Uncertain Justice

Tortured beyond his capacity to resist by unaccustomed pain and abject terror, the additional humiliation heaped on him by the intruder was too much. Brady could not bear it. Staring Miles in the eyes, Brady began to scream. Impossibly high pitched, it went on and on.

The wildness in Brady's eyes made Miles uneasy. His finger curled cautiously around the shotgun's trigger again as he watched the deranged man.

Alternately sobbing wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs, Brady huddled face-first against the paneling and tucked his head under his right arm for protection against the demons attacking him. Blood from the wound on his forearm smeared his face, making it a crimson mask from which his eyes stared insanely.

Without warning, he broke to his right and ran down the hall. Trying to turn the right corner at full speed toward the front door, Brady slipped and fell to the floor. His legs never stopped their frantic churning, though the motion interfered badly with his attempts to get up. Finally, he struggled to his feet and dashed for the outside door, clawing desperately at the lock before wrenching the door open.

Still howling at the top of his lungs, he ran into the rain across the carefully manicured lawn. In seconds, he disappeared from view though the sounds of his progress through the neighborhood could be heard over the storm.

Helplessly, Miles followed the man to the front door. He couldn't have stopped Brady's escape except by shooting him and he wasn't prepared to do that. Standing just inside the door, Miles tried to make sense of the prosecutor's disintegration.

A porch light came on across the street. That solved any question of what to do next. Time had run out.

He whirled and walked quickly through the living room, down the hall to the kitchen, and out the door he'd broken into earlier that evening. Not pausing to pull the poncho hood up for protection from the rain, he launched himself into the night.

Jogging to the far corner of the rain-soaked yard, he bent over and slipped through the gap in the fence without slowing. From there he ran hard, sprinting through piles of building materials in the yard and around the corner of the house to his waiting pickup. Jerking open the driver's side door, he threw the shotgun behind the seat and jumped behind the wheel. Once there, his will power crumbled.

He was breathing much faster than the short run warranted but he couldn't control the quick gasps for air. A paralyzing fear that he was about to be caught consumed him. Some of the prosecutor's hysteria seemed to have taken root in his own mind. His heart pounded as still more adrenalin flooded his system. He fought for control, squeezing his eyes tight shut and forcing himself to concentrate. Taking a shaky breath, he opened his eyes.

Fumbling in his jeans, he found his keys and yanked them out, he thrust the ignition key into its slot with trembling fingers. The engine caught immediately and he jerked the gearshift into first. Popping the clutch, he stomped on the gas with no regard for transmission or motor. Spinning tires spit a hail of gravel against the front of the house as he fought the truck down the unfinished driveway and onto the street.

Seconds later, he made the right turn onto the boulevard. He was going much too fast and the rear end whipped sideways across the rain swept pavement. Centrifugal force propelled him across the bench seat to bang his left arm and shoulder painfully against the doorframe.

Jamming the steering wheel hard left, he caught the skid before he wound up in the ditch and wrestled the pickup straight. With the tires finding traction again, he accelerated hard. The engine screamed in second gear. He shifted and pushed hard on the accelerator.

Holding the wheel with his left hand, he wrenched the seat belt across his body with his right and struggled to get the buckle secured. Besides needing it to hold himself in place behind the wheel, he couldn't afford to be stopped by a wandering policeman because he'd violated the state's seatbelt law.

He made himself slow down on the rain-slick asphalt, driving as fast as he could without taking the chance of attracting attention. It was an exquisite torture. He wanted to rush wildly through the rain but dared not even go the speed limit in the stormy night.

He tried to suck air in deeply and slowly, remembering the technique from high school football practices. Gradually, frantic gasps evened out to a steady breathing and his pounding heart eased. Fingers drumming on the steering wheel, he concentrated on steering the truck precisely down the center of his lane on the road down to the big six-lane highway.

§

In the empty house, a strong gust blew through the open front door. In the kitchen, the sudden over pressure slammed the back door shut. The wind had almost no outlet now. It explored the house with inquisitive fingers.

The draft made the fire flare up in the fireplace shared by the living room and study. A scrap of paper floated out through the grating door that Brady hadn't quite closed after he threw the folder into the fire. The fragment from one of the burning documents lay smoldering on the carpet for a moment, its edges fading to gray ash as it cooled.

The fire began to burn hotter as the breeze fanned the flames. The blaze reached a pocket of sap trapped under the bark in one of the logs. It expanded explosively in the heat and propelled a small knot of burning wood through the open grating and into the study.

The hot coal quickly melted a hole in the carpet and found a ready source of fuel in the padding underneath. In a remarkably short time, the fire gained a small foothold and began to grow hotter. Even the flame resistant carpet began to char as the temperature rose. One person with a hand-held extinguisher could still have easily put the fire out, but there was no one there to see and take action. A few minutes later, the wood paneling caught and it was too late for anything.

Brady made it across the street and past a couple of houses before he collapsed on a third porch, beating on the closed door and begging for help. His neighbors didn't notice the fire at first. Shaken and repelled by Brady's constant shrieks and soiled slacks, they were trying to give him first aid.

Hidden behind heavy curtains over the windows, the study was a roaring furnace. The flames destroyed most of the books in the shelves and ate through the wall into the living room. A moment later, they could be seen through the open front door. One of the men called the 911 operator again to ask that the fire department respond in addition to the police and ambulance already requested.

The first fire engines were on the scene minutes later and firemen began unrolling hoses, surveying the site, opening fire hydrants, and doing all the myriad of other tasks they routinely performed at a headlong rush when they arrived at a fire.

One of the engine companies went to the rear of the house to see if the fire could be attacked from that direction. They smashed through the kitchen door, not noticing the missing pane, and left the door open to ventilate and cool the fire.

The controlled chaos was interrupted when the remaining rounds in Brady's pistol began to cook off on the burning desk. The one in the chamber rushed down the barrel and out through a front window to punch a hole in the fire chief's right front tire. The puncture of the tire was noisier than the .25 caliber gun firing.

The second slug to go off destroyed the semi-automatic pistol's magazine but made a hole big enough for the third to pass through relatively undamaged. This one completed the destruction of the front window and smacked into the windshield of a rescue truck that had just rolled to a stop. It ricocheted off with a distinctive buzzing whine everyone recognized instantly. A fourth cartridge fired itself in the pistol but the gun had been knocked out of line with the front of the house. It flew harmlessly over the roof of the house next door to land in a vacant lot a half mile away.

Brady's neighbors had sidled closer to watch the fire but now they took off, running as hard as they could. Startled firefighters in the front of the house took cover behind the massive pumpers.

Those who were in the kitchen when the popping noises started dashed out the back door and kept going until they found shelter behind stacks of lumber in front of the house on the next street over. Several had no recollection later of going through the fence, though they had assorted scrapes and splinters to show they had.

While the firemen waited for the all-clear signal, the fire reached the back wall of the study and expanded into the main hallway near the kitchen. Flames rode the banister up the staircase to the second floor and began to busily explore the bedroom at the top of the stairs; the expensive home was fully engulfed.

After a long wait during which no additional shots were fired, the Chief decided the shooting was over and he ordered his firemen and women back into action. They were just beginning to resume pouring water on the fire when the flames reached the two boxes of ammunition Brady had in his safe. They began to ignite, one or two rounds at a time. Everyone raced back to whatever protection they had found and stayed there until long after bullets ceased to fly.

By the time the Chief felt it was safe for his wary crews to come out and fight the fire again, the inside of the house was completely gutted. The rain-soaked exterior was a fragile shell that soon collapsed on itself.

§

It seemed to take forever, but Miles was back at the highway intersection barely two minutes after he ran out of Brady's back door. The traffic signals were still out. He hauled the big pickup through a fast, hard left turn--north onto U.S. 281, barely avoiding another slide.

Miles was relieved not to see any police or sheriff's patrols, but he was certain a cruiser waited just over each rise in the road and beyond every curve. He expected to run into a roadblock any moment. He was still in agony, wanting to push the accelerator to the floor with his foot but forcing himself to drive slowly. Only gradually did he relax.

Allowing a small group of cars and other pickups to overtake him, he blended with the group and wound up fourth in a six vehicle "convoy" cautiously making its way north. When they reached the cutoff for the little community of Bulverde, most of the little group scattered on side roads. Only one sedan continued north, with Miles following at a distance. He took his foot off the accelerator and fell back from the northbound car. When he saw the roadside park, he pulled off the highway. Leaving the motor running, he watched the other vehicle disappear into the unsettled night.

He pulled off the poncho he hadn't had time to discard until now and tossed it to the floorboard on the passenger's side. Still trembling slightly--the adrenalin hadn't completely released its hold yet--he listened and kept watch on the highway north and south for a while. He was almost surprised to see there were no sirens or flashing lights coming up the road from San Antonio. Gradually he calmed. In spite of everything, he'd broken away cleanly.

Taking advantage of a break in the rain, he set the parking brake and stepped down from the pickup. The engine idled quietly. He turned his face to the swirling wind. The cold air blowing in his face was refreshing; it cleared away the worst of the cobwebs. Leaning against the truck, he tried to think.

He wanted badly to go home but it was impossible to imagine Brady not making an issue of Miles breaking into his house. The documents ... maybe there was a way copies could be found? Desires and hopes chased each other in circles for long minutes. Dejected, he stared down at the toes of his boots. He kicked at a pebble and shook his head. There was no going back now.

If he'd done things just a little faster--read the file quicker maybe. If only he'd been smart enough to realize he should rub his fingerprints off the back door on the way out of the house. If he hadn't made what was probably an unnecessary trip up the stairs to wipe down the railing, then maybe....

Rain began falling again. A new line of thunderstorms was moving in. He grimaced at his barely visible image in the outside mirror and climbed back in.

He peeled off the jacket. It was uncomfortably warm now. The heater was working almost too well. He looked wistfully out the side window at the glow from the city lights of San Antonio reflecting off the clouds to the south.

Muscles in his back and left side cramped after a little while. He settled himself behind the steering wheel again without having seen anything disturbing. He sat behind the wheel for a minute longer, gazing at the deserted highway ahead.

For the first time since he was ten years old, he was helpless and unsure in the darkness. How the hell did things get this insane? He rubbed his hands over his face and massaged muscles sore from clinching his jaw too long.

His throat painfully dry, he grabbed a can of soda from the cooler. Insane or not, things were what they were ... he couldn't do anything about what was past. There was no going back. He drank deeply. The icy liquid seared already raw tissue all the way down.

Refastening his seatbelt, he stepped on the pedal to release the parking brake and steered back onto the highway. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no traffic coming. He didn't look south again. That world didn't exist any more.

Shifting smoothly through the gears, he accelerated carefully until he was running through the night as fast as he thought safe in the heavy rain. The muted thumping of windshield wipers hitting their stops was accompanied by splashing noises the tires made as they rolled through standing water.

After a while, he turned on the radio for company and tuned it to an oldies station in Austin.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Arson experts are still picking over the charred remains of District Attorney Carl Brady's two-story home and have refused to comment on the progress of their investigation. Brady is still recovering in St Mark's Hospital from gunshot wounds to the throat and arm. A statement issued by the doctor in charge of Mr. Brady's care says Mr. Brady is doing well and is expected to completely recover from his injuries.

" The Bexar County Sheriff's office is looking for retired Army veteran Miles Underwood in connection with the fire and shooting but are refusing to label him a suspect at this point. Calling him 'a person of interest' in the investigation, the hunt for Underwood has expanded with reported sightings as far away as Wisconsin.

"Underwood, you may recall, is the man accused in the rape and manslaughter of a local teenager last summer. Underwood's trial ended with a hung jury just last month and he was scheduled to be retried next month."

KSAA Channel Nine

San Antonio Texas

"Evening News at Six"

March 11

§

The derelict old house and barn stood a hundred yards off the deserted county road, silhouetted by the setting Colorado sun. Miles had stopped only to stretch muscles cramped by hours of driving but it was getting time to find a place to spend the night. He couldn't go much further today; it was getting late and he was about to drop. Besides, he needed to check the map and plan the final leg of his trip.

Sunlight shining through a dirty window refracted the beam into a makeshift rainbow and flashed in Miles' eyes. He wondered if someone might be behind the window watching him. Sidling back to the pickup, he pulled out his binoculars to get a close look at the structures.

The house had an empty, abandoned air to it; he quickly convinced himself there was no one inside. The more he looked, the more he liked what he saw. The roof looked to be intact, and the windows were covered--boarded up. This might be a good place to spend the night.

Looking down the long highway in both directions without seeing or hearing the whine of tires on pavement, he made a decision. Jumping in the pickup, he turned the wheel sharply and drove up the overgrown access road to the house.

He parked behind the old structure, well out of sight from the road. Shutting off the engine, he waited for a long moment, wondering if he'd been seen. The only thing he could hear was a lonesome wind sighing through the spring's growth of thick grass.

Returning cautiously to the front of the house, he looked both ways down the deserted road. There was still nothing in sight to trouble him.

He walked down to the road with a branch twisted from a young cottonwood and brushed out the shallow tire tracks he'd left in the soft dirt of the shoulder. Working his way backwards up the hill, he swept the branch across thick bunches of flattened prairie grass to rearrange them and disguise the fact that someone had recently driven a truck up here.

At first, he was uneasy inside the house. He felt trapped by the walls. The lack of traffic on the road, though, convinced him he could hide here for a while. He slept soundly on the old floor that night, under a solid roof for the first time in many days.

§

The badly overweight man opened the top two buttons of his sweat-stained shirt to massage the area over his heart. The pains were coming more often, stayed longer, and hurt worse these days. The doctor had warned him months ago he had to find a way to reduce the tension and ... oh, by the way ... if he didn't lose some weight, he'd be dead in a year. There were times he thought the doc was overly optimistic.

There was no way to cut down on the hours he worked, though, and no way to exercise either. He couldn't afford anymore to hire someone to work the night shift so he had to cover both. It wasn't worth locking the door to the converted store front office and go home--the precious little sleep he got there didn't refresh him at all.

Bail bondsmen worked on a slender margin and the edge Steve Gonzales had was desperately thin these days. He'd expected the bail on that Army guy Underwood to be back in his accounts long ago.

Hell, the trial should been over and done with by now ... but the damn jury had deadlocked and now that son of a bitch Underwood had taken off. There was no way the State of Texas was going to forgive the bond. He was out the full three hundred thousand. He'd try and recoup some of it by getting the house into his name, but that meant lawyers, courts, and time ... lots and lots of time.

Giving in to frustration and rage, Gonzales slammed his fist on the top of the desk. The agony in his chest lanced deeper and shot down his left arm. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Deliberately, he throttled back the anger while shaking fingers opened the bottle of nitro tablets. Slipping one under his tongue, he leaned back and waited for the pain to subside or mount higher. At the moment, he didn't really care which.

He would have to tell his wife that braces for Stacie had to be put off again. That wasn't the worst of it either. Truth was, he'd be lucky to make the mortgage payment on the first of the month. He sure as hell didn't know right now where the money was going to come from. Waiting in the dim light, he almost hoped the nitro wouldn't work this time. It would almost be a blessing ... and he had made sure the insurance was paid for this month.

The pain eased slightly and he indulged himself with another smash at the desktop. Not sure he was pleased or not when the sudden activity didn't cause any pain, he sat up straighter and began to paw through the mass of paperwork again. There had to be some way to juggle things around and free up a little cash.