Jack_ Secret Vengeance - F. Paul Wilson [12]
But Jack hadn’t arrived via Emerson Lane. He’d hidden his bike among the used cars in Sumter’s lot and hiked through the sprawling orchard on the north side of the development. Along the way he’d passed Professor Nakamura’s house; through the rear windows he’d seen the professor sitting at the desk in his study. Here was another guy who’d let Weezy down, but not on purpose.
From the orchard it had been easy to slip through the Tolivers’ backyard to the side of their garage where he peeked through the window to check out what cars it held. He found two: a Cadillac DeVille and a Mercedes sedan. No Mustang convertible in sight. Which meant the Boy Wonder wasn’t home yet.
Good.
Jack wore dark jeans, a navy blue sweater, and a knit watch cap. He stoked his rage as he planned his moves.
When Toliver arrived, Jack would wait till he got out of the car, then pull his cap down over his face, sneak up on him, and crack his kneecaps—good, hard, solid shots to one, then the other, ending his sports-hero days. Then, if time permitted, maybe he’d smash the hands that had groped Weezy. That done, he’d hightail it back through the orchard to his bike and be back home before the sheriff’s office got the call.
Yeah. That would work.
But the longer he waited, the more he thought about it. And the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. But he wouldn’t back down. Someone needed to put the hurt on this guy, and Jack had elected himself to the job.
He crouched lower as he saw lights flare down the street. They reached the end of the cul-de-sac and swept into the driveway as a Mustang pulled to a stop before the garage doors. Jack stretched the cap down over his face and watched through the weave as the convertible top rose from its hiding place behind the rear seat, then lowered itself into place. As he waited for the driver’s door to open he felt sweat collecting in his armpits and on his palms where he white-knuckled the bat. Finally Carson Toliver stepped out. He stood and stretched, and Jack knew here was the perfect time to make his move.
Yet he remained in a crouch as Toliver strolled up to his front door and stepped inside. When the door slammed shut Jack slumped onto his butt with his back against the wall.
His first thought was that he’d chickened out, but it hadn’t been that. With darkness, surprise, and a baseball bat against a barehanded kid, even if that kid was older and bigger, Jack had had nothing to fear. But as he’d readied to spring, he thought about cowardice. And he’d realized that making no move wouldn’t be cowardly—but attacking would.
If he’d gone through with it, he’d have been nothing more than a thug. Yeah, he’d have gotten even for Weezy, but with a sneak attack and brute force. Not the sort of thing he’d take pride in afterward. In fact, he could see himself feeling pretty crummy about it later.
Besides, Weezy deserved better.
He rose and trotted back to the orchard. As he reached it he glanced back and saw a light go on in a bedroom. Toliver stepped to the window and pulled the blinds.
Sleep tight, you rotten …
As he wove through the droopy trees, their branches lighter now since the recent apple harvest, he searched for a way to balance the scales. He knew he’d eventually find one, because he wasn’t giving up on this. His rage at Toliver hadn’t dissipated one speck, it had simply gone from hot to cold.
And revenge, they said, was a dish best served cold.
But how to balance those scales? Or better yet, tip them the other way?
On one side was Weezy, afraid to go to school and perhaps teetering on the edge of some emotional abyss. From the sound of her earlier, maybe she’d already slipped over.
On the other side was Toliver, riding high.
And in the middle … Jack, with very few options.
Weezy’s refusal to let anyone know about the attack was tying his hands. That had been a bad decision on Sunday morning, and here, on Monday night, it was no longer an option. Toliver had made a preemptive strike,