Final Justice

by Patricia Hagan

  It was like a chamber of horrors: the metal table with the trough running down each side to catch blood and send it on to the lidless toilet under the hole at the end for flushing to the sewer; the rubber hoses, still blood-stained at the ends from being attached to a cannula in the carotid artery; and the embalming pump, with its big glass jug filled with pink formaldehyde next to a tray with all kinds of instruments used for pickling a corpse.

  Again, he found nothing out of the ordinary till he spotted a curtain in one corner that hid a door. It was locked, but he had brought a ring of skeleton keys. He took one look inside, then stumbled back a few steps, for within was the real chamber of horrors.

  * * *

  Emma Jean was so far over on her side she was almost falling off the sagging mattress. She did not want to touch Rudy when he came to bed, especially when she was feeling all warm inside, like her tummy was filled with hot, buttered biscuits. Thinking about Luke made her that way as she thought back to that morning and every word he had spoken and how he had looked at her like he could eat her.

  She had been telling herself all day she had to be crazy. Luke was married, just like she was, and there was no need in starting something that could get both of them killed. Still, there was no harm in dreaming, was there? After all, it might help her through the bad times, till she could finish the correspondence course and get a job at the mill in the steno pool. She had learned to type before she quit school.

  She was confident Rudy would let her do it, too, when he found out how much she would make, $1.50 an hour. He only made $1.80 on the line. Then, when she had some experience, she could find a job as a stenographer anywhere, maybe even as a private secretary. She could run away and make a new life. Till then, the only thing she could do was bide her time and try not to make him mad enough to hit her.

  It was nearly two in the morning. The grill had closed at midnight. That was the law. No beer sold on Sundays in Buford County. Rudy hadn't come in yet, which meant he and some of his low-life friends had a bottle of whiskey and were riding the back roads drinking. They wouldn't come home till they ran out of whiskey or the sun rose, whichever came first.

  She was starting to relax, daring to hope he would be out all night. Hugging the pillow, she pretended it was Luke. He wasn't so big and gruff as he made folks think. He could be gentle as rainwater. She just knew it. And he liked her. She could tell.

  Headlights turning in the drive flashed across the bedroom windows. Emma Jean let go of the pillow and sat up. Brakes squealing. Laughter and loud talking punctuated with filthy language. A door opening and closing. An engine roaring. Tires squealing into the night. Rudy was home.

  The kitchen door opened with a bang, and she heard him bump into the table, which was right in the middle of the floor like it always was. He hadn't remembered that because he was drunk.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, pulled the sheet up over her head, and got very, very still. He gave the dangling overhead cord a yank, and the room was flooded with light. She could hear him taking off his clothes.

  Please, God, let him be too drunk to do anything.

  The covers were yanked off her.

  Don't move, Emma Jean, she commanded herself, teeth ground tight together. Maybe he'll think you're so dead to the world, he won't...

  "Hey. You ain't asleep, bitch."

  She forced herself to do what he wanted, and dreams of Luke faded as she surrendered to the wretchedness of her life.

  Chapter 13

  Leaning back in his chair, Luke stared moodily through templed fingers. The door to his office was closed, which meant he was not to be disturbed except for an emergency. He could hear the phone ring now and then, the sounds of people coming and going. But he wanted no part of that world now, for he was lost in thoughts of another world, one that was not only disgusting but also illegal.

  What he had seen in Hardy's closet four nights ago had turned his stomach, and not because of the gore. He could handle that. It was some of the items in Hardy's collection that repulsed. Collecting eyeglasses and false teeth was one thing, but it took a real sick person to harvest a fetus from a female corpse. Hell, if Hardy had gone that far, he shuddered to think what else he may have done to her. And, sweet Jesus, there had even been a penis and testicles among the glass jars filled with formaldehyde.

  But, aside from Hardy and his macabre hobby, something else was crowding his mind... Emma Jean. When he had returned to the laundromat Saturday afternoon, his laundry was neatly folded and stacked in the basket, the ticket on top. Bert was there to collect the money, and Emma Jean was busy with a customer. So Luke had left without talking to her, figuring there was no need to give Bert ideas that something was going on between them. He had been wondering ever since if maybe there actually was. He kept telling himself they were just good friends, yet there was no getting around the reality that what he was starting to feel for her had nothing to do with being buddies.

  She had not been at work Monday or Tuesday. He knew because he had driven by the laundromat.

  Forcing himself to stop thinking about her, he tried to concentrate on Hardy. He knew he had to have a good, solid case against him. The first step was to hide and watch what happened after old Minnie Plummer's funeral, scheduled for that afternoon. He heard that morning that Minnie's son, Virgil, had bought the most expensive coffin Hardy had because a sideline of Hardy's was selling burial insurance. Since he had sold Minnie a huge policy several years before, Virgil intended to use every penny of it. It was a perfect setup for another coffin switch, and, if it happened, Luke intended to get proof.

  His stomach gave a rumble. He looked at his watch, almost twelve-thirty. He hit the intercom switch. "Wilma, I'm going to lunch. Do I need to return any calls?"

  "No, I took care of everything," she said, "Except a call from Emma Jean Veazey. She wouldn't say what she wanted."

  Luke felt a quickening in his gut. "What did she say?"

  "Nothing. I told her you were busy, and she hung up."

  He switched off the intercom and pulled on his heavy jacket. It was cold outside, the sky gray and overcast. He hoped it didn't start sleeting because he was going to be outdoors for no telling how long.

  He went into the front office. "Did she sound upset?"

  "Who?" Wilma blinked, confused. She had already forgotten what they had been talking about.

  "Emma Jean Veazey."

  "Oh." She thought a second. "No. It was like I said. Why?"

  "I thought she might be calling about her old man beating her again."

  "She didn't sound like anything was wrong, not that I could tell, anyway."

  "Well, if it's important she'll call back. I'm going to the cafe."

  Instead, he drove straight to the laundromat. Emma Jean was folding clothes. At the tinkling sound of the bell over the door, she glanced up, gave a shy smile of recognition, then nodded ever so slightly toward a woman sitting near a chugging machine to let him know she was not alone.

  Luke nodded politely to Sadie Perkins, one of the biggest gossips in town.

  Emma Jean raised her voice so Sadie wouldn't miss a word. "Sheriff, thanks for dropping by. I wanted you to check the new lock on the back door and see what you think. Bert's afraid now that we've got a drink machine somebody might break in to steal the money out of it."

  "Sure. Lead the way."

  When they got to the storage room where the back door opened to the alley, Luke started to inspect the lock, but Emma Jean quickly whispered, "That's not really why I called. I wanted to give you this." From her apron pocket she took a black sock. "This was left in the dryer Saturday." She was not about to admit she had purposely overlooked it so she would have an excuse to call him. Neither was she going to tell him how she had pressed it to her cheek too many times to count when nobody was looking.

  He stuffed it in his pocket, thinking how she could have given it to him out front but pleased she hadn't. "I thought maybe you weren't working here anymore. I didn't se
e your car yesterday or the day before."

  "I wasn't feeling good." It was not altogether a lie. Rudy had slapped her so many times Saturday night that she'd had a blinding headache and couldn't get out of bed.

  Luke noticed her heavy makeup and couldn't remember her ever layering it on like that before. Then he noticed the dark place on her cheek, like a bruise. "Did he hit you again?"

  She forced a shaky laugh. "Yeah, but it wasn't so bad."

  He swore under his breath. "Maybe I'd better have a talk with him."

  "No, don't, please," she was quick to protest. "It would just make things worse."

  "They sure as hell aren't going to get any better, and you're a fool if you think they are."

  "It'll be okay."

  "No, it won't. You think it will, but it won't."

  "I shouldn't have called you over here. I thought I had the bruise covered so's you wouldn't notice."

  He put a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. "What's the real reason you called? It wasn't the sock. That could have waited. And you say you didn't want me to see the bruise. So what did you want?"

  "I guess I just wanted... needed... a friend. I don't have anybody to talk to in this town, and..."

  He felt a heated rush and before he realized it, his hand was on the back of her neck, and he was drawing her face toward his.

  "Emma Jean, I need change for the dryer."

  At Sadie's annoyed screech from out front, they sprang apart.

  "Coming," Emma Jean called. She smoothed back her hair, pulled at her apron, as though by doing so her emotions would be checked. But it didn't work, and she and Luke looked at each other as they pondered the meaning behind what had almost happened, and where it was all going to lead.

  "Emma Jean!"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Luke followed as she returned to the front.

  "Thank you, sheriff," she said, hoping Sadie couldn't see how her heart was jumping around like a frog in her chest. "I'll tell Bert you said the lock was okay."

  "Yeah. He doesn't have anything to worry about."

  Luke wished he could say the same about himself because it struck like a thunderbolt that he couldn't remember ever in his whole life wanting to kiss anyone so bad.

  Calling in to Wilma that he would be out of service for a few hours, he drove past the cemetery and parked in a grove of pecan trees. It had started sleeting, and he didn't relish a mile walk, but he was not about to chance his car being spotted.

  He pulled his jacket collar around his neck as high as it would go and jammed his hat down on his head. Then he entered the woods bordering the cemetery, skirting the edge till he spotted the familiar green and white Taylor-Moon tent that marked Minnie's grave.

  He positioned himself behind a clump of evergreen bushes where he could hide and still peek out and see what was going on. The dirt from the grave had been neatly covered by a green carpet. Ozzie and Hank were nowhere around.

  In the frosty mist, it looked like every setting he'd ever seen in a scary movie. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a ghost crawl out of a grave or a ghoul step from behind a headstone. He was getting stiff from the cold when he finally heard cars approaching. Slowly the hearse came into sight, followed by Hardy's black Cadillac, which he used to transport the family.

  But not for me, Luke recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth. I wouldn't ride in your shitty car to my mother's funeral, Hardy. I drove my own and didn't give a damn if folks wondered why.

  There was another car carrying pallbearers and only a few more after that because the bad weather was obviously causing some people to skip the graveside service.

  The family stayed in the Cadillac while Hardy guided the pallbearers to slide the coffin with its floral blanket from the hearse and position it on the grave rollers. Then the Methodist preacher, Paul Whitsett, took his place at the head of the casket, and Hardy ushered Minnie's family to the folding chairs lined up under the tent. Luke noticed Ozzie easing his truck to the curb. Hank was sitting next to him.

  The service didn't take long. Paul said a few words and a prayer, then shook hands with those under the tent and left. The others wasted no time leaving, either, for the wind had picked up, and the sleet had changed back to rain and was coming down harder.

  When the last car was out of sight, Ozzie and Hank leaped out of the truck and ran to join Hardy under the tent. Over the roar of the wind and the pounding of the rain, Luke could not hear what was being said, but he didn't need to. What he could see was more than enough.

  After Hardy removed the blanket of carnations, Ozzie and Hank lifted the coffin off the rollers and placed it on the ground. Hardy then lifted the lid to reveal Minnie dressed in a blue gown. Ozzie grasped her shoulders, and Hank took her feet. Hardy supported her torso, which wasn't necessary, because the embalming fluid had left her stiff as a board. Quickly, they hoisted her from the coffin and dumped her in the grave.

  Ozzie and Hank then took the empty coffin and practically ran with it to the hearse, shoved it inside, and slammed the doors. No doubt they had not had time to do that with Henrietta Cochran's; instead they were forced to stow it in the shed, anticipating Jubal would be sneaking back up the road and might see them.

  While they were moving the coffin, Hardy was busy putting some of the flowers in the back seat of the Cadillac, no doubt planning to have Lucy dismantle the arrangements and return the flowers to the refrigerator in case there was an opportunity to reuse them for the next funeral. With the coffin stashed, Ozzie and Hank got busy covering poor Minnie in her raw grave.

  Luke knew, at last, that he had Hardy dead to rights. He could arrest him and send him away for a long, long time. But jail was too good for him because what Luke had in mind was much worse.

  * * *

  Luke went home to change out of his wet clothes and was cleaning out his pants pockets when he found the sock Emma Jean had given him. Again he wondered if she had really overlooked it or kept it to have an excuse to call him. She sure hadn't pulled away when he'd been about to kiss her, so maybe she was feeling for him what he was feeling for her, which could lead to trouble. But while that thought didn't scare him, he wanted to make sure it wasn't all one-sided and make a fool of himself.

  After a hot shower, he put on a fresh uniform, then drove to Creech's station where there was a phone booth just outside. A married man using a pay phone around town was said to be a dead-giveaway he was calling his girlfriend, but Luke wasn't thinking about that just then.

  He dialed the laundromat, counted six rings, and looked at his watch. It was half past four. He wasn't sure what time the place closed, but he guessed not before five or six.

  At last she answered, out of breath. "Bert's Laundromat."

  "It's me—Luke. Can you talk?"

  "Yes. We aren't real busy right now. Just a few people using the dryers, because it's too bad outside to dry on the line."

  He could hear the soft whooshing sound of the big machines and faint conversation in the background.

  "I have to ask you something." He sucked in his breath, mustering his nerve. God, he hadn't batted an eye at plunging into hand-to-hand combat with the Vietcong, but now his knees were like jelly. It wasn't too late. He could still turn around, just hang up the phone and put her out of his mind.

  Yeah, right.

  "Okay," she said softly.

  "It's about what almost happened between us this afternoon."

  "Uh-huh."

  He could just picture her, pressing into the corner next to the storage room, her hand cupped about the phone's mouthpiece to make sure no one would overhear.

  He plunged ahead. "If what almost happened had happened, would you be sorry?" God, he felt like a teenager with his first crush.

  "I don't think so. What about you?"

  He started to relax and laughed softly, "I was the instigator, remember?"

  She laughed, too. "I remember all right."

  "Well, I'm going to stick my neck ou
t and say that ever since that night on your back porch I've thought about you a lot, but I don't want to make things worse for you than they already are."

  "You might not understand, but having you for my friend makes it all better."

  He understood, all right, because having her made things better for him, too, like when Alma was screaming at him. He would think about Emma Jean, and it made the misery easier to bear. "I know," he said finally, "but it could get a little complicated."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I want us to be more than friends."

  There was silence, and just as Luke started to worry she had hung up, he heard her voice, as soft and wispy as a feather in the air.

  "I want that, too. I honestly do. Only we have to be real careful."

  "We will be." He felt like singing.

  Chapter 14

  Luke had to attend a meeting for law enforcement officers in Mobile for a few days. It was Saturday when he got home, and Alma came running out the back door the second he turned in the drive. She was wearing jeans rolled up above her knees and one of his old flannel shirts. Her hair was tucked into a red bandanna, and she was still holding the wet mop she'd been using on the kitchen floor.

  She waited till he got to the bottom step before shrieking like a crow chased from a corn field. "So you finally sobered up to remember where you live, eh? Well, it's about time, damn you."

  "Cut it out, Alma," he yelled, throwing up his hands against the spray of dirty water from the mop she was shaking at him.

  "I called the sheriff's office in Mobile and found out the meetings were over yesterday. So where the hell have you been since then?"

  He could have told her the truth, that he had spent the night with Jim Burkhalter, an army buddy from Nam, and how he'd had a real fine time with Jim's wife and kids. He might also have shared how they grilled hot dogs and watched Jim's slides and talked about the old days and even described Jim's nice house on the water and how he was now a lawyer with his daddy's firm, proving that life does go on after wars and people do get married and live happily ever after. Only Alma wouldn't have believed him, and she wouldn't have cared, anyway, so he didn't say anything except that he was tired from the drive and wanted to take a nap before checking in at the office.