| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted November 2, 2024 | Chapters: |
1 -2- 3... 
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The crash
A chapter in the book Miracles
Miracles - Chap 2
by Begin Again
"Oh dear Lord, what was that?"
Seconds later, Peter raced from the barn, smelling the burning rubber and hearing the sound of the crunching metal. His boots pounded against the gravel drive as he sprinted toward the road, where flames were already licking at the sides of the car.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure standing in the road, barely a hundred feet away, just watching. Relief flooded him —someone else was here!
He waved his arms, yelling for help, but instead of coming to his aid, the figure turned, climbed into his waiting car, and sped off. Peter's shout caught in his throat as he stood there, dumbfounded, watching the glow of red taillights disappear around the bend.
"Danged fool. Why wouldn't he help?" Peter muttered under his breath. Yanking off his flannel shirt, he raced toward the burning inferno, wrapping his hand because everything was too hot to touch. He raised his arm, shielding his face from the heat.
"Lord, this woman needs help. I can't do this alone."
Miraculously, another driver pulled to the side of the road, and a stranger hurried toward Peter, shouting, "You need to get back. It's going to explode!"
Peter nodded but turned back to Margaret's car. "I can't just leave her in there to burn. We've got to try."
"Is she alive?" The stranger asked, gasping for air after running toward Peter.
"I don't know, but there's not much time." Peter wiped his forehead and stared at the flames.
The stranger hesitated before moving closer. "Okay, pull on the handle, and I'll try to pull, too." Nothing happened.
He shook his head. "It's not budging. I'm sorry, but I don't think we can save her."
Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke, "I can help."
Both men froze, startled to hear another voice. They turned to see a woman standing directly behind them. Peter looked at the stranger. "It's worth a try, right?"
Another loud pop echoed under the hood, sending flames shooting higher and forcing the men to step back. Fear flashed through the stranger's eyes, and he shook his head. "I want to help, but that car could explode, and we'll all be dead."
Eleanor's voice was soothing. "We can do this, " she said, pressing her hand against his arm. "Please, try again, Leonard. She's my sister."
Leonard's eyes widened. "Do I know you?"
Eleanor smiled. "I think I saw a picture of you with your mother."
Leonard nodded, still unsure how the woman knew who he was; after all, his mother had passed away ten years ago. Before he could question her further, Peter shouted, "If we are going to do this, it's now or never!"
Both men felt a surge of adrenaline as they strained against the car door. Eleanor placed her hands on each man's shoulder, allowing her energy to flow through them. Her body trembled and shimmered. Her face was etched with exhaustion, but she refused to stop, risking everything to rescue Margaret.
The door groaned but didn't budge. Both men exchanged glances, debating one last attempt.
Eleanor inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the car. Quivering, she whispered, "Margaret, I'm here." Her expression softened, a glimmer of determination sparking in her weary smile. "One more time — I know you can do it."
Peter and Leonard nodded, each grasping the door handle and pulling with everything they had. A sudden surge of warmth and strength coursed through them. They heard the eerie sound of screeching metal as the door fell away.
Eleanor's form wavered and faded as she collapsed onto the ground, drained. She watched helplessly as the two men pulled her sister's lifeless body from the car. Flames flickered around the edge of Margaret's clothing, and her body was limp. Peter cradled her in his arms and raced up the hill away from the burning wreckage. Leonard trailed close behind.
As they reached the crest of the hill, Peter laid Margaret on the ground, and the stranger raced to his car for a blanket, yelling, "I'll call 911."
An explosive BOOM rocked the ground, and flames roared upward in a plume of red and orange.
Eleanor, weak and barely visible, struggled to move away from the heat of the fire. She whispered, pleading to an unseen force, "Please, give me the strength to reach her. She needs me."
A calm enveloped her invisible body, and her aura shimmered back into view. She gasped for air, feeling her strength return. In seconds, she was kneeling at Margaret's side.
Peter backed away. He watched in disbelief and awe as the woman who wasn't there before now cradled Margaret in her arms. He couldn't make sense of it.
"Margaret, can you hear me?" Eleanor's voice cracked. "It's Eleanor."
Margaret's eyelids fluttered, and for one heart-wrenching moment, their eyes met. Though she couldn't speak, Margaret's gaze held the warmth of unspoken words.
Eleanor's voice softened as she whispered, "I love you." She felt Margaret take her last breath and slip away. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she squeezed her sister's hand. "Until we meet again, sis."
As she released Margaret's hand, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper tucked in her sister's shirt pocket. She pulled it free. The edges were singed, and a corner flaked away as she unfolded it. Her hands trembled as she read, each word a jagged cut to her heart.
"Death Awaits You!"
Eleanor gasped as horror spread across her face. She knew instantly who had written it. The soot-stained letterhead was still recognizable — the unmistakable seal of Joliet Prison. She also knew this was only the beginning. John Doyle was coming for all of them.
A wave of guilt surged through her. She should have known he wouldn't rest, even behind bars, until he exacted his vengeance. Her fingers clenched the note as her sorrow ignited into a simmering rage.
The flames of the wreck behind her mirrored the fire burning within her soul. Doyle had started this war, and she was ready to finish it.
"This isn't over, Margaret. I swear to you, I'll stop him."
She stood and walked away, slowly fading into the black smoke.
As the sirens approached, both men stared into the black clouds, shaking their heads. Leonard wiped off the lens of his glasses, stammering as he spoke, "Did — she — just disappear?"
Peter shook his head, wiping the sweat from his face. "I'm glad you're here because I would never have believed it."
"She even knew my name."
Their conversation was curtailed as the EMTs rushed to the scene, but both men knew they hadn't been there alone.
*****
Freedom!
John Doyle's triumphant roar echoed in his mind as he stood before the parole board. His body was rigid, though he appeared outwardly calm. He believed his time at Joliet State Prison was ending, confident that he would soon be released —his plan for revenge had already taken its first steps.
Power, manipulation, and wealth had served him well in life as a judge, and even in the darkness of prison, he maintained control. No one in the room knew how many strings he still pulled or how many lives he influenced.
He had built an empire from the shadows, his influence untouchable — even behind bars. When he entered the hearing room, he noticed Detective Donatelli and FBI Agent Garth Woodman standing at the back. The absence of Eleanor brought him a smile, knowing that Margaret's accident would have unfolded by now.
The parole board members sat in a semicircle, their faces devoid of expression as they rifled through the documents. Doyle could see the subtle twitches of discomfort on their faces and reveled in them. One member glanced at the clock repeatedly — they wanted him gone. They feared him, and rightfully so.
The chairman cleared his throat, looking at Doyle through thin glasses. "John Doyle, Inmate 214788, you've been incarcerated at Joliet State Prison for over a decade. Your record has been noted during your time here —" He paused again, exchanging glances with the other board members. Clearing his throat, he continued, "There have been complications."
Doyle smiled, confident that freedom was just moments away. He replied assuredly, "Rehabilitation has worked wonders."
The chairman's lips pressed together as he studied the papers before him. Other members shuffled their stacks of documents as well. Finally, the only woman on the panel said, "You were convicted of corruption, bribery, obstruction of justice, human trafficking, theft, and so much more."
Doyle remained composed, refusing to flinch at her accusations. "All allegations, I assure you. I've served my time for those —" He paused and stared at each board member. "Let's call them misunderstandings."
The woman stared at him, refusing to take the bait he offered. "We have concerns regarding your conduct during your incarceration."
John leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so?"
Someone in the crowd gasped at his audacity. A few others squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, worried that names might be revealed.
Unmoved, she continued, "Reports from staff and others indicate that you have maintained relationships with known criminals, using their influence within these walls."
Doyle's smile remained unchanged. He expected their little power plays. It was their way of reminding him they held the key to his freedom. However, he believed he was in control. "I believe keeping and making friends is a part of my rehabilitation — building networks of trust. Isn't that the doctrine we've been taught daily in our sessions?"
The parole board exchanged glances, a few murmurs, and shifted nervously in their chairs.
"John Doyle, after careful consideration —" The chairman swallowed hard and continued, "By an anonymous vote, the board has decided your parole —"
Doyle grinned and turned his head to look at the crowd. His eyes stopped on Detective Matthew Donatelli. He struggled to remain calm as his hatred for the man responsible for putting him in this hellhole stared back at him and smiled. Their eyes locked, neither blinking.
The chairman tapped his gavel against the table. "Mr. Doyle, your attention, please."
Mentally, Doyle visualized his hands around Donatelli's throat, reveling as he watched his twisted face as he gasped, taking his last breath. The sound of the gavel and the chairman's raised voice brought him back to the present. He turned around to face the board, confident freedom was seconds away.
The chairman scanned the crowd, connecting with Detective Donatelli. Without looking at the inmate before him, the chairman said, "At this time, by unanimous decision, the board has denied your petition for parole."
One word hung in the air. Deny?
Doyle's once-triumphant cry of "freedom" turned sour in his mind. A roar of rage surged through him as he glared at the board. He remained still — not a muscle moved, not even a twitch in his eye. Nothing showed the violent storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.
How dare they deny him parole?
The chairman's voice droned on — for the good of the community" and "further review in five years." Doyle didn't hear any of it. His mind raced, already calculating his next move.
They thought they had the upper hand and had stripped him of his freedom. They were fools. They had no idea that he was already steps ahead of them.
Doyle rose slowly, smoothing his prison uniform as if it were one of his tailored suits. His lips curled into a smile, but this one was far more sinister than before.
Turning to stare at Donatelli, he spoke quietly, "This isn't over." Not expecting a response, he turned and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped with clenched fists at his side and glared at the board members, muttering, "You haven't seen the last of me.
The correctional officer led him from the hearing room into the hallway. "Your lawyer has arranged a meeting, Mr. Doyle."
John snarled, "Not that it matters. I've nothing to say to him."
"I think it will be worth your while." The guard nodded and led the way.
As they approached a door, the guard hesitated, glancing around before shifting his eyes upward and giving a slight nod to a hidden camera.
"Right here." The guard gestured to a small conference room. "You've got ten minutes, no more."
Doyle stepped inside, his anger simmering beneath the surface. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against the table, arms crossed tightly across his chest, glaring at his lawyer. "So, what's the plan?"
Before his lawyer could answer, the door opened. Doyle spun around, snarling, "It ain't been ten minutes. Get out!"
Vince Rossi, a well-known attorney for Gentlemen Jack and other high-ranking mobsters, entered the room. "A bit testy, are we?" he remarked. His Armani suit screamed money and power.
Doyle recognized him but didn't let his surprise show. "So kind of you to make a social call, Rossi."
Ignoring Doyle's attitude, Rossi continued, "I didn't expect you to be so — resourceful," There was a hint of admiration in his voice. "You've got the guard in your pocket."
Doyle smirked, his confidence returning. "Power doesn't disappear just because you're behind bars. The board thinks they can contain me, but they're mistaken. I'm more than just a number in their system."
Rossi nodded, the glint of something dark in his eyes. "The bosses want you back on your feet. They're invested in your connections, and they've sent me to ensure you don't screw this up. But there's more at stake. You know William escaped, right?"
Doyle's brow furrowed slightly, his interest piqued. "William? He bungled the pageant deal. What's he got to do with this? I thought he was in Germany."
Rossi leaned in, his voice low. "That's what everyone thought. But we have a tip-off that he's back. If he's here, he's a loose end you might want to consider."
The wheels spun in Doyle's brain before he spoke, "Actually, he'll fit in perfectly. I've got a few paintings to unload. They're worth plenty, and William can make the connections."
"Is he trustworthy? What if he's caught? Will he fold?"
Doyle's eyes sparked with malice as a cold smile crept across his lips. "He outsmarted the FBI and conned the German Consulate. He has qualities I can use. If he fails, he's always expendable."
Rossi checked the door to make sure they weren't overheard. "Just remember, Doyle, this game is dangerous. One wrong move, and it won't just be you who pays."
Doyle straightened, exuding confidence. "They've already made their first mistake by crossing me. I won't let them forget it."
Rossi nodded. "We just need to be careful. You don't want to tip them off."
Doyle leaned in closer, a sinister sneer forming on his lips. "Careful is not my style. I guarantee you — they're gonna suffer."
"Oh dear Lord, what was that?"
Seconds later, Peter raced from the barn, smelling the burning rubber and hearing the sound of the crunching metal. His boots pounded against the gravel drive as he sprinted toward the road, where flames were already licking at the sides of the car.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure standing in the road, barely a hundred feet away, just watching. Relief flooded him —someone else was here!
He waved his arms, yelling for help, but instead of coming to his aid, the figure turned, climbed into his waiting car, and sped off. Peter's shout caught in his throat as he stood there, dumbfounded, watching the glow of red taillights disappear around the bend.
"Danged fool. Why wouldn't he help?" Peter muttered under his breath. Yanking off his flannel shirt, he raced toward the burning inferno, wrapping his hand because everything was too hot to touch. He raised his arm, shielding his face from the heat.
"Lord, this woman needs help. I can't do this alone."
Miraculously, another driver pulled to the side of the road, and a stranger hurried toward Peter, shouting, "You need to get back. It's going to explode!"
Peter nodded but turned back to Margaret's car. "I can't just leave her in there to burn. We've got to try."
"Is she alive?" The stranger asked, gasping for air after running toward Peter.
"I don't know, but there's not much time." Peter wiped his forehead and stared at the flames.
The stranger hesitated before moving closer. "Okay, pull on the handle, and I'll try to pull, too." Nothing happened.
He shook his head. "It's not budging. I'm sorry, but I don't think we can save her."
Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke, "I can help."
Both men froze, startled to hear another voice. They turned to see a woman standing directly behind them. Peter looked at the stranger. "It's worth a try, right?"
Another loud pop echoed under the hood, sending flames shooting higher and forcing the men to step back. Fear flashed through the stranger's eyes, and he shook his head. "I want to help, but that car could explode, and we'll all be dead."
Eleanor's voice was soothing. "We can do this, " she said, pressing her hand against his arm. "Please, try again, Leonard. She's my sister."
Leonard's eyes widened. "Do I know you?"
Eleanor smiled. "I think I saw a picture of you with your mother."
Leonard nodded, still unsure how the woman knew who he was; after all, his mother had passed away ten years ago. Before he could question her further, Peter shouted, "If we are going to do this, it's now or never!"
Both men felt a surge of adrenaline as they strained against the car door. Eleanor placed her hands on each man's shoulder, allowing her energy to flow through them. Her body trembled and shimmered. Her face was etched with exhaustion, but she refused to stop, risking everything to rescue Margaret.
The door groaned but didn't budge. Both men exchanged glances, debating one last attempt.
Eleanor inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the car. Quivering, she whispered, "Margaret, I'm here." Her expression softened, a glimmer of determination sparking in her weary smile. "One more time — I know you can do it."
Peter and Leonard nodded, each grasping the door handle and pulling with everything they had. A sudden surge of warmth and strength coursed through them. They heard the eerie sound of screeching metal as the door fell away.
Eleanor's form wavered and faded as she collapsed onto the ground, drained. She watched helplessly as the two men pulled her sister's lifeless body from the car. Flames flickered around the edge of Margaret's clothing, and her body was limp. Peter cradled her in his arms and raced up the hill away from the burning wreckage. Leonard trailed close behind.
As they reached the crest of the hill, Peter laid Margaret on the ground, and the stranger raced to his car for a blanket, yelling, "I'll call 911."
An explosive BOOM rocked the ground, and flames roared upward in a plume of red and orange.
Eleanor, weak and barely visible, struggled to move away from the heat of the fire. She whispered, pleading to an unseen force, "Please, give me the strength to reach her. She needs me."
A calm enveloped her invisible body, and her aura shimmered back into view. She gasped for air, feeling her strength return. In seconds, she was kneeling at Margaret's side.
Peter backed away. He watched in disbelief and awe as the woman who wasn't there before now cradled Margaret in her arms. He couldn't make sense of it.
"Margaret, can you hear me?" Eleanor's voice cracked. "It's Eleanor."
Margaret's eyelids fluttered, and for one heart-wrenching moment, their eyes met. Though she couldn't speak, Margaret's gaze held the warmth of unspoken words.
Eleanor's voice softened as she whispered, "I love you." She felt Margaret take her last breath and slip away. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she squeezed her sister's hand. "Until we meet again, sis."
As she released Margaret's hand, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper tucked in her sister's shirt pocket. She pulled it free. The edges were singed, and a corner flaked away as she unfolded it. Her hands trembled as she read, each word a jagged cut to her heart.
"Death Awaits You!"
Eleanor gasped as horror spread across her face. She knew instantly who had written it. The soot-stained letterhead was still recognizable — the unmistakable seal of Joliet Prison. She also knew this was only the beginning. John Doyle was coming for all of them.
A wave of guilt surged through her. She should have known he wouldn't rest, even behind bars, until he exacted his vengeance. Her fingers clenched the note as her sorrow ignited into a simmering rage.
The flames of the wreck behind her mirrored the fire burning within her soul. Doyle had started this war, and she was ready to finish it.
"This isn't over, Margaret. I swear to you, I'll stop him."
She stood and walked away, slowly fading into the black smoke.
As the sirens approached, both men stared into the black clouds, shaking their heads. Leonard wiped off the lens of his glasses, stammering as he spoke, "Did — she — just disappear?"
Peter shook his head, wiping the sweat from his face. "I'm glad you're here because I would never have believed it."
"She even knew my name."
Their conversation was curtailed as the EMTs rushed to the scene, but both men knew they hadn't been there alone.
*****
Freedom!
John Doyle's triumphant roar echoed in his mind as he stood before the parole board. His body was rigid, though he appeared outwardly calm. He believed his time at Joliet State Prison was ending, confident that he would soon be released —his plan for revenge had already taken its first steps.
Power, manipulation, and wealth had served him well in life as a judge, and even in the darkness of prison, he maintained control. No one in the room knew how many strings he still pulled or how many lives he influenced.
He had built an empire from the shadows, his influence untouchable — even behind bars. When he entered the hearing room, he noticed Detective Donatelli and FBI Agent Garth Woodman standing at the back. The absence of Eleanor brought him a smile, knowing that Margaret's accident would have unfolded by now.
The parole board members sat in a semicircle, their faces devoid of expression as they rifled through the documents. Doyle could see the subtle twitches of discomfort on their faces and reveled in them. One member glanced at the clock repeatedly — they wanted him gone. They feared him, and rightfully so.
The chairman cleared his throat, looking at Doyle through thin glasses. "John Doyle, Inmate 214788, you've been incarcerated at Joliet State Prison for over a decade. Your record has been noted during your time here —" He paused again, exchanging glances with the other board members. Clearing his throat, he continued, "There have been complications."
Doyle smiled, confident that freedom was just moments away. He replied assuredly, "Rehabilitation has worked wonders."
The chairman's lips pressed together as he studied the papers before him. Other members shuffled their stacks of documents as well. Finally, the only woman on the panel said, "You were convicted of corruption, bribery, obstruction of justice, human trafficking, theft, and so much more."
Doyle remained composed, refusing to flinch at her accusations. "All allegations, I assure you. I've served my time for those —" He paused and stared at each board member. "Let's call them misunderstandings."
The woman stared at him, refusing to take the bait he offered. "We have concerns regarding your conduct during your incarceration."
John leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so?"
Someone in the crowd gasped at his audacity. A few others squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, worried that names might be revealed.
Unmoved, she continued, "Reports from staff and others indicate that you have maintained relationships with known criminals, using their influence within these walls."
Doyle's smile remained unchanged. He expected their little power plays. It was their way of reminding him they held the key to his freedom. However, he believed he was in control. "I believe keeping and making friends is a part of my rehabilitation — building networks of trust. Isn't that the doctrine we've been taught daily in our sessions?"
The parole board exchanged glances, a few murmurs, and shifted nervously in their chairs.
"John Doyle, after careful consideration —" The chairman swallowed hard and continued, "By an anonymous vote, the board has decided your parole —"
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure standing in the road, barely a hundred feet away, just watching. Relief flooded him —someone else was here!
He waved his arms, yelling for help, but instead of coming to his aid, the figure turned, climbed into his waiting car, and sped off. Peter's shout caught in his throat as he stood there, dumbfounded, watching the glow of red taillights disappear around the bend.
"Danged fool. Why wouldn't he help?" Peter muttered under his breath. Yanking off his flannel shirt, he raced toward the burning inferno, wrapping his hand because everything was too hot to touch. He raised his arm, shielding his face from the heat.
"Lord, this woman needs help. I can't do this alone."
Miraculously, another driver pulled to the side of the road, and a stranger hurried toward Peter, shouting, "You need to get back. It's going to explode!"
Peter nodded but turned back to Margaret's car. "I can't just leave her in there to burn. We've got to try."
"Is she alive?" The stranger asked, gasping for air after running toward Peter.
"I don't know, but there's not much time." Peter wiped his forehead and stared at the flames.
The stranger hesitated before moving closer. "Okay, pull on the handle, and I'll try to pull, too." Nothing happened.
He shook his head. "It's not budging. I'm sorry, but I don't think we can save her."
Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke, "I can help."
Both men froze, startled to hear another voice. They turned to see a woman standing directly behind them. Peter looked at the stranger. "It's worth a try, right?"
Another loud pop echoed under the hood, sending flames shooting higher and forcing the men to step back. Fear flashed through the stranger's eyes, and he shook his head. "I want to help, but that car could explode, and we'll all be dead."
Eleanor's voice was soothing. "We can do this, " she said, pressing her hand against his arm. "Please, try again, Leonard. She's my sister."
Leonard's eyes widened. "Do I know you?"
Eleanor smiled. "I think I saw a picture of you with your mother."
Leonard nodded, still unsure how the woman knew who he was; after all, his mother had passed away ten years ago. Before he could question her further, Peter shouted, "If we are going to do this, it's now or never!"
Both men felt a surge of adrenaline as they strained against the car door. Eleanor placed her hands on each man's shoulder, allowing her energy to flow through them. Her body trembled and shimmered. Her face was etched with exhaustion, but she refused to stop, risking everything to rescue Margaret.
The door groaned but didn't budge. Both men exchanged glances, debating one last attempt.
Eleanor inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the car. Quivering, she whispered, "Margaret, I'm here." Her expression softened, a glimmer of determination sparking in her weary smile. "One more time — I know you can do it."
Peter and Leonard nodded, each grasping the door handle and pulling with everything they had. A sudden surge of warmth and strength coursed through them. They heard the eerie sound of screeching metal as the door fell away.
Eleanor's form wavered and faded as she collapsed onto the ground, drained. She watched helplessly as the two men pulled her sister's lifeless body from the car. Flames flickered around the edge of Margaret's clothing, and her body was limp. Peter cradled her in his arms and raced up the hill away from the burning wreckage. Leonard trailed close behind.
As they reached the crest of the hill, Peter laid Margaret on the ground, and the stranger raced to his car for a blanket, yelling, "I'll call 911."
An explosive BOOM rocked the ground, and flames roared upward in a plume of red and orange.
Eleanor, weak and barely visible, struggled to move away from the heat of the fire. She whispered, pleading to an unseen force, "Please, give me the strength to reach her. She needs me."
A calm enveloped her invisible body, and her aura shimmered back into view. She gasped for air, feeling her strength return. In seconds, she was kneeling at Margaret's side.
Peter backed away. He watched in disbelief and awe as the woman who wasn't there before now cradled Margaret in her arms. He couldn't make sense of it.
"Margaret, can you hear me?" Eleanor's voice cracked. "It's Eleanor."
Margaret's eyelids fluttered, and for one heart-wrenching moment, their eyes met. Though she couldn't speak, Margaret's gaze held the warmth of unspoken words.
Eleanor's voice softened as she whispered, "I love you." She felt Margaret take her last breath and slip away. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she squeezed her sister's hand. "Until we meet again, sis."
As she released Margaret's hand, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper tucked in her sister's shirt pocket. She pulled it free. The edges were singed, and a corner flaked away as she unfolded it. Her hands trembled as she read, each word a jagged cut to her heart.
"Death Awaits You!"
Eleanor gasped as horror spread across her face. She knew instantly who had written it. The soot-stained letterhead was still recognizable — the unmistakable seal of Joliet Prison. She also knew this was only the beginning. John Doyle was coming for all of them.
A wave of guilt surged through her. She should have known he wouldn't rest, even behind bars, until he exacted his vengeance. Her fingers clenched the note as her sorrow ignited into a simmering rage.
The flames of the wreck behind her mirrored the fire burning within her soul. Doyle had started this war, and she was ready to finish it.
"This isn't over, Margaret. I swear to you, I'll stop him."
She stood and walked away, slowly fading into the black smoke.
As the sirens approached, both men stared into the black clouds, shaking their heads. Leonard wiped off the lens of his glasses, stammering as he spoke, "Did — she — just disappear?"
Peter shook his head, wiping the sweat from his face. "I'm glad you're here because I would never have believed it."
"She even knew my name."
Their conversation was curtailed as the EMTs rushed to the scene, but both men knew they hadn't been there alone.
*****
Freedom!
John Doyle's triumphant roar echoed in his mind as he stood before the parole board. His body was rigid, though he appeared outwardly calm. He believed his time at Joliet State Prison was ending, confident that he would soon be released —his plan for revenge had already taken its first steps.
Power, manipulation, and wealth had served him well in life as a judge, and even in the darkness of prison, he maintained control. No one in the room knew how many strings he still pulled or how many lives he influenced.
He had built an empire from the shadows, his influence untouchable — even behind bars. When he entered the hearing room, he noticed Detective Donatelli and FBI Agent Garth Woodman standing at the back. The absence of Eleanor brought him a smile, knowing that Margaret's accident would have unfolded by now.
The parole board members sat in a semicircle, their faces devoid of expression as they rifled through the documents. Doyle could see the subtle twitches of discomfort on their faces and reveled in them. One member glanced at the clock repeatedly — they wanted him gone. They feared him, and rightfully so.
The chairman cleared his throat, looking at Doyle through thin glasses. "John Doyle, Inmate 214788, you've been incarcerated at Joliet State Prison for over a decade. Your record has been noted during your time here —" He paused again, exchanging glances with the other board members. Clearing his throat, he continued, "There have been complications."
Doyle smiled, confident that freedom was just moments away. He replied assuredly, "Rehabilitation has worked wonders."
The chairman's lips pressed together as he studied the papers before him. Other members shuffled their stacks of documents as well. Finally, the only woman on the panel said, "You were convicted of corruption, bribery, obstruction of justice, human trafficking, theft, and so much more."
Doyle remained composed, refusing to flinch at her accusations. "All allegations, I assure you. I've served my time for those —" He paused and stared at each board member. "Let's call them misunderstandings."
The woman stared at him, refusing to take the bait he offered. "We have concerns regarding your conduct during your incarceration."
John leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so?"
Someone in the crowd gasped at his audacity. A few others squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, worried that names might be revealed.
Unmoved, she continued, "Reports from staff and others indicate that you have maintained relationships with known criminals, using their influence within these walls."
Doyle's smile remained unchanged. He expected their little power plays. It was their way of reminding him they held the key to his freedom. However, he believed he was in control. "I believe keeping and making friends is a part of my rehabilitation — building networks of trust. Isn't that the doctrine we've been taught daily in our sessions?"
The parole board exchanged glances, a few murmurs, and shifted nervously in their chairs.
"John Doyle, after careful consideration —" The chairman swallowed hard and continued, "By an anonymous vote, the board has decided your parole —"
Doyle grinned and turned his head to look at the crowd. His eyes stopped on Detective Matthew Donatelli. He struggled to remain calm as his hatred for the man responsible for putting him in this hellhole stared back at him and smiled. Their eyes locked, neither blinking.
The chairman tapped his gavel against the table. "Mr. Doyle, your attention, please."
Mentally, Doyle visualized his hands around Donatelli's throat, reveling as he watched his twisted face as he gasped, taking his last breath. The sound of the gavel and the chairman's raised voice brought him back to the present. He turned around to face the board, confident freedom was seconds away.
The chairman scanned the crowd, connecting with Detective Donatelli. Without looking at the inmate before him, the chairman said, "At this time, by unanimous decision, the board has denied your petition for parole."
One word hung in the air. Deny?
Doyle's once-triumphant cry of "freedom" turned sour in his mind. A roar of rage surged through him as he glared at the board. He remained still — not a muscle moved, not even a twitch in his eye. Nothing showed the violent storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.
How dare they deny him parole?
The chairman's voice droned on — for the good of the community" and "further review in five years." Doyle didn't hear any of it. His mind raced, already calculating his next move.
They thought they had the upper hand and had stripped him of his freedom. They were fools. They had no idea that he was already steps ahead of them.
Doyle rose slowly, smoothing his prison uniform as if it were one of his tailored suits. His lips curled into a smile, but this one was far more sinister than before.
Turning to stare at Donatelli, he spoke quietly, "This isn't over." Not expecting a response, he turned and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped with clenched fists at his side and glared at the board members, muttering, "You haven't seen the last of me.
The correctional officer led him from the hearing room into the hallway. "Your lawyer has arranged a meeting, Mr. Doyle."
John snarled, "Not that it matters. I've nothing to say to him."
"I think it will be worth your while." The guard nodded and led the way.
As they approached a door, the guard hesitated, glancing around before shifting his eyes upward and giving a slight nod to a hidden camera.
"Right here." The guard gestured to a small conference room. "You've got ten minutes, no more."
Doyle stepped inside, his anger simmering beneath the surface. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against the table, arms crossed tightly across his chest, glaring at his lawyer. "So, what's the plan?"
Before his lawyer could answer, the door opened. Doyle spun around, snarling, "It ain't been ten minutes. Get out!"
Vince Rossi, a well-known attorney for Gentlemen Jack and other high-ranking mobsters, entered the room. "A bit testy, are we?" he remarked. His Armani suit screamed money and power.
Doyle recognized him but didn't let his surprise show. "So kind of you to make a social call, Rossi."
Ignoring Doyle's attitude, Rossi continued, "I didn't expect you to be so — resourceful," There was a hint of admiration in his voice. "You've got the guard in your pocket."
Doyle smirked, his confidence returning. "Power doesn't disappear just because you're behind bars. The board thinks they can contain me, but they're mistaken. I'm more than just a number in their system."
Rossi nodded, the glint of something dark in his eyes. "The bosses want you back on your feet. They're invested in your connections, and they've sent me to ensure you don't screw this up. But there's more at stake. You know William escaped, right?"
Doyle's brow furrowed slightly, his interest piqued. "William? He bungled the pageant deal. What's he got to do with this? I thought he was in Germany."
Rossi leaned in, his voice low. "That's what everyone thought. But we have a tip-off that he's back. If he's here, he's a loose end you might want to consider."
The wheels spun in Doyle's brain before he spoke, "Actually, he'll fit in perfectly. I've got a few paintings to unload. They're worth plenty, and William can make the connections."
"Is he trustworthy? What if he's caught? Will he fold?"
Doyle's eyes sparked with malice as a cold smile crept across his lips. "He outsmarted the FBI and conned the German Consulate. He has qualities I can use. If he fails, he's always expendable."
Rossi checked the door to make sure they weren't overheard. "Just remember, Doyle, this game is dangerous. One wrong move, and it won't just be you who pays."
Doyle straightened, exuding confidence. "They've already made their first mistake by crossing me. I won't let them forget it."
Rossi nodded. "We just need to be careful. You don't want to tip them off."
Doyle leaned in closer, a sinister sneer forming on his lips. "Careful is not my style. I guarantee you — they're gonna suffer."
"Is he trustworthy? What if he's caught? Will he fold?"
Doyle's eyes sparked with malice as a cold smile crept across his lips. "He outsmarted the FBI and conned the German Consulate. He has qualities I can use. If he fails, he's always expendable."
Rossi checked the door to make sure they weren't overheard. "Just remember, Doyle, this game is dangerous. One wrong move, and it won't just be you who pays."
Doyle straightened, exuding confidence. "They've already made their first mistake by crossing me. I won't let them forget it."
Rossi nodded. "We just need to be careful. You don't want to tip them off."
Doyle leaned in closer, a sinister sneer forming on his lips. "Careful is not my style. I guarantee you — they're gonna suffer."
 Recognized |
Eleanor - ghost detective
Garth Woodman - FBI Agent
Matthew Donatelli - Bayside's lead detective
John Doyle - Ex-judge and current inmate at Joliet State Prison
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents
(and maybe more). Garth Woodman - FBI Agent
Matthew Donatelli - Bayside's lead detective
John Doyle - Ex-judge and current inmate at Joliet State Prison
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