William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

The High Course had been taped off, but Ben didn’t have any trouble crawling under. The police had closed it off as a crime scene, but there was only so much that could be done to restrict access to a forest. The guards had left long ago. Since access had been restricted, though, there was still a chance he could find what he wanted.

He was now certain that Crichton’s belay line had been cut. Problem was, the police had combed the grounds and searched everyone before they left the site. If the line was cut, what happened to the knife?

It must’ve been left somewhere on the High Course, he reasoned. The police probably didn’t search sixty feet up in the air. The most likely hiding place would be the big oak tree that connected the giant’s ladder to the Burma bridge. If Ben could find the knife, it might bear the fingerprints of the person who had left it there. That would provide the proof Ben needed to confirm his theory.

Problem was, the High Course was…high. Sixty feet high, to be exact. Ben didn’t have any belaying equipment, and there was no one here to spot him even if he did. He was going to have to go up without a net, so to speak. Alone.

He felt himself dizzying, just thinking about it. How could he possibly climb that high by himself? His stomach was fighting him, threatening a repeat of the upheaval he had experienced before. When he found…

And that was the answer. Trixie. This might be his only chance to catch the bastard who killed Trixie. And Hamel. And almost killed Mike. He’d climb fucking Mount Everest if necessary; that sadistic butcher was not getting away.

He stood on the stump and hoisted himself onto the first rung of the giant’s ladder. His arms ached with the strain. He’d been hurt more in his scuffle with the killer than he’d acknowledged. And he wasn’t exactly in primo shape to begin with.

Didn’t matter. None of it did. He was going up.

He balanced himself carefully on the first rung of the ladder, trying to remember everything he had been told when he tried this the first time. Don’t look down, Crichton had said, and that seemed like eminently practical advice. He placed his foot on the metal joint of the connecting wire. Didn’t much matter if Crichton thought he was a wimp now—he just wanted to get to the top without dying.

He hoisted himself up till he was lying flat on the second rung. He clung to the wooden beam, holding on for dear life. Two down, seven to go. He tried to pull himself upright, which was tricky enough on this narrow beam without the additional complication of having his eyes clenched tightly shut.

He tried to establish a rhythm: reach, pull, hoist, and balance. Reach, pull, hoist, and balance. It should become a routine, something he did without even thinking about it. Slowly, methodically, and please God without looking down, he pulled himself up to the third rung, then, in rhythmic succession, the fourth, fifth, and sixth.

After me ninth beam, Ben grabbed the vertical wire and stretched himself upright. He’d made it. The giant’s ladder was by far the part of the course that required the most physical strength. If he could climb it, he could finish the whole course. He grabbed the high wire with both hands and started inching his way toward the oak tree and the Burma bridge. A sensation of pride swelled through his body. By God, he’d faced the demon head-on and conquered it. Fear of heights or not, he’d made it to the top, something a lot of people couldn’t do even with a belay line. Feeling fearless, he opened his eyes and looked down toward the ground.

Someone was there, watching him. The killer.

“Bravo,” the man said, clapping. “Quite a performance. All the way to the top in less time than it would take some grandmothers. The older ones, anyway.”

Ben clenched the overhead wire tightly. “What are you doing here?” he shouted down.

“Looking for you, of course. Did you think I would just run away and hide until you came after me the next time? Not my style, I’m afraid. After I left the house, I parked on Eleventh Street, waited for your car, then followed you out here. It was easy, despite the fact that you drive like a maniac.”

“You should know,” Ben said. He gripped the wire even tighter. His hands were dripping with sweat, which he knew would not improve his grip. “What are you planning to do?”

The man smiled maliciously. “Well, I really can’t let you fill out a police report, can I?” He seated himself on the ground. “I’m very patient. You have to come down to earth sometime.”

“You’re too late. The police are on their way. They should be here within the hour.”

“Hmm. Probably a bluff. Still, I can’t afford to take the risk.” Rob Fielder stood up, brushed off his hands, and gripped the first rung of the giant’s ladder. “Very well. I’m coming after you.”

51

BEN WAS PARALYZED WITH fear. He didn’t know which he was most afraid of—falling sixty feet to the ground or coming within an arm’s reach of Rob Fielder.

He’d already tangled with Fielder back at the house. For that matter, so had Mike and Tomlinson, two men vastly better-qualified to defend themselves than he. If Fielder laid his hands on him, Ben didn’t stand a chance.

Ben watched Fielder climb steadily upward. In the few seconds Ben had spent thinking, Fielder had already made it to the third rung. Another minute or two, and they’d be standing side by side.

Ben sidestepped toward the oak tree, his only chance. He had to keep moving forward, to get to the end of the course and ride the zip line down. In his heart, Ben knew Fielder would catch him before he reached the end. But there was no turning back now that Fielder had the giant’s ladder covered. Ben had to keep plowing through the course. The smartest thing he could do was keep Fielder distracted in the meantime.

“The way I figure it,” Ben said, as he inched toward the tree, “you lied. Hamel wasn’t dead at all. At least not when we first found him in my office.”

Fielder paused on the fourth rung. “Pretty smart, Kincaid. And it only took you a fucking week.”

“You lied about being a first-aid expert so I would let you take Hamel’s pulse and you could tell me he was dead. Then, after I ran for help, Hamel got up and simply walked away. Later that night, you killed him. And since you knew the police suspected me already, you dumped the corpse in my backyard and smeared some blood in my car.”

“All true, I’m afraid,” Fielder grunted, as he pulled himself onto the fifth rung. “How did you figure it out?”

“A paramedic reminded me that you never give a head injury victim anything to drink. He might aspirate on his own vomit. Plus he might require surgery. Then I remembered that you did just that—you gave Crichton a drink after he was clobbered by Doug’s wild throw. Beer, no less. At first I thought you just didn’t know, but a trained first-aid expert should be better informed. Then I started to think: maybe you were lying about having Red Cross certification. Maybe it was important that you be the one who checked Hamel’s vital signs. Then it all made sense.”

“Very smart,” Fielder said. “Bravo.”

“And it relates to the Kindergarten Club, right? You’re the member whose name was deleted from the list.”

“Guilty as charged. That list never should’ve been put on the central computer. Only an idiot like Hamel would’ve done such a thing.”

“I assume Hamel downloaded a copy onto the floppy disk. Then, when he saw us on his way out of the computer room, he hid in my office. When I opened that door, he played dead. And you covered for him so he could get away. Temporarily.”

“Too true. By the way, Ben. Your shoestring’s untied.”