Uncertain Justice

Chapter 10

In the end, the voice in his head--perhaps it was no more than pure stubbornness--prevailed. He'd play this out and see what happened.

The decision made, he watched the storm a moment longer. A strengthening wind toyed with a loose end of a sheet of canvas covering heavy rolls of roofing shingles near the outside wall of the garage. In a few minutes, the loose end was flapping in the wind, making loud popping noises as it whipped around.

He pulled the key from the ignition, stuffed it in his right front pocket, and made ready to leave the safety of the truck. Twisting around on the seat, he grabbed the poncho from the hook behind him and pulled the olive drab raingear over his head, draping it about his body as best he could in the confined space. Turning the shotgun upside down, he loaded four express double-aught buck cartridges into the tube magazine. Turning it over, he worked the slide to move one of the thick, three-inch shells into the chamber. Reaching under the receiver, he thumbed one more into the magazine. The weapon was fully loaded and c****d. He checked the safety to make sure it was on.

Miles took a deep breath and opened the driver's side door. The glare from the dome light revealed piles of plumbing fixtures, lumber, and everything else for yards around. That included the big pickup and its driver. He yanked the door back shut.

The glow from his mini-flashlight showed him there was no quick release for the lens cover on the light's mounting frame. The screws holding it tight would have to be removed before he could get to the bulb. It wasn't impossible to do; he had a toolbox in the truck bed with several screwdrivers inside, but it was hidden back there somewhere under the tarp. It was too much trouble and he was in a hurry.

Turning away and pulling the hood of the poncho over his eyes for protection, he gave the fixture a quick, hard tap with the shotgun muzzle. The fragile plastic lens and light bulb shattered instantly, sending shards flying across the seat and floorboard. He snapped off the flash and dropped it in a jacket pocket. When he opened the pickup's door this time, the darkness was unbroken.

While his eyes adjusted to the night, he stumbled forward to the heap of shingles. Working mainly by touch, he tucked the loose end of the canvas under a corner of the bottom bundle. The aggravating noise stopped.

He slogged through discarded building materials and deep grass to the back corner of the house and tried to orient himself. As best he could determine, he needed to bear off to his right at about a forty-five degree angle. He set off through a back yard that was as much an obstacle course as the front, threading his way through demolished flower gardens, piles of building materials, dumpsters, and overgrown landscaping. The forbidding pit off to his left had probably been a swimming pool in better days.

Many of the boards in the back fence were marked for replacement and several were already missing. He stopped and bent low to peer through one of the gaps, wondering if his navigation had been correct. A prolonged flash of lightning spread spider webs of raw electrical energy from one cloud to another. There was enough light to see a big house with an isolated garage to his left and a trio of close-set pines off to the right. Brady's had been the only house on that street with a detached garage ... and those trees growing so close together cinched it. This was it.

He turned sideways to slide through a space where two boards had been and moved forward onto the wet grass of Brady's lawn. He jogged up a slight incline toward the house before stopping. He knelt in the shadow of an elaborate fountain. Water spouted from the mouth of a concrete elf in spite of the heavy rain.

The back of Brady's home was directly in front of him and the garage off to his left. He couldn't detect any movement around either of the structures. High fences on both sides of the attorney's property blocked the view into Brady's backyard. He felt better, less vulnerable. Holding the shotgun under the poncho, he rose to prowl around the back of the residence, trying to find a way inside.

The electric power failed every few minutes, only to come back on a moment later as relays reset themselves in the city's power grid. He flinched every time the neighborhood's outdoor lighting glared brightly again but the lights were never accompanied by raised voices. He was reasonably sure he hadn't been seen.

Every door and window on the back of the house was tightly locked. He couldn't see any way to get inside short of breaking a window. The best choice for that looked like one of the decorative panes in the back door. One of them had felt encouragingly loose in its mounting when he poked at it. The sound of breaking glass was distinctive though, easily heard, and it would instantly alarm anyone inside the residence. Realistically, he couldn't expect to break a window, scramble inside, and overpower an occupant quickly enough to stop a 911 call.

At the back of his mind, he had a plan in reserve that he didn't really like. It had the advantage of simplicity but it was more dangerous than slipping in through an unguarded back door.

It would work though. He knew it would. When he was sure there was nothing else, he admitted to himself he was going around the house and knock on the front door. Whoever answered the door, either Brady or a housekeeper, would surely be docile with a shotgun muzzle staring them in the face. Sighing softly to himself in resignation, he trudged along the south side of the house--the side away from the garage and expanse of driveway where he would be out in the open for anyone to see.

He slowly opened a massive wooden gate leading to the front yard, afraid the soaked metal hinges would scream a protest. Perhaps his care was successful; perhaps the gate never made any noise. In any event, the gate opened ponderously and silently.

Leaving it slightly ajar, he moved forward cautiously, pausing behind a waist-high shrub at the front corner of the house to watch for a while. The concealing backyard fences had ended at the gate and he was exposed for anyone watching from across the street or next door. Kneeling to reduce his silhouette, he looked at the two houses across the street. There was no one visible over there. He turned to inspect this side of the road and the house behind him. There was no one there either.

Satisfied he hadn't yet been seen, he stood to walk to the elaborate double doors that provided entrance into District Attorney Carl Brady's home. He hadn't fully risen from a crouch when a set of brilliant headlights of a car lit the scene with frightening intensity. The lights were from a vehicle turning the corner from a street to his right rear. The headlights painted his shadow on the light-colored bricks of Brady's house, exposing him for everyone to see.

Stunned, Miles couldn't react at first. Forcing himself into action, he dove back behind the shrubbery and sank to one knee while he waited for the car to pass. It didn't. Instead, the vehicle slowed and turned into Brady's driveway.

Once stopped, the driver must have leaned on the horn because it sent a deep, braying clamor reverberating through the neighborhood. Miles' heart pounded. In spite of the rain, his mouth was dry and he couldn't swallow. He did not need this.

The porch light over Brady's door came on, spilling a bright swath of light across the lawn. Miles pulled the poncho's hood low over his eyes. The front door opened and the prosecutor stepped out to wave at what a flash of lightning revealed to be a long, dark-colored limousine.

The electricity went off again and Miles used the opportunity created by the sudden darkness to drop flat behind a bush. He was out of sight from anyone on the street but not nearly as well concealed from a viewpoint near the open door. The porch light would destroy Brady's night vision while it was on though, and the blinding effect would last for quite a while after the light went off.

The district attorney shouldn't be able to see Miles as he lay half under the shrub then, but Miles was completely exposed to anyone on the neighbor's porch behind him. If anyone next door stepped outside to see what the commotion was ... he started to sweat inside the confining poncho.

"God damn it!" Miles winced at the curse from Brady. The cold lump in Miles' stomach froze solid. His pulse was so loud in his ears he was amazed Brady didn't look toward Miles to find the source of the noise.

The lights flickered and came back on. Miles waited, his muscles tensed to struggle to his feet and run, but there was no outcry. No one pointed an accusing finger at him.

Actually--Miles checked everyone he could see to make sure--no one was even looking his way. He even threw a glance behind him at the neighbor's house. There was no one there, no one raising a pointing forefinger at the intruder on Brady's property.

It helped to know he was still unseen, but his heart still threatened to lodge permanently in his throat. He squirmed as far under the bushes as he could.

He had a good view of the porch area even through the branches, and could see the attorney using a finger to prod a keyboard on the wall just inside the front door. It was apparently the control panel for a security system ... an uncooperative one, judging by Brady's reactions.

The lawyer entered another code on the number pad, and this time the unit squealed shrilly at him. He hit what must have been a canceling key and cursed again. The lights all over the neighborhood died again.

"God damn this sorry son of a bitching system! f*****g thing only works half the damned time anyway, and now...."

Miles' eyes widened in shock. The slight, almost diminutive lead attorney for the prosecution cursed like a drunken sailor. Who knew? It helped steady Miles' nerves; he was a little less inclined to scramble up and run for the pickup.

"Carl, leave it, dammit. Lock it up and forget it. No one's going to get in!" The deep male voice from the limo's open window was easily heard over the storm.

"Hell, we'll only be gone a couple of hours." Miles liked the mocking note in the man's voice. Apparently, Miles wasn't the only one who didn't like the district attorney all that much.

"Besides," the voice continued, "no self-respecting burglar would be out on a night like this." The man chuckled at his own joke.

Soaked by a wind-driven rain that was finding its way past the folds of the poncho, Miles couldn't argue with those words. He'd been wishing for a while now that he wasn't out in the open tonight.

"Come on, Carl," the unknown man demanded, "the President has a tight schedule and he wants to get out of town before the airport gets closed down. He wants to talk to you right after dinner and he's not a man who likes to wait."

The rebuke motivated Brady to pull the front door closed, slamming it viciously to punish the alarm system for being so stubborn. He bent forward to find the lock by the flashes of several nearly simultaneous streaks of lightning and finally succeeded in getting a key inserted. He turned the key and energetically jerked on the doorknob, checking to see that the lock was, in fact, locked. Petulantly, he kicked the bottom of the door one final time.

Keys still clutched tightly in his hand, the slightly built attorney opened an umbrella over his head and scampered down the flooded sidewalk to the waiting car. He slid in the back seat beside the man who'd called out to him, hastily yanking the skirt of his overcoat inside before the chauffer could close the rear door on it.

The driver stepped back to his own door and jumped into the front seat. A barely perceptible pause and the vehicle was in motion, reversing out of the driveway, turning, and then accelerating around the corner and out of sight.

In a moment, the sound of the car's engine could no longer be heard. Tranquility, broken only by the sounds of the storm, settled over the neighborhood once more.

Miles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The suddenness of the interruption just before going up to Brady's door had thrown him badly off balance. The noise, the lights, and the harsh voices had broken his concentration on what he had been about to do. The quick departure was almost as disconcerting as the unannounced intrusion had been. It was a long time before the sensation of being completely exposed faded and he again felt comfortably cloaked by the darkness.