Cruel Justice (21 page)

Carlee turned to him and smiled. “But you will carry in my luggage, won’t you, lover boy?”

“But—”

She quickly scurried out of the car and beyond the point of protest. She scooped the morning paper off the driveway; the Bloms must not have been by yet to collect the mail.

Inside the house, she found few surprises. All the major appliances and electronic devices appeared to be where they had been left. Ethan was already perched in front of the television set. Gavin was on the phone.

“Let me know if she still loves you, Gavin,” Carlee shouted merrily.

Gavin frowned, covered his free ear, and pressed the receiver closer to his head.

Carlee entered the kitchen. She poured herself a Dr Pepper—the real thing—with honest-to-God crushed ice from the refrigerator. Heaven on earth. The door slammed, and she heard Dave struggle to haul in all the luggage at once, grunting and groaning up the stairs. She felt a little sorry for him, though not sorry enough to help.

He’d survive. What Carlee wanted desperately were a few minutes alone, a little quiet time, a chance to think. Camp-outs were great for familial bonding, but they were lousy for private meditation. And she needed to pull herself together.

She still didn’t know what had happened to her at Turner Falls. Dave had tried to take care of her as best he could. He even ended up fixing the beans. But he never mentioned what had happened. He wasn’t being inconsiderate; it was just his way. Misbehaving kids he could deal with. A wife needing some TLC he could deal with. But something so … foreign to their experience … He just couldn’t handle it. He didn’t know what to do. So he pretended it hadn’t happened.

Unfortunately, Carlee knew it had happened. Twice. And more and more she became convinced that it was not just a dream, not just a hallucination. Every time she thought about it, she saw a little more. It was like a movie unspooling reel by reel. New details came to light.

Like, for instance, that window she was looking through, when she saw the woman. She knew now that the window was open; that’s how she smelled the blood and heard the screams. And the room …

It was the caddyshack at the Utica Greens Country Club. She was certain of it.

But how could that be? She hadn’t been to that country club for almost ten years, since she quit her job in the kitchen. She hadn’t been anywhere near the place; she and Dave certainly couldn’t afford to be members. And yet, she knew that was what she was seeing.

A sudden pounding upstairs brought her back to the present. It was Dave, stomping around with the luggage. Well, perhaps she could give him a teeny bit of help. In a minute. She pulled the rubber band off the paper and dropped it flat on the kitchen table. Her eyes drifted across the front-page stories.

The air flowed from her lungs as if sucked out by a vacuum.

Her lips moved wordlessly; her eyes were transfixed, locked onto the photograph on the front page of the
Tulsa World.

It was her.

The woman.

Carlee stumbled backward, caught herself, then slowly sank into a chair. She suddenly became aware that she was making a sharp high-pitched noise, something like a cross between a cry for help and an aching moan. She put her hand over her mouth and willed herself to stop.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Mom?”

It was Ethan. He was staring up at her with worried eyes, for the second time in recent memory. Kids never miss anything.

“Get your father,” she said breathlessly. “Then go back to your television program. I’m fine.”

A few moments later Dave came barreling much too fast down the stairs and into the kitchen. He put his hands on her shoulders. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”

Carlee lifted a shaking hand and pointed at the newspaper on the table. “That’s her,” she said.

“That’s who?” Dave glanced at the paper and the black-and-white photo on the front page. The accompanying article explained that the woman had been murdered about ten years before; a Tulsa man was accused of the crime. The trial was scheduled to start soon. “Did you know this woman?”

Carlee shook her head from side to side.

“Then—what?” His face was a combination of sympathy and helplessness.

“That’s the woman I saw,” Carlee said. She wrapped her arms around herself. “The woman I saw covered with blood.”

“At Turner Falls? At the campground? But she’s been dead for ten years.” His voice evidenced his utter lack of comprehension. “What are you saying? That you had some kind of … psychic vision or something?”

“No,” she said, still trembling. “I saw her murdered. With my own eyes.”

“But—if you saw it, why didn’t you mention it before now?”

She looked up at the ceiling, as if hoping for some assistance, some answer, some salvation. She looked in vain. “Because I didn’t remember.”

“You didn’t remember?” Deep wrinkles furrowed Dave’s brow. “You’re saying you saw this woman get killed and then …
.forgot about it
?”

Carlee placed her head against his chest. “I know it sounds insane. I don’t understand it either. But that’s what happened. I saw that woman die. I know I did.”

“And you forgot about it. And now, just as the case is about to go to trial, you remember again. Isn’t that an incredible coincidence?”

“It isn’t a coincidence,” she said softly. “I heard a report about the trial on the radio. I didn’t even think about it consciously, but afterward—that’s when I remembered.”

“This still doesn’t make any sense to me. How could you see a murder and forget about it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Tears streaked her suntanned face. “I don’t know. But I did.”

B
EN SIGNED THE CHIT
in the pro shop and threw a bag of rented golf clubs over his shoulder. The bag knocked him forward, almost across the counter. Man, they were heavy. And people do this for fun?

Gritting his teeth, Ben schlepped the clubs to the first tee, where he was supposed to meet the rest of the group. He didn’t actually remember where the first tee was, but he headed in the general direction of the course and hoped for the best.

Ben stumbled across the driving range, irritating several serious golfers who were mastering their slices, but he still couldn’t find the tee. The sun was hot and the bag was heavy, and getting heavier by the step. He realized he was dripping with sweat, and he hadn’t even started playing yet. He was about to give up when he heard strains of fractured Frankie wafting over the next hill.

“That’s why the lady … is a traaaamp. Ka-boom boom.”

That would be Dick Crenshaw. Like a hound tracking a scent, Ben followed the semimelodic rendition of the second verse to the first tee.

The course was beautiful; rolling hills undulated down the fairway. The grass was immaculately trimmed and the greens well watered.

Ben found Crenshaw pacing in a circle, with Chris Bentley and Captain Pearson nearby. And—
yes!
They had a golf cart.

Ben approached the group and, with a great grunting noise, heaved his golf bag into the back of the cart with the others. Pearson’s bag, with his initials embroidered on the side, had each of his clubs neatly separated inside plastic tubes. Crenshaw’s clubs were hooded with soft leather gloves bearing the images of various Warner Brothers cartoon characters—Bugs Bunny, Wile E. Coyote, and Pepe Le Pew.

“Are you the fourth?” Crenshaw asked, interrupting his song.

Pearson frowned. “Mitch didn’t tell me anything about this.”

“It was my idea,” Ben said hurriedly. He introduced himself to Crenshaw and Bentley. “I’d been wanting to chat with you. I heard you were playing golf today and lost your fourth player when Hal Rutherford begged out. It seemed like a perfect fit.”

“I hope you won’t be asking a lot of distressing questions,” Bentley said in his soft Southern accent. “We came here to play golf. We don’t want anybody disturbing our equilibrium with a lot of fool questions.”

“I’ll try to keep myself in line,” Ben replied.

“Are you sure you know how to play golf?” Pearson asked, eyeing Ben’s clumsy grip on his wood.

“Of course I do,” Ben replied. “I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? It’s required.” In fact, Ben’s last visit to a golf course had been in law school when a professor took him out one morning to play nine holes. He hadn’t been any good then and he hadn’t played since. But how hard could it be? he reasoned. All you do is swing a club at a little ball and knock it down the fairway, for Pete’s sake. Piece of cake.

“Fine,” Pearson said. “You go first.”

This was not particularly encouraging. Ben had hoped to pick up a few pointers by watching the other men play. But he couldn’t back down now.

He rammed a little orange tee into the soft earth and placed his ball on top. It fell off. He did it again. It fell off again. After two more repetitions, Pearson bent down, huffing and puffing, and fixed Ben’s tee for him.

“Thanks a million,” Ben said. All right, he told himself. Concentrate. First impressions are everything. If I can just hit a good one first off, they’ll assume I can play and won’t notice if I fumble a bit later on.

He held the club next to the ball, closed his eyes, concentrated, and inhaled deeply. What was it Christina was always talking about? Focusing on your third eye? All right, third eye. Come through for me.

He reared back and swung the club as hard as he could.

And missed. The ball wobbled a bit from the rush of wind as the club passed over it, then settled back onto the tee.

“That was my practice shot,” Ben said hurriedly. “We all get practice shots, right? Okay, this one is for real.”

Bentley, Pearson, and Crenshaw all exchanged silent looks.

“Here I go.” This time, for a change in approach, Ben decided to keep his eyes open. He swung the club around and actually managed to make contact with the ball. Barely. The tiny white sphere dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically down the fairway at an extreme left angle. The golf equivalent of a gutter ball.

“Huh,” Ben said, looking away. “Wrist’s a little stiff. Must’ve spent too long on the driving range. Who’s next?”

After they all took their tee shot, Bentley walked with Ben to his ball. Given the distance involved, or lack thereof, the golf cart seemed rather unnecessary.

“Now look here, Kincaid,” Bentley said. “If you’re going to play the entire nine holes with us, you’re going to have to know something about the game.”

“Well, I suppose I could use a few pointers. …”

“I can boil the whole thing down to four rules for you. Hell, I taught my third ex-wife to play in half an hour. Now first, you need to loosen your grip. Club head speed generates power, not your grip. So there’s no point in swinging the club like you’re trying to kill someone.”

A noteworthy choice of phrase, Ben thought.

“Swing like this.” Bentley demonstrated his smooth, easy approach. “Hold the club like it’s a tube of toothpaste, not a battle-ax.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Ben said, practicing the swing.

“Second, be generous with yourself when you’re picking out a club. Pick a club that’s one size longer than you think you need.”

Ben was confident he could do that, too. Especially since he didn’t understand the differences between the clubs, anyway.

“Third, check your club.”

“For what?”

“The fidelity of the club is critical. Golf clubs take a real pounding over time, especially cheap rented ones like you’re using.”

They arrived at the spot where Ben’s ball now rested. “If your club is off, your ball will veer to the side, even if your stroke is perfect. Have the golf pro check your clubs before you start.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ben said, positioning himself behind his ball. “What’s the fourth rule?”

“Whenever possible, cheat.” Bentley looked all around, made sure no one else was watching, then picked up Ben’s ball and hurled it toward the green. It landed maybe a hundred feet from the hole.

“But … .that’s cheating,” Ben said.

“Only if you get caught.”

By the fifth hole, Ben had begun to kinda sorta get the hang of it. His scores still came in at roughly three times par, but at least his balls rose off the ground.

“So how’s the investigation coming?” Bentley asked with unexpected interest.

“Slowly. It’s hard to dig up evidence on a ten-year-old crime. The floors have all been scrubbed, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m getting a subpoena to search the country-club offices and lockers and all, but I don’t have high hopes.”

“Sounds like a huge waste of time to me.”

“You’re probably right. But I have to try. I heard you’re throwing a charity ball tonight,” Ben said as they left the fifth green.

“That’s my business,” Bentley replied cheerily. “I spend most of my working time on charity assignments these days.”

“Really?” Perhaps he had misjudged the man. “What charity are you working for?”

“Several. I think tonight’s shindig is about providing meals for homeless children. Or vaccinations. Something like that. I run an umbrella organization that provides services to a variety of charities.”

“You … provide services? To charity? What does that mean?”

“Whatever they need, I try to provide. Volunteers, parties, fund-raisers, whatever.”

“Interesting.” Ben washed his ball in the cute plastic washer stand beside the tee. “How did you get involved with that?”

“Well, it’s something I started about ten years ago.”

Ben looked up. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I was … well, lemme see. How can I phrase it? Between wives. Flat busted is what I was. And the bar bill was getting pretty damn high. So I started this line of work.”

“But how can you make money working for charity?”

“I didn’t say I was working for charity. I said I was providing services to charities. There’s a big difference. See, when national charitable organizations want to raise some money in a particular locality, say, Tulsa, they need a local who knows who’s got the big money and knows how to pry it out of their tight little wallets. That’s what I do. If they need a hundred well-heeled socialites for a black-tie fund-raiser, I round them up. If they need a hundred volunteers to staff phone lines, I enlist some rich housewives who feel guilty because their lives don’t amount to a hill of beans.”