Perfect Justice bk-4

by William Bernhardt

  She was bitterly disappointed. Her boat drifted up one coast and down another. No one would take them in. They were shunned as if they were lepers or murderers. She could not understand it; she had committed no crime. She was trapped offshore, with no money and no means to contact her husband, even if she knew where he was. She became bitterly sick and filled with despair. She was ready to die.

  Finally, the American government agreed to accept a limited number of the refugees. Lan’s boat was brought in and its occupants were identified. One of the agencies Nguyen regularly visited contacted him. He flew to Florida to meet her. Since he was by that time already an American citizen, she was able to enter the United States. He immediately took her to a Miami hospital—just in time. According to the doctors, if she had not received medical treatment, she would have soon died of pneumonia.

  Lan returned from the house and snuggled close to her husband. “She’s asleep.”

  “Good.” He put his arm around her. “I am so happy that we are together.”

  “As I am, my husband.”

  Those were more than just pleasantries to Nguyen and his wife. To people who had been separated so long and so horribly, the words had real meaning.

  For years, the Nguyens drifted from one temporary home to another, finally settling on the Gulf Coast in Porto Cristo. A number of Vietnamese had emigrated there and become shrimp fishers. Lan loved the idea; the climate and terrain reminded her of the homeland they both missed so dearly. After more than a year, and countless troubles, they began to make a go of it. The business actually showed a profit.

  That’s when the trouble began.

  At first it was just locals—white fishermen whose income diminished as a result of the increased competition. They complained that the Vietnamese stole shrimp by violating fishing regulations. The charges were not altogether unfounded. The Vietnamese did not at first understand the complex regulations, and couldn’t always afford to comply when they did. Meetings between the various factions were held, but no agreements were reached. It seemed the white men would accept nothing less than total withdrawal by the Vietnamese. Finally, when Nguyen and the others wouldn’t agree to abandon their new home and livelihood, someone called in the KKK.

  It began with threats—frightening, yes, but no cause to leave their homes and a business just beginning to be successful. Then came the vandalism—fishing equipment stolen or destroyed, boats sunk. Homes painted with swastikas or sprayed USS VIETCONG. The KKK began to patrol the waters, theoretically helping the Coast Guard watch for violations of the coastal fishing regulations. But Nguyen and his friends knew what they were really looking for.

  A week later two Vietnamese fishermen were killed. Their boat was found adrift; there were no traces of the assailants. The KKK denied all responsibility and there was no physical evidence to connect them with the crime. The DA refused to prosecute. That night Nguyen and several others found crosses burning in their front yards.

  A council of the elders was held. Resistance seemed futile—the KKK was better organized, better armed. Some of the men were willing to fight, but they were not willing to put their entire families on the firing line. Colonel Nguyen hated to run, but Lan had just delivered Mary, and he couldn’t bear to see them endangered. With deep regret he agreed to leave Porto Cristo. Their home away from home.

  One of the other men came up with the idea of jointly purchasing a broken-down chicken farm and settling in the Ouachitas. Here, so far from the Gulf Coast, they thought trouble could not find them. Coi Than Tien would be their new paradise—that’s what the name meant.

  They soon learned that chicken farming was far more difficult than any of them had imagined. After they bought a small stretch of land, they couldn’t even afford chickens. They arranged for a major food distributor to buy (and own) ten thousand fryers; the Vietnamese would simply be paid a fee for services until the mature chickens were returned to the company for processing. In effect, they were chicken sharecroppers.

  The work itself was grueling. It was beyond difficult—almost subhuman. Rising with the sun, backbreaking labor, twelve-hour days. The chickens had to be fed, watered, cleaned. Every morning the dead chickens (and there were many) had to be removed. Unlike cattle, chickens couldn’t be left alone periodically to fend for themselves. They had to be cared for constantly.

  The work was harder than shrimp fishing, and considerably more time-consuming. But at least they had made a fresh start. And, they thought, they were safe.

  They were wrong. Less than a year after they arrived, when the chicken farm was barely operational, local competitors began to complain. Three months later ASP arrived and established a paramilitary camp outside Silver Springs. They bought a church not a hundred feet from the perimeter of Coi Than Tien. From his porch Colonel Nguyen could hear them pray to God to “drive out the infidel.”

  Random fires had been set—no serious damage thus far, but the shacks and huts of Coi Than Tien were a tinderbox and it wouldn’t take much to send the entire settlement up in flames. Acts of vandalism followed, and the ASP soldiers began executing military maneuvers just outside Coi Than Tien. A car parked on the street was firebombed; a young man walking home one night was beaten. And then, worst of all, Tommy Vuong was brutally murdered. A campaign of terror was in full force.

  Nguyen had hoped the arrest of that ASP member for Tommy’s murder would cool ASP off, but it appeared to have only intensified their antagonism. Colonel Nguyen did not think the man the sheriff arrested was the murderer. He was too tall, too broad-shouldered. He was not the figure Nguyen had seen silhouetted in the flames. But he could not contact the sheriff without admitting he had been at the scene of the murder. And if he did that, he might be arrested for leaving the scene and withholding evidence, or even charged with the crime himself.

  Nguyen had shown no one the papers he found at the murder scene. If those papers got out, and ASP learned he was a witness, Nguyen was certain all hell would break loose. Everyone would be in danger—including Lan, and Holly, and Mary.

  He would not let anything happen to them. Not again. No matter what compromise he had to make with himself.

  “What do you think we should do, my darling?” he asked Lan. Her head was tucked affectionately under his arm.

  “I trust you to make the right decision,” she said simply.

  “But you must have an opinion.”

  She smiled. “My opinion is that you will do what is right.”

  “How can you be sure? Perhaps I will be influenced by my own petty concerns. Perhaps I am not so brave as you think.”

  She stroked his black-and-gray-flecked hair. “It takes a brave man to know when to show his back to the enemy.”

  So that was it. She wanted to leave. Or perhaps she was just giving him the option, opening the door so he wouldn’t feel ashamed if he wanted to move on. She was such a delicate, noble creature. He cherished her. That was why it hurt him so to see her living in fear, in constant uncertainty. That was why he wanted her to be safe.

  The squealing of tires took them by surprise. Nguyen peered down the central road that ended in a circular cul-de-sac defined by the shacks and huts of Coi Than Tien. It was a large black pickup, smoked-glass windows rolled up, no one in the back. The truck was moving far too fast for such a tight restricted area.

  Nguyen removed his arm. “Go inside.”

  “Why?” Lan asked. “What is happening?”

  “Go inside now.” He gently but firmly pushed her through the door and closed it behind her.

  The pickup made a sharp ninety-degree turn just in front of Nguyen’s home. The tires kicked up a cloud of dirt so dense it obscured his vision. He coughed, wiping his eyes. He heard another squealing noise and saw the back of the truck moving toward him. It sideswiped his wooden porch railing and crushed it to the ground.

  “Who are you?” Nguyen shouted. “What are you doing?”

  His response came in the form of a descending window on the drive
r’s side of the truck. Nguyen strained his eyes but could not see the driver inside. He did, however, see the barrel of the shotgun that emerged from the window.

  The first blast was to Nguyen’s immediate right. He heard the shots fly past, then ricochet on the corrugated metal. Nguyen dropped to the ground. Several more shots followed, bouncing off his home. Even if the driver didn’t intentionally aim at Nguyen, a deflected pellet could kill him. Or anyone else in range.

  He crawled forward on his elbows and knees, trying to get clear of the dirt cloud. Another blast fired, this one so close it sent splintered wood chips flying into his face. He froze, his heart racing. He had faced gunfire before. He had been shot at before. But never like this. Never in front of his own home, with his family just inside.

  He heard laughter emanate from the truck. Gritting his teeth, he crawled over the now destroyed railing toward them. Three more blasts rang out and shattered the front windows of his home. The metal overhang of the porch clattered to the ground, smashing the chairs beneath. The laughter pealed out again, even louder than before.

  Just as Nguyen reached the back of the truck, the wheels spun and it lurched forward. Nguyen dove for the tailgate, missing it by inches. The truck whirled around the cul-de-sac, taking potshots at other houses. Fortunately, no one else was stargazing tonight.

  After the truck completed a full circle, it headed back toward Nguyen. An arm stretched out the window, and a red, glowing object burned across the night sky. The truck raced down the road just as fast as it had come and disappeared in the darkness.

  Nguyen ran to see what had been thrown. It was a flaming torch, a club wrapped with bandages and probably soaked in gasoline. The flames had caught the grass and ignited the shack of his neighbors, the Phams. If the fire caught on, he knew all of Coi Than Tien could go up in smoke.

  Nguyen ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around the torch. Ignoring the intense heat, he rolled the torch in the dirt till the flames died out.

  The fire was spreading around the base of the Phams’ home. Desperately he kicked and stomped the wooden planks, threw dirt on the flames, then pressed his body against the wall to kill the blaze.

  The last spark snuffed out. Nguyen fell onto the ground, exhausted by his brief ordeal. He saw his neighbors emerging from their homes. They were coming to help—too late. If he hadn’t been awake and outside tonight, all their homes would have been destroyed.

  They would have to begin assigning guard duty in rotating shifts. He would seek the council’s approval. It had been suggested before; that should be no problem. Something else bothered Nguyen, though. A far more pressing concern.

  The driver of the truck had made token assaults on the rest of the community, but the bulk of the attack was focused on him. Was it coincidence—merely because he happened to be outside tonight? Or did someone know he had glimpsed Tommy’s killer?

  Was this just another random assault on Coi Than Tien?

  Or was the killer looking for him?

  6.

  BEN ARRIVED IN SILVER Springs bright and early. He planned to spend the day talking to people and finding out what they knew about the murder. It was a small town, after all. If he spoke to enough people, he was bound to find someone who knew something of value—someone who saw Vick’s fight or someone who knew why Vick wouldn’t cooperate.

  Ben realized that Vick never said he killed Vuong—only that he wanted to plead guilty. That raised several suspicions in Ben’s brain.

  He strolled down Main Street, taking inventory of various possible sources of information. He spotted another local restaurant—one that didn’t serve barbecue. Clyde and Claire’s Café. The card in the window proudly described their limited menu. The aroma of biscuits and gravy floating through the front door was tempting, but Ben decided to pass. Maybe if he got time, he’d come back for chicken fried steak and fried okra at lunch.

  A pickup headed the other direction, executed a one-eighty in the middle of the road, swerved around, and parked on the side of the street, just in front of Ben. The pickup was a souped-up, custom-built set of wheels with a rebel flag draped across the rear window.

  Two occupants emerged from the pickup, young men no more than seventeen or eighteen. Both were dressed in bib overalls and baseball caps. One cap advertised John Deere tractors, the other Shakespeare fishing gear. They were both lean and muscular—local toughs.

  “You the big-city lawyer?” one of them asked.

  “I’m Ben Kincaid. Who are you?”

  “Name’s Garth Amick. Thought you were the one.” He stepped closer to Ben. “I’d like a few words with you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I don’t much hold with people coming to our town and stirring up trouble.”

  “I don’t blame you. And I assure you I have no intention of stirring up—”

  “I’ll admit I wasn’t crazy about it when those Vietnamese set up shop outside town. But since then, I’ve gotten to know some of them, and they’re good, honest people. I’ve made some friends out there. Then these ASP thugs start setting fires and scaring everybody outta their wits. And then one of my friends is killed.” He drew back his shoulders. “Well, anybody who kills one of my friends is going to pay the price.”

  “I agree entirely—”

  “But instead of facing the music, what happens? ASP brings in an outsider, some hotshot lawyer who’ll probably get Vick off on some technicality so he and his murdering buddies can go on hassling and hurting my friends.”

  “Look, I don’t have any intention of—”

  Garth thumped Ben on the chest, shoving him back. “We’re tired of outsiders, Mr. Kincaid. Sick and tired.”

  Just what he needed. An overprotective teen with too much testosterone. “What’s your point?”

  “I want you to leave town. Now.”

  “I can’t leave. I’ve been appointed by the court to—”

  Garth grabbed Ben’s shirt and twisted it around his fist. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. I want you to take an extended vacation. For your health.”

  “I’m already on vacation, and my health is just fine, thank you.”

  In the blink of an eye, the second boy ran behind Ben and grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back. Garth reared back his fist and delivered it to the pit of Ben’s stomach.

  “Oof!” Ben doubled over, wincing in pain.

  “How’s your health now, Mr. Kincaid?”

  7.

  GARTH DELIVERED ANOTHER BLOW to the same soft spot in Ben’s stomach. Both boys grinned. They slapped each other’s palms in a high five.

  Ben fell to the sidewalk, pressing his hand against his abdomen. “Why don’t we stay calm and talk—”

  His entreaty was interrupted by a swift kick to his chest. Ben doubled over, then fell on all fours to the pavement. This one was going to be harder to shrug off.

  He tried to catch his breath. “Look—let’s just—”

  Garth wasn’t listening. He slid a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers, then cocked his arm back to deliver another blow.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Garth froze.

  “Is this Kincaid?”

  Ben wheeled around and saw three men standing behind him. They were large men, broad-chested, well muscled. All three were dressed in identical outfits—blue jeans and camouflage green shirts with the emblem of a burning cross over the heart. ASP leisure wear.

  “I’m Kincaid.” Ben tried to straighten, but his stomach muscles protested mightily.

  “I’m Sonny Banner. You’re representing Donny?”

  Ben nodded.

  “That figures.” Banner stepped between Ben and the two locals. “Trying to beat up a duly appointed lawyer. Typical gook-lover trick.”

  “Go back to your camp and shoot some more scarecrows,” Garth sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Like hell it doesn’t. You and everyone else in this jerkwater town got all the lawyers too scared
to represent Donny. Then, when we dig up an out-of-towner, you try to run him off.”

  “We just don’t like outsiders.”

  “Oh, yeah? I don’t see you beating up on those Vietcong-loving lawyers down the street.” He nodded toward an office at the next corner.

  “You don’t scare me,” Garth said. “I got friends. Lots of ’em.

  “We know all about you,” Banner replied, hovering over Garth. “We know where you and your scrawny pals meet. We know how many of you there are. We know you’re all enemies of God and the Aryan race.”

  “You’re crazy,” Garth scoffed. “Fuckin’ lunatic.”

  “And we know that you’re out to make sure Donny doesn’t get a fair shake.”

  “Bullshit. We just want to make sure hateful bastards like you don’t kill off everyone in town!”

  Banner’s neck muscles tightened. His fingers curled into a fist.

  “Major!” one of his friends barked.

  “Yes, soldier?”

  “In private, sir.” The man whispered, but not so low that Ben couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Sir, we’re attracting attention from the locals. The Grand Dragon specifically said—”

  “I don’t need you to remind me of my orders, soldier.” Banner squared his shoulders and looked down at Garth. “You—will—leave,” he spat. “And you will leave Mr. Kincaid alone.”

  “Oh, will I?”

  Banner’s two soldiers closed on either side. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

  The two boys exchanged a glance. They were outnumbered and outmuscled. “We’ll leave,” Garth said finally. “But this is just a postponement. To be continued.” The two boys strode back to their pickup and drove away.