Deadly Justice Page 25

  Ben checked his instinctive impulse to dart upstairs. He needed a weapon if he was going to stand half a chance. His eyes swept over the room, but he didn’t see anything, not even the proverbial poker. His eyes lit upon the mixing blade, still on the sofa where Trixie had left it. That would have to do. Ben scooped it up and ran upstairs.

  The other man heard Ben coming, but not in time to prevent himself from being tackled. Ben hurled himself against the back of the man’s legs, sending him flying into the wall. The man released his grip on the cord; Mike’s head thudded down on the hardwood floor.

  Ben followed the man to the wall and stabbed him in the side with the mixing blade. The man let out a shout. Ben came at him again, but the man grabbed Ben’s arm and tossed the blade aside. This man was strong—incredibly strong.

  In no time at all, he had twisted Ben’s arm behind his back. He pushed Ben against the banister, trying to shove him over the top. Ben struggled to get free, to get a look at his assailant’s face. He wedged his feet between the rails of the banister to lock himself down. The man pushed even harder. Ben felt the tendons in his legs straining; he knew he couldn’t resist for much longer.

  Suddenly, they both became aware of a siren wailing in the distance. Thank God, Ben thought—the backup finally made it. The man shoved Ben onto the floor, then flew down the stairs. A second later, Ben heard the kitchen door open and slam shut.

  Ben pulled himself to his feet. There was no point in trying to catch the assailant; he was far ahead and considerably faster, and besides, Ben was worried about Mike. Ben crouched beside his friend’s motionless body. Mike’s eyes were closed; his face was a ghastly color. There was a long, jagged cut across his forehead and it was bleeding profusely. Ben grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. No reaction at all.

  Ben placed two fingers against Mike’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was faint and irregular but, by God, it was there. He was still alive. Ben saw a pool of blood on the floor where Mike’s head had fallen. Damn, damn, damn—he might have a concussion or skull fracture, on top of being nearly asphyxiated. If Mike didn’t get some help fast, his chances were slim to none.

  Ben ran down the stairs, planning to call an ambulance. To his surprise, he saw a white and blue EMSA ambulance pull up in the driveway. The siren they heard hadn’t been the police after all. Ben ran out on the porch to meet them. His amazement doubled when the passenger door flung open…and Christina jumped out.

  “Christina! You’re all right!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her tight.

  “I was worried about you, too, Ben. What happened?”

  The paramedics ran up to the front doorstep. “He’s at the top of the stairs,” Ben said, pointing. “He’s banged his head and may be suffering from oxygen deprivation.” The paramedics clambered up the stairs.

  “Who? Mike?” Christina asked.

  “Yes. The murderer got him. And he almost got me.”

  Her eyes widened. “Did you see who he was?”

  “No, damn it. I never got a look at his face, and I think he was wearing a stocking or mask anyway. I never even got a good look at his body. Christina, where have you been?”

  “I got a phone call about half an hour ago saying you had been brought to St. Francis’s emergency room. I tried to get Trixie to come with me, but she refused—said she had to wait for Buddy. When I arrived at the hospital, and no one there had even heard of you, I became suspicious. I ran down to the ambulance bay, told them I had an emergency situation, and rode back here with them.”

  “You probably saved Mike’s life. I think he needs immediate attention.” He looked up the stairs and saw that the paramedics had applied an oxygen mask to Mike’s face.

  “If you’re not in the hospital, Ben, who called me?”

  “Must’ve been the killer.”

  “How did he get the number?”

  “I don’t know. Has Buddy come home yet?”

  Christina shook her head.

  “That may answer that question.”

  “But why would he make a false phone call?”

  “To lure you away—” Ben suddenly turned white as a sheet. “Oh, my God! Trixie!”

  Ben flew into the house and bolted up the stairs, avoiding the paramedics hovering over Mike. He could see into the two upstairs rooms with open doors. One was a bedroom, the other a bathroom. No one was in either one.

  Ben approached the third door, the closed one. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open.

  There she was.

  48

  TRIXIE’S BODY HUNG LIMPLY over the edge of the bed. Her head nearly touched the carpet; her face was a ghastly blue. Her neck was lacerated with deep, bloody abrasions.

  This time, Ben didn’t bother searching for a pulse. Her condition was obvious.

  Ben crumpled against the wall. His legs were like jelly, useless appendages. He pressed his hand against his face, still staring at her lifeless body. He felt sick.

  He stiffened his legs and forced himself to stand. Then, after a long pause, he stumbled through the connecting door into the bath and lowered himself over the toilet.

  After he was done, he wiped his face and tried to speak. “In there,” he shouted hoarsely.

  One of the paramedics looked up.

  “There’s another one.” He pointed into the bedroom.

  The paramedic peered through the door, then grabbed his bag and ran inside. Ben braced himself against the porcelain and waited for the confirmation.

  A few moments later, the paramedic feeding oxygen to Mike shouted, “You need any help in there?”

  “No,” the man in the bedroom replied. “Stay with him. This one’s already gone.”

  Ben slumped onto the bathroom tile and cried.

  Ben didn’t remember anything else until he felt Christina’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she said firmly.

  Ben stared up at her but didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  “Look, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m the one who left her.”

  “If it hadn’t been for me,” Ben said hoarsely, “you never would’ve been involved.”

  He pushed past her and walked as best he could back into the bedroom. The paramedic was tending to the body; Ben tried not to look. He focused on the walls, the desk, the clothes closet. There had to be a clue, damn it! There had to be something, some trivial detail that would give him the information he needed to stop this fiend before he killed anyone else.

  Ben searched through her clothes, but saw no clues to anything other than Trixie’s obvious occupation. He searched the desk; it was practically empty. On the bookshelf, he found a small blue plastic recipe box. He popped it open.

  The first thing he saw was a glittering gold half-heart necklace: the other half of Trixie’s birthday present to Angel. He also found a strip of four photos of her and Buddy, probably taken at a carnival or fair.

  He withdrew a large green document and unfolded it. He saw the notary seal at the bottom, but it took him a moment to realize what it was. Ben bit down on his lower lip; the tears began to flow once more from his eyes.

  It was Trixie’s birth certificate, the one Buddy had obtained so she could get her medical examination.

  She was thirteen.

  49

  BEN TOOK CHRISTINA’S HAND and let her lead him out of me bedroom and downstairs. He didn’t want to go; it seemed like one more betrayal, one more desertion. But he also knew the room was now a crime scene, and disturbing it wouldn’t help anyone.

  “I repeat,” Christina said, as they walked downstairs, “it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” he replied bitterly. “It never is.”

  “What difference would it have made if you were here? I’ll tell you—the only difference would have been that your corpse would be strewn on the floor, too.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  “You had your shot a
t him, Ben, and he flung you around like a rag doll. If you and Mike couldn’t take this butcher, there’s no way you and Trixie could have. The only one who was deprived by your absence was the killer.”

  She turned to face him. “Ben, you need to be careful. This killer, whoever he is, is a desperate man, or a raving lunatic, or both. He may have seen you. He may know who you are.”

  “He does,” Ben said flatly. “He’s been in my apartment. Tore it upside down. Scared poor Giselle out of three of her lives.” He touched Christina’s arm. “And if he knows about me, he may know about you, too.”

  “Ben, I think we should both consider hiring some protection. Professionals.”

  “For this maniac, we’d better hire a frigging battalion.”

  “Where am I? Where is he?”

  They both heard the weak but familiar voice from the landing at the top of the stairs. “Mike!”

  Ben bounded up the stairs, Christina close behind.

  Mike was still lying in the hallway, his head raised onto a pillow. One of the paramedics was monitoring his vital signs.

  Mike focused on Ben’s face and frowned. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be guarding the kitchen door.”

  “Go to hell,” Ben replied.

  “A fine way to talk, you AWOL ass.” Mike smacked his lips. “I’m parched. Can you get me something to drink?”

  The paramedic shook his head. “Sorry. We have to avoid any chance of you aspirating on your own vomit. Besides, with a head wound, you may require surgery.”

  “Do you think it’s a skull fracture?” Ben asked.

  “That’s a nasty burst laceration on his forehead, but I don’t think it’s too profound. Head wounds always bleed a lot. Still, we need to check for hematoma and contra coup injury.”

  “Would you two stop talking about me like I wasn’t here!” Mike growled.

  “Judging by his rude tongue,” Ben said, “it appears he has regained consciousness.”

  “True. But he still may have sustained injuries. We’re going to take him to the hospital as soon as he’s stabilized a bit.”

  “I see.” A line creased Ben’s brow. Something was bothering him. But what was it?

  “I take it the son of a bitch with the strangulation cord got away,” Mike whispered.

  “I’m afraid so,” Ben replied. “If it makes you feel any better, I managed to hurt him before he escaped, though not nearly as much as he hurt me.”

  “Maybe these goddamn medics should be bothering you instead of me. Give me some air.” Mike tried to push himself up.

  “Just stay where you are,” the paramedic said. “Try to relax.”

  “I don’t want to relax, damn it! I’m fine.”

  “That remains to be seen. In the meantime, I want you to stay calm.”

  Mike grimaced. “Bully.”

  “That’s it!” Ben snapped his fingers. “That’s the answer.”

  Mike and Christina stared back at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Ben didn’t hear them. He was busy thinking it through. Now that he realized what he had missed before, everything else seemed to fall into place.

  “Can you guys take care of Mike from here?”

  The paramedics nodded.

  “Okay. I’ve got to leave.”

  “Now just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” Mike braced himself with his arms. “What’s going on? What’s all this sudden urgency?”

  “I know who the killer is,” Ben said. “And I think I know how to prove it, too.”

  “Well then stop being so damned mysterious and tell us!”

  “You need to go to the hospital. I’ll check in with you when I’m finished.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Believe it or not—the High Course at Camp Sequoyah.”

  Mike and Christina yelled at him, but he ignored them both. He flew down the stairs and out to his car. If he was right, he didn’t have any time to spare. His chance to nail the person who had committed all these murders had finally arrived. All he had to do was something that made his entire body quiver just thinking about it, something that instantaneously filled him with dread.

  And not get killed in the meantime.

  50

  BEN DROVE UNDER THE archway that identified Camp Sequoyah, doing seventy miles an hour on the narrow one-lane dirt road. Caution to the wind—this time he was not going to fail.

  He drove through the parking clearing, then over the small embankment that served as a curb. His Honda shuddered and squealed as he took the car onto the uncleared grass and down a steep hill. What the hell! The car was about to fall apart anyway.

  He parked his car outside the closed circle of oak trees he remembered from the weekend before. This was as far as he could possibly travel on wheels. He jumped out of the car and raced into the forest. The sun was just rising; the orange corona was visible above the treetops.

  The High Course had been taped off, but Ben didn’t have any trouble crawling under. The police had closed it off as a crime scene, but there was only so much that could be done to restrict access to a forest. The guards had left long ago. Since access had been restricted, though, there was still a chance he could find what he wanted.

  He was now certain that Crichton’s belay line had been cut. Problem was, the police had combed the grounds and searched everyone before they left the site. If the line was cut, what happened to the knife?

  It must’ve been left somewhere on the High Course, he reasoned. The police probably didn’t search sixty feet up in the air. The most likely hiding place would be the big oak tree that connected the giant’s ladder to the Burma bridge. If Ben could find the knife, it might bear the fingerprints of the person who had left it there. That would provide the proof Ben needed to confirm his theory.

  Problem was, the High Course was…high. Sixty feet high, to be exact. Ben didn’t have any belaying equipment, and there was no one here to spot him even if he did. He was going to have to go up without a net, so to speak. Alone.

  He felt himself dizzying, just thinking about it. How could he possibly climb that high by himself? His stomach was fighting him, threatening a repeat of the upheaval he had experienced before. When he found…

  And that was the answer. Trixie. This might be his only chance to catch the bastard who killed Trixie. And Hamel. And almost killed Mike. He’d climb fucking Mount Everest if necessary; that sadistic butcher was not getting away.

  He stood on the stump and hoisted himself onto the first rung of the giant’s ladder. His arms ached with the strain. He’d been hurt more in his scuffle with the killer than he’d acknowledged. And he wasn’t exactly in primo shape to begin with.

  Didn’t matter. None of it did. He was going up.

  He balanced himself carefully on the first rung of the ladder, trying to remember everything he had been told when he tried this the first time. Don’t look down, Crichton had said, and that seemed like eminently practical advice. He placed his foot on the metal joint of the connecting wire. Didn’t much matter if Crichton thought he was a wimp now—he just wanted to get to the top without dying.

  He hoisted himself up till he was lying flat on the second rung. He clung to the wooden beam, holding on for dear life. Two down, seven to go. He tried to pull himself upright, which was tricky enough on this narrow beam without the additional complication of having his eyes clenched tightly shut.

  He tried to establish a rhythm: reach, pull, hoist, and balance. Reach, pull, hoist, and balance. It should become a routine, something he did without even thinking about it. Slowly, methodically, and please God without looking down, he pulled himself up to the third rung, then, in rhythmic succession, the fourth, fifth, and sixth.

  After me ninth beam, Ben grabbed the vertical wire and stretched himself upright. He’d made it. The giant’s ladder was by far the part of the course that required the most physical strength. If he could climb it, he could finish the whole course. He grabbed the high wire with both h
ands and started inching his way toward the oak tree and the Burma bridge. A sensation of pride swelled through his body. By God, he’d faced the demon head-on and conquered it. Fear of heights or not, he’d made it to the top, something a lot of people couldn’t do even with a belay line. Feeling fearless, he opened his eyes and looked down toward the ground.

  Someone was there, watching him. The killer.

  “Bravo,” the man said, clapping. “Quite a performance. All the way to the top in less time than it would take some grandmothers. The older ones, anyway.”

  Ben clenched the overhead wire tightly. “What are you doing here?” he shouted down.

  “Looking for you, of course. Did you think I would just run away and hide until you came after me the next time? Not my style, I’m afraid. After I left the house, I parked on Eleventh Street, waited for your car, then followed you out here. It was easy, despite the fact that you drive like a maniac.”

  “You should know,” Ben said. He gripped the wire even tighter. His hands were dripping with sweat, which he knew would not improve his grip. “What are you planning to do?”

  The man smiled maliciously. “Well, I really can’t let you fill out a police report, can I?” He seated himself on the ground. “I’m very patient. You have to come down to earth sometime.”

  “You’re too late. The police are on their way. They should be here within the hour.”

  “Hmm. Probably a bluff. Still, I can’t afford to take the risk.” Rob Fielder stood up, brushed off his hands, and gripped the first rung of the giant’s ladder. “Very well. I’m coming after you.”

  51

  BEN WAS PARALYZED WITH fear. He didn’t know which he was most afraid of—falling sixty feet to the ground or coming within an arm’s reach of Rob Fielder.

  He’d already tangled with Fielder back at the house. For that matter, so had Mike and Tomlinson, two men vastly better-qualified to defend themselves than he. If Fielder laid his hands on him, Ben didn’t stand a chance.