Perfect Justice
Page 1
Perfect Justice
A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Four)
William Bernhardt
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
To Joe Blades,
for his extraordinarily good taste,
and for making writing the joy it should be
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.
(The heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing.)
—Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), Pensées
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgments
After the fall of Saigon, over one million Vietnamese fled their homeland seeking political asylum. The largest share of these homeless men, women, and children came to the United States. Because Arkansas’s Fort Chaffee was a major processing point for these immigrants, many of them settled in Arkansas and the surrounding states.
Almost immediately after their arrival, hate groups began to protest. The protests took the form of propaganda, political maneuvering, and terrorism. In 1992, thirty-eight different hate groups were identified in Arkansas alone.
PROLOGUE
“SOMEONE’S GOING TO DIE,” the younger of the two men said as they walked together down a dark country road.
The older man shook his head. “We must prevent it. We must find another way.”
“No other way!” The young man paused, searching for words. English did not come easily to him, and the Colonel insisted that he use it, even when they were alone. “Must … resist.”
“We must survive, Tommy. We must protect our families.”
“Like in Porto Cristo?” In the darkness, the young man’s eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire. “I will not run again.”
Colonel Khue Van Nguyen’s forehead creased. He tried to summon words that would calm his companion’s fury. Nguyen had no problem with the language; he had mastered English before he left Vietnam. But no words came to him. Perhaps, he mused, that was because no such words existed.
“A cold wind blows through the Ouachitas, Tommy.” As if on cue, a harsh mountain breeze whipped their faces. Colonel Nguyen shuddered. “Bad times are coming. We must be careful. There is great evil here.”
“Evil … everywhere. This no different!”
“We must make it different, Tommy.” When they came to America, they adopted English first names and reversed the order of their names to conform with Anglo-Saxon tradition. Vuong Quang Thuy became Tommy.
“I plan nothing. …”
Colonel Nguyen placed his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. How could he make him understand? He was so young, so full of anger. Uprooted from one country, dumped in another. “I am your friend. Your neighbor. There is no reason to keep secrets from me. I know you have been meeting with Dinh Pham and his group.”
“And so?”
“Pham is … unwise. He wants to take extreme measures.”
“We want to resist!” Tommy pushed himself away from Colonel Nguyen. “Tired of running. Hiding. Ready to fight!”
“Fight for what?”
“For our homes. For Coi Than Tien.”
“Is that why you fought that barroom brawl? For Coi Than Tien?”
Tommy’s eyes became hooded. “Was not my fault.”
“Fault is for children. The incident did not help Coi Than Tien.”
“They are killers! They hide beneath hoods … and slaughter us!”
“Still—” Before Nguyen could complete his thought, he heard a rustling sound off the side of the road.
He peered into the darkness, but didn’t see anything. Probably an owl, or a rabbit. Perhaps he’d imagined it altogether. He realized how edgy he was. The consequence of spending one’s entire life waiting for adversity to reappear.
He grasped both of Tommy’s arms firmly. “Promise that you and Pham will consult with me, or the elders. Before you take matters into your own hands.”
“I will … try.”
“Thank you,” Colonel Nguyen said, bowing slightly. “That is all I can ask.”
The road brought them to the northern perimeter of the Coi Than Tien settlement. They embraced in their traditional manner, then parted. Vuong walked toward the south end; he had a shack there he shared with three other single men.
Nguyen trudged toward his home, wishing he could shake this overpowering sensation of dread. He drew his coat tighter around him. The elders had chosen this place because of its beauty, its isolation, its tranquillity. Now it was a powder keg. An explosion seemed imminent. And Coi Than Tien was certain to be caught in the flames.
A sudden noise riveted his attention. It was a whistling sound, like the call of the sparrow, only quicker, sharper. He heard it a second time. He peered down the road, into the darkness that had swallowed Vuong.
There was a sudden brightness visible through the trees to the immediate south. It was an eerie, flickering glow. Nguyen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
He plunged into the dark forest, cursing himself. He should never have let Tommy walk home alone. Nguyen raced as fast as he could through the trees, then emerged on the south road.
He was instantly blinded by brilliant, white-hot light. He shielded his eyes, then slowly opened them. And gasped in horror.
The darkness was shattered by a burning wooden cross. And at the foot of the cross, Tommy’s body lay twisted and motionless.
Covering his nose and mouth, Nguyen ran to his young friend. Nguyen’s eyes teared and he coughed on the acrid smoke billowing out from the cross. The heat was searing; he forced himself to ignore it.
There was a metal shaft in Tommy’s chest, and another protruding from the side of his neck. Blood was gushing from his neck like steam from a geyser.
Nguyen clasped Tommy’s hand, feeling for a pulse. The hand twitched; Nguyen jumped. To his astonishment, Tommy’s
eyelids lifted. His eyes lighted upon Nguyen’s face.
Tommy’s lips parted. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Don’t … let them. …” he managed. “Not again.”
Tommy’s eyelids closed and his head fell to one side. A harrowing rattle sounded in his throat. Nguyen had seen and heard this before, many times over. He didn’t need a coroner to confirm that his friend was dead.
Choking and sputtering, Nguyen scrambled away from the burning cross. Just as he left, the top of the cross snapped and fell forward onto Tommy. Nguyen watched as Tommy’s clothes caught fire and burned. The fire spread quickly, engulfing the corpse in flame. Tommy’s skin began to blacken and peel away from his skull.
Nguyen clenched his eyes to shut out the horrific scene, but a fleeting image remained. He peered into the dark forested area on the other side of the road. There was something there—someone, actually. Nguyen could not get a clear view; the silhouetted figure was distorted by the shimmering heat waves.
Nguyen darted past the cross and into the forest. He searched all around, but he could find no trace of the fleeing figure. He paused a moment and listened for the shuffling of leaves or the crunching of twigs. Just like in the jungle. At Phu Cuong. He and the enemy. Waiting.
Nguyen forced himself back to the present. It was too late. Whoever had been there was gone.
On his way back to the road he almost tripped over a bundle of papers lying on the ground. He picked them up. Pamphlets, tracts, fliers. In the darkness he couldn’t make out the details, but he knew what they were. Hate literature. He had seen enough of it during the last few years.
Suddenly the night was split apart by the piercing wail of a siren a few hundred yards down the road. The sheriff from Silver Springs, probably; he’d arrive in a few minutes.
Nguyen shoved the papers inside his coat, dove back into the forest, and followed a serpentine route to Coi Than Tien. Even as he ran he knew what he was doing was wrong and he hated himself for doing it. Just the same, he kept on running, all the way back to Coi Than Tien, with the certain knowledge that everything was about to change. For the worse.
The fuse on the powder keg had been lit.
PART ONE
THE POWDER KEG
1.
“BEN, STOP SPLASHING AROUND so much. You’re scaring the fish.”
“I’m trying to get this stupid hook out of the water.”
“Use the reel, Ben. That’s what it’s there for.”
After fumbling a few more moments, Ben Kincaid tightened the drag and began drawing in his line. Why, he asked himself for the millionth time, had he ever allowed Christina to talk him into a camp-out? As a legal assistant, she was first rate; as a travel agent, she had serious drawbacks.
So far, this sojourn to the Ouachitas had succeeded only as a demonstration of his incompetence as an outdoorsman. Ben didn’t know the first thing about camping. To make matters worse, Christina did.
Christina waded across the waters and stood beside Ben. “I think I understand why you haven’t caught any bass all morning.”
“The fish don’t appreciate my wit and charm?”
“No. You haven’t got any bait on your hook. Très pathétique.”
Ben checked the end of his line. Sure enough. Sharp eyes on that woman. “I thought you promised no French on this alleged vacation.”
“That was during the drive from Tulsa. Now that I’m out in the wild, I can’t be restrained. Joie de υivre!”
Ben continued reeling in his line, but it caught in a snarl. “I hate baiting the hook. Worms are so squishy and disgusting.”
“Worms?” Christina propped her rod against the bank. “I’ve got some more bad news for you, mon ami. We’re fly-fishing.”
“Fly-fishing, huh?” Ben decided to bluff his way through. “Does that mean I’m supposed to bait my hook with a dead fly?”
“Not exactly, no.” She suppressed her laughter as she untangled his line.
It hardly seemed fair that she should make fun. After all, this whole escapade had been her idea. One minute she was talking about a pleasant drive to soak up some Arkansas scenery; before he could say “Get a reality check,” he was standing in Fulton Lake, deep in the Ouachita Mountains, in green hip-high waders. “You must think I look pretty silly, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Christina replied, trying to avoid eye contact. “Relatively silly, I guess. Not as silly as last night when you were trying to pitch your tent.”
“Well, excuse me. We didn’t pitch tents when I was growing up in Nichols Hills.”
“That much was clear.” Christina whirled her line in the air and delivered it expertly to the middle of the lake. “Assuming anyone from Nichols Hills ever went camping, they probably had servants follow them in RVs stocked with fine china and an assortment of exotic wines.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“I think you’ve had enough fishing for one day, Ben. Let’s get some grub.”
After a concerted effort and about half a can of lighter fluid, Ben managed to get the campfire started. In fact, it blazed. Out of control. Christina had to throw dirt on the flames just to keep them inside the ring of stones that theoretically defined the campfire.
“Thanks for the assist,” Ben said sheepishly, after the inferno was contained.
“No problem,” Christina replied. “Stay away from the matches.”
Christina had released all the fish she caught, and neither of them was particularly hungry for more canned beans, so they decided to settle for roasted marshmallows. Christina placed a white fluffy one on the end of her roasting stick and tossed the rest to Ben. “Bon appétit.”
Ben sat beside the campfire and admired the scenery. The camp area was surrounded by tall, majestic loblolly pines. It had been a lovely summer day, and now the light of the setting sun trickled through the pine needles and cast a hazy glow over the lake and the hills. Even a confirmed city boy like Ben had to admit this was not bad.
After skillfully toasting a marshmallow to a deep golden brown, Christina removed her harmonica from its velvet case. “How about a sing-along? I can play ‘Kum Bah Ya.’ ”
“Ugh,” said Ben. “No thanks.” Now that they were out of the water, he noticed how sharp Christina looked in her Banana Republic khaki shorts. If camping accomplished nothing else, it had at least distanced her from her usual dismal wardrobe.
“What’s your problem? You love music.”
“Music, yes. ‘Kum Bah Ya,’ no.” Ben lowered his marshmallow over the flames of the campfire.
Christina brushed her long strawberry-blonde hair behind her shoulders. “What would you like to hear, then? I can’t do the Ring Cycle on my harmonica.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Would you settle for some Burl Ives? I can play ‘Glow Little Glowworm.’ ”
“Thanks, no. Don’t you know any French songs?”
“Like ‘Que Sera Sera’?”
“I don’t think so. How about some Bobby Darin tunes?”
“Bobby Darin tunes? Ben, no one plays Bobby Darin anymore.”
“Of course they do. He was a genius. Ahk!” Ben yanked his stick back just after the marshmallow caught fire. “Rats. I hate it when it burns.”
“You held it too close to the fire.”
“I was distracted.”
Christina smiled. “Miss the office?”
“No. That’s all that prevents me from complaining about being impressed into this vacation. I don’t miss the office.”
“Not even Jones? Or Loving? You’re his hero, you know.”
Ben placed another marshmallow on the end of his stick. “It’s always been my dream to be worshiped by a barrel-chested, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound gumshoe who considers eyeball gouging a form of gentle persuasion.”
“What about Jones?”
“Jones and his typing and filing skills are marginal at best. On the other hand, he’s never dragged me on a fly-fishing expedition.”
Christina burrowed in the ice chest. “Giselle, then. You must miss your cat.”
“Why? Is that a requirement for sensitive-guy status? Mrs. Marmelstein is looking after Giselle. She’ll be fine.”
Christina passed Ben a carton of chocolate milk. “You seem a tad grumpy this afternoon.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to go to Silver Dollar City.” Ben plucked the sticky marshmallow from the end of his stick. It was underdone, but that was better than charred.
“Camping will be good for you,” Christina said. “You need to get out more. Relax, unwind. Get in touch with nature.”
“Aha! So this purported vacation is actually thinly disguised therapy. Part of your long-range plan to make me warm and cuddly.”
Christina shrugged. “What are friends for?”
Ben’s response was interrupted by the sound of a car backfiring. Someone was ascending the narrow dirt lane linking the main road to the campground.
“Any idea who that is?” Ben asked.
“Maybe Smokey the Bear, dropping by to lecture you on the dangers of excessive lighter fluid.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” Ben dropped his marshmallow stick. “Guess there’s one way to find out.”
Ben and Christina walked toward the edge of the campground. A red pickup stopped in front of them, a top-of-the-line number with mudgrip tires and a smoked-glass Western panorama on the rear window.
A thinnish man in blue jeans and flannel shirt stepped out of the driver’s side and extended his hand. “My name’s Harlan Payne. Are you Ben Kincaid?”
How on earth …? “That would be me. This is Christina McCall.”
“You’re an attorney?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” Ben suddenly realized he was still wearing his green waders. He yanked them off. “There. Now maybe I look a little more professional.”
“Don’t matter to me what you look like,” Payne said. “You’re from Tulsa?”
“True.”
“Long way from home.”
“Well, I like to get away from time to time.” He ignored Christina’s smirk.
“I’ve been looking for you all over the lake.”
Now Ben was definitely intrigued. “How did you know I was here?”
“Sammy Dean told me.”
“Sammy Dean?”
“At the bait-and-tackle shop up the road a piece.”