time you got rid of that damn dog. Have the Vet put him down.

Amy knew that was something she would have to face … some day. Thirteen was old for a big dog, but right now it wasn’t the dog she wanted to be rid of.

Sorry. I didn’t know he was in here, she said, ignoring Peter’s comment. Shall I get the vinegar?

How the Hell can you not know a hundred and twenty pound Doberman is taking a leak behind your desk? The stench should have been a clue.

Amy sniffed twice and wrinkled her nose. Come on, Goliath. It’s Siberia for you. She edged toward the door, Goliath slinking after her.

As they passed, Peter spun around striking at Amy. He missed. His hand caught the dog broadside. Goliath’s arthritic hind legs crumpled, and he lay, splayed on the floor like a sheep skin rug.

He’s a damned nuisance. Get rid of him, Peter snarled.

Quickly, Amy reached under the dog’s belly, helping him to his feet again. It was bad enough Peter beat her. She had put up with that for years, but she could not forgive him for abusing the old dog. She wanted to scream at her husband, but experience had taught her to keep her anger to herself.

Amy wished the dog would attack Peter, leap on him, sink his still sharp teeth into pasty flesh. Again she pictured her husband bleeding on the floor. But Goliath, equally intimidated by Peter’s rages, followed his mistress meekly from the room.

Amy didn’t know why she put up with Peter’s ugly moods. She should have left him long ago. The old excuse of staying together for the twins sake didn’t make sense anymore now that they were grown. Only where could she go? A familiar sense of futility enveloped her. No matter where she went, Peter would find her, and kill her. She knew that as surely as she knew she would probably never have the courage to strike back at him.

The phantom images of blowing her husband’s brains onto the ceiling with a gun shot under his square jaw, or pouring gasoline over him and lighting a match, were just that. Wishful thinking, nothing more.

It hadn’t always been like this. When they were first married they had been reasonably happy. Peter seemed to be the perfect husband, except when he drank too much. Then he might push her around a little, but he was always sorry afterwards, and promised to change. He hadn’t quit drinking, though. In fact, his binges became more frequent as the years passed.

In the laundry room Goliath balked as Amy opened the outer door. I know Massachusetts is cold this time of year, but a little shivering may save your life. She gently nudged him out.

Returning to the guest room with a rag and spray bottle, Amy spritzed and scrubbed at the wet spot.

There, how’s that? Can’t even smell it, she said, mustering her most optimistic tone.

Now the room smells like dog-piss-salad. Peter’s eyes were angry slits, his ears crimson.

Amy decided to try making light conversation. Anything to take the edge off Peter’s wrath.

Nice computer. Does this mean you’re going to work at home? she asked, afraid he might say yes.

No, I was expecting Bill Gates to come for a visit. The sarcasm in his voice was another sure sign he might explode any instant.

Really? We wouldn’t want Mr. Gates to be without computer. Would we? Amy forced a chuckle.

Peter pressed the off switch and rose from the chair. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, and Amy relaxed a little. The malevolent side of his personality was something to be frightened of, but now he seemed more amused than testy.

When Peter didn’t answer, she grew bolder. Do you think Mister Gates would mind if I used it? I’ve read a lot about computers. I’d really like to try.

You’ll never figure it out, but give it a whirl. Peter rose to let his wife sit at the desk. "The password’s Master, and the little rectangle with DP inside is the program for writing things."

I thought I could keep my recipes and address list on it at least. Amy scooted the chair up to the desk.

That figures. I buy a state-of-the-art computer with every conceivable new advance from Web access to voice recognition, and she wants to keep recipes.

Amy hated it when Peter talked about her as if she wasn’t there. It made her feel small. There were two people in her world who could make her feel worthless. Peter was one, her mother was the other.

I thought I might do some writing again too, she said in a very small voice, hoping softness would ease him out of his black mood.

"Get a job with the paper again? Is that what you thought? Fat chance. Nobody at the Sun now would remember you. It must be twenty years since you wrote for them? Besides, your father got that job for you, it wasn’t your literary talent. And dear old Dad doesn’t have any clout with the new publisher."

Let it pass, Amy thought. He was baiting her again. Can I at least try the computer? I won’t break anything. She avoided looking at him, not wanting to see the sneer she knew would be on his face.

Sure, go ahead. With any luck, you’ll be a professional hacker in no time. Sarcasm was edging back into his voice again. All you have to do is turn it on. The tutorial will tell you the rest. If you want to try the voice recognition feature, talk slowly. The machine doesn’t listen very fast. I’m going to shower and dress. You know how your father hates it when we’re late for dinner.

Peter strode from the room leaving his diabolical essence behind.

Somewhere in the closet of her mind, Amy heard Bette Davis saying, Only think of nice things. Clips from old movies often replayed in Amy’s mind. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane was one of her favorites. She wished she were as strong as her idols. Why couldn’t she be like Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen, standing up to Mr. Allnutt, or in The Lion In Winter. Eleanor of Aquitaine was a real woman. She not only ran her own country, she married two Kings, and raised two more. Sometimes Amy imagined herself as Catherine The Great, killing her evil husband, and going on to rule all the Russians. But again, these were just fanciful delusions. She would never be that strong. Besides, she probably deserved what she got from Peter. Her mother always told her she was a failure at everything she did.

Alone in the rose and gold hued room, Amy pressed the red switch on the computer.

Lights, camera, action, she whispered.

Words scrolled down the monitor, flashing through commands so fast she couldn’t read them. Then a field of maple leaves in fall colors with a tiny white hour glass in the center was replaced almost immediately by a blue box with what looked like a flag waving. At last a rectangle with several graphics appeared, and stayed.

Amy studied the monitor. Reading about computers wasn’t the same as using one. She pushed the mouse around, watching a white arrow move across the screen. When the pointer was on the DP, she clicked the button.

She pointed at the tutorial, and hurriedly read through it. When she finished, she knew very little more than when she started, but decided to wade in.

The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog, she said, mouthing the words very slowly. Her words not only appeared on the screen, they were repeated in a monotone voice which sounded as though it were coming from deep within a tin can. With the rolling mouse, she pointed at Menu… . (click), at Save… (click).

I’m going to love you, my friend, she said, patting the monitor.

COME ON, OLD GIRL, YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THIS ‘QUICK RED FOX’ CRAP, CAN’T YOU?

The voice again. Only this time it wasn’t repeating her words. It was saying something she hadn’t said. Amy looked around the small room to see if Peter had crept back. Satisfied she was alone, she started to type.

Now is the time for all good men to come… .

Her words appeared on the screen, but the voice said, I WASN’T DESIGNED FOR THIS TRIVIA.

Amy shook her head, trying to clear the strange voice from her ears. Peter must have programmed something into the computer’s memory. Was he trying to make her think she was going crazy?

You were expecting maybe Ernest Hemingway? she said sarcastically.

DON’T GET CUTE WITH ME. A HEMINGWAY YOU AIN’T.

It had to be Peter … sounded just like him.

Amy wondered what would happen if she turned the power off. Flipping the switch, she waited a few seconds, then pressed it on again.

Now start again, old girl. You must have been dreaming, she said aloud. Amy always referred to herself as old girl, although she didn’t really think of herself as old.

A DREAMER YOU MAY BE, BUT WITH MY HELP YOU CAN CHANGE ALL THAT. I CAN SHOW YOU HOW TO ENJOY LIFE, HOW TO WAKE UP AND SMELL THE … WHATEVER IT IS YOU LIKE TO SMELL.

Amy listened suspiciously. The voice sounded exactly like Jimmy Cagney now. The words faded, and Cagney’s face gave her a mischievous wink from the screen. Panic overtook her. If she had broken the damn thing Peter would kill her for sure. She glanced down the hall to see if he was standing there laughing at her.

Looking sideways at Mr. Cagney’s image, Amy said, My name is Amy. Who are you?

YEAH, I KNOW. YOU CAN CALL ME ROMON. I’M HERE TO HELE LET’S CUT THE CRAP AND GET ON WITH IT!

It was still Cagney’s voice, and his unmistakable round face filled the monitor. She must be going crazy, but she was beginning to enjoy the diversion.

Hello, Romon, where do you want to start? she said.

LOOK, OLD GIRL, I DON’T THINK YOU’RE GETTING THE PICTURE. THIS IS NO JOKE. JUST DO WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO, AND I’LL MAKE IT LOOK LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

Amy didn’t know how, but she was sure Peter was responsible for the images and strange words.

PETER HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT! Romon echoed.

Amy scowled. I didn’t type the last, or even say it. How did you know what I was thinking?

AMY, OLD GIRL, I CAN READ YOUR BRAIN WAVES. I KNOW WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND WHETHER YOU TYPE, SPEAK, OR JUST THINK. I CAN EVEN ACCESS YOUR MEMORY. TOGETHER WE’RE GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS. BUT YOU GOTTA HELP. WRITE SOMETHING. HOW ABOUT AN ARTICLE FOR YOUR OLD PAPER? WRITE A CRITIQUE ON THE MUSICAL YOU SAW LAST WEEK IN BOSTON. I KNOW YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT.

That’s it. It had to be Peter. He loved the show, and they had argued all the way back to Lowell about it.

Amy thought about turning the computer off again, but she decided to see how far Peter could carry this trick. She started to type again.

Opening night at the Wilber Theater was festeve as usual but the much tooted play Two Men and a Maid, the Musical was all show and no substance.

Slowly the words on the screen faded, and Humphrey Bogart appeared leaning over an upright piano. "ATTA GIRL. GIVE ‘EM HELL. ME AND THE BOYS’LL BACK YA. BUT I THINK YOU MEAN TOUTED NOT TOOTED, AND YOU SPELL FESTIVE WITH AN ‘I’, NOT AN ‘E’.