A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  "Okay." He paused to think. "If you can't see me, go in after a minute."

  Eric moved silently back and around the building. Emily glanced at her watch, then peered around, watching the other side of the garden.

  John Hardy cupped his hands around the bottle and blew warm air into it, hoping to thaw it faster. His mouth felt so dry, and the coughing wouldn't go away.

  Just as he thought he might try to drain some more liquid from the bottle, he heard a throat being cleared. He froze, moving only his eyes, trying to find the person by their shadow, by their feet, anything. It sounded too close; he knew they had to be in the garden with him, maybe right by him. Why, he wondered, hadn't he heard something before now?

  "Excuse me," a man said, his voice so carefully under control that it sounded almost pleasant.

  Hardy knew he couldn't stay there another second.

  The man continued. "Are you--"

  Hardy channeled his fear into action and bolted from the bench, flinging the bottle at the man, cutting him off in mid question. He turned to run as he heard a soft thump. The bottle hit its mark but the stunned man was moving a hand to his pocket.

  He made three strides without looking away from the man…and plowed into another one. This one shrieked, falling backwards. He managed to stay on his feet, stumbling over her, and ran out through the gate. Tearing uphill, he kept expecting a bullet to fly past him or cut him down. None came as he pushed himself harder up Clay Street. The cold burned his tender throat. He coughed hard twice.

  It brought back his worst nightmare.

  And he positively knew who those people were in the garden. Not precisely. But well enough to keep running.

  31

  Eric picked up the weapon, discovering its non-lethal nature. "Damn!" He spoke for both of them. Slamming it down on the rocks, the bottle burst open, the small amount of melted contents spraying forth. Emily watched the liquid spread on the bricks.

  A faint beep chirped from Eric's wrist.

  Emily saw him put his gun away as she raised herself to sitting up. She knew she wasn't hurt. But the little bastard had knocked the wind out of her. She slowly regained her breath as Eric held a hand out to help her all the way up.

  He raised his wrist as the beep sounded again. Touching his PDM, it reported an alert. Another touch and he swore again, loudly. "It was him for sure. The PDM picked up his chip."

  "Damn," she echoed softly, taking the hand. "Why…didn't you shoot?"

  "I got stupid. I let him surprise me with that…that drink bottle. Then the way he ran put you in the line of fire."

  "He…kinda…surprised me, too."

  "Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. "Just don't ask me to run for a minute or two."

  "Don't worry. We're heading back to the hotel. You saw the way he was running. We're not going to get him tonight."

  Emily hadn't seen him run, but left it unsaid. Instead, she protested, "He knows we're here now. We've gotta get him tonight or he'll leave town. Then we may never find him again."

  Eric looked off in the direction Hardy had run. "I don't think so. Did you hear his cough?"

  "Of course. So?"

  "It sounded thick, heavy and congested. He's sick, Em. He won't be up to traveling. At least not soon."

  "You better be right."

  "I know I am. Plus, he showed some smarts by how he got away from us. He'll figure that we will think he has left and leave ourselves. He'll just lay low until he feels better. Or dies of pneumonia."

  Emily hoped her father was right, but she didn't feel it. "Do you remember which place had the most sightings?"

  "Yeah. Right here. Richmond."

  "Well, it better stay that way."

  Eric shook his head. "We won't give it enough time for that to change."

  At first she wondered what he meant by that. Then, as she followed him out of the garden and toward the hotel, she figured it out. They were taking action soon. It made her smile briefly.

  Only two blocks away and John Hardy's strength faltered. He slowed to a walk, too weak to run any more. He kept moving, though, just to get more distance from there.

  Great clouds of vapor steamed from his mouth with each exhale. Every now and then he had to cover his mouth to quiet a cough. Each step sapped more energy, but he kept on going, picking every alley he knew as he made his way back to the cemetery.

  32

  "This looks like the place," Eric said as they drove slowly by a plain white, two-story building with a wooden cross over the door.

  Through sleepless eyes Emily saw a small, hand-lettered sign on the door proclaiming the place as the 'Cary Street Non Denominational Church of the Gospel.' That was all she could make out as they passed by.

  Eric found street parking a block away. For once they were lucky. The spaces were free, the meters broken or missing, their poles canted forlornly at odd angles. The neighborhood air carried a very faint odor of rotting garbage, even cold as it was.

  As they got closer to the door, Emily could read the rest of the sign. Below the name of the church it declared 'Will Cleary, Pastor,' followed by two claims she just had to read out loud. "'A Pelagian Ministry,' 'Prayer Healing by Appointment and Wednesdays.' I wonder what all that means?"

  "Maybe we'll find out. Pelagius was a fourth century monk declared a heretic by the Church. There's more, but it doesn't matter for now. Let's go in."

  He knocked and tried the door. It was unlocked, so they entered, stepping directly into a sanctuary's center aisle. A crudely applied unpainted patch ran down the center of the three-meter high ceiling. The patch continued down the back wall. Obviously the room originally had been two. On the back wall was a low stage with two long benches behind a simple podium. No electronics were visible. To the right was a door, to the left a small old pipe organ. The rest of the space was filled with two sections of pews.

  Eric walked slowly down the center, calling out, "Is the pastor in? Mr. Cleary?"

  Right away a voice called from beyond the door. "Just a minute, please. I'll be right out."

  A tall, slender black man soon appeared at the door. A semi-ring of black hair underlined a bald crown.

  Emily thought he might be about her age, despite the way his baldness made him look older.

  The man came to the head of the aisle and smiled warmly. "I'm the pastor, Will Cleary." He stepped forward, hand out. "But my parishioners call me Brother Will. How may I help you?"

  Emily reached her father's side as he took the preacher's hand and introduced himself and her, adding, "I was wondering if we could have a little of your time, ask a few questions."

  Brother Will shook hands with Emily and said to them both, "Let's go back to my office. We'll be more comfortable. I'm afraid I can't afford to heat the sanctuary all the time."

  "I can understand that," Eric said. "It must be very expensive to keep it warm."

  "It is, indeed. It is over four hundred cubic meters and the windows are a bit drafty."

  The 'office' was immediately off from the sanctuary and did triple duty as a small sitting area/office with a desk, the larger portion given over to a kitchen. A staircase rose along the inside wall. The ceiling was about two-and a-half meters high here.

  A large easy chair sat next to one of the windows, with a floor lamp beside it. On the little table under the window was a large book, reading glasses resting on it. The desk was an ancient roll-top affair, well-polished, placed just inside the room, with a much more modern cushioned and wheeled chair next to it. Another plush chair and a sofa finished the sitting space.

  Brother Will motioned them to the sofa as he took the second easy chair. Then he leaned forward expectantly. "Now," he said, "What is it you need to talk to me about, Mr. Sheafer?" He cocked his head a little after speaking. Suddenly he said, "That doesn't sound quite right, does it? You said your name was 'Eric Sheafer,' no title. And 'Mr. Sheafer' does sound wrong. No. I've heard your name somewhere." He glanced to the small tabl
e beside his chair.

  Emily followed his gaze and saw a Freader sitting next to the book. It had a newsfeed from the Central Virginia News on its screen. There was also a neat pile of actual newspapers on the floor.

  Shaking his head, he stood and went over to a bookcase. Scanning from the top, bending as he got lower. In a few seconds he was pulling out a tall, narrow book.

  As he brought it back with him, Emily recognized the first of her father's books, The Life of Archeology. It had been a popular work for the general public. She found herself wondering what it was doing in a street mission church.

  "It's Doctor Sheafer, isn't it?" Again he glanced at the paper stack. Again he shook his head, but the motion had a sympathetic character to it. "This is a bad time for you. I do hope I may be able to assist you in some way."

  "I believe you can, Mr. Cleary."

  "Please. I am more accustomed to 'Brother Will.'"

  Eric leaned back, crossing his legs. "Fine. Brother Will, what you can do to help me is tell me what you saw in your church last Wednesday night; what it was you told Roy Parker."

  "I'm not sure what you are referring to," he said, looking genuinely puzzled. "I held a service. There was nothing out of the ordinary in it. I do want to assist you any way that I can, but this is something I don't understand."

  "I do know something about how these things work with informants and contacts," Eric said deliberately. "You do it for money, of course. And, in your case, I'm certain it goes to support your church and doubtless numerous good and needed works. From what I can tell, you don't live a lavish lifestyle."

  "That last is true, Dr. Sheafer. The church is also my home," he said with a gesture indicating the upstairs.

  He brought his arm down with an expansive motion that seemed possessive. Or was it protective? Emily wasn't sure. She asked, "You mean to say you've never been associated with Roy Parker?"

  He shook his head. "I've never heard of him until I read of him." He indicated the papers and the Freader.

  "Well, Brother Will," Eric said. "Let's hope no one else thinks so. It could be dangerous for you."

  "How so?"

  "Because Roy Parker was murdered last night. The police don't know why, yet. Or by who."

  Will Cleary frowned. "Yes. I read of it. May God have mercy on him and whoever killed him."

  "Interesting sentiment. He was murdered in cold blood."

  A faint smile brushed across Cleary's face. "God loves us all, Dr. Sheafer. It is a tragedy when someone dies unnecessarily."

  "Then you understand how I feel about my son and daughter-in-law. Is there anything from Wednesday night that you can remember? Anything that might help us?"

  Cleary hesitated a second before answering. In that second he visibly composed himself. "Yes, Dr. Sheafer, I understand how you feel. Maybe not the same as yourself, for I have never lost a family member to anything but disease or accident, though I have lost a number of my extended family," here he gestured toward the sanctuary, "to killings. So I do appreciate your situation."

  To Emily, he talked like a scholar. Casually scanning over the room, she mentally nodded to herself on seeing a framed MDiv from Duke. However, with that in his background, here he was in a poor street church. He could be an associate minister in almost any church anywhere. So why here? Brother Will was certainly a curiosity.

  "Is there anything you can remember," her father persisted, "that can…help us find him?" At this he activated his PDM and brought up the latest picture of John Hardy.

  Will Cleary leaned back, studied the image for a long moment, concentrating. Steepling his fingers, he shook his head slowly. "Last Wednesday night, you said," he finally said. "The only thing I can remember standing out that night was that someone who came in at about the middle of the service, and left shortly after the message, before my sermon."

  Eric edged forward. "Did he look like this man?"

  Will only shrugged. "I'm sorry. I cannot even be sure it was a man, Dr. Sheafer. Wednesday night is an open worship, with only a few regulars attending, and a lot of homeless people. I wouldn't be able to identify this person even if he had been here with us. He would have blended in."

  Eric sagged against the back of the sofa. "What about the regulars? Are there any I may speak to who were here?"

  The preacher shook his head. "If you think my mid-service visitor is your person, then none of my 'regulars' would have seen him. They all sit to the front and, I'm sure, they kept facing forward through the message and the singing."

  "Singing?"

  "Yes. A beautiful solo by one of the choir ladies, Sister Leesa."

  "What about her? May I talk with her?"

  Again a shrug. "It would do no good. Leesa concentrates hard on her hymn singing. She wouldn't have had the attention for who would have simply been one more homeless person coming in." Brother Will sighed deeply. "Even if I could help you any further, I would be reluctant to do so."

  Eric stiffened at that. "Why?"

  "You plan to kill this man when you find him. There are, I believe, a few pardonable acts of killing beyond that of accident. If you had killed this man while he was trying to kill your family, that would be one such. Yet, circumstances have placed you, instead, seeking him out to exact revenge. That's not for us to do, Dr. Sheafer. Revenge belongs only to God, for it is only just when the métier is all-knowing. For us to do so is a sin. And it is still a tragedy whenever someone takes a life."

  "There's a law that requires it of me."

  Cleary nodded sadly. "A law of the land, doctor. A law of man. I am talking of what is right under God. I am talking about your soul."

  "Never mind my soul, Mr. Cleary. It won't rest until this is settled."

  "What worries me is how you may 'settle' it. You feel you are close?"

  "Of course."

  "Then you are in peril."

  "I've been there before."

  "If you say so. But I am not convinced that you understand the nature of the peril to which I am referring."

  "What? Damnation? That's my problem."

  "I believe it is Jesus' problem, too. It will also profoundly affect the person you are after."

  "Don't even try to make me feel pity for him," Eric said heatedly, ignoring the first part of Will's statement. "What are you getting at? Have you offered him absolution or something? Are you hiding John Hardy?”

  The sudden depth of anger her father seemed to be pouring out at the preacher astounded Emily. Yes, he could be speaking for her, too, in regard to Hardy. But he seemed entirely beyond reason in this tirade against Brother Will.

  For his part, the preacher showed no body-language sign of recognition at the name. Nor did he show any discomfiture. Emily saw only greater sadness in his face.

  “Dad," she said, breaking the silence she had mostly kept in the meeting. "Maybe we'd better go."

  Eric looked at her as if he had forgotten she was there. He blinked several times, the redness beginning to recede from his face. He was calming.

  "Not yet," he said, turning back to Brother Will. "I have to take this man out, preacher. Don't ask why. I've got plenty enough reason and you know it. Now, is there anything you can, or will, do to help me?" Rising to his feet, Eric said, "If not, then, as my daughter pointed out, it is time to leave."

  Brother Will sat motionless for a moment. Then suddenly asked, "Do you believe in God, Dr. Sheafer?"

  Eric stiffened and again blinked. Carefully, he said, "Yes, preacher. I do. It doesn't change anything."

  Will's gaze softened. "No, I suppose not," he observed as though he was not surprised. Softly, only above a whisper, he said, "God still sees the divine in you. So must I." Back to normal volume, he then went on, saying, "Let me share with you one thing before you take your leave. It's from the service last Wednesday. Part of the message, actually. It was the Parable about the farmer and his seeds. Do you know it?”

  Eric shook his head. "I don't remember it."

  "It doesn't m
atter. And it will take only about a minute for me to tell you," Will said hastily, sensing Eric's growing impatience. "In the story, basically, a farmer sows seeds without heed to where they land. They can been seen as us and our faith in God. The rest of the parable explains what happens to seeds as they fall into a variety of conditions, serving to show different types of people with their variety of life experience and how they respond to them but also the variety within each person. I see in you a strong man, within whom faith could flourish. But you are in a situation where you could land on fertile ground, or not."

  "Excuse me?" Eric said, not comprehending.

  Emily also failed to grasp the meaning.

  "The phrase in the parable is 'fall among thorns.' It means a person can have faith and will do all right in this realm, but their faith won't help them to do good. You are suspended in air, Dr. Sheafer. I fear you could come down among the thorns. Then you will kill this man."

  "I'm not sure I follow your meaning, Brother Will," Emily's father said, returning finally to a more civil disposition. "But thank you for seeing us." He started for the sanctuary and the exit.

  Following, Emily took one more glance at the reverend, silhouetted by the window. And almost bumped into her father.

  He had stopped because Brother Will spoke again.

  "There is one thing, Dr. Sheafer," he said softly, standing to face them. "When you do catch up with this John Hardy, you will remember what I have said to you. Maybe you will understand before it is too late."

  He turned to look out the window, not so much as dismissing them as having no more he could say.

  Eric left immediately, wordlessly.

  Emily started to follow, but held back a few seconds. She wasn't sure, but she thought Brother Will was mumbling, or whispering. Or praying.

  33

  It had been a stupid selection for lunch. The grilled cheese and fries sat heavy in Emily's stomach as they returned to the hotel. They had not talked about their meeting with the Cary Street preacher during the meal. In fact, her father hadn't said much at all. She was growing tired of his reticence.