Free Cruel Justice by William Bernhardt Page B

commenting on the impending trial of Leeman Hayes ten years after the heinous killing occurred. Hayes is accused of murdering a Peruvian woman in the caddyshack at the Utica Greens Country Club.”
    “Hear that?” Carlee said. ‘That’s where I used to work.”
    No one heard her. The menfolk were all focusing their full attention on their knives and blocks.
    “A murder at Utica Greens,” she murmured. “I’m surprised I don’t remember it.” Even as she said it to herself, though, something struck her as not quite right.
    She glanced at her watch. It was almost time to fix supper, which meant deciding which of several cans she was going to open. Dave had made some noise about “roughing it” and learning to cook such campfire delicacies as steak Diane and foil taters. When all was said and done, however, she was the cook, and the cook was on vacation. There was a reason God made canned food, the cook announced, and this was it.
    She knew she should get started, but somehow, she couldn’t quite work up the energy. It was so peaceful here, watching her family, feeling the wind toss about her long hair, seeing the sun slowly dip behind the Arbuckle Mountains.
    Nah. The cans would keep.
    “Now, first,” Dave continued, “you need to decide what you’re going to make. What are you going to make, Gavin?”
    Gavin blinked several times. “Gosh, I dunno.”
    “Well, what does your block of wood look like to you?”
    “Well …” Gavin stared at it intently. “It looks like a square.”
    “It is a square, but—” Dave’s face tightened. “Don’t you have an imagination?”
    “I guess not,” Gavin replied. “Least not when it comes to blocks of wood.”
    “It’s Nintendo that’s done it,” Dave said, glancing at his wife. “Nintendo and MTV. Pollutes their minds. Feeds them everything. Before long, they’ve forgotten how to use their imaginations and they can’t tolerate anything that takes longer than three and a half minutes.”
    “Maybe you could teach them by example,” Carlee suggested.
    “Wow, what a concept,” Dave murmured. “I see now how you got that degree in secondary education.” He picked up his knife and block. “Okay, craft lovers, watch this.”
    “Will it take long?” Ethan whined.
    “Why, have you got a date or something?”
    “No … but I am getting kinda hungry. …”
    Dave bit down on his lower lip. “Just watch for a minute, okay? Good. Now, I think my block of wood looks like”—his eyes wandered about, then lighted on Carlee—“… your mother.”
    “Mother!” Both Gavin and Ethan cackled with laughter. “Dad thinks you look like a square block of wood!”
    “How flattering,” Carlee said.
    “It’s not that it looks like her now, ” Dave said. “But see what happens when I do … this.” He sliced his knife through the block, curling off a sliver of wood.
    “Hey,” Gavin observed, “shouldn’t you be stroking away from—”
    “Shush and watch,” Dave said. He continued cutting. “And then I do this … and this … and— ow! ”
    Dave shouted, then dropped the knife and block. Both boys jumped into the air, startled.
    “What happened?” Carlee asked. “What did you—”
    The answer was evident before she finished the question. Violating his own code, Dave had stroked toward himself and cut his hand.
    “How bad is it?” Carlee blanched. Blood was spurting from the wound. Dave squeezed down on it with his other hand, but the blood spilled out through his fingers.
    “Get the first-aid kit!” Dave shouted.
    Carlee continued staring at the blood streaming from his wound. It smeared his arms and dripped onto the ground, making gruesome dark puddles. A sickly sweet odor permeated the air.
    Carlee felt a wave of nausea sweeping over her. She put down a hand to steady herself, but was unable to take her eyes away from him. She saw her husband clutching his hand, covered with blood, and—
    And then she saw something else. Some … where