A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  "Right now I'd welcome the help." Emily took the cup her father handed over and sipped once. Hot Irish Breakfast tea; it brought some more life into her. She set it down. Staring into it, she said, "How on earth are we ever going to find him? There's only you and me. We can't cover the whole country."

  Eric set his fork down. She could feel him looking at her. "You feel, this morning, that this task is too big?"

  She nodded, eyes still unfocused on the dark brown-amber liquid, faint steam transiently clouding it.

  "I know it seems that way," Eric said with a sigh. "But we're not really alone. Already that AI cop has been helpful."

  "Yeah, sure. Gave us a list of cities which, by themselves, are impossible for just two people, total amateurs at that, to search."

  "Don't forget: we're not just any two amateurs in matters of this nature. We are used to seeking out things with even less info than we have on Hardy. Remember Henry Hudson's last camp? That one was actually a lot of fun. And the grave of redcoats under that corner shopping center back home?"

  "Yeah. I guess." Emily rubbed her forehead. "I don't know." She dug deep in herself for some semblance of determination. Even if it wasn't there, she had to show it for him. "Oh, hell," she said, throwing in a tinge of self-disgust. "Just ignore me. I'll be all right after a shower."

  "Here. Eat your breakfast first." He pushed a breakfast toward to her.

  She waved her hand at the plate. "No thanks. I'm not hungry."

  "Those are sim-eggs. They're going to get cold and disgusting. Now eat 'em. I don't need you giving out on me in the middle of the morning. It's supposed to be mostly cloudy, still cold, but no rain expected. We can make a full day of it." Eric took a large swallow of his tea. "Oh, and we have an appointment with some PI for lunch."

  "Private investigator?" Without raising her head any she cut her eyes to look at him through her bangs.

  "Some guy named Jerry Maxwell. He called last night."

  "How'd he find out about us?"

  "Probably through some contact with the police. Likely they sell the info to increase the department funds. Anyway, it won't hurt us to see him. I agreed to meet him in the coffee shop in Wally's museum for lunch."

  Emily then raised her head level. "Do you think he can help?"

  "I don't know." Eric drained his tea. "Maybe. We'll just have to see how he impresses us. Now eat."

  "'Kay," she mumbled. "Can't afford him anyway." She forked up some eggs that already had lost much of their warmth.

  "If he seems good, then we'll find a way. Take out an equity loan or something."

  Her father had been annoyingly right. Emily's small breakfast had given out and she was fading by eleven, the cold and the gray sapping her energy. To her relief, Eric turned across the Mall toward the American History Museum.

  "I thought we'd go on and eat early. Maxwell is supposed to be there at twelve, and I'd as soon not be distracted while evaluating him," he said.

  "Fine with me."

  "Appetite back?"

  "No. But I need something. The idea of food doesn't excite me. It's only fuel."

  "That's okay. So long as you're willing to eat. It'd also be nice to get out of this cold."

  "Yeah," Emily agreed, feeling the bitter air even more because her father had acknowledged it.

  On the way across the park lawns Emily glanced up to see the solid gray-white sky had begun to break here and there in fuzzy blue streaks. The light breeze, constant all morning, was turning brisk. As they neared the side entrance of the building, the gloomy Mall was transformed by moving patches of sunlight.

  A sudden bright ray made the aluminum door frame glow as they reached the entrance, making Emily squint. At the same time a concentrated gust arrived, too, and, to her, it seemed the elements of light and wind were pushing them inside.

  Hot chocolate and a warm tempeh sandwich had her thawed out by the time an average-sized, average-looking blond man, white shirt and black tie under an overcoat, approached them.

  Tentatively, he said, "Dr. Sheafer?"

  Eric looked up. "Mr. Maxwell. Have a seat."

  Relieved, the man set his tray down across from Eric. He seemed about thirty.

  "And this is your daughter? Pleased to meet you, Miss Sheafer," he said, using the restored obligatory title, which she hated. Without waiting for her reply, he started speaking immediately. "You know, it's really hard for most folks to get as far as you have already. Most don't have the time, resources, ability or what have you, for it. That's where someone like me comes in. Then you may wonder what I can do for someone like yourselves, where you have time and capabilities, and are willing. Obviously you are actively searching for your man."

  "The question did cross my mind," Eric said evenly.

  "And so it should, doctor." Maxwell paused for a moment, then continued. "What I can help you with is this: my company has contacts all up and down the East, and from the coast to the Mississippi. The average citizen out there won't report a sighting of Hardy to the authorities. My contacts have access to these people. I won't lie to you: my contacts must 'encourage' them. It's expensive, but we get more and better information than the police will ever get on these fugitives. And that's because we appeal to the only power of persuasion that has been known to work in all cases."

  "You pay 'em. Isn't that against the law?" Emily asked.

  Maxwell looked at her as if he had forgotten about her. She was certain he was irritated by the question, and the fact that it came from a woman, but he said, "Ah…That is a good point. But the short answer is: no. The law does state that it is prohibited to kill a vigilante fugitive for pay, but we don't do that. It would cost us our license, among other things. But there is nothing in the law that prevents us from searching a fugitive out with cash payments. Nor is there a prohibition against holding a fugitive for the designated executioner. Does that cover your question, Miss Sheafer?"

  His tone and manner sent a creeping up the back of her neck. She viscerally didn't like him. "I suppose so," she allowed. It was unusually hard for her to say it.

  Maxwell smiled with practiced ease.

  Eric said, "Who do you work for, Mr. Maxwell? What company?" To her amazement, his voice stayed conversational with this too slick man.

  Oddly, the slick man hesitated a moment before saying, "CCF, Dr. Sheafer. Security, investigation and tracing," he finished, sounding like an add man.

  She noticed her father boot up his PDM in micro-vid mode while Maxwell went on. Remotely she wondered why, but tried to listen to the PI until Eric interrupted him.

  "That's CCF Service Agency, Inc?"

  "Um, right. We can handle any volume of business east of the Mississippi. And we have a partnership with the largest western agency in the industry."

  "Yeah, I see that," Eric said, looking up from his PDM.

  There seemed to be a faint edge in his voice. Maxwell didn't appear to notice.

  The PI said, "It gives us a huge advantage in cases like yours."

  Eric waved him silent. "I'm sure that's true. What I am interested in is that the firm is Eagle Private Defenses, a large contributing member to the Greater Safety PAC, as is CCF."

  Maxwell's face took on a wide-eyed but blank look, morphing into one of desperate annoyance. "Dr. Sheafer, how is it you have that information, if you don't mind me asking?"

  Now her father really puzzled her as he smiled broadly. He pushed his chair back. "No. I don't mind at all," he said and stood. "Come on, Em. We're done here." He turned and started walking away.

  Emily hurried to join him, Maxwell's voice trailing after them.

  "But…where did you… But we can help you. Come back. I wasn't finished."

  Barely turning his head, Eric said over his shoulder, "Yes. You are." He pushed the door open and stepped out in the cold afternoon with its patches of sunlight scurrying across the great lawns of the Capital Mall. There seemed to be a few more such bright patches than when they had gone inside. The cold gust
s remained, however.

  Running a few steps, Emily caught up and kept pace, eyeing him with curiosity.

  He caught the way she was looking at him. "What?" he asked her.

  "What was all that about? Why did we leave? Not that I really care. It just seemed a bit abrupt."

  "Did it?"

  "Yeah. Yes it did. I'm not used to that with you. At least not without an immediate explanation given to the other person."

  "Well, that's easy to explain. I didn't want to tell him why." He walked up a gentle rise in the ground.

  Emily hadn't seen it and stumbled through a staggered step, recovered and regained his side. "Well, can you tell me?"

  "Sure. It's possible that it could have been imprudent to tell him." He shook his head in a unsatisfied way. "Not actually dangerous, but the way I got that information - specifically, the fact that I kept it - some government circles could construe it to be illegal and confiscate my PDM. If I had told Maxwell, he doubtlessly would have reported it."

  "What did you do? I mean, ah…"

  "The Freedom of Information Act still exists, but it's been amended so that some actions of Congress can be first published, then all reports redacted from the media after only a few days. They call it The Freedom of Action clause. It's so congress can act without fear of interference or something." He stopped suddenly and smiled at her. "I automatically download the Congressional Record, but randomly through social media, and other sites, so it can't be traced. Then I can look it up whenever I need to."

  "Like today."

  "Yeah. Like today."

  "So what was the deal that made us leave?"

  "The Greater Safety PAC donates huge sums to the campaigns of candidates of their choice for president, senate or house. The money gets enough of their people elected that they can control the outcome of any legislation they are interested in. There are other PACs just like them. Defense, oil, finance. Nearly every congressman, senator and every president is owned by somebody. Some state reps are owned. It's disgusting."

  "I…didn't know it was that bad."

  His gaze wandered over the Mall. Shrugging, he said, "Maybe I'll let you look at my files some time. I won't send them to your PDM. It would create a trackable action and get us both in trouble."

  She scoffed. "What kind of trouble?"

  He looked back at her. In deadly seriousness he said, "There is a little-known law that was thrown together based on Homeland Security. It could be used to cite us for conspiracy to share national secrets if I did that."

  "You're kidding."

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "Let's get back to work."

  They started with the Lincoln Memorial.

  Four-and-a-half hours and two slow circuits of the Mall later they ended up in a musty alcove of the Air-Space Museum along with a few other weary souls. Emily was sure one of them was homeless.

  "My legs hurt," Emily said, sipping a not very good hot chocolate from a machine. At least it was warm.

  "Mine, too," her father admitted. "It's the cold. Makes you tend to get stiff, tenses your muscles, no matter that you're walking."

  "I guess. All I know is they are tired and they ache. And my feet are numb." She gave a thigh a two-handed massage. The result was less than satisfactory.

  "Do you want to quit for the day?"

  "No. Just rest for a while."

  "I think I can do that," he agreed.

  "Which means you want a rest, too."

  Eric grinned. "You're too damn smart, you know it?"

  "Yeah. So are you."

  "You make a compliment sound like an insult."

  "Same as you."

  "Enough. Truce. You want a news feed?"

  She nodded.

  He handed her a five-dollar coin. "Here. Go get one," he said, pointing to the bank of media links behind her.

  "And I thought you were going to get it for me."

  He said, "Well, I'm paying. That should count for something."

  Emily went, bought a download of the National Post and returned to the table. She set it for sharing to her father's PDM and they settled into reading of the world's affairs, forgetting about theirs for a while.

  Thirty minutes later she closed the editorials and glanced around. For the moment the little vending area was empty but for themselves. Finally she felt she could ask him.

  "Dad… Why did you turn him down? The private investigator, I mean. Other than the politics thing."

  Eric Sheafer looked up at the opposite wall for a second, then at Emily, searching for a way to say what he was thinking. "Em, I had a bad feeling about him."

  "So did I. But I can't say for sure why."

  "Well, partly because of his association. But the way he presented himself. I've seen his type. Before you were born - before I was born - they would try to scare people into buying more insurance than they needed: cancer policies when it was covered by your health insurance, six or seven life policies, flood insurance even if your house was on a hill in the desert, extended warranties on all manner of products. These things rise and fall in terms of legitimateness. Most products are generally sold by companies that stand by their work. Most insurance firms are reputable. But there's always something that is in vogue for shaking people loose from their money for little or no return."

  "Like this."

  "Yep. They prey on helplessness. I can't stand that sort of thing and I won't be a victim to it. This Maxwell fellow may actually help someone, but you can bet it'll take at least a week longer than it should. Everyone who hires him is asking to be cheated. He ought to be locked up himself. I just hope Kelly's parents don't get involved with one of these leeches. They can't afford it, plus Mary Alice has enough to do helping Don through his illness."

  "I think that's what I felt about him," Emily said. "He struck me as too well- lubricated." When Eric seemed to miss the vogue colloquialism, she explained, "All sales pitch, no substance."

  "Exactly."

  "Is that why you said to Mary Alice not to worry about Hardy? Because of Don?" She gazed out at the steady passage of sightseers in the main hallway.

  Eric nodded. "She doesn't need anything else at all right now."

  "Yeah. It's…" Emily forgot her words. Her attention had been drawn to a man.

  21

  The man was shuffling among a group while not seeming to belong to it. Wearing a dirty olive raincoat, he had a short, scruffy beard, more unshaven than groomed. And he was so thin his coat hung on him like a drape. He faced in her direction, then went on.

  "Oh, God! I think it's him," she gasped.

  Emily jumped up, bumping the table, knocking over what was left of her cocoa, and ran to the main corridor. Eric followed as quickly as he could, but she was already out in the hall.

  She stopped short, scanning the area. It was filled with ambling people. "Damn," she complained. "Where is he?"

  Eric reached her side. "What was he wearing?"

  "Looked like a raincoat. Kinda dirty green." Then she caught a glimpse of it. "There!" She pointed and started pushing her way through. Eric followed, then led the way as he became more efficient in plowing through the mass.

  A yelp erupted ahead, followed by an actual scream. A woman shouted, "My bag! He stole it!"

  She kept shrieking, but Emily paid no attention. She focused on looking for rapid flight and keeping an eye on her father.

  To the left, in a narrow space between two large orbiter exhibits, she saw the green coat fleeing.

  Shoving stunned people aside, she heard one man curse as he stumbled. Belatedly she alerted her father, "Dad! To the left!"

  Then she had escaped away from the throng and no one was between her and the green coat. She broke into a sprint.

  He reached the side exit. Opening the door slowed him some and she gained a few yards before he got out.

  Gauging the distance, Emily threw herself against the door before it could re-close. It gave her a good jarring, but it worked.

  St
ill moving, she looked around the instant she was outside. Hardy was running west, toward the Washington Monument. She sprinted after him.

  He only had a forty-yard lead and she closed it fast.

  He glanced back for the first time and audibly gasped. Tried to put on more speed, but instead slipped and sprawled on the grass.

  She tackled him as he tried to get up and they slid a few feet, but she kept a tight grip on him until Eric caught up.

  She looked up to see him grab Hardy by the collar, pistol out. Turning away, she waited for the shot to come.

  It didn't.

  "Damn it," Eric said savagely. "It's not him."

  She raised herself on an elbow and grabbed the coat, yanking the man around so she could see. The face was similar. But, up close, definitely not Hardy. This man's eyes were too far apart, among other details.

  "Oh, damn!" Emily released the coat and beat the grass with her fist. She scrambled to her feet, accidentally kicking the purse snatcher, but not caring. "So what do we do now?"

  "Hold him for the cops," Eric said, disgust plain in his tone.

  While holding on to the guy, Emily became aware that a crowd had gathered around them. Most were the usual onlooker types, but a few seemed to be muttering in irritation. Gradually she was able to catch some of the words. They weren't pleasant. And they seemed to be divided evenly between two views. One was that they should let the man go, while the other were saying to beat him, now. That group was getting louder.

  Finally her father stood, making his gun obvious, and said in a loud and insistent voice, "We will do nothing but wait on the authorities."

  This caused them to draw back a bit and quieted most of the talk. But Emily heard at least one more.

  "G'damned Wall Street enforcers."

  She thought the slur might be directed at her and her father.

  An uneasy ten minutes later the Capitol Police arrived, but insisted on taking them all, the victim, the thief, and the Sheafers, to the station. They also wanted to confirm Eric's purpose and reason for being armed. The programmed permit wasn't enough for the cops on the spot.