Extreme Justice (34 page)

Knowing he was in a car helped explain the smell—the nauseating odor he had been aware of since he first came to. It was turning his stomach, literally making him sick. It was petroleum, the smell of the gas tank, motor oil, and perhaps the tools in the trunk. Whatever. It was hot in here, he was sweating, and the heat made the smell all the worse.

The car hit another huge bump—a pothole probably, knowing Tulsa’s roads as he did. He bounced violently up against the trunk lid, then his cheek-bone smashed down on the sharp metallic something. Was it the jack? Or maybe that metal frame the spare fits into? Whatever it was, it hurt—hurt so much he cried out. Stupid. Why let his captor know he was in pain? Why let him know how scared he was? Why let him know he was conscious? That could only lead to … unfortunate consequences.

He felt blood trickling down his cheek. The bump hadn’t been that bad—he must have reopened something, some wound from the beating before. He wished he had stayed quiet.

But it was too late. He felt the car pulling over to the right, then slowly coming to a stop. Tyrone panicked. His pulse was racing; he felt a surge of fear-drenched blood rushing through his veins. He could barely breathe. His face was wet and sticky, drenched with blood and sweat.

A crunch of gravel. Tyrone lifted his head slightly, turning toward the sound. The steps were coming closer; they circled around the back of the car. He heard a jingling of keys.

His heart skipped a beat. His breath was suspended, frozen. He felt as if a thousand days passed during the second it took his captor to poke the key into the trunk lock and turn it till it clicked.

The trunk lid popped open. A bright light shone in Tyrone’s face, so blinding he had to clench his eyes shut.

“You’re up early,” the man hovering over him said. He reached beside Tyrone and pulled a long iron object out from under him. Tyrone slowly opened his eyes, let the light seep slowly in …

It was a tire iron. Poised just above his face.

“Sleepy-bye time,” the man said. There was a burst of whiteness, an explosion of pain.

And then Tyrone drifted back into merciful unconsciousness and was left with only his dreams, his haunted tortured dreams of the pain still to come.

B
EN SPENT THE
next day pursuing every lead imaginable. He bullied Mike into letting him see the reports taken from the patrons at the club the previous night; the ones who seemed promising he tracked down and interviewed himself. He sent Christina to the courthouse and Jones to the computer to pore through any records that might bear on Scat, his background, his history—anything that might suggest why he was killed or who would have a motive to do it. And he sent Loving out to investigate Scat’s neighbors, people who knew him.

And at the end of the day, Ben knew not a whit more than he had known when the day began. Which was next to nothing.

What was he missing? Somehow, he couldn’t make it add up. He had all the necessary information; he just wasn’t putting it together right. It was like he had all the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, but they were turned face down so all that showed was the brown cardboard backing.

And he hadn’t found Tyrone Jackson, either. Not so much as a trace of him.

At sundown he returned to the office, where he was greeted by Jones—and Paula. What was she doing here? Ben wondered. Were they holding hands under the desk?

“Jones,” he said in a businesslike tone, “did you have a chance to run those Internet searches?”

“I spent most of the day on it. I ran all your searches and several others besides.”

“Masterfully,” Paula added.

“I used all the major search engines—Alta Vista, Yahoo! Excite. To increase my search capacity, I reprogrammed my web browser.”

“Ingeniously,” Paula added.

“Finally, with Paula’s help”—he looked lovingly in her direction—“I went to the library and did some research the old-fashioned way.”

“You mean—you used books?”

Jones gave Paula a knowing look. “You see? I used to put up with this every day.” He turned back toward Ben. “I used their electronic card catalog to search the collections of other libraries, including newspapers and periodicals, for information that might be of use.

“Brilliantly,” Paula sighed.

“No doubt,” Ben said. “Did you find anything?”

“A lot. About Scat. And about this Professor Hoodoo he and Earl used to play with. But probably nothing you don’t already know. Certainly nothing that suggests a motive for murder.”

“Oh.”

“I printed it all out,” Jones said, pointing to a stack of computer paper on the edge of his desk. “But I don’t think there’s anything in there that’s going to solve your case.”

Ben laid his hands on the information. He’d been hoping for a miracle. But all he got was a tower of feed-form paper.

“There’s some mail for you as well,” Jones added.

Ben saw a small package wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up and ripped it open.

Inside he found a golden bauble, a small thin sparkly—and beneath that a note in a handwritten scrawl:
Found this in the men’s room the night of the murder. Probably Rug Man’s. Don’t know what it is—but thought you might. T.

Tyrone! He was alive!

Ben held the golden object in his hands. It was a penknife—a fancy one, from the looks of it. And on the side, in an overwrought, stylized lettering, he saw a monogrammed
B
.

B
, he thought to himself.
B
. Who could that—

“Is it something important?” Jones asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. I need to talk to Tyrone.” He pushed the penknife into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you saw anything in your computer research that might help us figure out what happened to him?”

“ ’Fraid not,” Jones said.

“Who’s Tyrone?” Paula asked.

“Kid who saw a man at the club wearing a disguise,” Ben explained.

“A disguise?”

“Right. Which led me to believe he might’ve been the killer. Why else would a man go out in a fake Afro?”

Paula’s head tilted slightly. “Ben, he was wearing a fake Afro?”

“False beard, too. Shades.”

Paula slowly rose out of her chair. “Sunglasses with silver lenses? The kind that look like mirrors from the outside?”

“Yes, exactly. Why?”

Paula looked from Ben to Jones, then back to Ben. “I saw him, too.”

Ben gripped her by the arms. “You saw him? You were there the night Lily Campbell was killed?”

“Sure. I told you that last night. Heck, I told Jones the night it happened. In the chat room.”

Ben whirled around toward Jones. “You knew?”

“Well, I didn’t know she saw the Rug Man!”

“The Rug Man?” Paula frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The man we believe killed Lily Campbell was carrying a rug. We think he may have used the rug to get the body into the club. Did you see it?”

“No. When I saw him, he was moving away from the stage. Maybe he’d already deposited the body.”

Ben lowered her back into her chair. “Paula, tell me everything you saw. Everything.”

“There isn’t much. The club had barely opened. This guy was moving out; I was moving in. We brushed shoulders; I gave him a bit of a knock. And I saw the way his hair bounced on impact. I mean, independent from his head. I used to wear a wig myself when I was younger, so I knew what that meant.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No. Why would I? I just thought the man was losing his hair and didn’t want to settle for a toupee. You never know. Men are weird about hair loss.”

“Is that a fact?” Ben said evenly.

“Even after the murder, when I was talking to the police, I didn’t think anything about it. I didn’t make the connection. A woman was murdered onstage; I had no reason to link that to some guy wearing a wig.”

“Paula, this is very important.” Ben gazed steadily into her eyes. “I want you to cast your mind back to that night. Concentrate. Try to remember what you saw. Tell me everything you can remember.”

Paula took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Okay. I’m taking myself back to that night. I’m remembering. He was wearing—well, I’ve already told you about the shades.”

“Right. What else do you see?”

“That’s about all. Silver mirror glasses. He’s about my height. Maybe a bit taller. He’s black, or looks black, anyway. His hands are disgusting; fingers are stained an ugly blackish-yellow. He’s strong-looking, well-muscled.”

“What else do you see? Go through the whole scene. You’re walking through the club …”

“I’m walking down the floor, picking a table. I see this guy coming, but he’s moving quite fast and I don’t have time to get out of the way. We bump shoulders, his wig bounces. I say I’m sorry; he makes a grunting noise. He moves on toward the bathrooms.”

“Was there anything else, Paula?”

“I’m trying, but that’s all I can remember.” She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more—Ben?”

Ben wasn’t looking at her. He had turned away, was staring off into space. “Can it be?” he muttered. He took the penknife out of his pocket and stared at it.

“What are you talking about?”

Ben still didn’t look at her. “But if—” His face suddenly blanched. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God.”

“Ben, what is it?” Jones stood beside him. “What’s going on? Do you—do you know who the killer is?”

Ben slowly turned his head till his eyes met Jones’s. “Oh, my God,” he repeated, even more softly than before. “I think I do. I think I do.”

When Tyrone awoke, he was blind, chained, naked, and cold.

He didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him. His mind was all a blur at first; he was barely able to pull his thoughts together long enough to remember who he was. Slowly and painfully it began to come back to him.

His arms were chained above his head. Handcuffed, he thought. He didn’t know how long they had been locked up there. It felt like forever. He couldn’t sit down; the cuffs held him too high, too tight. The best he could do was lean against the wall beside him, and he could only barely do that. His legs were so tired; his knees ached and throbbed. He was so weak he wouldn’t have been able to stand—except that he had no choice. He was chained into position; no matter how badly he wanted to move, to sit, to lie down—he couldn’t.

And he was naked. He was certain of that. He didn’t know when he had lost his clothes or who had taken them, but he was absolutely certain they were gone. He was exposed, vulnerable.

And he was blind. Not permanently, he hoped. There was something draped over his head, something that extended down past his neck. He wasn’t sure what it was. It felt hot and scratchy. It let no light through, none whatsoever. It was hot and stifling; it made it hard to breathe.

He had no idea where he was. He seemed to be standing on a tile floor. He thought the wall on his right side was tile also, but he couldn’t be certain. He could only touch the wall with his shoulder, which made it hard to reach a certain conclusion. He felt nothing on his left side. Nothing but open air.

He didn’t know how long he had been here, how long he had been chained up like a slab of beef in a meat factory. It felt like days, weeks even, but he knew it had probably not been that long. He had had no company, no interaction, no food or water, since he had come to his senses. Nothing to help him measure the passage of time. Nothing to connect him to the world of the living.

It seemed his captor wanted it that way.

That was his best guess anyway. And all he could do was guess. Why hadn’t the man killed him already? What was it he wanted? Was it the penknife?

“Come and get me, you bastard!” Tyrone shouted suddenly. He didn’t know what had come over him. It had bubbled forth all at once, an uncontrollable rage, like a cyclone. “Talk to me!” he screamed. “Talk to me!”

Was it his imagination, or did he hear the soft impress of footsteps somewhere in the distance? It wasn’t much, barely more than the beating of his heart. But it was something, wasn’t it? Or was it just that he so desperately, desperately wanted it to be something …

A door pushed open. He heard the turning of the knob, the brush of wood against carpet. It was something. No, someone. Someone was coming.

Someone was coming!

His elation faded almost instantaneously as the sound of the footsteps told him the approaching figure was off the carpet, walking on tile. Very close.

“Get me out of here!” Tyrone shouted. “Now!”

There was no response.

“I know you’re there, you son of a bitch! Don’t pretend you’re not!” He was breathing hard and fast, causing the bag over his head to cling to his lips. “You don’t have the right to chain me up like a dog!”

He paused, sucking in air, trying to calm his trembling. But there was still no response. Not a word.

“Unchain me, you sick bastard!” Tyrone was shouting at the top of his lungs, giving it everything he had. “Do you hear me? Take these goddamn—”

He never got to finish the sentence. Tyrone heard the swift rush of air followed by an explosion in his groin. He tried to cry out, but there was no air left in his lungs. His knees crumbled, but the cuffs held his wrists up fast, giving him no release.

Second and third shock waves of pain coursed through his body. It had been a direct kick to his exposed and vulnerable genitalia, and it hurt like nothing he had ever before experienced in his entire life.

“Wh-why?” he whispered. His body was like a dead weight, threatening to pull his arms out of their sockets. The pain would not stop, and there was nothing he could do.

He heard a squeaking noise and suddenly it was raining. Raining hot water.

It was a shower! That’s where he was; that’s why the wall and the floors were tile. His wrists must be cuffed to the showerhead.

The elation of discovery soon faded to the threat of imminent danger. The water was pouring down on him. Hot water. And getting hotter …

Much hotter. Tyrone screamed. The water was scalding him, sizzling his skin. He pushed back onto his feet and danced around, trying to escape the fiery rain, but there was nowhere he could go. The water burned down on his exposed skin, on every part of his body. He felt as if his flesh was melting, then slowly peeling away.