William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“We both are,” she answered.

“I’m Roger Hartnell,” he said. “I-I knew Tony Barovick. Well.”

Christina remembered reading about him in one of Loving’s reports. “Do you know something about what happened to him?”

“No, sorry-I didn’t mean to mislead you. I haven’t come as a friend of Tony’s. I came in my capacity as regional director of ANGER.”

“You’re the creeps who redecorated our elevator lobby.”

“We’re not responsible for that. Our press release merely said that we sympathized with those who did it.”

Ben frowned. “So you’re not here to help us with this case?”

“No, sir. I’m here to ask you to drop it.”

Ben took Christina by the arm. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for-”

“Listen to me. What you’re doing is wrong.”

“Sure,” Christina replied. “We should just let the posse string Johnny up.”

“I don’t mean that he should have no representation. Let the court appoint someone, if necessary. But when it comes from attorneys of your stature-it seems like an endorsement.”

“It’s how the legal system works. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

“Please just give me one minute. You don’t understand everything that-”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “I think I do understand your position. And I admire you for trying to combat hate and prejudice-up to a point. But we have a job to do-”

Ben was cut off by a sudden crack of thunder-except the skies were clear. It was a gunshot.

“Get down!” he shouted. He grabbed Christina and pushed her behind a low retaining wall.

Another shot followed. Where was it coming from? Ben scanned the horizon, while simultaneously scrambling for cover behind a parked car.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Roger, a moment too late. A bullet caught the man in the right leg. He tumbled to the ground.

“Ben,” Christina asked, clinging to the pavement, “have you got your cell phone?”

“Left it in my bag,” he said bitterly. He tried to pull Roger to safety, but another shot fired; the bullet bounced off the sidewalk just inches from Ben’s hand. He gave it another try and this time managed to pull Hartnell behind the car. The three of them huddled there, pinned in place.

“Any idea where the shooter is?” Christina asked, huddling close.

“Somewhere in the parking lot. Not far. Not far enough.” Another shot rang out. Ben raised his head just enough to see movement about four rows of cars away. Their sniper was even closer than he’d imagined.

“Give me your briefcase,” Ben said.

“Why?” She didn’t comply. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ben.”

“Hartnell is bleeding to death.”

“We’re just off a busy street in downtown Chicago. Someone will call for help.”

“Maybe. But help won’t be able to get to him as long as there’s a killer trying to pick off anyone who comes close. Give me the briefcase.”

With profound reluctance, Christina passed him the hard-shelled attaché case. Ben took it to the front of the car, aimed himself toward the next row, and dove.

Just after he appeared in the open space between rows, another shot rang out, but by that time Ben had already scrambled behind another sedan. Still not close enough to do anything.

His heart was pounding so intensely it was hard to think. “Here goes nothing,” Ben muttered, then dove again.

This time the sniper was ready for him. The shot came much sooner. Ben heard the shrill whine, then felt it rip through his suit jacket.

“Damn!” He rolled behind the next row of cars, patting himself down, making sure he was still intact. His right side stung. He pulled up his shirt and saw that he was bleeding. Just a scrape, but that was way too close. If he tried that stunt again, the sniper was bound to get him.

He knew it wasn’t safe to peer over the top of the cars, so he crouched down and looked beneath. Sure enough, one double row away, he spotted a pair of sneakers: blue-striped Nikes.

Mustering all his strength, he threw the briefcase forward, aiming for where he knew the sniper had to be. He heard a grunt, followed by a sudden clatter. A quick check under the cars told him the sniper’s weapon had fallen to the ground.

This was his chance. Ben raced forward, barreling around the cars. He poured on speed, whipped around the line of parked cars…

The sniper was gone. The gun lying on the pavement was the only evidence that he had ever been there.

Ben scoured the parking lot, trying to get a lead on him, but found nothing. He collected the gun and returned to Christina.

“I think we’re clear,” he told her. “Let’s get help.” He ran up the steps and through the front doors of the office building-then froze.

The lobby had been trashed. Shattered glass was everywhere. The information counter had been destroyed, hammered to bits. Phones had been ripped out of the walls. Tiles broken. Lights ruined. Elevator doors destroyed.

But what most commanded Ben’s attention was the display in the center of the room, hovering where the information counter used to be. A tableau dangling from the ceiling, two figures hanged in effigy, obviously constructed from department store mannequins, so crude that they didn’t really resemble anyone. But one was branded with Greek fraternity letters.

And the other had a red-dyed mop on its head for hair.

LIVE BY THE SWORD; DIE BY THE SWORD read the placard dangling from the feet of the figure that was supposed to be Johnny. The one hanging beneath the representation of Christina read: YOU’RE NEXT.

The owner of the mail-order revolver purchased under an assumed name watched Ben Kincaid and his friends scurry about from a safe distance. Everything had gone as planned, except that the lawyer turned out to be considerably braver than word on the street suggested. No matter. The point had been made. They’d be looking over their shoulders constantly now, wondering if this was the magic moment when the sniper would reappear and give them the drilling they had barely escaped.

And with good cause. Because the sniper would return-sooner than they expected.

H urry! Charlie thought as the bus driver dawdled in the turn lane.

Did he not understand that this was a matter of life and death? Of course, he didn’t. You’re not thinking rationally, he told himself. But who would expect him to think rationally at a time like this? His stomach was in knots and his hands were trembling. He’d been a basket case since he saw what he saw-who he saw-when he got on the bus.

Think it through, Charlie. Having seen me get on this bus, it would be no trick to find out where it’s going. Follow it, make sure no one gets off. Or head for downtown. Anyone with a car could move faster than this bus. And therefore…

He gazed out the window, searching in all directions for the face he most dreaded. There were no more stops before the bus arrived at the downtown terminal. He had considered creating a disturbance, forcing the driver to stop the bus so he could get off. But in the long run, what would that get him? Where would he go? What would he do? He’d been found once. He could be found again. He had to get off the city bus and onto one that would take him far, far away.

It was the Chicken’s last stand. All those days of servicing Chicago’s high-society dames were done. They’d have to find someone else to fill the slot in their leather-bound Filofaxes between getting their hair done and making the society tea. His illustrious career was drawing to a close. Maybe he’d even go back home, go back to being just plain old Charlie.

It was hard to imagine, after all this time. Could he possibly return to his former life? Did he want to? Would his parents accept him? It might sound all sweet and bucolic, but he suspected he would soon miss life in the big city. The glamorous world of palatial mansions and Henredon furniture and… and…