Naked Justice (56 page)

“You know you’ve had it wrong from the start,” Ben said easily, never taking his eyes from the road. “Barrett isn’t guilty. He never was. There was no chicanery or deceit in that courtroom, at least not by me. Barrett was acquitted because he was not guilty.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Barrett case,” the younger man spat out. “I’ll leave that to the tabloids and housewives. The world obsesses on some stupid celebrity trial while important trials, things that matter, are totally forgotten.”

What?
Ben was confused. If Sick Heart wasn’t stalking him because of the Barrett case, then what the hell was it?

“I don’t understand,” Ben said as he pulled onto Riverside Drive. “Why me? Why are you doing this?”

The young man’s eyes glistened. They seemed detached, manic. Ben had the unsettling feeling that his companion might not be entirely together. As if that should come as a surprise.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” the man said.

“No, but don’t you want to? Don’t you want me to know what I’m being punished for?”

“Pull over here.” With his gun hand, the stranger motioned toward a sloping driveway down into the River Parks. The River Parks were one of the loveliest parts of Tulsa—miles and miles of unspoiled land on the east bank of the Arkansas River. Jogging and bike trails lined the area between the river and Riverside Drive, as well as parks and band shells and exercise parcourses.

Ben parked a few slots down from another car; it was dark, but he saw two heads inside, both facing away. Making out? Whatever it was, they seemed to take no notice of him.

“Get out of the car.”

Ben obeyed. He stepped out, eyeing Riverside Drive. It was only a few feet away. If he made a run for it—

He’d be shot dead. It was that simple.

He followed the man with the gun to the bank of the river. They stood in the middle of a jogging trail. Unfortunately, at this time of night, there were no joggers. Even in a relatively safe city like Tulsa, smart people didn’t jog at night. The area was deserted.

“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Ben said. “Can’t you even give me a hint?”

The young man brushed his dark, curly hair out of his eyes. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Ben peered at the face, the wavy hair, the cold, bitter eyes. There was something about them … but what was it? He couldn’t make the connection.

“Think back,” the man said. “Think back a long time ago. Eight years ago, to be precise. Think back to another controversial trial in which you played a pivotal role. Another time justice was thwarted.”

“Eight years ago?” Ben said. “But I wasn’t even out of law school then.”

“That’s right,” the man said coldly. “You weren’t.”

The truth struck him like a thunderbolt. “You’re talking about my father’s trial.”

“Damn straight. Don’t act as if you don’t remember it. I know you do. I know you were there. I saw you.”

“You—but—” Ben stared into that face, trying to make a connection. He was sure he had never seen this face before. Maybe not this face exactly, But that would have been eight years ago …

“You’re the little boy,” Ben said, the light slowly dawning. “The little boy at the courthouse.” The one who spat in Ben’s face. The one who swore he would never forget. “Your father died.”

“My father was murdered!” His hand clenched tighter on the pistol. “Murdered by that defective cardiac valve. That sick heart that was sewn into his chest.”

Ben felt his knees sag. Sick heart. The clues had been right in front of him all along. And he had been too stupid to see them.

“My dad was wonderful,” the young man said, his voice trembling. “The best man I ever knew. The only one who ever really gave a damn about me. Was it his fault his heart was bad, that he hoped for a miracle cure? Did he deserve what happened to him?”

“No, of course not,” Ben said. “But if his heart failed—”

“He should’ve gone to Houston. They do heart transplants fairly regularly now. They have a success rate better than fifty percent. He would’ve lived. I would’ve had a father.” A dark cloud covered his eyes. “But no. Instead, he let those doctors convince him to go with the EKCV. The Kincaid special. And it killed him.”

“That’s horrible,” Ben said. “But surely you realize that no one intended to kill your father.”

“Of course they didn’t intend to!” He was shouting now, screaming. Ben could only hope he would attract some attention, even though he knew the odds were long. “They just didn’t care! They didn’t give a damn!” He swung his pistol wildly through the air, gasping, crying out. “They were more concerned about getting rich than they were about my daddy!”

Ben took a deep breath and tentatively extended his hand. “Look, I know how you must feel. It was a terrible thing. But it has nothing to do with me.”

The young man glared at him, eyes cold. “It was the Kincaid valve.”

“That was my father. He—”

“You were all in it together.”

“I wasn’t in it at all. Hell, I worked for the prosecutors.”

“You’ve lived off it. You’ve wallowed in the profits.”

“I haven’t wallowed in anything. I’ve never accepted a cent of my father’s money, from this project or anything else.”

“Don’t make your stupid excuses to me!” His eyes were blazing, wide as they could possibly be. “You killed my father!”

“It wasn’t
me
!” Ben screamed back. “It was
my
father! It was your father and my father. It doesn’t have anything to do with us!”

He placed the barrel of the gun against Ben’s chest. “The sins of the fathers are visited on the sons.” His hand was trembling, including the finger curled around the trigger. “Your father escaped the hands of justice. You won’t.”

Ben stared down at the cold steel pressed against his chest. “Why now? After all these years.”

“I didn’t know where you were!” Ben knew the man was losing control. The only question was whether he could stay alive long enough to take advantage. “After your father died, I looked for you. But I couldn’t find you. You left the DA’s office, disappeared from Oklahoma City. It seemed I had been robbed again, or so I thought. I grew up, I joined the army, but I never forgot. And then one day, I turned on the television and there you were. God had delivered you to me. The coverage of this Barrett case was everywhere; you were on almost every day. How could I miss it?” His voice dropped; his eyes narrowed. “So I came to Tulsa. And I started laying my plans.”

“Your plans have caused me a lot of grief. And my friends as well.”

“Good. That makes me happy.” He smiled. “The grief is about to intensify.”

With his free hand, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, hand-sized black box with an antenna extending from it. There was a red light on the top, not currently illuminated, above two red buttons. “Do you know what this is?”

Ben shook his head. “Some sort of radio signal transmitter.”

“Right the first time. As you may have gathered, I have a certain facility with explosives. A gift from Uncle Sam, courtesy of my army days, before I departed prematurely from my distinguished career of service.” He paused. “I know where you live. You and the kid.”

“You son of a bitch,” Ben muttered.

“And that whore babysitter, and the landlady, and everyone else in your happy little extended family. Guess what? The building is wired. Plastic explosives.” He looked down at his box. “This is a very good transmitter. Even though the house is almost a quarter of a mile away, this will trigger the detonation almost instantaneously.”

“Don’t do it,” Ben said. “It isn’t worth it.”

The man ignored him. “I think you’re familiar with some of my previous work, so you know I’m not bluffing. I can do this. I have done this. All I have to do is push this button. And they all die.”

Ben carefully eyed the distance between his hand and the transmitter. Could he knock the thing out of this lunatic’s hands before he could push the button?

Probably not.

Was he going to throw dice with the lives of everyone in the house?

“What is it you want?” Ben said evenly.

“I read in the paper that you were hoping to get some exercise when the trial was over. So I’m going to accommodate you. That’s why we’re here, in the park. On the jogging trail. You’re going to run.”

“In my street shoes?”

“Already making excuses? I wouldn’t. My fingers are very antsy tonight.” He placed his gun in his coat pocket, keeping his left thumb poised over the deadly red button. Then he gripped the transmitter with both hands. “There’s another device like this one, a transmitter, taped to the side of the bridge, about a mile south on this trail. If you get there and push the button, the little light on my transmitter will light and I’ll know you made it. I’ll give you five minutes.”

“What? I don’t get it.”

“What do you say, Kincaid? Think you can run a five-minute mile?”

“No!”

“Pity. If this light doesn’t shine inside of five minutes, I’m pushing the big red button. And they’ll all die.” He withdrew a stopwatch, keeping his thumb poised over the red button. He clicked the top of the stopwatch. “Go.”

“This is crazy. I can’t—”

“Your time is ticking, Kincaid. Your friends and your nephew are five minutes from doomsday. Less now.”

Ben ran. He barreled down the jogging path, the wind whistling in his face. He wasn’t a particularly fast runner, especially in a suit, tie, and street shoes. But he couldn’t think about that. He had to run; he had to make it. One thing he was absolutely sure of—this maniac meant what he said. He would push the button if Ben failed. What’s more, he was hoping Ben would fail.

Ben blitzed down the path into the darkness. It was hard running at top speed when he could barely see two feet in front of himself, but he pressed on. He glanced back over his shoulder; the crazy was behind him, keeping him in sight. Ben knew if he detoured from the path or tried to run for help, he’d push the button.

Suddenly Ben’s foot hit something—he never knew what—and he went tumbling to the ground. He hit shoulder first, smack on the gravel. It stung like hell; his shoulder felt wrenched.

It didn’t matter. This was costing him time. He pushed himself to his feet, forcing his limbs to work. He had to keep running. He
had
to.

The stitch in his side felt like a knife. He wasn’t used to this sort of exertion; usually, about the most exercise he got was chasing his cat. His chest was aching and he could barely breathe.

Didn’t matter. He had to keep running. He had to keep running.

Up ahead, he saw the Fifteenth Street Bridge that crossed over to the west bank of the river. He scanned as best he could, never breaking his speed. Finally he saw it, near the bottom.

The transmitter.

He had no idea what his time was, but he knew it was close. He dove toward the little black box, crashing down onto the pavement, punching the button.

He lay on the ground, panting, aching, trying to catch his breath. A few moments later, the man trotted up beside him. “Not bad, Kincaid. Not bad.” He glanced at the stopwatch. “Four minutes and forty-six seconds. Who’d have thought you had it in you? Not bad at all.”

He kicked Ben in the side, just below the ribs. “Get up.”

Ben grabbed his aching side. “Give me a minute.”

“I said, get up.” He kicked Ben again, this time even harder.

Gritting his teeth, Ben pushed himself to his feet. “All right,” he said. His chest ached with each syllable. “You’ve had your fun. I’ve played your game. Can we all go home now?”

The young man’s face was split by a smile so cold, so eerie it illuminated the darkness. “Hell no, Kincaid. We’re just beginning. That was just a warm-up. Now you’re going to do it again.”

C
HRISTINA GLANCED UNHAPPILY AT
her watch. “This isn’t like Ben.”

Jones shrugged his shoulders. “He’s probably exhausted. Wouldn’t you be?”

“But that doesn’t explain why he didn’t come back to the hotel room. He told me to meet him here.”

“Maybe he saw a bar on the way and decided he needed a couple of quick shots.”

Loving chuckled. “The Skipper? More likely he stopped at Quick Trip for a quart of chocolate milk.”

“Guys, this isn’t funny. I’m worried.” Christina paced around the hotel room. “He tells us to meet him in the hotel room, and then he doesn’t show up. It isn’t like him.”

“Give him a little more time,” Jones said, trying to relax her. “He’ll show. Don’t you think, Loving?”

Loving slowly moved his head to one side. “I dunno. It is strange. And Christina’s instincts are usually pretty darn good.” He pushed himself off the sofa. “You want I should go look around at the courthouse?”

Christina shook her head. “He wasn’t there when I left. Why would he be there now? No, he must’ve been waylaid somewhere after he left.” She paused for a moment, thinking about what she had said. Waylaid. The word echoed in her brain. “Oh, my God. You don’t think—”

“Think?” Jones jumped to his feet. “What? What are you thinking?”

“Sick heart,” she said succinctly.

Their eyes moved from one to another. “But how?”

“I don’t know,” Christina said. “And we won’t find out sitting here.” She grabbed the phone and punched nine for an outside line. “I’m calling Mike.”

The man holding the transmitter was still laughing.

“Surely you didn’t think we were done. Oh, no, Kincaid. We’re just beginning! After all, we have to get you in shape.”

Ben leaned heavily against the bridge. “What do you want now?”

“Same drill, but this time we’ll go back up the trail. I left another transmitter on the pavement.”

“Look,” Ben said breathlessly, “I’m totally winded. I don’t think I can do this again in five minutes.”

“Can’t do it in five? Very well. I’ll give you four minutes and thirty seconds.”

“That’s impossible!”

The man clicked the top of the stopwatch. “Go.”

“But—”

“Four minutes and twenty-five seconds. And counting.”

Ben shoved himself away from the bridge and started barreling down the jogging path. It was harder this time. Much harder. His side already hurt from the last desperate run, and the two kicks in the stomach hadn’t helped any. And he had to be faster this time. Much faster.