Uncertain Justice

He alternated between crawling on all fours and walking as nearly upright as he could get. Neither was particularly effective--both were excruciatingly painful.

After inching as deep as he could into the stand of trees, he eased himself down, rolled onto his back, and lay flat. His head was whirling. He panted, far more out of breath than warranted by the physical effort of climbing the gentle slope. He felt the hard earth pressing against knotted muscles and relaxing them slowly.

Once the pain in his back subsided to a bearable level, he discovered he was ravenously hungry. Moving carefully, he clawed open the top of his backpack and raked out the contents until he found one of the cans of preserved meat.

Pulling the tab on its top to open it, he wolfed it down, breaking pieces off the compressed loaf of meat "products" and stuffing them in his mouth with dirty fingers. Still famished, he opened a bag of jerky and chewed on the strips of dried meat until his jaws hurt. He topped off the meal with two aspirins from his small supply.

He rested until he had enough strength to sort through his belongings and spread everything out to dry. The cool breeze stirred clothing draped over branches he selected on saplings hidden from view from outside the stand of trees. Then he stretched his aching body under the broad limbs of the big spruce and slept.

A few hours later, he roused to eat another can of processed meat. More jerky and a freeze-dried package of chicken and rice mixed with approximately the right amount of water--he didn't bother boiling the water so that the sticky mess would be warm--completed the meal. He congratulated himself on finding great cover, accidental though it had been. Until his body recovered, he wasn't going anywhere. He dozed off again.

At sunset, he glanced at his watch for the first time and was astounded to see it was a full day later than he expected. He wondered what he had missed while he was dead to the world. Donning the parka again, he pulled the survival blanket around his chin and fell into a dreamless sleep. His breath steamed in the cold mountain night.

§

The late afternoon sun was still high enough to warm him as he lay on his belly on the grassy bank watching a bobber drift in the current past the big boulder a few yards across the stream. He suspected there were some good-sized trout hiding in the shadows there and he intended to have them for dinner. Fishing a smaller creek yesterday had yielded a number of small rainbows and smaller brook trout. They'd tasted great skewered on sticks and baked in the heat of the first fire Miles had made since evading the search parties.

Every so often, he carefully straightened a leg or twisted his back to stretch still tender muscles, waiting for the inevitable stab of pain that had been a constant companion for the past week and more. The toxins that had built up in his muscles during the desperate physical exertions escaping from the manhunt had taken a long time to filter out of his system.

It had been four days before he could hobble well enough to move his camp a few miles north from where he'd crawled from under the mound of debris in the river. As his muscles recovered from the damage he'd done to them that night, he hiked cross-country ... a few miles each day were all he could manage ... further north and away from the search.

Since the night he'd almost been captured, he'd made his camps in the best concealment he could find, searching for places where it would be impossible for anyone to find him. That resolve had been gradually extended to include the hikes themselves as he moved from one overnight hiding place to another. He played a game with himself, pretending to be one of the solitary mountain men who roamed these mountains generations ago.

Every herd of deer or elk was a rampaging Blackfoot war party he had to avoid without them even being aware he was there. Each deer or raccoon whose tracks he saw became a group of Hudson Bay Company trappers who would kill to protect their territory.

The eagles and hawks gliding in lazy circles high above were reconnaissance aircraft searching tirelessly for him. He knew the latter clashed jarringly with the initial precept, but that was okay. It contributed to the purpose behind the game.

Obeying the rules whenever he traveled, he slipped from one bit of cover to the next, pausing before passing through clearings to observe them carefully before proceeding. He didn't much care for open spaces these days so, more often than not, he retreated and found a way around.

He'd learned to freeze when his peripheral vision detected movement. He'd found by staying motionless and quiet most animals would not see him. Yesterday, a black bear had ambled slowly past Miles' hiding place less than twenty yards away behind the thick trunk of a spruce tree. The animal hadn't noticed Miles until it was downwind and picked up the man scent.

The bobber dipped and he jerked on the line he'd been holding loosely in his hands. The fish began to thrash violently, trying to shed the hook Miles had set securely in the fish's mouth. In minutes, the fish tired and Miles brought it to the shore and pulled it out of the water.

Hefting the rainbow, he decided it would tip the scales at two, maybe two and a half pounds. A very nice catch, he thought; it was plenty for a solitary diner this evening. This trout ... and the three smaller ones he had already ... would be enough for tonight's meal and tomorrow too ... perhaps the day after also.

For a moment, Miles watched the fish gasp for the oxygen that its gills could not process from open air. He caught the fish by the tail and slammed its head against the rock to kill it. It was necessary to kill the animal for food, but there was no need to prolong its agony. He dropped the fish alongside the other three and began to wind the hook and line about the short branch he used in lieu of rod and reel.

Cleaning the fish was quickly done. Stepping briefly from the shadows under the tree-lined bank into the shallows, Miles deposited the offal beneath a rock and carefully replaced it in the same depression it had gouged for itself over the years. After he splashed water over the flat rock he'd used as a worktable, there was no sign he'd been there except the wetness itself and that would dry quickly enough.

Taking a last look around to make sure he wasn't being observed, he ran a short line through the gills of the four fish and scrambled up the riverbank. He wanted to get the fish cooked and the fire extinguished before darkness made the fire a bright beacon that would attract unwanted attention. He was thirty miles or more from where he'd awakened among the roots of the fallen tree and it wasn't likely anyone was hunting for him this far north and west. He gained nothing by being conspicuous though.

In a thicket of young saplings a hundred yards downhill from where he intended to sleep, Miles dug a hole three feet in diameter and a foot deep and started a low fire. He added water to clay dug from the riverbank until the muddy mixture was about the consistency of putty. Patting it out to a one-inch thickness, he wrapped each fish separately in the pasty concoction. Dropping the shells into the fire pit, he covered them with coals. The fish would be done in forty-five minutes or so.

Cutting the young shoots from the roots of a cattail plant he'd pulled from a small pond back down the trail, Miles peeled the green covering off to expose the white interior. He munched on the tender, sweet core while he cut the larger roots from the plant into small chunks and put in the camp pot to boil. He walked back to the river. The level of the water in both canteens was getting low again. At high altitude, one used a lot more water than in the flatlands.

From the river he walked uphill to check the backpack he'd left in his small camp. Small animals liked to investigate it from time to time. It was a constant battle to keep them from getting into his precious store of salt.

He inspected the campsite as he walked closer but saw nothing that would betray its existence to an observer. He made a practice of never approaching the camp from the same direction twice to avoid creating a well-used trail a hunter might use to track him down.

The tent was set up in the middle of a thickly forested section, concealed from all directions by trees and brush. Just in case, he'd arranged a number of branches so they leaned against the tent and broke up its outline. It couldn't be seen from more than a few feet away in the twilight. A rock field behind it offered a quick escape should anyone approach. The pebbles and undergrowth up there made it impossible for anyone to sneak up on him from that direction.

The fish and cattail root should be about ready. He was so hungry he could taste them already. Delaying only to closely examine nearby terrain and scan the distant horizon one final time, he made his way back to the cook fire.

§

Special Agent John Randall--Jack to his friends--frowned at the documents he was reading and leafed through the file for a summary report he'd found earlier. Comparing the two, he shook his head in irritation and paper-clipped them together for a closer review later.

He looked through the entire folder, reading statements and examining raw data relating to the case the boss had handed him early this morning. He'd only returned yesterday from a nice three-week leave of absence for his marriage and honeymoon. Maybe the boss was punishing him for being away from the job so long.

Grumbling under his breath, he gathered the papers together and chivied them haphazardly into the manila folder. He left his desk and made his way to his boss's much bigger office. The dark-haired secretary waved him into FBI Assistant Director Pat "Paddy" Reilly's modestly furnished, but deliciously private, inner office.

"Hey boss, got a minute?" Without waiting for a reply one way or the other, and not even looking at the man he addressed, Jack opened the file to check the wording on one of the documents. "What did I ever do to you, sir? This thing with ... uh ... Miles Underwood is screwed up six ways from Sunday already and it's only going to get worse." He flicked one of the papers with a forefinger to emphasize the point.

"Well ... for one thing, you married my only daughter and took her away from her mother and me. Did you think I was going to forgive you for that anytime soon?"

Delivered in a quiet tone, it wasn't immediately obvious whether the Assistant Director was serious or not. Looking up quickly, Jack thought he saw a hint of a twinkle in his father-in-law's eyes. He decided it was a joke ... probably.

"Yeah ... well, I'll have to do my best to make it up to you ... Dad." He took a chance being so familiar with a man so senior and who supervised so many Bureau employees that he held the title of Assistant Director instead of the more common "Special Agent-in-Charge" held by other office chiefs. The Denver office had only recently been made the FBI's fourth regional office with an Assistant Director in charge.

"Anyway," he added quickly, "how did we get involved in this can of worms? Shouldn't the locals in San Antonio be handling this one? He's their boy."

"Well, he's wanted for three counts of kidnapping in two states plus interstate flight to avoid prosecution on several other felonies for starters. Those are just the Federal offenses ... and Washington sent this one to us for a couple of good reasons, actually. One is that he's apparently found a hole to disappear into out west of Pueblo. That's definitely our bailiwick.

"Another reason is some possibility of ... irregularities in the investigation conducted by the police and state's attorney in the original case against Underwood. The Director also thinks our local office in San Antonio might be a little too friendly with the state authorities there."

There was no possibility of kidding in the Assistant Director's voice now. He was totally serious.

"Yeah," agreed Jack. "What's with all these witnesses not appearing at this guy's trial, for Pete's sake? Most of them are military personnel or dependents of military personnel. It's not like they can just decide to disappear one day."

Jack had served a three-year hitch in the Army to earn money for college and regarded himself as the office expert in military affairs. His frustration was evident in his voice.

"And then, the way this guy Brady says Underwood shoot him ... did you read the ballistics report?" Jack shuffled the papers in the file, nearly dropping the package to the floor. He gestured at the chair in front of the desk and got a nod. He sat and spread the file across his lap.

"ATF doesn't have a thing on Underwood owning a .25 caliber weapon, but Brady sure does and it's his gun that was found on the floor of his office." He rifled through the file again to find the paper-clipped pages he'd set aside before.

"Apparently the lead splashes on Brady's safe are the same composition as the slugs taken out of his shoulder and the one cartridge left in the gun. You really have to wonder what really happened there." Jack peered inquisitively at his father-in-law across the wide desk, inviting his superior to make a comment. When the Assistant Director only nodded his head, Jack continued.

"And ... this guy Brady didn't say a word about Underwood fighting him for the gun ... not until he was asked, that is--and that didn't happen until his third or fourth interview with detectives.

"If I had to guess," Jack ventured, "this guy managed to shoot himself somehow and is blaming it on Underwood. I can't find anything that suggests Underwood was even there ... well, other than Brady's statements."

"Well ... a fire will hide lots of little details like that," Paddy observed dryly. "But I agree with you. There's no physical evidence at all."

"Yeah," sighed the young Agent. "If only this Underwood hadn't cut and run like he did. If he didn't have anything to do with it, why'd he take off?

"Also," he continued slowly, "Underwood's house was neat as a pin when the sheriff broke in ... well, except for a broken mirror and some sheetrock damage that hadn't been replaced in a bathroom. The front door was unlocked ... no indication why.

"You know ... I think Underwood had decided to get out of town and it was a decision he'd thought through and made meticulous plans for." He glanced at his boss. "But, if he really did have anything to do with the fire, I don't think it was part of those plans." His voice trailed off as he thought. He shook his head and sighed audibly when he couldn't connect the dots.

"None of this makes any sense," he complained.

"Look at the forensic report from the Fire Department," suggested Paddy when Jack didn't continue. "Arson investigators say the screen in front of the fireplace was partially open and they've identified the start of the fire as being about a yard away from the fireplace. They said something about that being consistent with ninety-five percent of all accidental fires associated with fireplaces."

"Yes sir," muttered the junior investigator as he shuffled papers in the file to find the report. "And this--'there is no evidence of any accelerant being used to induce combustion at the point of origin or any other point in the structure' ... that's real interesting." He caught the Assistant Director's eyes. "In the Academy they taught us firebugs invariably make sure a fire is burning nice and hot right from the beginning." He shook his head and looked down to find another of the documents.

"And this business down by La Junta? Colorado State Police HQ has positively identified Underwood as the guy who kidnapped these two officers, but there's nothing to corroborate that, even if they did identify Underwood from a fax photo.

"Heck, the description they gave would fit half the men in Colorado, let alone Texas. No fingerprints, and they couldn't identify him later on in a photo lineup. Well ... the first three times they were given a photo lineup, they couldn't." He paused.

"The only thing that puts Underwood anywhere near La Junta is his pickup they found a long, long ways off. That's confirmed, by the way. Forensics found his prints all over it--got the report just before I came in."

"You know, boss, a rookie public defender could get that lineup thrown out and if they don't have that ... hell, all they have is a half-assed description of a pickup that might be Underwood's.

"They'll have the devil of a time in court trying to connect the dots on that." If Jack Randall had a pet peeve, it was bad police work. This file showed a general picture of sloppiness that grated badly. "So ... what do you want me to do with this?" Jack was still hopeful he might escape assignment to the case he'd been reviewing.

"For starters, add this to your file," ordered the Assistant Director. There wasn't even the slightest emphasis on "your file," but Jack sighed to himself anyway. He was stuck with it.

"What's this?" He accepted the three stapled sheets even as he posed the question.

"The Agent-In-Charge at the Pueblo office sent everyone she could out to the State Police command post for the search in the Monarch Pass area. That's a rough draft of their report. I had it faxed here this morning. There's nothing new in it but it goes over everything we've heard about unofficially. It confirms they almost caught Underwood the day they found the truck, but he slipped away from them--killed a K-9 in the process--and he hasn't been seen since.

"Dan ... let's see ... Dan Rogers was the senior agent in the field and he wrote the report. I don't know him, but he's included a pretty fair summary of the state police's search over the last week or so. He says there haven't been any big foul-ups there, but Underwood--assuming it actually was him--apparently disappeared into thin air."

Assistant Director Reilly settled back in his chair and studied the young man his daughter had chosen to marry. The boy's forehead grew more creased as he read a passage in the draft report. Jack was one of the brightest and most dedicated agents he'd ever had work for him. He wasn't nearly as upset as he pretended to be at the loss of his only girl child. It wouldn't do to let Jack know that though. He smothered a grin.

"Great ... just great," continued the youthful special agent. "Chief, have you checked this guy Underwood's record?" Randall asked as he finished the draft. He pulled out another bundle of papers stapled together.

"St. Louis faxed a copy of his military personnel file to us and there's some other things that don't make sense. For instance," he shuffled the stack for a moment, "did you know this guy was awarded a bronze star, among other things, for bravery?

"Seems that he was a witness to a bad accident one afternoon driving home ... some drunk ran a red light and t-boned a van and the van caught on fire. He ran over to the burning wreck and pulled a mother and her three kids out right before the gas tank exploded ... got some second degree burns that took a long time to heal." The young agent thumbed through a few more pages.

"I found a phone number for his last supervisor in the Army. Turns out the Command Sergeant Major ... he's a very senior enlisted guy ... was still there. He told me Underwood was a quiet man and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed help.

"But he also said most people were always a little uneasy around Underwood; there always seemed to be something violent just under the surface." Jack sat quiet for a moment, chewing on his lip while he considered the two contrasting bits of information and how they fit into the puzzle.