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

by William Bernhardt

  Maybe this would be a good time to fix a sandwich, he told himself. He had brought a few provisions. A tall, multimeat Dagwood sandwich—that might be just the thing right now.

  He strolled through the living area into the kitchen nook—which in this cabin took all of three steps. He opened the ice chest and started hauling out supplies and—

  He froze. What was that?

  He’d heard something, somewhere behind the cabin. Hadn’t he? He was almost certain. Something was moving out in the bushes and trees.

  He ran to the back window and peered out. Could be anything, he rationalized to himself, even assuming he really had heard something moving. Could be a raccoon or possum. Maybe a badger. Could be a hunter or fisherman. Could be two lovers out for a moonlight stroll.

  Except he didn’t see any moon. Or anything else, for that matter.

  Would a raccoon hide? Would a badger?

  He felt beads of sweat trickling down his neck. He had come so far. So far. He could live with losing the merchandise, maybe even doing some prison time. But he really really didn’t want to die. Especially not at the hands of the homicidal maniac who used to bait his hook for him.

  Fred’s palms were wet. Get a grip, he told himself. Don’t blow it in the final inning.

  He heard something else, some movement. There was no doubt about it now. He not only heard it—he saw it. Something was moving.

  Someone. It had to be someone.

  And it wouldn’t be Lieutenant Morelli. He was in a car. Only one person would try to sneak up without being heard.…

  Panicked, Fred ran back to the front door and slid the bolt into place. An instant later, he flicked off all the lights. And sat quietly. In the dark.

  Was this better? It seemed worse. Now he heard creaks in every corner, saw movement in every flicker of light.

  There wasn’t even a decent hiding place in this miserable cabin. The furniture was all thin and fragile—no tables or dressers he could use to block the door. Not that any of that would stop the killer for long.

  He ran from one end of the tiny shack to the other, unable to decide where to stay put. No place seemed safe. No place was safe.

  He pressed his hands together, but they were so wet they slid off one another. His whole body was like that; he felt as if he’d been standing out in the rain. Except that his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode at any moment. And his brain was so fried he couldn’t figure out what to do next.

  He heard it again—the unmistakable sound of movement behind the shack. Damn this dark, anyway! He flicked the switch, illuminating the cabin. At least now they’d both be able to see one another. They’d be on equal ground. Except of course that his friend was already a multiple murderer. And he was …

  Fred the Feeb?

  No, goddamnit. Never again. He would get a grip on himself. He would take control.

  He drank in several deep breaths, calming himself. Forcing himself to take deliberate, even, slow steps, he returned to the back window.

  He heard it again, saw the leaves and bushes move. But this time, he observed that they all moved at once, in unison. And a whistling sound accompanied the movement.…

  It was the wind. All this time—it was just the goddamn wind!

  His hands pressed against his face, wiping the sweat away. You see what happens, he told himself. See the result of letting your imagination get the best of you, letting fear take control? You end up running in a blind panic. Like a fool. Like Fred the Feeb.

  He grabbed a towel and dried off the rest of his sweat-soaked body. Jesus Christ, what an idiot he’d been. He was never cut out for this cloak-and-dagger crap. He might not be Fred the Feeb, but he wasn’t James Bond, either. Leave the action-adventure stuff to someone else.

  He laughed quietly. As he did, he heard a car pulling up outside. Thank goodness. Nothing was going to happen to him while the cop was here, that much was certain. Prison time might be a small price to pay for peace of mind, at this point. No wonder Tony had a heart attack. If Fred’d been alone much longer, he probably would’ve worried himself into an early grave, too.

  He ran, not walked, to the front door and opened it.

  It was not Lieutenant Morelli standing on the other side of the door.

  “Hiya, Fred,” his old fishing buddy said, grinning. “Miss me?”

  Chapter 48

  “I NEVER THOUGHT WE’d actually make it here,” Ben said as he gazed out the main viewport of Professor Matthews’s magnificent yacht. “It still seems unreal.”

  “The yacht,” Matthews asked, “or the fact that you’re in it?”

  “Both.” He meant it, too. He was still amazed that he’d managed to bring the Elkins case to a positive conclusion. Ben had delivered the check to his clients—Blaylock’s first payment on the structured ten-year settlement payout. Although Ben’s share wasn’t enough to pay off all his creditors, he was at least able to appease the most insistent ones and give everyone something. More important, the money, combined with the media release of the “blue report,” had given each of the parents the satisfaction of knowing that their child had not died in vain.

  Christina popped through the door into the main cabin. “Well, I’ve seen the bedrooms, the sundeck, and the boiler room. I assume there’s also a parlor and conservatory somewhere on this monstrosity.”

  Matthews laughed. “That’ll be in the next model. This one’s only thirty-five feet.”

  “Oh, is that all,” Christina said, winking. The main cabin, where they were presently, combined the “bridge”—with all the steering and navigational equipment—with a larger dining area. Up above, visible through a glass ceiling, was a spacious deck, ready-made for sunbathing and stargazing. Down below were the sleeping quarters and the boiler room, with the engine and most of the other mechanical equipment. It was all connected by wide metal decks and ladders. It was a boat of which the Onassis family could be proud.

  “I don’t even want to think about what this set you back,” Ben said. “Obviously, Dean Kronfield is paying you a great deal more than he’s paying me.”

  Matthews laughed. “I couldn’t afford this in a million years. I told you already—I inherited it.”

  “Couldn’t you dock it somewhere closer to home?”

  “I could. But this is an oceangoing vessel. It seems a shame to waste it on Lake Tenkiller or some such. Here on the Gulf, all of the Atlantic Ocean is at our disposal.”

  “We’re not going too far from shore, are we?” Ben asked. “I’m a lousy swimmer.”

  Matthews laughed again. “It won’t matter, unless you decide to jump over the rail and go skinny-dipping.”

  Christina arched an eyebrow. “I think I can pretty well guarantee that’s not going to happen.”

  Matthews cut the engine. “At any rate, this is far enough.” He pointed toward the windshield. “We can still see home. And we can get there lickety-split, if we need to. Probably won’t, but the weather advisory did say there was a possibility of a storm.”

  “Storm?” Ben said. “As in, gale-force winds? Big waves?”

  “I doubt that will happen. But if it does, we’ll return to dock lickety-split.” He checked the gauge on the metal gas tank, just to the left of the wheel. “We’ve got plenty of fuel. We’re perfectly safe.” He opened the cabinet to his right. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to start dinner.”

  “What can I do to help?” Ben asked.

  “Zip,” Matthews answered. “Nada. You’ve been under the gun for months. Tonight you just relax.”

  “I’ll feel guilty letting you serve me.”

  “I’ll feel guilty if you have a heart attack. I want you to live long enough to bring me some more cases.” He lit two tall candles and placed them on the tablecloth in the center of the dining table. Then he popped open a bottle of Cordon Negro and started pouring it into champagne flutes.

  “Well, if you insist on doing everything—mind if I take a look around the boat?�
� Ben asked.

  “Of course not. But be back in about twenty minutes.”

  “Deal. Any place I can get a drink of water?”

  He pointed. “There’s bottled water in the cooler.”

  “What, you mean you don’t have a faucet on this barge?”

  Matthews gave him a pointed look. “Are you kidding? After this case, I’ll never drink tap water again in my life.”

  Mike knew something was wrong before he’d even stopped his car. The lights in the cabin were out, but the front door was wide open. And he had that nasty tingling at the base of his spine, the one that never presaged anything good.…

  He jumped out, brandishing his Sig Sauer, ready for the worst. He should’ve known better than to leave Fred alone, even for a few minutes. But the message said there’d been another murder—he couldn’t ignore that. Plus, if there’d been another murder, that meant the killer was up in Oklahoma, not anywhere around here—

  Unless he’d been bluffed. Unless the killer had his cell phone number, which wouldn’t be that hard to get. Unless he’d been lured away … leaving Fred at the killer’s mercy.

  He wanted to slap himself up the side of the head, but both hands were busy clutching his gun tightly. Where was he, damn it? One thing was certain—Mike was not going to let him get away again. He was not going to let him take another victim. Mike couldn’t live with that.

  He meant that both figuratively and literally—since it was a dead cert the murderer would not leave him alive again.

  Slowly Mike crept toward the front of the cabin. He passed through the door, which was blowing back and forth in the wind. He reached inside and turned on the light …

  The cabin had been wrecked. Furniture was strewn all over the floor, most of it broken. Some kind of struggle had taken place here, some titanic contest of wills. But no trace of the players remained now.

  Well, there was one trace. A pool of wet sticky blood on the floor.

  Mike bent down and touched the blood. Fresh. Whatever happened had not happened that long ago.

  Mike ran through the whole cabin, making sure no one was hiding or lying unconscious or dead. It didn’t take long. No one was here.

  Were they outside? What had happened? What was going on? He passed through the door again and stepped outside.…

  He fell on top of Mike like a concrete slab, knocking him to the ground. Mike was dazed, but he knew that if he let unconsciousness take him, he was a dead man. He forced himself to stay awake, forced himself to stay alert.

  He couldn’t see his assailant. He tried to roll around, but the weight on top of him was too heavy. His arms were pinned beneath him and his gun had been knocked out of his hand.

  And the concrete slab on top of him had started punching him in the gut.

  Mike gritted his teeth and tried to rock his assailant off. No use. The next blow hit him on the side of the head. He felt blood trickling down his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was pinned like a bug in a science experiment.

  “I’m not going to let you kill me like you did the others,” his assailant muttered, followed by another sharp blow to the gut.

  “Fred?” Mike pushed upward with all his might. “Fred, is that you?”

  “You know it is, you sick son of a bitch!”

  “Fred, you fool, it’s Lieutenant Morelli!”

  The blows stopped. Hesitant at first, Fred pulled away, unpinning Mike from the ground.

  Mike rolled around, wiping blood from his face. “You stupid idiot. Why don’t you look before you punch? I’m not your killer.”

  “He was here,” Fred said. His voice was small and scared. “He found me.”

  “And you’re still alive?”

  Fred seemed as surprised as Mike was. “We fought. Hell of a fight. You probably saw the mess inside. I did everything I could to defend myself—but I knew I was no match for him. He was toying with me, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse before eating it. He was just killing time.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “I—I’m not sure I understand it, even now.” His eyes seemed to drift as he tried to recall. “I got in a lucky shot, knocked him off his feet. I used that as my chance to blow past him, run to the door and escape into the forest. I shouted as I ran. I shouted, "The bonds are in the ice chest. Take them." And the strangest thing happened.”

  “Yes?”

  “He did it. He didn’t pursue me. He didn’t wait around for me to return. He just took the merchandise and left.”

  Mike tried to make sense of it—the man who had taken so much pleasure in tormenting his former friends had let one escape. It didn’t seem to fit the pattern. And yet …

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to kill me,” Fred said. It was more a question than a statement. “Maybe now that he has the bonds, he’ll leave me alone.”

  “Maybe,” Mike murmured. “But I think this guy is a serious maniac, of the homicidal type, and you’re a loose end who could put him behind bars.”

  “Then why—”

  “You said the bonds come due tomorrow, right? He’s probably got something set up, some means of converting them into cash quickly. He may be too busy to chase you around a forest right now. But that doesn’t mean he won’t get back to you later. You’re a risk he doesn’t need and can’t afford.”

  “Oh.” Fred’s expression was so crestfallen Mike almost wished he hadn’t been so honest. “I see.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be put under protective custody.”

  “Oh, whoop-de-doo.”

  “But the best thing that could happen to you is that we catch the killer. So starting right now, you’re going to tell me every goddamn thing you know about this man.” He led Fred back into the cabin and sat him down in the only chair that remained reasonably stable. “Start talking.”

  Fred shrugged. “What’s to say? Jack worked at Blaylock like the rest of us. He liked to fish.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “As I recall, Harvey was the one who first got us together. We were all in queue to use one of the company fishing cabins—not this one, they didn’t have it yet. A nicer place in Colorado. Harvey suggested that if we all joined together and went at the same time, we wouldn’t have to wait so long.”

  “Made sense. How long ago was this?”

  Fred cast his mind back. “A good, long while. Twenty years or more.”

  “And you all got along well?”

  “Back then, yeah. We were compatible. James was a little on edge; his life was always a wreck that would only get worse with time. But he was handling it, back then. Harvey and Maggie usually shacked up together, thus mutually cheating on their spouses. But who were we to judge?”

  “And this Jack-—the killer-—he was a normal guy?”

  “Sure. I mean, more or less. Nothing too strange. He did have a cruel streak; at least I thought so. Liked to torture small animals. Got off on setting small fires. One time he almost burned the cabin down.”

  Animal cruelty and arson, Mike thought silently. Two FBI profile hallmarks of the incipient serial killer. “When did the fishing jaunts stop?”

  “After we discovered Tony Montague. And the bonds. We all still fished—but not together. I can’t exactly explain it—but we really didn’t want to see one another much after that. Maybe we were afraid we’d inadvertently spill the goods if we were together. Or maybe you just don’t like looking at the guy who knows your guilty secret.”

  All very interesting, Mike thought, but it wouldn’t help him track the killer down.

  “Was he an accountant?”

  “No, no. Worked in the legal department.”

  “I notice you say worked. He’s no longer there?”

  “No. He left a few years ago. There was some kind of trouble—I heard he wrote a report the upper management didn’t like.”

  “And so they fired him?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “And you don’t know where he went af
ter that?”

  “Sure I do. He went to Tulsa. To the law school.”

  All at once, Mike felt his blood run cold. “The law school?”

  “Yeah. He became a professor. Like Canino. In fact, I think Canino helped him get in.”

  Mike grabbed the man by his shoulders. “What is this Jack’s last name?”

  “Matthews.”

  “Jack Matthews?”

  “Yeah. Some kind of tort expert, I think. But I don’t know where he is.”

  “I do.” Mike jumped to his feet. His face was hard and set. “He’s somewhere here in Corpus, on his goddamn yacht. With my best friend.”

  Matthews and Christina linked their champagne glasses together.

  “A toast,” Matthews said, “to a beautiful lady.”

  Christina giggled. “I haven’t had champagne in ages. Certainly not since this case began.”

  Matthews rearranged the candles so he could lean across the middle of the table. “A lovely lady like you should have champagne every night. Champagne and bonbons.”

  Christina took another sip. “You’re sweet.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Isn’t Ben overdue?”

  Matthews took the hint. “So what is it with you two, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be coy. You’re obviously very close.”

  “I should hope so. We’ve been working together for years. We’ve been through some pretty tight scrapes.”

  “C’mon. There must be more to it than that.”

  “If there is, he hasn’t told me about it.”

  Matthews laughed. “Fine. I’ll back off. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll go find your colleague.” He started through the steel door that led to the outside deck, then stopped. “But if you ever change your mind, and decide you’d like to try a new colleague—keep me in mind, okay?”

  Christina smiled. “Promise.”

  Ben suspected that his twenty minutes was up, but he couldn’t tear himself away from his self-guided tour of the yacht. He didn’t know magnificence of this magnitude existed, except maybe in movies and comic books. You could live in a boat this size. In fact, if it were his boat, he would. Imagine living on the water, rocking gently back and forth with the tide. Maybe if he took more plaintiff’s cases, maybe if he cut down on his expenses …