Cruel Justice (51 page)

Mitch jerked his hand free. Pinpricks of blood showed where Christina’s teeth had been. Mitch looked at the wound and his face turned ashen. Reaching out with the speed of a cobra, he grabbed Christina by the back of the neck and slammed her head against the wall.

Christina’s resistance faded with the impact. Her legs wobbled. Mitch twisted her hair around his hand to hold her up and slapped her face, hard. She tried to twist away, but he was still clenching her hair.

“Please—” she gasped.

“Shut up.” He brought the flat of his hand back and hit her again. “You should’ve stayed out of my way, you redheaded whore.”

“I couldn’t let you hurt my babies,” Christina whispered, slurring her words. She was barely conscious.

“You’re all alike,” Mitch spat back. “You pretend you care, but you don’t. You let the daddies do whatever they want. You pretend you don’t hear when the baby is screaming. You let him be punished. Well, now it’s time for you to be punished.”

He reared back his hand, this time balled up in a fist. It hit Christina’s face with a sickening impact. She fell to the floor with a thud.

“Dirty cunt,” Mitch murmured. He- saw his knife lying where it had fallen on the floor and picked it up. “Now you’re going to wish you hadn’t been bad. You’re going to wish you hadn’t been born.” He straddled her body, clutched her neck with his free hand, and raised his knife into the air.

A gunshot whistled through the room. It missed, but it still attracted Mitch’s attention. “Wha—”

“Drop the weapon!” the voice from the living room commanded.

“
No!
” The knife began to plummet.

Another gunshot rang out. This time the bullet caught Mitch in the chest. He fell backward, toppling off Christina and onto the floor.

Mike ran into the room, his gun clutched in both hands. Ben entered just a step behind.

“Christina!” Ben ran to her side. “Oh, my God! Are you …?”

Christina turned her head minutely to one side. “No.” Her lower lip was cracked and bleeding. “I’ll be all right. Get the kids.”

“The kids! Where—”

“
Lieutenant Morelli!
” Abie came scrambling down from the roof as best he could with the baby carefully clutched in his arms. “I knew you’d come! I knew you’d save us!”

“
Abie!
”

The boy ran to Mike and almost threw his arms around him, before he remembered the baby. He held Joey up for Mike.

“Oh, gee, I don’t—oh, what the hell.” Mike took the crying bundle into his arms, and Abie wrapped himself around Mike’s legs.

“I knew you’d come,” Abie repeated, gasping and sobbing. “I knew you would.”

“Well …” Mike’s expression was torn between embarrassment and relief. “Sorry I didn’t make it sooner.” He patted the boy on the head, then snuggled Joey close against his face.

Ben gazed at this heartwarming tableau, then exchanged a meaningful look with Christina.

With the two faces pressed together like that, it was impossible to miss the resemblance.

B
EN STARED OUT HIS
bedroom window, gazing at the illuminated Tulsa skyline. In the few years he’d lived here, he’d learned to love this place. What a crazy town. Culture and cowboys, hoedowns and Holy Rollers. He loved it all. Even the North Side. An acquired taste, perhaps. But at the moment he felt so good, he could appreciate anything.

Christina had mended nicely, and Joni’s boyfriend, Booker, was recovering. He was going to have a stiff shoulder for a while, but he’d pull through. Best of all, Leeman Hayes was free, truly free, for the first time in ten years.

Ben was straightening the bow tie on his rented tuxedo when his mother poked her head through the still-smashed bedroom door. “I heard a car pull up outside.” Joey was cradled in her arms. She had shown up just a few hours after all the excitement. Turned out she hadn’t gone home—she’d just gone shopping. Thought she’d teach him a little lesson in mother appreciation, Ben suspected. Just as well she wasn’t here, given what had transpired that day.

“It’s probably Christina,” Mrs. Kincaid said.

Ben groaned.

“Now, Benjamin. That’s not very seemly.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not going to the annual banquet of the Tulsa Past Lives Society.”

“If you didn’t want to go, why did you agree?”

“I didn’t. Jones was the one she suckered into it.”

“So why are you going?”

“Well, when Jones agreed to look after Joey that first day, he said I’d owe him a big favor.”

“And?”

“This is it.”

“Well, I for one am glad you’re going out with her.”

“Mo
-ther,
I think you’ve still got the wrong idea.”

Mrs. Kincaid strolled back to the living room, smiling all the way.

There was a knock on the front door. To his surprise, Ben found not Christina, but Ernie Hayes. With Leeman.

“I hope we’re not botherin’ you,” Ernie said. “I’da called, only I didn’t know your number.”

“That’s all right,” Ben said. “Is anything wrong?”

“Land sakes, no. Everything’s fine. Thanks to you. I cain’t thank you enough for taking my son’s case.”

“Well,” Ben said, “you had a lot to do with that decision.”

A sly grin played on Ernie’s face. “Why, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Uh-huh. Can I get you—”

“Oh, no. We jus’ come by for a minute. It was all my Leeman’s idea.” He pushed Leeman forward.

Leeman extended his arms. He was holding a record album. “You,” he said.

“Me? You mean …
for
me?” Ben took the well-worn album and examined it. Beethoven’s Fifth. Hans Schmidt-Isserstedt and the Vienna Philharmonic. 1966.

“Oh, no,” Ben said. “I can’t accept it.”

Leeman pressed the album back into Ben’s hands. “
You.
”

“But—it’s so rare. You’ll never be able to replace it. It’s a one-of-a-kind.”

Leeman smiled, side to side, ear to ear. It was the happiest Ben had ever seen him. “You … too,” he said.

Ben felt a distinct itching in his eyes. “Well … thank you. Thank you very much.”

Leeman nodded, then he and his father turned to go.

Ben returned to his bedroom and put away the album. On second thought—why not? He put the album on his turntable. He might squeeze in the first movement before he had to leave.

A few minutes later his mother was back in the doorway.

“Your date is here.”

“Mo
-ther
!” He walked into the living room. “I told you already—”

Ben stopped short. And gaped.

Christina was standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing a black strapless gown with a beaded bodice and hem, long white gloves, and a strand of luminous pearls. Her shoes matched, her earrings matched—even her purse matched. Her long hair was elegantly swirled above her head.

“Christina,” he said breathlessly. “You’re … beautiful.”

She batted her eyes. “Thought you’d never notice.”

“But—your clothes!”

Christina nodded. “Your mother and I finally went shopping.” She smoothed a wrinkle in her velvet gown. “She has such
savoir-vivre.
You should let her dress you, Ben. She’s the greatest. Did my hair and face, too. Like my makeup?”

Ben scrutinized her radiant face. The bruises were barely visible. “Well, gee.” Ben took Christina’s arm. “I guess we’ll be going, Mother.”

“Of course you will.” Mrs. Kincaid held the door open for them. “You children have fun. But don’t be out late. And don’t drink too much. And stay away from strangers.”

When Ben returned to his apartment that night, he found his mother packing her suitcase, hanging bag, and makeup kit.

“You’re leaving?”

She meticulously folded a dress and laid it in the hanging bag. “I … assumed you would want me to.”

“Oh.”

“During the trial, you needed someone to help. But now I’m sure I’d just be in the way.”

“Oh.” Ben helped her zip the well-stuffed bag closed.

“Are they going to arrest that man? Rutherford? The father?”

“I’m sure they will. Hard not to, after he confessed on the record.”

“What about his country-club friends? They must have known.”

“Possibly. Pearson must’ve suspected. After all, he secured the adoption and he saw Maria Alvarez at the club. But he kept quiet all those years. And Bentley figured it out. That was why he searched Mitch’s locker and took the incriminating red baseball cap. Hell with the victims—he just wanted to protect the club. And its members.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Kincaid rearranged what looked like an infinite supply of cosmetics. “They always protect their own.”

“That’s why Mitch was hired in the first place. He told me he got his job as manager shortly after the murder. They needed someone to handle the police and the media. Someone to cover up the dirt.”

“And covering up the first crime bred the next.”

“True. If it hadn’t been for that, Mitch would’ve never come to the country club and would’ve never met the Rutherfords.”

“People often pay horrible prices for seemingly small mistakes. It isn’t fair, but that’s the way it works out.”

Mrs. Kincaid snapped her other bags closed and set them on the floor. “There. That’s done.”

“Are you taking Joey with you?” Ben asked.

She offered a weak smile. “I assumed you would want me to. I’ll send someone for him.” She sighed. “It won’t be easy, caring for an infant again after all these years. But someone has to do it.” She hesitated a moment. “And I know you’ve never wanted to have much to do with your family.”

True enough, but the words still cut like a knife. She had always had that talent—the ability to utter a seemingly innocent remark that would slice his heart out.

“Do you think your friend Mike knows?” his mother asked.

“No, I’m certain he doesn’t. Mike is incredibly bright, but he has a gigantic blind spot when it comes to Julia. I think that extends to the baby.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Well …”

“A man has a right to know he has a son.”

“I don’t know. Not now. Maybe later. When the time seems right.

Mrs. Kincaid nodded. “It’s a serious responsibility, being a father.”

That was abundantly clear. What was it about fathers, anyway? Fathers and sons. What made them do the things they did? Ernie Hayes, who would pull any trick to take care of his boy. Harold Rutherford, who wanted to be a good father but couldn’t figure out how. And then, of course, there was Mitch, and the permanent horror his father had visited upon him.

And Ben’s father. Or fathers, if you counted Jack Bullock. Not that it mattered now.

“I left something for you.” His mother walked into the living room and picked up an envelope resting on the piano. “It’s that picture of you and your father. You threw it down when … well.” She held out the photograph. “I thought you might like to have it.”

Ben took the snapshot from her shaking hand. He stared at the strong proud father and the little boy who loved him so much. Ben didn’t know either of them. They were strangers.

Ben’s mother stood awkwardly in the hallway. “Benjamin, I know you won’t like this, but …” She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I’ve been living here in this …” Her hand waved spasmodically about the room. “Whatever. I think I’ve been very brave about it, but—enough is enough.” She took another envelope out of her purse. “I’ve written you a check, and I want you to take it.”

“No.”

“Benjamin, be reasonable!”

“If my father had wanted me to—”

“Ben, you don’t know what you’re
talking about
!” Her head snapped back suddenly, as if she herself was surprised at the sudden intensity of her voice.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Ben looked down, pushing away the money. “No.”

She sighed heavily, and for the first time Ben thought he saw all her sixty-six years etched in her face. “Well, if you won’t change your mind, I guess there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

She lifted her luggage and started to go.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

Ben reached out to her. “There is something.”

She turned. Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes.” Ben put down her bags, took her trembling hand, and guided her to a chair. “Tell me about my father.”

O
NCE AGAIN I HAVE
been fortunate to draw on the expertise of others in writing this novel. I want to thank Linda Barry for sharing her wisdom gained from years of experience working with developmentally disabled children; Judge Thomas S. Crewson, for telling me about the real Leeman Hayes; Walter Booker Martin, Jr., Gang Specialist for the Midwest City Police Department, for putting me in the know and in contact with Oklahoma youth gangs; and Arlene Joplin, of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, for keeping me straight on criminal procedure.

I want to acknowledge my sources for much of the historical background material in the book: “The Court Martial of Johnson C. Whittaker” and “The Blacks in Oklahoma,” both by Burkhard Bilger and both published in the splendid regional magazine
Oklahoma Today,
edited by the incomparable Jeanne Devlin; and
Death in the Promised Land
, by Scott Ellsworth and published by the Louisiana State University Press.

Thanks to Cecil Adams of
The Straight Dope
for bringing autoerotic asphyxiation to my attention. What a sheltered life I’ve led.

Thanks also to Michael Stipe of R.E.M., who incidentally was born on the same day, same year, that I was. A fateful day in history.

I want to thank Gail Benedict for her help with the manuscript; Kathy Redwood for her nonpareil secretarial skills; and Drew Graham and Esther Perkins for agreeing to read and comment upon an early draft of the manuscript. Finally, I have to thank my family, Kirsten and Harry and Alice, for putting up with the days Daddy spent on the road, the nights Daddy spent staring blankly at a computer screen, the three
A.M.
feedings during which Daddy held the bottle with one hand and revised his manuscript with the other, and so forth.

Any cyber-savvy readers who would like to drop me a line are encouraged to do so. I’d love to hear from you. My e-mail address is:
[email protected]
.