A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  In the house things were about as she expected. Orderly enough in most parts, but the kitchen needed attention. Male grad students: all the same.

  Emily passed through it all, wanting just to feel the home again. Maybe her brother wouldn't be completely gone, at least not within the spaces where they grew up. She went upstairs, to their rooms: two generous sized private little empires of their youth. Steve had the room to the back, with the door to the landing and those outdoor stairs leading down to the back yard. Envious of that advantage, she had launched many a campaign upon her parents to get the room for herself, until Emily found she could get out onto the roof from her bathroom's dormer window. From there she discovered how neat it was to spy on people out on the street. And the front windows of her bedroom were just as good.

  She looked about, taking in everything: the tiny landing she stood on, the wallpaper in her room that Steve had declared 'sub-ugly' when she put it up, the door to his room. Emily remembered that home-made poster the door had once borne, declaring the confines to be off limits to 'slugs.' At the time she never fully understood the statement, even when he called her a slug for weeks after mounting it on his door. But eventually she was no longer a slug and could enter his sanctum. How silly it could get as children, she thought.

  She reached for the door knob, but held her hand back. Not yet, she told herself, I can't go in there just yet. Emily went back down.

  Eric's room was at the foot of the stairs. She glanced in through the open door and saw him sitting on the bed, holding a holo-stick. A travel bag lay open beside him. He saw her through the doorway.

  "It's the one from last Christmas," he said, setting the stick on the bedside table. "I wanted to make sure it was here." Nodding at his bag, he said, "You'd better do the same. Pack warm clothes, Em. It'll be very cold up north. Especially after Egypt."

  Emily realized she hadn't thought of that. "So we're going after him."

  "Did you think we wouldn't?" he asked without inflection.

  She shook her head. "No doubts. Just wasn't sure if I was going to get to come with you. I'll get my winter clothes." Before heading back upstairs, she said, "When do we leave?"

  "Tomorrow morning."

  Something glistening caught her eye. It was in his bag. She stepped inside the room, close enough to see it was a pistol, looking huge and silvery. "When did you get that?" she said, pointing.

  Eric looked down at it as if it didn't concern him. "Not long after I started overseas digs. I wanted you guys to be safe."

  Safe? But that would mean… "Mom knew how to shoot it?"

  Turning back to her, he nodded. "I taught her." Then he laid eyes back on the pistol. "So now I'm going to use your mother's gun to avenge your brother."

  9

  The man hopped down from the freight car. A cold mist filled the night air of the sleeping city and a light drizzle served to turn the remaining snow into slush. He thought the mess should be frozen, cold as it was.

  He looked around cautiously. John Hardy was in a dark area of the rail yard, the nearest lights a hundred yards away. Sounds of late night work came through the dampness, flat and echoless. He started walking away.

  Following the tracks made travel quicker. Hardy shivered, pulling the toboggan down over his ears and tightened the jacket hood. He longed for a heavy coat, like the one his mother gave him the Christmas of his senior year.

  A long rail bridge loomed ahead, a train crossing from the other end. Reluctantly, Hardy left the tracks, half walking, half slipping until he fell on his back and skidded to the wet lot below. He heard and felt his sleeve rip on the way. At the bottom he got shakily to his feet. A stinging in his arm made him reach up and check. His arm was bleeding, but not too bad. There was a little gash on his forearm. He held it firmly as he walked away from the bank.

  By the time he got to the nearest street his shoes were soaked, his toes numb and his feet burning with icy cold. He tried to think of somewhere to go, somewhere he could at least warm his toes and dry out. Where do all the bums go in this city, he asked himself. He ought to know. Where are all the forgotten ones? He wished he could be forgotten now.

  All his independent adult life he'd been a forgotten one, a bum. Now every lawman in the nation knew of him, would know what he'd been convicted of doing. Everyone with a t-vid would know. 'John Hardy, vigilante fugitive. Here's what he's done; here's what he looks like: five-foot seven (or 1.7 meters), dark brown hair, likely unshaven, one-hundred-ten pounds (or 50 kilos) and undernourished. He killed a couple for money and jewels, left a child an orphan. You can shoot him on sight as long as you're sure it's him,' the program on the kiosk vid had said.

  He was walking through a district of stores and warehouses, some abandoned, all silent and lit only by a few streetlamps. Briefly he wondered what his parents thought of it all, or if they even knew or cared.

  A girl laughed nearby, loud and shrill. He flattened himself against the gray wall of the old building he was passing. Inching to the corner, he peeked around.

  In the back of a weedy vacant lot he saw a parked van next to several teenagers who were gathered around a warm-looking fire pit. They passed around a bottle and an over-sized pipe. He guessed they were smoking some legal hemp, though they shouldn't be having it out here.

  He would love to put his feet next to that fire.

  The teens were paired up almost evenly. The girl of the shrill laugh shared a mutual embrace with two boys. One couple just stared into the night while the rest giggled, laughed or talked. Some were in stages of undress, despite the cold.

  Hardy heard noises behind him. Turning, he saw another group a couple of blocks away. They seemed to be males, some carrying sticks or pipes. These they used to test doors and window shutters. Some sort of gang.

  It looked like a decidedly threatening gang.

  Time was Hardy would have gone in to warn the teens. That time was no more. Too dangerous for him.

  Using recently self-taught stealth, Hardy crossed the front of the lot to the next building unnoticed. It looked deserted. Some sort of storage, he thought. He checked some doors, found them locked. Glancing back every few seconds, he saw the gang getting closer. He ducked around the side and before him rose an old-fashioned outside fire escape.

  He climbed up as softly as possible, hoping none of the steps were rusted through.

  A ladder at the top led to the roof. He took it and darted over to the front. They were still down the street some, gathered in front of a large window he had noticed before. One had a flashlight he was aiming inside.

  Hardy chanced a look down into the vacant lot. One of the girls appeared to be stripping. He watched long enough to see her pull underwear down and out from under her skirt.

  Back on the street one of the gangers had a brick raised in one hand. Casually but with practiced force, he flung it through the window. The crash of plate glass was followed by a raucous and monotonous clanging. First taking the time to grab numerous objects from the display, the gang then took off at a run back the way they had come.

  Checking once more on the stoned teens, Hardy saw them looking around in dull surprise. It registered on him that police would eventually come and pick over the entire area. In the vacant lot he was sure they would find the little sex party. He himself would surely be found if he stayed. They might arrest him for the break-in, but, even worse, they'd find he was a vigilante fugitive and his whereabouts would be made known to them.

  But the police wouldn't find him. Not up here on this roof or anywhere else.

  He ran to the fire escape and down to the ground. He ran hard out for three blocks, then turned toward the river. With a little luck he could find the old water main where it crossed on the aqueduct. Then he could scuttle across to Mayo's Island. That might keep him safe for a day.

  He heard a set of sirens coming out of the cacophony of the city just as he reached the bank.

  10

  When Emily came down the back stairs to the
kitchen, Andrea already had a breakfast waiting for her.

  "Your father has eaten his. He's loading the car now."

  Emily nodded, sitting at the table. She remembered the scene she had made yesterday, but she still felt justified in her passion. She just shouldn't have lashed out at Phil Lindley like that. Well, she rationalized to herself, Dad had apologized for her, and Phil was an adult and would get over it. He might even understand.

  Finished with the egg, Emily was sipping on her tea by the time Eric came inside.

  "Is it cold out?" she asked.

  Eric shook his head. "Not too bad. You won't need more than a jacket for now."

  He stopped, facing the hall. She turned in the direction he was looking and saw David standing there.

  "Morning, little man," Eric greeted softly.

  David glanced at Emily, then back over to Eric and said, "Hi."

  He seemed subdued. The boy should be running to Eric and jumping up on him. But nothing was normal right now. Or ever would be for him. The anger began rising in her again; a simmering remnant of the rage that fueled her screaming rant of yesterday.

  David came to within a few steps of Eric. "Granddaddy, are you going to get the man that killed Mom and Dad?"

  Eric knelt down to the boy's level. Placing his hands on David's shoulders, he said, "That's what I'm supposed to do. Yes."

  David reached up and hugged Eric around the neck. "Please come back."

  Suddenly Emily understood. David probably never knew mortality until he watched his parents being buried, learning that he'd never see them again.

  Eric hugged David close and stood, picking him up as he did. He looked at her and said, "Ready to go?"

  She nodded. Swallowing the last of her tea, she took her dishes to the sink. Behind her she heard the soft thump of David's feet touching the floor as Eric set him down.

  On her way out of the kitchen she stopped by David. "I'll make sure your granddaddy comes back, Pod." She used her pet name for him, hoping it would make him feel better. All he did was nod and walk off.

  Emily shared a glance with her father, who sighed and shrugged. She went on upstairs.

  When she returned to the kitchen all the adults of the family had materialized. Even her grandfather was there. Of course, Grannna Pat wasn't. She would never leave her room. That couldn't be helped.

  Emily cursed silently when she found herself looking for Steve and Kelly. Then she decided maybe they were here in spirit. She didn't really convince herself of that. Their mission would keep Steve away. He abhorred killing: of humans, animals, anything. But she couldn't see being a pacifist. Not for her. Not for this.

  A tapping sounded from the carport door. Bob was nearest, so he opened it.

  Emily could see that it was a tall woman with short, neat, dark hair, dressed as for church.

  The woman spoke as soon as the door was open. "Hello. I'm Joan Devereux. A young man at Dr. Sheafer's residence told me I would find him here."

  "What do you want with him?" he asked guardedly.

  Ed went forward, saying, "It's okay, Dad. This is Steve's boss."

  Chagrined, Bob stepped back. "Of course. School Superintendent Devereux. I should have known. Ed works with you for the family company."

  "Oh, yes. You must be Mr. Sheafer. You worked with my predecessor, Dr. Jessup, about two administrations ago. Yes. Ed handles most of our supplies and items," she said smoothly. "You and I have never really met."

  "That's right. I've stepped back from the public part of the business and let the sons handle all that. The county school system is our largest local client. Ed tells me he still deals directly with you, even after your promotion."

  Joan nodded. "Steve took my old position, and was highly competent in it, but we felt it might be seen as a conflict of interest if he dealt with his uncle's company."

  "I remember that decision."

  "Well, Ms Devereux," Eric said. "What brings you to see me on a Sunday?" The words came out friendly but flat.

  "I just wanted to personally express my condolences to you, Dr. Sheaffer. All of us at the schools will feel the loss of your son."

  Emily noted how very tall she was. Standing a half head over her father and inches above Frank, the tallest of the Sheafers. And the woman was wearing flat heels.

  Devereuax left after a few minutes. As soon as she was gone Emily had trouble remembering what the woman had said. Everything was shrouded in a heavy vagueness.

  After all the possible goodbyes had been said, stiff and awkward, Eric and Emily got into the Volvo and drove off in the rain. She glanced back once at the carport, jammed with her family, seeing them off.

  11

  A half-hour later they were on 29-North, passing out of the city limits. Traffic was heavy for a Sunday, but cleared out after the last Reidsville exit.

  Eric switched on the radio, immediately getting a talk show. "See what else is on," he said.

  Emily ran it through all the bands with neither of them liking the choices. She switched to the internal selections and picked a Mozart concerto.

  The music brought to mind how hard Steve had tried to share in her and their parents’ love of classical, but he never could do more than 'kinda like it.' He really loved rock and rap and pop and slip, and continued to as an adult. And it paid a benefit, helping to make him a bit more popular with students, because he really knew all the groups, or so it seemed to her. Lazer Wrath, HEAT II, Beyond It All, Lumpy Gravvy, Lower Earth. She even liked some of the last group's work. Beyond that, she knew none of it.

  She felt better with the long dead composers. It seemed only fitting. She studied people who were way long dead .

  It was a waste of his best talents to have left the classroom for administration.

  God, he was a good teacher, she thought. If only Steve could understand what that little bastard took from them, then he'd understand why she would pull the trigger on the worm with pleasure.

  The long day disappeared into a blurred mix of old memories intruded upon by endless hours of wet gray highway, music played, switching drivers, a forgettable meal somewhere, rain upon rain sprayed up by other vehicles. And that was if the pavement was good. Twice they had to leave the main highway to detour around repair work. And if there was no rain then it was mist, and still the spray from tires.

  Traffic around Washington was thick and slow on the beltway, in spite of the excellent surface. To the inside of the belt she saw a large mass of people milling around in project housing. They were surrounded by what looked to be several hundred police.

  It was nearly midnight when they got back on 29.

  The next thing Emily knew, she was waking with a start. Alarmed, she realized she was in a fast moving car. She blinked hard and shook her head to clear the disorientation, calming when she saw her father, alert at the wheel, breath visible in the glow of taillights.

  "How long have I been sleeping?" Her own breath issued out a cloud.

  "About an hour."

  She concentrated for a few seconds, trying to think coherently. She remembered that Eric had been at it since before the Capital. Traffic was still atrocious, the road more rough than smooth.

  "You've been driving for hours. Are you okay? Do you want to change?"

  "No," he said. "I'm fine; not sleepy."

  "How much longer?"

  "We just got past Baltimore. About another hour. The traffic should thin out soon."

  Emily gazed out at the red-amber taillights, blurry-clear-blurry-clear as the wipers went back and forth. She adjusted the seat up some, but not all the way, leaving it at a comfortable recline. Despite the long nap she was still tired. Not sleepy anymore, but weary. Letting the seat back support her, she turned slightly toward Eric. A shiver ran through her and she pulled the cotton hoodie tighter. It was considerably colder than back home. Unreasonably cold.

  Eric noticed her chill and turned the meager heat up.

  "Thanks. I'm glad you told me to pack for this. I did
n't really think about it."

  "We've had our minds on…things. Other things."

  Emily leaned against the door, looking at Eric. Through the haze of her fatigue, she was surprised to find herself thinking clearly now. Something was nagging at her, but the harder she tried to figure it out, the faster it fled ahead of her consciousness. Still, she was vexed by the unshakeable and unsettling notion that it concerned her father.

  Giving up, Emily decided her problem was one of continued orbiter lag. Had they really been digging under a hot Egyptian sun only a couple of days ago? That thought wouldn't leave her alone, either. Her brain kept repeating: blissfully working with Dad and on my doctorate while my brother was beaten to death.

  That moment of ignorance galled her. Bad as it was, at least she had been present and aware when her mother died.

  She shook her head. It just made no sense. Not this. Not Steve. Why did John Hardy have to kill them? Over some money and old jewelry? And the bastard lost it all, too; even Great-granna's edelweiss pendant. Or, at any rate, he never would say where it was. He probably went back where he stashed it and got it before leaving. Bought a ticket out of town with the cash, no doubt. God, he needed to be dead.

  The elusive thought suddenly took shape and gave itself up. Eric wanted him dead, too. He could kill, if he needed to, anyone. She knew that about him now. She thought of the pistol inside his jacket. It still clashed with her image of him. "Dad?"

  "Hmm?"

  Looking at him, she tried to visualize her professorial father aiming the gun at another man. "Will you kill him? Soon as we get him?"

  Eric took a deep breath. She heard the long sigh escape from his lips, saw the enormous cloud of vapor, and wondered if he was going to answer or ignore her. He finally said, "I don't really know, Em."

  Emily turned back. That was what had nagged her, all right. Looking out at the dwindling number of taillights, she said, "I think I must be more like Mother."