Perfect Justice

by William Bernhardt

“Possibly,” Mike answered. “Even then, though, we should be able to find—”

  Midsentence, Mike’s voice simply disappeared. There was no interruption. He just wasn’t talking anymore, as if the air had suddenly been sucked out of his throat.

  “Mike?”

  Ben glanced back over his shoulder. Mike was still there, but his face was pale. “What’s wrong? Did you find the fuse?”

  “I found—” Mike pressed the back of his hand against his lips. “Not the fuse,” he whispered. “A body.”

  “Oh—God. No.” Ben was torn between wanting to ask and not wanting to know. “A … body?”

  Mike nodded. He looked as if he might be sick at any moment. “What’s left of it. Skeleton, mostly.”

  Ben eased to his feet. So they didn’t get everyone out after all. What a hideous way to die. “A man? Woman?”

  Ben was astonished to see tears spring from Mike’s eyes. He shook his head slowly back and forth.

  “A baby.”

  32.

  BELINDA WAS INTRODUCING JONES to the computer setup in the Hatewatch office. “Now, I think this gizmo is the disk drive. …”

  Jones waved her away. “Thanks, I can take it from here.” He booted up the computer and accessed the communications program stored on the hard drive. “I don’t suppose you know what your communications protocol is?”

  “Well … actually, John handles most of the computer work.”

  “No sweat. I’ll work it out.” He tapped a few more keys, then pulled up a blue screen with PROCOMM in big red letters. “Here we go.”

  “I should warn you,” Belinda said. “We’ve tried to get documents from ASP before in litigation discovery. They claim they lost almost everything in a fire. They claim an electromagnetic discharge erased all their computer disks. To make a long story short, they never have anything you want.”

  Jones noted. “So we won’t waste time asking them.”

  “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. If they won’t produce the documents during a lawsuit, when a judge is breathing down their necks, I don’t think you’re going to find them in a computer database.”

  “How much do you think it cost Dunagan to move all these men out here and set up that camp?” Jones said abruptly.

  “I don’t know. Twenty, maybe thirty thousand dollars.”

  “You think Dunagan has that much loot at his personal disposal?”

  “I’d be very much surprised.”

  “Then he had to take out a loan. And bank records can be accessed.”

  “What good will that do you?”

  “The loan records will tell me how much money they got, and who the sureties were. I can use that to trace credit records, for ASP and Dunagan and any other principals. Keep following those leads, and I’ll soon have a financial trail that will tell me who ASP is, how much money they have at their disposal, where they spend it, and what they spend it on.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s time-consuming, but it works. And I can tie the financial records to parallel cities in newspaper and magazine databases. When I’m done, I’ll be able to give Ben a reasonably accurate account of every major ASP activity for the last three years.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “Well, yes.” Jones punched a few more keys. “I need to know all the names ASP does business under, and all the officers who represent ASP. I’m going to enter a legal database.”

  Belinda laid her hand on the terminal. “Oh, sorry. We don’t subscribe. Those pricey legal services aren’t in the Hatewatch budget.”

  “They’re not in the Ben Kincaid budget, either. But I know a few tricks.”

  “A few—” Belinda watched admiringly as Jones continued to work. “Wait a minute. This doesn’t involve anything illegal, does it?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Well … as an officer of the court, I suppose I should ask if this activity violates the lawyer’s Rules of Professional Conduct.”

  Jones hit Enter and brought up the Secretary of State’s records on the Anglo-Saxon Patrol. “Beats me,” he answered. “I’m just a secretary. Excuse me. Executive assistant.”

  33.

  COLONEL NGUYEN QUIETLY APPROACHED the chicken house in the center of Coi Than Tien. Although he had been released from the clinic, he was still shaky and short of breath, and his head throbbed as if a dozen men were pounding it with sledgehammers.

  Getting too old for these childish heroics, he told himself. And yet, what was he supposed to do? If he had not gone into the home, Maria Truong would be dead.

  He had visited Maria on his way out of the clinic. It might have been better if he had let her die.

  Lan had stayed at the hospital with him all night, after leaving the children with a friend whose home was not harmed by the fire. Lan said little, and she would not permit herself to cry, but her feelings were clearly expressed just the same. She was deeply worried about all the threats, all the danger—and the fact that whenever danger struck, her husband always seemed to be in the middle of it.

  Each time the evil came a little closer to him, and as a result, a little closer to his family.

  If some harm came to their daughters, Lan’s life would be over. She would never forgive him. He knew that now, with crystal clarity.

  That night, as she had watched over him in the hospital, he had suspected for the first time that she realized he knew more about Tommy Vuong’s death than he had admitted. Had she found the papers? No, he checked as soon as he returned to his home—they were still where he had hidden them. Lan was very smart; she had simply figured it out.

  And it worried her.

  Colonel Nguyen eased through the entry doors and into the storage building where the chickens were kept. Dan Pham was there, with five of his closest followers huddled around him. Usually they held these meetings in the barn, but the barn was now a refugee camp, providing shelter to those the fire had left homeless until other arrangements could be made.

  Nguyen couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t take a genius to determine the topic of conversation. Pham would not be cowed by this latest onslaught. He would never admit that they were outstripped, outmatched. He would retaliate.

  Nguyen stole closer to them. The chickens clucked as he passed, but it was a sound they had all long since learned to ignore. From his new vantage point, he managed to overhear a few words. “Parade,” he heard Pham say several times. What could he possibly be referring to? “Surprise,” someone else said, followed by muffled laughter. Then he heard Pham distinctly pronounce the word attack.

  “Have you come to join us, Colonel Nguyen?”

  He looked up and saw Pham staring directly at him. There was no point in pretending he was doing anything other than what he obviously was doing.

  He walked into their midst and sat between Pham and his followers. “I have not.”

  “Is it your assistance you offer? Your experience in battle?”

  “I wish to know your plans.”

  “I do not think that would be wise.”

  “I must know if Coi Than Tien is in danger. Think of the others in our community, Pham. Think of our families.” His eyes narrowed. “Think of your grandmother.”

  Pham’s face became rigid. “It grieves me to be unable to assent to any request from a great man such as yourself. But if you will not join us, I believe it is best we keep our plans to ourselves.”

  “Your plans will bring great danger down upon us. And our families.”

  “You do not speak the words of a great war hero.” Pham laughed derisively. “You sound more like the white meddler who came last night to pry into our affairs.”

  Nguyen knew to whom Pham was referring. The white meddler—the lawyer. The one Nguyen had lied to. Or at the very least, had withheld the truth from.

  Nguyen knew who the lawyer was, of course. The nimble words of the woman from Hatewatch had not fooled him. Unlike most in Coi Than Tien, the Colonel w
ent into Silver Springs every day, and he usually read the newspaper as well. The white man was the attorney representing Donald Vick, the man accused of killing Tommy Vuong.

  The man Colonel Nguyen was almost certain had not committed the crime.

  The lawyer was undoubtedly seeking information to help his client, engaged as he was in the noble cause of seeking justice for an innocent man.

  And Nguyen had refused to tell him what he knew.

  “The young man who visited us last night was right when he said that violence only begets violence. Terrorism is no solution. It only fans the flames of hate.”

  “Take your homilies and go,” Pham said bitterly.

  “Will you not even hear me out?”

  “The time for words has passed. It is time for action!”

  “Will you not let your friends speak for themselves? We are in America now. Let us put it to a vote.”

  “I speak for my people!” Pham jumped to his feet. “Fine. We’ll put it to a vote then. Who favors including the great Colonel Nguyen in our plans?”

  The five other men looked among themselves. No one’s hand rose.

  “There is your vote, Colonel Nguyen. Now leave.”

  Regretfully Nguyen left the chicken house. It was pointless to attempt to reason with Pham now. Nothing would stop him, not until he had brought the full fury of ASP down upon them and Coi Than Tien was utterly destroyed.

  He considered gathering his family and their meager belongings and leaving, now, in the dead of the night.

  He felt ashamed. If he did that, Pham would be right. He would be a coward. There had to be another way.

  He would go into Silver Springs, as he did every day. He would try to find some meaning to parade and surprise. He would try to stop Pham and his men before the final die was cast.

  Before it was too late for them all.

  34.

  “IS SHE CONSCIOUS?” BEN asked. The doctor nodded. “In and out. We have a catheter connected to the base of her spine feeding her painkillers. Tends to make her sleepy. Which is for the best, under these circumstances.”

  Ben and Belinda were at the emergency treatment clinic in Silver Springs, in an examining room that had been converted to a makeshift burn treatment center for Maria Truong. Ben was consulting with the doctor in residence, Harvey Patterson, a tall man in his midforties.

  “How bad are her burns?” Belinda asked.

  “Severe, I’m afraid. If they were any worse, she wouldn’t be alive. She’s got scorched lungs and third-degree burns all over her body. Her hands are useless, virtually gone.”

  “You said she’s on painkillers?”

  “Yes. Some of her burns are so profound she’s suffered nerve damage, so she doesn’t feel the pain there. Some of the lesser-degree burns are still stinging, though. It’s ironic—the least critical burns are the ones that are causing her so much misery; the ones she can’t feel are the ones that may kill her.”

  “Then you think she’s—”

  “We have a guideline known as the Rule of Nines. It’s a shorthand method for determining the percentage of the body that’s been burned. She scores over seventy percent. And that’s mostly third-degree burns.” He paused, then looked down at his clipboard. “Burn victims with greater than sixty-percent burns rarely survive. And even if they do—” His voice choked; he never finished the sentence.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Belinda asked.

  “We’ve done all we can for her here, and we’ve called for transportation to a burn center in Little Rock. She’ll get all the best treatment. If that’s what she wants.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Patterson shifted his eyes to his patient. “At the burn center they can run tests and try grafts and plastic surgery, but it won’t do much good. Look at her hands, her face. Even if she survives, what kind of life will she have? She won’t be able to function; she’ll be in constant agony.”

  The doctor dropped heavily into a nearby chair. “I’ve been working all night and day, doing everything I can think of to save her.” His voice lowered. “But the whole time I’ve been wondering if I should.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Ben said. He hoped he sounded confident. He wasn’t. “Is it all right if I speak to her?”

  “I don’t see that it can do her much harm. But remember, she’s heavily medicated. I can’t vouch for the quality of her answers.”

  Together Ben and Belinda approached the side of Maria’s bed. “Mrs. Truong?”

  The top of her head was wrapped in bandages. Her eyes seemed unnaturally wide and hollow; after a moment Ben realized it was because her eyebrows and eyelashes were gone.

  Slowly her eyelids opened. “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Ben Kincaid.”

  “Are you the one”—her voice was broken and hesitant—“in the fire—”

  “No. That was Colonel Nguyen. He carried you out. Saved your life.”

  “The Colonel. Yes.” She wet her lips with her tongue. “A great man.”

  “Ma’am, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ve already spoken to the rest of your family, but they didn’t have much to tell me. I thought you might have seen someone, or might know something, about what happened last night. If you don’t feel up to it, though, just tell me and I’ll stop.”

  Maria tried to nod, but found it difficult to move her neck. Her skin was thick and leathery; her burns were hardening to eschar.

  Belinda reached across the bed and gently raised the woman’s pillow. Maria smiled appreciatively.

  “Did you see what happened last night?”

  “Truck,” Maria whispered. “Black. Threw something …”

  “Did you see what was thrown?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you see who was in the truck?”

  Again she indicated that she did not.

  “Do you have any idea why they would single out your house?”

  She didn’t. Her eyes became watery. She moved her arm toward Ben, but it was restricted by the IV.

  Ben untangled the IV tube. He reached out to take her hand, then froze. It was not a hand at all. Not anymore.

  He touched her shoulder lightly and hoped she had not noticed. “My understanding is that you lived with your husband and your ten-year-old son. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Are they—”

  “They’re fine, ma’am. The boy’s a little shaken up, but he’s not hurt.”

  “And Vanh?”

  “He’s fine, too. They visited you while you were sleeping. I’m sure they’ll be in again soon.”

  “That is … good.”

  “Do you know why—” How should he put it? He didn’t know. It was best to just get it over with. “Do you know why a baby would be in your home?”

  Even given the limited powers of expression her charred facial skin allowed her, Ben could tell she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Is there anyone who might leave a baby with you? A friend? Or a relative, perhaps?”

  “A baby,” Maria repeated. “I always wanted a baby. Tim is my stepson. He was five when I married his father.”

  “Do you know where a baby might’ve come from?” Ben repeated.

  “No idea.” A horrified expression passed across her face. “Was the baby—”

  “No,” Ben said quickly. “The baby is fine. Everyone else got out without injury.” So call him a liar. This woman had enough pain in her life.

  Maria tried to roll over on one side, but her burns were too sensitive. She gasped suddenly, then released a small, stifled cry. She rolled onto her back, her face contorted in agony.

  Ben fought back his tears. Burns had to be the worst kind of suffering. The absolute worst.

  “Can you think of anything else that might help us determine who set this fire?” Ben asked.

  He could tell Maria was trying to think, but nothing came to mind. She probably had more pressing concerns.

  “Th
ank you for your help,” Ben said. “I understand they’re arranging transportation to take you to the burn center—”

  “No!” Maria said suddenly. “No more … treatments.”

  “Ma’am, they can help you—”

  “No.” She held up her hands and gazed at the charred, misshapen stubs that remained. “I’m done.”

  Ben looked to Belinda for help. On his own he couldn’t find the words.

  “Mrs. Truong,” Belinda said, “you have our deepest sympathy for your misfortune.”

  “Not so bad,” she whispered. “My boy is fine. My husband … also.” Her eyelids slowly closed. “That is enough.”

  35.

  THE NEXT DAY BEN rose shortly after the sun did. His usual Sunday morning routine was to tumble out of bed, feed his cat, pour a heaping bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal, and work the Tulsa World crossword. This morning, unfortunately, he had no cat, no cereal, and no crossword. He would have to settle for a quick wash and a shave in the lake.

  He’d had a good night’s sleep, all things considered. He only dreamed about the fire twice. Dreams—nightmares actually. Horrible nightmares. Ben hoped he never came anywhere near fire again.

  He brushed his teeth and tried to shift mental gears. He had several tasks he wanted to accomplish today, and several people he needed to talk to before the trial began.

  After he was dressed, he took a powdered doughnut from a plastic bag in his tent and waited for the rest of his staff to assemble. To his surprise, Christina was the first to arrive.

  “Morning,” he said. They had not spoken since their previous argument. “Thought you were staying at Mary Sue’s.”

  “I am,” she said flatly. “I came out early to catch the bass while they were still sleepy.” She took a Coke from a cooler and popped it open. “I hear you’re going to church this morning.”

  “Seems appropriate,” Ben said. “After all, it is Sunday.”

  “And you’re taking … that woman.”

  “Belinda?” He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. She should be here any minute.”

  “You two have been spending a fair amount of time together.”