Justice

by Doug Sutherland

  That brought him back to Harrison. Even though the Strothwood P.D. was even smaller then than it was now, Harrison had been big on delegation and rarely appeared in court. There’d been a few exceptions to that, but not many. Harrison wasn’t above a little grandstanding and he’d occasionally show up or even give testimony if the occasion would put him in the public eye. Karl realized that he could rescue the article with that. Karl had been there, if he could just remember where there was. He’d seen the two legends together in the same arena in the same era and he could use that to inject human interest and nuanced observation into a piece that otherwise had been headed for oblivion.

  The transcripts had been worth a shot, but that had been as much about trying to get close to Louanne as any sincere interest in research. It had been pretty clear even to Karl that she wasn’t interested, and now he told himself that a retrospective based primarily on trial transcripts wasn’t going to make very compelling copy. He needed something worth reading, something that would give people an insight into both men, something personalized. The uncomfortable truth was that neither man had ever had much time for him, but Karl’s readers didn’t have to know that.

  Karl never threw anything away, at least not anything he’d written. He still had his old notes from those days as well as every back issue of the Ledger he’d had a hand in. They should be a hell of a lot more interesting than the transcripts themselves. The only thing that he’d learned from them so far was that hardly anybody who gave testimony in Strothwood was capable of forming a coherent sentence.

  28

  Someone had spent a lot of money on the sign but the rest of the so-called development didn’t look like much, little more than a series of dirt roads that wound around pasture and partially cleared woodland that presumably would someday be the golf course itself. Or not.

  They had an appointment to meet at 5:30 pm. Vince had been deliberately vague, not interested in hanging around near the entrance and being marked by whoever might drive by on the two-lane road that went by the entrance to the development. During the phone conversation two days ago they’d gone back and forth about what day and time to set the appointment, and in the process McIvor let slip that he was booked up with house showings until about 5 pm. Vince had been easygoing and genial, said no worries, the subdivision couldn’t be that big – if he got there early or if McIvor was late he’d just drive around and get a feel for the place, wait for him there. He told McIvor the kind of car he’d be driving and said he’d be easy to find.

  Now Vince trolled slowly through the barren streets until he found what he was looking for. It was a cul de sac, pretty much the farthest point from the main road he could reach. Some of the lots weren’t even cleared, just marked by wooden stakes with short orange ribbons and FOR SALE signs everywhere. Vince got out of the car, took the container with him.

  It was hot, the air heavy and still. Even the birds were silent; the only sound the incessant droning of insects. There weren’t any curbs here and the roads were unpaved, tendrils of dust rising with every step he took. He walked toward the clump of trees that presumably marked the end of the lot’s someday backyard. Beyond gaps in the trees Vince could see cleared land that suggested the contours and layout of a golf course. That was all it was, a suggestion, much like the so-called development behind him. Someone, he thought, has been optimistic.

  He left the container under some bushes and went back to the car.

  • • •

  Vince had long since retreated to the car’s leather and air conditioning by the time McIvor showed up, long enough that Vince had started to get concerned that he might not show up at all. The uncertainty hadn’t lasted. From what he’d seen so far McIvor probably hadn’t even sold the first lot yet and surely wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to break the cherry. He’d looked into his rear view mirror only five minutes later and seen a big Buick sedan turn the corner behind him.

  Vince turned off the ignition, reminded himself what his name was. He looked in the mirror again and saw a heavyset man of medium height getting out of the Buick. The next few minutes would be critical. Vince opened his own door and got out.

  McIvor was already striding toward him, hand extended.

  “Mr. Manderson?” His smile was practiced and apologetic. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it is.”

  “I do,” Vince said, like he was a big successful guy too and he really did know how it was. They shook hands and Vince gestured toward the lot. “As you can see I’ve been taking a look around. What can you tell me about this one? It backs on the golf course, right?”

  “It does,” McIvor said, walking toward the back of the lot. “It’s right on the 14th hole. We decided to leave those trees there for now. It’s such a matter of personal preference that we’ll let the homebuyer decide what to do with them. Some people like the idea of being able to watch what’s happening on the course and others like their privacy. If they want the trees removed we’ll certainly take them out, no additional cost.”

  They were at the trees now. Vince fingered the vial in his pocket, got it into the palm of his hand.

  “Where will the next tee box be?” he asked.

  “Not far,” McIvor said. He turned toward a narrow dirt path that led through the trees. It was the same path Vince had used earlier. “I’ll show you.”

  Vince nodded and followed him. He could see where the path and the trees ended and he saw McIvor stop just at the edge of the clearing, maybe waiting for him to catch up.

  His timing had to be flawless. McIvor was turning around to say something when Vince caught him squarely on the chin with a hard uppercut. He managed to catch him in time as he fell backwards. McIvor was heavy, out like the proverbial light, and Vince struggled to control his bulk as he straddled him and awkwardly crab-walked forward, letting him down on his back as softly as he could. It had been a good, solid shot but Vince had to go on the assumption that McIvor wouldn’t be out for long.

  He didn’t need long. It had been nerve wracking carrying it around but now he took out the elegant little kit he had made. He put on surgical gloves and gingerly opened the small box. It actually looked a little like an upscale cigarette case, although its contents would kill you a lot faster. He actually breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw that the preloaded syringe inside had stayed intact – that had been the truly dangerous part. If it had broken or been compromised he wouldn’t have made it this far. Fortunately the padding and Velcro surrounding it were undisturbed. The syringe was fitted with a nasal cone that worked as an atomizer. This was where the secondary risk came in. The cone was designed to fill the nostril, prevent any blowback or leakage. He hoped.

  He pulled a mask over his own mouth and nose, a precaution that would be either an empty gesture or a lifesaver. The gear he really needed for this was too bulky, but he’d already wasted enough time thinking about that. McIvor was showing signs of life and he couldn’t wait any longer. He shoved the atomizer up into McIvor’s right nostril, relieved to see its circumference forming a seal. The sudden intrusion into McIvor’s nasal cavity was going to bring him around, wake him up, and Vince depressed the plunger of the syringe, held it there. He’d taken the precaution of adding some coloring to the liquid inside so he could see what the hell he was doing and he held the syringe jammed up McIvor’s nostril even as the man started to come around. Vince pushed one gloved hand down on McIvor’s forehead to hold him in place until he was sure the syringe was empty. The next phase was going to be tricky, but from everything he’d read it wouldn’t take long.

  McIvor had looked soft, but Vince had learned long ago not to underestimate someone else’s capacities, especially under duress. Adrenaline was an incredible thing. There’d been no place to hide the small, conical biohazard container on Vince’s person, and while it sat only a few feet away in the bushes Vince couldn’t take a chance on the damn atomizer coming loose. Vince put all his weight on McIvor’s chest, kept one hand pressing down on his
head and the other on the syringe, pushing hard enough to keep it in place but hopefully not hard enough to abrade the tissue inside the nasal cavity.

  McIvor’s eyes snapped wide open and he suddenly was fully conscious. He writhed in panic, fighting hard to breathe. Vince rode it out as McIvor tried to buck him off, was able somehow to hold everything in place. McIvor’s eyes started bouncing wildly as he fought for air and couldn’t get any.

  It was hard to watch, even for Vince. Another one who was going to die without knowing why it was happening. The suffering alone would have to be enough. Vince stayed silent, had to in this place where for all he knew people and discovery were not far away. McIvor tried to shout or scream or breathe but he could do none of those things and his struggles went from desperate, thrashing violence to stillness in what could have been seconds or minutes. Vince stayed where he was until he was sure. Then he carefully got up and went to retrieve the container from the bushes.

  29

  Stupid idea coming way out here, Donnie thought. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t get drunk and disorderly closer to home, with no risk of wrecking the Yamahas on the rutted old trails crisscrossing the woods behind the subdivision. The rich assholes who’d bought up the land here hadn’t been as smart as they thought. Not much had been done, most of this fucking big deal golf course still just scrub and timber and dirt. The McIvors had been promising to finish it for two years now. In spite of that Donnie figured they could still make a point, do some damage, set them back even farther. That was the real reason they’d come out here, to tear the shit out of this place and make as much of a fucking mess as possible.

  Tear the shit out of something that not long ago had belonged to him, to his family anyway. One of the last decent chunks of land still inside the Strothwood town limits, something his old man was going to pass on to him the way his old man had passed it on before him. Then everything went to hell, the family trucking business gone to ratshit, and the only way out had been to sell to the goddamn McIvors. That had been hard on his family, but at least there was the consolation of the money—until a couple of months later they found out what the McIvors were selling the lots for, hanging the whole bullshit exercise on the ‘country club’ they were going to build as the ‘centerpiece’ of this ‘prestigious new Windermere Heights golf community’—more bullshit, it was flatland, you could watch your dog run away for four days. His old man and his mom took it hard, his dad thinking he’d been a fool to have to sell in the first place, his mom knowing better but afraid to say anything that might set him off. She was a practical woman, knew they needed the money and there was no choice, no choice at all. His dad didn’t see it that way, would never let himself off the hook for it. Three or—no, four generations, including Donnie—holding that land, being part of it, and then letting it go all at once, just like that.

  Donnie had made it his personal mission to fuck the smug bastards up. Even so it was pretty tame stuff – he and two of his buddies, three overpowered ATVs in all, pulling donuts and drag racing all over friggin’ Windermere Heights and their fucking shithead golf course.

  Not much in the way of revenge, but better than nothing. If Donnie could think of something else later on he’d do that too. He realized that he was suddenly alone, finally caught a glimpse of the other ATVs through the trees. His buddies had abandoned the golf course and were hauling ass through the subdivision. He swung the Yamaha around and looked for a shortcut into the maze of dirt roads and courts. He saw an opening in the trees and headed for it, figuring at least one of the roads would be long enough and wide enough for a decent three way drag race.

  He ran alongside the tree line and then turned into the path, realizing too late that he had started the turn way too hot, tipped up on two wheels and didn’t quite get it back, his hand inadvertently opening the throttle so that when he got all four wheels back on the ground the sudden excess power fishtailed him right into the woods and brush beside the trail. The next thing he knew he was airborne, the four wheeler coming out from under him and burying itself in the bushes. He landed hard, narrowly missing a tree trunk that would have been strong enough and thick enough to kill him, helmet or no helmet. As it was all the air had been knocked out of him and his left shoulder hurt like hell. He just lay there on his back for a minute, staring up at the branches and little bits of sky and sun and trying to breathe.

  Fortunately he was young and strong and stupid and he finally got his breath back, his hearing returning along with it. He rolled gingerly onto all fours, saw the path a few feet from where he was. He really wanted to get his fucking helmet off but he knew enough to be careful doing it. He could hear the nearby rasp of engines in the subdivision, his asshole friends completely unaware that he’d nearly killed himself, probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. He’d be just another war story, something to impress the girls with.

  He stood up and tested his shoulder. It was movable and he didn’t scream, so since he was alive his next big concern was the ATV. All he could do now was hope he hadn’t wrecked the thing. He looked at the furrow it had ploughed in the brush, saw with relief that it had somehow missed any trees big enough to damage it. He was on his way to get it started again when he froze, his eye caught by an incongruous scrap of color standing out against the mottled tan and green of the woods. It took a long moment for him to realize what it was and what it meant.

  Donnie closed his eyes and slowly opened them again. He could see enough to tell it was a man’s body and that it wasn’t moving. His first thought was that somehow he’d done it, that he’d hit the poor bastard, but the man was lying well outside the route the four-wheeler had taken. Donnie forced himself to edge closer, knowing he should check just in case the guy was alive. As soon as he saw his face he knew that he wasn’t, his eyes open and staring like you saw in TV or the movies.

  Donnie realized he knew who it was, or at least thought he knew who it was. He’d only met the guy once but he’d seen him profiling around town often enough to know he pretty much would have hated the bastard anyway, golf course or no golf course. Part of Donnie wanted to get closer, make sure, but what he’d seen already had scared the shit out of him and instead he backed away, nearly fell on his ass doing it. He tried to ratchet everything back to where it was two fucking minutes ago but it didn’t work. Donnie wanted the stupid sonofabitch to get up, brush himself off, and walk away, but McIvor or whoever the fuck it was looked dead, and given the history between his family and what the McIvors had done to them Donnie wasn’t going to say anything to anybody. There was one set of rules for money and one set for everybody else, and Donnie knew which set he qualified for. Whatever had happened to this guy there was a pretty good chance he’d end up taking the heat for it.

  Fuck that. He wouldn’t say a word to his buddies, because he knew they weren’t capable of keeping their mouths shut. He’d find an excuse to get them all out of the subdivision, like nothing had happened. He went back and righted the ATV. He’d been shithouse rat lucky – nothing looked bent or broken, no damage that would attract any attention. Even so he held his breath when he started it up, blew out a big sigh of relief when the engine caught and settled into an idle. He decided to go find his so-called friends before they found him.

  30

  Frank was pissed off. He’d spent a lot of time cleaning the place up, getting it ready for something called a ‘brokers open house’ that Angie had told him was absolutely crucial for getting his place on the market.

  Except no one came, not even Angie. She’d told him two to four pm, and while Frank didn’t exactly have a crowded schedule he had better things to do, whatever the hell they might be, than spend hours cleaning the place up. She’d made a big deal about the open house when she’d called him a few days ago, telling him how important it was. At first Frank had resisted the idea.

  “You don’t understand, Frank,” she’d told him, “you don’t have to be there. In fact it’s better if you’re not there. All I need you to do is
make sure the place looks as good as it possibly can. We’re all real estate people and we all have clients who are looking for properties. It multiplies your chances and it might save you some time.”

  That’s what had swung it. The less time it took to sell the place the better. She was going to come by early, around 1:30, to have another look around in case there were any issues at the last minute, and then he was going to – what? That part he hadn’t figured out, decided he’d probably end up driving aimlessly around to kill time.

  Now it was past two in the afternoon, he hadn’t heard a thing from Angie, and he hadn’t seen anyone at all. He was about to call her when he heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, then heard a sharp knock on the kitchen door a moment later. He decided to take his time before he opened it.

  “Frank, I’m so sorry!” she said, breathlessly apologetic.

  He didn’t answer, just stood aside so she could come in. He closed the door behind her, resisting the sudden urge to slam it.

  “I had to cancel it, Frank, I’m sorry. I was calling all over the place to let people know and I finally realized that I was so fixated on telling people that I hadn’t told you. I kept meaning to do it but people kept calling me back to talk about it and next thing I knew …” her voice trailed off, “anyway, there’s no excuse for it. I’m really sorry.”