Cruel Justice (25 page)

“Any special qualifications for the job?”

“The main thing the leader needs is the cash to get the operation, whatever it is, running.”

“So we’re looking for a wealthy man,” Ben said.

“That’s often the case. Got anyone in mind?”

A wealthy man with known connections to youth gangs, Ben thought. A man who might have a need for many hands reaching into the poorest parts of the city.

Hands to distribute foreign-import drugs.

“I might,” Ben answered. “Let me do some more checking.”

“If you say so. I’d like to put one of these ganglord sons of bitches behind bars.”

Ben took his legal pad out of his briefcase and quickly sketched a design. “I saw a kid the other day in what looked like a red-and-black jacket. Emblem was a swastika inside a heart.”

“Fifteenth Street Demons,” Mike explained. “Did he have a weird circular pattern on the front of his jacket? And a big capital D?”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely a Demon. They’re the worst in the city. By far.”

And one of them was dating Joni. “What have they been up to?”

“You remember all those drive-by shootings last month?”

Ben nodded.

“We think they were behind it. We can’t prove it, but that’s what we think. We’ve also linked them to burglaries and drug pushing at city schools. Even grade schools.”

“Foreign drugs?”

“Mostly, yeah. Except for the pot—Oklahoma’s number-one cash crop. Problem is, their ace rivals, the Cobras, have traditionally controlled the North Side drug traffic, and they’re not too keen on competition. If we don’t cut off the Demons’ supply soon, there’s gonna be a hit. And some kids are gonna die.”

“How old are these gang members?”

“It varies. Sixteen to twenty, typically. But I’ve seen them as young as ten.”

“Ten! You must be joking.”

“Nope. Gangs actively seek out and recruit kids at ten and eleven. They perform an important function.”

“I hate to ask, but—what is it?”

“You’re the amateur sleuth, Ben. Can’t you figure it out? If the ten-year-olds get caught, they’ll be treated less severely by the cops and the courts than teenagers would be, and much less severely than adults would be. When the gangs go out on raids or whatever, they often give the drugs or the guns to the ten-year-olds, to protect the leaders and the older guys from arrest.”

“So the kid gets picked up on a serious felony charge when he’s ten. What a swell way to start your life. That’s really disgusting.”

“You don’t have to tell me, pal. I’ve been tearing my hair out over this for weeks, since that big rumble on Brady left three teenagers dead on the pavement.”

The phone rang. Mike stepped away and took the call. There was a long silence.

“Damn.” More time passed. Mike scribbled an address on his notepad. “Damn, damn, damn.”

After he hung up the phone, Ben asked, “Who was that?”

“Switchboard. A little kid’s been grabbed by some unidentified man. Spotted driving away in a gray sedan, couldn’t get the license-plate number. I’m out of here.” He grabbed his overcoat. ‘

“Is this related to the other child-molestation cases?” Ben asked.

“Possibly. All I know for now is that some superrich kid has been nabbed. Utica Hills type. Name’s Rutherford.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “Abie Rutherford? Parents named Harold and Rachel?”

Mike checked his notes. “That’s right. You know them?”

Ben grabbed his briefcase. “I’m coming with you.”

T
HE DRILLERS WEREN’T PLAYING
today, so the man in the red wig was forced to come up with a different diversion to win over Abie. It was too soon to take the boy directly to his apartment. Abie liked him, and trusted him, but perhaps not well enough for what he had in mind, what he wanted, what he desired.

Not quite yet.

Celebration Station had been Abie’s idea. It was a mini-amusement park, one of a chain, near Fifty-first and Yale. Miniature golf, bumper boats, arcade games, pizza—enough to divert the attention of a ten-year-old for a few hours. The only problem, at least from the man in the wig’s standpoint, was that it was very popular. And very public.

“Can we really go to Celebration Station, Sam?” Abie had asked with obvious excitement. “That’d be great!”

“Have you ever been before?”

“Nah. My dad wouldn’t take me. He took me to Bell’s once and hated it. He said, ‘Never again.’ ”

“Really? I love Bell’s. I’d go all the time if I had a special friend to take with me. Maybe you’d like to be my special friend.”

Abie beamed.

“Your father must not know how to have a good time.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, today we do Celebration Station. Next time we’ll catch Bell’s.”

Reluctantly, Sam headed toward Fifty-first and Yale. Well, he reasoned, in large public places like that, no one really notices anyone else. And if they did, so what? He and Abie would look like a father and son on a day’s outing. On the remote chance that someone was able to detect something amiss, they would never be able to identify him. No, they would give the police a description of some foolish-looking man with fuzzy red hair and owlish glasses. He was safe.

“Can we ride the bumper boats?” Abie asked. The man could smell the closeness of the boy, the sweet aroma of his skin, his body. His heart beat wildly out of control with anticipation.

They did, and the bumper cars as well, and the go-carts. All contraptions from which thrill and pleasure were derived from knocking the occupants around as harshly as possible. Sam grinned and bore it. With each ride, Abie became more consumed with pleasure, more enamored of his new companion.

After his turn on the go-carts, Abie ran to a water fountain for a drink. The heat was beating down on all of them; the physical activity had sent their perspiration glands into overdrive.

While Abie drank, the tall man reached down and placed his hand under the boy’s armpit, then tasted his sweat.

Oh God—He felt a sudden urgent throbbing in his groin. He knew he couldn’t wait much longer. It would have to be today. And soon.

The sooner the better.

By the time they had ridden all the rides twice, the man in the red wig knew all inhibitions Abie might have once had about talking to strangers were gone. Why should they apply to him, anyway? He wasn’t a stranger. He was Abie’s best friend.

“Want a Sno-Kone?”

Abie responded with his usual enthusiasm. As they walked to the Sno-Kone cart near the front parking lot, Abie reached out and took Sam’s hand.

That was when he knew. The boy was ready.

A grizzled old man sitting inside the Sno-Kone cart peered down at them, one eye open, one eye closed. “How can I help you fellas?”

“Two Sno-Kones.”

The old man seemed to be eyeing both him and the boy carefully. Too carefully for his comfort. “What flavor?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you recommend?”

“What’s the boy’s favorite?”

“I—Abie, what flavor do you like?”

“Cherry!”

“Cherry it is. Two cherries.”

The old man whirled around on his stool, scooped up the crushed ice in conical paper cups, and applied the artificial cherry flavoring.

Sam took the two cones and surreptitiously crumpled a white powder palmed in his right hand into one of them.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“Well …” The old man scratched the side of his face, then nodded toward Abie. “Is he a Leo?”

“Is he—what?”

“A Leo. Born this month. If he is, he gets his free.”

The man frowned, glanced down at Abie. Abie shook his head.

“Sorry. I’ll just pay for it.”

After paying, he passed Abie the doctored Sno-Kone. Together, they walked back to the car.

“Did you have a good time, Abie?”

“Did I? Wow! That was so much fun. Thanks.” He hesitated for a moment. “It’s been great, but—I wonder if I should maybe call my parents.”

Experienced as he was, the man had anticipated this development and prepared for it. “Do you want to call them?”

“Not really. But I don’t want them to worry. ’Specially Mom.”

“Then relax. I called them.”

Abie appeared both astounded and relieved. “You did?”

“Yes. While you rode the bumper boats the second time. Talked to your mother. We both agreed it might be best if you spent the day with me. It will give your father some time to cool off.”

“And Mom said it was okay?”

“Oh yes. She was all for it.”

“Great!” He took the man’s hand again. “Where can we go now? Bell’s?”

“Actually,” the man said as he unlocked the car, “I know a place that would be even more fun than that. A private place.”

“Will there be anything for me to do there?”

“Oh yes,” the man said with vigor. “It’s all for you. We can play games. Very special, wonderful games. We’ll have a chance to do things you’ve never done before.”

“Will it be fun?”

The man closed his eyes. “Heavenly.”

“All right! Let’s do it!”

“Off we go,” the man said. He pulled out of the parking lot with a heart so happy he thought it might burst clean apart.

B
EN GRIPPED THE DASHBOARD
of Mike’s Trans Am. “Would you slow down already?”

Mike stared straight ahead at the road before him, hands clenching the steering wheel. “No,” he said politely.

“Look, I know you’re a macho cop. I’ve known for years. You’re two-fisted, hard drinking, and tough as nails. You don’t have to prove it to me by driving fast enough to break the sound barrier!”

“I’m in a hurry,” Mike muttered.

He jerked the wheel to take a sharp left curve. The wheels screeched; Ben thought he felt the two right tires lift off the pavement.

“I’m serious! Slow down!” He would’ve complained more, but as far as he could tell, his protestations were making no impact whatsoever. “What’s your big hurry, anyway?”

“A little boy has been kidnapped. Isn’t that reason enough?”

It was a dire situation, to be sure, but it didn’t explain this burst of reckless driving, even by Mike’s standards, or the gloomy mood that had descended on Mike since he took that phone call. “You think that same creep has struck again, don’t you? The chickenhawk. The one who killed those little boys.”

Mike’s chin rose slightly. “I never hypothesize in advance of the facts.”

“But that’s your gut feeling?”

“One of the witnesses saw a gray sedan speed away from the scene after the last boy was hit by the car on Memorial. And this Rutherford man saw a gray sedan carry away his little boy.”

“Could just be a coincidence.”

Although his speed did not decrease in the least, Mike’s head turned slowly to face Ben. His eyes burned holes into Ben’s forehead. Then he returned his attention to the road.

“What’s the status on the boy who was hit by the car, anyway?”

“About five-thirty this morning he died. He never regained consciousness.” Mike’s voice remained perfectly flat, but Ben wasn’t fooled. “His parents waited by his bedside for days, but they never got a chance to talk to him. Never got to say goodbye.”

Ben was silent for a long moment. “Did the boy … suffer?”

“You mean after he was hit?” Mike twisted his shoulders and shifted into the fast lane, accelerating faster than Ben would’ve thought possible. “Hard to say. No one really understands how much pain people feel when they’re in a comatose state. But before …” Mike took a deep breath. “Before he was hit by the car, he was violated. Molested. Anally. And this chickenhawk did … other things to him, too. Just tortured the poor kid.”

Ben drew in his breath. Words left him.

“The medical examiner says it went on for hours. Maybe days. Till finally the boy managed to escape. And as a reward for his efforts, he got smacked by a car.

“The sooner I talk to Rutherford’s parents, the sooner I can get on this bastard’s trail,” Mike continued. “And the hotter the trail, the better the chance of success.” He glared at Ben. “Understand now?”

Ben nodded quietly. “Floor it.”

Abie watched as Sam inserted his key and opened the door. He tried to pay attention, to be aware of where he was and what they were doing, but it was so hard. He felt sleepy, so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. He couldn’t seem to focus; everything was a hazy blur, like when he put on his father’s bifocals.

Sam pulled him through the door. “Wait here while I get a few things. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll go somewhere else and do something really special. I promise. You’re going to love this. Okay?”

“Okay, Sam.” Abie slumped down in a white recliner and flopped his book bag into his lap. His body felt heavy, tired. He didn’t know what he had done to so exhaust himself. He heard a rustling in the back room. Sam was searching for something in a closet. Whatever. Abie leaned back his head and closed his eyes. The clattering continued. What was all that noise, anyway? Never mind; he was too tired to care.

His mind drifted back in time. How had he gotten so worn-out? He had gone to bed at the usual time, didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. It hadn’t been that tiring, riding bumper boats and go-carts. But he felt utterly exhausted now. In fact, he’d been feeling strung out ever since—

His eyes opened.

Since he ate that Sno-Kone.

Was it possible …? He’d heard of stuff like that, on television and in movies. Drugs. Stuff that made you sleep. But nobody did that in real life.

Did they?

Abie felt a nervous shiver run through his body. It seemed to energize him, though, to shake his body out of its stupor.

What did he know about Sam, anyway? Was it possible Sam … wasn’t the friend he acted like he was? Was it possible …?

Abie pushed himself to his feet. He staggered across the living room of the apartment, weaving back and forth like a drunk. Where was Sam? He wanted to ask him a question or two. …

Somehow, Abie managed to find his way to a door and opened it. Oops—wrong room. Sam wasn’t in here. He had almost closed the door again when he noticed something strange about the opposite wall. It was colored and—was it just weird wallpaper, or what? It was so hard to tell; he could barely see it.