Blind Justice

32

BEN DREW IN THE sweet smell of damp pine needles. It felt good coursing through his lungs, but it didn’t dispel his intuitive feeling that he shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have brought Christina, should’ve stayed home and locked the doors. We’re all in danger, Lennie had said. We’re all dead men.

The night wind whistled through the trees, bringing a sharp chill. Ben watched Christina draw her arms tighter around herself. “Told you to bring a coat.”

“All my coats are neon colors,” Christina replied. “Not really appropriate for this line of work.”

“That’s true.” He glanced at his watch. Almost two in the morning. According to Wolf, the plane was overdue. Was it coming? Or had he been totally mistaken? The only way to find out was to wait and watch and listen. All night, if necessary.

Wolf began pacing in a small circle. He’d been antsy all night, not that Ben could blame him. It had been a long stakeout, and so far, entirely unproductive. Ben had been trying to get him to go home for hours; this was much too dangerous for a boy his age. And what did Wolf’s parents think about him being out all hours of the night? Wolf refused to leave; and he wouldn’t discuss the subject of parents at all.

“I gotta take care of something,” Wolf said abruptly.

Ben nodded. “Don’t be gone long.”

“I won’t. If I see anything, I’ll call for you. Like this.” Wolf placed both hands over his mouth and released a long, eerie hooting noise. It was some kind of bird call—an owl, perhaps? It sounded authentic, whatever it was.

“Nothing in this forest makes that noise,” Wolf explained. “So if you hear it, you’ll know it’s me.”

“All right,” Ben said. “I’ll be listening.”

“And if something happens, or you need me in a hurry, you make the same call.”

“Me? I couldn’t make that noise if I practiced a million years. I can’t even whistle.”

“What noises can you make?”

“I can do excellent armpit-farts.” He cupped his hand under his armpit and brought his arm down over it. “I learned that in college.”

Wolf wasn’t impressed. “What about you?” he asked Christina.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t go to college.”

“Maybe you should just yell, ‘Hey Wolf.’ ”

“That I can handle,” Ben said. “And when I do, what course of action does a twelve-year-old boy plan with regard to these professional criminals?”

“I can handle myself.” Wolf reached into his jacket and withdrew a small wooden slingshot. “I’m a crack shot.”

Ben smiled. “Just stay out of trouble. Hurry back.”

Wolf plunged into the dark thicket and within seconds Ben couldn’t see him at all. He couldn’t hear any movement, either. The boy was almost as much a part of the forest as the trees.

A few moments later, Ben’s ears pricked up. “Did you hear something?”

“Oh God, it’s Mr. Paranoid again—”

“This is serious, Christina. I heard some leaves crunching.”

“It must’ve been Wolf.”

“No, it was over there. The other direction.”

“Ben, if you see something, fine—let me know. Until then, stop giving me the creeps.”

“Have it your way.” He crouched down beside her. “You never actually told me what you were doing this afternoon.”

“What does it matter? I can’t believe anyone would suggest I killed this Lennie creep. I didn’t even know him.”

“He knew you. And unfortunately, he may have been planning to testify against you.”

“How could he know anything about me?”

“Who says he did? He was in trouble, and he was planning to turn informant to get out of that trouble. He wouldn’t be the first crook who invented some testimony to buy himself immunity.”

“That really stinks.”

“I agree, but nevertheless, having a witness for the prosecution offed on the eve of trial doesn’t augur well. So where were you this afternoon?”

“I was at home. Alone. Watching television.”

No chance of an alibi, then. Nothing to protect her from another murder charge but her word—the word of the accused. Ben heard a low rumbling noise on the opposite side of the clearing. The noise grew stronger, and a few seconds later, Ben could see the outline of a small plane flying low, just above the treetops. It was painted black; but for the noise, it would be almost invisible. He watched the plane circle the clearing a few times, then approach.

“Stay low,” Ben whispered. “Don’t let him see you.”

Christina obeyed.

The plane swept in for a perfect landing. Shortly after the engines died, a man in a dark leather jacket and blue jeans crawled out of the cockpit. He looked like the pilot Wolf had described before. Instead of waiting by the plane, he walked briskly across the clearing. He entered the forest about a hundred feet north of Ben and Christina.

After Ben was certain the man was far enough ahead, they started after him. They couldn’t see the pilot, but they could hear him—the soft, steady sound of his boots bearing down on branches and leaves.

They followed him for almost ten minutes. At last, the pilot arrived at the wooden shack Ben and Christina had discovered during their previous visit—Wolf’s animal sanctuary. The pilot paused, apparently trying to read the notice on the door. Then he examined the lock; it was already open. He stepped inside.

Ben heard a sudden commotion—some scuffling, a muffled yell. Could Wolf be in there?

Ben crept forward, but almost instantly shrunk back into the shadows. On the far side, a silhouetted figure moved toward the shack. Ben could barely make out any detail; it seemed to be a man, a tall man, on the thin side. The moonlight caught the side of his face—and his long flowing blond hair. It was Vinny, DeCarlo’s so-called executive officer.

Vinny pushed the door of the shack open and strode inside. Ben heard another burst of scuffling, and a sudden, sharp sound—a slap? a blow to the head?—then silence.

“I think Wolf may be in there,” Ben whispered to Christina.

Her eyes widened. “No!”

“He probably went in to check on his birds, only to get caught by these goons. Perhaps they were scared by all the recent FBI activity and decided to make the exchange somewhere more secluded than the clearing.”

“What are we going to do? We can’t just leave him in there.”

“Agreed.” Before Ben had a chance to suggest a course of action, he heard a violent crashing noise from inside the shack, followed by muted angry shouts.

“I’m going in,” Ben muttered.

“And what are you going to do once you’re in?”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there.” He started to rise, pushing forward on the balls of his feet, but almost instantly felt an arm wrap around his neck and jerk him onto his back.

“What the—”

Before Ben could finish, two more hands pulled a gag tightly between his teeth. Another hand wrapped heavy duct tape across his mouth, plugging the gag into place.

He coughed, choking, and squirmed helplessly on the ground. He saw Christina, just a few feet away, getting the same treatment. Men in dark clothing were holding her in place, one gripping her arms, the other yanking her head back by her hair. Ben pushed toward her, then felt someone twist his arms painfully behind his back and snap a pair of handcuffs over his wrists.

An electric bullhorn blared in the darkness. “This is the FBI. Your current location is surrounded by FBI and DEA agents. We have impounded your airplane and your motorcycle. There is no escape. Come out with your hands up.”

What the hell was going on here? Ben tried to twist free, to no avail. How did the FBI find this drug drop, and why would the FBI treat him and Christina like criminals? He tried to shout, but couldn’t—just trying made him choke and gag. Where was Christina? He couldn’t see her now at all. By God, if they hurt her—

“You have sixty seconds to come out on your own,” the bullhorn voice said. “If you do not, we will be forced to fire tear gas grenades which may be hazardous to your health. I repeat: you are surrounded. There is no escape.”

Unless the smugglers have a hostage. Ben heard another crashing noise inside the shack, followed by more scuffling and banging, more muffled shouts. A struggle was taking place. Ben tried to say something, tried to tell them Wolf was in there, but it was impossible.

“Don’t shoot!” a voice inside the shack shouted. The voice was frightened, panicked, “No gas. Please.”

Someone darted out of the shack. Ben couldn’t see the face, but he knew from the height, or lack thereof who it must be.

“Stop where you are,” the bullhorn demanded. “Hands in the air. If you do not cooperate, we will be forced to fire.”

The figure paused, bouncing from one foot to the other. He was obviously frightened, uncertain what to do. He kept looking back over his shoulder.

The bullhorn crackled to life. “I repeat, put your hands in the air.” The shadowed figure continued to deliberate. “Gentlemen, prepare your gas grenades.”

“No!” The figure outside the shack screamed, terror-stricken. “You’ll kill them!” Ben saw his hand dart inside his jacket.

He never had a chance. The assault rifles fired at once, splitting the night with their thunderous booms and flashes of light. The first shot sent him careening backward. The second shot knocked him against a tree. He fell slowly down the side, leaving a grotesque red smear on the bark.

The figure hit bottom and fell forward slightly. His eyes closed. Blood dripped out of his mouth onto the ground beside his hand, still tightly clutching a small wooden slingshot.