William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“Don’t be patronizing. I’m talking about the Cabal. The million-dollar mob. Their dirty tricks make our monkeywrenching tactics look like kid stuff.”

“I think we’re getting a bit off the subject. Why did you lie to me about the Sasquatch suit?”

“I didn’t want Green Rage to get distracted. I didn’t want to feed Slade and the logging machine any ammunition.”

“So you lied to your lawyer.”

Zak extended his hands. “Look, the suit was no big deal. I never even wore it.”

“Someone did.”

“You’re assuming all those rubes who reported seeing Bigfoot saw someone wearing my suit. For all I know they saw the real thing.”

“Give me a break.”

“It wasn’t even my idea. Some of the other nitwits in the group bought this Bigfoot suit, and they’d been running around in it before I even showed up here. I thought their suit looked particularly stupid and unconvincing, so I got my own. It was a first-class outfit. Very handsome and manly. Bigfoot had a bright red nose, like Rudolph or something. But Green Rage put the kibosh on that particular program, so I never got to wear it. Never even showed it to anyone. In fact, I threw it away.”

“The cops found it in your tent.”

“Not my suit. That’s the original one. The boring number Green Rage had before I made the scene.”

“Why would it be in your tent?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

“The prosecution has tested it. They’ve found traces of sweat and skin flecks. They say it was worn-recently.”

“Not by me.”

“Then who?”

“How should I know? Our camp was hardly a high-security compound. Anyone could’ve gotten in there and gotten the suit. And put it in my tent when they were done.”

“Now you’re sounding paranoid.”

“You have no idea what these Cabal people are capable of. I do.” He leaned forward, arms outstretched. “It’s just a stupid suit. It doesn’t matter.”

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?”

Ben 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?”