Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 10

BEN STOPPED MIKE before he left the club. “Bit hard on him, weren’t you?”

Mike didn’t blink. “That’s my job.”

“What are you, a policeman or a terrorist?”

“I’m obligated to get facts out of people who customarily start out telling lies. Or embroidering the truth. I have to break through the deception somehow. And I’ve found the most effective way is to instill the fear of God. Or penal sanctions, at the least.”

“Seems brutal.”

“But it works.”

“Not tonight it won’t. Earl didn’t do this.”

“Says you.

“It’s true. I’m sure of it.”

Mike looked at him wryly. “But when the man freaked ’cause I told him he needed a lawyer, I noticed you didn’t jump to his rescue.”

Ben’s head dipped. “That’s different. I don’t practice anymore.”

“Not even for a friend in need?”

“Look, I’m trying to put that behind me, okay?”

“Like hell. You’re trying to pretend it never happened. These guys don’t even know you’re a lawyer, do they?”

Ben shook his head. “And I prefer it that way.”

“Don’t you think you’re carrying this a bit far?”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“You haven’t told me what soured you after your last big case, true. But I can guess. I may know you better than you know yourself. And this I can tell you: it’s time for you to stop running and hiding and trying to be something you’re not.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Not you, too.”

“I don’t enjoy seeing you crawl under a shell any better than anyone else. You know what G. K. Chesterton said.”

“You know perfectly well I don’t.”

Mike held up his quoting finger. “ ‘Do not free a camel of the burden of his hump; you may be freeing him from being a camel.’ ”

“Very clever. And I gather I’m the camel?”

“Tell me something, Ben. Now that you’re a musician again, is it like back in the old days? Back when we played the college clubs and pizza parlors?”

Against his better judgment, Ben decided to be honest. “Not really.”

Mike nodded. “Of course not. Thomas Wolfe was right, my friend. You can’t go home again. You can only go forward. Take it from me. I spent years rehashing those blissful days when I was married to your sister. Actually, they were only blissful in retrospect, but memory plays tricks. I’d sit around all day thinking, Poor me, I lost the only woman I ever loved and we never had the child we dreamed about. But living in the past doesn’t do anybody any good. Took years, but I’ve finally put her behind me. I hardly even think about Julia anymore.”

“Is that right.”

“Here’s to the future. That’s my motto.” Mike clapped Ben on the shoulder. “Sorry to hassle you, kemo sabe. I realize you’ve had a hell of a night.”

“It’s been a nightmare,” Ben agreed. “They don’t get much worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mike said. “It could probably be worse.”

“No way. Not possible.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Ben. You never know.”

“Believe me,” Ben said emphatically. “Nothing on earth could possibly make this night any worse.”

Mike smiled. “Your mother is here.”

Ben dragged himself to the backstage green room, dreading every moment. Not that he minded seeing his mother, exactly, but it seemed about par for the course that she would come the night a corpse dropped onto his face.

He found her in the green room, sitting on the piano bench beside Scat. Ben’s eyes widened with amazement, and for more than one reason. For starters, he didn’t know Scat played the piano. And for another—his mother was singing!

“ ‘It had to be you …’ ”

Could this really be his mother? Her voice was sweet and smooth, like a swan sailing across a pond. She nurtured every syllable of every word, giving each phrase a twist that was both affecting and—Ben blanched at the thought—seductive.

Ben couldn’t believe it. He had never heard his mother sing, except for long-ago lullabies and car songs. He didn’t even know she could sing. But she could. Boy, could she ever.

Well, he couldn’t see interrupting. The cops were leaving them alone; so would he. He found a chair and sat quietly.

“ ‘It had to be … you.’ ” She drew out the last syllable for about a million beats, finally letting it dwindle to nothing as Scat laid his fingers down on the last rippled chord.

Ben stood and burst into applause. Scat and his mother both whirled around.

“Benjamin!” Her hand rose to her mouth. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt. I guess you two have already met.”

“Aww, Benji, Benji, Benji.” Scat pushed his shades up his nose. “Your sweet mama and I go way back.”

“You do?”

“ ’Course we do. How come you never told me your mama is Lillian Kincaid?”

Ben’s expression seemed frozen in place. “You—know my mother?”

Mrs. Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Do you find that so shocking?”

“No. I just didn’t know when … when … you would’ve had …”

She tapped her long fingernails. “We’re waiting.”

“… had an opportunity to meet… a musician. Yes, that’s it. A musician.”

“Hell, Ben, don’t you know nothin’ about your own mama? She used to be the best singer in Oklahoma City.”

“My mother?”

Scat looked at him as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. “Where do you think you got the beat, son?”

“Well, now, let’s give Edward some credit. He was a musician, too.”

Ben’s expression did not change. “My mother?”

Mrs. Kincaid gave Scat a long look. “Did you ever have any children?”

“Cain’t say that I ever had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure. That would be one word for it.” She directed her attention back to Ben. “Yes, Benjamin, your mother used to sing. For a living.”

“You never should’ve left the circuit, Lillian,” Scat said. “No one sings the blues like you. Before or since.”

She shrugged. “Well, Edward felt that someone had to make a home. I sang part-time at first, but then Junior here”—she nodded toward Ben—“showed up in the first year. And of course, after that, everything changed.”

Ben remained flabbergasted. “You gave up a career—I never knew—”

“That was a long time ago.”

Ben stared, unable to utter a word.

It was Scat who broke the silence. “Well, you ain’t lost the touch, Lillian. You still give me chills.”

She smiled. “You’re kind, Scat, but I was never that good, and I’m well past my prime now.” She gave him a gentle shove. “Give me a minute to talk to my son, okay?”

“Your wish is my command, Lillian.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then sauntered off toward the stage.

Once he was gone, Ben’s mother folded her hands in her lap and smiled. “I stopped by Christina’s place on my way over.”

During her last visit, Ben’s mother had forged a friendship with Christina, a union Ben wouldn’t have bet on in a thousand years.

“She wanted to go shopping, but I insisted on attending your performance. She’s a sweet girl—Christina.” To Ben’s surprise, she winked. “I’m surprised you haven’t married her yet.”

“Mother, I told you before, we’re just friends. We work together. Did, anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What, you don’t agree?”

“I agree that you’ve told me that before. Doesn’t mean I have to believe it.” She patted the empty space on the piano bench. Ben awkwardly crossed the room and sat down beside her. “Christina doesn’t think you’ll stick with this gig much longer. She thinks you’ll end up practicing law again.”

“Well, she’s wrong. I’m really connecting with this combo. In fact, when Earl closes down the club for his summer break, we’re planning to go on tour. Hit the southwest summer jazz circuit.”

His mother nodded. “Christina has a high regard for you. She thinks the law is your calling. She thinks it’s your way of helping other people. She even called you an angel. Can you believe that? My Benjamin, an angel.”

“Christina could put a spiritual spin on a train wreck.”

“Well, what she actually said was, you’re an angel on vacation. But eventually you’ll get back to your true vocation.”

“Please, mother. I’m not giving up music.”

His mother tossed her head back. “I can certainly understand the desire to perform, to make melodies. To lose yourself in the purity of music. I had that dream myself. But still …”

“You don’t think I can cut it as a musician.”

She scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a Kincaid. You can cut it as anything you want to cut it as. But is this”—she looked around the green room—“who you really are?”

“You’ve spent too much time with Christina.”

She patted his hand. “Well, you do what you have to do.”

They both fell silent.

The awkwardness of the moment enveloped Ben. “I’m sorry you came tonight. I mean, considering what happened.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get to hear you play.”

He fidgeted. “Anyway … thanks for coming down.”

“It was my pleasure. I’d best be going now.”

He touched her arm. “Do you have to?”

“It’s late. I should get home.”

“Wait.” Ben tugged her gently back to the bench. “I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

“Well, all those years I struggled through piano lessons with Mrs. Thomas, playing stripped-down versions of bad pop tunes—how come you never came in and sang?”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to crowd you, Benjamin. If I had made playing the piano seem like something I wanted you to do—well, you’d probably never have done it.”

Ben couldn’t argue with that logic. “Well then, how about now?”

A broad beatific smile spread across her face. “Why, Benjamin Kincaid. I’d be honored. What song?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The song.” Which they both knew meant, his song—Ben’s father’s favorite song.

Ben started with a slow bluesy intro, lots of tinkling in the high registers, and his mother knew exactly where to come in. “ ‘A country dance … was being held in a garden …’ ”

Ben couldn’t resist smiling as he played. It was the sweetest music he’d heard all night.