It hit him. The sheriff eyed Ben curiously; he smiled slightly. He nodded slowly.
“All right, Colonel. Sometimes the rules just don’t work.”
Junior glanced from the sheriff to Ben and back, his eyes suddenly wide. “The hell you mean, you can’t let me go! I confessed! I’m guilty! I kidnapped her!”
The sheriff turned his hands up. “Junior, there’s no girl so I got no evidence to hold you. Son, you got constitutional rights. This is America.”
The sheriff grabbed Junior and yanked him out of the cell. He then pushed Junior through the office and out the front door. They stood on the steps of the courthouse.
“Good luck, Colonel. But you better move fast, FBI’s coming. Fella over at the airstrip called, said the director himself is flying in.”
Junior was silent on the trip back up the mountain. When they arrived, Agent O’Brien ran up to the vehicle.
“I couldn’t find her. She’s not in any of the cabins or the vehicles. I searched a fifty-meter perimeter- nothing.”
Ben pulled Junior from the vehicle. “Where’s she at?”
“Fuck you,” Junior said.
Ben punched Junior in the face. He fell to the ground. Ben yanked Junior up and felt a sharp pain in his gut.
“Junior, I don’t have time to play games. If you want to live, tell me where she is.”
“You kill me, you ain’t never gonna find her.”
“Listen to me, son, you’re not tough enough to handle what I’m gonna do to you. Now where is she?”
Junior said nothing. Ben grabbed Junior’s right arm and twisted it back until Junior fell face down on the ground. Ben put a knee in his back, then ripped the bandage from Junior’s right hand and held the hand out flat on the ground, thumb and two fingers spread.
“John, hand me that hatchet.”
John walked over to a small woodpile and picked up the hatchet. He returned and handed it to Ben. Junior’s eyes were wide, looking at the hatchet and then at his hand.
“You can’t do this! I got rights! This is America!”
“Junior, you lost your rights when you took Gracie.”
Ben swung the hatchet down hard. John turned away. Junior screamed.
When Junior opened his eyes, the hatchet was buried in the ground barely an inch from his right hand. He still had a thumb and two fingers. The first thought that entered his mind was he couldn’t afford to lose another finger because then he’d have to masturbate with his left hand.
“I won’t miss next time, Junior.”
Way Junior figured, he’d probably do two to five in a federal penitentiary for weapons violations. No way they could tie him to the murders of that judge or those prosecutors or FBI agents. Or even McCoy. Shit, if they did, he could blame it all on the major! Of course, a kidnapping conviction might get him another two to five, but he never touched her and he saved her from Bubba, that should count for something. Sure, sleazy Norman the lawyer could do something with that: brother reunites with long lost sister, show the jury pictures of her room, she’ll testify that he fixed her hot baths and breakfasts, and, best of all, Elizabeth Austin will have to testify. Sleazy Norman the lawyer will crucify the bitch, ruin her career, her family, her life. And besides, time the trial’s over, Junior might have himself a movie deal. Maybe Tom Cruise would play him.
“She’s out back.”
John followed Junior and Ben around to the back of the cabin. Junior abruptly stopped at a woodpile.
“There,” he said.
Junior was pointing at the woodpile. John didn’t understand, but Ben put his shoulder to the wood and pushed the pile over. He dropped to the ground and frantically threw the remaining logs aside. A small air vent was sticking up out of the ground.
Ben looked up. “You buried her?”
Junior shrugged. “She needed some discipline.”
John’s entire body began trembling but not with fear. A lifetime of bullies and beatings, of not fighting back, of shame and sorrow, of not being much of a man-all the humiliation and pain came rushing back and washed over John like a tidal wave. His face felt hot. Junior was looking at him with that bemused smile so familiar to John Brice.
“Hell, you ain’t even her daddy,” he said.
John’s eyes fell. He had always thought Gracie had gotten her blonde hair and blue eyes from Ben. But she couldn’t have; John had been adopted. So she had gotten her hair and eyes from… and John suddenly understood everything. It all came together: Elizabeth, her disappearance ten years ago, her sudden change of heart toward him when she returned, the quick marriage, the move to Dallas, Gracie’s birth eight months later. He knew the truth now. But it didn’t matter. The only truth that mattered was Gracie down there. He raised his eyes to Junior.
“I’ve loved her since the day she was born and I’ll love her till the day I die. That makes me her daddy.”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that when she learns the truth at my trial.”
But John’s 190-IQ mind was way ahead of poor Junior.
“There’s not gonna be a trial, Junior.”
John put the. 45 to Junior’s head and shot him dead.
“I didn’t see that,” Agent O’Brien said.
John wiped Junior’s blood from his face, then dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and joined Ben, digging with his hands. They hit metal in minutes.
Gracie was buried in a U.S. Army munitions container. A hole had been cut in the top and the air vent inserted. They brushed the remaining dirt off the top. They released the latches and opened the lid. Gracie lay still and straight inside; her eyes were closed and her arms lay across her chest. Her face was dirty. John reached down and touched her face gently. A tear rolled off his cheek and fell onto her face.
“Oh, Gracie, baby.”
“Let’s get her out,” Ben said.
They grabbed her coat and pants and gently lifted her out of the box then laid her on the ground. Ben checked her pulse.
“She’s alive. Let’s get her into town!”
Ben picked Gracie up and groaned; he carried her to the Land Rover. Her arms and legs hung limp. Agent O’Brien ran ahead, opened the back door, and got in. John jumped into the driver’s seat. Ben handed Gracie to O’Brien, and they laid her across the back seat. Ben shut the door.
“Turn this thing around and be ready to roll.”
Ben ran into the main cabin. Minutes later, he emerged, ran to the Rover, and jumped in.
“Go!”
John punched the accelerator. “Ben, where’s your rifle?”
Ben said softly, “I don’t need it anymore.”
FBI Director Stanley White loved flying about the country at five hundred miles per hour in the Bureau’s Gulfstream Executive jetnothing but the best for the United States government! — the leather seats, the burled elmwood trim, the state-of-the-art avionics, the 3,500-mile range, the six-foot-one-inch cabin height, more than enough for his five-seven height. This morning, instead of flying back to D.C. from Chicago, he was en route to Bonners Ferry, a 1,500-mile flight, three hours flight time, including a quick stop in Des Moines to pick up Agent Devereaux, who was now sitting in the seat behind Stan. His attitude hadn’t improved since their earlier conversation.
“Prepare to land, Chief,” the pilot said over the intercom.
