CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nora fingered the handle of the awl lovingly as she climbed the steps to Iris Doyle’s apartment. She’d learned the use of a great deal of tools during her time in the Peace Corps, but the awl was by far her favorite.
She chuckled softly as she imagined Daniel watching her in the Swazi village where she plied the trade her group had assigned her. Shoes? Are you making shoes?
“Yes, Daniel, I’m making shoes.”
Her voice echoed back to her, and she stiffened. She remained still for several heartbeats, not moving until she was certain no one had heard her. Then she let out a breath and continued.
Daniel would have loved to see her then. He would have been so proud of her. She’d found a purpose, despite the world’s insistence on denying her any future after his false incarceration. She’d helped people. She’d saved lives.
And for a while, she was happy. She could forget that her parents had taken the settlement, had forever announced that their son’s death mattered less than their material wealth. She returned home ready to leave the past behind, to honor Daniel’s memory by leading the life he should have lived.
She had tried. God knew she had tried. But the world wasn't getting better.
People weren't getting kinder. Racism wasn't growing smaller.
Black people were still persecuted, still shot every day, still imprisoned every day, still looked down on everywhere they went.
Second chances granted to white people all the time were denied to Blacks.
The nation that touted the God-given right to freedom for everyone on Earth still treated minorities like second-class citizens.
It ate at her. Little by little, it stripped her happiness away.
The looks she'd get in the supermarket. The way mothers would instinctively pull their children closer when they saw them.
The security officers hovered nearby when she was shopping at jewelry or clothing stores (but never the white women; no, they were left alone).
She'd tried, but when her parents died, and she came to terms with her own morality, she realized that she had lived half her life and seen nothing change for the better. The world that had sent her brother to prison to be beaten to death was the same world she lived in now.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
But Nora had learned another lesson in the Peace Corps. Don’t try to do everything, just do what you can.
Nora couldn’t end racism. She couldn’t make people honest.
But she could punish the people who had taken her brother’s life. She could take the rest of their lives from them.
The Lawgiver had shown her how. He had given her the framework she needed. He had taught her that not only did she have the right to punish the false witnesses, but she also had an obligation to punish them. She was a chosen instrument of God, and from her suffering, God would work miracles.
Tonight, He would perform the last miracle. He would rid the world of the last person responsible for her brother’s false conviction.
The last miracle? No, not the last. Others awaited, inmates, prisoners allowed to keep more life than they deserved, allowed to grow old—imprisoned, true, but capable of the meager purpose incarceration allowed.
She would find them. She would kill them. She didn’t know how yet, but she would leave that up to God. For tonight, this was enough.
She blinked and realized she had stopped just in front of the door that would lead to the third floor.
She reached for the handle when the door to the staircase on the opposite side of the hall flew open.
A tall, muscular Black man rushed down the hallway, eyes wild, gun drawn.
He wore a vest with the letters FBI printed in bright white letters across the chest.
Nora’s jaw went slack. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. God had granted her this revenge. He had given her this task.
But the FBI agent stopped in front of Iris Doyle’s door and knocked firmly. Nora brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream of frustration rising in her throat.
It wasn’t fair! Why would God give her this task, then take away from her the ability to complete it? Why, when she was so close?
No one answered the door. The FBI agent pounded on it again. He looked down the hallway, and Nora dropped to the ground, heart thudding. She waited to hear his footsteps approaching, his voice calling, questioning, finger sliding over the trigger of his gun.
Her hand flew back to the awl in her coat pocket, gripping the burled wood handle until her knuckles hurt. She closed her eyes and said a prayer. God, please. I’m begging you not to take this from me. Please, God, I’m begging you.
And God spoke to her in the voice of the Lawgiver. Peace, my Child. Am I not the Lord?
Slowly, her terror and frustration eased, replaced by calm assessment. This was an obstacle, yes, but obstacles could be surmounted. She didn’t need to give up just because the enemy had reared his face.
She got slowly to her feet, grateful for the regular exercise that had left her strong and limber, even into her forties. She looked through the window and saw Iris talking with the FBI agent.
Time had not been kind to Iris. She was, or had been, apparently, a chronic smoker.
She spoke through a box attached to a hole drilled into her neck, holding a microphone up to it to amplify her words to a level others could understand.
Her skin was parched and leathery, making her appear even older than her advanced age would suggest. How she was still alive was anyone’s guess.
She’s alive for you. Her death was ordained to come at your hands.
But how to get past the FBI agent? He was in her doorway right now, but it was clear he was trying to convince Iris to let him into her house to lie in wait for her. And where there was one FBI agent—especially one who was panicked prior to his arrival at the house—there would be others.
Iris took a step back. The FBI agent took a step forward, but not into her apartment. Not yet. Iris was still reluctant, it seemed, to allow him inside.
Nora had a chance, but it wouldn’t last long.
She would have to sneak up behind him quickly and stab him with the awl.
Among her Peace Corps training was a basic education on human anatomy, so she knew the brainstem could be reached through the hollow at the back of a person’s neck.
The Peace Corps hadn’t taught her that an injury there would cause instant flaccid death, but she had learned it from a television show.
She reached for the door handle but stopped again. She couldn’t kill the agent. He was only doing his job. He wasn’t a sinner. He was standing in the way of God’s judgment, but he was a lost sheep, not a sinner. He didn’t know any better. Perhaps he deserved some punishment, but not death.
She switched the awl around in her hand, gripping the spike. The handle was heavy mahogany, dense and hard. If she struck him in the same spot on the back of the head, she would render him unconscious and give herself time to kill Iris.
Yes, that’s what she would do. She would incapacitate the federal agent but not kill him. Death was for Iris and Iris alone.
She looked through the window. The FBI agent was still there.
She turned the handle carefully, feeling for the moment of tension when the latch would click. Once it was there, she held it with both hands and turned slowly.
The click still seemed to echo throughout the entire staircase. She winced, expecting the FBI agent to immediately turn his head and notice her.
He remained where he was.
Nora released the breath she was holding and turned the handle the rest of the way. Slowly, she pushed it open, listening for any creaks. When it was open just enough that she could enter, she stepped through, softening her footsteps so they didn’t carry down the thin-carpeted hallway.
“I’m sure you did what you thought was right,” the FBI agent was saying. “I’m not here to judge your choices, ma’am. I’m here to ensure that you survive the night.”
Iris replied, her voice tinny, hollow, and too light for Nora to hear. Which was all right, because she didn’t want to listen.
Don't judge her choices? Keep her alive? Did he realize that Iris's actions contributed to the false incarceration of an innocent man? Did he care?
Nora nearly flipped her awl around to spike him again, but as much as she wanted to kill him, he still hadn’t done anything worthy of death.
She closed the door softly, turned the latch softly, everything soft and gentle, focused on quiet.
“We’ll only be here long enough to keep you safe,” the FBI agent insisted. “Ma’am, please, you can verify my name and ID number with the FBI headquarters office.” Iris responded briefly, and the agent said, “That’s fine. You can Google the number. Just… Please, ma’am.”
He was frustrated. That was good. He was focused on convincing the nervous Iris to let him protect her. He didn’t notice Nora creeping up to him, hidden from Iris’s view, unseen by her would-be guardian, whose brows furrowed in frustration as he grappled with her false logic.
“Can’t you wait outside?” Iris croaked. “I don’t like strange men in my house.”
Nora almost chuckled at the irony. She lifted the awl above her head and stopped just behind him, close enough to see the muscles at the back of his jaw work as he talked.
“It’ll only be—”
Nora stepped forward and swung down hard. The heavy wooden handle crashed into his skull with a sickening crunch. He dropped immediately, leaving Nora face-to-face with the shocked Iris Doyle.
Elation filled her. She grinned. “Hello.”
Iris stumbled into her apartment, eyes the size of dinner plates.
Nora laughed and stepped forward. Iris tried to shut the door on her, but a single thrust with Nora’s arm sent the woman flying.
She wept as she hit the ground, her damaged vocal cords releasing a wet, squelching hiss rather than a true sob.
She lifted the microphone to the box on her throat.
Quick as a snake, Nora reached forward and stripped the microphone from Iris’s hands.
She tossed it to the ground, then kicked the door closed behind her.
It bounced off of the FBI agent’s body, and she had to push harder with her foot to close it.
That gave Iris time to attempt an escape, which she did, shuffling for her hallway on gnarled, twisted feet, probably hoping to lock herself in the bedroom.
Nora rushed her, shoving her to the floor before she reached the hallway. Iris hit the ground with a breathy squawk, and Nora laughed. This was the first time she’d delayed killing a target. It was fun to watch your prey run! She hadn’t done this with the others, but this woman couldn’t scream.
Nora could take her time with her.
A soft voice reminded her that other FBI agents were likely on their way. She didn’t have much time.
But she could still make Iris suffer. She didn’t have to kill her yet. Not right away.
Iris had pushed herself shakily onto her back and was now sliding away from Nora on her backside. She croaked something Nora couldn’t hear, but she could read her lips well enough. Please.
Nora smiled at her. “Please what? Save your life? Like you saved Daniel Avery’s life?”
Iris stiffened. Her eyes widened. Her lower lip trembled.
Nora placed the awl on the coffee table and retrieved a small case from the inner pocket of her jacket. “It’s time for the fate you deserve, Iris.”
The older woman opened her mouth in a breathy scream. Nora listened to that scream, laughing and praising God for the boon He’d granted her.
She opened the case in front of Iris and pulled out the coil of catgut and the gleaming surgical needle she would use to apply it. Iris saw the implements, and her eyes widened, revealing rheumy yellow at the edges of her sclera.
This woman was ill. She wouldn’t last much longer anyway.
Just long enough to grant Nora her revenge.
“This is what you get. For destroying an innocent man’s life. This is what you get.”
She stepped closer, lips pulling back over her teeth as Iris released another silent scream.