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Vengeance
Vengeance
Vengeance
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Vengeance

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Just after he returns from his "holiday" in Los Angeles, Al gets a late night phone call. His daughter has been arrested for the murder of her supervisor. Al hires a rapidly rising criminal lawyer from Toronto on the condition that she accepts Norm - the ex-cop who helped him in LA - as the investigator for the defence team. Almost immediately, it becomes evident that there are some very dark perverted forces at work in Riverview. When the supervisor's wife is also killed, the investigation takes on a new and dangerous direction. The future of Al's daughter pivots on the ability of Norm to find a girl he believes may have run away to Toronto in the time immediately after the first murder. Time is running out when...

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAl Rennie
Release dateNov 17, 2011
ISBN9781466099647
Vengeance
Author

Al Rennie

I was born and raised in Toronto. I attended Upper Canada College before taking a degree at Queen's University. I have worked as a lifeguard for the Toronto Harbour Police, a youth worker for the Toronto YMCA, and an English teacher in Lakefield. I am married with two great daughters and an extended foster family. My interests include Maple Leaf hockey - this is our year - New England Patriot football and writing.

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    Vengeance - Al Rennie

    Vengeance

    By

    Al Rennie

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright © 2011 by Al Rennie

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Image Credit: Photographer – nyghtowl on flickr – under Creative Common License

    Cover Credit: Rita Toews – probably the most patient and supportive cover creator ever!

    Formatting Credit: L.K. Campbell – just great – again – thank you!

    Dedication

    For my wife – Marsha

    How does she do it?

    A few Reader Responses to Clearwater Journals after it appeared on Free e-books.

    (Rated Number Two on their Top Ten List

    of all genres with more than 11000 hits in eight weeks.)

    What a riveting story with bouts of wry humor. Again Please. – Bruce

    Excellent read with more twists and turns than a road through the mountains. Enjoyed every minute! – Kingstonbears

    A really well written book. Loved it a bunch. Hope he does another soon. Maybe a series??? – Wa6ype

    A truly fun read, great sense of humor and a good plot. I recommend this author with pleasure. – Evelyn

    Sort of like Elmore Leonard meets Carl Hiiasen with a twist. – Norm

    Excellent writing, fast paced, liked it a lot. – Toerien

    Gripping story, believable characters. Would definitely recommend. Very well written. Thoroughly enjoyed it. – Rachel Caldicott

    Put my life on hold until I finished it. Great read! You live the character’s emotions and you can’t be sure of the outcome until the last page. – Charles Hough

    Could not put it down – Alta De Lang

    [b]Note to Reader[b]: This was my second attempt at writing a full length novel with the purpose of becoming a published author in the traditional sense. It was written a few years ago, and it also sat with a Canadian literary agent without getting published. I have edited and re-edited it to update the content. This is the second of four books in The Riverview Series and picks up at the end of L.A. Escape back in Canada. I expect to publish the third and fourth books in that series before the end of this year. As with L.A. Escape, the tone is different from the two Clearwater books. They were written for fun with no goal of publishing. I had given up on that dream. And then I heard about free E-Books and uploaded Clearwater Journals to see if there was any kind of interest in my writing. The book was a success – 13000 down loads in two and a half months and number two on their Top Ten list. It is still climbing – even though it now also appears on Smashwords – for free. Currently, I am at work on Clearwater Ambush and with a little luck, it should be available in early 2012. In any case – enjoy!

    Prologue

    Beautiful – great – just fantastic – give me a bit more darling – wow! Now that is really fine prime.

    The rumpled guy with the old Nikon in virtually pristine condition and the new Canon digital was a middle aged balding geek with a pug nose and an impressive beer paunch. The horn rimmed bifocal glasses perched on the broad bridge of his pug nose, had tinted lenses that continually slipped forward and downward as he snapped away with the camera. Mr. Cool. He was squinting with practised ease through the viewfinder and moaning directions to the thin young blond girl who was reclining with her long arms extended out behind her for support. She was naked and not more than eight feet away from the camera’s wide angle lens. She was sitting uncomfortably on the musty stained commercial wall to wall beige rug installed many years before when the old building had been erected as housing for a Community Living Welfare project. The fact that she could not have been very comfortable mattered little or not at all to the squat sweaty photographer as he choreographed her poses to meet his needs.

    She was a child really, probably no more than fourteen years of age, blond with a cute smile. She might have been loveable or pitiful, but her cold blue eyes told of anger and hate that comes with too much experience too soon. There was a fine, slightly raised, razor slash white scar that tracked from beneath her left ear part way across her cheek. As young as she was, there was a sense of hardness to her. She was a survivor. Any innocence she might have possessed had walked out her door years before.

    Her smile, which she was employing now without noticeable success, was pure sexual invitation and as artificial as the rest of her pose. She was not looking down at her nakedness even though it was obvious the man with his camera was. As the pug nosed man finished with wow, and the Canon whirred, he gave her more direction. She slowly rolled onto her hands and knees and started to crawl provocatively away from the lens and towards the man's worn tan fake leather couch. The camera was working quickly now on the full view of her narrow backside. She had shaved and powdered herself for this man. She knew what he wanted and how to turn him on. It was easy. She knew how she was affecting him, and that knowledge made her feel powerful. He thought he was in control, but she knew he wasn't. Not really.

    The man was breathing harder now. He muttered encouragement as he tracked her with his expensive digital. In his mind, he was the daring photographer played by a young David Hemming in the film Blow Up – a film the girl’s mother would not have recognized.

    I’ll give you an extra forty if you blow me.

    She smiled as she slowly crawled away from him. She looked back to him over her shoulder. Whatever you want Paulie. You know how much I want you to like me.

    She had planned what was to come, and she wanted it to happen now.

    The cheap slab office door silently and slowly opened behind the camera guy. From the doorway, a pair of hard cold black eyes followed the little seduction scene being played out across the small dirty room.

    The girl reached the couch, turned and posed – each pose revealing more as she touched herself – opened herself. The camera was still clicking, but slower now, waiting for each pose to be just right. Maybe the guy wanted to get into the moment and lost track of his camera. He stopped to slip his tie and shoes off, dropping the tie in the direction of his suit coat already discarded on the floor near his desk. His office was always kept warm, but at this moment, it felt tropical. His eyes never left the girl's body. He was erect in his pants and his chest was tight. He was sweating?

    Do you play golf too? she asked in a child's voice as she slowly rose and coyly reached over to slip the putter from his prized Arnold Palmer blue leather golf bag carelessly stored in the corner beside his couch.

    When I can, he mumbled hoarsely as he set aside the old Nikon and new Canon – his eyes barely leaving her.

    Watch me play golf, she purred as she took the shaft of the club and placed it between her spread legs.

    The man reached for the camera again. How far can you go? he asked huskily as the door finally opened fully behind him.

    Well, let’s see. Oh hi, said the naked little girl as her friend slipped into the suddenly crowded stuffy room.

    The camera man paused, confused – who was she talking to? He glanced over his shoulder towards the door and, then, seeing that the two of them were no longer alone, turned to face the pimply faced youth who had just entered. "What the hell do you...?

    The girl whipped the golf club down on the man's bald spot with all the force she could muster. Her rage released. Once – thwack – the man’s knees buckled; his arms stretched forward. His tinted glasses flew from his face. Mr. Cool was gone. He cried out loudly. Twice – thwack – blood gushed and spread; his right arm knocked the files from his desk. And again the bloodied club descended. He hit the floor shattering his nose and cheek bones, breaking his jaw. He felt none of it. The blood gushing from his split skull blended with the urine spreading from beneath him. The camera he had been reaching for lay on its side just beyond his outstretched arms. Even as he was dying, he had tried to protect his valued possession. There was no movement.

    Did you kill him?

    I sure hope so; that's what I was supposed to do, the girl said as she dropped the bloodied golf club across the dead man's still back. Get the money and cards. Don't forget the cameras. One of them is old – and junk but there are pictures on the film. The other – there – the Canon – it's expensive – she said she would give us at least four hundred for it. Hurry up. And get the camera bag and any other film. The last thing I need is the cops lookin at those pictures and that film and then come lookin for me – where's my fuckin panties?

    The child's enticing voice had hardened and gone. The adrenaline rush was just taking hold.

    I got em. Let's go.

    I'm coming, she said as she started to shake. Now, that's funny, she laughed loudly glancing down at the oozing corpse and her twitching hands. Bye shithead.

    As they fled out the door into the parking lot of the Children's Aid building, the girl did a quick scan. The lot was badly lit, almost empty. It was late, but there still might be someone out there – someone who might see them and recognize her.

    This way – hurry! she said to her companion as she ran towards a dark sedan that had bolted to life as they approached.

    The passenger side door swung open as the car started to move. The two jumped aboard and slammed the door. The car accelerated from the parking lot heading south towards the lights of downtown.

    Did you do it? asked the driver as she concentrated on keeping the speeding car on the road.

    You know it, answered the girl through her jagged breathing. The adrenaline was still pounding. Now, her hands had a life of their own. What a blast! Christ, I need a smoke.

    The cards – did you get the cards? And the cameras – who has the cameras? asked the driver anxiously as she slowed the speeding vehicle to blend with the traffic of the night. With my luck, she muttered, we'll get stopped by the cops now. That's all fuckin I need right now.

    We're cool, said the girl still gradually regaining her composure. Just drive the speed limit and take it easy. Have you got the money?

    Right here, said the driver showing her the thick envelope. As promised – you keep the cash. I get the cameras and the cards as well as the camera bag and any film. There is a bus leaving for Toronto in about an hour. I will drop you at the terminal, and that's the end of it. Have a great life, but do not come back here. There are some very bad people in this town that – if they found out you were back, would kill you.

    You got it lady; we’re fuckin gone from here forever.

    Chapter 1

    I’m Back Home

    The bulk of the Air Canada Air Bus smashed through the dense grey cloud cover that reached almost to the snow splattered ground of Pearson International Airport in the northwest quadrant of Toronto. I was both relieved and disappointed to be home again. Relieved, because I had survived a brief Los Angeles’ vacation that had become a violent and costly nightmare. Disappointed, because, at almost the last moment, Jill, the young woman I had met and fallen in love with, said she couldn't, or was it wouldn't, give up her fading dreams of becoming a somebody in Hollywood. Her explanation was a kind one, and it softened the loss of not having her with me. The harsh truth was that our ages and interests were certain to clash probably sooner than later. Both of us wanted it to be different, but it couldn’t be. The world was still spinning, and the sun was still shining – somewhere.

    As I looked out the aeroplane’s porthole window I could see the bleak tarmac of the airport and the beige and grey earth tones of the surrounding area. Snow was being cleared from around the buildings. There was no sunshine. Although it was late in the month of March, tall piles of dirty snow still lay in designated areas away from the buildings and the runways. Airport service staff moved awkwardly in their choreographed roles like sluggish ants at a wasted picnic table. Carbon dioxide mists emerged from drawn hoods of their heavy eider downed lined parkas. Their padded overalls, thick mitts, and bulky waterproof boots added to the slowness of their awkward ballet. The malaise of their activity made me shudder in anticipation of the icy cold Canadian late winter weather. I guess I really couldn't blame Jill for not wanting to leave the warm glow of the California smog. I was almost home.

    The pass through customs was handled quickly. Riverview eh? the young bearded fifty pound overweight customs officer repeated with a sneering smile. Aren't any bad guys in Riverview – you have a good day sir.

    I just offered another weak smile. I guessed that this guy missed the class where they taught that there were bad guys everywhere. My father had been a bad guy – not a terrorist – but a very wealthy bad guy, and he had lived the last years of his life in Riverview. Riverview was the town one hundred and thirty kilometres north east of Toronto that I called home.

    Thanks – you have a good one too, I said to the innocent young officer as I lifted my carry-on baggage. But he had already shifted his penetrating look to the woman and her two kids in line behind me. As I shuffled along to the guarded exit, I stuffed my documentation into the zippered pocket of the bag. I pushed through the reinforced translucent doors to the baggage-carousal – and one step closer to home.

    As I broke through the exit leading from the crowded immigration area to the arrival lounge, I scanned the anxiously waiting faces looking for my daughters, Heather and Jane. I made a valiant attempt to appear as happy as I knew they would expect me to be. After all, I was back home, free and clear of the California system of justice. I knew also that to maintain that facade of joy through the two-hour drive north to Riverview would be almost impossible. I spotted Jane, but she had seen me first. She was waving wildly, a big smile breaking into a full laugh as she moved hastily towards me.

    Hi Dad, she said, as she bowled into me giving me a hug that would have matched anything Hulk Hogan, in his heyday, could have applied. I stumbled slightly off balance into the press of the others behind me and received any number of hostile glares. Airports somehow seem to bring out the worst and best in people.

    Hi yourself, I mumbled trying to escape the noisy crush of the growing crowd that Jane seemed to be able to ignore.

    Not being a demonstrative or emotional person, I really wanted to elude her embrace and get to the safety of her car as quickly as possible. Where's Heather? I asked as we made our way through the public parking area.

    Andrew's visiting his family in Montreal, so she wanted to stay with the kids. There was little point of putting them through the long drive both ways. Both of the kids are getting over a flu or cold bug they picked up in school. We're going to her place for dinner before I take you home, Jane replied, her words tripping over each other as she was impatient to ask her own questions about my vacation, particularly about my arrest and subsequent release. She carefully avoided lingering on anything that included Jill. Jane – Miss Sensitive!

    Heather is my oldest daughter. She is one year older than Jane and about as different in personality and temperament from her sister as night is from day. They are both very bright professionals – Jane a social worker – Heather a psychologist – both whom I love and respect. When their mother, my wife, had been alive, we had cherished the time spent with the girls as they moved through the public school system, always on the honour role, with scholarships to prominent Canadian universities and then as they went off to establish their own lives. When my wife had been killed in a car accident with a drunk driver only a year ago, I had been devastated. It was Heather and Jane who had been my support network and helped me reach the point of wanting to go on with my life. They had helped with planning my trip to California and had pretty much been my mother hens for the last several months. I could never tell them everything that had happened in Los Angeles – or really even why I went there. They wouldn't have believed me anyway.

    We scurried out of the airport’s warmth, across the frigid snow swept parking area and settled into Jane's four wheel drive Jeep Grand Cherokee for the two hour trip north. Before climbing in, my teeth still chattering from the short cold run, I put on my old heavy sheep skin winter coat that Jane had thoughtfully brought with her. Toronto winters, even in March, can be bitterly cold when the Arctic winds sweep south. It was more than the weight of the heavy winter coat that settled on my bone chilled aching shoulders as I waited for the frozen leather seat of the Jeep to warm up.

    I watched as Jane expertly manoeuvred through the mid-afternoon eight lane wide eastern dash of 401 Toronto traffic. The 401 is Ontario’s answer to the various highways and thoroughfares in and around any major metropolis area in the United States including Los Angeles. The biting cold north westerly wind, which certainly didn't bear a resemblance to anything Californian, whipped occasional light drifts of fresh white snow into the wet mix of icy slush and road salt which splashed across the windshield of the Cherokee. The Jeep's defroster was only gradually making an impression on the cold interior. I was reminded of my father, a man who couldn’t get to Florida fast enough after the first snows of November, telling my brothers and me that he could always judge, to within two degrees Fahrenheit, how cold it was by how hard a vehicle’s leather seats were. The joy of haemorrhoids, he would add with a bitter laugh. That afternoon, as we started for home, I felt like I was sitting on a concrete park bench.

    Feeling any jet lag? Jane asked as she glanced quickly towards where I was slumped dismally looking out the window at the vestiges of what, with luck, would be the last month of yet another bleak winter.

    I guess I must be, I replied taking advantage of her explanation for my obvious withdrawal. I do hate the cold of Canadian winters, I added with a small laugh. I felt like crying.

    Our drive home was going well as Jane caught me up on the local news and sports – the Leafs were doing alright and would be in the playoffs. She veered off in some detail about a guy she had found dead at her workplace a week or so ago. Apparently, the cops had not yet found his killer. I barely paid any attention – just nodded and made the appropriate grunts – uh uh – I guess. I had seen and talked enough about death during the last weeks. Finally, I pretended to nod off just to avoid more conversation which would inevitably lead to all that happened in L.A.

    As we pulled into Heather's driveway, I tried to remember just where I had stashed the last minute obligatory presents for everyone. Andrew, Heather's husband, had

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