Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  But Mike didn’t buy any of that. Something was wrong. Either Philby had something to hide, and he’d decided to hit the road before Mike got there …

  Or Mike wasn’t the only visitor dropping by the Philby residence tonight.

  With his free hand, Mike yanked the portable siren out of his backseat. He rolled down the window, snapped the thing on tight, and let it rip. The siren wailed, and Mike’s face was bathed in a fuzzy, red glow. There weren’t that many cars on the road this time of night, but Mike didn’t want to take any chances.

  The killer had gotten past him twice already, had already killed four people in hideously grotesque ways. He didn’t want to see what the maniac might have cooked up next.

  “Comfortable?” he asked as he smeared lubricating jelly under each of the handcuffs. “I hope so. This isn’t supposed to hurt you, George. Well, not yet, anyway.”

  George’s eyelids began to flicker open. Good. It would be more fun with him awake. And they were supposed to be friends, right? So they should be facing one another, eyes open in eager anticipation. He hadn’t meant to knock George out cold. He just wanted to apply enough force to make the man compliant. To get him on the bed and handcuffed to the bedposts without resistance.

  “Rise and shine, Georgie-Porgie.” He slapped the man’s face a few times, harder than was necessary. “It’s showtime.”

  George’s eyelids fluttered open. “What … is it? What do you want?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, George.”

  As he regained awareness, George first realized he’d been stripped naked. Then he realized he was lying flat on the bed. A horrible moment later, he realized he couldn’t move. He jerked his arms down, jangling the cuffs. “Wha-what is this?”

  “This is the way the world ends, George. For you, anyway.”

  “What are you going to do? Where are my clothes?”

  “You won’t need them.” He crawled off the bed, bent over, and picked up a breadbox-sized metal device. “See this? It’s a portable battery charger. I had it in my car.”

  George’s eyes widened. He tugged again at his chains, unable to get free. He tried to squirm, but found his feet were tied to the end of the bed. He could barely move at all. Sweat poured down the sides of his face.

  “You’re not getting away, George. Not possible. So don’t waste your energy. You’re going to need it.”

  “What are you planning to do, you sick bastard?”

  He made a tsking noise. “Language, George. Language.” He patted the top of the charger. “You were always mechanically minded, George. I’ll bet you’ve already got the whole thing figured out.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, you asshole. A cop’ll be here any minute!”

  “Oh, I’m sure. I suppose you called him telepathically.” He giggled, then withdrew the two charging cables, one positive, one negative, and attached them to the metal frame of the bed. “Forget it, George. I cut the phone line before I came in. You couldn’t call the cops even if you could get free. Which you can’t.” He ran his hand along the smooth metal frame of the bed. “So convenient of you to have this old-fashioned brass bed. Very attractive. And conductive.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” George screamed.

  “Here’s the game plan.” He withdrew a small timer from his overcoat pocket and plugged it into one of the AC jacks on the back of the charger. “I plugged the charger into the handy-dandy wall socket. Had to unplug your VCR, though. Sorry about that—you’re going to miss tonight’s episode of Frasier. Anyway, when activated, this charger is capable of transmitting something like a thousand volts of electricity per second. That’ll really supercharge your brain cells.” He laughed, loud and horribly.

  When his hysteria finally subsided, he wiped his eyes dry. “I was being facetious, of course. It’ll fry your brain like a poached egg. A minute or so of this and you won’t be able to do more than sit in a chair and drool on yourself. But it won’t really matter, because after two minutes, you’ll be dead.”

  “Don’t do this,” George said. “Please.”

  “The electricity will travel through the cables, into the bed, into your handcuffs and, greased by that jelly I rubbed over each wrist, right into your body. Oh, you’ll feel it, all right. You’ll feel it in every neuron and synapse of your being. I’m sure you’ve felt pain once or twice, George, even in your pampered existence. But you’ve never felt anything like this before. You’ll be begging me to stop it. Crying like a baby. But it won’t stop. It won’t stop until you’re dead.”

  “Please,” George said. His quiet voice was nonetheless urgent. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  The man smiled. “Here it comes.”

  “No! Please, no!”

  He reached behind the battery charger and flicked the power switch. George braced himself. His body arched up into the air, stiff—and a moment later, he realized there was no charge.

  The man practically fell over himself laughing. He pressed a hand against his side, reeling. “You’re such a sucker, George! Such a fool!” He laughed some more, until finally, almost a minute later, he had settled down enough to explain. “The power is on, George. But you didn’t get shocked. Know why?”

  George shook his trembling head.

  “There’s only one thing saving you from the big shockeroony, George. And that’s this timer. You’ve probably seen them before. People use them to turn the lights on and off while they’re out of town. I got this one set for five minutes.” He walked over to the side of the bed and pressed close to George’s face. “For the moment, the timer is blocking the flow of electricity. But unless I do something to prevent it, in five minutes, the juice will flow.” He poked a finger into George’s rib cage. “Zzzht!”

  Why were all the lights out in the house? Mike wondered as he steered his Trans Am toward George Philby’s house. Did he have the wrong address? He checked his notes. No, this was the place. But if Philby was expecting him, why wasn’t the porch light on? Or at least the living room light. Why didn’t he see the same blue television glow he saw in most of the other houses he’d passed?

  As before, there were a thousand possible explanations. Philby might be in a room that only had a window on the back of the house. There could’ve been a power outage. But coupled with Philby’s failure to answer the phone for the last fifteen minutes, it gave Mike the inescapable feeling that something was wrong. Call it the influence of years of cop work, or just call it gut instinct. Whatever it was, it told Mike he was heading toward trouble.

  He parked on the street, then slipped out the side door quietly, his Sig Sauer at the ready.

  “Please,” George said. Tears were welling up in his eyes. “I don’t want to die. I’ll do anything. Tell you anything.”

  The man leaned all the closer. “Will you? I’d really appreciate that. And you know what I want to know.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me? Even if I talk. Like you did the others.”

  The man leaned all too close to George’s face. “You don’t. But that timer is still ticking.”

  “I don’t have the merchandise. I was as surprised as you when I found out.

  This was the third time he’d heard this same song and dance, and he was getting tired of it. “Then who does have it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Fred has it.”

  The man was incredulous. “Fred? Fred the Feeb?”

  “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you. Hell, if I knew, I’d go and get it myself.”

  “George, I want to know where it is.”

  “I don’t know!”

  The man pushed away from the bed. “Am I going to have to kill every damn one of you?” He turned away, pressing his fingers against his forehead. Control, he told himself. Control. That’s the secret. That’s why you’ve come so far so well. Preparation and control.

  He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He took several deep breaths, focusing on recaptur
ing his inner tranquility. Then he grabbed a towel, dried himself off, and returned to the bedroom.

  He glanced at the timer. “One minute, George.”

  “Please!” George pressed his chest forward, straining, pulling the cuffs to the full length of their chains. “I do not have it. I don’t know where it is.”

  The man shrugged. “Then you’ll die.”

  “Okay, then—I do know where it is. I admit it. I can show it to you. But you’ll have to let me go.”

  “I don’t think so.” The man glanced again at the timer. “Thirty seconds. Where is it?”

  “It—it—” George’s eyes raced. “It’s in my office.”

  “I’ve already searched your office. Thoroughly.”

  “I didn’t mean my office. I meant—the den. Here at home. I sometimes call that my office.”

  The man shook his head from side to side. “You’re pathetic, George.” He sighed. “And you don’t know where it is any more than I do.”

  “Then let me go!”

  “Why should I?” A second later, they both heard the click. A tiny sound, but one that sent shock waves of terror through George like nothing he had ever known in his life.

  The timer had reached zero.

  More than a thousand volts of electricity coursed through George’s body. He flew up into the air, his back arched, his handcuffs holding him to the bed.

  The man shook his head in disgust. “I never liked you anyway, George.” He turned away and returned to the bathroom. He had never cared for the smell of cooked flesh, and he felt an urgent need to relieve himself.

  There was no sign of forced entry, Mike noted as he approached the porch. And the front door wasn’t locked. Curiouser and curiouser.

  He pushed the door open quietly, then stepped inside, gun at the ready. The downstairs was just as dark as it had appeared from the outside, but up the central staircase he saw a trace of light. A moment later, he heard talking, a voice, and—something else. A low humming sound, like powered machinery in operation.

  What the hell was going on here?

  He considered calling for backup, but decided against it. What would he tell them? He didn’t really know what he had here. Maybe it was nothing at all. And if he left, it was just possible the man he’d been chasing might escape. And he couldn’t live with himself if that happened.

  Slowly, he crept up the stairs, gun poised, ready for anything. Catlike, he told himself. That’s what the manuals always told officers to do when they didn’t want to be heard. Walk catlike. What the hell did that mean? He weighed almost two hundred pounds and he was wearing street shoes. There was no catlike.

  He heard the carpet creak—could a carpet creak? Something did. The floorboards, whatever. Fortunately, the humming noise upstairs was far louder than he was. He didn’t think he’d been heard.

  At the top of the stairs, he saw the lights were on in a single room. The humming was coming from that room—and something else. What was it? It sounded like running water.

  He walked cautiously to the doorway, then jumped inside. He whirled around, scanning in all directions with his gun at the ready, covering the room in the usual police-manual manner. Till his eyes were riveted by the spectacle at center stage.

  There was a naked man handcuffed to the bed. He recognized him—it was George Philby. His body was arched up in the air. His eyes were clenched shut, as were his fists. His whole body was tight as a drum. He appeared to be in immense agony.

  And Mike quickly saw why. He knew the gizmo at the side of the bed was a battery charger. The cables were attached to the bed and the man was handcuffed …

  Mike’s jaw literally dropped. My God, what kind of sick mind—

  It came to him like a bolt out of the blue. He was here. The killer was here, he realized.

  But too late. The blow struck Mike on the back of his neck, hard. He reeled forward, neck feeling like it was broken. Hold onto the gun, he told himself, as he tumbled across a chair and fell onto an end table. Hold onto the gun.

  He felt a kick to his ribs. He clenched his teeth together. That hurt. He rolled around, trying to get his bearings. He saw a dark figure moving toward him. In an overcoat. He didn’t have time to think or focus. He brought his gun around and aimed.

  The steel grippers on the battery cable touched Mike’s gun, and an instant later, he felt a thousand volts of electricity rocket through his body. He reflexively fired, but the bullet went wild and lodged in the ceiling. He dropped the gun, then fell back spasming onto the carpet.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, as he fought for consciousness. The room was darkening, or so it seemed to him. A dark blur was surrounding him, blanketing him …

  It was the killer. He still held one of the battery cables. And he was reaching for something.

  Mike’s wedding ring. He still wore it, even after all these years. And now someone was going to use it to kill him.

  He tried to roll around, escape, but he was too groggy. His body felt uncoordinated; it didn’t respond properly to command. The steel grippers came closer, and he couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t get away …

  A moment later Mike felt as if someone had stuck a knife inside him and started peeling away his skin. From the inside. He felt his body trembling, rocking back and forth with the surge of electricity rippling down his spine. He felt his whole body tense like a brick. He thought his heart was doing flip-flops in his chest, thought his flesh was on fire, and a few moments after that, was beyond thinking anything at all.

  TWO

  Here He Lies Where He Long’d to Be

  Chapter 28

  CHRISTINA STOOD AT THE front of Judge Perry’s courtroom trying to explain things as best she could. “I’m sure it will only be a moment, your honor.”

  “A moment is too long.” Judge Perry’s usual impassive expression today seemed positively grim. “When I say a trial will begin at nine o"clock, I mean it.”

  “I understand that.”

  “If this is part of a plaintiff strategy to delay, let me tell you right now that I will not tolerate it.”

  “No, sir.” Christina felt the prickly heat rising up her neck. “It’s nothing like that. He’s just … late.”

  “Then we’ll proceed with co-counsel at the helm. Approach the bench, Ms. McCall.”

  “Your honor … I can’t.” Christina was twisting her fingers into knots. “I’m only an intern. I haven’t finished law school.”

  Judge Perry’s shoulders began to heave. “Fine. Then we’ll proceed with Professor Matthews.”

  Matthews awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, making minute adjustments in the lie of his tweed jacket. He did not approach.

  “Is there a problem?” the judge asked, with an edge that could cut through butter. “Haven’t you finished law school?”

  “Your honor,” Matthews began. “I do have a law degree. But I’ve never tried a lawsuit. I’m here strictly to advise on legal issues.”

  Judge Perry’s face was so tight he had difficulty speaking. “I will not tolerate this in my courtroom! Where is Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I-I don’t know, your honor,” Christina stuttered. “I can’t imagine what happened. But I’m sure, whatever it is, it was unavoidable …”

  “Mr. Kincaid is in contempt of this court. If he does not appear in five minutes, I’ll dismiss the plaintiffs" suit.”

  Cecily leaned across plaintiffs" table to Christina. “Can he do that?” she whispered.

  “Oh, yeah,” she whispered back. “He’s the judge. He can do whatever he wants.”

  “I’m setting my stopwatch,” the judge informed them. “Five minutes. And counting.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The last voice came from the back of the courtroom. Everyone present swiveled around to see Ben Kincaid rush up the center aisle. He had a document box under each arm, with his briefcase precariously balanced between. His tie was unknotted, dangling over his neck. He looked a mess.

/>   “I apologize to the court for my tardiness,” Ben said as he raced to the front. “It was unavoidable. I … uh … had car trouble.”

  “That’s not good enough!” Judge Perry barked. He seemed even more enraged now that Ben was here. “When I say a trial begins at nine sharp, I mean nine sharp. Not a second later.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. And I’m very sorry.”

  “In your absence, you were found in contempt of court. You are directed to pay a five-hundred-dollar fine to the court clerk on your way out of the courtroom today.”

  Ben closed his eyes. “Yes, sir.” Five hundred dollars!

  “Now please take a minute to … pull yourself together. And then let’s get on with this trial!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” May I have another, sir?

  The judge stepped into chambers. Ben avoided Colby’s smarmy smile; obviously he thought the trial was already drifting his way. He’d had nothing to do with Ben’s absence, but he was more than happy to exploit it to the fullest.

  Christina began knotting his tie. “What happened to you? Sleep late?”

  “No. Couldn’t get to the courthouse. Ended up calling for a taxi. And you know how long that takes. Since there are only two taxis in all of Tulsa.”

  “What happened? Van wouldn’t start?”

  “No.” He craned his neck as she slid the knotted tie up against his Adam’s apple. “When I walked out to the curb this morning, it was gone.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Repossessed.”

  Christina’s jaw dropped. “No.”

  “Yes.” He popped open his briefcase and started organizing his materials. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our financial tether. The Brain is calling in the markers.”

  Once he was finally dressed and groomed properly, Ben scanned the courtroom gallery. It was jam-packed. Spectators were wedged together on the long-tiered pews like travelers on an overbooked bus. People stood at the back of the room and filtered along the walls. Ben suspected Judge Perry wouldn’t tolerate that for long; surely it violated the fire code.