Vendetta Chapter 3 Part 1

Thank you Gather members for supporting my novel, Vendetta.  I've received many requests to post the rest of the novel, so I will be doing that in weekly installments.  Any vote or comments you feel the chapter deserves would be most appreciated.  Thanks for all your help and knowledgeable advice.   Nancy N. 

Chapter Three

After we dropped the envelope at the lab, I followed Bobby to his gated community where a uniformed guard waved us through. I glanced in the side mirror. Most of the cars I'd seen earlier were following in a line. The only newcomer was a white van at the very end. I noted a truck with mowers and landscaping equipment exiting the other side of the guard station.

Bobby lived in the middle of a block of sprawling white stuccoed homes with red tiled roofs and entry courtyards. His home sported desert landscaping, at least thirty cacti ranging from plump fuzzy barrel shapes to slender, elegant spiky plants thriving in the hard, rocky soil. Like most things in Vegas a bit of flash had been added in the form of a Grecian Goddess water fountain amidst the water smart design. She was life sized and a long, flowing gown hung off one shoulder exposing a naked breast. Bobby parked in front of a one story Spanish style home. I swung the Datsun in behind his Beemer when at the same time a white van turned up Bobby's street. I stared at the driver as he drove past. He was looking the other way and all I saw was the back of a red baseball cap. A magnetic sign on the side of the van read Desert Sands Landscaping, the license plate obscured with mud. It turned right at the corner and disappeared.

Bobby unlocked three dead bolts and I followed him inside. There was a bad odor and I glimpsed the overflowing garbage can in the messy kitchen. Empty Hungry Man tins were stacked on the marble counter tops and glasses and cups filled the deep, farmhouse sink. Apparently he caught the expression on my face because he said: "Sorry the place is such a mess. The maid's on strike. There's cokes in the fridge. Help yourself."

The entryway opened onto a wide living room, dining and kitchen combination. The living room was sparse with only a recliner pointed at a large screen TV. I wondered where visitors sat and realized he probably never entertained. In fact, this room practically screamed: NO TRESPASSING! I was very familiar with solitude. After my mentor Marty Phillips had been convicted of murder and sent to prison I'd embraced solitude and had been obsessively second guessing the choices both he and I had made. I knew how solitude could be a best friend when it came to torturing oneself over things that could never be changed. What nightmare was Bobby secretly nursing?

Fading sunlight flooded the living room when I pulled the curtains that covered the sliding glass doors apart. I tapped the security bar wedged in the track. "You have locks on all your windows?" I asked.

"All the windows have built in locks." Bobby told me. "Look around. The den's down the hall. I'll just pack up some things. Make yourself at home."

I headed down the hallway that led to the den. The curtains were closed in there, too. I fumbled along the wall and found the light switch.

Bookcases filled with dozens of software programs lined the walls. Two computers sat on a long, heavy wooden desk, a reading lamp perched over each leaving me with the impression that this was where Bobby spent most of his time, that he was not only married to his work but that it was also his mistress. There were no magazines, and the only books I saw were about computers.

Making my way around Bobby's computer chair, I noticed a paneled door that was camouflaged to match the paneling on the wall. A hidden closet? With no apparent way of opening it? Hmmm, interesting. I ran my hand along the paneling and found a slightly recessed button which I pushed only to find myself staring at a line of beautiful ball gowns, covered in sparkling beads and fine lace, all in their plastic coverings. Above them a row of shelves was filled with satin high heeled shoes, that looked to be about a size twelve. It occurred to me that I had just discovered what Bobby liked to do in his spare time.

"Tina!" Bobby shouted.

I ran down the hallway to his bedroom and found him standing in a walk in closet so huge it could have fronted for a second bedroom. "What is it Bobby?" I demanded, expecting to hear the worst.

"Look at my clothes!" he wailed. "They're ruined, absolutely ruined!"

It was accurate to say this closet was packed with thousand dollar suits and silk shirts, all of which had been slashed to pieces until what was left looked like dozens of wind socks ready to flap in the breeze. It had taken some time and effort to cause this much damage. Someone was very angry with Bobby.

Stunned, I looked around his room. Nothing else appeared to have been touched which told me that whoever had done this knew Bobby and knew him well because this kind of vandalism was personal. These clothes were a necessity in his job, a reinforcement of his image as an executive, and the fact that they had been destroyed as they had made my stomach clench because what had been done represented so much rage, so much potential for danger for him. This had been done by a person who felt very much in control, someone who had planned every step, even worse, someone who would probably not be content to simply stop at the destruction of property. I was certain that whoever had done this had wished that Bobby had been in one of the suits when he had slashed it.

"He's was here!" Bobby sounded on the verge of hysteria. "Oh my god, he's going to kill me! He might still be in the house!"

"Calm down," I told him, unzipping my purse and pulling out my Beretta. Bobby's face had gone pale and his hands were shaking. I checked the bathroom off his bedroom and even looked under the bed. No one there.

"Sit down," I told him. "I'm going to close and lock this door. Stay here until I tell you it's safe."

I went into the hallway, my gun held in front. Within minutes I had searched every room in the house and found nothing. Relaxing my grip on the Beretta I went out the sliding glass doors and examined the ground outside Bobby's bedroom window.

The paint around the edge of the window showed long scratches from being jimmied. I pushed the window with my gun and it swung open to see Bobby bounding off the bed, apparently determined to head in every direction at once.

"This is how he got in." I told him whereupon Bobby pulled the window closed and wrenched the lock into place with so much force that a strange pinging kind of sound came from inside the frame indicating, as far as I could determine, that he had broken something.

That was when I caught a glimpse of the white van in the street. I ran to the front of the house just as the driver lobbed what looked like a bomb with a lit fuse through the front window of Bobby's house followed by the appearance of a rifle pointed straight at his front door.

"No!" I screamed and aimed my gun at the driver, who ducked and swerved so that my bullets plinked into the side of the van. There was loud screeching of tires when he took off down the winding street.

As smoke began to pour out of the living room, I saw a clearly terrified Bobby fumbling with the window lock, the handle of which had broken off in his hand. Behind him wisps of smoke were rising ominously.

"Step back!" I shouted and picked up what I thought was a ceramic pot which, unfortunately, turned out to be one of those plastic containers made to look like the real thing.

"What are you doing?" Bobby yelled as it bounced off the glass.

Calling to him to get back, I took a good sized stone from the rock garden and sent it crashing into the room, whereupon Bobby came running out the front door coughing and stumbling.

"What did you do to my window?" he shrieked.

I grabbed him and pulled him into the street. As we ran I seemed to hear a ticking sound in my head. Bombs. Rifles. Vandalism. What was going to happen to Bobby next and what was I expected to do about it?