A Darker Justice (28 page)

CHAPTER 48

Stump Logan followed Wurth as he spread his boys out in a sweep, just as he and Wurth had led other boys, so many years ago. Most of those boys were dead now. Though this terrain was mountainous instead of flat, the air cold rather than hot, the trees and the damp and the inscrutable darkness were the same. A hard, tight knot tingled in Logan’s gut just as it had back then, when he’d slithered along on his belly, listening for the enemy that made no noise until the last sound you ever heard: the single, sick
criiick
of the trip wire you just stumbled over or the
chuuuunk
of a grenade dropping at your feet. What he remembered about the war were the tiny little noises. They still had the power to drench him in a cold sweat and send his pulse skyrocketing.

Logan frowned. Where most guys had hated every second they spent in that miserable swamp of a country, he and Wurth had relished it. Each patrol turned them into hunters like they’d never dreamed of, and after a week or two in the bush they always came back to camp honed like the straight razors in his uncle’s barbershop. He and Wurth always made their body count, sometimes bringing back an occasional ear as a souvenir. Jack Bennefield said they were sickos, but then Bennefield never had been a Feather Man. An operative, yes, but Jack had never had the balls to be a Feather Man. Bennefield just did his job and strummed his damn guitar, mooning over the pretty wife he’d left at home. The Feather Men drank whiskey and played more lethal instruments. Women, beyond a ready one to fuck, held little interest for them. Stump spat as he remembered Bennefield crawling back from one particularly bad patrol, holding on to his sanity by singing broken bits of “Sweet Dream Baby” under his breath. Poor Jack Bennefield. Everybody was so sorry about him.

Now, as they crested the mountain ridge, he felt his old rage at Bennefield consuming him all over again, even though the bastard was long dead and he was now helping Wurth hunt two beat-up women and a boy whose voice still cracked.

But one of those women is Bennefield’s daughter.
The words rattled through his brain like wind through bamboo.
One of those women is Mary Crow.

The whole thing had fallen into his lap so perfectly, he couldn’t believe it. Wurth decided to undertake this insane execution of Irene Hannah, and the next thing Stump knew, Bennefield’s girl came waltzing into his office with that Fed, on some equally insane mission to protect the old broad. At that point, Logan thought he’d let it go. The Fed looked formidable, and he wasn’t willing to put himself at that much risk to get rid of one troublesome girl. But when Wurth had called four days later and said that Mary Crow was snooping around his camp with some fake story about a nephew, he couldn’t pass it up. It was as if fate were giving him the final nail for Jack Bennefield’s coffin, and all he had to do was drive it in. Though he knew giving Wurth the go-ahead would leave him vulnerable, he didn’t care. Wurth didn’t scare him. Mary Crow did.
How much like her mother she looks,
he thought.
But how much like her father she acts. Real straight arrows, those two.

He jumped as a twig snapped behind him. With every nerve quivering, he peered into the darkness. It looked as if two shadows were slipping through the trees behind him. He reached for his gun, but as he watched, the shadows changed from men into mere bushes.
Damn,
he thought, grinning as he pulled his hand away from his gun.
This is just like the old days.

He looked up the mountain and watched Wurth creep forward as point. He had to admit, for a man of fifty-five, Wurth still moved like a drop of liquid darkness. What a shame his intellect never matched his military skills. After Vietnam he’d been an honorable, though hotheaded, soldier, unable to leave the Featherhood behind. When the Army had kicked him out he’d nosedived so badly that Stump had called his FaithAmerica pals, asking if they had any work for an old Army buddy. In the years since, Wurth had become their puppet, his strings regularly and viciously tugged by Richard Dunbar.
And me, scamming the state with those orphans.
Logan shook his head. Everybody had made a lot of money off Wurth, and the poor stupid bastard still hasn’t caught on.

At the edge of the trees, Wurth halted. He signaled to his boys to spread out, then he motioned for Logan to join him.

“You gotta keep up, Stump.” Wurth frowned at the gray cast of Logan’s face. “I’m working on a deadline here.”

“You know, Clipper, if either of those women makes it to a phone, they’ll skin you alive. And neither me nor Tuttle will be able to do a thing to stop it.”

“Nobody knows that better than me.” Wurth looked at him with glittering eyes, then, without another word, he turned and slipped back to the middle of the picket line. He lifted his left hand once, and ten boys began to move toward the old cave. When they’d reached the entrance, Wurth motioned one forward. The boy withdrew something from his pack that looked like a bolt cutter, and a moment later the chain that secured the cave’s iron gates fell to the ground. With a single wild screech, the gate opened, and the boys marched inside. Stump Logan chuckled as he hurried forward to rejoin his old platoon leader and the combat neither of them had truly left behind.

CHAPTER 49

“You know, this cave is quite mephitic.” Irene’s thoughtful voice sounded like warm velvet in the dark.

“What does that mean?” asked Mary.

“It means it stinks,” Irene replied. “But so probably do I.”

Mary switched on the flashlight and smiled. “Are you okay otherwise?”

“Just tired. Sometimes my hands throb.” She frowned, as if willing some bad thing away, then looked at Mary. “Did they take you to that amphitheater?”

Mary nodded. The table, the
muchi,
the knives, and ultimately her hair lying in a pile on the floor. She felt a cold fury at the memory. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I put in some time there.”

Irene reached out and touched her hand. After a moment, Irene spoke. “I wonder if Lady Jane’s foaled yet. I wonder how Hugh likes being a father.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” Mary bit her lip, wondering if they’d ever see Hugh or Upsy Daisy or the long-awaited offspring of Lady Jane. She changed the subject quickly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Remember that file of my mother’s you told me about?”

Irene nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you the moment we started talking about it.”

“I took it.”

“You took it?”

“I sneaked into your closet and found it. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Irene said placidly. “The file belonged to you. Considering the circumstances, I would have done the same thing.” She stared down at her hand. Blood had started to seep through the bandage. “Was it like I told you?”

“Yes, although I haven’t been able to figure out those letters from the Army.”

“Letters from the Army?” Irene frowned. “I don’t remember any letters from the Army. Your mother had a will and a deed of sale. That’s all that was in the file.”

“You didn’t know that the Army was investigating some allegations about my father’s death? That there were letters about that in the file?”

“No.” Irene’s eyes grew wide. “Your mother must have just given them to me to keep, no action required, so I never looked at them.”

“A Sergeant Green had suspicions about the way my father died. Mom had given the Army some letters from my dad that she thought proved something.”

“What did they say?”

“He seemed to be having some trouble with two guys named Clete and Bobby. He and Clete had gotten into a fistfight, and Clete seemed to know my mother.”

Irene leaned closer, as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “What did you say their names were?”

“Clete and Bobby.”

For a moment she looked as if the blood in her veins had turned to poison. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“What?” Mary demanded. “Irene, what is it?”

“Clete . . . Cletus Logan is Stump Logan. He was a star quarterback for the Hartsville Rebels. He got the nickname Stump when he was shot in the foot, in Vietnam.”

Mary couldn’t speak. Irene’s words floated down into her consciousness like ash from a volcano. Stump Logan. She thought back to the pictures she’d seen in his office. Logan in a football uniform. Logan in an Army uniform, standing with those other young men, a python draped like a malevolent stole over their shoulders.

Irene leaned forward, alert as if she were listening to testimony. “Mary, tell me every detail you can remember about those letters.”

Mary told her about how her father played football with these two men, about how one checked the fields for mines before they played in them, about how Clete always insisted on playing quarterback. “The Army told my mother that my dad stepped on a land mine in combat,” she concluded. “Now I’m beginning to wonder.”

“If he was set up?” asked Irene.

Mary nodded. “At first I thought I was thinking too much like a DA, but if this Sergeant Green had suspicions, maybe those two men had some kind of grudge against him.” She frowned. “But what would Stump Logan have to do with my father?”

Irene opened her mouth to answer when both women froze. Did something infinitesimal just squeak somewhere in the darkness? Was it even a noise at all, or just another thing their brains had manufactured for their own amusement? Putting her finger to her lips, Mary turned toward the passage and listened, every nerve in her body taut as a bowstring. She switched off the flashlight and peered into the blackness, listening with her eyes. There! She heard it again. A muffled but measured squeak.

“Irene?” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes. What do you think it could be?”

“Maybe Tommy and the FBI. Maybe not.”

“What should we do?”

Mary knew that if Tommy had returned with Safer, everything would be all right. She also knew that if Wurth was the one making the noise, she and Irene were in desperate trouble. Wurth had boys and weapons. She and Irene had nothing but one flashlight and a can of warm Coke.

“I’ll crawl toward the front and see what I can find out,” she told Irene. “You stay here.”

“What if it’s Wurth?” Irene’s question crackled with fear.

“Then we’ll have to hide,” replied Mary. “Right now, let’s try to find out who’s there.”

Leaving Irene in the darkness, she crawled out into the passage. Though the cave air felt cool against her cheek, it also carried the gagging stink of sulfur. Ignoring the foulness, she pushed forward. With her ears open to everything, she listened to the dark. Beyond the sounds of her own breathing, she heard nothing. Had the squeak been something they’d both collectively imagined in their dark cocoon? She’d almost decided that it was when she heard it again. Only this time it was no squeak. This time it was the single word “here,” spoken deep and far away, like someone murmuring from the bottom of a well. Mary shivered. Someone was out there. But was it Safer? Or Wurth?

Pressing herself flat against the cave floor, she listened. For eons, she heard nothing but the blood rushing through her veins. Then a single small light flickered high along one wall. It darted around the rocks, then a second light joined it. Flitting around like bright moths in some crazed mating dance, the lights dashed around the ceiling, drawing closer by the second. Someone had entered the cave. Someone was looking for them. She lay still, not daring to move or breathe, listening with every cell of her body. She strained her ears until she felt as if she could hear atoms crashing against each other, then it came. High and boyish, it uttered the single word that told her everything
—“
sir.”

Instantly she started to scramble back to Willett’s Den. Groping, she crept until her fingers brushed the notch in the stone wall. She turned right, then banged her head against Irene’s knee.

“It’s Wurth!” she whispered. “We need to get out of here!”

“Where can we go?”

“To that storage room Tommy told us about. Quick, I’ll help you.”

Swiftly she scooped up the flashlight, and then on an afterthought, the can of Coke. She helped Irene to her feet and began to light their way deeper into the cave. Finally the light found a wide, keyhole-like opening, and they hurried inside. The room was huge, and filled with old furniture—bentwood chairs, an ancient upright piano, a horsehair love seat furry with mold. Apparently, it had been used for storage when the cave had been a dance hall.

“Come on,” Mary urged. “Over here.”

She hurried Irene over to the piano, which was wedged at an angle, far back in the room. If Wurth’s boys searched every inch of this place, they would surely find them. If they didn’t, she and Irene might have a chance. As Irene curled behind the dusty old upright, Mary hunkered down beside her and switched off the light.

“What shall we do if they find us?” Irene asked softly.

“Fight,” Mary whispered, thinking how dimensional words became in an absolute darkness. Like Chinese kites, they swooped and swirled against each other, bloodred and awesome. “We fight them as long as we can and give Tommy a chance to bring Safer here.”

“We don’t have anything to fight with,” said Irene.

“Sure we do.” Mary handed Irene the can of Coke. “Hide that in your pocket. Then come up with some kind of plan.”

“To kill Robert Wurth?”

“He would be my first choice,” answered Mary, making herself small as she and her old friend hid behind the piano, each praying that the searchers would pass the piano room by.

CHAPTER 50

They lay in absolute darkness, the silence hanging thick as a curtain around them. Mary lay close to Irene, straining every nerve to hear. Wurth’s boys should have gotten back here by now. Had she been wrong? Had Tommy brought back Safer and the FBI? Maybe the Feds were looking for them right now, maybe their flashlights were flickering and probing. She battled the desire to tiptoe out into the passage and look around when Irene touched her arm.

“Mary,” she said, her voice the barest whisper. “I just figured it out.”

“What?”

“What happened to your father. And maybe to your mother, too.”

Before she could say another word they heard scuffling, like someone trying to keep their balance on a gritty floor. Mary felt Irene’s shoulders tighten. She wondered if she had time to crawl to the entrance of the room. That way, if one of Wurth’s boys did poke his head in, she could possibly grab his gun and use it to her own purpose. Then she could dart back behind the piano and pick the others off as they came into the storage room. Eventually she would run out of bullets, but it would buy her precious time. She had just leaned over to whisper her plan to Irene when she saw a streak of light against one wall.

Soft white, it moved erratically, back and forth, the way UFOs are reputed to. It flashed over her head, then along the wall in front of her. Another joined it, then a third.

“What the fuck’s in here?” a male voice called, so close that her heart seemed to stop.

“Smells like a great big fart.” A second boy laughed.

“Look,” said a third with delight. “An old piano. Wonder if it still plays?”

No,
Mary thought.
It doesn’t play at all. It’s just a heap of old ivory and broken strings.

“Come on,” said the first. “We’ve got to search this cave. Sarge’ll kill you if you stop to play the piano.”

That’s right, kid. Sarge will kill you. Deader than the proverbial doornail.

“Oh, come on. Just a couple of notes won’t hurt—”

Shit,
she raged. The lights bobbed closer, scattering around the room, briefly illuminating something that looked like copper wire high against one wall. Footsteps crunched along the floor; she reached over and in the darkness rested her palm against Irene’s cheek.

“Here,” said the piano player. “Hold my flashlight.”

For a moment Mary heard nothing, then the sound of ancient hammers striking long-dead strings reached her ears. One high note tinkled like shattering glass.
It’s broken, you idiot,
she screamed inside her head.
Get the fuck out of here before Sarge finds out!

“See? I told you,” the first boy jeered. “Come on. Let’s go. This place smells worse than the latrine where we dumped those cops.”

He’s right, he’s right, he’s oh, so right. Go quick, go now!

“Okay.” The pianist sounded disappointed, but the footsteps faded toward the door.

They’re leaving,
thought Mary.
Dear sweet God, they’re leaving.

“Hey,” the piano player said. “Look at this.”

“What now?” The third boy sounded petulant.

“Over here. On the floor.”

Mary held her breath. What could those boys have found? An odd silence fell over the space, as if the same idea struck everybody at exactly the same instant. With a sinking feeling, she suddenly realized her mistake. She and Irene hadn’t crawled behind the piano. They had walked. Wurth’s boys had found their footprints.

Before she could draw another breath, three bright lights were shining into her face.

“Sergeant Wurth!” cried one. “We found ’em!”

Mary leaped at him, all fists and flailing arms. She got in a solid blow to his mouth, sending one front tooth chipping across the piano keys. Infuriated, the boy shoved her to the floor, pummeling her face and breasts with his flashlight. She tried to protect her head with her arms, but by the time the other two pulled him off, her skull was ringing as if she’d stuck it inside a bell.

“Come on, Upchurch, save a little of her for the rest of us,” one grumbled as he shoved his pal onto the tottery horsehair sofa.

“She hit my mouf!” Upchurch protested, blood spurting. “She knocked out one of my teef!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The first boy remained unsympathetic. “Too bad she didn’t knock out a few more.”

He turned away from Upchurch and yanked Mary to her feet. Another boy already held Irene’s arms behind her back.

“You guys take the old lady,” the first boy ordered, grinning as he beamed his flashlight in Mary’s face. “I’ll take care of this one myself.”

Moments later, they stood in the main passage of the cave, blinking as flashlights beamed into their eyes, wincing as the hooded boys shoved them brutally against the wall. It seemed to Mary that they were going to play some kind of human pinball with them; then, without warning, they all snapped to attention.

Irene gasped as Robert Wurth strode down the passageway, Stump Logan close behind. Both men’s eyes glinted like chips of ice. For an instant Mary’s heart leaped; maybe the sheriff had come to save them. . . . But then she saw that Logan’s gaze held no mercy; like Tommy had suspected, Logan and Wurth were partners in this madness.

“Where do you want them, sir?” asked the boy who was wrenching Mary’s arms behind her back.

“Take them up to the front room. We’ll have to move them back down to the gym, but we can get them ready up here. Time’s running short.”

Marching as a single unit, the boys escorted them back to the first huge chamber of the cave. Irene stuck close to Mary, whispering as they moved forward.

“What now?”

“Try to hold them off as long as we can,” Mary replied.

Irene looked at her. Her eyes had regained their old, feisty brightness. “Let me see if I can still get a confession like I used to.”

“You want to put somebody on the stand?”

“Trust me, darling girl.” Irene smiled. “And pay attention. You might find this interesting.”

When they reached the big cavern, their captors forced Irene and Mary to stand back-to-back. Each young man carried a big flashlight, so when the Troopers stationed themselves in a loose circle around the two women, they lit the old cavern with an eerie glow. As Mary glanced over at Upchurch, who was still dabbing at his mouth, her gaze fell on an old metallic box just behind his shoulder. It was the terminal for the copper wires she’d glimpsed in the piano room! The switch still looked intact, and a thick wire that led somewhere outside the cave was still connected to it. Though she was foggy on most of her general science, she knew what would happen if any kind of electrical spark jumped in a cave filled with methane. If any juice at all still ran through those old wires, flipping that switch might blow them all to kingdom come. But what did she care? She and Irene had nothing to lose.

Irene cleared her throat. Mary watched in amazement as she squared her shoulders and took two steps toward Wurth, falling into the stance of a prosecutor at summation, her face quizzical, but her arms relaxed at her side.

“Sergeant Wurth, Ms. Crow and I have truly enjoyed your hospitality for the past several days. In consideration of our rather extraordinary experience, I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

“I don’t think so, Judge Hannah,” Wurth growled. “You’ve cost us enough time.”

“But you’re a decorated veteran. The bravest of the brave. Surely you aren’t afraid of the questions of an old woman?” Irene held out her maimed hands beseechingly. Mary smiled. Her years on the bench hadn’t dulled her prosecutorial skills one iota. What a pleasure to watch the old tigress stalk her prey once again.

Wurth’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid of any question. I just don’t have the time to answer.”

“It won’t take more than a minute or two, I promise.”

Wurth glanced at his watch before replying. “What do you want to know?”

“Your first name is Robert, isn’t it?”

Wurth nodded.

“And you served in Vietnam?”

“From sixty-seven until the fucking country fell down around our ears.”

“Did you serve there with Clete Logan?”

Mary watched as Stump Logan gave a little choking cough. Wurth looked at him and smiled. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I believe you must have been there when a man named Jack Bennefield went up for a forward pass and came down on a land mine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Logan roared.

“I’m talking about you, Stump. About how you and your chum Bobby here conspired to murder Jack Bennefield.”

“You don’t know . . .”

Mary’s head began to whirl. Here she stood, at the very end of her life, with yet another mystery beginning to unfold. She leaned forward, straining to catch every syllable of every word.

“Let me tell you about Sergeant Wurth and Sheriff Logan, boys.” Irene’s words rang like a silver chime as she turned to the Troopers clustered around them. “These two men went to Vietnam together, along with Jack Bennefield, this young woman’s father. They offered friendship, but in reality Sheriff Logan here was gunning for Bennefield. Logan was too big a coward to confront Bennefield alone, so he cooked up a plan. He got your Sergeant Wurth to clear most, but not all, of the mines from one field, then the two of them asked Bennefield to join them in a game of football. Jack agreed, happy to be asked to play, believing that the field had been cleared.”

Irene turned and looked at Mary, her eyes sharp, but infinitely sad. “Guess who always had to throw the ball in those games?” She snapped her eyes at Logan. “And guess who told Jack Bennefield to go long for a pass?”

Logan swallowed as if his tongue had suddenly grown too thick for his mouth.

“Is that pretty close, Sergeant Wurth? Is that the way you remember it?” Irene asked.

“Personally, I had nothing against Bennefield,” Wurth replied easily. “Logan just asked me to help him settle a personal score.”

Personal score? Mary’s brain spun. Between her father and Stump Logan?

“Years later, Stump, when you found out that an Army investigator was talking to Martha Crow, you got real scared that Martha had figured it out. So you shut her up. Oh, you had a little fun with her first, but you made damn sure she wasn’t going to talk to more Army investigators.”

With her heart beating madly, Mary realized that the secret that had tormented her for most of her life had been revealed. No drifter had killed her mother that day at Little Jump Off. It had been Logan, all along.

“You can’t prove that,” Logan said smugly.

“I don’t have to,” Irene shot back. “It’s oozing from your pores, Stump. You stink with the smell of it!”

“You shut up!” he snarled, lunging forward. “Crazy old bitch!”

He moved to strike her, to bury his fist in her face when suddenly Irene pulled a bright red can from inside her pajamas. She smashed it into his nose, striking him again and again.

The whole cave erupted then, boys yelling, Wurth bellowing orders. Running as fast as she could, Mary leaped over Irene and Logan, heading straight for Upchurch. The boy gaped at her, stunned, his bloody mouth flapping in some approximation of speech. She heard Irene yell, then footsteps, and more shouting.

She longed to look back, but she kept her eyes focused on the electrical box behind Upchurch. She would only get one shot at this. She had to make it work.

Furious yells bounced off the stone walls as if fifty men were fighting within the bowels of the cave. Boys cursed. As someone yelled her name, she flung herself against Upchurch. He reeled backward. She crawled up and over him, struggling, stretching her arm to reach the switch on that box. Her fingers brushed it, then Upchurch shifted and they slid off. She aimed a vicious kick somewhere in his direction. When she felt her foot connect with something soft, she reached forward again. This time her fingers curled around the switch.
Pull,
she told herself.
Pull
NOW!

She pulled. The switch creaked into place. For an instant nothing happened, then a brilliant flash of blue stung her eyes as a freight train seemed to roar down upon them. Her eardrums popped against a deafening crash and the sharp smell of ozone crackled through the dark air. Upchurch’s arms flailed at her, but the whole earth lifted up beneath them both. For an instant she left the ground, then rocks and earth started crashing all around her. She tried to open her eyes but she couldn’t; she tried to speak, but her lips would not move. Then she relaxed, knowing that she was dead, hoping that she would soon join her parents and they could explain her whole entire history, from its earliest beginning to her last final gasp of life.