A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  "I never know when I'm going to see you, Eric. You look great. And is this Emily?"

  With a nod, he said, "'Em, this is Callie Smith, an old friend and former student from school."

  Callie frowned at Eric, but her eyes were still smiling. "You score only two for four, Dr. Sheafer. I'm not 'old' and Smith is no longer my name. Hasn't been for three years, I'm happy to say."

  "Oh? Remarried?"

  "I should say not! And if I do, I'm going to do what Rose did and stay Callie Vance. I always thought that was a neat thing about you two. But damned Harry Smith wouldn't hear of it. There were too many things the throw back wouldn't hear of, so now he won't hear of me anymore."

  "Well, Dad didn't think much of it when Rose kept her name. Mom never got over it, not really. But they still loved her like a daughter." He motioned to a chair and she sat without hesitating. "What happened to your marriage…if you don't mind me asking? I always thought you and Harry were totally in love."

  "Oh, hell. I don't mind you asking one bit. We loved each other all right. But you know how that so often goes. Seems like most people don't really know how to love, won't understand each other's needs. As much my fault as his, I guess. I felt he could do his work just as well here as in Knoxville. It was mostly web-based buying…so. Well, I wouldn't tell him directly how much my work meant to me and he couldn't, or wouldn't, see it on his own. And…there was other stuff. Finally, I blew up. God, it was awful. I tried to apologize, but he wouldn't reconcile. So… Here I am, without him."

  "I'm sorry."

  Sitting and listening, Emily was reminded of her own failed relationship with Lee. But she had told him from the start what she wanted to do. Maybe that was why it never went far. She wished he'd see it that way, too. They could be friends, if he'd allow it.

  "Thanks," Callie was saying. "It's not really that bad. Harry and I just couldn't give enough for it to work. At least not without severe compromise by one or the other. That would have been unhealthy for either of us. Besides, my life is great, now. And he married after a year. Real happy, got a child. I'm still fond of him, but that's all."

  Eric let a silence pass for a few seconds, then steered the subject to a related direction. "So, Callie, are you still working for the same man?"

  "Senator Norwood?"

  "I think that's the one. Emily, you are sitting in the presence of the nation's first Congressional Advisor in History. That's an unintentional pun. Sorry, Callie."

  "God awful, too. At least it's accurate," she said. "What your father means with his double-talk is that I was the historical advisor for the senior senator from Virginia. Not anymore. Now I'm independent."

  "Oh?"

  "Yep. I've got my own business offering the service to anyone in DC."

  "Senator Norwood." The name stirred Emily's memory. Something to do with their current situation. "He's the one who sponsored the PeopleWatch bill, isn't he?"

  "Exactly. Good memory," she said to Emily. "That was at least twenty years ago, when he was in the House."

  "I…just remember. Wasn't he personally involved in some way?"

  "Yes. His sister had been missing for twelve years. More than thirty, now. She's never been found. Had this network been in existence then, she might have been. He worked very hard for that bill.” Callie turned to Eric. "Now, Dr. Sheafer. What brings you both to Washington? A grant or something?"

  His smile lessened but a vestige remained. "Or something. It's…personal business."

  "Can't tell an 'old' friend, to use your term?"

  "No." Eric hesitated for a moment. "Well, maybe. How about over supper? Are you free tonight?"

  "Oh, damn! No. First date offer in months and I've got to go to a damned meeting at the White House. You don't ever turn down an invitation from the president."

  "Is this work?"

  "Well, yes. Plus it makes for a lot of good will, especially if it's important."

  "And this is?"

  "Absolutely. Nothing secret about it, though. Even Futrell has a limit on how bad he'll let the economy get before trying something."

  Eric nodded. "Did the protests last summer finally make him wake up?"

  "Sort of. Add to it the ones in October that shut down L.A. until Thanksgiving. I am free tomorrow night. Will you still be here?"

  "Sure. I can make any night for a while. Are you still in College Park?"

  "No. Divorce settlement took that. I've got an apartment in the Watergate. Has a beautiful view of the river and the Mall. Tenth floor. Just ask the doorman."

  To Callie's nod, Eric observed, "It's got a bit of history, too. Speaking of the river, we're staying across it in Arlington with Walter Luptman."

  "Oh, yeah. I know him. Craziest bureaucrat of them all. My favorite one, too. I didn't know you two were friends."

  "We go way back. Class of '09, Chicago U. Both went to Cambridge, too."

  "How was that? Aren't you older by a few years?"

  "Thanks a lot," he said with a laugh.

  "Sorry. It's just that I know how old Dr. Luptman is and I remember that you're almost exactly fifteen years--"

  "Forget it," Eric interrupted. "So we have a date."

  "Of course. I'll have everything ready by seven."

  "Everything?"

  "Yeah," she said, bobbing her head up and down. "I'm a damned good cook, I'm tired of others' food, and I want to show off." She glanced at her watch. "Good to see you again. Both of you. Eric, I'll see you tomorrow night. I have to go."

  Eric took her hand. "Seven o'clock. I'm looking forward to it."

  Emily said a quick, "Nice to meet you," as Callie left with a little wave. As soon as she was well into the crowd and out of earshot, she turned to her father and said, "She's pretty. Where did you know her?"

  "When I was at Chicago, lecturing and working on my dissertation. Steve was little, and you had just been born. That's why she's already met you. Of course, you were only a baby, but… Oh, yes. She was about seventeen, I think. Smartest student I've ever had. She knew more about some things than I did."

  "Wait a minute. She was seventeen?"

  "Yes, and a junior."

  "Oh. Okay. Of course. But Mom never said anything about you teaching in high school."

  "Because I didn't."

  "But she was a junior…" It came clear to Emily. "Wait. You mean… She was a junior in college? You're lying."

  "To my own daughter? Absolutely not."

  "Then… How?"

  "I told you: she's damned smart. She graduated high school with honors just after her sixteenth birthday."

  "Must've been a strange person by the time you got her. Seems normal now."

  "No, not really. Strange, I mean. Rather out-going, as a matter of fact. She just has a terrific memory. And more than her share of aptitude. Plus, well, her parents valued knowledge more than the average. And passed this on to Callie. Her father was a modestly successful mechanic who never went to college. Neither did her mother. But they didn't waste time on the t-vid, read a lot, took her on educational trips. Pretty rare people."

  "Yeah. Why didn't they go to college?"

  A knowing look passed across Eric's face. "They came out of high school in the 'teens. Only the rich and the fully scholarshipped could afford college." Then he shrugged. "But some people don't really need a complete formal education. And that is not the only measure of intelligence. I remember having a great conversation with them."

  "Is she from Chicago?"

  "No. Fredricksburg. I met her parents when they came to visit the school. I don't know why they wanted to meet me. They couldn't have had much time, but they came by my office. Said something about seeing all of Callie's professors. But I remember them staying for over an hour. I know they couldn't have made it to all of her instructors. She was taking half again as many credits as the average student."

  Eric lapsed into a silence. "What happened after that?" Emily asked when it seemed he was done.

  "I don't know. She
aced my class. Then I finished my dissertation, got my doctorate and we went to Cambridge. I didn't hear of her again until she made the news by joining Norwood's staff. And then we wrote a bit, on business. A couple of times we met when I was in Washington. She even dragged me in to see Norwood once. Then I got my grant to go to Egypt that first time. Right after that meeting, that was. I still wonder if it was her that made the strings get pulled."

  "Why?"

  "Because Norwood didn't seem all that interested."

  "No. Why do you think she did all that? What was her motivation?"

  "How should I know? Maybe she liked my class. Anyway, she's done a hell of a lot of good here. Memories inside the belt are notoriously flexible. What she does is to try and counter that. What's more, there's now more like her, assisting Congress, the White House, a few lobbyists, even the handful of public interest PACs. For that, I'm glad to help her whenever she needs it in my area, and I'm grateful when I get her help."

  "Yeah." Emily couldn't keep out of her voice that she suspected more. "What ever you say."

  "What?" His voice sounded a half-octave higher.

  She looked at the waterfall fountain behind its glass wall. "Nothing," she said breezily, then changed the subject, slightly. "Are you going to tell her about Steve?"

  'What… Oh, yeah. Yes." His voice returned to normal with that. "Sure. I suppose. I don't know how much I'll tell her. Enough, I guess. I'm not in the mood for anyone's sympathy."

  "I didn't think you were."

  "No. Maybe she can even help us somehow. Maybe she can get someone to sponsor a repeal or a change in this damned law. Even if it might not help us directly, I'd be real glad to see it go."

  Emily nodded, still gazing at the falling water, cascading white down the stones and foaming at the bottom. Mold was growing on the glass. Eric was silent.

  Finally she said, "We'd better get back outside. I don't think he's coming in here."

  Two hours later they were on the Metro. Not even a desperate John Hardy would be out in the cold, heavy downpour that had come.

  19

  Ruth Luptman came down as they were removing their coats. "Eric," she said. "Call Andrea."

  Eric raised his head quickly at the mention of his sister-in-law. Exchanging glances with Emily, he then said, "Thanks, Ruth. Did she say why she didn't call me direct?"

  "She said she tried but couldn't get through. Plus, it was too personal and wanted to get you somewhere private. I tried to get her to leave a message, but she just said to call any time."

  Eric nodded and activated his PDM. Ruth went back upstairs, honoring the nature of the message. He sat on a bar stool.

  He went to the com programs as soon as its images materialized.

  Emily watched as he selected Andrea from his n-phone list. After a few seconds of waiting on the 'CONNECTING' icon, it gave way to Andrea's image.

  "Oh, good," she said at once. "It's working again. I'm glad you called back, Eric." Her eyes shifted to Emily and she said, "Hey, Em," to her with a wave.

  Eric reclaimed her attention with a rush of words. "What is it, Andrea? What's happened? Is there anything wrong with David? Bob?"

  "Wait a minute. Of course not. Let me get to it," she interjected. "We're fine. As can be, at any rate. It's Kelly's father, Don Morton."

  "Yeah, yeah. I know him. We saw him and Mary Alice just last year. Well, what is it?"

  "I'm trying to tell you. The both of them were in Knoxville, checking a sighting there, you know."

  "No, but go ahead."

  "He had a heart attack. Mary Alice called this morning. He's in the CCU there. I feel so sorry for her. She was crying the whole time, Eric. I couldn't tell if it was more for Don or that she was saying they had to quit the search. I've called her brother--"

  "Kelly's? Oh, God, no. Of course not. She was an only child. Her brother, ah, Mary Alice's."

  "Right. He lives in Asheville, too. He went to be with her. I don't know, Eric. I couldn't really tell how bad it was."

  "Well, Andrea, it wouldn't have to be all that bad to stop him. He's only fifty-four, but his health is bad. Damn! They shouldn't even have tried. I should've realized. He can't handle it. I should've told them to stay home and leave it to us."

  "Stop it, Eric," she said, frowning at him. "You can't know or do everything, you know. If you'd been the weaker one, and you are older than he is, you wouldn't have stayed home, either."

  He looked down, sighed and ran his hand up the back of his head, leaving it on top. "I know. I…" He hesitated, brought his hand down, then continued, more subdued. "Tell Mary Alice we're thinking about 'em, praying for them. And…not waste any concern about the hunt. We can take care of it. Keep in touch with her, Andrea, please? Tell her I'll call soon as I can."

  "I will. What are you going to do? About the reports from Tennessee, I mean."

  "Nothing. I don't think he, ah, Hardy, is there."

  Emily said, "Don's a nice man. I hope he'll be okay."

  "There shouldn't be any problems," Andrea assured them. "Especially if he doesn't need a transplant, as rare as good donors are now."

  "Maybe I can deliver the heart of the man who murdered his daughter," Eric said heatedly. Then, with an embarrassed glance at Emily, he quickly said, "God, I'm sorry, Andrea. That was a damned awful thing to say."

  "Yeah. It's okay. I understand. Listen, you two be careful. I love you both."

  "Thanks, Andrea. Thank you for telling us about Don. We'll call probably on Tuesday."

  Emily stood. "Excuse me," she said, and went into the bathroom. Once she closed the door, she leaned against the wall, face in hands. Tightening them into fists, she banged them on the tile, first soft, then with increasing intensity. "Damn him, damn him, damn him," she repeated in an angry whisper.

  When she returned a few moments later, Eric was still sitting at the bar, focusing on nothing. She joined him and they remained in communal silence.

  Then he took her arm, held it in both hands and said, voice husky, "We'll find him."

  Emily stared dully at the t-vid. Eric had gone into the bedroom to make another call to Andrea and to call Mary Alice. She was glad he'd gone in the other room. She didn't feel strong enough for that call.

  Supper had been good, but she'd had little appetite for food and none for company. So she sat with eyes aimed at the images.

  PBS was rerunning the special on the Australasian Mars Mission, which she liked the first time, but now she couldn't pay attention. She started flipping through the channels, stopping on CNN East. Maybe someone else's problems would take her mind off her own.

  The stories were mildly interesting at first: Completed repairs on the Death Valley Solar Station meant the ageing western nuclear plants could be taken off line again; A car collided with a Transamerica passenger train, killing four and injuring over twenty; Voters in the Slavic Federation re-elected the prime minister, but put many new faces in the Duma.

  After the headlines her eyes began to lose focus. She barely heard a door being closed upstairs and footsteps on the hardwood of the hall.

  Deciding to go to bed, she raised the remote to kill the t-vid but stopped short. The image was the outside of a jail and a reporter was clearly excited.

  "This footage was taken earlier today and provided to our affiliate by a family member of the victim," he was saying. "At two p.m., CMT, the Vigilante Fugitive Michael Terry was released by the order of Federal District Court Judge Robert Troxler. The family of rape-murder victim Lydia Powell was waiting, and filmed their vengeance."

  As if on cue, Terry appeared at the door, escorted by a deputy. The officer removed his handcuffs and opened the door. Terry looked around, reluctant to leave. Then he was pushed out, the deputy locking the door behind him.

  Terry came at an angle toward the camera, looking all around. He was clearly fearful, moving about in quick, spasmodic motions.

  All at once, three men jumped out at him. Before Terry could run more than a step he
was tackled by two of them. Then they all set on him with knives.

  Emily watched transfixed as the blades rose and fell several times. Terry struggled to get away but one of them drove his large knife down between Terry's shoulder blades. The fugitive ceased moving and the scene was replaced by the reporter.

  "We will not show the rest of the footage. It gets more graphic."

  She couldn't imagine how.

  He signed off and the studio returned. The anchorwoman announced it was time for the updates for fugitives at large. Rotating images came up in turn of four men and a woman, with brief descriptions, summaries of their crimes, and the latest of where they were thought to be.

  John Hardy was third.

  Emily watched closely as the voice-over said he was probably in the mid-Atlantic region. "But do be careful," the anchor cautioned. "Hardy's appearance has already resulted in the mistaken execution of a man in Philadelphia."

  Disappointed that he wasn't definitely sighted somewhere, Emily finally switched off the vid. There had been nothing new. But at least his face was being shown on national networks.

  She settled on the sofa and tried to sleep.

  20

  "It's about time you got up," Eric said.

  Emily leaned against the door frame. "Couldn't get to sleep for a couple of hours," she muttered. "I keep seeing that man getting stabbed."

  "You saw that, too?"

  "CNN East." She eased onto the first barstool.

  "I saw it on JNBC this morning. They interviewed Lydia Powell's mother. In some ways I think it's better the way we've got it, so long as we catch him. No press hounding us. Of course, the first one was a circus. They did a story on that, too. Seems it'll be the anniversary this weekend of the first Vigilante Execution. That one had it the worst. Six networks followed him full time, with the others racing in whenever they felt like it. JNBC took credit for finding the fugitive. Only fair they should find him. The way they all kept tabs on the poor EOR the fugitive had to have known his every move."