Deadly Justice Page 26

  Ben watched Fielder climb steadily upward. In the few seconds Ben had spent thinking, Fielder had already made it to the third rung. Another minute or two, and they’d be standing side by side.

  Ben sidestepped toward the oak tree, his only chance. He had to keep moving forward, to get to the end of the course and ride the zip line down. In his heart, Ben knew Fielder would catch him before he reached the end. But there was no turning back now that Fielder had the giant’s ladder covered. Ben had to keep plowing through the course. The smartest thing he could do was keep Fielder distracted in the meantime.

  “The way I figure it,” Ben said, as he inched toward the tree, “you lied. Hamel wasn’t dead at all. At least not when we first found him in my office.”

  Fielder paused on the fourth rung. “Pretty smart, Kincaid. And it only took you a fucking week.”

  “You lied about being a first-aid expert so I would let you take Hamel’s pulse and you could tell me he was dead. Then, after I ran for help, Hamel got up and simply walked away. Later that night, you killed him. And since you knew the police suspected me already, you dumped the corpse in my backyard and smeared some blood in my car.”

  “All true, I’m afraid,” Fielder grunted, as he pulled himself onto the fifth rung. “How did you figure it out?”

  “A paramedic reminded me that you never give a head injury victim anything to drink. He might aspirate on his own vomit. Plus he might require surgery. Then I remembered that you did just that—you gave Crichton a drink after he was clobbered by Doug’s wild throw. Beer, no less. At first I thought you just didn’t know, but a trained first-aid expert should be better informed. Then I started to think: maybe you were lying about having Red Cross certification. Maybe it was important that you be the one who checked Hamel’s vital signs. Then it all made sense.”

  “Very smart,” Fielder said. “Bravo.”

  “And it relates to the Kindergarten Club, right? You’re the member whose name was deleted from the list.”

  “Guilty as charged. That list never should’ve been put on the central computer. Only an idiot like Hamel would’ve done such a thing.”

  “I assume Hamel downloaded a copy onto the floppy disk. Then, when he saw us on his way out of the computer room, he hid in my office. When I opened that door, he played dead. And you covered for him so he could get away. Temporarily.”

  “Too true. By the way, Ben. Your shoestring’s untied.”

  Ben stiffened. “Nice try.” He returned his attention to the tree, almost within his grasp.

  “The Club was my brainchild. I set it up for Apollo perverts who were too cowardly to handle their own procurements. I made a lot of money at it, too. A lot of money. Hamel was sort of the secretary of the Club. I gave him a share of the profits, and in exchange, he set up appointments, made reservations, and arranged for the personnel.”

  “A regular Boy Scout.”

  “Yes. He liked the money and the house it allowed him to buy. Everything was dandy, until he panicked. Was certain the police were closing in on us. Threatened to turn state’s evidence to save himself. I assume that’s why he wanted the address list—so he could turn it over to the police. Or a newspaper reporter. Obviously I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

  Ben grabbed the tree with both hands and hugged it tightly. He’d made it. He lowered himself down to the wooden platform, then started across the Burma bridge.

  He couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder. Fielder was almost on the top rung of the ladder; he’d be on the bridge in no time at all. Keep him talking, Ben. Keep him talking.

  “But why the girls? Why did you have to kill them?”

  Fielder paused reflectively. “Hamel’s irrational threats made me aware of the danger the continued existence of the Club presented to my career. Not to mention my freedom. I decided it was time to eliminate all possible witnesses. Especially the cheap whores who would tell everything they knew for ten bucks.”

  Ben walked toe-to-toe across the bridge, pushing his arms but, smooth and steady. “If you wanted to eliminate all possible witnesses, you’d have to kill all the members, too. Every name on the address list.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Fielder said, with astonishing detachment. “But the girls were a higher priority.”

  Halfway across the bridge, Ben felt it begin to shake. He glanced over his shoulder; Fielder held the ropes and was swinging them violently back and forth.

  “Don’t let this throw you, Ben,” he said, laughing. “The principles are all the same, even if the bridge is sideways. Or upside down. Just don’t fall out. It’s a long way to the ground.” He laughed again, a sickeningly merry tone to his voice.

  Ben clung to the ropes for dear life. The ropes burned into his hands, reopening me wounds that had only superficially healed from the weekend before. Hang on, damn it. Fielder had him practically horizontal now. It would be so easy to fall, to just let go and…

  Ben’s right foot slipped off the balance rope. He fell forward, but held tightly onto the ropes in his hands. Swinging himself backward, he managed to fall inside the triangle, onto the balance rope.

  Fine—any port in a storm. He’d crawl the rest of the way.

  “Good show!” Fielder yelled. “Admirable recovery. Slow way to proceed, but feasible. If I weren’t coming after you.” Fielder pushed away from the tree and started across the bridge.

  Ben reached out with both hands and hauled himself forward. He wasn’t going to try to stand up. It would take too long and it was too risky—one misstep and the bridge would toss him to the ground. He struggled along, trying to close the gap between himself and the next tree, trying not to think about how close Fielder must be behind him.

  “Twenty feet and closing!” Fielder shouted. “I’m excited about this. Aren’t you?”

  Ben pulled himself through the last foot of the bridge. He was drenched in sweat; he felt as if he had just stepped out of a swimming pool. He was breathing much too rapidly and had burns and bruises in a hundred places. Nonetheless, he managed to pull himself erect beside the next tree, the one connected to the horizontal telephone pole.

  “So you started killing the prostitutes even before you killed Hamel?” Ben shouted.

  Fielder stopped again, apparently pleased to tell his colorful story. “True. They were the most likely to talk, the most easily bought, the ones with the least to lose. Fortunately, Hamel, always the deviant, had taken photos of them. I searched his house trying to find a missing photo, without success. Didn’t matter. I found most of them in Hamel’s briefcase, and I had all of the girls’ names. They were easy to kill. All you had to do was drive down the street, pick them up, and take them to a hotel.”

  He gazed contentedly toward the sky. “Slip the bag over their heads, tighten the cord around their throats, and wait. It didn’t take long. And the whole time, I was in complete control. I dominated—I was God to them. It was fabulous. I usually kept a souvenir, just to remember them by. And then I eliminated all the clues. And dumped the bodies on The Playground.

  “Of course, I removed their heads and hands to slow identification. The beauty of it was—even when the police learned their identities—who would care? The police don’t care about a bunch of sleazy prostitutes; the vice squad probably considered it a favor. My chances of getting caught were nil.”

  He paused, and his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Until that stupid plainclothes cop blundered in. And then you.”

  Fielder was getting too close; Ben had to start across the horizontal telephone pole. Just pretend like you’re on the ground, he told himself. It’s just like walking on a curb, except that the telephone pole is actually much wider. Piece of cake. He closed his eyes and pushed.

  Halfway across, Ben was startled by a tremendous scream. He opened his eyes, waving his arms to recover his balance. He sat down quickly and straddled the pole. Somehow he managed to keep himself upright. He scooted across the rest of the pole.

  Fi
elder was almost across the Burma bridge, laughing uproariously. “Made you flinch,” he said, grinning.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ben muttered. He clung to the tree and scrutinized the next leg of the High Course. It was the wire track—one above, one below. If he could just make it across without falling, he could ride the zip line down to the earth. Terra firma. Best of all, he could tie the zip line down at the bottom so it wouldn’t return to Fielder. Fielder would have to go back through the course and descend on the giant’s ladder—and that would give Ben enough time to get away. If Fielder didn’t catch him first.

  Ben stepped sideways across the wires. “Killing the girls wasn’t a piece of cake, though,” Ben said. “At least not the last one.”

  “True enough,” Fielder admitted. “I did have trouble locating…Trixie.” He let the name drip off his tongue. “Sneaky cunt took to hiding, had half the whores in town covering for her. Bitches. I found her, of course, courtesy of that faggot she holed up with.”

  “What did you do to Buddy?” Ben asked. “Is he still alive?”

  Fielder ignored him. “Don’t worry. I had my revenge with Trixie. I didn’t kill her fast, like the others. I dragged it out and enjoyed it.”

  Ben felt his sickness returning. His eyes were watering up. Just ignore him, he told himself. You can’t afford to be distracted now.

  Ben watched Fielder float effortlessly across the telephone pole. He seemed to have no fear at all; he acted as if it really was just a curb on the ground. A heartbeat later, Fielder was on the wires and moving steadily toward Ben.

  “End of the chase,” Fielder said. “Strap on your parachute. What—you don’t have one? Pity.”

  Ben moved as quickly as he could without plummeting to the ground. It was no use. Fielder moved more than twice as fast as he did.

  “Why did you try to kill Crichton?” Ben asked.

  “Crichton?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “He wasn’t in the Club. He was never on my list. On the contrary, his stupidity has been quite useful to me.”

  Ben reached the end of the wire track and clutched the final tree. He tried to take the zip line, but Fielder grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him back.

  Ben pressed his hands against Fielder’s chest, trying to hold him off. Fielder slammed down hard on Ben’s elbow, trying to break his arm. Ben cried out, then wrapped his arms around Fielder. Fielder twisted back and forth, trying to get free. Ben held tight. Snarling, Fielder butted Ben with his head.

  Ben fell to his knees, his arms wrapped around Fielder’s legs. “I’m not letting go!” Ben shouted. “If I fall, we both fall!”

  “I’ll see about that.” Fielder reached over Ben’s head and grabbed the zip line seat. Bracing himself, he drove his knee under Ben’s chin. A second blow thudded against Ben’s chest.

  Ben felt the wind rush out of his lungs. He was out of breath, heaving, trying to maintain his all-important balance. Freed from Ben’s grasp, Fielder swung his leg back again and kicked hard.

  This blow caught Ben in the stomach. His head slammed back against the tree. He fell to one side. At the last possible moment, he clutched a limb of the tree, desperately trying to keep from falling. He knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand another kick like that.

  “You’re history,” Fielder said. He reared his foot back for the killing blow.

  A gunshot rang out from somewhere below them. Fielder stopped, then, a second later, twitched strangely. Ben saw the wound on Fielder’s right shoulder.

  “Stay right where you are or I’ll fire again!”

  “Chicken shit assassin,” Fielder mumbled. He lurched forward suddenly and embraced Ben. “He’ll have to shoot us both.”

  Ben struggled, but couldn’t break Fielder’s grasp. He raised his fist and pounded Fielder’s shoulder, just over the bullet wound. Fielder shrieked in agony and fell backward, just enough. Another gunshot rang out, this time catching Fielder dead center in his chest. He staggered backward, teetered for a moment, and fell.

  Ben watched Fielder’s body plummet to the earth. He smashed onto the ground with a sickening thud.

  Ben grabbed the tree behind him and pulled himself to a more stable position. He inhaled and exhaled evenly, trying to slow his racing pulse.

  “Are you planning to stay up there all day?” Mike called out. He was standing on the ground, bracing himself against a tree trunk.

  “Just for a little while,” Ben said between gasps. “Till I’m certain I’m not having a cardiac arrest.” He took a few more deep, drinking breaths. “I thought you were going to the hospital.”

  “While you rushed out and played the daring young man on the flying trapeze? Not a chance. I gave the paramedics a rain check.”

  “Just as well, under the circumstances.”

  “So, are you planning to come down or what?” Ben wiped a quart of sweat from his forehead. “Maybe. Someday. No hurry.”

  “I thought you were afraid of heights.”

  Ben tried to smile. “I’m becoming acclimated.”

  PART FOUR

  What We Can

  52

  BEN POURED CUPS OF coffee for himself and for Christina. The Apollo legal staff meeting had already ran over an hour long and they weren’t done yet. Mercifully, Chuck had suggested a break.

  Ben picked up the two hot Styrofoam cups, then winced. His hands were still raw and tender from his race through the High Course.

  “Here’s the Java,” Ben said, passing Christina her cup. Because of the importance of the subject matter of the meeting, legal assistants had been invited for the first (and probably last) time.

  “Thanks. How are your hands?”

  “Not bad. Sore enough to give me an excuse to retire from the High Course forever.”

  “Retire? Just when you were getting the hang of it?”

  “Believe me, I was awful.”

  “Ben, last week you couldn’t complete the High Course in full regalia. Two days ago, you completed it without any belay support. I’d call that significant progress.”

  “Well, my progress was forced somewhat by the circumstances.”

  She grinned. “Are these meetings always so gloomy?”

  “Only when the main topic of conversation is how one member of the staff murdered another member of the staff and five other people as well.” During the past hour, the staff had been informed of the horrible secret buried inside their department. Mike was the official leader of the meeting, but Ben was filling in most of the details. Ben had tried to explain the whole plot as he now understood it—how Fielder had formed the Kindergarten Club, how he’d enlisted Hamel as secretary, and how together they had raked in the dough.

  Ben noted several macho grins and sneers as he talked about teen prostitutes and kinky group orgies, but the snickers faded when he began describing the multiple strangulations and dismemberments. He told them how Fielder panicked and began killing off the girls, one after the other. How that had caused Hamel to download the address list so he could turn state’s evidence. How he’d been caught in the act by Fielder, which had caused Hamel to become Fielder’s next victim.

  Christina nudged Ben’s shoulder. “Look at Shelly.” Shelly was solemn and silent, even more so than usual. “She really seems to be taking this hard.”

  There may be a good reason for that, Ben thought, but he kept it to himself. “Herb seems a bit upset, too.”

  “Yeah, but that’s probably because all these orgies were going on and he never got invited.”

  Ben smiled, but again he could think of another possible explanation. He noticed that Herb and Candice were not seated together, and had not spoken to (or shouted at) one another since they entered the room.

  Crichton was sitting at one end of the long conference table opposite Mike. Crichton appeared to be taking the news worse than anyone. Understandable, Ben thought. Not only had he lost another member of his staff; he’d been made to look a blundering fool. He was staring down at the black enamel table. His c
offee cup was empty, but he hadn’t even called for Janice.

  “If you don’t mind,” Mike said loudly, “I’d like to finish this up.” Mike had looked better himself. Despite everyone’s entreaties, he still hadn’t checked into the hospital. He insisted that he wanted to “put this case to bed” before he took any time off.

  Everyone resumed their places around the table.

  “There’s one detail we omitted,” Mike continued. “When Fielder spotted Ben on the streets searching for Trixie, he went after him. He didn’t find Ben at home, so he tore the place apart, just to send a message. Maybe he thought he might find the picture Ben and I retrieved from Hamel’s attic. I don’t know. He didn’t find anything. But of course, that’s because there wasn’t anything to find.

  “As you all know,” Mike continued, “Fielder was killed in his fall. That concludes this investigation. Chief Blackwell has declared this matter closed”—he looked pointedly at Ben—“a fact that will no doubt come as a considerable relief to many of you.”

  Amen to that, Ben thought.

  “I have a question,” Chuck asked loudly. “I understand everything you’ve said, but what I don’t understand is who cut Mr. Crichton’s belay line? That’s the creep I’d like to take apart.”

  Count on Chuck to be the one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, Ben mused. Especially when an opportunity to do some quality sucking-up presented itself. “I’d rather not go into that right now,” Mike replied.

  Chuck pounded on the table. “Damn it, I want to know. If someone’s after our mentor, we need to take action.”

  Ben scanned the faces around the conference table. He saw a mixed array of reactions. All of them were uncomfortable, just in different ways.

  “Well, Chuck,” Ben said, spreading his arms across the table, “if you must know who cut Crichton’s belay line—I did.”

  “What?” Mike almost rose out of his chair. “You cut his line?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” Chuck bellowed. “You just started here. What beef could you have against Crichton?”