A Tangled Road to Justice

by Olan Thorensen

  The man who had surrendered his rifle now stood erect, splattered with blood and his companion’s body parts. At this distance, the 6-gauge had obliterated most of the upper left side of the other man’s head. His body hadn’t recognized he was dead; his mouth opened and closed, fingers clawed at the ground, and his legs kicked out. Everything froze during the thirty seconds it took for his last nervous impulses to die away.

  “Damn it!” I shouted irrationally at the dead man. “I told you to freeze! Didn’t you see what I was aiming at you?”

  Then I realized maybe he hadn’t seen the shotgun. In the dark, with my small light shining in his face, he might not have known what he was facing.

  It was one more image I’d carry with me—one among too many others I fought to suppress. Did I have to cross so many light-years to add to my collection?

  Ruminations would have to come later. I had to deal with the now.

  “Turn and put your hands on the wall,” I ordered. When the living man stayed frozen, it provided a diversion from looking at his dead companion. “PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS ON THE WALL, OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE YOUR FRIEND!”

  I blinked, and he was plastered to the wall, his body trembling. I thought I heard him sob, which brought me back from anger at the other man and what I’d had to do. I swallowed, shook my head to clear my thoughts, and took in a deep breath.

  “I won’t kill you as long as you don’t do anything stupid like your friend did.”

  I patted him down and relieved him of a knife but no pistol. “What’s your name?”

  “No . . . No . . . Novinski.”

  “Okay, Novinski. Now we’re going to go back around to the street. I’m right behind you, and my finger is on the trigger, so unless you want to be converted into smaller pieces, you’d better be smarter than your friend.”

  I pulled the man by his collar and shoved him to the street, my shotgun barrel prodding his back when he lagged. More lights had come on, up and down the street, and people appeared in windows and doors. Millen was across the street, standing over a man spread-eagled on the ground.

  “Just one of them?” he asked when he saw me and my prisoner.

  “There were two of them, but the other one pulled a pistol, even though I had the drop on them. What’s left of him is around back of the building. What’s wrong with these people? That’s twice they didn’t have the common sense not to do something stupid when a gun is pointed at them.”

  Millen snorted. “I suspect they’ve had things their way here long enough to assume they always would. It may take a while for them to realize that isn’t the case anymore.”

  “So, what are we going to do with these two?” I asked.

  “We’ll lock them in the cells for now and see what reaction we get from the town’s leaders—speaking of which, here come a few of them.”

  Running toward us from one direction was Mayor Bossev, followed more slowly by David Ostell and a woman I didn’t recognize. In the other direction came a cluster that included Dr. Gebran, Alda Nakasomi, and two men we hadn’t met before.

  Bossev started talking from five meters away. “Saints preserve us, Millen, what’s going on? I thought I heard explosions and then a firearm. And what are you and Cole doing with two of Cherkoff’s men?”

  “Actually, three of Cherkoff’s men planned to ambush us while we walked the streets. The third man is across the street behind the building. According to what I understand from Everett here, that third man is very much deceased.”

  Dr. Gebran was listening and hurried away to check. He grabbed two other men who had just shown up to go with him.

  “How do you know they intended to kill you?” asked Ostell.

  “It seemed a reasonable assumption since all three were armed, with one hiding in the bushes here and the other two in the abandoned building across the street.”

  More people had gathered, at least thirty, with others coming now that it was quiet. There was courage in crowds, and now there were enough people to make it less likely Cherkoff would retaliate against any one person.

  Questions bombarded Millen. He answered the serious ones, politely ignored the naïve ones, and scoffed at the stupid ones.

  “You’re all asking for trouble,” snarled Millen’s man from the ground. “Wait till he hears about this.”

  Millen kicked him in the face, and the man’s head impacted the concrete section of the sidewalk.

  Voices thinned, then fell silent, as Gebran led two men carrying a body on a section of a two-by-twelve board.

  “Set him over here,” ordered Millen, pointing next to where the semiconscious bush man now groaned.

  Gebran had thrown a cloth over the dead man’s head and torso. Millen jerked it off. Gasps, curses, and other less categorizable vocalizations followed the corpse’s exposure.

  “Is he dead?” asked an incredulous, trembling voice to my right.

  “Well, if he isn’t,” I said, “he’ll have a hell of a time finding hats that fit his size. I ordered them to freeze, and this asshole pulled out a pistol and pointed it at me, even though I had my shotgun on him.”

  I didn’t see the need to relay my thought that maybe the man hadn’t seen the shotgun. This didn’t seem to be the time to get into a discussion on justification for performing an emergency headectomy.

  “Even Cherkoff didn’t slaughter people right in the town’s streets,” said someone buried in the throng surrounding us. Finally, the crowd began to thin out, as people hustled or more casually walked away.

  Millen gave me a “look” and a double nod—one at the still trembling man with my shotgun pointed at him and the second nod at the body.

  I grabbed the man’s collar and forced his face down to within thirty centimeters of the ruined head.

  “Why were you hiding in the dark, Novinski?” I barked loud enough for all to hear.

  In a lower tone that wouldn’t carry far, I hissed, “Tell us who ordered you to kill us, unless you want to look worse than your friend. All I have to do is pull the trigger, and your spine and guts will be scattered from here to the next block.”

  Only my grip on him kept him from collapsing.

  “Please . . . please. I was only following orders! Makon said you were nobodies, and we had to get rid of you after you shot the other men.

  I jerked Novinski back upright. Alfredo Landa stepped over to us. “You’re saying Cherkoff ordered you to kill Millen and Cole?”

  “Who?” asked the man.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t even know the names of men you were going to kill!” yelled Landa.

  Novinski’s hesitation ended when I dug the barrel harder into his backbone.

  “We didn’t know their names! Cherkoff gives the orders, and we carry them out. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s all you know?” said Alda Nakasomi, her voice conveying wonder and disgust at the same time.

  “What do you intend to do with them, Millen?” asked Bossev.

  “As I told Mr. Cole here, the first thing is to lock them up.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not an answer. What passes for a judge here is just as much a Cherkoff man as Dayton Wilton was. Are you going to make yourself judge, too, like you did marshal?”

  “That’s something that we, you, and maybe a few others need to discuss at length.”

  Millen leaned into Bossev and spoke sotto voce. “We’ll lock these two up and let Dr. Gebran take care of the body. Why don’t you and a few ‘concerned’ citizens meet us in the marshal’s office in about half an hour?”

  “Why would—”

  Millen griped the mayor’s arm so hard I could see the flesh turn white.

  “Later,” came through as an order.

  Bossev didn’t answer for several seconds, then turned to what was left of the onlookers still drifting away.

  “Whatever happened is over, folks. Let’s go back to your homes.”

  Millen’s man was conscious again, and we walked the two prisoners to the
marshal’s office, where we locked them in separate cells.

  “So. What are we going to do with them?”

  “That’ll be decided once we get a local legal system going,” Millen said.

  “And when is that going to happen?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Oh . . . sometime in the next hour or two.”

  “So you and Bossev are going to do this?” I asked skeptically.

  “And whoever he brings along. If I’ve judged some of these people right, a few key ones want to do something about Cherkoff, but they’re justifiably afraid. They haven’t reached a tipping point to openly commit themselves against him. Part of our mission is to provide just enough impetus to push them over the edge.”

  “Well, you seem to have more experience than I do in this sort of thing,” I said, “so I’ll reserve judgment till we see what happens.”

  “Trust me, partner, I’ve seen this kind of shindig before.”

  I didn’t know what “shindig” meant and wasn’t in the mood to play along with his Western shtick, so I kept quiet. I watched the feeds from the cameras we’d set up to cover the office’s front and back entrances. Millen didn’t seem to think there’d be more trouble right away, but I wasn’t as confident.

  CHAPTER 11

  When forty-five minutes had passed, and there was no sign of the mayor, I perversely hoped Millen had been wrong. Just as I was about to point this out, the front camera picked up the mayor crossing the street toward the office. As much as I grudgingly had come to accept that Millen usually knew what he was doing, I wasn’t going to admit it to the man.

  “Bossev’s coming,” is all I said.

  “Little late,” said Millen. “Might mean he had a few more doggies to round up.”

  I panned both front and back cameras. No other movement. Bossev stopped at the front door, reached for the doorknob, hesitated, then knocked. I think he was worried Millen might shoot first.

  I opened the door a little too quickly for the mayor, and he stepped back.

  “Uh . . . Mr. Cole. Millen asked me to come by.”

  “Come on in, Mr. Mayor. We don’t shoot first . . . usually.”

  He gave a wan smile, not overly amused at my humor, and walked in to sit at a chair beside Millen’s desk.

  “Anyone else coming?” Millen asked.

  “Yes, they’ll be along to the back door shortly. Being the mayor, I’ve got the excuse that I have to find out more about you, but the others have less reason to be in your office.”

  I glanced at the monitor. Sure enough, several figures were approaching the back door from different directions. I thought I recognized Dr. Gebran and Alda Nakasomi but wasn’t sure about the others.

  Whereas Bossev had been tentative, Gebran didn’t even knock—just went right to the doorknob and tried to turn it. It was locked, but by then I was two steps away and unlocked it. Gebran must have heard the lock’s action and tried again.

  “Hello there, Doctor,” I greeted. “Come on in. The shindig is about to start.” I figured shindig likely had something to do with a meeting. Millen could correct me. He didn’t.

  I stood aside, as people filed in: Jahd Gebran, Alda Nakasomi, Alfredo Landa, David Ostell, and three others—a woman, an elderly man, and a hulking man who said, “I’m the last,” as he passed.

  The seven newcomers stood behind Bossev’s chair. They clustered more than necessary, almost like a vid I’d seen once where African buffalo stood shoulder to shoulder for protection against lions. At least, that was how they used to do it when there were still wild animals left in Africa.

  Bossev spoke up. “You’ve already met Dr. Gebran, Alfredo, and David. Alda tells me you eat at her place.”

  He gestured in the direction of the big man standing at one end of the grouping. “This is Ashraf Hayek. He works for Francesca Vallejo, owner of the Midnight Hour bar. She would have come, but she’s tied up with some citizens who we don’t want to know about this meeting. She asked Ashraf to come in her place. They have similar views of the local situation.

  “Omar Felzoni here is a teacher, mainly in science classes for the older children. He also used to serve as the area’s judge when we had a real marshal and before Cherkoff came. It was an unofficial position since we had a very loose civic organization, but most people accepted Omar as impartial. In those days, any serious offenses were tried here, and, if found guilty, the person was sent to Trondheim to serve a sentence. We don’t know exactly what happened, but just after Cherkoff arrived, Trondheim refused to accept any more prisoners. Depending on who you asked and how many times, we got different excuses why they quit. That’s also when the previous marshal disappeared, and Cherkoff simply declared that Wilton was the new marshal, backed up by a batch of nasty-looking deputies. More than subtle hints were given to Omar that he should withdraw from hearing any disputes or potential criminal accusations if he wanted his daughter’s family to remain safe—they lived in Justice at that time but moved to Trondheim a few months ago.

  “Next to him is Aleyna Hamdan. She and her husband farm north of Justice about eight kilometers. You can consider her one of the farm leaders. They haven’t been directly pressured by Cherkoff yet, but she and the other farmers know it’s only a matter of time before he gets to them.”

  I watched the seven standing individuals while Bossev talked. Some were clearly nervous. The others had an array of expressions: Hamdan worried, Landa angry, and Hayek impassive.

  “I assume you have something to say to us,” said Bossev, “but how about you start off by telling us exactly who the hell you are and why you came to Justice?”

  “Perfectly reasonable questions,” said Millen. “However, all you need to know is that Mr. Cole and I have come to Justice to help you get out from under Cherkoff and return to something resembling a community run by its citizens. Exactly what you do to replace Cherkoff is up to you, but we’re here to see you get the chance.”

  “Then you could just be another Cherkoff,” said Hayek, “trying to take his place.”

  “And how’s that make your situation different from what it is now?” I said. “Millen claimed we want to return control to the citizens of Justice. From what I’ve seen, you aren’t doing much to get there yourselves. If Millen’s lying, you’re no worse off. If he’s telling the truth, it may be a way out for you.”

  “Easy for you to say we aren’t doing anything,” said Landa. “You haven’t lived through this and don’t have a family here to consider.”

  “Very true,” said Millen, “but what you have to decide is if there are any conditions under which you would be willing to take some level of risk. If the answer is always negative, then Mr. Cole and I will pack up and leave you to Cherkoff.”

  “You don’t really expect us to stand up to Cherkoff’s men, do you?” said Alda. “They confiscated most of the firearms.”

  “Outright battles aren’t the only way to fight,” said Millen. “It’s likely to come to that, but there are other ways to resist. Right in this room, we have the mayor and the last community-recognized judge. You must have had some form of governing body?”

  “We called it a Regional Council,” said Bossev. “I was on it, as were Francesca Vallejo, Jahd, and Alda. There were five other members. One died in a way that was never explained, two others are cowed by Cherkoff too much to be trusted not to go right to him. David Sloman and Mullam Algebel may be sympathetic, but I couldn’t find them quickly for tonight. Aleyna here wasn’t part of the council, but she happened to be in town, and I asked her to come.”

  “Let’s quit dancing around,” rumbled Hayek. “Lay out what you want help doing, so we can tell you it ain’t gonna happen.”

  Millen smiled. “A man after my own heart. Let’s start off with a rump Regional Council authorizing Mr. Cole and me to deliver a degree of honest law to Justice and the surroundings, to include the ranches and farms north of the city.”

  “You want us to publicly oppose Cherkoff?” asked Ostell.
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  “Not yet,” said Millen. “We recognize you’ll need more assurance you won’t be left dangling in the wind. Or, to put it another way, are Mr. Cole and I reasonable bets against Cherkoff and his men? No, when I ask for your authorization, I’m talking about Mayor Bossev and the formal Regional Council reconstituting in private and granting us authority to carry out actions that we or you deem important.”

  “Sounds like the small print is giving you carte blanche to do whatever you want,” said Gebran.

  “Part of the risk you’ll have to take,” said Millen. “But as my friend already pointed out, what have you got to lose?”

  “I don’t like it,” said Ostell, “but he’s right. We’ve got to take some risks, or things will only get worse.”

  “Let’s say we do as you ask,” said Bossev. “What are the limitations on what this hidden Regional Council can authorize you to do?”

  “Before we continue,” said Millen, “I think you all need to talk among yourselves to clarify exactly what you would like to achieve and how badly you want it. Then we can talk further. It’s late, so what if we meet again tomorrow at midday? That’ll give you some time to think about all this and talk to one another. If it takes longer than that for you to know your minds, then I doubt more time would do any good.”

  “It would have to be somewhere the meeting wouldn’t be noticed,” said Bossev.

  “The back of our store should work,” said Landa. “If a couple of you happen to be seen entering, it’ll look like you’re just customers. Others could come in the back door. Of course, I’ll already be there, and Elena can help customers as if nothing is going on in the back.”

  Most of the people present seemed fine with putting off any decisions, and we broke up. Millen and I checked on the prisoners in back. I was concerned about leaving them alone for the rest of the night, but Millen didn’t think there were more Cherkoff men in town to, as he said, “stage a jailbreak.”

  The next morning broke to clouds threatening rain. As soon as we fed ourselves at Alda’s, we arranged with her to deliver three meals a day to the prisoners until we decided on their disposition. As Millen paid, Alda whispered in irony, “Thanks for not letting me get much sleep last night. Some of us talked for hours after we left you. I hope something comes of the meeting later today.”