Free Cruel Justice by William Bernhardt Page A

Julia would choose you to be her indentured baby-sitter when you’ve alienated every member of your family. Is there some family member I’ve omitted?”
    Well, Ben thought, there was someone I thought of like a father, but that was hardly worth bringing up now. I’m so disappointed, Ben. How could you let this happen to you?
    “Julia will be back soon,” Ben said. “I’m sure she will. I bet she’ll be back before nightfall.”
    “You’re deluding yourself, kemo sabe. ”
    Ben fidgeted with his briefcase. “I remember you told me you saw Julia not too long ago. Did she seem … distraught? Stressed out?”
    Mike shrugged. “No more so than usual. But that was over a year ago. Becoming a mother changes women.”
    “If you say so.” Ben started to leave, then stopped. “If worse comes to worst, I don’t suppose you’d care to do some baby-sitting?”
    “For my ex-wife’s new baby?” Mike’s look of amazement slowly faded into a soft smile. “There was a time when I would’ve done anything in the world for Julia. Anything. If she just would’ve stayed with me one more night.”
    He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Sure thing, pal. I can help look after the little booger. Just tell me when to show up. I’ll bring the pizza and beer.”

10
    C ARLEE CRANE WATCHED AS her husband, Dave, introduced their two sons to the joys of whittling.
    “It’s like this,” Dave said, carefully demonstrating how to open and close their pocketknives. “Put your knife in your right hand, and hold the block of wood in your left. Always stroke away from you, not toward you. Understand, Ethan?”
    Ethan, who had just turned six, peered up at his father with his usual inquisitive, somewhat skeptical expression. “Why?”
    Dave’s eyes soared toward the heavens. It was an inquiry Ethan had made with increasing frequency during the past year.
    “Because you don’t want to hurt yourself.”
    Their other son, Gavin, an elder sage of eight, volunteered an answer. “If you stroke toward yourself, Ethan, you’ll end up cutting off your hand or poking a hole in your stomach. Knowing you, you’d probably kill all four of us with a single blow.”
    “Gavin,” Carlee said, “don’t talk to your brother like that.”
    “I’m just trying to keep him from slaughtering us, Mom, like that guy who kills all the campers in those Friday the 13th movies.”
    “Gavin,” Dave interjected, “your brother is not Jason.”
    “I don’t know,” Gavin said. “He looks pretty scary in a hockey mask.”
    Carlee smiled. This was her family, God help her. It was too late to trade them in now.
    She reached over and turned on the portable radio they had brought with them. It was tuned to the NPR station. Terry Gross was finishing an interview with yet another jazz musician.
    “Let’s continue the whittling lesson,” Dave said.
    “Aw, gee, Dad,” Ethan said. “Do we have to?”
    “Yes, you have to,” Dave said emphatically. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you?”
    There was no immediate answer forthcoming.
    “Of course you don’t,” Dave answered for him. “Smart campers don’t hurt themselves.”
    Here we go again, Carlee thought. Since they had arrived at their Turner Falls campsite in the Arbuckle Mountains two days before, Carlee had heard Dave indoctrinate his children on his own personal code of forbidden camp conduct, which could be titled What Smart Campers Don’t Do. Don’t swim for an hour after eating. Don’t build a campfire without a protective ring of rocks. Don’t pitch your tent on a slope. All these lessons and more were reinforced with the injunction “Only stupid campers do that.” Presumably, Dave believed that nothing would mortify the boys more than being thought stupid campers. In truth, Gavin and Ethan would probably be more attentive if he threatened to take away their Game Boys.
    Fresh Air ended, and a local news update began. Carlee turned up the volume. “…