Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Her vision blurred even more, and then she wasn’t looking at her husband anymore. She was looking through the window—that window—and she was seeing it all acted out once again. The person facing away from her was holding something, something thin and metallic, raising it overhead, and then—

  The club came down with the force of a sledgehammer and thudded onto the woman’s head. Once more the club went into the sky, and once more it came down, even harder than before.

  The woman screamed. Her voice was thick and foreign. Her words were incomprehensible, but her voice was etched with pain. The club went down again, this time with such force that it snapped in two.

  Carlee was horrified; she didn’t want to watch, but found she couldn’t look away. The assailant picked up the broken shaft, reared back like a twisted javelin thrower, and thrust the shaft through the woman’s neck.

  And then it happened—the blood. Dark blood spurted from the carotid artery, splashing the walls, the floor, her clothes, her face. Everything. The sticky black mess coated the room and the sickly sweet smell drifted out the window to Carlee and the woman screamed and screamed and screamed. …

  Carlee crumpled into a heap on the ground, facedown in the dirt. She wept in great heaving waves, her entire body trembling. She felt as if she would never stop crying, never could stop crying.

  “Carlee! What is it? My God, what’s wrong with you?”

  She heard Dave’s voice, but it was so far away, so distant, not even real, not even real.

  “Carlee, answer me. Answer me!”

  “Dave?” she answered, in the barest of whispers.

  “Are you all right?”

  She looked up, and there he was, bending over her, his voice insistent. He was obviously terrified.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. She tried to be reassuring. “I’m fine.”

  “You said that before.” His concern gave his voice an unnatural edge. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I—” She shook her head back and forth. “I just don’t know.” She rose up on one knee and crawled into his arms. “Hold me, Dave. Please.”

  He took hold of her and squeezed tightly. “I was just cutting the firewood and all of a sudden I heard you scream and I turned around and you were lying on the ground and—and—” His voice broke off as if it had nowhere to go. “What’s happening to you?”

  “I—” Carlee closed her eyes. Yes, it was still there. The blood-soaked corner. The screaming woman. The golf club.

  It was all still there.

  She could remember this time.

  “I saw something,” she said simply.

  “Saw something? You mean—like a vision?”

  “No.” Her voice choked. “Like a memory.”

  “A memory? Of what?”

  “Of something horrible.” Her eyes darkened. “Something I saw a long time ago, then forgot. Until now.”

  22

  AFTER TAKING CARE OF a few pressing matters, Ben headed back to his boardinghouse. The oldies station, 106.1 FM, was playing “Summer in the City,” as if it were necessary to remind its listeners of the sizzling heat. Tulsa has one of the highest average humidity counts in the country, and that combined with triple-digit temperatures was more than enough to keep everyone frazzled.

  Ben made a sharp left turn off Twenty-first onto Yale. In Tulsa, all the east-west streets were numbered consecutively (Eleventh, Twelfth, Thirteenth, with major intersections ten numbers apart) and all the north-south streets were named after cities, in alphabetical order (Boston, Cincinnati, Denver). Even Ben had a hard time getting lost.

  He arrived at his boardinghouse, parked on the street, and grabbed the takeout food he had picked up at Ri Le’s. Although the sun had long since set, it was still hot enough for Ben to work up a sweat as he walked from his parking place to the house. He tried to brighten his beleaguered spirits by singing to himself. “And I’ll always see polka dots and moonbeams … when I kiss that pug-nosed dream. …”

  Inside, he found Joni Singleton sitting on the stairs. She was curled up lengthwise on a middle step, her hands wrapped under her long legs. She had the headphones of a Sony Disc-man plugged into her ears. Her eyes were closed; she was grooving. She was wearing a red baseball cap—backward—a T-shirt advertising Sam Adams beer (I’M REVOLTING AGAINST BEER DRINKERS!), and ten-hole utility Docs (boots). She was seventeen, and she looked it.

  Her black hair was tucked behind her ears. It wasn’t until she turned her head slightly that Ben noticed—she’d cut her hair. For as long as Ben had known Joni and her twin sister, Jami, they had prided themselves on their long lustrous hair. Now Joni’s had been sliced off above the shoulder.

  “You cut your hair,” he remarked. There was no response.

  Ben gently removed one of the Discman plugs from her ears. An orchestral arrangement with a strong piano lead streamed out. She was listening to R.E.M., her favorite group. Joni had tried to educate Ben on contemporary music; consequently, Ben knew the tune—“Night Swimming.” A brilliant song.

  But hardly conducive to conversation. He removed the earphones from her head.

  She looked up. “Welcome back to the maxipad, Ben.”

  He smiled. “You cut your hair.”

  “Yeah. Does it look skanky?”

  “Not at all,” Ben assured her. “I like it. I was just surprised. You won’t look just like your sister anymore.”

  “That was the idea.”

  Ben sat down on the step below her. “You and Jami have a falling-out?”

  “Of course not. But we can’t go through our entire lives wearing the same chokers and halter tops.”

  “I see.”

  “I was smothering. I couldn’t evolve!”

  “That sounds dreadful.”

  “I’m seventeen,” Joni said, as if it were an eternity. “It’s time I found my own identity.”

  Ben nodded. “And here I thought the haircut might have something to do with your new boyfriend.”

  Her eyes widened perceptibly. “What are you talking about? I dumped Creamo months ago.”

  “Sorry, Joni. I didn’t mean to spy, but I saw you smooching with some tall, dark handsome boy this morning.”

  Joni grabbed Ben’s hand. “Have you told anyone?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Please don’t tell my parents. Seriously. This is life or death!”

  “Why?”

  “Just take my word for it. They wouldn’t understand.”

  “Mom and Pop aren’t into interracial romance?”

  “That isn’t the half of it. Take my word for it. They wouldn’t approve.”

  “Hmm. Well, they won’t find out from me. Mum’s the word.”

  “Thanks.” Considerably relieved, she retrieved her earphones. “He’s a really nice guy. Promise. He’s great.”

  “He looked like a handsome dude.”

  “Yeah, but he’s more than that. He’s deep, you know? Philosophic” He’s seen every episode of Star Trek.”

  “Wow.”

  “Kinda like a black Brad Pitt, you know?”

  “Don’t sell him too hard, Joni. I may become jealous.” Ben stood, then had a second thought. “By the way, Joni … do you ever do any baby-sitting?”

  A sly smile crept over her face. “You mean for that kid I heard screaming all night and day in your room? No way, compadre.” She stuck the plugs back in her ears and fell into the rhapsodic embrace of Michael Stipe and the rest of R.E.M.

  Ben stepped over her and walked up the stairs. Sounded as if Christina might have been having a spot of trouble with Joey. He’d best relieve her as soon as possible.

  Ben pushed open the door to his apartment. “I’m home! If you’re not decent, get that way!”

  He stopped in his tracks. There was something in the air, an unaccustomed odor. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was definitely unusual. What was it?

  Cooking.

  Ben did a sensory double take. Cooking? How could that be? He
heard the sizzling of the stove inside the kitchen. Problem was, he knew the only meals Christina could prepare were hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. And neither one required a sizzling stove.

  Cautiously, he stepped into the kitchen.

  “Mother!”

  She was standing by the stove, stirring chicken in a fryer. Batter was splattering all over her zillion-dollar pant suit. “Nice to see you, Benjamin. Am I decent enough?”

  Ben flushed a sudden and vivid crimson. “That … was really meant for … never mind. What are you doing?”

  “Making your favorite food.”

  Ben blinked. “Cap’n Crunch?”

  “No, silly. Your favorite meal.”

  “I didn’t know I had a favorite meal.”

  “Of course you do. Have you got any more flour? I couldn’t find any. Or much of anything else. I had to send Christina for supplies.”

  “Uh, sorry.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to make do with what I have.”

  Ben edged closer to the frying pan. “So … what are you making?”

  “Don’t you know? Every Sunday, when we came back from St. Paul’s, back when you were just a little tyke, you used to demand that I make my fried chicken.”

  “I did?”

  “Of course. Don’t you remember?”

  A deep furrow crossed Ben’s brow. “I don’t remember ever seeing you cook anything before now.”

  “Well, it has been a while,” she said as she stirred the gravy. “Rhiana does such a good job in the kitchen that I haven’t had much cause to interfere. But I’m sure it will come back to me. It’s like riding a bicycle. I hope.”

  Ben leaned over the frying pan. It did smell appetizing. And somehow—reminiscent. Could she be right? He didn’t recall any of this.

  “What brings you here, Mother?”

  “Your secretary called me. Said you desperately needed help with the baby.”

  Ben nodded. No lie there. “Where is Joey?”

  “In your bedroom. Asleep, naturally. Babies do that, you know. It’s what they do best.”

  “He’s already down? Great. Maybe he’ll sleep through the night.”

  Mrs. Kincaid chuckled. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Well … thanks for coming down. I really appreciate it. I’ve got this big trial coming up—”

  “Christina told me. It was my pleasure. I always knew you’d invite me to visit. Someday,” she added pointedly.

  “I’m sorry this place is such a mess. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve tidied up. …”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. You never cleaned your room, either.”

  Ben undid his top button and loosened his tie. For some reason, this conversation was making him uncomfortable. “I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition. …”

  “Not at all. I’m sure Julia planned to leave Joey with me, but I was still in Scandinavia when she came by. It was the least I could do.”

  Ben fidgeted absently with his hands. “When did you get here?”

  “This morning.”

  “You’ve been here all day? What have you been doing?”

  “Oh, this and that. Looking around. Tidying up. And tending to the baby, of course.” She paused. “Christina and I had a nice long chat.”

  Oh, God. “What did you talk about?”

  “You, mostly.”

  “Me?” He laughed nervously. “Sounds pretty boring.”

  “On the contrary, I found it fascinating. I learned more about you in one afternoon than you’ve told me in the last twelve years.”

  “What kinds of things did you—”

  “I was quite impressed with some of your accomplishments. As she described them, anyway.”

  “Christina probably exaggerated.”

  Mrs. Kincaid smiled. “That’s possible. She’s a great cheerleader for you. All in all, it was a very pleasant afternoon. I enjoyed her company.”

  “You—liked Christina?”

  “But of course. Don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I thought she was charming. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well … she is somewhat eccentric. …”

  “So what if she is? Benjamin, I’m not quite as banal as you seem to think. I liked her very much. What’s more”—she looked up at him and smiled—“I approve.”

  Ben covered his face with his hand. “Mo-ther … Christina and I are just friends.”

  Mrs. Kincaid returned her attention to the cooking. “Yes, that’s what she kept insisting also.”

  “Where is Christina, anyway?”

  “I believe she’s on the roof. Said she wanted to meditate. Something about staying in touch with her past selves.”

  “I think I’ll go interrupt her meditation, since you seem to have everything here under control.”

  “That’s fine. But don’t be late for dinner.”

  “And miss my favorite meal? Of course not.”

  Ben tiptoed into his bedroom, careful not to wake the baby, set down his briefcase, and opened the closet. Inside the closet, he popped out the panel that opened onto the roof. The architect probably included the access passage for repair purposes, little knowing it would be used by Giselle for hunting, Ben for stargazing, and Christina for past-life regressions.

  Christina was sitting between two gables on a relatively flat section of the roof. Her legs were crisscrossed in the lotus position and she was murmuring under her breath.

  “Contemplating the mysteries of the universe?” Ben asked.

  She continued to stare straight ahead, eyes closed. “Focusing on my third eye.”

  Ben sat down beside her. “Focusing on your third eye? Is that like using the Force?”

  “No. The third eye is for real. It’s the one we lost in antiquity. You close your eyes, shut out the world of temporal intrusions, and turn your third eye in on yourself.”

  “Sounds very mystical.”

  “It’s a time-tested meditation technique. Everyone does it. Kathie Lee Gifford. Suzanne Somers. Ally Sheedy. The giants.” She squinted. “Too late. I’ve lost it now.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your flow.”

  “Maybe not, but you did.” She raised her left eyelid. “Don’t sweat it. Comme ci, comme ça. I’m out of practice. I was trying to get back in shape. The Tulsa Past Lives Society’s annual banquet is coming soon, you know.”

  “Really? And me without a tuxedo.”

  “Ha-ha.” She manually unlocked her legs and stretched. “It’s a gala event. A lot of important people come. You might enjoy it.”

  “It sounds splendid, spending an evening swilling cocktails and listening to people talk about the good old days back at the Tigris and Euphrates.”

  “Come on. If you go, I’ll buy you a brick at the zoo.”

  “A what?”

  “A brick. You know, inscribed. It’s a fund-raiser.”

  “Gee, you really make it tough to say no.”

  Christina scowled. “Fret not. Jones already said he’d take me.”

  “Jones? Why on earth would he want to go?”

  “Because he’s a nice guy, Ben. Hint, hint.” She stretched out on the roof. “So how goes the investigation?”

  Ben sat down carefully on the old, knotholed wooden shingles. “Not well. I haven’t learned anything that’s likely to bust that videotaped confession. I visited the scene of the crime, but ten years after the fact, there’s not much to learn. I did see the bigwigs who run that country club.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Only the Captain. And he wasn’t very interested in chatting.”

  “Probably doesn’t like scandal and intrigue tainting the club.”

  “I thought it was more than that.”

  “What then?”

  Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m going to see them again. And now that you’ve got a relief baby-sitter, you can help. Let’s all meet in my office tomorrow morning and plot a
course of action.”

  “Will do.”

  Ben stretched out and tried to make himself comfortable. “Sorry you had to spend the day with Mother.”

  “Not at all. We got along famously.”

  Ben looked concerned. ‘That’s what she said, too.”

  “In fact, we’re going shopping together.”

  “You’re going shopping—with my mother?”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. You’re always complaining about my attire.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Your mother obviously has impeccable fashion sense.”

  “Granted, but—”

  “I’ll cancel if you don’t want me to go.”

  “No, no, no. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He folded his arms. The idea definitely bothered him, although it was hard to explain why. “I don’t want to disappoint Mother. She was telling me how much she likes you.”

  “Good.” Christina beamed. “I’m glad she liked me as much as I liked her.”

  “You did?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s great. After all I’ve heard you say about her, I was expecting some monstrous grande dame. She isn’t.”

  “Well,” Ben said carefully, “of course, you’re only seeing her on her best behavior—”

  “Your mother is an amazing woman. Do you know—she doesn’t sweat.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Sweat. She doesn’t sweat. You know what the temperature is, and your air conditioner doesn’t work worth a flip. I’ve been dripping like a faucet, but she stays cool as a cucumber.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “Oh, Ben, give her some credit. Any mom who drives all the way to Tulsa to baby-sit her grandson and fix her son—who almost never visits her—his favorite meal can’t be the cold fish you’ve always described.”

  “It’s not that she’s cold, exactly,” Ben said defensively. “It’s that she’s—” He thought for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. That woman downstairs stirring gravy isn’t the mother I remember.”

  “Memories are tricky things.”

  “You’re not going to start talking about past lives now, are you?”

  “No. But I’m beginning to wonder about the accuracy of your past life.”

  “The only life I’ve had is the one I’m still living.”

  She nodded. “That’s the one I’m talking about.”