Uncertain Justice

He glanced at her from beneath the floppy hat he never seemed to take off. A puff of cherry-blend smoke drifted on the evening air. Sharp eyes glinted in the shadows beneath the floppy wide-brimmed hat.

"Not much to tell. Only saw the man for a little while and he was not a happy camper. He'd been shot at twice that afternoon and he was kinda aggravated with us. Can't say as I blame him none," Cal concluded, waving the glowing pipe in the air.

"Reckon I'd have been a mite irritated myself." He resumed puffing away for a bit. He chuckled softly. "We took off out of there too fast for any real deep conversation you might say." He lifted his head minutely at a subtle difference in the sounds of the night. His eyes lost focus as he strained to decipher what he heard ... or didn't hear.

No animal can move without revealing its movement in tiny ways. When Miles stepped around the rotted tree stump, the blacksnake sensed the human's presence and lost his concentration on the field mouse he'd been about to clamp in powerful jaws. The mouse took advantage of the snake's hesitation to scamper off through the leaves on the forest floor.

The tiny rustle the mouse made in the undergrowth disturbed a squirrel who'd already been aroused by the commotion in the night. His chattering stopped while he crouched lower on the branch and waited to see if he was to be attacked. The owl on a nearby tree saw the squirrel wasn't as vulnerable as he had been and the owl's head swiveled to bring staring eyes into alignment on the place the mouse had disappeared.

The packhorse's ears flicked toward the mouse and then to the owl as the night hunter prepared to pounce. The mare shifted her feet while she decided whether the owl presented a danger or not. Thoroughly frightened, the mouse dropped into his burrow, safe for the first time in many minutes. Frustrated at the loss of a dinner, the owl settled on the branch again. The snake slithered toward the creek, hunting easier prey.

An adjustment had been made in the night and the change was apparent to anyone who cared to take notice.

Outside the circle of firelight, Miles knew the old man was aware of him. Stepping carefully, Miles worked his way a bit further around the circumference of the fire to put himself well away from the Indian guide.

"I understand you met him for only a few moments ... but tell me what your impression of him was," April continued.

Cal cupped the bowl of the pipe in his hand while he thought and listened. He puffed another cloud of aromatic smoke over the camp.

"Well, he struck me as the kind of man who pretty much followed his own nose, Miss April ... don't see much chance of anyone making him go any place he don't want to go." Cal cocked his head slightly as he tried to orient an ear in precisely the right direction. A katydid had stopped sounding now ... there was a hole in the night where there should be small noises.

"But decent ... real decent ya understand. A real reasonable man ... someone you can talk to," added Cal. He took three slow puffs on the cherry blend. He made up his mind.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and setting it on a flat rock near the fire. He spread his fingers wide on his thighs and waited.

"Excuse me? Whadda ya mean?" April was confused. She frowned. Not only was she accustomed to being the one 'in the know', she also hated that tendency she had of slipping back into speech patterns from her heartland origins when she was surprised.

She sensed something was happening but didn't know what. It was infuriating.

The low chuckle from the darkness forestalled Cal's reply. His head snapped around to the source of the sound. He'd known someone was out there and had been pretty sure it was Underwood. The man made his introduction a long way off from where Cal had thought he was though.

"What he means is ... since I'm right here ... why don't you go ahead and talk to me directly." Miles stepped out of the concealing shadows into the light of the fire. The sight of the tall man, his long hair cropped raggedly just above the shoulder and clad in a loose shirt, cargo shorts, and moccasins that protected his legs up to mid calf, was a complete shock to everyone except Cal. One of the men who had yet to speak in Miles' hearing choked and sputtered as the coffee he forgot to swallow drained down his throat anyway.

Miles drifted around the campfire until he reached a place where he could keep all five of them in sight at once ... four strangers and one from the party that had tried to kill him not so long ago. He squatted, the M-4A1 across his thighs as he returned the curious looks sent his way. He turned to Cal.

"Thought I told you, and not too long ago by God, that I never wanted to see you on my back trail again, old man," he bluntly accused the guide.

"An' you ain't caught me on yore trail, neither," the Indian snapped at Miles. He was more nettled by the 'old man' reference than the accusation. "Figgered you'd find us sooner or later, but we wasn't trackin' you. Ain't seen no tracks.

"Besides," he added, "you told me to find other employment that paid better and that's what I did. Bought a whole new outfit too ... see?" He plucked at his shirt and raised a foot to show off the new boots he was still breaking in.

He finalized his assertions by leaning forward slowly to retrieve his pipe. He sucked in a quick puff and clamped his teeth firmly on the stem. The little quirk at the corner of the fugitive's mouth told him he'd taken the right tone for once. Cal let a rigid spine relax a little.

"Alright, I guess I can live with that," Miles conceded. "So who are your employers these days?" Before Cal could answer, the so-far ignored April pushed into the conversation.

"Mister Underwood, I presume?" she inquired rhetorically.

"Indeed!" replied Miles coolly. "And you?"

"April Cantrell, World Information News Network." She spoke as if that was all Miles needed to know. To the best of his memory, he'd never heard of her. Miles waited through the introductions of the two cameramen and the associate producer.

"And what are you doing here in the mountains, Miss Cantrell?" He presumed it was "Miss" since he could see no wedding ring.

"Ms. Cantrell," she corrected. "And please call me April. Look ... we're very glad to see you, Mister Underwood. We have a proposal we think you'll like. We want to tell your story on White Paper Exposé." Her expression said he'd just been granted the highest honor to which he could have ever aspired. Miles pursed his lips.

"No, thanks," he said after a moment, "it wouldn't serve any purpose." He couldn't tell if the resulting silence was one that would be called 'icy' or not, but he decided it would do until one came along.

"Mr. Underwood...." April was nothing if not persistent. "Look, we want to do an interview with you. On the record ... on video tape ... and let everyone hear your reasons for what you've been doing."

"Why would you want to do that?" Miles asked, genuinely curious. He shook his head irritably. He didn't particularly like the idea.

"Miss Cantrell, guess what? I've heard of journalists who take a tape and cut it to shreds, and put the pieces back together in a way that better suits the reporter's particular agenda. I'd have to be the stupidest man alive to let you take something I say out of context and play it back in any context that pleases you. I don't know you and I don't know what your purpose is."

"Miles, we're on your side," April replied earnestly. "All we want is to tell your story using your own words. What could be bad about that?" April was more than a little irked at Miles' use of the older honorific instead of "Ms." She wasn't real happy with him defaming her profession either.

"So I can trust you?" asked Miles sardonically.

"Certainly!" shot back the young reporter. Miles looked at her for a long moment as he tried to judge the intent and personal integrity behind the wide green eyes. She was a reporter, she said ... a dues paying member of the fourth estate. The news media took some liberties with the First Amendment, but maybe that could be turned to his purpose. There was something he'd been trying to find a way to do.

"No, I don't think so," he said quietly. "I'll say it again ... it wouldn't serve any purpose. It would only be words and I don't care for meaningless gestures."

April was silent, intensely frustrated but not knowing how to change the man's mind. Seeing her tight lipped expression, Miles let his own mouth loosen in a wry grin. He made a snap decision. He leaned forward.

"But I'll tell you what, Miss Cantrell. I'm going to give you the opportunity of a lifetime. Whatcha think about that?"

"Huh? What do you mean?" she replied, looking up at him in confusion. She was off-balance, and that gave Miles an advantage. He followed up quickly.

"Well...." he smiled reassuringly at the reporter. "I don't know if you style yourself as an investigative reporter, but I'm going to give you a few leads that will almost certainly give you a chance at some ... notoriety, let's call it. Heck, if you're not an investigative reporter now, you will be soon."

April wet her lips and stared into Miles' eyes. Her instincts, honed over years of fighting her way up a male dominated ladder, told her something important was happening. A cliché she'd heard long ago ... something about grabbing the brass ring ... flashed through her mind and was gone. She leaned forward eagerly.

"Tell me," she whispered, almost conspiratorially.

Miles' smile broadened. Hooked! All that remained was to reel her in.

"Okay," he said quietly. He rose from his comfortable squat and edged forward a little inside the circle of firelight to sit on a low stump.

"I don't know how familiar you are with the evidence in my trial, Miss Cantrell. Get with the fella who was acting as my lawyer down in San Antone ... his name is Jonah Trenton ... and he can show you a lot, I'm sure." He paused as a new thought struck him. "Remind me before I leave and I'll give you written permission for him to talk to you about the case."

"But he doesn't have some documents that are damned important." Miles said, returning to his topic. He paused and looked intently at the young woman for a long moment. He was trying to judge how far he could go.

A movement caught his eye. "Throw that in the fire," Miles said to the young woman with the irritating voice. She'd surreptiously tugged a digital recorder out of her pants pocket and switched it on. The red light was shining balefully at everyone. "No recordings ... period!" Miles explained. "Anybody tries that again, Miss, he continued, "and I walk away and you'll never see me again ... and you'll never have your chance for the bright lights, got it?"

April took the hand-sized device from her producer's hand and tossed it in the fire. She glared a warning around at everyone else around the fire.

"For one thing, Missy," Miles went on. "The autopsy report admitted into evidence said the young girl I'm supposed to have raped died as a result of the rape. But there is another report, one that I know for a fact that the prosecutor was aware of, that concluded she was not raped at all and that the massive blood loss that killed her was caused by an attempted abortion." The silence around the campfire was broken only by the cheerful sounds of the fire burning in the pit.

"My God," April breathed. Miles had been correct in his implied assumption that she didn't know a great deal about the case but she had seen a summary of the trial transcript that included a reference to the damning autopsy report.

"Miles," she said eagerly, "Where is that second autopsy report? Can I see it?" Her face fell when Miles shook his head.

"Oh, no ... if I had a copy of it with me, we wouldn't having this discussion. That's what I mean when I say you're going to have to do some investigative work. I've seen the document but I can't remember the file reference number or anything like that. But I bet if you started asking around to find two forensic pathologists in the medical examiner's office who did an autopsy on that poor girl, you'll find out which one did which report soon enough."

"Second," he went on before April could ask another question. "Find out why all the military personnel and their wives or husbands who were at the party were never called in the trial ... find out why they've all seemed to have disappeared for some reason. If you can locate them, they're the only real witnesses to the whole incident. Find them and ask what went on."

They talked for another hour. Miles told her everything he could remember of the contents of the file he'd found in the District Attorney's study. Finally, she could think of nothing more to ask about the fugitive's court trial. She looked at Miles suspiciously for a long moment.

"Miles," she asked. "How do you know all this? Where did you see the documents you say you've seen?" Her eyes showed how distrustful she was--she'd been burned before. She was surprised when Miles grinned broadly.

"Miss, you are a reporter, right?" She nodded uncertainly, not sure where Miles was going with his remark.

"Right," he said. "Well, Miss Cantrell, I've just become one of those "unnamed sources" that you and your fellow reporters like to use so often." April's eyes narrowed to slits as she contemplated the effectiveness of the fugitive's manipulation of her and her profession.

What he was doing was immediately obvious. He didn't want to tell her how he knew about all these documents. He was banking on the media's predilection for protecting off-the-record informants who gave up information that couldn't have been developed from more open sources. He was doing it very cleverly too. He was, in fact, inviting her to check out the info before using it. But why didn't he want to tell her how he knew about all this? She cocked her head and licked her lips. Before she could frame the question, Miles was shaking his head.

"I won't tell you," he said. His tone was final. His expression fully supported that conclusion. Deferring the question for the time being ... she couldn't do anything else, she realized ... she asked another.

"Miles," she asked finally. "If all this works out ... what are you going to do?" He looked at her inquiringly. "Well, are you just going to go back to San Antonio and pick up with your life or what?"

He stared at her in amazement.

"Oh," he said slowly, seeing she didn't understand at all. "Actually, Miss Cantrell, in a very real sense it doesn't matter to me whether you find any of these things or not. I'm not concerned with how the legal things turn out.

"I've opted out of your system of law and that decision is permanent. Even if you find enough information to cast doubt in one of those courts of law about my guilt ... even if Mister Trenton gets me totally acquitted of absolutely everything, I won't go back."

"This is my home now," he said quietly, waving a hand at the forest and tall mountains all around. "I have absolutely no intention of ever leaving it ... and I'll fight to protect it against all comers," he added.

April smiled uncertainly, not completely sure she understood, but there was nothing else to say.

Miles got up to leave, pausing to look over the fire at Cal. He nodded to the Nez Perce and touched his forefinger to his head as if saluting. April looked to Cal to see his reaction. When she turned back, the fugitive she'd been talking to was gone. She blinked.

Cal chuckled at April. She was still staring at the place where the fugitive had disappeared. As sudden and disconcerting as his arrival had been, his unceremonious departure had been more so.

"That, Ms. Cantrell, was Miles Underwood," he remarked.

§

The big, straight-winged aircraft rolled down the runway at Beale Air Force Base, lifting into the air after a surprisingly short run. The pilot pulled back on the stick and the airplane climbed quickly. With a wingspan of more than a hundred feet on a fuselage of only sixty-three, the lift generated by the wings was phenomenal. The rate of climb was impressive even to inexperienced observers on the ground.

Turning east, the black skinned U-2 climbed steadily until it reached fifty thousand feet. It was capable of flying much higher. The Air Force admitted it had an operational ceiling above seventy thousand feet--the real ceiling was actually closer to ninety thousand--but flying that high wasn't necessary for this flight. In fact, the pilot didn't know why the mission profile called for this high an altitude. There weren't any surface-to-air missiles in Colorado that he knew of and no reason except that someone apparently didn't want anyone on the ground to know of the reconnaissance aircraft's presence.

No one would. From nine and a half miles up, no one on the ground could hear the big General Electric F-118 engine and the U-2 had a cruising speed of less than five hundred miles per hour. It couldn't exceed the speed of sound in a vertical dive and, therefore, no sonic boom footprint would smash into the ground below to disturb civilians going about their daily routine.

When the computerized navigation system rang a quiet chime to indicate the craft had reached a waypoint designating the beginning of the search zone, the pilot sighed and roused himself to make sure the big electro-optical cameras in the nose and equipment bays were on and functioning properly. The high flying U-2 "Dragon Lady" worked a search pattern north and south along the spine of the Rocky Mountains for a bit more than three hours, taking high resolution pictures of the mountain landscape below.

When the computer decided it had stored enough pics of the area, the pilot took control of the aircraft and hauled the nose around until it was lined up on a heading back to Beale Air Force Base. He did a series of cockpit gymnastics, wiggling around and shrugging his shoulders to get some feeling back in his body. The cramped compartment always began to feel a little more confining about this time in a mission and the pilot sighed.

He was still a long way from setting down on Beale's long runway and this thing wasn't going to end any time soon. Tomorrow he'd probably have to do the same thing again in a different area. Word was the missions had been ordered personally by the Pentagon's highest brass. They were looking for someone down there in all that tangle of wilderness.

Some one!!?? He'd been astonished when he'd heard the rumor. Aerial reconnaissance was intended to find military hardware, installations, enemy troop formations, and the like--not individuals.

He hoped the photo analysts found what they were looking for soon. If some high roller in the DOD was driving this buggy, it wasn't going away any time soon. It sure was getting monotonous though. He flexed the muscles in his back and sighed.

§

P. Jonah Trenton took the oversized manila envelope from his youngest legal assistant and his hands moved to drop the package on a pile of stuff he was going to get to 'sometime soon'.

Rosa was his wife's niece, her younger brother's only child. Bubbly and cheerful to a fault, Rosa made the law firm a much brighter place to work ... even for the senior partners. That hadn't gotten her hired for a position she would keep only until the new semester at the Harvard law school started. Rosa was where she was because a razor sharp mind hid behind the smile and shining eyes.

"Uncle Peter, there's a reporter from World Information News Network sitting at my desk. She says she wants to talk to you about Miles Underwood," Rosa said simply. "She says the autopsy report in that package proves he didn't rape that girl."