Extreme Justice (36 page)

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then listen up. Stay on the floor and stay out of sight. Okay?”

There was no response.

“Do you understand me? Tyrone’s life is at stake, Earl.” He waited through the silence, his hands clenching the steering wheel. “Answer me!”

Earl’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I understand.”

“Will you promise to stay in the car? Out of sight?”

There was another long pause, but he finally answered. “I promise.”

Ben exhaled. He continued down the winding service road. He was dripping with sweat; he could almost feel the adrenaline surging through his body.

And he wasn’t even there yet.

He emerged from the service road and guided the van into the parking lot. There were a lot of empty places this time of night—all of them, in fact. He parked in the nearest row, then shut down the van. Without saying a word, without even thinking, he stepped out and closed the door.

It was all right ahead of him. The Buxley Oil refinery. And the killer.

M
IKE RAN ALL
the way from his office to the sheriff’s, his unbuttoned trench coat flapping all the way. By the time he arrived, he was panting and out of breath. Maybe not as bad as he would’ve been back when he smoked, but bad, just the same.

The sheriff wasn’t there this time of night, of course. There was only one deputy on duty, a young brunette female, and Mike didn’t know her. She was standing on the far side of a transparent acrylic barrier.

“You had a prisoner in here today,” Mike said, gasping for air. “You let him go with a collar.”

The deputy looked at him cautiously. “May I ask who wants to know?”

“I’m Lieutenant Morelli. Homicide.” He flashed his badge.

The deputy snapped to attention. “Right.” She glanced at a clipboard. “That would be Earl Bonner.”

“Exactly.” Mike paused, trying to catch his breath. Thank heavens Jones had the sense to tell him Earl had smuggled himself away in Ben’s van. “Is the collar active?”

“Of course. Why? Has he violated the terms of his bail agreement?”

“No. But I need to know where he is.”

The deputy took a step back. “I’m sorry, but if he hasn’t violated bail we’re not permitted to—”

“Listen to me. Someone’s life is in danger. Maybe several people’s.”

“I’m sorry, but the procedures are—”

“I don’t give a damn about the procedures. Show me where the tracer unit is.”

“But you need a warrant.”

“I don’t have time to get a warrant!” Mike pressed himself against the acrylic; but for the barrier, he and the deputy would be standing toe-to-toe. “I’m giving you an order.”

“You can’t give me an order. I work for the sheriff’s office, not the police depart—”

Mike pounded against the wall between them. “Look, after this is over, you can file any complaint you want. You can go after me for violating procedure, due process, civil rights—whatever makes you happy. You can say I overpowered you and forced you to cooperate. I don’t care. But my idiot friend is walking into trouble and if I don’t get there fast, he’s probably going to die. And I will not stand by and let him die just because of some stupid procedure! Do you understand me?
I will not let that happen!
”

The two officers stared at each other, neither of them blinking. Finally, after several long seconds, the deputy set down her clipboard and buzzed him inside.

Ben started toward the office building, but he heard a loud booming voice drifting down toward him as if from the heavens. “Not in there! The refinery!”

Great. It seemed he wouldn’t even have the comfort of being inside while this drama unfolded. He would remain outside, exposed.

He veered left and headed toward the refinery. If anything, in the dead of night it was even more ominous than during the day. There was no overhead light save for the moon. No streetlights, no lights in the office windows. The thick clouds of smoke curling out and around the refinery seemed like moving shadows, taunting him, daring him to come closer.

He stepped off the sidewalk onto the gravel-covered refinery grounds. In a matter of minutes, the metal monster was all around him, surrounding him with its catwalks and ladders, bloated silos and petroleum tanks. All the tubes and pipes and conduits seemed to connect and intersect like some science-fiction monster. Particularly in the darkness, it looked more like a living entity than he could have imagined. The smell did not disappoint: it was putrid, just as he had anticipated. And there was the noise, the steady, rhythmic pumping sound that was always in the background. Like a heart beating to keep the beast alive.

“Up here,” Ben heard the voice shout again. There was a metallic ladder just before him leading to a raised platform above. Apparently that was where the killer wanted him.

So that’s where he went. He mounted the ladder and began to climb.

The ladder went a good deal higher than it appeared from the ground, at least twenty-five, thirty feet. Ben looked down, checking the distance.

Big mistake. He closed his eyes and brought his head back up. There was a time when he had been afraid of heights. He liked to think he was over that now—no, he was over that now. Even so, he kept his eyes focused upward.

One of the smokestacks nearby flared. Ben jumped, almost losing his footing on the narrow ladder. His feet slipped; he banged his chin against a rung while scrambling to get his feet back on something solid. It hurt, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t make a sound.

He continued climbing the ladder. There was a layer of thick smoke rising off the metal surfaces above him. He pushed through it, like a mountain climber rising through the clouds. He might not be quite that high at the moment, but it sure as hell seemed like it.

Finally Ben reached the top of the ladder. He climbed onto a narrow catwalk and followed it a short distance to a wider, more expansive platform, probably the roof of some office or storage tank.

“Took you long enough.”

Ben squinted. A figure was emerging from the smoke on the opposite side of the platform—a broad, strong figure, blocking out the stars.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” the dark figure said.

“You didn’t leave me much choice. Where’s Tyrone?” The acoustics up here were strange; his voice seemed to ripple out in waves, then dissolve. “Where is he?”

“Where’s the knife?” the man replied.

“I’m not giving you anything until I see Tyrone,” Ben said emphatically.

A soft titter came from the other end. “Do you really think you’re in a position to negotiate?”

“I’m not giving you anything until I see Tyrone.”

“Have it your way.” The husky shadow crossed the platform to an alcove jutting up from the surface. Door to the roof, Ben thought. Probably how he came up. And how he probably plans to return.

A few seconds later, the man emerged dragging something large and limp and heavy. “Here he is. For all the good it will do you.”

He threw his load forward as if it were nothing more than the sack of potatoes it seemed. It fell with a sickening thud.

“Tyrone?” Ben took a cautious step forward.

Tyrone did not respond with words, but Ben could detect a low moan, more like a motor left on idle than any sound you would expect from a living creature. It was a sound of hopelessness, a sound of constant pain.

“Tyrone. It’s Ben Kincaid. How are you?”

Ben moved even closer, then gasped.

Tyrone had been, for all intents and purposes, destroyed. His naked body was broken, folded, and crippled in more places than Ben could imagine. He was bruised, battered, and bleeding. His face had been pummeled to such an extent it was barely recognizable; his nose was almost entirely gone. His eyes were open but still, lifeless.

“Tyrone!” Ben ripped off his windbreaker and wrapped it around one of the worst gashes on Tyrone’s abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. Even as he did it, he knew how futile it was; Tyrone bled from more places than Ben had clothes to cover. If he didn’t receive medical treatment, and soon, Ben knew he would die.

“I have to call an ambulance,” Ben said, rising to his feet.

“No.”

“Why not? Why does he have to die? Is that what you want? Is that what your brother would have wanted?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” The man stepped forward, crossing the gap between them, emerging from the shadows. When they were perhaps ten feet apart, Ben had his first clear glimpse of the man’s face.

Grady Armstrong. Professor Hoodoo’s brother. And his fists were caked with blood.

“When did you first realize it was me?” he asked.

“When I heard the description from one of the witnesses at the club the night you delivered Lily Campbell’s body. She said the Rug Man she saw, the man wearing the wig, had fingers stained a blackish-yellow color. When I first met you, you showed me your fingers. You told me how they had been permanently stained from working as an oil field roughneck. That’s when I realized the B on the penknife didn’t stand for a person’s name. It stood for Buxley Oil.”

“It’s the company logo,” Armstrong explained. “They’re nice knives. All us vice presidents got one at the last annual meeting. Unfortunately, there are only forty or so of us, which is an uncomfortably small suspect pool.” The smile faded from his face. “I want the knife.”

“I have to call an ambulance,” Ben insisted.

“Not a chance.” Armstrong’s hand emerged from his pocket. The gun rose until it was pointed directly at Ben’s chest. “Give me the knife. Now.”

The thing that most amazed Ben, as his brain raced through a thousand thoughts, a thousand possibilities, was that he almost answered, almost did what the man said. As soon as he had the knife, however, Ben knew Armstrong would kill him and Tyrone both.

If he was to have any hope of surviving this mess, he would finally have to learn to bluff.

Ben forced himself to look the man straight in the eye. “I have the knife. But you don’t get it until I get Tyrone to a doctor.”

“You don’t seem to understand.” Armstrong made a great show of cocking the gun. “You will give me the knife now, or I will put a bullet in that punk’s heart, and the doctor will be irrelevant. And you’ll be next.”

“How do I know you won’t kill us as soon as I give it to you?”

“You
don’t!
” Armstrong cried. He rushed forward, shaking the gun like a madman. “Now give it to me. Now!”

“All right, all right.” Ben held up his hands. “Stay calm. Let’s not get excited here, all right?” He reached into his pocket and felt the penknife—and two dimes.

It was very dark up here. Was it possible …

He pulled out one of the dimes. “Here it is.”

“Give it to me!” Armstrong barked, still waving the gun about.

“It’s all yours,” Ben said, extending his arm. He tossed it out onto the ground between them, where it made a satisfying clinking noise.

“You goddamn son of a—” Armstrong pressed the gun forward. “I ought to plug you right now.”

“I thought you wanted the penknife,” Ben said, trying to stay cool.

“If I have to pick it up, I can at least have the pleasure of shooting you dead.”

“You’re assuming I really threw you the knife.” Ben’s brain was racing, synapses firing more quickly than he could track. “But what if I didn’t? What if I bluffed you? What if you kill me and you still don’t have the knife? What if I sent it to a friend? Like maybe a friend at the
Tulsa World
? Or the police department?”

Armstrong’s entire face seemed to contort. His teeth were locked together in red-hot rage. “You little—”

“I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“A trade. Him for me.” Ben took a deep breath. “You have no reason to kill Tyrone. He doesn’t know who you are. Sure, he found the penknife, but he didn’t know what it meant. That’s why he sent it to me. I’m the only one who poses a threat to you.”

“I want the knife!”

“Let me call an ambulance and get Tyrone to the hospital. Then you can have the knife.”

“And you?” Armstrong bellowed.

Ben nodded quietly. “And me.”

He laughed suddenly, frighteningly. “Did you really think you could do a deal with me? Did you think you have what it takes to go toe-to-toe with me?” Ben could see veins throbbing and pulsing in the man’s neck, the tightening of his entire body. He was livid with rage, ready to strike out at anything. “You fucking weasel. I’ll bet you’ve got the penknife on you right now.”

Ben stopped his hand just a second after it involuntarily moved toward his pants pocket. Damn!

Armstrong’s smile was an eerie white gash in the darkness. “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he said as he moved toward Ben.

As Armstrong crossed the platform, he passed Tyrone’s broken body lying in a crumpled heap between them. Ben watched as the man approached, trying to figure out his next move. He’d bluffed his way this far, but what had it gotten him? Where was he going next?

He was still holding his breath, still watching the footsteps, when he saw Tyrone’s hand twitch. Ben caught his breath, tried not to show any reaction. But he kept watching.

It was more than a twitch. The hand was moving. Slowly, so Armstrong wouldn’t notice. But it was moving.

As Armstrong passed beside him, Tyrone suddenly rolled around with a force Ben would not have thought possible. Both arms swung about as Tyrone grabbed the man’s leg and pulled with all his might.

“Son of a bitch!” Tyrone grunted, as Armstrong’s foot slipped out from under him. The gun fired. Ben felt the bullet whiz by somewhere overhead. A second after, Armstrong crashed to the floor. The gun fell out of his hand and slid behind him.

Ben had to think quickly. His first impulse was to go after the gun, but he couldn’t get to it before Armstrong did. If he tried, he’d only be giving Armstrong an easy shot. This was one time when discretion was the better part of valor.

He turned back toward the catwalk and ran.

“I’ll be back for you, Tyrone,” Ben shouted as he raced across the narrow catwalk. It gleamed silver in the moonlight, catching the glow of what little illumination penetrated the dense clouds of smoke and brimstone all around them.