Lee Child: Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

Lucky break, Ebanks thought. He hadn’t expected to find something literally soaked with DNA.

Martinez and the judge had walked over to the wall, where the judge was pointing to one of the photos. After making sure they weren’t paying attention, Ebanks reached into the wastebasket and scooped up the bloody fly and the Kleenex. He slipped them into his pocket and straightened up.

The judge showed them into the reception area. The secretary was on the phone. She waved and smiled at them.

“Let’s catch some lunch,” Ebanks said, “but first I want to ask her something.”

The secretary finished her call. “May I help you?” she said.

“About those JNOVs,” Ebanks said. “Aren’t they usually kinda rare?”

The secretary nodded. “They are, except for with this judge. You could almost say he’s famous for it — some of the lawyers call him the ‘thirteenth juror.’ He takes his work very seriously. He always says if the jurors don’t do justice, it’s up to him.”

“The thirteenth juror,” Ebanks repeated. “Hmmm.”

He and Martinez got into the elevator. As the mahogany-paneled box descended, Ebanks said, “Well, that was a bust. We didn’t learn anything we didn’t already know about Shadid.”

“How’d you know about Dolan being a homicide?” Martinez said.

“I got a text when we were waiting for the judge,” Ebanks said. “I thought you did too.”

“Nope. But hey, no problemo.” A few seconds later, Martinez said, “You know, that got me thinking about some of the stuff the judge said.”

Ebanks kept his eyes on the numbers over the door. They lit up as the car passed the floors. “Such as?”

“Such as when you told him Dolan was murdered, he was pretty quick to finger Mrs. Batista, and when that didn’t pan out, he tried to hand us the Luccheses.”

Ebanks shrugged. “You heard him. He was just playing at CSI or Law & Order .”

“Maybe, but did you notice that his house is on that same lake as Dolan’s?”

“So? I used to have a place near there too.”

“Yeah, but the judge was at his house when Dolan was killed.”

Ebanks folded his arms across his chest and made an effort to look thoughtful. “You know, you’re right.”

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. The two detectives walked across the lobby. The rookie’s thick eyebrows scrunched together whenever he was thinking something through. They were like that now.

“We had it backward,” Martinez said. He pushed forcefully through the revolving door at the courthouse entrance, and Ebanks followed him. When they were out on the street, Martinez said, “We thought Shadid was murdered and what happened to Dolan was an accident.”

“It does look like Shadid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Ebanks said.

“You mean, it was only a coincidence?”

“Hmm,” Ebanks said. He nodded at the hot-dog cart on the corner. “Feel like a brat?”

“As long as they have mustard and kraut,” Martinez said.

The two detectives walked down the sidewalk.

“You know, I think the judge is as Old World as the Luccheses,” Martinez said. “All that JNOV stuff. What if he did let Dolan out on bail so he could, you know …”

Ebanks blew out a dismissive breath. “What the judge said about justice being done was just a joke.”

“He strike you as the joker type? All I’m saying is, anyone who can fix a busted pipe would know how to rig a furnace.”

Ebanks rolled his eyes. “You really think the judge killed Dolan?”

Martinez slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the other pedestrians to flow around him like water around a rock. He turned and stared back at the courthouse.

“Yeah, I do. After lunch, let’s start at Dolan’s place at the lake. I’d like to look around some more.”

“Fine by me,” Ebanks said. “But I think you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t,” Martinez said.

The rookie’s face expressed the joyful anticipation of a fisherman who’d just snagged a big fish … or of a big fish who’d just swallowed a hand-tied fly. Peace settled into Ebanks’s soul, not unlike what he used to feel when he and Sonia were in his boat on the lake.

They ordered their brats, enjoying the thin warmth of the sun while the vendor assembled them. The scent of cut grass and freshly turned earth wafted on the breeze. Spring had finally arrived.

Ebanks had been a little worried that the judge might recognize him from Sonia’s trial, although it had been four years ago. He remembered their day in court, even if the judge didn’t. The jury came back after two hours with a seven-figure verdict against the trucking company whose driver had been amped on speed when he broadsided Sonia’s car. The money would have paid for the experimental treatment the insurance company refused to cover. Ebanks still couldn’t figure out what their lawyer, a chubby little bald guy in a bargain-basement suit, had done to offend the judge’s sense of order and justice. Whatever it was, the JNOV killed their chance at the miracle cure. Now his wife was serving a life sentence in a prison of pain, and the judge was still spending every weekend at his lake house.

Ebanks chewed his hot dog and thought about the half-finished Parachute Adams in his pocket. He knew exactly where he’d leave it when they went back to Dolan’s place. There’d be no stopping Martinez once he found it.

The only time he’d been back to the lake since Sonia’s trial was the night the Dolan jury hung. Maybe after his retirement was official, he’d take his Sage rod up there and see if the trout were biting.

LOST AND FOUND

BY ZOË SHARP

He waits. No hardship there — he’s waited half his life. But now, tonight, finally you provide him with that perfect moment.

The one he’s been waiting for.

In the alley, in the dark, just the distant glitter of neon off wet concrete. And he’s so scared he can hardly grip the knife. But anger drives him. Anger closes his shaking fingers around it, flesh on bone.

He tries not to know what the blade will do.

But he knows. He’s seen it too many times. He remembers them only as a slur of violence, swirled with a lingering despair.

And he can’t remember a time before you. A time when he was innocent, trusting. You taught him misery and guilt, and he’s carried both through all seasons since. A burden with no respite.

Tonight, he hopes for respite.

Tonight, he hopes finally for peace.

There should be lights in the alley, but he’s taken care of them. Something else you taught him — not to let anyone see.

It’s fitting you should die here in the dark, amid the rats and the filth and the garbage. You are what they are — the detritus of life.

And he is what you made him.

He hopes you’re proud.

But right now he just hopes you’re ready. That he’s ready. He’s dreamed of this so often down the years between then and now that he feels suddenly unprepared, naked in the dark.

Shivering, he’s a seven-year-old boy again, with all the majesty fresh ripped out of him, howling as he’s punished for truth, punished for faith.

Punished for believing, when you told him you would take very special care of him indeed.

He’s punished himself and those around him ever since. Lived a life stripped to base essentials, where “refinement” means cut with stuff that’s only going to kill you slow.

Lost.

And now he’s found you again, and he thinks, if he does this right, he may find himself again too.

He hears the footsteps, familiar even loaded by the drag and stagger of the years. He folds his hand tighter around the knife, takes in the sodden air, feels the pulse-beat in his fingertips.