“I don’t think so.”
“Forensic evidence doesn’t lie,” Ben said. “If I can’t come up with an explanation for how your hair and blood got on that crossbow, the prosecution will ram it down our throats.”
“Nothing like that ever happened,” Vick said.
Oh, well. It was worth a try.
Vick’s answers were largely useless, but Ben was nonetheless encouraged. Vick hadn’t actually proclaimed his innocence, but he was at least expressing interest in something other than a one-way ticket to death row. “Have you heard about the fire? At Coi Than Tien.”
“I read the paper the sheriff gave me.”
“Was this an ASP operation?”
“How would I know? I’ve been locked up in here for weeks. Was the fire … bad?”
“Destroyed one home, damaged two others.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“A few people with scorched lungs or smoke inhalation. One woman was burned severely. We don’t know if she’s going to live.”
Vick looked down at his hands. His sorrow appeared genuine.
“So,” Ben continued, “if you know who set the fire—”
“I don’t,” Vick said firmly. “No idea at all.”
Ben hated to add to Vick’s already hefty guilt load. On the other hand, if there was any chance he might have information about the night of the fire …
“There was a baby in the burned home,” Ben said softly. “We found her in the ruins. Her remains, anyway.”
Vick stared up at him, his eyes wide. “A”—his voice choked—“baby?” He barely got the word out.
“Yeah. Newborn. We don’t know who she was or where she came from. Do you?”
“Of course not.”
“I just thought that since you’re—”
“I said I don’t know anything about it!” Vick’s voice echoed down the narrow stone corridor. “What the hell does it have to do with Vuong’s murder, anyway?”
“I think there’s a connection,” Ben said, “although I’m not sure what it is. But I can tell you this for certain. Everyone in town thinks ASP is responsible for the fire, just as they think ASP is responsible for this murder. And those people are going to be your jurors.”
“Maybe you should talk to someone at the camp.”
“I’ve tried,” Ben said. “Without any luck. But speaking of your friends at the camp, I gather you weren’t all that friendly with them. Any reason in particular?”
Vick looked away. “I’m new to the club. Relatively. Takes a while to make friends.”
Ben suspected Vick could have been in this club for decades and never made any friends. He just didn’t belong. It was as if ASP was a gigantic “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzle, and the answer was Donald Vick. “You wouldn’t have fallen in with these people if not for your father, right?”
Vick didn’t answer him.
“Donald, there comes a time when you have to shake loose of the person your parents want you to be. You have to be yourself.” Ben stopped and listened to his own words. Good advice, Ben. Good advice.
“Donald,” Ben said, “your father is dead. If this ASP crap isn’t for you, shake loose of it.”
Vick’s head turned up slowly. His face was almost smiling. “A little too late, isn’t it?”
Ben only hoped Vick was wrong.
41.
ON HIS WAY OUT of the jailhouse, Ben was greeted by the sound of tinny, blaring music. It seemed to be coming from the north end of Main Street.
Ben saw something moving his way, but he couldn’t make out what it was. A field of green, creating a strange shimmering sensation just over the pavement.
He felt a chill creep down his spine.
As they approached, Ben determined that the music was martial—a John Philip Sousa flag-waving special. And then he saw the camouflage uniforms, and the wooden cross towering over them.
Dozens of them, six across, several rows deep.
ASP was on the march.
They were in full regalia: green fatigues with the burning-cross emblem over their breasts. Several marchers were carrying placards, RELEASE DONNY VICK read one; JUSTICE FOR ALL read another. A large banner was emblazoned with AN ENEMY OF ONE IS AN ENEMY OF ALL.
No doubt about it—this was a pretrial protest parade. A public demonstration designed to inform all prospective jurors that a guilty verdict could bring the wrath of ASP down on their heads.
Ben noticed that Jones and Loving were standing near him on the sidewalk. Jones was taping the event with his video camera.
“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.
“Recording this for posterity,” Jones said. “I love a parade.”
“Been hearing about this for days at the Bluebell,” Loving said. “Supposed to be quite a show.”
Ben ground his teeth together. “I can’t believe Judge Tyler denied my request for a change of venue. This is outrageous.”
“What are you complaining about?” Jones asked. “If they scare all the jurors to death, that’s got to work in your favor at trial.”
“I wonder,” Ben said. “I think this town is sick and tired of being bullied.”
The ASP rally marched down Main Street at a slow, steady pace. They were ensuring that everyone had an opportunity to see them. As they crested the hill Ben saw there was more to the procession than just the marchers and the cross. A gigantic gallows on wheels was being pushed along behind the procession. On the platform several figures in effigy swung from nooses. A large sign nailed to the gallows identified the figures as THE ENEMY.
Ben was able to identify three of the figures almost immediately. They were the Hatewatch volunteers, Demon Carroll and Demon Pfeiffer. And of course, next to them, a slender brunette figure in a stylish blue dress.
“Darn. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that dress.” Ben turned to see Belinda standing behind him, watching the parade. “I look much better in red, don’t you agree?”
Ben took her hand. Any woman who could make jokes while being hung in effigy was his kind of woman.
“You realize they’re trying to screw the trial?”
Ben nodded.
“Think it’ll work?”
“I doubt it. The DA will use voir dire to—”
Ben was startled by the sound of music—different music—coming from the other end of Main Street. This wasn’t coming out of any boom box, though. This was being sung, or chanted. Live.
Ben and Belinda pushed forward to see what was happening. There was another assemblage on the other end of the street, marching head-on toward the ASP group. And they were all Vietnamese.
Ben spotted Dan Pham at the head of the group, chanting and shouting at the top of his lungs. His group was carrying placards, too. They all said RESISTANCE.
The ASP marchers spotted them. At first they slowed; then a figure at the front waved everyone ahead. It was Grand Dragon Dunagan. And he wasn’t backing down.
The two groups advanced on a collision course. Ben now saw that the Pham contingent had visual aids, too.
Theirs was a tank.
A paper tank, to be sure. It had been constructed around a broken-down Oldsmobile, Coi Than Tien’s last remaining vehicle. The tank was made of napkins and chicken wire, like a homecoming float. From an artistic standpoint, pretty sorry. But from the standpoint of conveying a message, not bad at all.
Dunagan kept motioning for his men to march on, but the procession was definitely slowing. The ASPers had probably been expecting a pleasant walk in the noonday sun, not a head-on confrontation with their sworn enemies.
The ASP parade ground to a halt. A few seconds later the Vietnamese group also stopped. They were barely twenty feet apart, on opposite sides of the street.
“We don’t want any trouble!” Dunagan shouted.
“Neither do we!” Pham shouted back. “Ever.”