William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

He felt something wrap around his mouth, then his throat. He was fighting gravity as well as his assailant; the person choking out his breath had the power position.

He felt the air draining from his lungs. He had to stop this now, or he would absolutely never have a second chance. He pushed against the arms bearing down on him. They barely budged.

In desperation, Ben released his grip and jerked his arms away. His attacker was caught by surprise; the body hovering over him fell to one side. Ben wriggled away. The person in the darkness started to bolt, but Ben grabbed the narrow shoulders and shoved them back as hard as he could. The figure tumbled over a coffee table and fell onto the sofa, lace doilies and all.

“Look,” Ben shouted, “I’m not armed, I’m not dangerous. I’m not going to hurt you!”

The figure on the sofa leaned forward. Ben saw a hand snake out and grab something long and thin and sharp from the coffee table. It caught the moonlight and glistened. Like a knife.

Ben ran to the front door and flipped on the overhead lights. The sudden shift in visibility was blinding. He squinted to block out the sudden glare, then gradually reopened his eyes.

The person on the sofa was a teenage girl. Fifteen, sixteen tops. She was clutching a letter opener.

“You must be Trixie,” Ben said, trying to keep his voice calm. “My name is Ben. Kincaid.”

Her eyes were wide and scared. Her hands trembled, but continued to clutch the letter opener. Ben wanted to approach her, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Teenager or not, this girl had almost strangled him to death.

“I’m here to help you,” he said, still gasping. “I’m not the one who’s been killing your friends.”

The girl seemed frozen, unable to move.

Ben yanked his wallet out of his pocket and tossed it to her. “See for yourself. Check the bar card. I’m a lawyer. Someone in my office was killed and somehow it’s connected to the murders of the four teenage…girls. If you want, I can give you the number of a friend of mine at the police station. He’ll vouch for me.”

Keeping a close eye on Ben, she snatched the wallet off the floor and examined each ID, membership, and credit card. After she had seen everything there was to see, she tossed it back to him. “How did you find me?”

“I followed Buddy.”

She nodded. “What do you want?”

“I want to know whatever you know. I want to find out who’s doing all this killing. And I want to help you.”

“Help me?” She laughed hollowly. “No one ever helps me. No one but Buddy.”

“I can,” Ben said. He took a cautious step forward. “I can get you police protection. Or nonpolice protection, if you’d prefer. I can keep this maniac who’s trying to kill you from succeeding.”

Ben saw her shudder. Her eyes were desperate and pleading. He could almost see her deliberating over how much she could afford to trust.

“How can you help?” she said, barely audibly.

Ben stepped forward, reached out, and gently took the letter opener from her hands. “First things first,” he said. “What can you tell me about the Kindergarten Club?”

41

AT BEN’S SUGGESTION, THEY washed the dirty dishes in the kitchen—at least a week’s worth. Ben washed, Trixie dried. He hoped to catch her up in the rhythm of an ordinary, mundane chore, something that might distract her and allow the words to flow more freely.

It seemed to be working. Half an hour later, she was talking almost without hesitation.

“You’re from St. Louis originally?” Ben asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Ben sank his hands beneath the suds. “How did you end up in Tulsa?”

“It’s…a real long story.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“Why do you care?” A tinge of bitterness crept into her voice. “No one else ever did.”

Ben rammed a sponge down a dirty highball glass. “Maybe you never told the right person.”

“I told everyone I knew. It never made any difference. Everyone always sided with my stepfather.”

“You didn’t get along with your stepfather?”

“My stepfather hurt me. And molested me. Several times.”

Ben set the glass down on the towel. “Oh.”

She looked up at him. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever said that aloud. Using those words, I mean. When it was happening, I didn’t know what he was doing, or why, or what to call it.”

“When did this start?”

“Right after he married my mother and moved into our house, three years ago. He was always touching me when he shouldn’t, and where he shouldn’t. Making dumb jokes. Asking if I wanted to shower with him. Wink wink. Jab jab.

“It just got worse and worse. One night he had this big party for all these big shot male friends of his. They were drinking and smoking shit, acting really rude. He asked me to come out of my room and join them. I didn’t want to, so he forced me. Mom wasn’t home, naturally. He dragged me out, and they gave me booze to drink, the first time I’d ever had it, and they let me gag trying to inhale their grass, and before long they were all passing me around, pawing me, feeling up my dress, feeling…”

She looked away. “They were gross. But I was so out of it, I didn’t realize what was happening. I mean, I did, but it was like it wasn’t really me, or like it was me in a dream, you know? Anyway, I must’ve passed out eventually. I didn’t wake up until the next morning.”

She picked up the glass and applied the towel furiously, long after it was dry. “I woke up and found I was naked, not a stitch on me. And no, in case you’re wondering, I didn’t normally sleep that way. Then I noticed the surroundings were all wrong. I wasn’t in my room; I was in his room—in his bed. And then—” She set the glass down on the counter. “And then I noticed that he was lying next to me, and he wasn’t wearing anything either.”

Her eyes closed, fighting back the tears. “I thought it couldn’t get any worse than that. But it did. I sat up, and I saw one of my stepfather’s friends in bed on the other side of me. And he was naked, too.”

Ben felt his stomach tighten. He dropped a few more plates into the sudsy dishwater.

“I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to get out of there. I got dressed and ran out of the house. As far as I was concerned, I was running away and never coming back. But where could I go? I didn’t have any money, not a dime. I didn’t know anything about buses, or trains, or shelters. I just wandered around the streets aimlessly. Couple of hours later, he found me. He grabbed me by the hair, slapped me a few times, and dragged me into his car. When he got me home, he beat me up but good. I had bruises, a black eye, welts. That’s how I got this scar across my nose. My mom was home the whole time, but she never said a word. I screamed out to her, but she wouldn’t interfere. She was scared of him, too.”

“You should have gone to the police,” Ben said.

“I did, about a week later. My stepfather told me he was having another party and he wanted me to be there. To entertain, he said. I just couldn’t let it happen again. If it did, I’d be more than just sick. I’d die —I was certain of it. So I ran to the police station and told them what he did to me. They put me in a tiny room with four male officers, and I told them everything, over and over again. I was amazed—it just came pouring out of me. I told them everything about my stepfather.”

“And?”

Her lip curled, men trembled. “They didn’t believe me. Not one of them. They said I was making it up.”

“Whether they believed you or not, they had a duty to investigate.”

“Yeah. And they did, in a way. They called my stepfather. I begged them not to, but they did. He came in, furious, and they put him in me same tiny room with me, and—what a surprise!—he denied everything.”