Dark Justice (18 page)

Ben wanted to beat his head against the cell bars, but he managed to exercise some measure of restraint. “The prosecution knows someone was behind all the Sasquatch sightings. You had the perfect motive. And now they find the suit in your tent. They’re gonna tell the jury you’re Bigfoot.”

“And that makes me a murderer?”

“Granny’s theory will go something like this: First, the fact that you were prancing around in a Bigfoot suit explains why you would be out in the forest late at night.”

“I was always out in the forest late at night.”

“But they need you to be doing something you shouldn’t. That’s how they get to motive. They’ll say you were trying to instigate false Bigfoot sightings—and maybe planting a few bombs on logging machinery for good measure. And this logger, Dwayne Gardiner, spots Bigfoot and decides to have a few words with the prehistoric beast. Maybe even take him back to camp to see his boss. You panic and shoot him. But to your horror, he doesn’t die right away. So you put him on the tree cutter and blow him to kingdom come.”

“That isn’t right. It didn’t happen that way.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. “Then how did it happen?”

“I—I mean—I wasn’t there.”

Ben took a few short steps until the two men were standing very close to one another. “Now listen to me, Zak. And listen good. I will not put up with this.”

“You’re not backing out, are you?”

“I can’t back out. It’s too close to trial. The judge wouldn’t let me quit even if I asked. But I can tell you this.” He planted a finger square in Zak’s chest. “I will not put up with any lying. You must tell me everything, the good and the bad. I’ve never had a case that didn’t have some bad facts and I probably never will. But if I know about them in advance, I can prepare. I can be the one who tells the jury about it up front, to soften the impact. But I can’t do any of that if you don’t tell me the truth!”

Zak held up his hands. “All right, man. I got it. It won’t happen again.”

“And to make sure it doesn’t, Zak, let me ask you again. Is there anything else you haven’t told me? Anything that might be potentially damaging to us at trial?
Anything
?”

“No, man. Nothing. Definitely not.”

“Be sure, Zak. Be absolutely sure.”

“I am. I am.”

Ben waited a long moment before speaking again. “I’m warning you …”

“There’s nothing else, man. I promise. And if I think of anything later, I’ll call you.”

“You do that.” Ben reached through the bars and rapped on the outer wall—the signal to the sheriff that he was ready to leave. “How am I going to explain this to the jury? I don’t suppose we can say you were preparing early for trick or treat?”

Zak tilted his head to one side. “Well …”

“Or maybe you’d been invited to a masquerade ball?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or maybe you were satisfying your angora fetish.”

Zak gave him an unamused look.

“Well, I’ll keep working on it. Can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“I may be sorry I asked, but”—Ben’s face squinched up—“why does the suit smell so bad?”

“That’s easy. Most of the reports of close encounters with Bigfoot have mentioned his tremendous stench. Really horrible—worse than dead animals that have been left out in the sun. It’s a Bigfoot calling card.”

“And you wanted to be authentic.”

“Of course.” Zak shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the point of having a fake if it isn’t real?”

B
EN APPROACHED THE SAWMILL
with considerable trepidation. Maureen had warned him he would feel this way, but he hadn’t believed it until he arrived. After all, he was an impartial participant. He was a lawyer representing a client, conducting an interview relating to a murder case. He was not necessarily involved in the political issues that underlay the conflict.

He just hoped everyone else understood that.

He parked his rental car and started up the dirt path that wound toward the main building—a huge log-and-sideboard structure at the edge of the Crescent National Forest. As Maureen had explained to him, the sawmill had been there since the 1950s, processing tons of lumber on a daily basis for any number of logging sites.

Even from a good distance away, Ben could hear the teeth-grinding sound of the sawmill at work. It was a shrill, piercing sound, like a dentist’s drill magnified a thousand times over. Except instead of opening a root canal to save an abscessed tooth, it was splitting, pulping, and destroying hundreds of years and thousands of acres of wild growth.

Ben brushed shoulders with several loggers making their way out of the main building. He was pleased to see that, contrary to stereotype, they did not all wear flannel shirts. Jeans and T-shirts seemed more the current fashion. But then, it was still summer. Maybe the flannel came out later in the year.

He saw a group of loggers off to one side whispering. One of them glanced at Ben, then lowered his head into the communal huddle. If I were a paranoid man, Ben thought, I’d think they were talking about me.

And then he saw one of the men in the huddle jerk his thumb in Ben’s direction.

That settled it. Paranoid or not, Ben was the topic of conversation.

Ben was so busy watching the huddle that he almost walked right into the man standing directly in front of him.

“Oops!” Ben put on the brakes at the last possible minute. “Sorry about that.”

The man didn’t move. He didn’t smile, either. “You don’t look like you belong here. Got some ID?”

“What is this, a gestapo camp? You need ID just to get in?”

“We have to be careful. There are terrorists in the area who would love nothing more than to see this mill blown to bits.”

“Well, I can assure you I’m no terrorist.”

“Didn’t I see you at the courthouse?”

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. “Courthouse? Me? You must be thinking of my older brother.”

“No. It was you.” He placed his fists firmly on his hips. “You’re the lawyer. The one who’s representing the killer.”

Ben swallowed a big gulp of air. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. And I’m here on official business.” He noticed that the larger group of men at the side were slowly edging in his direction. “So if you’ll please just step aside …”

“You’ve got some nerve, showing your face here. After what happened to Dwayne.”

“Look, I wasn’t even in town when Dwayne was killed.”

The huddled men—there were five of them—pulled up behind Ben. One of them, wearing a red baseball cap with caterpillar printed across the front, spoke. “Who is this creep, Jerry?”

“He’s one of those Green Rage assholes.”

“You’re kidding.” Strong hands clamped down on both of Ben’s shoulders. “Here?”

“It isn’t true,” Ben protested. “I’m not a member of—”

“He works with them,” the first man—Jerry, apparently—explained. “Helps them do their dirty business.”

“No shit,” Caterpillar man said. The others pressed close on all sides. “What were you planning? To bomb the mill?”

“Of course not. I just came to talk.”

“Right. Search him, boys.”

All at once Ben felt about ten hands pawing him in every place imaginable, and being none too gentle about it.

“Would you stop already!” Ben said. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Neither was Dwayne Gardiner,” Jerry replied somberly. “But he sure got it. And now there’s a woman with no husband and a boy who’ll grow up without a daddy. All because of people like you who care more about trees than human beings.” His jaw clenched up with rage. “Grab him, boys.”

All at once, Ben felt a dozen hands clamp down on him with viselike grips. He could barely wriggle, much less move.

“Someone got rope?”

“I know where some is,” Caterpillar man answered. He ran down the dirt road, opened a storage bin, and pulled out a good length.

“Tie him up.”

Ben tried to struggle, but it was useless. With all those hands on him, he couldn’t budge.

“Take him down to the lot.”

A moment later, all hands were jerking him down the way he came, toward the parking area. Clouds of dirt kicked up in his face, choking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. His arms were clamped tightly to his sides, and he had no control over his movements.

They kept moving till they got to the area where the vehicles were parked. Jerry nodded toward a huge eighteen-wheel flatbed truck. “Someone got the keys?”

One of the men in Caterpillars group nodded.

“Good. Tie the rope to the hitching post.”

The men tied one end of the rope around Ben’s wrists, the other end to the iron post at the back of the truck. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this …

“You’re making a mistake,” Ben said. He was trying to think of any words that might convince them, however pathetic they sounded. “I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Tell it to Dwayne’s family.” Jerry pulled Ben backward till the rope was extended and pulled taut, then he motioned for the man with the keys to jump in the cab.

“All right,” Jerry said. A trace of a smile cracked his stony exterior. “Drag him.”

“Y
OU CAN’T BE SERIOUS!”
Ben said. Panic was setting in. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples.

Jerry didn’t bother replying. He raised his arm and then, like an orchestra conductor marking the opening note, brought it down with a flourish.

All at once, the eighteen-wheeler lurched into Drive. Ben was jerked forward, hands and head first, onto the hard red dirt.

He hadn’t expected that. He thought it would take the huge truck a while to warm up, that he would be able to jog behind it, at least for a while. Instead, it had taken off like a souped-up Camaro.

And it continued to barrel across the parking lot. Ben was dragged along the ground, his chin scraping the hard earth. Dirt flew up into his eyes, stinging them; he soon learned it was smartest to keep his eyes shut.

But all of that was minor compared to the pummeling his body was taking. He was battered by every bump, rise, and pothole. And there were lots of all of them. He was skinned and bruised and the truck seemed to be increasing in speed.

“Oof!” Ben’s chin socked the ground hard. He could feel blood trickling down his neck, his cheeks. It stung so badly he almost didn’t see the rock—

Until it was too late. It struck him square in the chest. Ben cried out in pain, but the truck kept moving and the rock rumbled under his body, cutting and bruising him all along the way. The hum of the engines told Ben the truck was accelerating. At the current speed, he was probably only looking at serious injuries. But if the truck moved any faster …

“
Stop this
!”

Ben heard the voice behind him, but he was in no position to check the source. The truck was still moving, and he’d spotted another rock with a sharp edge coming toward him. Fast.

“Stop this
immediately
! Stop or you’re all out of work!”

The truck braked. Ben heard the hydraulic hissing before he actually felt any decrease in speed.

He stopped just inches short of the jagged rock. Up close, it looked positively lethal. If he’d been dragged over that, he’d be in seriously bad shape.

“I’m so sorry about this.” A man he didn’t know had crouched down and was untying the knots around Ben’s wrists. “This is inexcusable. But don’t worry. I’ll take appropriate action. Listen, men, you’re all—”

Both he and Ben looked all around. They were alone. The loggers had fled.

“Typical.” The man made a clicking noise with his tongue, then finished untying Ben. He offered Ben a hand. “Are you all right?”

Ben slowly raised himself to a seated position. His whole body ached. His clothes were ruined, but he thought he could walk. “I’ll live.”

He pushed up to his feet, but his legs wobbled like jelly. The other man caught him and helped him back down to the ground. “Don’t rush it, son. It’ll be a spell before you get your strength back.”

Ben decided to take his advice. He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. “Thanks for intervening.”

“No problem, son. They had no business doing this. The boys are just so riled up right now. Feel like they’re under attack, like danger’s coming at them from all sides.”

Really? Ben thought. That’s almost exactly how the Green Ragers say they feel.

Ben extended his hand. “Anyway, my name’s Ben Kincaid.”

“Jeremiah Adams,” the man said. He was in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair and a spotty white beard on his chin. He was wearing jeans and a western shirt, complete with studs. “I’m the supervisor out here. I think you were coming to see me.”

“You must be Granny’s father. I mean Granville’s. The prosecutor.”

Adams laughed. “You know my little girl?”

“I do.” Ben pushed himself to his feet again, and this time he was relieved to see that his legs held. “Could we go inside and talk?”

Ben followed the man as he led the way up the ramp and into the building. He tried his best not to wobble, but his left ankle felt twisted and kept dropping out from under him. Like it or not, he was going to limp; he decided the best he could do was to stare straight ahead and limp with dignity.

As soon as they passed through the front doors of the building, Ben was overwhelmed by the piercingly loud roar. Fierce, menacing, and metallic.

“Takes a mite to get used to that sawmill,” Adams said as he shuffled down the main corridor. “Nowadays I barely even notice it.”

Barely even
notice
? Ben thought, wincing. The man had to be kidding. Inside, the shrill roar was so insistent he could barely think, much less hear.

“I remember the first time I visited the mill, back before I worked here. ’Round ’70, ’71, I ’spect. Noise hurt my head so bad I stared wearing earplugs. ’Course that didn’t set too well with the regulars. They marked me down for some kind of sissy boy, if you know what I mean. So I took out the plugs and learned to deal with it. Haven’t had any problems since. Oh, I get some ringing in my ears from time to time, but not enough to complain about.”

I think I’ve got plenty to complain about already, Ben thought, but he decided to keep it to himself. He wasn’t at all sure he could make himself heard over this din anyway.