William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

Ben stiffened. “Nice try.” He returned his attention to the tree, almost within his grasp.

“The Club was my brainchild. I set it up for Apollo perverts who were too cowardly to handle their own procurements. I made a lot of money at it, too. A lot of money. Hamel was sort of the secretary of the Club. I gave him a share of the profits, and in exchange, he set up appointments, made reservations, and arranged for the personnel.”

“A regular Boy Scout.”

“Yes. He liked the money and the house it allowed him to buy. Everything was dandy, until he panicked. Was certain the police were closing in on us. Threatened to turn state’s evidence to save himself. I assume that’s why he wanted the address list—so he could turn it over to the police. Or a newspaper reporter. Obviously I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

Ben grabbed the tree with both hands and hugged it tightly. He’d made it. He lowered himself down to the wooden platform, then started across the Burma bridge.

He couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder. Fielder was almost on the top rung of the ladder; he’d be on the bridge in no time at all. Keep him talking, Ben. Keep him talking.

“But why the girls? Why did you have to kill them?”

Fielder paused reflectively. “Hamel’s irrational threats made me aware of the danger the continued existence of the Club presented to my career. Not to mention my freedom. I decided it was time to eliminate all possible witnesses. Especially the cheap whores who would tell everything they knew for ten bucks.”

Ben walked toe-to-toe across the bridge, pushing his arms but, smooth and steady. “If you wanted to eliminate all possible witnesses, you’d have to kill all the members, too. Every name on the address list.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Fielder said, with astonishing detachment. “But the girls were a higher priority.”

Halfway across the bridge, Ben felt it begin to shake. He glanced over his shoulder; Fielder held the ropes and was swinging them violently back and forth.

“Don’t let this throw you, Ben,” he said, laughing. “The principles are all the same, even if the bridge is sideways. Or upside down. Just don’t fall out. It’s a long way to the ground.” He laughed again, a sickeningly merry tone to his voice.

Ben clung to the ropes for dear life. The ropes burned into his hands, reopening me wounds that had only superficially healed from the weekend before. Hang on, damn it . Fielder had him practically horizontal now. It would be so easy to fall, to just let go and…

Ben’s right foot slipped off the balance rope. He fell forward, but held tightly onto the ropes in his hands. Swinging himself backward, he managed to fall inside the triangle, onto the balance rope.

Fine—any port in a storm. He’d crawl the rest of the way.

“Good show!” Fielder yelled. “Admirable recovery. Slow way to proceed, but feasible. If I weren’t coming after you.” Fielder pushed away from the tree and started across the bridge.

Ben reached out with both hands and hauled himself forward. He wasn’t going to try to stand up. It would take too long and it was too risky—one misstep and the bridge would toss him to the ground. He struggled along, trying to close the gap between himself and the next tree, trying not to think about how close Fielder must be behind him.

“Twenty feet and closing!” Fielder shouted. “I’m excited about this. Aren’t you?”

Ben pulled himself through the last foot of the bridge. He was drenched in sweat; he felt as if he had just stepped out of a swimming pool. He was breathing much too rapidly and had burns and bruises in a hundred places. Nonetheless, he managed to pull himself erect beside the next tree, the one connected to the horizontal telephone pole.

“So you started killing the prostitutes even before you killed Hamel?” Ben shouted.

Fielder stopped again, apparently pleased to tell his colorful story. “True. They were the most likely to talk, the most easily bought, the ones with the least to lose. Fortunately, Hamel, always the deviant, had taken photos of them. I searched his house trying to find a missing photo, without success. Didn’t matter. I found most of them in Hamel’s briefcase, and I had all of the girls’ names. They were easy to kill. All you had to do was drive down the street, pick them up, and take them to a hotel.”

He gazed contentedly toward the sky. “Slip the bag over their heads, tighten the cord around their throats, and wait. It didn’t take long. And the whole time, I was in complete control. I dominated—I was God to them. It was fabulous. I usually kept a souvenir, just to remember them by. And then I eliminated all the clues. And dumped the bodies on The Playground.

“Of course, I removed their heads and hands to slow identification. The beauty of it was—even when the police learned their identities—who would care? The police don’t care about a bunch of sleazy prostitutes; the vice squad probably considered it a favor. My chances of getting caught were nil.”

He paused, and his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Until that stupid plainclothes cop blundered in. And then you.”

Fielder was getting too close; Ben had to start across the horizontal telephone pole. Just pretend like you’re on the ground, he told himself. It’s just like walking on a curb, except that the telephone pole is actually much wider. Piece of cake. He closed his eyes and pushed.

Halfway across, Ben was startled by a tremendous scream. He opened his eyes, waving his arms to recover his balance. He sat down quickly and straddled the pole. Somehow he managed to keep himself upright. He scooted across the rest of the pole.

Fielder was almost across the Burma bridge, laughing uproariously. “Made you flinch,” he said, grinning.

“Son of a bitch,” Ben muttered. He clung to the tree and scrutinized the next leg of the High Course. It was the wire track—one above, one below. If he could just make it across without falling, he could ride the zip line down to the earth. Terra firma. Best of all, he could tie the zip line down at the bottom so it wouldn’t return to Fielder. Fielder would have to go back through the course and descend on the giant’s ladder—and that would give Ben enough time to get away. If Fielder didn’t catch him first.

Ben stepped sideways across the wires. “Killing the girls wasn’t a piece of cake, though,” Ben said. “At least not the last one.”

“True enough,” Fielder admitted. “I did have trouble locating…Trixie.” He let the name drip off his tongue. “Sneaky cunt took to hiding, had half the whores in town covering for her. Bitches. I found her, of course, courtesy of that faggot she holed up with.”

“What did you do to Buddy?” Ben asked. “Is he still alive?”

Fielder ignored him. “Don’t worry. I had my revenge with Trixie. I didn’t kill her fast, like the others. I dragged it out and enjoyed it.”

Ben felt his sickness returning. His eyes were watering up. Just ignore him, he told himself. You can’t afford to be distracted now.

Ben watched Fielder float effortlessly across the telephone pole. He seemed to have no fear at all; he acted as if it really was just a curb on the ground. A heartbeat later, Fielder was on the wires and moving steadily toward Ben.

“End of the chase,” Fielder said. “Strap on your parachute. What—you don’t have one? Pity.”

Ben moved as quickly as he could without plummeting to the ground. It was no use. Fielder moved more than twice as fast as he did.

“Why did you try to kill Crichton?” Ben asked.

“Crichton?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “He wasn’t in the Club. He was never on my list. On the contrary, his stupidity has been quite useful to me.”