Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

  “Either way, you’re going to die. Why not make it easy on yourself?”

  Ben grabbed the hand and pulled it toward his mouth. He opened wide and bit down hard.

  “Eeeeeeah!” The man drew his hand back, his blood spilling. Barely a second later, though, the fist returned. It slammed into Ben’s face, once more pummeling his nose. He felt a crack and in that moment realized that the man must have broken his nose. Blood was jetting downward onto his lips. The world was whirling; he could barely see, much less focus. He couldn’t possibly resist any longer.

  “You’ve played your swan song,” the man said, and Ben watched helplessly as the silvery serrated knife inched closer to his throat …

  The man with the knife suddenly lurched sideways, his head striking the steering wheel.

  “What the—”

  Ben stared, not comprehending. He’d thought his time was up, but someone appeared to have struck the killer from behind.

  “Who—”

  Before Ben could spit out another word, the man lurched forward again.

  “Here’s a little something to remember me by,” Ben heard another voice say.

  “Gaaak!”

  All of a sudden, the man with the knife tumbled into the van. At first Ben thought he was lunging to make the kill; then he realized the man’s legs had gone out from under him. He fell forward; his chin thudded down on the steering wheel.

  Ben had no idea what had happened, but he knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Summoning all his might, he grabbed the man’s head and bashed it against the steering column. The man cried out again, and his head and body slid out the door.

  Ben made his move. He scrambled up on all fours and crawled into the passenger seat, then crawled out the other side of the van.

  He sped away, heading at top speed toward the safety of the opposite side of the street.

  “Kincaid!” It was Tyrone Jackson, standing behind the crumpled assailant. “Are you all right?” Tyrone cried.

  “I’ll live,” Ben shouted. “Get out of here. Go to—”

  He never had a chance to finish. Like some crazed monster out of hell, the man brandishing the knife suddenly reared up, blood dripping from his chin. He lunged toward Tyrone.

  Tyrone jumped back, lost his balance, tumbled onto the gravel. The man just kept coming, knife extended. Tyrone scrambled to his feet, turned and ran, never looking back. He passed the road and headed toward Rockwood.

  The man with the knife seemed to have forgotten all about Ben. He was following Tyrone now, matching his speed.

  “Damn!” Ben swore to himself. All he wanted now was to get the hell out of here. But he couldn’t abandon Tyrone to that maniac. He ran across the street after them, running as fast as he could, but he’d lost sight of them before he even made it to the ruins. His first instinct was to plunge on in, to try to pick up their trail. But he knew that wasn’t the smartest option. He wasn’t likely to find them by himself, running around in the dark. He needed help.

  “Damn!” Ben raced back toward the van. He could call 911 on his car phone. That had to be smarter than wandering around dark unfamiliar ruins by himself. He just hoped it wasn’t too late already.

  As he punched the beeping buttons, Ben cursed himself for not being faster. “Damn, damn, damn!” he repeated, as if it might do some good. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, Tyrone kept telling himself, as he raced through the mazelike alley he once called home. What did he think he was doing? Who did he think he was, some superhero or something?

  He had been perfectly safe up on the roof. He could see everything that happened, and no one could see him. No one could get to him. No one could even imagine he was there.

  But then he had seen that fool Kincaid drive up, and a few moments later, the killer had emerged from the darkness. He’d been lurking in the trees on the other side of the street—waiting for Tyrone to return to his car, no doubt. When Kincaid showed up, he decided to take him instead.

  So Tyrone ran down and tried to help Kincaid out. Looked like he would’ve been a goner if Tyrone hadn’t come up from behind and given the man a swift kick where he knew he’d feel it. Problem was, now the killer was after him.

  He saw the fire escape approaching on the right. It would be great to be able to retreat to the roof, but he knew he’d never make it. He could hear the footsteps of the man chasing him; he wasn’t far behind. If Tyrone tried to climb that ladder, the maniac would cut his legs out from under him. He just didn’t have time for that. He had to keep running.

  He had to keep running, sure, but unless he thought he could run forever, he had to lose the man, and the sooner the better. Even though he knew that creep had to be hurting from the beating he’d taken, he was having no trouble keeping up.

  He seemed to be inexhaustible. He would never give up. He would hunt Tyrone till he killed him.

  He whipped around the next corner, ducking into an alleyway. It was littered with debris, bottles, crushed cans, human waste. He leapt from side to side, trying to avoid anything that might slow him down. He couldn’t see anything until he was almost on top of it.

  He made it to the end of the alley, weaving and dodging, then leaned against the wall. He had to take a breather.

  He pricked up his ears. Maybe he’d lost the creep, he thought and prayed. Maybe, just maybe.

  But no. An instant later, he heard footsteps entering the alley. There was a loud metallic clanging; the man had crashed into something, probably an overturned trash can. He was bare seconds behind.

  Tyrone forced himself to run. His throat ached with dryness and he had a stitch in his side that wouldn’t go away, but he had to keep running. If he stopped he was history. But for how long? he asked himself. How long could he keep this up?

  As long as that maniac with the knife?

  Probably not.

  If he was going to survive, he had to figure out a way to end this chase—before it ended him.

  He did have one advantage, he reminded himself as he raced down the next dark corridor. He knew Rockwood. He’d grown up around here. He’d played in these ruins. As a teen gang member, he’d practically lived here. He knew the terrain, and that knife-wielding crazy behind him almost certainly didn’t. There had to be some way he could use that particular piece of information. There had to be some way he could use it to turn this hopeless situation into a fighting chance to live.

  There had to be a way, he kept repeating to himself. And then he thought of it.

  Tyrone took a sharp right and detoured into a darkened alley, circling back toward the side from which they had entered. Two alleyways later, still running at top speed, he was beside the old cab company building, coming at it from the opposite side. He couldn’t possibly see in this pitch blackness, but he knew the crater was still there.

  He ran toward it with all the strength he could muster, all the wind he could kick out of his lungs. Coming down at top speed he hit the midpoint and jumped. He flew through the air; probably setting some new long-jump record, he thought, but no one would ever know it but him.

  He tumbled down onto the concrete on the other side, hands and feet first. It was an inelegant landing, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d made it across.

  Gasping for breath, he hobbled over to the side of the wall, pressed himself against it, and listened. Barely a second later, he heard the all-too-familiar crunch of footsteps barreling down the alley, coming closer, closer still …

  And then suddenly—nothing. Feet touching down on air. He heard a short gasp—all the man could get out before he tumbled into the crevice. Tyrone heard the crunch of flesh on rock as the man tumbled into the deep crater.

  Tyrone didn’t wait any longer. Pressing one hand against the wall, he started moving down the alley, heading away. He had no way of knowing how long his pursuer would be incapacitated; it was best not to take any chances. He had to use this opportunity to put as much distance between them as p
ossible.

  After he had crossed a few alleyways, he broke into a light jog. It felt good—the rhythm of his arms and feet, the feeling that he was going somewhere. That he had finally left that walking, talking nightmare behind. That he might live to scam again.

  Finally, more than half a mile from the pit, he stopped. He ran into a one-way alley and crouched down in a corner—crouched like a baby. It was a dead end; there was no way out but the way he’d come in. But that didn’t matter now. He was safe. He’d left that bogeyman far behind.

  He wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging himself tightly. He had been so scared, so so scared. Running through those dark corridors, he’d thought he’d finally gotten himself into a situation he couldn’t talk his way out of. That he was finally going to have to face up to his own life, his own bullshit. That he was going to end up dead in some dark alley, just like his father had said he would.

  What a relief. He smiled, stretching his legs out, massaging the aching joints. That had been pretty clever, remembering the pit, luring that sorry sack of shit over there. He couldn’t help patting himself on the back. He might not be the toughest dude in town, but he was definitely one of the smartest. That’s what had saved him before. That’s what had saved him again.

  He was still sitting there congratulating himself when he heard the soft crunch of gravel at the end of the alley that told him that he was not alone.

  As the icy grip of panic clamped down on his spine, he realized that this time, there was absolutely nowhere he could run, nowhere he could hide.

  Three

  Murder and All that Jazz

  Chapter 33

  Ben awoke hearing voices.

  He sat bolt upright. He’d been deep inside a nightmare, and not the usual one about showing up for court in his underwear, either. He was running through a seemingly endless maze, except the more he ran, the more it became clear that the maze was actually Rockwood, and no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t get away, couldn’t escape, and he knew that at any moment the man in the shadows would reach out and clench his steely fingers around Ben’s throat—

  He shook his head back and forth, trying to clear the cobwebs. Cool off, he told himself. It was just a dream. This time, anyway.

  But he still heard voices. They were coming from outside his bedroom.

  He pulled himself out of bed, every inch of his body aching, not to mention his nose. The folks at the emergency room had determined that it wasn’t actually broken, but it was ripped and battered just the same. They’d put a thick bandage over it, which, Ben noted, did nothing to prevent it from hurting.

  Tiptoeing quietly across the creaky wood-paneled floor, he cracked open the bedroom door and poked his head out.

  Mike and Christina were sitting on the sofa in his living room having a particularly animated discussion.

  “Anything I can do for you two?”

  They both stopped for a moment, then turned to face him.

  “Oops,” Christina said. “Were we talking too loud?”

  “Depends.” He ran his fingers through his matted hair. “Were you trying to wake me up?”

  “Well, we hoped you’d get up eventually.”

  “Then you weren’t too loud. Care to explain what you two are doing in my living room jabbering away at this hour of the morning?”

  Mike leaned forward. “Ben, have you looked at a clock yet?”

  “No. Should I?” Ben craned his neck till he could see the small digital job over his oven.

  It was three-fifteen. In the P.M.

  “Have I slept that long?” Ben asked.

  “Hardly surprising,” Mike said, “after what you’ve been through.”

  “Even so, I’ve got things to do today. Give me five.” Ben ducked back down the hallway and veered into the bathroom. He jumped in the shower, washed his hair, then went through the essential morning ablutions necessary to make himself halfway presentable. He had to dry gently; there was a visible red ring, sore and irritated, around his neck—the mark left by his near strangulation the night before. And he didn’t dare touch his nose.

  He threw on some clothes and returned to the living room. Mike and Christina were still in deep conversation. Their voices had crept up several decibels. He had known Mike and Christina to disagree before, and since both of them were strong-willed individuals who went into every situation assuming they were always right, these disagreements could go on for days.

  “Hey, guys, calm down,” he said, planting himself between them. “What’s the topic?”

  “How to keep you from ending up dead and buried before you turn thirty-four,” Christina replied.

  “Oh.”

  Christina continued. “Mike here favors locking you up in the county jail on a charge of stupidity in the first degree. I myself think we should wrap you in a straightjacket and put you in an asylum—where you belong!”

  “Oh, come on now.” Ben held up his hands. “Let’s not make too much of this.”

  “Make too much of this!” Her face was red and flushed. “What did you think you were doing out there, playing peekaboo with a killer!”

  Ben cleared his throat. “I guess Mike filled you in.”

  “Damn right he did, you imbecile! Why do you think I’m here?”

  Ben could feel the heat emanating from her. “I’m fine now. You two didn’t need to come.”

  “Oh, right.” Mike leaned back, rolling his eyes. “You leave a message on my answering machine describing this elaborate attempted murder, followed by a hair-raising chase through the worst part of Tulsa, followed by calling 911 and joining the plainclothes officers on an all-night, utterly fruitless search of Rockwood. And I guess you thought after I heard your message I’d just erase it and go about my daily business.”

  “I wanted you to know what happened. This proves that Earl isn’t the murderer.”

  “Like hell.”

  “It does! I saw the man.”

  “Uh-huh. So who was it?”

  “Well … I don’t know. But it wasn’t Earl.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  Ben bit down on his lower lip. “Not clearly, no.”

  “So it could’ve been anyone.”

  “But I heard his voice. And it wasn’t Earl’s. I don’t think it was anyone I know.”

  “Unless it was someone disguising his voice. Some people are pretty good at that, you know.”

  Ben knew, all right. Jones, for one. “True … but—”

  “And if the killer was disguising his voice, it could’ve been anyone. Hell, it might have been a woman!”

  “Are you saying you think Earl was trying to kill me last night?”

  “I’m saying the fact that someone else was trying to kill you, when you were stupid enough to drop by Rockwood and get out of your car in the middle of the night, doesn’t prove Earl didn’t kill Lily Campbell.”

  “I’ll testify.”

  “Oh. So Chief Blackwell is supposed to announce that Earl Bonner is no longer the lead suspect, based on testimony from Earl Bonner’s lawyer. That’ll play well on the six o’clock news.”

  “Mike—”

  “Face it, Ben. Blackwell’s had a grudge against you since that Kindergarten Killer mess. He doesn’t trust you. He thinks you probably invented the whole story just to throw us off your client.”

  Ben fell silent. There was no point in arguing. And he had something more pressing on his mind. “Any word on Tyrone?”

  Mike glanced toward Christina, then glanced back. “No. We haven’t been able to find the slightest trace of him. We’ve checked the club, his apartment, all his known hangouts. And I’ve still got men crawling over Rockwood. But we haven’t found him.”

  “He must be there somewhere.”

  “I don’t know, Ben. But even if he is, so what? We’re talking about testimony from an accused, if not convicted, felon. How much is that going to get you? Are Chief Blackwell or the DA going to change their minds based on that? I don’
t think so.”

  “Tyrone saved my life,” Ben said flatly. “And put his own life in danger to do it. We have to find him.”

  “I’m doing everything I know to find him, Ben. It just isn’t working.”

  “Do you—do you think—”

  “I don’t know what to think, Ben. The whole thing is an ugly blood-stained mess. All I know for sure”—his voice grew bolder—“is that you had no business running out by yourself to play cops and robbers with a murderer!”

  “Amen to that,” Christina echoed.

  “I wasn’t looking for the murderer,” Ben insisted. “I was looking for Tyrone. The murderer just sort of happened.”

  “How many times has this just sort of happened to you, Ben? You can’t keep thrusting yourself in the path of danger. Especially when you’re so ill equipped to deal with it.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You’ve been lucky so far.” Mike looked at him sternly. “But that won’t last forever.”

  “I have a duty to represent my client zealously, Mike.”

  Mike waved his hands in the air. “Spare me the lecture. I’ve heard it all before. Every time some criminal attorney does something odious and irresponsible, he hauls out the Rules of Professional Conduct to show that he had an obligation to do it. As if common sense and conscience had been supplanted by a half-baked set of rules.”

  “Mike, that’s not fair—”

  “Never mind,” Christina said. “We didn’t come here to get into a philosophical debate. I have something for you.” She reached over Ben’s shoulders and wrapped a silver chain with a small silver medallion around his neck.

  “What’s this? Are we going steady now?”

  “It’s my Saint Christopher’s medal.”

  “What? But—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. You don’t believe in this hocus-pocus. Saint Christopher never really existed. Listen, I don’t know anything about that stuff. All I know is this: I’ve always worn that medal, and it’s always brought me luck. So now I want you to have it, ’cause I figure you need it more than I do at the moment. All right?”