A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  "But--"

  "Get up and go."

  Finally the look in his eyes registered on her. She moved. Shoving herself away from Hardy as if he were some filth, she scrambled to her feet. The tears waited until she whirled away. They burned hot on her cheeks, heedless of the frigid air. Her eyes fell on the steel metal of her mother's pistol, lying in the snow, another bout of coughing in the background from Hardy. She stopped and picked it up, turning it over in her hand, thinking back to the lampshade and how she had wished it had been Hardy. Now they had him and she held the gun. She looked over at Hardy and her father.

  She could tell by his face Eric knew what she was thinking.

  He shook his head and motioned for her to keep going.

  Jamming the pistol into her jacket, she spun around with a scowl and stalked away. Lower lip quivering, she rounded the bend. Spying a rock on the road's edge, she picked it up and flung it with all her might aimlessly in the general direction of the river.

  The cold gun barrel again pressed against him, this time on his neck. John felt his collar tighten, then there was a powerful hauling on him that he couldn't ignore. He struggled to get his feet under him.

  His captor was at least twenty years older than himself, probably more. Yet he was far stronger. Especially now.

  He hazarded a glance at his father.

  "Thank you," James said weakly, taking a step forward.

  "Don't move," the man ordered harshly.

  The cold metal left his neck and John felt a shifting. The man must have been pointing his gun at James. "This isn't over."

  "But you didn't--"

  "I haven't killed him. So you presume I won't." The man paused, shaking his head slightly. His voice was less harsh as he added, "I don't know what I'm going to do yet. And I can promise nothing."

  His father held out a hand. "You could let him come with me."

  The man didn't answer, except to shove the muzzle back against John's neck and push him ahead, away from his father.

  'What are you going to do?" he heard James call after them.

  "I'm going to satisfy myself about all this," the man said. "You'll know when I've done so."

  John was kept moving under a series of shoves. His father called out several times, even after they were out of sight, but the man never answered. He kept to his feet even as another round of coughs wracked him.

  39

  "No answer," Eric said as he closed down the PDM's com program. He'd let it seek a connection for a full two minutes without success. He looked at the message from Bob again and said for the third time, "I wonder what Joan Devereux would want to talk to me about that couldn't wait."

  And, for the third time, Emily sullenly ignored his words, listening to the shower water running in the bathroom, punctuated by the frequent cough or sneeze. She just watched as he went through his suitcase, selecting fresh clothes in an almost casual manner. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks.

  “I just don't understand you," she finally said in a strained voice.

  He glanced her way and walked out from between the dresser and bed. Leaning on the bedpost, he said, "I know. I have my reasons for doing this."

  She shook her head emphatically. "I can't think of any possible reason you could have for…" She brushed her bangs back, running her hand over the top of her head. "For…for not killing him. What is it? What reason kept you from shooting him? I'd really like it if you'd share that with me. We had him, Dad."

  Eric looked at her without speaking for a long moment. He broke the silence saying, "We still have him."

  She felt the sensation return, the one from the first day on the road. Only now it was intense. It had definition to it. She felt compelled to voice the question riding on it. "Do you not have the nerve?"

  "The nerve?" he shot back. He took a step toward her.

  The sensation fed her doubts. "Well, that's how it looks. Or do you just not care enough?" That question was out before she had thought it over, before she had taken time to not say it.

  "It's all I've been able to care about since we first learned about it. My God, Em!" He whirled away, then back to face her, leaning a little toward her.

  Intimidated by his posture but defiant, she held eye contact, blinking back tears.

  His cheeks glowed red and he glared as if to burn through her with his eyes.

  "Then if you care so much, why didn't you blow his brains out," she cried.

  He rocked back slightly, shifting his weight. Some of the fire left his face, but the glare remained. "Because."

  "I'm not six years old anymore. That won't work. Goddammit, you owe me an explanation! For days all we could think of was catching this filth and paying him back for what he did. Well, we've got him, but we haven't killed him. Why the hell not?"

  "I'm not ready yet. That's all."

  "Well, if that's it, then give me back my gun. I'll be glad to do it. I'm all loaded up with ready," she said, gripping the arms of the chair. "He killed my brother." She blinked and felt tears squeeze out and run down both cheeks.

  Eric leaned against the post. “He killed my son. You are--"

  "Which only makes it impossible for me to understand why you didn't do it," she blurted out.

  He continued doggedly. "You are my daughter. That gives me certain privilege and responsibility as a parent."

  "What the hell does that mean with respect to all this?"

  Eric sat heavily on the bed, sighing. "Maybe Steve would understand."

  "That man in there," Emily shouted, thrusting an extended finger at the bathroom, "he robbed you of that possibility. As you just pointed out, I'm your daughter. I'll have to do in Steve's absence. Or would you rather it had been me?"

  Swifter than she could imagine, her father was standing, leaning on the table so that he towered over her. Again, the low, intense voice said, "Now you be quiet and listen to me." He aimed a finger at her nose so close it almost touched. "What I mean about Steve understanding was strictly from the point of view of being a parent. There are just some things you don't want your children to do, or have to do, ever, no matter how old they are. And I'm simply not prepared to see you become a killer."

  "Me? He's the one--"

  "I said be quiet!" Eric snapped. Then, back to the intense voice, he went on. "There is something you need to learn. I never talked about it because it was…I didn't want to remember, but now I have no choice. First of all, I want to set your mind at ease on this matter: If I, in the course of the next day or two, become convinced it is right to execute John Hardy, I will do so without delay. Now, I want no further discussion of that particular subject. What I need to tell you…is why I haven't done it yet." He sat back on the bed.

  Emily wiped more tears away, but kept her silence.

  "Being certain is only a part of it. A very important part, but not the whole. The rest of it is a little more basic. It has to do with taking a life, Em. You remember I said there was more to my time in Bagdad than shooting that child?"

  She nodded.

  "Right after, I went a little crazy, I guess. If the colonel had known what I was doing, I'd have been court-martialed. It was a complete violation of orders. I got things switched around so that I was always off duty at night. No one knew, except this one guy, a buddy of mine. He let me out through his guard post.

  "You see, everyone in the post, all of us, were confined to our bases after dark. It was that bad out in the city. Even the Green Zone was considered too dangerous for a lone American. At least while I was there. But I was angry, crazy. I didn't care about that anymore. I…I don't know. I guess it was 'cause I'd been forced to kill a child. I guess I was looking for something. Some way to pay for it. Or something that would bring some sense to it. But…nothing ever happened. I went looking for trouble, but none really came. There must've been plenty around, but none of it came my way. To this day I don't know why. You'd think someone would've seen me and wanted to do something to me because I was an American.

&n
bsp; "I guess the thing I'm trying to tell you is that it is dreadfully serious to take a life. Serious in ways you have no way of knowing yet. Once it's done, that's it. You can't reverse it. It's over. I know I had no choice when I shot that little boy. Believe me, I've rationalized it over and over, but I still feel the guilt. It'll be with me until I die; I know that. Because, you see, I killed. No matter the reason, I killed. And I wish to God I hadn't. I…ended a life, Em. One barely started. And there is no amount of rationalization that can fully justify it to me. There should have been another way. Even if it wasn't anything I could do, it doesn't matter.

  "The sanctity of life is paramount. I know that sounds like a cliché, but I believe it. I'll still do it, if I need to. But it wasn't necessary in the cemetery today. We can do it… anytime."

  "I'm ready now," Emily said.

  "I know. But it's not time. And I'm not going to let you find that burden I've had for more than thirty years. Not if I can do anything to keep it from you. If anyone is going to kill John Hardy, it will be me." Eric sighed, leaned back on his arms. "You're going to drive."

  "What for?"

  He ignored her. "Hardy is going to sit up front and I'll be behind him. He won't be able to do a thing. We're going straight home. No stops."

  "The hell with--"

  "That is what we are going to do, like it or not. It is not up for negotiation."

  The water stopped in the shower.

  Eric got up and went over to her jacket. He pulled the little eight-millimeter out and removed the clip. Checking the chamber, making sure it was empty, he then removed the bullets from the clip. Pocketing them, he replaced the clip and handed the pistol to her.

  "What good is it if the damned thing's--"

  He interrupted her by holding up his hand. He whispered, "He doesn't know that and I don't trust you with it loaded. I haven't had a shower in a few days myself and I'm going to take a quick one. I'm sure you can keep him cowed by exuding all that goodwill you feel for him."

  Emily watched angrily as Eric tossed the clothes in to Hardy and told him to hurry it up.

  40

  "Here," Emily's father said, handing the coins to her from the back seat. "It's correct change."

  She took them by simply holding her hand over her shoulder, not looking at him as she steered for a correct-change line. After tossing the coins in, she accelerated back to highway speed. "How far to the next toll? I'm tired of slowing down so often."

  "That was it. Just take the I-85 exit when we get to Petersburg. They irritate me, too. I liked it better when they weren't around."

  "Where after Petersburg?"

  "Home."

  It was still a marvel to Emily how wonderful it was to go home, no matter where in the world she had been. Now, however, they were taking this man with them, this sick murderer, smelling of his own fear, with them, hands tied to the seat. She was glad when Eric told her Bob and Andrea had prepared her old room for Hardy. It made little difference to her that it was the easiest one to make secure. She just didn't want his filth in her brother's former bedroom. Anywhere but there. The fact that that room had its own outside entrance had nothing to do with it.

  She reached over and switched off the heat. Sunlight streaming through the windshield was already making the car plenty warm. Even the clouds of this morning were gone. The rich blue sky mocked her own dark mood.

  John Hardy's eyes darted over to Emily Sheafer's hand as she reached in his direction. He could take another breath as she simply turned off the heater. It wasn't until then he realized how warm it was in the car. He heard every word they said to each other; he could tell exactly what Emily Sheafer was wearing. Yet he hadn't been aware that he was getting hot. Or was it 'feverish?' Hard to tell.

  Traffic began to thin as they got further from the toll booth. As it did, she began to drive faster. He wondered if 'home' meant she would get to shoot him herself.

  He looked out the window and tried to concentrate on the countryside. There were no flowers blooming, of course, but many of the leaf buds were beginning to uncurl. The tiny leaves blurred together in a light pale green collage, broken here and there where they hadn't yet opened and the bark showed through. It was beautiful. He loved this time of year. Sometimes it was the only time he ever felt any hope. Used to be, anyway.

  "Damn," Emily said softly.

  "What is it?"

  "The back-ups are almost out of power. Do you know where the nearest place might be? It must be really low. We don't seem to be soaking up enough power to recharge even with all this sunlight."

  He looked over her shoulder at the display. "Damn," he echoed. "We'd better try our luck at the next exit."

  It couldn't have turned out better. A tall 'PowerCell Exchange' sign stood to one side of the bridge. She eased over and drove up the ramp. Pulling in at the building, she turned to her father and held her hand out for the gun.

  He only said, "You do it. I'm fine right here."

  She frowned at him, but got out. It wasn't even a good try, she admitted to herself as she opened the hood.

  After pulling out the two back-up batteries, she glanced inside the car. To her surprise, her father was leaning forward, talking to their prisoner. She tapped on the window for the money.

  Eric handed out a debt card.

  She strode briskly into the store, feeling the wind biting through her jeans. She burned inside, though. What the hell would he be talking to Hardy about, anyway, she wondered.

  John noticed the way Emily looked at him as she went around the front of the car. He said it before he realized, and felt embarrassed after he did. "She really wants to kill me."

  "Yes. She does," the man behind him said. Then he added, "Don't be too sure I don't."

  In spite of his embarrassment, John decided he may as well continue. He had nothing to lose. "You haven't, yet."

  "So?" The word was said evenly, almost carelessly.

  John turned a little to the left to have a more direct discussion. "I guess I…was wondering why. Did my father have anything to do with it?"

  "You mean you want to know if your father led us to you, assuming we agreed not to kill you."

  He had to cough before responding. Then he could say, "No, not that. He didn't know where I was. He didn't even know I was in town."

  "Let me tell you something, young man, so you'll know exactly what is going on. First of all, you don't owe the fact that you are still alive to your father. You owe it to me. For now, you'll owe every minute to me.

  "Your father did know you were there somewhere. He learned because of an item in the Thursday news. There was this private investigator looking for you and he had just about found you."

  "He must have been the one at the museum that night."

  "That was me. He was dead by then. Someone shot him that night. And that was the story that tipped off your father. It also gave where we were staying so your father came to see us yesterday. He tried to find out if we knew where you were. He didn't cone out and say it directly, of course, but he may as well have. He also tried to convince us not to kill you; that you couldn't have done it.”

  "What did you tell him?"

  "What do you think? I told him what the court found. You were there. You ought to know. You're guilty as hell. You and I both know it."

  John straightened back in the seat. "So, why didn't you shoot me back there? If it wasn't because of my father, then what kept you?"

  "Your father did lead us to you, but only because I realized he would know, better than we could ever guess, where you might be."

  "Then he didn't know you followed him."

  "Of course not. He saw us once, but we let him think he lost us in the traffic."

  John leaned against the headrest. Although he hadn't really believed his father would have betrayed him, it was good to have reassurance. The rest of what Sheafer said, he also believed, but it didn't make any sense. He had to know more. "You still haven't said why you didn't kill me in the ce
metery," he ventured.

  "No. And I don't have to."

  Nothing more gained, and Emily was coming back with the new power packs. There would be no more talk. He felt increased unease. John thought it was the way Sheafer said the last sentence, but he wasn't sure.

  He would have left that night if he had been able, would've gone to the rail yard and found an open boxcar. But he didn't have the strength. The hot shower left him feeling much better. It must be a simple cold.

  Thinking about it seemed to make him cough. He closed his eyes, suddenly drained.

  The driver's door opened, bringing in freezing air and a jostling heralded Emily Sheafer's return to the driver's seat. The ice remained, even after the door was closed.

  Emily said something softly to the elder Sheafer but he couldn't hear it. After a moment he heard the click of the car's sound system being started. He winced inwardly, expecting a blast of loud noise - something she probably considered music.

  But what he did hear made him raise his head and open his eyes. Mozart caressed his ears. Not just his ears but his whole person. It didn't cure his unease, but he felt a palpable if small relaxation. Woodwinds, with a bassoon giving solid bass, undulated sweetly until an oboe held a note high above them and fell into a familiar melody. It wasn't until the clarinet took over that he knew where he had heard it before. He had played part of it himself in high school; the very part that was soloing now.

  He lowered his head. That spring had been the best time he ever had. It was the only year he held the First Chair, earning the privilege of the solo. The coming fall had meant college and away from home to UNC-G, where Lonni was going. It didn't matter what he majored in, just as long as they were together.

  They stayed so right through Christmas of their senior year. He had changed majors several times: History to English, to Art, to Math, even, then back to History. But he had lost time and it would take him a fifth year to finish. That was all right with himself and the school, but his mother didn't like it. Neither did Lonni.