Perfect Justice

27.

BY LATE AFTERNOON BEN was back at the campsite. Both Jones and Loving were gone. Ben hoped they were burrowing into their respective assignments and uncovering useful information about Donald Vick, Tommy Vuong, and ASP.

Christina was there, but she was still giving Ben the cold shoulder. Cold wasn’t a strong enough adjective—glacial might be more appropriate. Subzero.

Mike was on top of his helicopter—at least Ben assumed it was Mike. All he could actually see was the top of his head. A vast array of tools and machine parts were spread on the grass around him. “What are you doing?”

Mike tried to answer, but his response was incomprehensible. After he took the wrench out of his mouth, it was better. “I’m installing some of these parts I got in Silver Springs.”

“Do they fit?”

“They do after I solder them in.” Mike’s hand fumbled around in the grass for a tool. “My principal concern is these spark plugs. They’re really meant for tractors.”

“Oh, well,” Ben said. “Tractors, helicopters. How different can they be?”

“Right.” Mike pushed himself off and opened the door to the cockpit. “I’m going to start her up. Will you crawl on top of the engine and tell me what happens?”

“You must be joking.”

“Just tell me if the spark plugs spark. And if you spot anything else rattling loose or flying out of its housing, that would be good to know, too.”

“You’re out of your mind. I won’t be anywhere near that bucket of bolts when you start it.”

“Don’t be such a chicken. I’m just going to turn over the engine. What could happen?”

“Soldered spark plugs could ignite my flesh. Aerial scrap metal could fly like shrapnel into my face.”

Mike patted the hull. “I don’t think you should refer to Portia as aerial scrap metal. You might hurt her feelings. Are you sure you won’t keep an eye on the engine while I start it?”

“Not unless I can do it from the other side of the lake.”

“My hero! By the way, while I was in town this afternoon I got the scoop on the prosecution’s case. They’ve found the murder weapon.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Crossbow near the scene of the crime. Hairs in the firing mechanism. I’ve heard all about it.”

“Is that a fact?” Mike stroked his chin. “Then you know about the bloodstain?”

“Bloodstain?” Ben said blankly.

“That’s what I figured. It’s the kind of zinger prosecutors like to keep to themselves until trial, if at all possible.”

“But Swain told me about the hairs.”

“Right. That’s the straw man. He’s hoping you’ll expend all your energy—and cross-ex time—trying to convince the jury that the hairs don’t necessarily incriminate your client. And when you’ve finished, Swain will stroll calmly to the podium for redirect and tell the jury about the bloodstain.”

“On the crossbow?”

“You got it. And it’s Vick’s blood type. You might be able to talk your way out of a hair or two, but two hairs and a blood blot make for a pretty damning combination.”

“Blast.” Ben bit his knuckle. “And they’re sure the blood is Vick’s?”

“Like I said, the types match. I doubt if this burg is equipped to run microscopic analyses. But I would be”—he glanced at Portia—“if I could get back to Tulsa.”

“What is this, blackmail? I’m not crawling on top of that alleged flying machine and that’s final.”

“Suit yourself. But I really could get some tests run. I think the lab tech in town would give me a sample from the bloodstain.” He shook his head. “Sure is a long walk back to Tulsa, though.”

“Mike, be reasonable!”

“I think I’m being perfectly reasonable.”

“How about a compromise? I’ll stand between the tents. I’ll still have a clear view of the helicopter, but I’ll be far enough away that the chances of being pelted by flying debris will be, oh, no better than one in two.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Agreed.”

Mike climbed into the cockpit. Ben scurried to the relative safety afforded by the tents. Mike started the engine.

At least, that’s what Ben thought Mike was doing. He had to assume Mike wasn’t killing a cat, although that was more what it sounded like. There was a painfully high-pitched screeching, followed by the excruciating sound of metal grinding against metal. Not quite as bad as fingers on the chalkboard, but close. There were a few final clattering noises, followed by a loud thump from the engine casing.

Ben didn’t need a close-up view to tell him that Portia was not taking off. “I don’t think it’s working,” he shouted.

Mike turned off the power and fell dejectedly out of the cockpit. “Damn. I thought I had it that time.”

“Evidently not.”

“Did you hear that crash? I think the entire engine fell. It’s in worse shape now than it was before.”

Ben was forced to agree.

Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. “Looks like I’ll be sending your blood samples to Tulsa by Federal Express, Ben.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder if they can deliver helicopter parts?”