Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Could just be a coincidence.”

  Although his speed did not decrease in the least, Mike’s head turned slowly to face Ben. His eyes burned holes into Ben’s forehead. Then he returned his attention to the road.

  “What’s the status on the boy who was hit by the car, anyway?”

  “About five-thirty this morning he died. He never regained consciousness.” Mike’s voice remained perfectly flat, but Ben wasn’t fooled. “His parents waited by his bedside for days, but they never got a chance to talk to him. Never got to say goodbye.”

  Ben was silent for a long moment. “Did the boy … suffer?”

  “You mean after he was hit?” Mike twisted his shoulders and shifted into the fast lane, accelerating faster than Ben would’ve thought possible. “Hard to say. No one really understands how much pain people feel when they’re in a comatose state. But before …” Mike took a deep breath. “Before he was hit by the car, he was violated. Molested. Anally. And this chickenhawk did … other things to him, too. Just tortured the poor kid.”

  Ben drew in his breath. Words left him.

  “The medical examiner says it went on for hours. Maybe days. Till finally the boy managed to escape. And as a reward for his efforts, he got smacked by a car.

  “The sooner I talk to Rutherford’s parents, the sooner I can get on this bastard’s trail,” Mike continued. “And the hotter the trail, the better the chance of success.” He glared at Ben. “Understand now?”

  Ben nodded quietly. “Floor it.”

  Abie watched as Sam inserted his key and opened the door. He tried to pay attention, to be aware of where he was and what they were doing, but it was so hard. He felt sleepy, so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. He couldn’t seem to focus; everything was a hazy blur, like when he put on his father’s bifocals.

  Sam pulled him through the door. “Wait here while I get a few things. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll go somewhere else and do something really special. I promise. You’re going to love this. Okay?”

  “Okay, Sam.” Abie slumped down in a white recliner and flopped his book bag into his lap. His body felt heavy, tired. He didn’t know what he had done to so exhaust himself. He heard a rustling in the back room. Sam was searching for something in a closet. Whatever. Abie leaned back his head and closed his eyes. The clattering continued. What was all that noise, anyway? Never mind; he was too tired to care.

  His mind drifted back in time. How had he gotten so worn-out? He had gone to bed at the usual time, didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. It hadn’t been that tiring, riding bumper boats and go-carts. But he felt utterly exhausted now. In fact, he’d been feeling strung out ever since—

  His eyes opened.

  Since he ate that Sno-Kone.

  Was it possible …? He’d heard of stuff like that, on television and in movies. Drugs. Stuff that made you sleep. But nobody did that in real life.

  Did they?

  Abie felt a nervous shiver run through his body. It seemed to energize him, though, to shake his body out of its stupor.

  What did he know about Sam, anyway? Was it possible Sam … wasn’t the friend he acted like he was? Was it possible …?

  Abie pushed himself to his feet. He staggered across the living room of the apartment, weaving back and forth like a drunk. Where was Sam? He wanted to ask him a question or two. …

  Somehow, Abie managed to find his way to a door and opened it. Oops—wrong room. Sam wasn’t in here. He had almost closed the door again when he noticed something strange about the opposite wall. It was colored and—was it just weird wallpaper, or what? It was so hard to tell; he could barely see it.

  He entered the room and approached the wall. They were pictures. Photographs, cut out and taped to the wall.

  And all the pictures were of little boys.

  Some of them looked like they’d been cut out of magazines, but most of them were actual photographs. School pictures, or posed family shots with the rest of the family cut out. He recognized some of the other boys as kids whose parents were members of the country club. Abie wondered how Sam got access to all these shots.

  Then he noticed something about the boys in the pictures.

  All of the boys were about Abie’s age. All of them had dark complexions, like Abie. All of them had brown eyes, like Abie. All of them had dark hair.

  Like Abie.

  The last detail he noticed about the picture wall was the worst of all. One of the photos, the one in the dead center of the wall, was very familiar.

  It was Abie.

  Abie stepped away from the wall. It was the picture that had been taken at the country club just a few weeks before. His parents hadn’t bought any; how did Sam get them?

  Another thought occurred to Abie, a thought that rang crystal clear in his dazed mind.

  When they first met, Sam had acted like he didn’t know who Abie was. But now Abie knew that wasn’t true. Sam had Abie’s picture on his wall.

  Sam must’ve been looking for him.

  Forcing his feet to move, Abie backed out of the room. He was moving quickly, gaining speed, and then—

  He hit something solid.

  Abie whirled around and saw, to his horror, that he had bumped into Sam.

  Sam was standing right behind him. For how long?

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Abie shrank away from him. Sam had never used that tone with him before. And there was something in his eyes, too, something Abie had never noticed before.

  Something terrifying.

  “I told you to wait outside!”

  “I—I—” Abie stuttered helplessly. What could he say? What could he do? “I got confused.”

  “Confused? About what?”

  Some voice inside Abie told him that he didn’t need to tell Sam everything he had figured out. “I—I was looking for the bathroom. I’m sorry. I can’t think so good. I feel tired.”

  Abie detected a tiny smile on Sam’s lips. “Is that right? Well, let’s move on to our next destination. There’s a mattress there. We’ll both have a nice lie-down.”

  “Mister, I—”

  “Sam.” He firmly clasped Abie’s shoulders. “Call me Sam.”

  Abie squirmed under his grip. “I don’t think I wanna go nowhere else with you.”

  “Oh?” A deep furrow appeared on his forehead. “Why is that?”

  “I—I dunno. I just—I feel real tired. And I bet my parents are waiting for me.”

  “What’s the matter, Abie? Don’t you like me anymore?”

  “No, I do! I really do. It’s just—I dunno. My mom gets so worried sometimes. …”

  “It’ll be all right. This is play day, Abie.” He moved toward the front door, pulling Abie behind him. “We’re going to go somewhere now and play.”

  Abie wanted to resist, but he didn’t have the strength. He wanted to yell, to scream out, but he couldn’t do it. And he was afraid of what Sam might do to him if he did. He grabbed his book bag and allowed himself to be dragged through the door.

  He had no choice. He didn’t even know if he could stay awake; he was certain he couldn’t fight Sam.

  He was helpless.

  36

  THE RUTHERFORD MANSION WAS one of Utica’s premiere showplaces. It was not far from Philbrook, and as far as Ben could tell, it was every bit as magnificent, perhaps more so. Like Philbrook, it was designed as a Renaissance villa, exquisite in its stone- and brickwork, stately and impressive.

  The front lawn was planned, organized, and sculpted in precise detail. Long rows of tall hedges stretched from the street to the front porch. The flower beds were filled with azaleas, bright-colored rosebushes, and flowers systematically and scientifically clustered according to color and family. Ben spotted two gardeners at work; he suspected there were probably more.

  All in all, Ben was glad he was arriving with a police officer. If he’d come alone, he’d probably have been chased away or shown the servants’ entra
nce. Or shot.

  The front door was opened, predictably enough, by a servant, a black woman in her late fifties. She was even wearing a uniform, a black blouse and skirt with a white frilled apron.

  “I’m Lieutenant Morelli,” Mike explained. “I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford.”

  Mike offered her a card, but she didn’t take it. “Follow me.”

  She pivoted with an air of weary but formal detachment. The inside of the mansion was decorated with subdued colors, warm lights, and many mirrors. Ben’s mother’s home in Nichols Hills was stunning, but it looked like the Hayes residence compared with this place. This was the kind of mansion that could result from nothing less than vast quantities of money and the carefree ability to spend it.

  “They’re waiting for you in the living room,” the maid said, pointing toward an interior passage. She detoured in the other direction and pushed through a swinging door. The kitchen, Ben thought, or perhaps the butler’s pantry. Ben saw the woman sit down on a stool in front of a small black-and-white television playing one of those televangelists—Ben couldn’t keep them straight.

  The living room, as the maid had so quaintly put it, was astounding. Normal houses had living rooms; only palaces had rooms like this. The walls were floor-to-ceiling mahogany, except on one wall, where a huge bookshelf covered the same immense space. Light poured down from two rows of small high windows, casting crisscrossing light beams in either direction. Stuffed heads adorned the wall above and beside the fireplace mantel, as did several framed works of modern art that Ben didn’t doubt were originals.

  “You must be Mr. Rutherford,” Ben heard Mike say, shaking him out of his architectural reverie. Rutherford was standing by the fireplace. Rachel was in a chair just beside him. Her face was streaked with tears.

  As Rutherford shook Mike’s hand Rachel noticed Ben. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Kincaid was associated with the police,” she said, brushing away her tears. “Aren’t you required to disclose such details when you interrogate people?”

  “I’m not with the police,” Ben said hastily. “I just happened to be in Lieutenant Morelli’s office when the call came in about your son. I recognized the name, so I came along to, uh, see if I could help.”

  Harold Rutherford scrutinized Ben carefully. Ben had the distinct feeling Rutherford didn’t like having Ben here. But why?

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Mike said abruptly. “The sooner we get through the preliminaries and get to work, the better the chances for your son.”

  “The—chances?” Rutherford’s voice sounded hoarse. “I—I don’t know what happened exactly. I was having a discussion with Abie. An argument, I suppose. There was nothing extraordinary about it; it happens quite frequently. Then, all of a sudden, he dashed out the door. Stupidly, I paused to talk to”—he looked down at his grief-stricken wife—“Rachel. Just for a few minutes. Seconds, really. Then I ran out into the front yard, just in time to see Abie ride away with a stranger.”

  “Did Abie have anything with him?” Mike asked.

  “Just the clothes on his back.”

  “Did you get the make of the car? Model? License plate?”

  “I’m afraid not. I was too far away.”

  “What shade of gray?”

  Rutherford appeared baffled. “Are there shades of gray?”

  “Yeah. Silver. Metallic. Gunmetal.”

  “Ah—I don’t know. A dark gray. Closer to black than white.”

  Mike began making entries on his notepad. “That narrows it down to probably a couple hundred thousand cars. Can you tell me anything else about this man?”

  “All I saw was the back of his head.”

  “Are you sure it was a man?”

  “Well—I assumed—”

  “Don’t.” Mike scribbled a few more notes. “What color hair?”

  Ben could see Rutherford was becoming flustered under Mike’s barrage of questions. “I—I’m not sure exactly. Bright red, I think. It was curly and”—he waved his hands around his head—“bushy.”

  “Like an Afro?”

  “Why, yes, exactly.” His face suddenly became alarmed. “You don’t suppose Abie was taken by a—a—colored person.”

  “With a bright red ’fro? I kinda doubt it.”

  Rutherford released his breath. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Ben could see Mike’s teeth gnashing. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  “The man with the red bushy hair?”

  Mike shrugged. “Perhaps. That was probably a disguise. Ever notice anyone who fit his general description? Ever notice anyone hanging around the neighborhood who didn’t belong? Or maybe lurking about Abie’s school?”

  Rutherford seemed disturbed by the prospect. “Of course not. Wait”—he snapped his fingers—“of course! The man Abie was talking to yesterday. His car. It was also gray.”

  Mike flipped a page in his notepad. “Care to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  “I was picking up Abie to take him to a baseball game. I was late. Car trouble.”

  Mike looked up. “What kind of car trouble?”

  Rutherford frowned. “Well, I hardly see how that matters—”

  “If it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Rutherford drew in his breath, obviously annoyed. “A fan belt snapped.”

  “Could it have been cut?”

  Rutherford seemed genuinely taken aback. “I—suppose it could have been. My man was quite surprised. He said the belt was just replaced a few months ago.”

  Mike nodded thoughtfully.

  “Anyway, I had to borrow Rachel’s car, so I was late. When I arrived, Abie was talking to someone in a gray car. After I pulled in behind, the gray car drove away.”

  “Was it a sedan?”

  “Uh—I’m not sure.”

  “Did Abie actually get in the car?”

  “No. But he did throw his book bag in the backseat.”

  “Book bag?”

  “Right. From school. It’s navy blue. About so big.”

  Mike frowned. “Who was in this car?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what Abie and I were fighting about this morning. I asked him who it was. He refused to tell me.”

  “That fits,” Mike said grimly. “The first thing they do is extract an oath of secrecy. To protect themselves.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sir, I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but I don’t think your son was taken by accident. I think he was chosen. I think this man sabotaged your car and would’ve taken Abie yesterday if you hadn’t shown up at the last moment. He’s been stalking your boy.”

  “You think he wants … ransom?”

  Mike looked down at his notepad. “I hope so.”

  “You hope so? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “If this man is the same one I’ve been hunting … he may have other motivations.”

  “But—how can you know who he is?”

  “I’ve been working on a series of child abduction cases for several weeks now. And this case fits the pattern.”

  “Oh, my God. And were these other children ransomed?”

  “No,” Mike said. “They were molested. Then killed.”

  Rutherford looked at his wife, then turned away as her eyes flooded with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rutherford, but you deserve to know the truth. Have you and your son been getting along?”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.”

  Rutherford glanced back at his wife again, but her face was buried in her hands. “To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant, Abie and I have … not been on good terms lately. Perhaps it’s my fault, I don’t know. He’s been quite hostile toward me. Going through a phase, I suppose.”

  “Perfect.”

  Rutherford started. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s perfect for someone who wants to insinuate himself into your son’s
affections. The perfect opening. He’ll try to be the daddy Abie isn’t getting at home.”

  “Look here. Rachel and I have always done our best to provide—”

  “Don’t take it the wrong way, sir. Kids go through all kinds of fits and starts and crazy ideas as they grow up. A certain amount of unhappiness and dissatisfaction inevitably sets in, no matter how swell a parent you are. Creeps like the man who nabbed your son exploit it. That’s all.”

  Rachel Rutherford brushed away the hair clinging to her wet face. “Lieutenant, do you think that—that—” Her voice cracked. She pressed her hand against her mouth. A few moments later she managed to continue. “Do you think that this man may have already—already—”

  “There’s no way I can be certain, Mrs. Rutherford,” Mike said gently. “But I don’t think so. Child molesters aren’t rapists. They like to take their time. Seduce their victims. But he won’t wait forever. That’s why it’s so important that we move quickly.”

  The telephone rang. Rutherford and his wife both looked stricken.

  “Well, don’t just sit there,” Mike said. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it is a ransom demand. Someone answer it!”

  Rachel extended her trembling hand and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  A moment later she released her breath. “It’s for Gabrielle.”

  Gabrielle was the maid who had shown Ben and Mike into the house. When called, she entered the room and took the phone. “Yeah? Oh, hello, Corrine.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Rutherford demanded. He was talking to his wife, not Gabrielle. “Servants taking personal calls? On our line?”

  “Where else would she take a call?” Rachel retorted. “She’s here all day long.”

  “She shouldn’t be taking personal calls when she’s working. You need to put your foot down, Rachel!”

  “Why me? So you can shuffle off to the country club and ignore the needs of your family?”

  “I do not ignore the needs of my family!”

  Tears once more streamed from Rachel’s eyes. “Tell that to my Abie!”

  Even though he knew he was asking for trouble, Ben stepped forward and placed his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I know what a strain this must be for you.”