Extreme Justice (35 page)

“Stop!” Tyrone cried. “Please—stop!” He flung himself against the wall, but the showerhead held him tight. Maybe if I bash my brains out, he thought to himself, maybe if I just kill myself now. I have to end this. I have to escape the pain somehow—

“You’re killing me!” he screamed, but then he realized that that might well be the point of the exercise.

The water continued to burn down. It had to be boiling temperature now. His body felt cooked, ruined, like it had been dipped into the sun. He felt weak and destroyed, and he knew he couldn’t last much longer.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ended.

“Oh, thank God,” he said, breathless, pressed against the wall. “Oh, thank God.”

And then he heard the squeaking noise again.

“No! Please, no!”

This time the water was cold. Ice cold. At first, it was almost comforting, soothing—but that didn’t last long. The frigid water seemed to paralyze him, to send him into shock. He was trembling out of control, losing consciousness. His body couldn’t adapt to these drastically changing temperatures. He could feel his heart doing flip-flops, breaking down under the pressure.

He wanted to scream, but he didn’t have the strength. He just hung there, motionless, and the cruel water pounded down on him, freezing his veins and the flow of blood and everything else that made his body work. This was the end, he knew. The absolute bitter end. He couldn’t possibly survive this. No one could. No one—

And then the water shut off again.

Tyrone was hyperventilating, gasping for air. “Puh—puh—” He tried to stop stuttering, but he was so cold. He never felt so cold before. “Wh—what do you want? Why are you doing this?”

But there was no reply. Until—

Tyrone heard the swish of air just seconds before the blow landed. It smashed into the soft part of his stomach, pummeling him back against the tile wall. His body had been stretched to its limits when the blow landed, making it hurt all the worse. Tyrone instinctively tried to clutch his middle, but his wrists were still cuffed.

His stomach ached. He felt as if something had been severed, some tendon or muscle. He wondered if he wasn’t bleeding internally. For that matter, he might be bleeding externally, for all he knew. He could see nothing.

The next blow came mere seconds after the first. It hit near the same soft place as the first and was even harder. His cuffed arms were twisted to one side, wrenching his left arm almost out of its socket.

He couldn’t scream anymore, just couldn’t do it. Everything that had been in him, every bit of fight, of resistance, had been sucked away. Instead, he cried. He wept. He was embarrassed, but he couldn’t stop. Once he started, the tears tumbled out of his eyes in an unending stream. He felt pathetic, humiliated. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please,” he said, barely above a whisper. It was all he had left. “Please stop.”

But the attack did not stop. The next blow came to his head. The sharp sudden impact of a fist drove like a hammer into his face. His sore, aching, scarred, soft putty face. Tyrone felt his nose split open and explode, cartilage and blood flying, and not a second later, he felt the back of his head slam back against the tile wall.

All at once, his legs disappeared. He hung limp, like a dead turkey, forcing the showerhead to hold him dangling in midair. And the blows didn’t stop.

Another fist smashed into his face, so hard he felt as if the knuckles touched his skull. And then again. And again. And then he felt the man’s foot in his stomach, pounding and pounding, followed by another incapacitating kick to the groin. He hurt so badly he couldn’t separate one pain from another. He was bleeding in every place he could possibly bleed, aching with every neuron of his body.

More blows rained down on his gut, his kneecaps, and worst of all, his poor pitiful face. He couldn’t speak; he thought some of his teeth were broken. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t even kill himself, which he would gladly have done at that point. But he couldn’t. All he could do was cry and whimper. Cry and whimper and wish he was dead.

And then, without warning, the man decided to speak. His voice cracked down like thunder. “When I return, you will tell me where the penknife is,” he said in precise, measured tones.

The man didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need it. Tyrone heard the footsteps recede; he listened until he was alone again. Alone with his guilt and his shame and the certain knowledge that when the man returned, he would tell him anything. Anything he wanted to know. Anything at all.

“T
HEN TELL US
!” Jones implored. “Who’s the murderer?”

“I can’t be sure,” Ben replied. “But given what Paula said, and this little bauble I received in the mail …”

“Would you please not do that mysterious trailing off thing again? You’re making me insane!” Jones shook him by the shoulders. “If you know something, tell me!”

“Or tell
me
!”

They all whirled around to see Earl ambling through the office door.

“I see you’ve been released as scheduled,” Jones remarked.

“Yeah. With a goddamn dog collar!”

Jones nodded sympathetically. “Maybe it will keep away fleas.”

The phone rang. Jones left Ben and walked to his desk to take the call. A few moments later, Ben heard Jones calling to him. “Boss?”

Jones was covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “Yeah?” Ben said.

“A call for you.”

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“He says he wants to talk to you right now.”

Jones was acting strangely, stuttering and hesitating. He was acting almost … scared. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. He won’t say.” He leaned forward, hissing, “Ben, I think it’s
him
!

Earl ran beside Jones and pressed his head next to the receiver. Ben picked up the other phone. “I’m here.”

“I think you know who this is,” the voice growled, “so let’s not screw around with the preliminaries.” The voice was strange and muffled; Ben guessed he was holding something over the receiver to mask his voice. “Is it safe?”

Ben’s lips parted. What was he talking about? “Is what safe?”

“If you have illusions of killing time so this call can be traced, forget it. Two minutes and I hang up. So let me try again. Have you still got it?”

Ben hesitated, trying to think fast. “But I don’t know—”

“Don’t screw around with me!” the man bellowed. “I’ve got Jackson. What’s left of him, anyway. And if you ever hope to see him alive, you’d better cooperate.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “I’ve still got it.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to come and see me. Bring it to me immediately, no stops in between. And come alone.”

“But—”

“No buts. You’ll come now.”

“But—alone? I’d have to be crazy.”

“If you don’t, the kid dies!”

“But how do I know—”

“You don’t believe me? Just listen.” Ben heard a heavy thumping sound on the other end of the line, followed by a scraping, a pounding. And the unmistakable sound of human pain.

“Say a few words to your buddy,” the man growled. “You can still talk, can’t you?”

The line was silent for what seemed an eternity. Finally Ben heard a broken, raspy voice. “Puh—puhlease. Help … me …”

The phone was ripped away, and Ben heard the sound of another blow landing on something soft, followed by a huge agonized cry. “He ain’t got much time left, Kincaid. He’s bleeding to death, among other things. If you don’t come, he’s gonna die. And soon. Understand?”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. “I understand.”

“You know where I am?”

“Where we met before?”

“Right. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get here before I start cuttin’ your friend into pieces. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t call the cops or anyone else. If you do, I’ll kill Jackson and disappear.”

“You have to give me a chance—”

“I don’t have to do anything. Listen to me. There’s only one road up here, so I’ll see you a long time before you see me. If you’re not alone, this kid’s a dead man. That’s a promise.”

Ben heard a click, then a long droning tone that told him the line was dead. He dropped the receiver into its cradle.

Jones was still holding his phone in his hands; he and Earl had heard the whole thing. “What are you going to do?”

Ben glanced down at his watch. Fifteen minutes. He barely had enough time, even if he left immediately.

Jones’s eyes widened. “You’re not thinking about—you’re not going to—”

Ben turned away. “I have to get my keys.”

Earl jumped in front of him. “Take me with you.”

Ben shook his head. “You heard what he said. I have to come alone.”

“I’ll hide in the backseat.”

“It’s too risky. To you and to Tyrone.”

Jones jumped in. “C’mon, Boss. Do you dream for a minute that he’s going to let Tyrone go?”

“Maybe not. But I have an idea—”

“That’s crazy. He’ll kill you.”

“There’s one thing we know for certain. If I don’t come, he’ll kill Tyrone. Do you want that?”

Earl’s jaw clenched together. “No, man. ’Course I don’t. But this is suicide.”

Ben tried to get past him. “I have to try.”

“Then take me with you. I’m the one who started this. I’m the one he really wants.”

“And if he knew you were out of prison, he probably would’ve asked for you. But he doesn’t. You’re safe for now. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Ben, I insist—”

“No.” Ben went into the side office where he’d left his coat. He rustled through the pockets till he found his keys, then emerged.

Jones was blocking his way this time. “Boss, you can’t do this!”

“Don’t call Mike,” Ben said. “You know him. He’ll march in with a SWAT team.”

“Boss, this is crazy. This is nuts.”

“It isn’t nuts. He’s got Tyrone. He’s hurting him. Probably torturing him.”

“But you’re risking your life!”

“Tyrone risked his life to save mine. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d just be a name on a tombstone right now.” Ben marched toward the door. “I don’t have any choice.”

B
EN JOGGED ACROSS
the parking lot to his car, climbed in, and started the engine. He was so lost in thought as he drove crosstown that he was startled when his car phone rang.

He pushed the Send button, then set it to Hands-free so he could listen through the speaker.

“Hello.”

“
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
”

No introductions necessary. “Just having a pleasant moonlight drive, Mike.”

“Stow it, Ben. I just talked to Jones.”

“I told him—”

“Fortunately, he had the good sense not to listen. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where you’re going, which makes it kind of hard for me to meet you.”

“Mike … this maniac’s got Tyrone. He’s … hurting him. He says he’ll kill him.”

“That’s what they all say. It’s a trap!”

“Mike, I have to go.”

“Fine. Pick me up. I’ll come with you.”

“I can’t do that, Mike. He’ll see us coming.”

“I’ll hide in the back.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t take the risk.”

“Ben, you’re being a damned fool!”

“Maybe so. But I’m going, just the same.”

“Ben!”

“The discussion is over, Mike.” He reached for the End button.

“Wait! Goddamn it, if you have to do this, at least take the gun I gave you. Do you have it?”

Ben hesitated. “It’s in the glove compartment.”

“Then use it.”

Ben frowned. “I don’t know how to shoot it. I don’t even know how to load it.”

“
He
doesn’t know that.”

“Well … I’ll give it some thought.”

“Ben! You can’t just walk in there blindly without a plan!”

“I have a plan. I’m not sure it’ll work. But I have a plan.”

“Ben! Damn you—!”

Too late. Ben pushed the button, disconnecting the line. He exited I-75 and headed west. Another couple of minutes and he’d be there. He might already be in sight of the killer, especially if he was using high-powered binoculars. Ben’s heart was beating so hard he could feel it; his hands were so sweat-drenched they kept slipping off the steering wheel.

There was no turning back now. This particular fugue had begun.

Ben stared straight ahead, letting his eyes drift toward the twinkling stars—particularly visible now that he was beyond the bright lights of the city. He couldn’t help remembering a few weeks before when he and Christina had been gazing at some of the same stars, and wishing he were back there now. This would be a wonderful time to be able to believe in angels, he thought. This would be a hell of a lot easier if he could believe there was someone, somewhere, watching over him.

“All right,” he said, just over his breath, “if Christina’s right, if I really do have some guardian angel up there, I could use some help, okay? I mean, I would really appreciate it. I have to do this, but I don’t want to, you know? Most likely, I’m—I’m not going to come out of this.” His voice caught in his throat. “I could just use some help, okay?”

“Then take the gun.”

Ben blinked. “That’s not a very angelic response.”

“I ain’t no goddamn angel.”

Ben’s head jerked back. “Earl!”

“Right the first time. And I’m tellin’ you to take the damn gun.”

Ben slammed down on the brakes, swerving wildly onto the shoulder. He twisted around toward the back of the van. “What are you doing here?”

Ben saw the silhouette of a head rise up between the two back bench seats. “I’m tryin’ to help.”

“Keep your head down!” Ben whirled around, faced the front, and eased back onto the road. If the killer was as good as his threats, he might already be watching them.

Ben hissed between his teeth. “I told you—”

“Hey, is it my fault you ain’t got the sense to lock your car?” He paused. “Ben, you can’t face this creep alone.”

“Earl, if he sees you, Tyrone’s dead. And you and me, too, probably.”

“I couldn’t let you come out here alone.”

“Do you want Tyrone to die? Do you?” Ben left the main highway and turned onto the service road leading to his destination. “Answer me! Do you?”