William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“So tomorrow I’m taking her to the vet for the Big Needle.”

Ben’s muscles clenched up. “For what ?”

“I’m having her put to sleep.”

“But she’s still young. She’s in perfectly good health.”

“She’s driving me insane.”

“Let me try to find someone!”

“I’ve been down that road before, and I know she’ll be back in my lap again by lunch time.”

“But you can’t just kill her!”

Fred put a hand on his hip. “Hey, back off, chump. She’s my cat and I can do anything I damn well please with her. Including putting her to sleep.”

“I don’t think the vet will-”

“I’ve already made the arrangements. Appointment’s at ten in the morning. So I’ll feed kitty her last meal, let her get a good night’s sleep, and then …” He pantomimed pushing the plunger on a syringe, then acted as if he’d just received an electric shock. “ Bzzzzt !”

Ben’s lips moved wordlessly.

“Anyway, Kincaid, thanks again for coming to the store.” He took the cat from Ben. “It’s been great.”

Ben stared blank-faced at the man. “Yeah. Great.”

Even as ben crept down the alleyway, he couldn’t believe he was doing it. This was the kind of escapade Christina would concoct; she would spend hours trying to talk him into it, until finally he relented. But now here he was out by himself, doing it on his own.

Damn. Whatever she had, it must be catching.

But how on earth could he face Clayton Langdell and the rest of the gang at the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Our Other-Than-Human Neighbors if he allowed this act of barbaric cruelty and species snobbery to take place? More to the point, how could he face Giselle? He had argued and argued with Fred, but nothing he had said had changed the man’s mind. There was no other alternative. Ben normally wasn’t one to meddle in other people’s business, but some things were just wrong, and this was one of them. He had to do something.

Didn’t he?

Navigating the town had been easy, even for a stranger, even in the dead of night. Magic Valley was a small northwest Washington town nestled at the foot of Mount Crescent. It had fewer than ten thousand residents, and the cabdriver had given Ben a thorough tour on his way in. Downtown was laid out on five streets: Main Street, which coursed through the center of the town, and the four cross streets, Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy-one for each assassinated president. Most of the residences were to the north, between Main and the Magic Valley National Forest, site of the logging operation that supported most of the town.

Ben tiptoed past a pawnshop, a drugstore, a dry goods store, and a grocery. Almost all the businesses had yellow ribbons tied to the door or a lamppost. What was that all about? he wondered. Well, that was something he could ask about tomorrow, after this Mission: Impossible escapade was behind him.

He crept down the steps that led to the basement entrance of the bookstore. He had checked the lock on his way out; it wasn’t the worst he’d ever seen, but he didn’t think he’d have much trouble getting past it. Long ago his friend Mike Morelli, Tulsa homicide cop, had made him an expert on lockpicking. And there was no sign of a security system.

He scanned the street above him in all directions. He saw two men standing on a streetcorner two blocks away. Even from this distance, he could see one of the men was huge, with muscles rippling out of his tank top and shoulder-length jet-black hair. The two were having an intense discussion about something. Ben couldn’t imagine what anyone could want to talk about at this hour of the morning. After a few more minutes, both men disappeared down a side street.

Ben waited until everything was quiet. He whipped out the simple two-piece metal lockpick he had acquired at the pawnshop not far from his hotel. He pushed the thin metal brace up, holding the trigger piece out of the action. Then he probed the interior of the lock with the longer ridged piece, trying to trip the tumbler that would open the lock.

He heard a distinct popping noise, then tried the doorknob. It moved.

Ben drew in his breath. This was the critical moment. If he took the next step, he would be committed to this course of action. This absolutely positively illegal course of action.

Slowly he pushed the door open. There was no alarm-or none that he could hear, anyway. That at least was a relief.

He shuffled inside, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. He had taken the decisive step now; best to just get it over with.

He pulled his flashlight out of his coat pocket and swept it across the bookstore. The card table at which he had sat before was gone, and the largely unsold stock of his book had already been loaded into a cardboard box, ready to be shipped back to the publisher for credit.

He tiptoed down the nearest corridor, passing Agatha Christie’s entire life’s work, the Sue Grafton alphabet books, and the endless array of lawyer books, all of which appeared to have exactly the same cover.

In the far corner, he found his prey.

“Hello, Margery,” Ben whispered, crouching down to the cat’s level. “We’re going to do a road-show reenactment of The Great Escape . And I’m playing Steve McQueen.”

To his relief, the cat did not struggle, hiss, fight, claw, or otherwise express her objections. Ben shoved the flashlight into his jacket, then scooped Margery into his arms. He was almost back up and running when he heard the rhythmic click-click sound behind him.

He didn’t have to be a detective to know he was not alone. And he didn’t have to be a weapons expert to know he had just heard someone cock a shotgun.

“All right, mister.” A cranky, nasal voice emerged from the darkness. “Turn around slow and easy. And keep your hands up in the air where I can see them.”

Ben raised his hands. As he did so, Margery jumped down. She skittered across the floor, returned to her comfortable cushioned bed on the floor, snuggled her head into her paws, and closed her eyes. It would seem Margery knew when to abandon ship. “Ingrate,” Ben murmured.

“All right,” barked the voice in the darkness. “Keep your hands in the air and move!”

When at last the Honorable Judge Tyrone J. Pickens entered his courtroom, he looked as if he was suffering the ill effects of a singularly hard night. Perhaps several hard nights. On closer examination, Ben thought, perhaps years of hard nights.

Pickens’s craggy face was speckled and ruddy, his nose shiny. His black-rimmed glasses seemed to be in constant motion, on, then off, on, then off. His posture was slumped and his expression was grim. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

Of course, Ben could sympathize with that. He would also rather be anywhere else. But here he was standing in the Magic Valley county courthouse. Handcuffed to the sheriff.

Judge Pickens rifled through the papers on his desk. “Looks like we got us a breaking and entering, is that it?”

The woman up at the bench, who Ben gathered was the district attorney, nodded.

“Great,” the judge murmured. “Just great. First good fishing day in months, and I’ve got me a goddamn breaking and entering. How many days to try this sucker?”

The bailiff standing dutifully to the judge’s side cleared his throat. “This is just an arraignment, your honor.”

Pickens’s face brightened. “An arraignment? Hot damn. We can whip through this sucker in two minutes.” He pointed his gavel in Ben’s direction. “You the perp?”

Ben cleared his throat. “I’m the accused, yes, your honor.”

“You got a lawyer?” He gave Ben the once-over. “No, I suppose you’ll be wanting us to appoint one.”