Justice
The courts don’t always work.
A summer’s night, a warm breeze blows gently through the trees, creating a gentle, soothing, rustling sound.
A deer, grazing in a nearby clearing, raises his head at the sound, unsure at first if it is the sound of danger, ready to flee if he has to. The sound does not repeat, the deer loses interest and returns to his grazing.
South of the clearing, the hunter watches the deer. He has always admired the graceful beauty of the forest animals.
The hunter is not here tonight for deer.
He watches the deer until it drifts off, back into the forest, then he turns around and continues down the dark path through the trees, with only the light of the moon to see.
Ten minutes of walking and he reaches another clearing. Instead of a deer, this clearing holds the hunter’s prey.
A large cottage sits in the middle of a tree-lined yard. It looks more like a small mansion than a summer lake house. But considering who the owner is, it’s no real surprise.
Malcolm Fitzwilliam, the son and heir to the Fitzwilliam fortune, is pacing back and forth through the expansive living room of the home he considers his forest hideaway. He is nervous, everyone told him that it was over, the bribes were paid, the trial was won, and the father of the girl was a spineless drunk, so he was no threat.
Malcolm could not shake the feeling that something was coming for him. That look on the father’s face, after the judge announced the verdict, “not guilty,” the sober rage. He did not look like a spineless drunk. He looked like a man who would move heaven and earth to avenge his daughter.
That look that is what haunts Malcolm now. As soon as he was released, he left town and came here. He thought he would find peace out here in the woods, time to think and relax, but that look, it’s burned into his brain, and he can’t escape it.
The hunter watches from the darkness, the multitude of windows makes it easy to see everything that happens on the main floor. He can see his prey, walking back and forth, back and forth.
He has a rifle with him, it would be the most natural thing in the world to take aim and end this right now, but that would not be good enough. Malcolm will have to suffer for the things he has done; a quick death is not in his future.
The hunter moves toward the house. Despite all his paranoia, Malcolm has forgotten to lock the patio door. The hunter smiles to himself as he slips inside, quiet as a mouse.
Malcolm Fitzwilliam has stopped pacing. He dropped onto the couch with his head buried in his hands. A slight tremor rocks his body, as his fear grows.
The hunter approaches the couch from behind, ready to club Malcolm on the head, to stun him.
The telephone rings.
The hunter drops to the floor.
“Hello?” Malcolm says when he picks up the phone.
“Hey Mal, it’s Tony, how are you doing buddy? You looked pretty shaken when you left the courthouse today.”
“I’m good, man, just a little beat up from everything that has been going on.”
“I don’t doubt it; it was a trip, but you made it, scot-free, just like always,” Tony says enthusiastically.
“You know me, man, like Teflon, nothing sticks. Nothing ever will.”
“Okay, buddy, glad you’re okay, I gotta bounce.”
“Yeah, man, talk to you later,” Malcolm says, then as he is about to hang up the phone, he hears Tony calling his name.
“What’s that?” Malcolm asks.
“Sorry, I just wanted to tell you that the girl’s father was arrested right after you left. He started causing a scene in front of the courts. It was nuts.”
“So…he’s in jail?” Malcolm asks.
“Yep, for the night at least. What a loser right?”
“Yeah, total loser. Hey, thanks for the news, talk to you tomorrow.”
Malcolm hangs up the phone, and breaths a huge sigh of relief. That’s it, the person he was afraid of is in jail. Malcome is safe.
The hunter makes a move, quickly jumping up and striking Malcolm as he leans back against the couch.
Malcolm wakes up a few minutes later, to discover that he has been tied to a chair.
“What’s going on? What happened?” he asks, groggily, “Who the hell are you?”
The hunter turns to face his prey and slowly pulls back the hood he is wearing.
“Hello, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Andy Thompkins says calmly.
“What are you doing here, what do you want?” Malcolm asks. He recognizes the defense lawyer immediately. He should, Malcolm has seen him every day for the last two weeks. The length of the trial, where Andy Thompkins tried like the devil to have him charged with the rape and beating of the girl.
Tried and failed.
“I’m sick and tired of seeing you rich kids come into the courtroom, charged with some horrible crime, and getting nothing more than a slap on the wrist. It ends tonight.”
Andy pulls a cover off the table beside him. Malcolm’s eyes widen in fear as he sees the tools that are laid out on that table.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Andy says, as he picks up the first tool.
“I’m ready. Are you?”
