Extreme Justice

Chapter 33

Ben awoke hearing voices.

He sat bolt upright. He’d been deep inside a nightmare, and not the usual one about showing up for court in his underwear, either. He was running through a seemingly endless maze, except the more he ran, the more it became clear that the maze was actually Rockwood, and no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t get away, couldn’t escape, and he knew that at any moment the man in the shadows would reach out and clench his steely fingers around Ben’s throat—

He shook his head back and forth, trying to clear the cobwebs. Cool off, he told himself. It was just a dream. This time, anyway.

But he still heard voices. They were coming from outside his bedroom.

He pulled himself out of bed, every inch of his body aching, not to mention his nose. The folks at the emergency room had determined that it wasn’t actually broken, but it was ripped and battered just the same. They’d put a thick bandage over it, which, Ben noted, did nothing to prevent it from hurting.

Tiptoeing quietly across the creaky wood-paneled floor, he cracked open the bedroom door and poked his head out.

Mike and Christina were sitting on the sofa in his living room having a particularly animated discussion.

“Anything I can do for you two?”

They both stopped for a moment, then turned to face him.

“Oops,” Christina said. “Were we talking too loud?”

“Depends.” He ran his fingers through his matted hair. “Were you trying to wake me up?”

“Well, we hoped you’d get up eventually.”

“Then you weren’t too loud. Care to explain what you two are doing in my living room jabbering away at this hour of the morning?”

Mike leaned forward. “Ben, have you looked at a clock yet?”

“No. Should I?” Ben craned his neck till he could see the small digital job over his oven.

It was three-fifteen. In the P.M.

“Have I slept that long?” Ben asked.

“Hardly surprising,” Mike said, “after what you’ve been through.”

“Even so, I’ve got things to do today. Give me five.” Ben ducked back down the hallway and veered into the bathroom. He jumped in the shower, washed his hair, then went through the essential morning ablutions necessary to make himself halfway presentable. He had to dry gently; there was a visible red ring, sore and irritated, around his neck—the mark left by his near strangulation the night before. And he didn’t dare touch his nose.

He threw on some clothes and returned to the living room. Mike and Christina were still in deep conversation. Their voices had crept up several decibels. He had known Mike and Christina to disagree before, and since both of them were strong-willed individuals who went into every situation assuming they were always right, these disagreements could go on for days.

“Hey, guys, calm down,” he said, planting himself between them. “What’s the topic?”

“How to keep you from ending up dead and buried before you turn thirty-four,” Christina replied.

“Oh.”

Christina continued. “Mike here favors locking you up in the county jail on a charge of stupidity in the first degree. I myself think we should wrap you in a straightjacket and put you in an asylum—where you belong!”

“Oh, come on now.” Ben held up his hands. “Let’s not make too much of this.”

“Make too much of this!” Her face was red and flushed. “What did you think you were doing out there, playing peekaboo with a killer!”

Ben cleared his throat. “I guess Mike filled you in.”

“Damn right he did, you imbecile! Why do you think I’m here?”

Ben could feel the heat emanating from her. “I’m fine now. You two didn’t need to come.”

“Oh, right.” Mike leaned back, rolling his eyes. “You leave a message on my answering machine describing this elaborate attempted murder, followed by a hair-raising chase through the worst part of Tulsa, followed by calling 911 and joining the plainclothes officers on an all-night, utterly fruitless search of Rockwood. And I guess you thought after I heard your message I’d just erase it and go about my daily business.”

“I wanted you to know what happened. This proves that Earl isn’t the murderer.”

“Like hell.”

“It does! I saw the man.”

“Uh-huh. So who was it?”

“Well … I don’t know. But it wasn’t Earl.”

“Did you see his face?”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. “Not clearly, no.”

“So it could’ve been anyone.”

“But I heard his voice. And it wasn’t Earl’s. I don’t think it was anyone I know.”

“Unless it was someone disguising his voice. Some people are pretty good at that, you know.”

Ben knew, all right. Jones, for one. “True … but—”

“And if the killer was disguising his voice, it could’ve been anyone. Hell, it might have been a woman!”

“Are you saying you think Earl was trying to kill me last night?”

“I’m saying the fact that someone else was trying to kill you, when you were stupid enough to drop by Rockwood and get out of your car in the middle of the night, doesn’t prove Earl didn’t kill Lily Campbell.”

“I’ll testify.”

“Oh. So Chief Blackwell is supposed to announce that Earl Bonner is no longer the lead suspect, based on testimony from Earl Bonner’s lawyer. That’ll play well on the six o’clock news.”

“Mike—”

“Face it, Ben. Blackwell’s had a grudge against you since that Kindergarten Killer mess. He doesn’t trust you. He thinks you probably invented the whole story just to throw us off your client.”

Ben fell silent. There was no point in arguing. And he had something more pressing on his mind. “Any word on Tyrone?”

Mike glanced toward Christina, then glanced back. “No. We haven’t been able to find the slightest trace of him. We’ve checked the club, his apartment, all his known hangouts. And I’ve still got men crawling over Rockwood. But we haven’t found him.”

“He must be there somewhere.”

“I don’t know, Ben. But even if he is, so what? We’re talking about testimony from an accused, if not convicted, felon. How much is that going to get you? Are Chief Blackwell or the DA going to change their minds based on that? I don’t think so.”

“Tyrone saved my life,” Ben said flatly. “And put his own life in danger to do it. We have to find him.”

“I’m doing everything I know to find him, Ben. It just isn’t working.”

“Do you—do you think—”

“I don’t know what to think, Ben. The whole thing is an ugly blood-stained mess. All I know for sure”—his voice grew bolder—“is that you had no business running out by yourself to play cops and robbers with a murderer!”

“Amen to that,” Christina echoed.

“I wasn’t looking for the murderer,” Ben insisted. “I was looking for Tyrone. The murderer just sort of happened.”

“How many times has this just sort of happened to you, Ben? You can’t keep thrusting yourself in the path of danger. Especially when you’re so ill equipped to deal with it.”

“I don’t think—”

“You’ve been lucky so far.” Mike looked at him sternly. “But that won’t last forever.”

“I have a duty to represent my client zealously, Mike.”

Mike waved his hands in the air. “Spare me the lecture. I’ve heard it all before. Every time some criminal attorney does something odious and irresponsible, he hauls out the Rules of Professional Conduct to show that he had an obligation to do it. As if common sense and conscience had been supplanted by a half-baked set of rules.”

“Mike, that’s not fair—”

“Never mind,” Christina said. “We didn’t come here to get into a philosophical debate. I have something for you.” She reached over Ben’s shoulders and wrapped a silver chain with a small silver medallion around his neck.

“What’s this? Are we going steady now?”

“It’s my Saint Christopher’s medal.”

“What? But—”

“I know what you’re going to say. You don’t believe in this hocus-pocus. Saint Christopher never really existed. Listen, I don’t know anything about that stuff. All I know is this: I’ve always worn that medal, and it’s always brought me luck. So now I want you to have it, ’cause I figure you need it more than I do at the moment. All right?”

Ben knew better than to argue. “Whatever you say. But I don’t see what good it will do.”

“It’s a beacon, you ninny.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“A beacon. To help your angel find you. I don’t expect you’re likely to make the call yourself, so I’m hoping the medal will do it for you.”

Mike pushed to his feet. “I also brought something for you.”

“What now—crystals?”

“I brought a somewhat more practical form of protection.” He picked up a wooden box resting on the coffee table. He turned it toward Ben and slowly lifted the lid.

Inside the box, wrapped in a velvet form-fitting compartment, was a brand-new bright and shiny handgun.

Christina gasped.

“This is for you,” Mike announced, pushing it toward Ben. “It’s a Sig Sauer .38, probably the best, most lightweight, most accurate small pistol in existence. I want you to take it.”

Ben pushed it away. “No way.”

“Take it!” Mike insisted. He shoved the box forcefully into Ben’s lap. “And if the situation arises, use it.”

“But I can’t—”

“I’ve already taken care of the license and registration. As you know, thanks to the NRA and its gun-fondling friends, carrying a concealed weapon is legal in Oklahoma now. So you should have no problems.”

“But, Mike,” Christina said, “Ben’s clueless about guns. He doesn’t know how to use it. He’ll shoot his foot off. Or worse.”

“Thank you very much,” Ben replied.

“I intend to teach him how to use it,” Mike answered. “I’ve reserved time for us at the firing range down at Eastern Division headquarters.” He handed Ben a piece of paper. “Here are the times. Be there.”

“I won’t come,” Ben said firmly.

“Then I’ll arrest you, put the cuffs on you, and drag you there!” His whole body shook as he spoke. “Your choice!”

Ben gingerly touched the weapon resting in the purple velvet. It gave him the willies just being near it. “I don’t think I can—”

“You can and you will,” Mike said firmly. “Pick it up.”

Hesitantly, his hand trembling, Ben lifted the weapon out of the box. He folded it into his palm the way he imagined you were supposed to, at least as far as he could tell from TV cop shows. He squeezed the weapon, feeling it in his hand. All at once, he felt sick to his stomach.

He dropped it back into the box like a hot potato. “I’m telling you, Mike: I can’t do this.”

“You can and you will. Now take this schedule. I expect to see you at the firing range.”

“Mike—”

“Listen to me!” His voice exploded with frustration and anger. “I’m not asking you to become Charles Bronson. I just don’t want to have to explain to your sister why your carcass is lying on a slab at the county morgue!”

Ben realized resistance was futile. In his own way, Mike was just showing that he cared. He took the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little something about firearms.”

“Thank God for small favors.” Mike pushed himself off the couch. “And I was thinking a little self-defense training might not be such a bad idea, either. Maybe a little kung fu.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“I’ll send you that schedule as soon as I get it worked out.”

Ben turned toward Christina. “Christina, would you tell him he’s over-reacting? Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Ben. I’m just dying to see you in one of those cute belted pajama outfits.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

“Relax. You can’t look any sillier than you did in that teeny little terrycloth towel.”

“Wait a minute. You went back to the car before I changed.”

“I sure did.” A grin crept across her face. “But it’s amazing what you can do with a pair of high-powered binoculars.”