Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Well, Ben thought, there was someone I thought of like a father, but that was hardly worth bringing up now. I’m so disappointed, Ben. How could you let this happen to you?

  “Julia will be back soon,” Ben said. “I’m sure she will. I bet she’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “You’re deluding yourself, kemo sabe.”

  Ben fidgeted with his briefcase. “I remember you told me you saw Julia not too long ago. Did she seem … distraught? Stressed out?”

  Mike shrugged. “No more so than usual. But that was over a year ago. Becoming a mother changes women.”

  “If you say so.” Ben started to leave, then stopped. “If worse comes to worst, I don’t suppose you’d care to do some baby-sitting?”

  “For my ex-wife’s new baby?” Mike’s look of amazement slowly faded into a soft smile. “There was a time when I would’ve done anything in the world for Julia. Anything. If she just would’ve stayed with me one more night.”

  He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Sure thing, pal. I can help look after the little booger. Just tell me when to show up. I’ll bring the pizza and beer.”

  10

  CARLEE CRANE WATCHED AS her husband, Dave, introduced their two sons to the joys of whittling.

  “It’s like this,” Dave said, carefully demonstrating how to open and close their pocketknives. “Put your knife in your right hand, and hold the block of wood in your left. Always stroke away from you, not toward you. Understand, Ethan?”

  Ethan, who had just turned six, peered up at his father with his usual inquisitive, somewhat skeptical expression. “Why?”

  Dave’s eyes soared toward the heavens. It was an inquiry Ethan had made with increasing frequency during the past year.

  “Because you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  Their other son, Gavin, an elder sage of eight, volunteered an answer. “If you stroke toward yourself, Ethan, you’ll end up cutting off your hand or poking a hole in your stomach. Knowing you, you’d probably kill all four of us with a single blow.”

  “Gavin,” Carlee said, “don’t talk to your brother like that.”

  “I’m just trying to keep him from slaughtering us, Mom, like that guy who kills all the campers in those Friday the 13th movies.”

  “Gavin,” Dave interjected, “your brother is not Jason.”

  “I don’t know,” Gavin said. “He looks pretty scary in a hockey mask.”

  Carlee smiled. This was her family, God help her. It was too late to trade them in now.

  She reached over and turned on the portable radio they had brought with them. It was tuned to the NPR station. Terry Gross was finishing an interview with yet another jazz musician.

  “Let’s continue the whittling lesson,” Dave said.

  “Aw, gee, Dad,” Ethan said. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes, you have to,” Dave said emphatically. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you?”

  There was no immediate answer forthcoming.

  “Of course you don’t,” Dave answered for him. “Smart campers don’t hurt themselves.”

  Here we go again, Carlee thought. Since they had arrived at their Turner Falls campsite in the Arbuckle Mountains two days before, Carlee had heard Dave indoctrinate his children on his own personal code of forbidden camp conduct, which could be titled What Smart Campers Don’t Do. Don’t swim for an hour after eating. Don’t build a campfire without a protective ring of rocks. Don’t pitch your tent on a slope. All these lessons and more were reinforced with the injunction “Only stupid campers do that.” Presumably, Dave believed that nothing would mortify the boys more than being thought stupid campers. In truth, Gavin and Ethan would probably be more attentive if he threatened to take away their Game Boys.

  Fresh Air ended, and a local news update began. Carlee turned up the volume. “… commenting on the impending trial of Leeman Hayes ten years after the heinous killing occurred. Hayes is accused of murdering a Peruvian woman in the caddyshack at the Utica Greens Country Club.”

  “Hear that?” Carlee said. ‘That’s where I used to work.”

  No one heard her. The menfolk were all focusing their full attention on their knives and blocks.

  “A murder at Utica Greens,” she murmured. “I’m surprised I don’t remember it.” Even as she said it to herself, though, something struck her as not quite right.

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost time to fix supper, which meant deciding which of several cans she was going to open. Dave had made some noise about “roughing it” and learning to cook such campfire delicacies as steak Diane and foil taters. When all was said and done, however, she was the cook, and the cook was on vacation. There was a reason God made canned food, the cook announced, and this was it.

  She knew she should get started, but somehow, she couldn’t quite work up the energy. It was so peaceful here, watching her family, feeling the wind toss about her long hair, seeing the sun slowly dip behind the Arbuckle Mountains.

  Nah. The cans would keep.

  “Now, first,” Dave continued, “you need to decide what you’re going to make. What are you going to make, Gavin?”

  Gavin blinked several times. “Gosh, I dunno.”

  “Well, what does your block of wood look like to you?”

  “Well …” Gavin stared at it intently. “It looks like a square.”

  “It is a square, but—” Dave’s face tightened. “Don’t you have an imagination?”

  “I guess not,” Gavin replied. “Least not when it comes to blocks of wood.”

  “It’s Nintendo that’s done it,” Dave said, glancing at his wife. “Nintendo and MTV. Pollutes their minds. Feeds them everything. Before long, they’ve forgotten how to use their imaginations and they can’t tolerate anything that takes longer than three and a half minutes.”

  “Maybe you could teach them by example,” Carlee suggested.

  “Wow, what a concept,” Dave murmured. “I see now how you got that degree in secondary education.” He picked up his knife and block. “Okay, craft lovers, watch this.”

  “Will it take long?” Ethan whined.

  “Why, have you got a date or something?”

  “No … but I am getting kinda hungry. …”

  Dave bit down on his lower lip. “Just watch for a minute, okay? Good. Now, I think my block of wood looks like”—his eyes wandered about, then lighted on Carlee—“… your mother.”

  “Mother!” Both Gavin and Ethan cackled with laughter. “Dad thinks you look like a square block of wood!”

  “How flattering,” Carlee said.

  “It’s not that it looks like her now,” Dave said. “But see what happens when I do … this.” He sliced his knife through the block, curling off a sliver of wood.

  “Hey,” Gavin observed, “shouldn’t you be stroking away from—”

  “Shush and watch,” Dave said. He continued cutting. “And then I do this … and this … and—ow!”

  Dave shouted, then dropped the knife and block. Both boys jumped into the air, startled.

  “What happened?” Carlee asked. “What did you—”

  The answer was evident before she finished the question. Violating his own code, Dave had stroked toward himself and cut his hand.

  “How bad is it?” Carlee blanched. Blood was spurting from the wound. Dave squeezed down on it with his other hand, but the blood spilled out through his fingers.

  “Get the first-aid kit!” Dave shouted.

  Carlee continued staring at the blood streaming from his wound. It smeared his arms and dripped onto the ground, making gruesome dark puddles. A sickly sweet odor permeated the air.

  Carlee felt a wave of nausea sweeping over her. She put down a hand to steady herself, but was unable to take her eyes away from him. She saw her husband clutching his hand, covered with blood, and—

  And then she saw something else. Some … where else. She was still outside, but she was … looking through an open window. She was lookin
g into a building. No, a room. She was looking into the corner where a woman stood against the wall. The woman was covered with blood, blood was spurting everywhere, blood was soaking her clothes and the walls and the floor. …

  “Carlee, are you going to help me or not?”

  Carlee heard his voice, but it seemed far away, distant. Unreal. What was real was what she was … seeing. That poor woman, backed into the corner. The woman was crying, screaming, and … and …

  Something struck the woman again, this time in the neck. A bloodcurdling howl was choked off and replaced by a death rattle. Blood spurted again and splashed throughout the room and the color and the smell and the sticky wetness was all over everything and …

  Carlee screamed.

  “Carlee, what is wrong with you? You’re scaring the kids!”

  Carlee clenched her eyes shut. The woman in the corner faded away. Carlee reopened her eyes slowly and saw her husband hovering over her. Somehow she had ended up on the ground, flat on her back.

  Dave was still gripping his hand, but the flow of blood had subsided. “Are you all right?”

  “I—I think so.” She licked her lips. Her throat was dry. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Dave’s forehead creased. “I’ll get the first-aid kit myself.”

  “Oh, but—”

  Too late. He was gone.

  When Dave returned, about a minute later, his hand was wrapped in white gauze. “It isn’t serious,” he informed his family. “It bled like crazy, but it was just a superficial cut.” He sat down beside his wife. “What about you? Are you all right?”

  It’s not superficial, Carlee thought. Her eyes were closed. It’s everywhere. The blood is everywhere.

  “Carlee, did you hear me?”

  “She needs help,” Carlee said aloud. “That poor woman needs help.”

  “Carlee?” Dave took her by the shoulders, favoring his injured hand. “What are you talking about?”

  Carlee shook her head, then brought her eyes around to face him. “I—I—” She didn’t know where to begin.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I—I guess it was the sight of all that blood. …”

  “You were acting like—I don’t know—like you were in a trance or something.”

  Carlee was suddenly aware that their two boys were standing around her with very concerned expressions on their faces. “I’m fine, everyone. Really I am. I was just … I don’t know. But I’m fine.” She took Dave’s hand and examined his wound. “Looks like you’ll live.”

  “Yeah.” Neither Dave nor the boys moved away from her. “We’re more concerned about you. You said something about blood, and—a woman?”

  Had she? She didn’t remember saying that. She didn’t remember speaking at all. And yet, she knew Dave wouldn’t lie. And she had seen something.

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but nothing came to her. It was gone.

  “I was just … daydreaming,” she said, doing her level best to sound convincing. “Probably induced by hunger.” She slapped her boys on the back. “I think it’s time for dinner. Any takers?”

  “I dunno,” Gavin said meekly. “Is it Beenie Weenies again?”

  Carlee laughed and guided them back to the designated mess tent. She tried to remain chipper while she fixed dinner, and tried to avoid doing anything that would alarm the children. She could tell Dave was watching her, though. He knew something had happened to her. Something serious. And it bothered him.

  Which was only natural, she supposed, because it bothered her, too. What had happened was incredibly strange. In fact, it was unlike anything she could—

  Remember.

  11

  THE BLAZING SUN WAS SETTING and the Bank of Oklahoma Tower, Tulsa’s tallest office building, cast a long shadow across downtown. Ben tried to walk in its shade, but that didn’t diminish the heat in the least. As soon as he stepped off the sidewalk, the humidity enveloped him. Like stepping into an oven, Ben thought.

  He heard the screaming while he was still on the opposite sidewalk. He broke into a sprint, raced across the street, and threw open the front door.

  Joey was on top of Jones’s desk, wailing at what had to be the top capacity of his tiny lungs. His face was red and blotchy; his nose was running. Jones hovered over the infant, his hands pressed against his head in abject frustration.

  “I don’t know what to do!” Jones screamed, easily matching Joey for high-pitched audibility. “I’ve tried everything I can think of. I hold him; I don’t hold him. I talk to him; I don’t talk to him. I rock him; I throw him up in the air. Nothing makes any difference. I’m pulling my hair out, but he just keeps on crying!”

  Jones gripped Ben by the lapels. “I even tried singing to him, for God’s sake, and I don’t sing! I think that’s in my employment contract. But here I was, singing every dumb little ditty that came to mind—and it still didn’t help! I don’t know what to do!”

  “So …” Ben ventured. “How’s the baby-sitting going?”

  Jones’s face bore a crazed expression. “This nephew of yours is pushing me over the edge, Boss.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Ben had to shout to be heard over the bawling. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I wish I knew. I’ve been asking for over an hour, but he never says anything.” Jones’s left eye twitched; by all appearances, he was just shy of a nervous breakdown.

  “He’s only seven months old, Jones. He doesn’t talk.”

  “Couldn’t he at least nod?”

  To their mutual relief, Christina entered the office, her arms loaded down with files. “Good Lord, what a brouhaha! What have you two done to that poor baby?”

  “I suspect it’s more a matter of what we haven’t done,” Ben murmured.

  She threw the files down on her desk. “Well, don’t just stand there. Pick him up.”

  Ben looked at her blank-faced. “Who? Me?”

  “Yes! He’s your nephew. Pick him up.”

  Ben stared down at the squirming infant. “To tell the truth … I don’t really know how.”

  “Haven’t you ever held him before?”

  “Well, once, but Julia put him in my arms …”

  “Criminy. Didn’t you ever baby-sit for spare change when you were a kid? Never mind, don’t answer. You probably just had your banker wire some funds.” She wedged herself in front of Jones’s desk. “Look, he’s seven months old. He’s not that fragile.” She lifted the baby up and plopped him into Ben’s arms. “See? Just put your hand behind his little neck. That’s right.”

  Ben wrapped his arms around the baby. The volume of the screeching seemed to diminish.

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Christina asked.

  “No,” Ben said, “but I notice the baby is still crying.”

  “Good point. What did you feed him?”

  Jones and Ben looked blankly at one another. “Feed him?”

  “Yes, feed him.” She pressed two fingers against her temples. “Regular Mr. Moms you guys are.”

  “What do you think he eats?”

  “I’m not sure.” Christina foraged in Joey’s red diaper bag. “He may still be breast-feeding.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Ben said. “There’s no way I’m going to—”

  “Keep your masculinity in check.” She pulled a quart can of Isomil out of the bag. “Formula.”

  “Thank God,” Ben said. “Can opener’s on top of the mini-fridge.”

  Christina pulled an empty bottle out of the diaper bag and poured in the Isomil. “He’d probably prefer to have his formula warmed, but this will have to do for the moment.” She passed the bottle to Ben. “Here, give him this.”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Yes! Tout de suite!”

  Ben shifted the baby around in his arms, took the bottle, and tried to hand it to Joey. “Here you go, chum. Eat up.”

  Christina shook her head sadly. “I don’t think so.” She took the b
ottle and aimed the nipple in the general direction of Joey’s mouth. Joey eagerly began to suck. The crying stopped immediately.

  “Success,” Ben said softly.

  “Hurray,” Christina echoed. “And see how he’s looking at you? You’re his hero now.”

  “Well, gosh,” Ben said. “That’s swell. Now all we need to do is get Julia back here as soon as possible.”

  “About that …” Christina held a slip of paper between her fingers. “I found this in the diaper bag.”

  Christina held up the note and Ben read it aloud while he fed the baby: “ ‘Dear Ben: I’m sorry to do this to you, but I don’t know who else to turn to. You know how screwed up I’ve been. This graduate-school program in Connecticut is a chance to get my life back in order. Maybe my last chance. But they’ll never take me if I have a baby. I’ll be pulling emergency-room duty for days at a time—day care won’t cut it. A single mother simply cannot do this. Terry hasn’t spoken to me since the divorce. He never visits Joey. Claims he doesn’t think the baby is his, which is just a stupid excuse to justify not paying child support. I don’t even know where he is now. I couldn’t get hold of Mother. You were my last chance.

  “ ‘Take care of my little baby.

  “ ‘Ninny-poo.’ ”

  Christina folded the note and put it back in the diaper bag. “Ninny-poo?”

  Ben’s eyes seemed to turn inward. “That’s … just a silly nickname. What I used to call Julia when we played together as little kids. You know, just three or four years old.” He shook his head. “Haven’t thought about that in years.”

  “I thought you and your sister never got along.”

  “We—” Ben paused. “Well, we didn’t. I mean—” He frowned. “Never mind. We have urgent business to address. I can’t possibly keep Julia’s baby for her, especially if I decide to handle this trial next week. Jones, call my mother.”

  Jones’s eyebrow arched. “Is it Christmas already?”

  “Ha-ha.” As everyone in the office knew, Ben’s mother was a wealthy matron who lived in Nichols Hills, one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Oklahoma City. None of them had ever met her, but Ben usually described her as “frosty” or “disapproving.” She had repeatedly offered to help Ben out of his financially strapped circumstances, particularly after his father died and left Ben zippo, but Ben steadfastly refused to take her money.