William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Well, maybe Crackerbarrel will do the trick. I’m sure Herb will be there. Mark my words, you’re going to love Herb.”

Christina spotted the overhead arch that announced they had arrived at Camp Sequoyah. “You’re too late. I’ve already met Herb. Great guy. Real savoir faire. The whole time we talked, his eyes never rose above breast-level.”

“Well, maybe Candy will keep him in line.”

Christina drove down the narrow country road that led to the main campsite. “I don’t see a parking lot.”

“Nor do I think you’re likely to. Just watch for a lot of other cars. I’m sure Herb and Chuck have been here for hours buttering up Crichton.”

“Ben, do you really think you should be doing this? So soon after the murder, I mean?”

“Christina, I’ve got one week to find out who killed Hamel. And my best modus operandi is to find out whatever I can about these legal eagles. And what better way to do that than here, at this corporate pressure cooker, where all my chief suspects are conveniently gathered?”

She tapped her fingers pensively on the steering wheel. “I suppose you’re right….”

“So what’s your problem?”

She pulled her car beside a row of BMWs and Land Rovers. “My problem is, it’s entirely possible that one of these legal eagles has committed murder, and we’re now about a million miles from any kind of help. If the killer finds out you’re after him, he or she may be tempted to give a repeat performance. With you in the starring role. Capeesh?”

Ben fumbled with his overnight bag. “Well…when you put it like that…”

Ben trailed in from the training exercises about eight-thirty, a portrait of complete exhaustion. He and his colleagues had been training since noon; it seemed like forever.

He stumbled through the door of the stone bunkhouse and found to his dismay that everyone else in the group was standing at the bar, fully showered and changed, staring at him.

“Have a bit of trouble with the last group of exercises?” Chuck chuckled. “Everyone else has been back for half an hour.”

“I have a problem with heights,” Ben muttered. “Ever since I was a kid.”

“I can see where that would make it hard to finish the course,” Chuck replied. “After all, you were almost six inches off the ground.”

“Hey!” Crichton interceded. “We’re here to bond, not to denigrate. This is Ben’s first time on the course. Cut him some slack.”

Thanks, Dad. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Please do,” Candice tittered.

Ben mounted the stairs, threw his clothes on his bunk, and crawled into the shower. The day had been filled with a variety of exercises designed to teach noble workplace skills such as teamwork, mutual trust, assertiveness, and leadership, via sixth-grade problem-solving scenarios. Transporting five people across a ravine with three two-by-fours. Lifting one another through the spider’s web (a vertical lattice of latex webbing). Moving “toxic waste” (a glass of water) to safety on a rope swing—while blindfolded. All peppered with inspirational lectures about the Universal Yo!

The worst was the Trust Fall. Victims—er, participants—were supposed to climb to a platform about seven feet up a tree, turn around, fold their hands across their chests (very symbolic), and fall. Backwards. The idea was that your bosom buddies on the ground would catch you in their outstretched but unlinked arms. That was the idea, anyway. You were supposed to trust that they would be there, even though you couldn’t see them as you fell. Unfortunately, Ben didn’t trust any of them, except Christina, and he knew she couldn’t catch him by herself.

He’d been up there a full fifteen minutes before he fell, and even then it was just because he got dizzy and lost his balance.

On the last leg of me course, everyone was supposed to complete a lightweight obstacle course on a slightly raised platform. The course involved jumping, swinging on ropes, and balancing on telephone poles and thick metal cables. Ben started near the front; he ended dead last. Worst of all, he had to smile and pretend to be good-humored about it as colleague after colleague passed him. Even Christina overtook him, after he refused her offer to haul him through the tough spots.

After he finished drying off, Ben dressed, shaved, and descended to the ground floor of the bunkhouse for Crackerbarrel.

Crackerbarrel?

Chuck saw him first. “Hail, Ben Kincaid, mighty warrior!” he shouted, then snorted into a fistful of potato chips.

Ben made a mental note that if he ever became uncommonly wealthy, he would devote all his resources to making Chuck’s life miserable. Ignoring Chuck, he found a spread of chips, veggies, and other snack foods laid out on the kitchen counter.

Ben felt a sudden swat on the back. “Glad you made it in before midnight,” Herb said, grinning. “We were afraid we would have to release the dogs.”

“Ha, ha,” Ben said, without much enthusiasm. “Very funny.”

“Just a little humor, Kincaid. I’m sure a luminary of your stature can take it. Say, here’s a tip. Stay clear of Crichton tonight. He’s on the warpath. He’s been yelling at everyone in sight since we got back to the bunkhouse. No one can figure out why.”

“Surely he didn’t yell at you , Herb.”

Herb’s lips pursed. “He did. Threatened me within an inch of my job, the SOB. I know he’s your biggest fan, Kincaid, but I’d stay away from him just the same.”

Herb passed through the food line and gravitated to the other side of the room, where Candice coincidentally happened to be standing.

“Need help carrying your plate, mighty warrior?” Christina asked Ben.

“Now I understand,” Ben said. “Crackerbarrel must mean gathering place for the great wits of the twentieth century.”

“Oooh. Not the usual homme d’esprit, tonight, huh? Didn’t mean to offend. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“So I can serve as the butt of your jokes?”

“No, so you can protect me from Herbert the Pervert. What a lech that man is. Can’t keep his eyes—or his hands—to himself. Practically pawed me up in the chow line. And with Candice, me object of his amour fou , standing right beside me.”

“Maybe he was using you as a diversion. You know, to throw everyone off the track.”

Christina shivered. “More likely he’s just an insufferable toad.”

Ben exited the snack line and took a seat at the table beside Doug, who was sitting with a plate full of tortilla chips and queso and, of course, his laptop computer.

“I hear Crichton’s in a lousy mood tonight,” Ben said.

“You are a master of understatement.”

“He got to you, too?”

Doug drew heavily on his cigarillo, then set it on the corner of his paper plate. “Oh, yes. Took my American Airlines litigation plan and threw it in my face. Told me to get back behind the typewriter where I belong.” He shoved a few chips in his mouth. “Stupid ass. Doesn’t know the difference between a PC and a typewriter.”

“Who else incurred the wrath—” Ben’s sentence was cut off by a sudden outburst from the back of the room.

“Good God, they’re at it again,” Doug said. “Like characters from a Noël Coward play.”

“Who?”

Doug pointed. Herb and Candice had finally managed to connect, so to speak.

“You were pathetic today,” Candice said. “You run like a girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” Herb retorted. “Well, you run like a man, not that that’s any big surprise.”

“Dickhead.”

“Bitch.”

“Prick.”

“Double bitch.”

Ben turned back toward Doug. “Looks like they didn’t do much bonding today.”