Vengeance Road (32 page)

J
olene Peller's screams blended with the sirens of the two patrol cars arriving at the building from the County Sheriff's Department.

Deputies Tim Crewson and Eddy Huck, both big former linemen, rushed into the burning barn. Guided by Jolene's cries, they found the chairs and dragged them, shredded cables and all, clear of the inferno.

“I think there are more people inside, Eddy!”

As Crewson and Huck started back, the fuel cans exploded. No way to enter. The building was gone. Fire trucks and emergency crews arrived, in response to the radio call Huck had made when he and Crewson had first spotted the smoke on their approach.

Paramedics treated Jolene and Gannon, then transported them to Huntsville Memorial. Their vital signs were good. They'd suffered trauma and some smoke inhalation but no burns.

Within hours, teams of FBI agents, local and state authorities, news vans and satellite trucks had converged on the neglected tract of land.

Helicopters and small planes roared overhead.

Yellow crime-scene tape went up around the property as live coverage and the Internet carried images of it to the world.

Two bodies were retrieved from the smoldering aftermath. While their identities had not been confirmed, police said the victims were thought to be Karl and Orion Styebeck.

However, investigators were puzzled by two sets of older, charred, skeletal remains found at the site. A fuller picture emerged after the FBI took statements from Gannon and Jolene Peller at Huntsville Memorial.

When they'd finished giving their statements, the staff let Gannon and Jolene have a private moment in Jolene's room.

“Thank you,” she said from her bed when the door closed, “for finding me.”

“Thank your mother. She's the one who asked me to help.”

“Yes.” Jolene smiled. “She just called and told me about that. And she put Cody on the line. I thought I'd never hear their voices again.”

Jolene covered her face with her hands to catch her breath.

Then Jolene said that the Florida company that had hired her had arranged to pay all her expenses and fly her home to Buffalo to recover, before she started her job in Orlando.

“Excuse me, Mr. Gannon?”

A nurse at the door said he had a call that he could take at her desk.

“Jack! I've been trying to get through to the hospital,” Adell Clark said. “Thank God! You're all right?”

“I'm all right,” he said.

“I called the police. They patched me through to the sheriff.”

“Your call saved Jolene Peller's life, and mine, too. Thank you.”

“Want me to fly to Texas and come home with you?”

“No, I should be back tomorrow, or the next day.”

Not long after Adell's call, Melody Lyon got through to Gannon at the hospital.

“You do get close to the story, Jack.”

“Too close.”

“I think I can make a case for hiring you, if you're interested?”

“I happen to be available.”

“Good, but first we've got some things to take care of,” she said.

Gannon gave the World Press Alliance his exclusive story. He spoke to a WPA feature writer in New York. He also sent them all of his notes and got a byline in an exclusive WPA multipart series called “Marked for Death,” which would play across the U.S. and around the world.

In the days that followed, investigators found the buried remains of ten victims on the old Styebeck property. All were homicides arising from the cases of women missing from across the country.

In Buffalo, Alice Styebeck issued a statement that said her husband, Karl, was a good man who gave his life trying to stop his sick brother from hurting more people.

“And in the end that's what he did,” she wrote. “He stopped a killer. I know my husband had some problems, but I hope people will remember him for the good man, good father and good husband he was.”

After clearing the case, Michael Brent submitted his formal request to retire from the New York State Police. Then he sent an e-mail to Jack Gannon.

 

Bottom line, you're a helluva news reporter. Just keep chasing the truth, it's the best guide to doing the right thing. P.S. A friend with a federal agency says
your former boss, Nate Fowler, will be indicted. Something to do with swindling and fraud. I thought you'd like to know.

 

In the time since he'd returned to Buffalo, Gannon took care of unfinished business. After visiting Adell Clark to thank her, he stopped by Mary Peller's apartment.

Jolene came to the door with Cody clinging to her leg, like he'd never let go. Some of her bruises had started to fade, but he wondered about the scars she'd carry for the rest of her days.

“Just wanted to see how you're doing,” he said.

Boxes covered the floor; they were packing for Florida.

“We're going to be fine.” Jolene smiled. “I'll take it one day at a time. How about you?”

He shrugged. “The same.”

Gannon noticed her locket, the one he'd seen in the Wichita crime scene pictures.

“May I see?”

She opened it and showed it to him.

“Candace Rose, the detective in Kansas, arranged for the FBI to hand deliver it to me.”

“Mr. Gannon!”

Mary Peller came down the hall, opened her arms and hugged him.

“You're my hero, Jack Gannon. I knew something about you was different the morning I met you in your newsroom. I saw it in your eyes. I said, if anybody's going to help me, this man will. Thank you!”

Gannon left, warmed by the sight of a small family reunited.

Then he glanced at the gift in the backseat of his Pontiac Vibe and drove downtown west of Main. He parked near the back of a small two-story frame house that was in need
of paint. He knocked and heard movement inside. While he waited, he looked at the flower garden.

Bernice Hogan's foster mother, Catherine Field, answered the door, a question rising in her face until she recognized Gannon.

“Hello, Catherine.”

“I saw it all on the news. I never expected to see you again.”

Gannon passed her an envelope. She looked inside. It was a check for several hundred dollars. She looked at him.

“Bernice shouldn't be forgotten in all this,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you could start a small scholarship in her memory at the school.”

Catherine's eyes glistened.

“And I have this for you.”

Gannon reached down for a planter with a sapling.

“It's an elm. For you to plant here.” He nodded to her yard. “Or where Bernice is resting. It's sort of a symbol of hope.”

She stared at him for several moments then her face crumpled. She covered it with a wrinkled hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

 

A few days later, in Cheektowaga, in the neighbourhood of Cleveland Hill near where he grew up, Gannon carried one of the last boxes from his apartment to his Pontiac.

His cell phone rang.

“Jack, Ward Wallace at the
Sentinel.
”

“Congratulations on your promotion to managing editor, Ward. I'm betting not many people are grieving Nate's departure.”

“Not many. Listen, I'm calling to offer you a job at the
Sentinel
, with a raise, and to let you know we'll make a formal front-page apology to you.”

“Ward, I appreciate where this is coming from, but.

“I know. I know you've accepted the WPA's offer. I talked to Melody. I was impressed that they were generous, paid all your bills on the story, gave you the big check for the exclusive series and the bonus. But we need a guy like you here and, well, I thought I'd give it a shot.”

“It's not about the money, Ward, you know that.”

“I do. This paper always got more from you than it gave.”

Not long after Wallace's call, Gannon set the last box in the passenger seat. Before he turned the ignition he opened it to look at the contents and reached in for one item.

His father, mother, sister and a younger version of himself all smiled back from an old framed photograph.

The ghosts of his life.

He stared at Cora and heard her voice.

You're going to be a great writer someday. Lots of people are going to read your stories, Jackie. Wanna know how I know? Because you're so smart. I see it in your eyes. You don't let go. You don't give up.

Would he ever see her again?
Don't think about that now,
he told himself, dropping the picture onto the passenger seat.

He drove off, realizing that at last, at long last, he'd achieved everything he'd wanted his whole life. He was going to be working in Manhattan, reporting for a global wire service.

The world would be his beat.

His dream had come true.

But man, it came at such a terrible price, he thought, glancing at the photograph as Buffalo blurred in his rearview mirror.

Thank you, Amy Moore-Benson

My thanks to the New York State Police.

Thank you to Valerie Gray, Dianne Moggy, Catherine Burke and the excellent editorial, marketing, sales and PR teams at MIRA Books. As always, I am indebted to Wendy Dudley. I also thank my friends in the news business for their help and support; in particular, Sheldon Alberts, Washington Bureau Chief for CanWest News Service, Glen Miller, Metro, Juliet Williams, Associated Press, Sacramento, California, Bruce DeSilva and Vinnee Tong, Associated Press, New York. Also Lou Clancy, Eric Dawson, Jamie Portman, Mike Gillespie, colleagues past and present with the
Calgary Herald, Ottawa Citizen
, CanWest News, Canadian Press, Reuters, the
Toronto Star, Globe and Mail
and so many others.

You know who you are.

Thanks to Ginnie Roeglin, Tod Jones, David Fuller, Steve Fisher, Lorelle Gilpin, Sue Knowles, David Wright and everyone at The C.C. I am grateful to Pennie Clark Ianniciello, Shana Rawers, Wendi Wambolt and Melissa McMeekin.

Very special thanks to Laura and Michael.

Again, I am indebted to sales representatives, booksellers and librarians for putting my work in your hands. Which brings me to you, the reader—the most critical part of the entire enterprise.

Thank you very much for your time, for without you, a book remains an untold tale. I hope you enjoyed the ride and will check out my earlier books while watching for my next one. I welcome your feedback. Drop by at www.rickmofina.com, subscribe to my newsletter and send me a note.