There was a sharp stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go. His head was throbbing, He closed his eyes and tried to force the demons out of his head. It was no use. He rolled over and pulled the covers close.
He felt something wet and ticklish brush against his nose.
He opened his eyes. It was Giselle.
Ben raised the covers, and she crawled inside. She did her push-paw routine for a little while, then she settled into a nice warm spot in the small of his back and fell asleep.
So did Ben.
11
WOLF ALMOST STEPPED INTO the trap.
He shone his flashlight down toward the ground. There, partially hidden by leaves and brush, was a steel rabbit trap. He would have to be more careful. Even a rabbit trap could take off a toe or paralyze an ankle.
He poked a stick between the teethed blades and disarmed the mechanism. The drag chain was tied to a loose log—so the trapped animal couldn’t get any leverage and escape. Wolf untied the chain and slipped the trap free. He noted the number engraved on the upper blade indicating its tensile strength, a matter of great importance to trappers. If the trap was too strong, it would snap off the animal’s leg, or cut so deeply that the animal could (and would) chew his own leg off. Either way, the animal would escape, maimed but free. Until the next trapper came along.
Wolf tossed the disarmed trap info his backpack. Trapping wasn’t allowed, at least not in his forest. He realized that some people were poor and hungry, especially around here. It didn’t matter. They would have to think of something else. He managed to get by without killing anything. They could, too.
He completed his rounds, then headed back to the shack. The shack was probably originally built as a blind for hunters, but no hunter had used it for years, and none was likely to now. Wolf had posted a fake notice on the door alleging that the shack was the PRIVATE PROPERTY OF THE BUREAU OF ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, AND FIREARMS—KEEP OUT! He had designed the notice on the computer at the Creek Nation bingo parlor, and it looked pretty official, if he did say so himself. Not bad for a twelve-year-old.
He dialed the combination on the bicycle lock he used to secure the door, then stepped inside. The birds were still there. He kept them in cages he had fashioned from cardboard box lids and straightened coat hangers, both of which he found in the Dumpster behind Phoenix Cleaners. The birds beat their wings upon his arrival—glad to see him. Such excellent birds, he thought. Did you miss me?
The hawk, whom he called Katar, pressed his beak against the coat hanger barrier. If you really wanted to, you could get out of there. But why would you want to? It’s too soon. When it’s time, I’ll let you out. You know I will.
Gently, Wolf examined the bird’s bandage. The wound seemed to be healing nicely. He’d be well in no time, and back sailing the skies, hunting his prey.
The raven, whom he called Edgar, seemed equally pleased to see him. His makeshift splint was still in place, and he seemed stronger than he had during Wolf’s last visit. They said there was nothing they could do for a bird your size, Wolf remembered. They said you couldn’t take a splint. Said even if they put one on, you’d pick at it till it was useless. They were wrong. As they and people like them had been wrong on so many other occasions.
He peered through a small slit between two warped wall-boards. It was late, he realized, much later than he was supposed to be out. His mother would be furious. Assuming she noticed. Assuming she hadn’t stayed late at the bingo parlor, or gone home with that Cherokee badass from Tahlequah again. Still, he couldn’t risk one of her infrequent blasts of parental discipline. He had to remain free; the birds depended upon him.
He checked the other birds, made sure everyone had plenty to eat and drink, and locked the door behind him. He jogged toward the main road where he could pick up a ride. After a few minutes, though, he heard something—something that shouldn’t be there. The same noise he had heard a week ago last Tuesday. It was the sound of an engine, but not a car or a truck or a motorcycle.
The noise grew louder. It was coming closer. Wolf saw a moonshadow swoop across the ground and realized what it was and where it must be going. He ran as fast as he could, through the trees, kicking up leaves in every direction. He reached the main clearing, a large area where the trees had been burned away. It was the only place in the forest a plane could land.
He watched as a small black plane positioned itself for final descent. Wolf knew about planes. He knew almost everything about anything that flew. Even as dark as it was, he recognized the aircraft as a Cessna 210—small, light, quick, quiet—perfect for long-range flights. It was painted black for invisibility and for flying at a low altitude (under radar) with its navigation and identification lights turned off.
He watched as the plane soared into the clearing and eased itself to the ground. After a few moments, the pilot hopped out of the cockpit, a thick, well-muscled man in jeans and a windbreaker. He was packing; Wolf could tell. A few seconds later, another man rode up on a dirt bike, his long blond hair streaming behind him. There were rifles strapped to both sides of the bike, just below the seat. The two men spoke briefly. Wolf saw a sudden glint of light, then packages changed hands. He couldn’t tell what was being exchanged. To tell the truth, he didn’t care. As long as they weren’t hunters, they were outside his jurisdiction.
Wolf watched and waited. The man on the dirt bike rode away, and the pilot climbed back into his cockpit and took to the skies. After he was sure both were gone, Wolf jogged out to the place where the plane had landed. He thought he’d seen the pilot drop something.
He was right. On the ground, near one of the indentations in the grass left by the landing gear, he found a small glassy pouch with a powdery substance glistening inside.
Wolf shoved the package into his pocket. He thought he knew what the stuff was, and if he was right, it would buy him a lot of birdseed. Maybe some of that expensive scientific food the veterinarians used. Maybe he could even afford to take his birds to the veterinarian regularly, as soon as they were hurt, instead of having to make do on his own.
If the money was good enough. And if not, who knows? Maybe the men would come to the clearing again.
It was possible.
He would watch for them.
12
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you can’t find her?”
The young officer from the federal marshal’s office wiped his brow. He looked miserable. “We got the paperwork confused. They weren’t sure whether to file McCall with the MCs or the MAs. Without the paperwork we couldn’t find her.”
Ben’s neck muscles tightened. “It’s not as if she could have gone out for a stroll. She’s been behind bars, for God’s sake.”
“She’s not in her cell. She must’ve been moved.”
“Ask Lester. He’ll know where she is.”
“We can’t. He doesn’t come in till noon on Wednesdays.”
“Call him at home.”
“Can’t. He doesn’t have a phone.”
Ben could feel his blood pressure rising. “This is the twentieth century. Everyone has a phone.”
“Not Lester.”
“The judge can’t set bail unless the defendant is present.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ben placed his hands firmly on the officer’s shoulders. “Look. Judge Derek didn’t want to have this hearing in the first place; he’s not going to be amused when he learns the defendant is absent.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can search every holding cell personally. One at a time.”
“I’ve already done that. She isn’t there. She must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the processing—”
“All rise.”
Ben whirled around. Derek was entering the courtroom. He hadn’t changed much in the past year. Same blond hair (which Ben knew for unfortunate reasons to be largely toupee), same trim build, same generally handsome face. He wore the black robe well.
Derek sat down in his large burgundy chair. “Be seated. Counsel, approach the bench.”
Like a convict on a forced march, Ben approached the bench. A woman from the prosecution table did the same.
“Well, Mr. Kincaid,” Derek said, “it’s been a while.”
“So it has, your honor.”
“Don’t think for a moment you’ll get any special treatment because we used to work together. You won’t.”
“Really? This upsets my entire case strategy.”
Derek grimaced. “I am in great agony this morning. Wrenched my back last night during a…conversation with my wife. Threw it out completely.” He touched the small of his back. “I would appreciate your keeping this as brief as possible.”
“Understood, your honor.”
“I had intended to spend the day lying in bed, attempting to heal my withered self, but Mr. Kincaid here thought it necessary we have this emergency hearing.”
“My client has never been in jail before, your honor. And she’s not enjoying it.”
Derek ignored him. “Enter your appearances.”
“Myra Mandell for the United States of America.”
Ben examined Myra Mandell unobtrusively out of the corner of his eye. He thought he’d met most of the lawyers at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but he’d never seen Myra before. She was young and obviously nervous. Blonde, anorexically thin, with large wire-frame glasses. A bit of a squid. Must be tough to be so low on the totem pole you get sent to 8:30 bail hearings. Obviously this hearing wasn’t of sufficient import to merit the personal attention of Alexander Moltke himself.
“Benjamin Kincaid for the defendant.”
“Speaking of whom,” Derek said, “where is she?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Ms. McCall seems to have been…misplaced.”
“Misplaced?”
“Right. Somewhere in the bowels of the criminal justice system.”
“I might’ve expected something like this from you, Kincaid.”
“Don’t blame me, your honor. I’m not in charge of prisoner processing.”
“You’re responsible for your client, and furthermore—”
At that moment, the courtroom doors opened. A large, strapping federal marshal entered, with Christina close at his side. She was wearing loose-fitting orange coveralls—standard issue for federal prisoners—that made it impossible to escape and blend into a crowd.
“Excuse me, your honor,” Ben said. Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the back of the courtroom.
“Glad you could make it,” Ben said.
Christina nodded. “That makes two of us.”
Ben noticed she was handcuffed. “Is that necessary?”
“Standard procedure,” the marshal said matter-of-factly.
“Just as well. She might overpower you.” Ben took Christina’s arm and led her to the defendant’s table. “What happened to you?”
“I was delayed. There was a disturbance in the pat-down chamber.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Christina shrugged. “I happened to tell this beef-brained three-hundred-pound matron that her strip-search technique lacked finesse. She then threatened to pound me into the pavement.”
Ben covered his eyes.
“Prisoner or not, I don’t have to take that kind of guff from anyone. There was a scuffle. Marshals came running. Someone set off an alarm. There were reporters nearby. Everything got confused.”
“I get the general picture.”
“Like I said, I was delayed.”
“Just sit down, Christina.”
“Tout de suite.”
There was a sound of thunder from the bench. “Mr. Kincaid, do you suppose we could get on with this?”
“Of course. Your honor, we’re asking the court to set bail and release Ms. McCall, pending trial. Ms. McCall is a longtime Tulsa resident, she’s employed here, and she has numerous local ties. She has no prior criminal record. There’s no indication that she poses a threat to society or that she is likely to repeat the crime of which she is accused.”
“We oppose this motion, your honor, and seek detention,” Myra Mandell said. “Ms. McCall shot a man four times in the head at point-blank range—”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Ben interjected.
“Accused of shooting a man.” Myra pushed her glasses up her nose. “This is a drug-related homicide, your honor, and narcotics offenders have a very high jump-bail rate. Ms. McCall could be on a plane to an extradition-free South American hideaway before we can hold the preliminary hearing.”
“That’s prejudicial and inflammatory,” Ben said. “My client shouldn’t be detained on the basis of statistics.”
“We’re not dealing in certainties here,” Myra said. “We’re just trying to save this court the embarrassment of being deemed a weak soldier in the war on drugs.”
Ben threw his legal pad down on the table. “That’s grossly improper!”
Derek banged his gavel. “Please stop whining, Mr. Kincaid. The court is capable of recognizing an improper argument without your simpering objections. Give us some credit.”
He shifted his attention to Myra. “Despite your noble sentiments, Ms. Mandell, I don’t think I can justify not setting bail in this case. Much as I might like to.”
Thank God, Ben thought. He had worried that Derek might refuse to set bail out of spite, because of his deep-seated animosity toward Ben.
Derek continued. “Bail will be set in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”
“Thank you, your honor,” Myra said, smiling.
“Five hundred thousand dollars!” Ben exclaimed. “Your honor, that’s impossible!”
“Mr. Kincaid, do you want me to set bail or not?”
“Your honor, she’s a legal assistant. She can’t possibly raise enough to get a bond—”
“Do you want me to set bail or not?” Derek repeated, emphasizing each word.
Ben held his tongue.
“Very well. If there’s nothing else—”
“There is one other matter,” Ben said. “I have another motion.”
“Yes?”
Ben hesitated. He glanced at the people sitting in the gallery. “Could we step into chambers, your honor?”
“No. If you have a motion, you can make it in open court.”
“May we at least approach the bench?”
“No, counsel, you may not,” Derek said, his voice rising, “and this is your last chance. Do you have a motion?”
“Yes, your honor. We move for recusal, pursuant to Title 28 of the United States Code, section 455. We want you to step down from this case.”
Derek’s eyes flared. “On what grounds?”
“On grounds of your extreme prejudice, your honor. Your inability to decide this case in an impartial manner.”
“Your honor,” Myra said, “we oppose—”
Derek cut her off with a flip of his hand. “Explain yourself, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Your honor, I used to work at the same firm you did.”
“For a mercifully brief period of time.”
“In fact, I worked directly under your supervision.”
“As you may be aware,” Derek said, “conflicts of counsel are not grounds for recusal. If you feel your presence will prejudice your client’s case, you should step down.”
“Furthermore, you used to work at the same firm as the defendant, Ms. McCall. In fact, the two of you worked together on more than one occasion.”
Derek squinted, peering across the bench at Christina. “I don’t remember a Ms. McCall.”
“Nonetheless, she was there.”
“Well, I can hardly be expected to favor a person I can’t remember.”
“That wasn’t exactly my concern,” Ben murmured.
“Are you suggesting that when I was in private practice I or my firm served in any capacity with regard to the matter now before the court?”
“No, sir.”
�
��Then your motion is denied, Mr. Kincaid. What’s more, the court finds your motion offensive in the extreme. In fact, the court would probably issue sanctions; such action, however, would undoubtedly prejudice your client”—he paused significantly—“especially given the extremely early trial date I anticipate. So I will not issue sanctions. But neither will I forget.”
He slammed his gavel on the desk. “This hearing is adjourned.” He shambled out of the courtroom, rubbing his back.
Ben flopped down into the chair beside Christina.
“Did you have to bring that recusal motion now?” she asked. “In front of everybody?”
“If I’d waited, he would’ve said I waived it by not raising it at my first opportunity. I encouraged him to take the matter into chambers, but he insisted on playing to the peanut gallery.”
“How much to get a bond for half a million?”
Ben sighed. “At least fifty thousand.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Ben, I’m not independently wealthy.” Her voice wavered. “And my credit stinks.”
“I know.”
“Ben,” she whispered, “I don’t want to spend another night in there. It’s not…they’re not…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
Ben put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll think of something. I’ll have to.”
13
EVERYTHING HAD BEEN CHANGED. Since Ben’s last visit the grand piano had been moved away from the bay window to the center of the room; evidently, the sunlight was causing the wood to crack. The entertainment center had been replaced by a white pine armoire. There were new curtains, new chairs, and new upholstery on the matching sofas.
“You’ve redecorated since I was here last,” Ben said.
Ben’s mother nodded slightly. “I have to do something to pass the time. It’s not as if I’m inundated with the attentions of my children.”
So soon? He had hoped for at least a minute or two of guilt-free small talk. “I’ve been swamped the last few weeks.”
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