Perfect Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Yes. I’d like to take a room, if that’s possible.”

  “Of course.” Mary Sue brought out her guest book and opened it to the proper page. “How long will you be staying?”

  “I’m not sure. At least a week.”

  “That’ll do fine. We’ll just take it one week at a time.” Mary Sue offered Belinda the feather pen, then brought it back suddenly. “You’re not”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“a lawyer, are you?” She pronounced the word as if it were a synonym for child molester.

  “Why, yes,” Belinda said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Are you associated with Donald Vick?”

  “In a sense.”

  Mary Sue withdrew the pen and closed the book.

  “I’m with an organization called Hatewatch,” Belinda explained. “We investigate hate crimes and file lawsuits to make groups like ASP financially responsible for their actions.”

  “Oh!” A relieved expression washed over Mary Sue’s face. “Then you’re not with that other gentleman.”

  “Other gentleman?”

  “Well, I use the term lightly. The Tulsa lawyer. He came here, you know.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, yes. Wanted a room. Practically demanded it.”

  “How awful. What did you do?”

  “I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t permit his kind of riffraff in my boardinghouse. And when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I brought Old Sally into the discussion.”

  Belinda didn’t have to ask who—or what—Old Sally was. “My office is not connected to Mr. Vick’s defense,” she explained. “In fact, most people would say we’re on the opposite side.”

  “Oh, well then. That’s all right.” She handed Belinda the pen and reopened the book.

  “I understand Vick lived here.”

  “That’s right. He was my tenant. Room six.”

  “Did he cause any trouble?”

  “Not at all. Quiet as a church mouse. Only saw him in the evenings. Most nights he didn’t even come to dinner. By the way, I’ll need a first night’s deposit.”

  To give herself more time for casual questioning, Belinda slowed the check-in process as much as possible. “Of course. Did Vick get many visitors?”

  “Only in the last week. Before that, he had been quite the loner.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember who his visitors were?”

  “I didn’t know who they were at the time. Didn’t know it was going to be important.”

  “Probably men from that awful training camp outside of town.”

  “No,” Mary Sue replied. “You’d be amazed—the man who came to see him two nights before the murder was Vietnamese.”

  Belinda’s eyes widened. “You’re certain?”

  “Of course. How could I mistake something like that? I thought it was a hopeful sign—maybe the two groups were finally learning to get along. And then tragedy struck.”

  “Do you think you would recognize this Vietnamese man if you saw him again?”

  Mary Sue reflected for a moment. “I don’t know. Just between us chickens, those Vietnamese all look the same to me.”

  Belinda reached into her purse and made a slow show of counting out the first night’s rent. “Do you remember anything distinctive about Vick’s other visitors?”

  Mary Sue hiccuped. “Excuse me. Well, of course, his caller the night before the murder was a woman.”

  Belinda became intensely interested. “A woman! Can you describe her?”

  “Oh, dark hair, slim figure. Sorta like you. Maybe a tad shorter.”

  “Why was she seeing Vick?”

  “Well, I was afraid”—her neck stiffened—“that something not quite proper was taking place. But it turned out I was wrong. They talked for about half an hour. Then she left.”

  Belinda phrased her next question delicately. “You’re certain they just … talked?”

  Mary Sue’s darting eyes moved over Belinda’s head and up the stairs. “I happened to be in the hallway outside his room. I overheard them talking.”

  “Did you overhear what they were saying?”

  “Of course not. What do you take me for, a busybody?”

  Ben suppressed a guffaw.

  “I do remember this,” Mary Sue said. “The woman’s voice was almost hysterical. She was crying, gasping words between sobs. I became concerned and listened more carefully. I heard her say, ‘I don’t know what to do,’ and then, not too long after that, I heard a sentence that ended with, ‘a baby.’ ”

  Ben committed the remarks to memory.

  “Sounded to me like they had done something they shouldn’t and Donald was pressuring her to—well, you know. Men are like that. Only one thing on their minds, and once they’ve had it, they don’t care what happens to you.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “No. After that, I went downstairs for Old Sally. I figured the two of us would intercede before he compromised that poor girl any further. But by the time I got back upstairs, it was too late. I heard a banging noise, and for the first time ever I heard Donald raise his voice. And then the woman left. Went flying out of his room, ran down the stairs, and disappeared.”

  “Have you seen this woman since that time?”

  “Nope. Never saw her before, never seen her since. Don’t know where she went.”

  Well, Ben thought, they would just have to find out.

  “I don’t suppose you were at the fight the next day,” Belinda asked. “At the Bluebell Bar?”

  “Indeed I was. Quite an eye-opener.”

  “Would you mind telling me what happened?”

  “It was pretty much like the paper described it. The Herald don’t make many mistakes.” Ben attempted to contain himself. “There was one detail they left out, though.”

  “What was that?”

  “Well, the article made it sound as if Donald just walked up to Vuong and started slugging. Not so. Believe me, I was there, and I watched them the whole time. Donald talked to Vuong for two or three minutes first. They were whispering, but I could tell it was a heated conversation all the same.”

  “And then?”

  “I guess Vuong said something Donald didn’t like. I never saw anything like it before. Donald’s face just changed—it was like Jekyll turning into Hyde. He became enraged. Grabbed Vuong by the collar and slung him across the bar. That’s how the fight began.”

  Belinda nodded. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I’ll be in late tonight, probably after dinnertime.”

  “That’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll put a cold plate in the fridge for you.”

  “That would be wonderful. Say, is something in the kitchen burning?”

  “Oh my!” Mary Sue skittered back toward the kitchen, banging her leg on the coffee table on her way. Belinda took advantage of her absence to grab Ben and pull him out the door.

  21.

  “GOOD WORK,” BEN SAID as they walked down Maple together. “You got a lot more out of Mary Sue than I did. Despite the fact that you’re”—he lowered his voice to a hush—“a lawyer.”

  Belinda laughed. “Mary Sue certainly has been taking an active interest in the affairs of her lodgers. I’m not sure how reliable her information is, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Surely you noticed. Mary Sue is an alcoholic.”

  “What? How can you tell?”

  “Didn’t have much choice. I smelled her breath. Plus, I saw her tentative stride, her glazed eyes. She’d definitely had a few.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make her an alcoholic.”

  “It’s still morning, Ben. No one drinks this time of day unless they need it. And let’s not forget she was at the Bluebell Bar when the big fight occurred. In the afternoon.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Still, she couldn’t have imagined that entire story about the woman who visited Vick.”

  “No. Pity we don’t know who the woman was.”

  “Agr
eed. I’ll ask Vick, but I don’t think he’ll tell me.” Ben thought for a moment. “I wonder if any of Vick’s comrades-in-hate would know?”

  “It’s possible. Especially if she was a woman they were passing around.”

  “That settles it. I’m going to pay the ASP camp a visit.”

  “Ben—no!” Belinda reached out and pressed her hand against his shoulder. “Those men are killers. Every one of them.”

  “The fact that they belong to a repellent organization doesn’t necessarily make them killers.”

  “Ben, believe me. I’ve been tracking these creeps for years. They’ve left a trail of bodies in their wake a mile long. They’re remorseless.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  Belinda shook her head. “You remind me so much of myself it’s scary. You sound just like I did two years ago. Before I learned better.” She turned away and gazed up at the clear blue sky. “You remember John mentioning that ASP came after me, in Birmingham.”

  Ben’s eyebrows knitted together. “He said Frank saved you.”

  “Eventually, yes. After they’d held me captive over four hours.” Despite the brightness of the sun, her eyes became dark and clouded. “I was leaving Hatewatch late one night, alone. They grabbed me outside my office. Four of them. All wearing hoods. Twisted my arms behind my back, tied a gag so tight it cut my face. They threw me in the back of my car and pinned me down with a boot in my back.”

  Instinctively Ben reached out and took her hand.

  “After over an hour’s drive we arrived at their secret meeting place. At least fifty of them were there, all hiding beneath hoods. They dragged me to the center of a field—by my hair. Tore big chunks of it out of my scalp. Then they tied me to a wooden cross surrounded by kindling and wrapped a rope around my neck. Made me think they were going to burn me alive. Or hang me. Or both.”

  She inhaled deeply. “Then the leader approached me. With a knife.”

  Ben squeezed her hand tighter.

  “He pressed the knife against my neck, my face. He toyed with me. Of course, it was Grand Dragon Dunagan, but I’ll never be able to prove it. He hooked the knife inside the collar of my blouse …” She looked down at the ground and covered her eyes. “… then cut the blouse off my body. Then he cut loose my skirt. Underclothes, too. Bra, panties. I was tied to that cross, stark naked, clothes dangling from my wrists and around my ankles.”

  Ben’s hands trembled. “Did—did they … ?”

  “Rape? No, that wasn’t the first item on his agenda. He ran the blade all over my body, threatening me. Fondling me with his knife. Then he put it down and took up a bullwhip.”

  “My God! They didn’t—”

  “They did. Twenty-five times.” Her eyes began to well up. “I’ve still got the scars to prove it. They might still be beating me if Frank hadn’t shown up with the cops. Although I think they had something else planned for me later.”

  Ben took her into his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder.

  “The ASPers got away, but at least Frank rescued me before—” Her voice choked. “Before it was too late.”

  “And after all that,” he murmured, “you’re still fighting them.”

  “More than ever,” she said solemnly. “So you see how dangerous it would be for you to go to that camp.”

  Ben embraced her tightly. She didn’t seem uncomfortable, and he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to end it. “Well, at the moment they seem to be my friends.”

  “That won’t last long once you start asking the hard questions. Ben, this is not a smart idea.”

  “I’m sorry. I have to.”

  Belinda gripped his arm. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. I don’t want you to—I—” She stopped, reformulated her sentence. “Ben, don’t do it.”

  They looked at one another, their lips barely inches apart. “I don’t have any choice,” Ben said. He stroked her cheek. “But thanks for being concerned. It’s a refreshing change.”

  22.

  FINDING THE ASP ENCAMPMENT deep in the Ouachita Mountains was not easy for Ben, but then, Ben was not great with directions. Geographically challenged, Christina called him. Being male, of course he didn’t ask for help. Not that there was anyone to ask on this particular occasion.

  The map he had obtained from District Attorney Swain got him to the end of the dirt road, but from there he had to walk an additional half mile on foot. Honda Accords were not generally considered all-terrain vehicles. The journey was an exhausting series of ascents and descents. Ben felt winded after the first fifteen minutes. There was no point in kidding himself; he wasn’t in shape for this sort of exertion.

  Finally Ben topped the final hill and saw the ASP camp in the valley below. The encampment was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. To his relief, he didn’t see anyone on duty at the sentry posts. He had a hunch visitors weren’t greeted with open arms.

  Attempting to look casual, Ben pushed open the heavy metal gate bearing a friendly sign that said TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. In a clearing, perhaps a hundred yards away, he saw about fifty men running through field maneuvers. They were dressed in camouflage-green fatigues, heavy boots, web gear, and matching caps. They were all carrying weapons; from where Ben stood, they looked like assault rifles.

  A brief glance was sufficient to tell Ben that these men took what they were doing very seriously. Their expressions were determined and they rarely missed a step. Two men stood apart from the rest, barking out commands. Drill sergeants, apparently. He heard one of them shouting about kill zones.

  This explained why no one was guarding the front door, Ben thought. They were all out in the field high-stepping through tires and crawling under wires on their elbows. He was relieved, although he realized this could make it difficult for him to interview anyone. On the other hand, it could give him an unexpected opportunity to survey the grounds unrestricted.

  Four barrackslike buildings were positioned in the center of the encampment. They were cheap, portable, prefab constructions that kept the rain off your head and not much else. Two were considerably larger than the others. One of them was blackened on the north side, as if it had been subjected to a mild fire.

  Ben stretched up on his tiptoes and peered through the window of the building closest to him, one of the large ones. The main interior room was filled with cots lined so close together they almost touched. These two buildings must be where the men slept, Ben realized. At least, those who didn’t have a place in town like Vick.

  Ben assumed that one of the other two buildings performed an administrative function. And that meant, with any luck, he might find files. Records. Maybe the answers to a few of his hundred or so questions about Donald Vick.

  Ben was just rounding the building and heading toward the door when he heard a loud voice directly behind him.

  “Intruder!”

  Before Ben had a chance to react, someone knocked his feet out from under him. He slammed into the side of the building, then thudded down on the ground.

  He shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. He rolled over onto his back, just in time to get the business end of an M-16 poked directly into his face.

  23.

  “WAIT A MINUTE!” BEN shouted. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Shut your goddamn mouth!” the soldier hovering over him growled.

  Two other men appeared on either side of the first, seemingly from nowhere. They were all dressed in standard ASP drill uniforms. They even had black charcoal smeared on their faces.

  “Report, private!” one of the newcomers shouted.

  “Sir, yes, sir!” The young man raised his gun and stood at attention. Ben took the opportunity to climb back to his feet. “Found the intruder sneaking around the barracks. Saw him looking through the window. He must be the one. Sir!”

  The leader, a brown-haired man only marginally older than his so-called private, glared at Ben. “I’m Corporal Holloway. Do you have a pass?�
�

  Ben swallowed. “Well, no …”

  Corporal Holloway grabbed Ben by the neck and shoved him back down on the ground. Ben fell to his knees and caught himself by his hands, but a swift kick from one of the men’s boots flattened him. His chin pounded against the dirt.

  “Search him, privates!”

  Ben felt four hands roaming all over his backside. He didn’t care much for the sensation, but under the circumstances, he decided not to complain.

  After the search was completed, Holloway pried the butt of his rifle under Ben’s ribs and rolled him onto his back. One of the privates clamped his hand down on Ben’s throat, securely pinning him to the ground.

  “Who authorized your presence?” Corporal Holloway barked.

  Ben didn’t feel lying would improve his standing in the community. “No one.”

  “State your business!”

  Where to begin. “Well,” Ben said hoarsely, “I came for information—”

  “Spy!” The private squeezed his throat.

  “Look—” The grip on Ben’s larynx was so tight he could barely whisper. “I’m not any kind of—”

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me.”

  Holloway drove a boot into Ben’s ribs. The kick would have smarted under the best of circumstances, but in this case, it landed in the area already softened up by Deputy Gustafson’s pummeling the night before last.

  “Let’s try it again,” Holloway said, teeth clenched. “Who sent you? Hatewatch, or the gooks?”

  Ben tried to focus on the question, but he kept thinking: Belinda was right. When would he learn to rely on the sound advice of people with common sense? “I’m here for Donald Vick, actually.”

  “Stupid choice.” Another kick to his ribs. This time the impact was so violent it knocked the air out of his lungs. Ben wasn’t sure he would be able to breathe anymore. “Stupid spy. You chose the only member of the camp who isn’t here anymore.”

  Ben felt a sudden wave of nausea so great it was almost impossible for him to speak. No great loss. Everything he said only made matters worse.

  “We’ll put him in detention,” Holloway said. It was an order, not a suggestion. “Till the Grand Dragon has a chance to interrogate him.”