Vengance

Chapter 1

Nikolas Matthew Shaw stood at the counter, pick

ing up his things. A wallet with four hundred

dollars in it, from his cash account. The release

papers he had to take with him, and give his

parole agent. He was wearing clothes the state had

given him. He was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt

with a denim shirt over it, running shoes, and

white socks. It was a far cry from what he had

worn when he came in. He had been in Pelican

Bay State Prison for four years and three months.

He had served the minimum amount of time of his

sentence, which was nonetheless a big hunk of

time for a first offense. He had been caught with

an extraordinary amount of cocaine, prosecuted

by the state, convicted in a jury trial, and

sentenced to state prison at Pelican Bay.

At first, he had only sold to friends. Eventually,

it not only supported the habit he had developed

inadvertently, it supported all his financial needs

and at one time his family's as well. He had made

nearly a million dollars in the six months before

he'd been caught, but even that didn't fill the holein the dumbed created with the cling

he'd done. Drugs, had investments, selling short

hope risks on commodities. He w been stod

broker for a while, and got trouble with the

SEC, not enough oo be prosecuted, which case

he would have been arrested by the thesis and m

the state, but he never was. He had been living so

far beyond his means to such a same degree

had so many potentially explosive balls in the

and developed such a massive d**g habe hanging

out with the wrong people, that eventually the

only way to negotiate his debt to his dealer had

been to deal drugs for him. There had also been a

small matter of had checks and embezzlement, but

he got lucky once again. His employer had decided

not to press charges, once he got arrested for deal

ing cocaine. What was the point? He didn't have

the money anyway, whatever he had taken and it

was in fact a relatively small amount in the scheme

of things, and the money was long gone. There

was no way he could recoup the funds. His

employer at the time felt sorry for him. Nikolas had

of him

a way of charming people, and making them fond

Nikolas Shaw was the epitome of a nice guy

gone wrong. Somewhere along the way, he had

opted for the low road too many times, and bloan

every golden opportunity he'd ever had. More

chan Peter, his friends and business associates telt

sorry for his wife and kids, who became the

victims of his crazy schemes and rotten judgment

But everyone who knew him would have said that

at the core, Nikolas Shaw was a nice guy. It was

hard to say what had gone wrong. In truth, a lot

had, for a long time.

Peter's father died when he was three, and had

been the scion of an illustrious family from the

cream of social circles in New York. The family

fortune had been dwindling for years, and his

mother managed to squander whatever his father

left, long before Nikolas grew up. Soon after his

father died, she married another very social,

aristocratic young man. He was the heir of an

important banking family, who was devoted to

Nikolas and his two siblings, educated and loved

them, sent them to the best private schools, along

with the two half-brothers who came into Peter's

life during the course of their marriage. The family

appeared wholesome, and moneyed certainly,

although his mother's drinking increased steadily

over time, and wound her up in an institution

eventually, leaving Nikolas and his two full siblings

technically orphaned. His stepfather had never

legally adopted them, and remarried a year after

Peter's mother died. His new wife saw no reason

why her husband should be burdened, financially

or otherwise, with three children who weren't his

own. She was willing to take on the two children

he had had by that marriage, although she wanted

them sent away to boarding school. But she

wanted nothing to do with the three children that

had come into his previous marriage, with Peter's

mother. All Peter's stepfather was willing to do

after that was pay for boarding school, and then

college, and an inadequate allowance, but he

explained, somewhat sheepishly, that he could no

longer offer them haven in his home, nor

additional funds.

After that, Perer's vacations were spent at

school, or at the homes of friends, whom he

managed to charm inro taking him home. And

he was very charming. Once his mother died, Peter

learned to live by his wits. It was all he had, and

worked well for him. The only love and nurturing

he got in those years were from friends

parents.

There were often little incidents, when he stayed

with friends during school holidays. Money dis

appeared, tennis rackets vanished mysteriously,

and seemed to be missing when he left. Clothes

were borrowed and never returned. Once a gold

watch seemed to evaporate into thin air, and a

sobbing maid was fired as a result. As it so

happened, it was later discovered, Nikolas had been

sleeping with her. He was sixteen at the time, and

the proceeds from the watch that he had talked

her into pilfering for him had kept him going for

six months. His life was a constant struggle to

come up with enough money to cover his needs.

And he did whatever he had to do to meet those

needs. He was so kind, polite, and pleasant to

have around, that he always appeared innocent

when things went sour. It was impossible to

a

believe that a boy like him could be guilty of any

misdeed or crime.

At one point, a school psychologist suggested

that Nikolas had sociopathic tendencies, which even

the headmaster found hard to believe. The

psychologist had wisely surmised that under

the veneer, he appeared to have less of a

conscience than he should. And the veneer was

incredibly appealing. It was hard to know who

Nikolas really was beneath the surface. Above all, he

was a survivor. He was a charming, bright, good-

looking kid, who had had a bunch of rotten

breaks in his life. He had no one to rely on but

himself, and deep at his core, he had been

wounded. His parents' deaths, his stepfather's

distancing himself from him, and giving him

almost no money, the two siblings he never saw

once they were sent to different boarding schools

on the East Coast, had all taken a toll on him. And

later, once in college, the news that his eighteen-

year-old sister had drowned was yet another blow

to a young soul already battered. He rarely talked

about the experiences he'd had, or the sorrows

that had resulted from them, and on the whole, he

appeared to be a level-headed, optimistic, good-

natured guy, who could charm just about anyone,

and often did. But life had been far from easy for

him, although to look at him, you'd never know it.

There was no visible evidence of the agonies he'd

been through. The scars were far deeper and well

hidden.

Women fell into his hands like fruit off trees,

and men found him good company. He drank a lot

in college, friends remembered later on, but he

never seemed out of control, and wasn't. Not obviously at least. The wounds on Peter's soul

were deep, and hidden.

Perer Shaw was all about control. And he

always had a plan. His stepfather lived up to his

promise, and sent him to Duke, and from there he

got a full scholarship to Harvard Business School,

and graduated with an MBA. He had all the tools

he needed, along with a fine mind, good looks.

and some valuable connections he'd made in the

elite schools he had attended. It seemed an

absolute certainty that he was someone who

would go far. There was no question in anyone's

mind that Nikolas Shaw would succeed. He was a

genius with money, or so it seemed, and he had

a multitude of plans. He got a job on Wall Street

when he graduated, in a brokerage firm, and it

was two years after he graduated that things

started to go wrong. He broke some rules,

churned some accounts, 'borrowed' a little money.

Things got dicey for him for a while, and then, as

usual, he landed on his feet. He went to work for

an investment banking firm, and appeared to be

the golden boy of Wall Street for a brief time. He

had everything it took to make a success of his life,

except a family and a conscience. Nikolas always had

a scheme, and a plan to get to the finish line faster

He had learned one thing from his childhood, that

life could fall apart in an instant, and he had to

take care of himself. There were few, if any,

lucky

breaks in life. And whatever luck there was, you

made yourself.

At twenty-nine, he married Janet, a dazzlingdebutante, who happened to be the daughter of

the head of the firm where he worked, and within

nive years, they had two adorable little giels. It was

the perfect life, he loved his wife and was crazy

about his kids. It looked like a long stretch of

smooth road ahead of him finally, when for no

reason anyone could fathom, things started to go

wrong again. All he talked about was making a lor

of money, and seemed obsessed with that idea,

whatever it took. Some thought he was having too

much fun. It was all too easy for him. He had

fallen into a golden life, played too hard, got

greedy, and inch by inch, he ler life get out of

control. In the end, his short cuts and old habit

of taking what he wanted did him in. He started

cutting corners and making shaky deals, nothing

he could be fired for, but nothing his father-in-law

wanted to tolerate either. Nikolas appeared to be on

a fast track, heading for danger. Nikolas and his

father-in-law had several serious talks, while

walking the grounds of his parents-in-law's estate

in Connecticut, and Janet's father thought he had

made the point. To put it simply, he had tried to

point out to Nikolas that there was no such thing as

a free lunch or an express train to success. He

warned him that the kind of deals he was making,

and the sources he used, would come back to

haunt him one day. Possibly even very soon. He

lectured him about the importance of integrity,

and felt sure that Nikolas would heed him. He liked

him. In fact, all he succeeded in doing was make

Nikolas feel anxious and pressured.

At thirty-one, first for the fun of it,' Peter

started doing drugs. There was no real harm in it,

he claimed, everyone was doing them, and it made

everything more amusing and exciting. Janet was

worried sick about it. By thirty-two, Nikolas Shaw

was in big trouble, losing control over his drug

habit, despite his protests to the contrary, and

started running through his wife's money, until his

father-in-law cut him off. A year later, he was

asked to leave the firm, and his wife moved in with

her parents, devastated and traumatized by the

experiences she'd had at Peter's hands. He was

never abusive to her, but he was constantly high

on cocaine, and his life was completely out of

control. It was then that her father discovered the

debts he'd incurred, the money he'd discreetly

embezzled from the firm, and given their relation-

ship with him, and the potential embarrassment to

them, and Janet, they covered his debts. He agreed

to give Janet full custody of the girls, who were by

then two and three. He lost his visiting rights sub-

sequently, over an incident involving him, three

women, and a large stash of cocaine on a yacht off

East Hampton. His children had been visiting him

at the time. The nanny had called Janet on her cell

phone from the boat. And Janet had threatened to

call the Coast Guard on him. He got the nanny

and the girls off the boat, and Janet wouldn't let

him see them again. But by then he had other

problems. He had borrowed massive amounts of

money to support his d**g habit, and lost what

money he had on high-risk investments in the

commodities market. After that, no matter how

good his credentials, or how smart he was, he

couldn't get a job. And just as his mother had

before she died, he spiraled down. He was not

only short of money, but addicted to drugs.

Two years after Janet left him, he tried to get a

job with a well-known venture capital firm in San

Francisco, and couldn't. He was in San Francisco

by then anyway, and settled into selling cocaine

instead. He was thirty-five years old, and had half

the world after him for bad debrs, when he was

arrested for possession of a massive amount of

cocaine with intent to sell. He had been making a

fortune at it, but owed five times as much when he

was arrested, and had some frightening debts to

some very dangerous people. As people who knew

him said when they heard, he had had everything

going for him, and managed to blow all of it to

kingdom come. He was in debt for a fortune, in

danger of being killed by the dealers who sold to

him, and the people behind the scenes who

financed them, when he was arrested. He had paid

no one back. He didn't have the money to do it.

Most of the time, in cases like that, when people

went to prison, the debts were canceled, if not for-

gotten. In dire cases, people got killed in prison for

them. Or if you were lucky, they let it go. Peter

hoped that would be the case.

When Nikolas Shaw went to prison, he hadn't

seen his children in two years, and wasn't likely to

again. He sat stone-faced through his trial, and

sounded intelligent and remorseful when he took

the stand. His lawyer tried to get him probation,

but the judge was smarter than that. He had seen

people like Nikolas before, though not many, and

certainly nor one who'd had as many oppor

tunities that he'd blown. He had read Nikolas Well,

and saw that there was something disturbing

about him. His appearance and his actions didn't

seem to fit. The judge didn't buy the pat phrases of

remorse that Nikolas parroted. He seemed smooth,

but not sincere. He was likable certainly, but the

choices he'd made were appalling. And when

the jury found him guilty, the judge sentenced him

to seven years in prison, and sent him to Pelican

Bay, in Crescent City, a maximum security prison,

inhabited by 3,300 of the worst felons in the

California prison system, three hundred and

seventy miles north of San Francisco, eleven miles

from the Oregon border. It seemed like an unduly

harsh sentence for Nikolas and not where he

belonged

On the day Nikolas was released, he had been

there for all the time he'd served, four years and

three months. He had gotten free of drugs, minded

his own business, worked in the warden's office,

mostly with their computers, and hadn't had a

single disciplinary incident or report in all four

years. And the warden he worked for totally

believed him to be sincerely remorseful. It was

obvious to everyone who knew him that Nikolas had

no intention of getting in trouble again. He had

learned his lesson. He had also told the parole

board that the one goal he had was to see his

daughters again, and be the kind of father they

could be proud of one day. Nikolas made it sound as

it, and seemed to believe that, the last six or seven

years of his life were an unfortunate blip on an

otherwise clear screen, and he intended to keep it

clear and trouble-free from now on. And everyone

believed him.

He was released at the first legal opportunity.

He had to stay in northern California for a year,

and they had assigned him to a parole agent in San

Francisco. He was planning to live in a halfway

house until he found work, and he had told the

parole board he wasn't proud. He was going to

take whatever kind of work he could get, until he

got on his feet, even manual labor if necessary, as

long as it was honest. But no one had any serious

worries that Nikolas Shaw wouldn't find a job. He

had made some colossal mistakes, but even after

four years in Pelican Bay, he still came across as an

intelligent, nice guy, and was. With a little bit of

luck, his well-wishers, which even included the

warden, hoped that he would find the right niche

for him, and build a good life. He had everything

it took to do that. All he needed now was a

chance. And they all hoped he'd get one when he

got out. People always liked Nikolas and wished him

well. The warden came out himself to say good-

bve and shake his hand. Nikolas had worked for him

exclusively for the entire four years.

"Stay in touch,' the warden said, looking

warmly at him. He had invited Nikolas to his own

home for the past two years, to share Christmas

with his wife and kids, and Nikolas had been terrific,

Smart, warm, funny, and really kind to the

warden's four teenage boys. He had a nice way

with people, both young and old. And had even

inspired one of them to apply for a scholarship to

Harvard. The boy had just been accepted that

spring. The warden felt as though he owed Peter

something, and Nikolas genuinely liked him and his

family, and was grateful for the kindness they'd

shown him

T'll be in San Francisco for the next year,' Peter

said pleasantly. 'I just hope they let me go back

east for a visit soon, to see my girls.' He hadn't

even had a photograph of them for four years, and

hadn't laid eyes on them in six. Isabelle and

Heather were now respectively eight and nine,

although in his mind's eye they were still consider

ably younger. Janet had long since f*******n him

to have contact with them, and her parents

endorsed her position. Peter's stepfather, who had

paid for his education years before, had long since

died. His brother had disappeared years before.

Nikolas Shaw had no one, and nothing. He had

four hundred dollars in his wallet, a parole agent

in San Francisco, and a bed in a halfway house in

the Mission District, which was predominantly

Hispanic and a once-beautiful old neighborhood,

some of which had gone downhill. The part Peter

wouldn't

was living in had worn badly. The money he had

go far, he hadn't had a decent haircut in

four years, and the only things he had left in the

world were a handful of contacts in the high-tech

and venture capital worlds in Silicon Valley, and

the names of the d**g dealers he had once done

business with, and fully intended to steer clear of.

He had virtually no prospects. He was going to

call some people when he got to town, but he also

knew there was a good chance he could be wash-

ing dishes or pumping gas, although he thought

that unlikely. He was after all a Harvard MBA,

and had gone to Duke before that. If nothing else,

he could look up some old school friends, who

might not have heard that he'd gone to prison. But

he had no illusions that it was going to be easy.

He was thirty-nine years old, and however he

explained it, the last four years were going to be a

blank on his résumé. He had a long uphill climb

ahead of him. But he was healthy, strong, d**g-

free, intelligent, and still incredibly good-looking.

Something good was going to happen to him

eventually. Of that much, he was certain, and so

was the warden.

"Call us,' the warden said again. It was the first

time he had gotten that attached to a convict who

worked for him. But the men he dealt with at

Pelican Bay were a far cry from Nikolas Shaw.

Pelican Bay had been built as a maximum

security prison to house the worst criminal

elements that had previously been sent to San

Quentin. Most of the men were in solitary. The

prison itself was highly mechanized and com-

puterized, and state of the art, which allowed

them to confine some of the most dangerous men

in the country. And the warden had spotted

instantly that Nikolas didn't belong there. Only the

vast quantities of drugs he'd been dealing, and

the money involved, had wound him up in a

maximum security prison. Had the charges been

less serious, he could just as easily have been in

carcerated in a minimum security facility. He was

no flight risk, had no history of violence, and had

never been involved in a single incident during his

time there. He was a quintessentially civilized

person. The few men he chatted with over the

years respected him, and he steered a wide berth of

potential problems. His close relationship to the

warden made him sacrosanct and gave him safe

passage. He had no known associations with

gangs, groups known for violence, or dissident

elements. He minded his own business. And after

more than four years, he seemed to be leaving

Pelican Bay relatively unscathed. He had kept his

head down, and done his time there. He had done

a lot of legal and financial reading, spent a

surprising amount of time in the library, and

worked tirelessly for the warden.

The warden himself had written a glowing

reference for him to the parole board. His was a

case of a young man who had taken a wrong turn,

and all he needed was a chance now to take the

right one. And the warden was certain he would

do that. He looked forward to hearing good things

from and about Nikolas in future. At thirty-nine,

Nikolas still had his whole life ahead of him, and a

brilliant education behind him. And hopefully the

mistakes he'd made would prove to be a valuable

lesson of some kind. There was no question in

straight and narrow

anyone's mind that Nikolas would stick to the

Nikolas and the warden were still shaking hands,

as he was about to leave, when a reporter and

photographer from the local newspaper got out of

a van, and walked up to the desk where

Nikolas bad

just collected his wallet. Another prisoner was just

signing his release papers, and he and Peter

exchanged a look and nodded. Nikolas knew who be

was - everyone did. They had met in the

gym

and

in the halls from time to time, and in the last two

years, he had frequently come to the warden's

office. He had spent years unsuccessfully seeking a

pardon, and was known to be an extremely savvy

unofficial jailhouse lawyer. His name was Charles

Maarcus, he was forty-one years old, and had served

twenty-four years for murder. In fact, he had

grown up in prison.

Charles Maarcus had been convicted of the

murder of a neighbor and his wife, and attempting

unsuccessfully to murder both their children. He

had been seventeen years old at the time, and his

partner in crime had been a twenty-six-year-old

ex-con who had befriended him. They had broken

into their victims' home and stolen two hundred

dollars. Maarcus's partner had been put to death

years before, and Maarcus had always claimed that

he did none of the killing. He had just been there,

and he had never swerved once from his story. He

had always said he was innocent, and had

gone

to

the victims' home with no foreknowledge of wa

his friend intended. It had happened quickly and

badly, and the children had been too young to

corroborate his story. They were young enough

not to be a danger in identifying them, so they had

been badly beaten but ultimately spared. Both

men were drunk, and Maarcus had claimed he

blacked out during the murders, and remembered

nothing.

The jury hadn't bought his story, and he'd been

tried as an adult, despite his age, found guilty, and

lost a subsequent appeal. He had spent the

majority of his life in prison, first in San Quentin,

and then in Pelican Bay. He had even managed to

graduate from college while there, and was

halfway through law school. He had written a

number of articles, about the correctional and

legal systems, and had developed a relationship

with the press over the years. With his protesta -

tions of innocence throughout his incarceration,

Maarcus had become something of a celebrity

prisoner. He was editor of the prison newspaper,

and knew just about everyone in the prison.

People came to him for advice, and he was greatly

respected within the prison population. He didn't

have Shaw's aristocratic good looks. He was

tough, strong, and burly. He was a bodybuilder

and looked it. Despite several incidents in his early

days when he was still young and hot-headed, in

the past two decades he was a model

prisoner. He

was a powerful, fearsome looking man, but his

prison record was clean, and his reputation was

bronze, if nthat they were there.

notified the paper of his release and he was pleased

Maarcus and Shaw had never been associates,

but they had always been distantly respectful of

each other, and had had a few minor conver-

sations about legal issues while Maarcus waited to

see the warden, and Nikolas chatted with him. Peter

had read several of his articles in the prison news-

paper, and the local newspaper, and it was hard

not to be impressed by the man, whether innocent

or guilty. He had a fine mind, and had worked

hard to achieve something in spite of the challenge

he had had growing up in prison.

As Nikolas walked through the gate, feeling almost

breathless with relief, he looked back over his

shoulder once, and saw Charles Maacus shaking the

warden's hand as the photographer from the local

paper snapped his picture. Nikolas knew he was

going to a halfway house in Modesto. His family

still lived there.

Thank you, God, Nikolas said as he stood still for

a moment, closed his eyes, and then squinted up at

the sun. This day felt like it had been a lifetime

coming. He brushed a hand across his eyes so no

one would see the tears springing from them, as he

nodded at a guard, and set off on foot toward the

bus stop. He knew where it was, and all he wanted

now was to get there. It was a ten-minute walk,

and as he hailed the bus and stepped aboard,

Charles Maarcus was posing for one last photo-

graph in front of the prison. He told his

interviewer again that he had been innocent.

Whether or not he was, he made an interesting

story, had become respected in prison over the

past twenty-four years, and had milked his claims

of innocence for all they were worth. He had been

talking for years about his plans to write a book.

The two people he had allegedly killed, and the

children who had been orphaned as a result,

twenty-four years before, were all but forgotten.

They were obscured by his articles and artful

words in the meantime. Maarcus was winding up

the interview as Nikolas Shaw walked into the bus

terminal and bought a ticket to San Francisco. He

was free at last.