A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  Eric calmly said, "Thank you for your opinion, Ed. That's all I really want from each of you. And I'll not argue the points with you, either. But leave it to me."

  Looking up at the ceiling as if he could see Hardy above them, Ed said, "I suppose you're feeding him, too." He then left the room, saying, "You all know he has to die." The front door slammed as he went out.

  "Do 'we all know' that?" Eric addressed the rest.

  The room was silently tense.

  For Emily, they were standing there, she and her father, holding off an enemy made of their own family.

  The image held until Bob broke the silence. "I…don't pretend to speak for the others, Eric, but when the dust settles on all this, you do what you have to. I'll stand by your decision." He stood as if to illustrate.

  Andrea joined Bob, taking his hand. "Goes for me, too, Eric."

  Emily chewed on her lower lip as Eric said, "Thank you, both of you." She was relieved that not everyone was an enemy.

  With that, they all rose and left without any more words, Frank and Tricia (who had said nothing since coming in) solemn. Old Eric scowled as he walked out.

  Eric moved to follow Bob outside, but stopped and looked at her.

  She said, "Go on. I think I need to be alone for a bit."

  He scanned her face, then nodded.

  She curled up at the end of the small sofa after they were all outside. He has no idea how terrible I've been to him, she thought. Or worse, maybe he does. I've been just like…(she couldn't call him Gee-Pop anymore, or grandfather, even)…she settled on Old Eric. He still saw things as black-and-white, right-or-wrong. No areas of uncertainty. Everything very clear.

  Just as she once had.

  So had her father. At first.

  It was easier then. God, she hadn't thought so at the time. It was so easy to ignore the questions. She knew what had changed her: Seeing the contrast between her father and Old Eric. What had changed her father?

  A tapping sounded at the door.

  She turned to see a dark-haired woman.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Dr. Angelucci and I am looking for Dr. Sheafer."

  Emily brushed back her bangs. "I think he's out on the front porch."

  "Thank you."

  The psychologist gone, Emily rested her head on the back of the sofa.

  47

  John heard car doors slamming after Dr. Angelucci left the room. He went to the window to watch the Clan leave.

  Already backing into the street was the dark car he had only seen a little of from the dinning room. It glinted dark iridescent blue in the sun as it backed a little up the street to let the van follow it out. The glinting ceased as it entered the shadow of the house. Its color morphed to black. He couldn't see who was in it, but three people were clearly inside the van: a man and woman in front, with the unmistakable bent form of the old man behind them. The van drove off.

  The fancy dark car of indefinite color moved slowly forward, then stopped in the sunlight, beautiful deep blue again. The driver leaned over in the seat, as if to look up at John's window.

  He barely checked the impulse to duck from sight.

  Then something clicked in his brain. He pressed against the window pain, staring at the car.

  48

  A distant pounding roused Emily to raise her head and listen. When she heard it again, louder and more insistent, she knew it was Hardy. Reluctantly, she left the sofa to see what he wanted. It better be good, she thought as she dragged herself up the stairs.

  At the top step she shouted irritably over his banging. "What do you want?"

  The racket ceased at once. Several seconds passed before Hardy spoke through the door. "Emily, I…" And nothing more.

  After a moment she lost patience. Going up to the door, she demanded, "You …what?"

  "I… You probably won't believe me, but I think I know who killed your brother."

  She almost laughed. But there was a better way to respond. After thinking it over carefully, she said, "Okay. I'll listen. Then I'll say if I believe you."

  "Fair enough," he said, barely audible from inside the room. "Your cousin's license plate. It says 'ED'S', e-d apostrophe-s."

  "Oh. Ed's car. Yeah, it does. So what?"

  "Do you remember the court summary saying anything about a car nearly backing over me?"

  She dug into memory, gave up and initiated her PDM.

  "Don't you remember?" he prodded.

  "Shush," she said. "No, I don't. I'm pulling up the file, so just wait."

  He did, silently.

  In a minute she had the summary up and was perusing the defense records. After another minute, she could tell him, "I've got it. Yeah. It says that. Again, so what?"

  "Doesn't it have in there that I said it was dark in color, blue or black? And it gleamed under the streetlight. And it was a foreign design with smooth, sporty lines. I also remembered that it had a personalized license, something real short, starting with an 'E.'" He paused to sneeze once, then impatiently prodded her. "Isn't that in there?"

  Emily frowned. "What are you getting at, Hardy?"

  "Can't you see what this means?" he nearly shouted.

  Emily's first impulse was to not want to hear anymore. It passed. A part of her understood what Hardy was telling her. She formed the understanding into words. "You're saying Ed was there in the neighborhood that night."

  "Right."

  "After Steve and Kelly had been killed?"

  "Yes," came the reply in a rush of breath.

  She sensed he felt some sort of relief that she was following his story. But she was still far from satisfied. "How can you be so sure?" she said. "Your attorney claimed you remembered only an 'E.' What makes you suddenly recall the whole license now?"

  She heard a heavy sigh. "Because," he said emphatically. "I just saw the car. The very same car as on that night."

  "I'm not convinced." She meant it, even though there was a tiny feeling it could be true.

  "Damn," he whispered, but she heard it. "I studied art, Emily. I was good enough to try it as a major. I notice things, visual things. It was the right shape to be Ed's car. It was the right color, or would be at night. I know 'cause I saw it in the shade. Doesn't that count for anything? Isn't it at least worth checking out?"

  She thought about it. And kept thinking about it. If he were telling the truth… It was a nasty suggestion. But…

  "Emily?" he said softly. "Are you still there?"

  "Yeah."

  "What do you think?"

  "I… don't know. Why should Ed want to kill Steve and Kelly?"

  "Good question," he admitted. "I don't even have a guess."

  "Hardy." Emily was tiring of this. She felt it could have a phony ring about it, no matter how earnest he sounded. "Motive means a hell of a lot. The court said you murdered them because you were robbing them. At least that is a motive, even if you deny it. Now why on earth would Ed do it?"

  "I… don't know."

  "My God, John. They were cousins. They did business together. It wasn't nepotism or anything like that. Ed and Frank simply had better prices. Besides, Steve didn't make the decisions about that. Joan Devereux…"

  Silence. Not just her voice, but, for a moment, her thoughts, too, refused to function.

  "Who? What, Emily?" came the voice inside the room. "What about Joan Devereux? Who is she?"

  "She… made the business decisions for the school system. Or used to. She got promoted and Steve took her job."

  He caught what she was thinking. "Is there something about her I don't know?"

  Emily raised a hand up to the side of her head. Were they connected? "She's dead, Hardy. Murdered in her office. Motive unknown, maybe robbery."

  "Was anything taken?"

  "I don't know."

  "Emily, your cousin's up to something. I don't know what. There's probably money involved somehow.”

  "That's damned easy for you to say, John Hardy!" she snapped, not wanting to be
lieve his take on it. "Where were these ideas when you were fighting it out in court?"

  "Where do you think?" he came back with more certainty than he had before. "I never knew about the business relationship between your cousins and the schools. I never saw your cousin's car again until now. And now its all coming together and making some sort of sense. Especially after Devereux's murder. Or do you think I had something to do with that? That I've got power to kill from your father's house?"

  "Car," she corrected absently, absorbed in the points he had made.

  "What?"

  "Car," she said, irritated. "She was killed while we were on the road from Richmond. So knock it off Hardy." Emily tried to see it as ridiculous. Still, she kept seeing his view of it, which no longer sounded phony. "No," she admitted with a sigh. "You had nothing to do with Joan Devereux's death. But that fact alone doesn't exonerate you from killing my brother. Nor does your seeing Ed's car implicate anyone else. Why should I believe you?"

  "Oh, come on, Emily. Aren't you listening? There's too much in common with the murdered people. First your brother is killed shortly after taking over from Devereux. Now Devereux herself is dead. There has to be a connection. I guess I'm staking my life on it."

  "Only if I bother to check it out."

  "Or your father. He has as much right to know this as you do."

  Emily thought hard on that. And this trading of questions and answers through a locked door was no good. She pulled her pistol out and looked at it. Empty though it was, he would still be unaware of that. And what he didn't know…

  "Get back into the center of the room," she ordered. "Tell me when you get there. Don't try anything."

  A moment later he announced, "I'm standing in the middle, on the rug."

  She pushed the key in, twisted it and the bolt drew back. Then Emily pushed the door wide. Hardy stood where he said, docile as an obedient dog. She entered the room and relocked the door, while he watched with obvious trepidation and interest.

  "Don't try anything," she repeated. Seeing the beanbag in the corner, she pointed at it. "Sit down over there." She waited as he complied, satisfied with the way it brought his knees up to his chin. He would not be able to move quickly from that position. Facing him with a hard stare, aiming the bulletless pistol at him for emphasis, she said, "Don't say anything about it to Dad,"

  "Why?"

  "Just don't, okay?" She hesitated only a second for a response before raising her voice. "Okay?"

  "Okay," he finally said.

  She now wanted more. Walking to the window, Emily leaned on the sill, peering out. "How did he leave? I mean, which direction did he go in?"

  "He backed out up the hill and went down to the right, turned down past that little park, disappearing beyond that house and those trees. I saw him again as he got onto Aycock Street."

  She traced Ed's movements as Hardy described them. Keeping the gun pointed in his general direction, she said, "Where did you see the license?"

  "Past the white pine, as he drove off. I saw it pretty clear."

  Everything was laid out just as he said. She turned and stared at him, intense and challenging. "I want to see your face as you tell me again why you think my cousin may have murdered my brother."

  Hardy took the time for a deep breath, then said, "It's just the coincidences, Emily. They're too strong for me to believe anything else. The real clincher is Ms Devereux. You said yourself that she made the business decisions. I didn't know any of that at the trial. You can bet that, if I had, I'd've made sure that cheap lawyer brought it up. Maybe even she might have been able to shake something up."

  Emily kept her eyes on him through his whole statement. No sign of the apprehensive Hardy of the cemetery. He never broke from her stare. "Tell me again what you saw in the alley."

  He covered his mouth for a cough, then said, "I started to get up after falling. Then I had to scramble out of the way because this car was backing up real sudden. It took off right away, throwing a lot of stuff up at me. After I could take my arms down from my face and look again, it was speeding off. But when it passed under the streetlight I could see it fairly well."

  "And?" Angrily, Emily found herself interested. Even worse, she was beginning to believe he could be right. She wasn't even trying to keep the pistol on him now.

  "And it was a sleek, smooth-lined car, very dark in color. I can't swear to what that color was, but it was dark. Blue, black, dark gray. I don't know." He stopped abruptly, dropping eye contact, not from nervousness nor timidity but from an astonishment. Bringing his hand up, he laid his fingers spread against his eyebrows. "God, Emily! It had a metallic sheen to it." He lowered his hand and looked her in the eye. "Not like the speckly shine in generator paint, but like a paint my grandparents had on an old car of theirs. Looks like real tiny bits of metal is in the paint. What color would you say Ed's car is?"

  "Kinda blue-gray. Dark." She wondered where this was going. It seemed like stuff they had already covered.

  "In all light? I mean, is it always blue-gray, or does it seem a little different at times? Maybe more blue, or more gray. Or black, even. Is it metallic, Emily?"

  "You tell me. You just saw it."

  "Please, Emily. You know what it is. Can't you just admit it? You know I'm right. Come on."

  "Hush up a minute," she snapped. Absently she paced slowly around the bed. He was right, she had to admit, if only in the privacy of her mind. Ed's car was metallic. And it frequently changed color with the light. She could remember a relative (not which one, though) commenting on it once.

  But Ed murdering Steve?

  It was impossible. Ed could never be a murderer. Even with his temper he was too easy-going, too honest. And Frank was too stodgy. Murder would be too great a break in routine.

  But Frank had seen Steve that night. He freely admitted to being there 'til half-past-eight. But he could have returned. And he said they argued over a list of prices Steve had found in his new office…Joan Devereux's old one. He felt so bad over having that as a last memory of Steve.

  Then she remembered something that made her breath catch: Frank had Ed's car that night.

  "What is it?" Hardy said.

  She ignored him and kept her thoughts. His old Prius was in the shop, so he had borrowed his out-of-town brother's Jag. Tricia had Vickie and David at the Spartans game, so she had the minivan. Frank had no proof of when he got home.

  Emily drifted back to the window and looked out, thinking about the scene in the study. John had missed that, of course, but it played right into his theory. Whichever of the two that might have done it would want John dead and the matter forgotten.

  And they both wanted him dead.

  And there was the likelihood that they had nothing to do with killing Steve and Kelly. If Ed knew nothing, then she could ask Frank if he saw anything while leaving Steve's house.

  She shook her head in frustration. It was all so…crazy. But Dad seemed to think Hardy was innocent. And if Hardy didn't kill them, then the bastard who did was still out free and unknown. She made her decision.

  Emily spun away from the window. Leaning against the sill, she tapped on the ceramic with a finger, staring directly at him. For his part, he held his eyes on her, trying to look impassive, but she could see the hope in his eyes. And he was holding his breath.

  "All right," she said. "I'll check it out. I'm not saying I think you're right, but I guess you've made enough points to warrant looking further."

  John's shoulders drooped. He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest on a knee. A tremendous sigh escaped. Softly, he said, "Thank you, Emily. Thank you."

  She walked around to the door, pulling the key out of her pocket. Just before she inserted it, he said, "Wait."

  What more could he have to say, she thought as she looked back at him.

  "I want you to know I appreciate this. And I think I have some idea what…I don't know how to say it. I mean, here I am suggesting it was your cousin instead of me. Y
ou know; that it may have been a family member--"

  "I'm not doing this for you," she said, interrupting. "I have to know the truth." She jammed the key in. Then she abruptly turned and took two steps toward him. Pointing a hard finger at him, his eyes widening a little from the sudden move, Emily said, "Remember. Not a word to Dad."

  Blinking, he said, "I promise. But can I at least know why?"

  "You don't need to know." She paused, then decided a bit of truth would keep him quiet. "Let's just say he's had enough trouble with family today."

  She then left the room, carefully relocking the door. Leaning against the wall, Emily took slow, deep breaths, simultaneously releasing the tension that had built up inside that room and struggling to control the trembling it caused.

  49

  Her mind still whirling from the talk with John, Emily took one step down the stairs and stopped. At the bottom were her father and Dr. Angelucci, watching up at her.

  Before they could ask her what she was doing up there, she said the first thing to come to mind, "He wanted a drink," and stuck the gun back in her pocket.

  "As long as you weren't up there to kill him," Eric said, and went on back to the kitchen with the psychologist.

  The comment didn't rankle her, partly because she knew he didn't really mean it. Because he knew she was questioning its rightness herself. Because he had taken her bullets himself. But she believed the first 'because' was the important one.

  When she caught up with them, Dr. Angelucci was seated and her father was setting the kettle on for tea.

  "Want any?" he asked her.

  Emily nodded and sat across from the psychologist.

  "Em," Eric said as he took down three cups. "I asked Debra to wait until we were together to tell us what she found out."