William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“True enough. Money’s been tight, especially since I was fired. But I have a friend who might be able to get you some more chickens.”

“Very funny.”

She adopted a thick French accent. “The lee-tle poulet , they are magnifique— ”

Ben froze and clenched her arm. “What was that?”

“Ben, will you give it a rest already?”

“Ssshh! I heard something behind us.”

They listened. They heard the hooting of an owl. They heard the leaves rustling as they skittered across the ground. Nothing more.

“Ben,” Christina whispered, “you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry. Let’s move on.”

Christina followed his lead, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than before.

The beam of Ben’s flashlight shone upon something solid. “What’s that?”

Ben and Christina moved forward cautiously. It seemed to be a small wooden building, a shack. Many of the wooden planks were warped and knotted, leaving gaping holes in the walls.

“Look at this.” On the door, Christina found a notice bearing the emblem of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

Ben read the notice. “The feds again,” he said. “The FBI often uses the BATF when they want agents from outside their own club.”

“They wouldn’t have an outpost here for no reason, Ben. We must be close to something.”

“Agreed. Can we get in?”

Christina scanned the door with her flashlight. She found the handle and, just beneath it, a chain. “Ben,” she said, “this is a bicycle lock.”

“What?” The wire chain was covered with a thin yellow plastic. The lock itself consisted of three metal tumblers, each bearing numbers zero through six. “The BATF uses bicycle locks for security?”

“Must be experiencing serious cutbacks.” She began turning the tumblers.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m picking the lock, of course. Didn’t you ever do this when you were a kid?”

“I should say not.”

“Of course. I expect they didn’t have bicycle locks in Nichols Hills. The local kids probably just posted security guards.”

She drew Ben’s attention to the lock. “It’s very simple. You try each number on the first tumbler, tugging the chain as you go. There are only seven choices. When you get the right number in place, you’ll feel a slight give in the lock—the inner key has been released from the first third of the lock. You then move to the second tumbler. When you dial the right number, the chain will give even more. And when you’ve got the third number, you’re home free.”

“As usual, I’m amazed at your vast range of expertise.”

A few moments later, the chain was unlocked. Ben gave the door a solid push; it swung open.

The interior was pitch black, even as Ben shone his flashlight around. He could hear something, though—an eerie brushing and scraping. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It took him a moment to identify the sounds: the beating of wings, the scraping of claws against metal. The beam of his flashlight lit on a long bench holding various birds, each in makeshift cages made from wire and cardboard.

“Look at these poor creatures,” Christina said. “What kind of bastard would keep them locked up in cages?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said, “but I bet it wasn’t the BATF.”

“I don’t care if it was. I’m setting them free.”

“Freeze!”

Ben and Christina whirled. The voice came from behind them, somewhere in the darkness.

“I have a gun,” the voice said. “Don’t try anything. Move toward the door. Slowly.”

Cautiously, Ben shone his flashlight in the general direction of the voice. The figure was so small…was this a dwarf? Someone on his knees? No—

“It’s a boy.”

“A very little boy,” Christina confirmed.

“With a very big gun,” the boy said.

“Yeaaaa!” Ben howled. “Be careful with that! It could go off!”

“That’s right,” the boy said evenly. He thrust the gun forward menacingly. “It could.”

“Don’t shoot!” Ben covered his head with his arms.

“What poise,” Christina said. “What steely composure.” She advanced toward the weapon.

The boy stepped back, waving his gun in the air. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot!”

Christina stifled a yawn. “So shoot. I’ve been hit with rubber bands before. Stings a little, but it passes.” She snatched the gun away from him, then handed the wooden weapon to Ben. “Now don’t you feel just a little silly, cowering in the face of a rubber-band gun?” Ben wiped his brow. “You’d be more sympathetic if a crazed madman had held you at gunpoint a few days ago.”

“From what I hear, that gun was even less dangerous than this one.” She addressed the boy. “So what exactly is your problem, kid? Why the muscle tactics?”

The boy’s face was fixed and determined. “I can’t let you release my birds.”

“And why not? It’s cruel to keep these birds locked up.”

The boy placed one hand against the hawk cage on the far left. The bird pressed his head gently against his hand. “They’re all hurt,” he said. “Shot up or worse. I clean ’em up and try to nurse them back to health. Then I set them free.”

“Hunters?” Ben asked.

The boy nodded. “Or trappers. Lucky for you I combed the forest and collected all the traps today. The way you two were stumbling around, you’d have stepped in a dozen of them.”

“Why don’t you take them to an animal doctor?” Ben asked.

“Because animal doctors want money. Like everybody else.”

Ben examined the birds more carefully. Clean dressed bandages, gauze patches—even splints. He realized their snap judgment had been mistaken. This boy was obviously dedicated to his birds.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy hesitated. “I go by Wolf.”

“Wolf?” Ben scrutinized his ruddy skin and his long, inky black hair. “You’re a Native American.”

“So?”

“Creek Nation?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

“What’s your real name, Wolf?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell your parents you held us at rubber-band-point.”

“Names are personal.”

Christina stepped forward. “Mine’s Christina. He’s Ben. Now what’s yours?”

He looked away. “Lemuel.”

“Lemuel?” It was worse than Ben had imagined. “Not exactly an Indian name, huh?”

“It’s no kind of name for a warrior,” the boy said.

Ben couldn’t dispute that. “We’ll call you Wolf. What’s your last name?”

“Natonobah.”

“Great. Wolf Natonobah.”

“So you’re a warrior,” Christina said. “Like in Dances With Wolves ?”

He stared at her stonily.

“Didn’t you see that movie?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I snuck in the exit door after the lights went down. I hated it.”

“Really?”

“I hate all that noble savage crap. Give me a movie where the Indians beat the hell out of the white men, that’s what I like. White men ruin everything.”

“Like this forest?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. And my birds.”

“You must come here often.”

“What of it?”

“Have you seen any…suspicious activity out here?”

“Tonight I saw two white fools creeping around with flashlights.”

Ben had to smile. “You were tracking us, weren’t you?”

“I followed you. Tracking wasn’t required. A blind man could’ve followed your trail.”

“What about before tonight?”

“I’ve seen other white people, if that’s what you mean.”

“On Monday nights?”

“Yeah. A week ago, last Monday night, I saw a small plane land in the clearing.”