by Ricky Fry
Nancy drifted off as the man continued to speak. It was all so terribly boring, not at all like the legal dramas she’d watched on television. There were no sexy lawyers, no striking sound effects as they cut quickly from scene to scene. She hardly noticed when the prosecutor finished speaking and her husband’s lawyer took his turn at the front of the room.
“Members of the jury, the prosecutor has presented a strong emotional appeal. He would have you believe my client is nothing more than a monster, stealing candy from the mouths of babies in order to satisfy his unending greed. But what about the facts? Do they not matter? Ladies and gentleman, your time is valuable, so I’ll keep it short.”
Thank goodness, she thought. Another long speech might have put her to sleep.
“My client is not a monster. The man before you is a loving husband and devoted father. He didn’t steal from anyone. Like the prosecutor, I have one request—that as this trial unfolds you consider only the cold, hard facts. And as the facts will surely demonstrate, this is nothing more than a few instances of misguided accounting and unfortunate, but inevitable downturns in the market. People invest. Sometimes they win. Sometimes they lose. To place the blame entirely on the shoulders of a single man is not only wrong, it’s un-American.”
After months of bad press, she was glad to finally hear someone defending her poor husband, but she could have done without the last part. It was a touch over-the-top to resort to patriotic dogma, though one of the jurors had nodded along as Mr. Bennett made his final point.
“We only need a single dissenter,” the lawyer had explained to her a week before, as they made final preparations for the trial. “It’s unrealistic to think Mr. Hardaway will be found innocent. But an acquittal is just as good at keeping him out of prison.”
She was beginning to feel a sliver of hope when a flurry of shouting and activity erupted near the front of the courtroom. She turned just in time to see a young woman—the same young woman who’d stalked her after the preliminary hearing—leap over the low, wooden railing and make a desperate grab for a court officer’s holstered pistol.
The officer, who’d been caught off guard by the young woman’s surprise leap for his sidearm, composed himself just in time to help his partner drive the woman down to the ground.
A shot rang out.
The spectators and media who had been crowded into the gallery pressed against each other as they started toward the door in a single wave. The old judge, despite his advanced age and generally fragile appearance, was quick to duck behind the raised bench.
Nancy had little time to react. She could only watch the scene unfold as if it was happening in some distant place, far removed from the mind-numbing events of the day.
It was over just as soon as it had started. The bullet had struck a ceiling tile, nothing more, and the woman was wrestled into a pair of handcuffs.
“You killed him!” She screamed and fought as they pushed back the crowd and pulled her toward the exit. “That man killed my husband!”
Nancy wanted to throw up. Whatever hope she’d felt only a few short moments before evaporated when she saw the looks of horror on the shocked faces of the jury. The judge called the room back to order and instructed them to ignore what they’d seen, but she knew it was too late. Some things can never be unseen.
The media caught wind of the young woman’s stunt and descended on the courthouse in a frenzy. Nancy and Byron sat in frozen silence as the driver of their hired sedan navigated a maze of microphones and cameras. Not even the dark tint of the windows could shield them from the photographers who flung themselves at the car, determined to get their money shots.
Until that moment, she’d never really taken the whole thing seriously. It was just a minor brush with the law. The only real downsides were the negative consequences it had taken on her otherwise thriving social life. But the woman’s mad grab for an officer’s gun, along with the opening statement by the prosecuting attorney, pierced the delicate veil she’d carefully draped over any doubts which had crept into her mind.
Mr. Bennett, seated up front next to the driver, was the first to speak. “I’m not sure what to say. In all my years as a trial attorney, I’ve never witnessed anything quite like that.”
It was hardly the reassurance she’d been hoping for. “What impact will this have on the trial?”
“Not much.” The lawyer twisted around in his seat and gripped the back of the leather headrest. “If your husband is found guilty, I might be able to request a new trial. There’s certainly a strong case to be made for jury interference. But I can’t imagine the current judge calling for a new jury selection this late in the game.”
Guilty. It was the one word she tried the hardest not to think about. The thought of being alone in that empty house, with nothing but the baby and a couple of old women, sent shivers down her spine. She imagined herself like Penelope, gazing out longingly over the water as she waited for Odysseus to return. But her life was not an epic Greek poem, and Byron was certainly not Odysseus.
They arrived at the house to find another throng of vans lining the street, their respective news crews buzzing about. The neighbors, who in previous months had appeared on their front stoops to drink coffee and watch the calamitous spectacle, were nowhere to be seen. They’re too busy scheming and devising a plan to run us out of the neighborhood, she thought, for all the trouble we’ve brought them.
“Nancy!” A reporter pressed in and waved a microphone in her face as she exited the black sedan. “What do to think about the accusations made by the woman in the courtroom?”
She knew better than to say anything, but she couldn’t restrain herself. “You mean the woman who pulled a gun and put a bullet through the ceiling? I’m not sure she’s fit to be making accusations about anyone.”
“She claims your husband, Mr. Hardaway, stole all of their money, and that her own husband, faced with the pressure of losing their house, killed himself out of desperation. What do you have to say about that?”
Mr. Bennett stepped between them before Nancy had another chance to respond. “What happened today was nothing more than a violent, criminal act. I salute the fine law enforcement officers who were quick to respond with such bravery and professionalism. This is a matter for the district attorney, not my client. We have no further comments at this time.”
Inez ushered them in through the front door and was quick to close it behind them. It was some time before the chaos finally subsided and the lawyer slinked away. Nancy, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, dropped herself to the leather sofa in Mr. Hardaway’s study.
“Listen,” he said. “I know this has all been very difficult for you. I’m sorry.”
“What are we going to do, Byron?” She was too numb to cry. Her thoughts had given way to emptiness.
Beyond the window of the study, in the small space between the house and the reporters who were still gathered on the street, the caretaker’s son bounced a ball on the sidewalk, perfectly oblivious to the chaos. She watched his blonde hair bob up and down with the rhythm of the ball, and for a moment she was jealous. It would be wonderful, she thought, to be so innocent again, if only for a day.
Her husband’s voice snapped her attention back to the heavy, wood-paneled room. “Mr. Bennett says the evidence is in our favor, and I believe him. We have to be patient, Nancy. It’s all we can do.”
“Mr. Bennett charges five-hundred dollars an hour. He’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear so long as you continue to make the payments.”
Byron lowered his head into his hands. “I’m just trying to stay positive, Nance. Don’t you think I’m afraid? I’m the one looking at federal prison. Believe me, if it wasn’t for you and the baby I’d be on the next flight to Brazil.”
“Well, aren’t you a hero?” Blood boiled up beneath her skin as she fought back tears of rage. How could he be such a coward? “Please, don’t let a silly little thing like your family stop you. It certainly didn’t stop you
from stealing that money. If you want to run away then by all means go. We’re probably better off without you.”
His face twisted up and froze as if she’d reached right out and slapped him. “I’m sorry, Nancy. I shouldn’t have said that. I would never abandon you. I would never abandon our beautiful daughter. You’re the only thing I have.”
As she stared back at his sad eyes, she saw a distant shadow of the young man who’d courted her all those many years ago, naïve but driven, with an ambition that masked the lingering insecurities of a middle class youth. She wanted to hug him, to tell him all had been forgiven. But then she remembered the stern words of her father, who told her that forgiveness was nothing more than a sign of weakness, an opportunity for those who might take advantage of the slightest act of kindness.
“It’s getting late.” She decided the best way to punish him was to leave him there alone, with only his cognac and regret to keep him company. “I’m going to check on the baby.”
She climbed the steps at a brisk pace, but hesitated outside the door of the nursery. It was a regular occurrence, ever since she’d first discovered the body of their former nanny sprawled dead on the floor. It was silly, she told herself. The nanny’s untimely death was a one-time event, chalked up to some rare, inexplicable medical condition. Still, entering the nursery always gave her pause.
She’d just steadied herself with a deep breath when she heard a strange noise. It was Nora, that much was obvious, but it was nothing like the familiar cooing and crying sounds which emerged at all hours from her tiny lips.
It was a single word.
“Ree-na.”
EIGHTEEN
Cowardly men and women, who only a short time before had condemned him, threw themselves at his feet and begged his forgiveness. Their plan to save the village had failed, and there would be no salvation from the terrible scourge of the evil spirit.
Bogdan the Great—they championed his name once more, as if it might somehow be restored to its former glory—was their last and only hope.
“Please,” they said. “You must save us.”
He’d spent all morning burying the dead.
Svyatoslav had helped him, fetching a wooden cart from the house of the tinsmith, who would no longer have use for it save for one final ride to his permanent resting place.
They went house by house, taking turns pulling the heavy cart behind them, as they ferried the bodies of those who had perished in the night to the freshly dug graves they’d prepared not long before.
One by one they lowered the bodies into the ground, the priest administering the funeral rites as Bogdan drove a makeshift cross of bound sticks into the soft earth at the head of each grave.
The villagers had been of little use. They passed the hours in collective mourning, huddled together on rough-hewn benches inside the church. Frightened words passed back and forth between their nervous lips. Many spoke of gathering what few possessions they had and fleeing the cursed village before another night fell upon them. Surely, they said, there would be more souls taken. All agreed the evil spirit would not rest.
How Bogdan wanted to condemn them, they who had been so quick to accuse him of treachery, of conspiring with the priest to make a pact with the Devil. It was the priest who convinced him otherwise.
“You must not abandon them now,” said the old man.
“No? Tell me why I should stand beside them, for they were unwilling to stand beside me.”
“My son, do you not see? Yours is the terrible burden borne throughout history by all great men and women. The people are nothing more than children, hopeless and fickle. As our Savior Jesus Christ forgave those who left him to suffer upon the cross, you must now forgive all those who have wronged you.”
They didn’t deserve his forgiveness. The priest was right about one thing—they were children. They would fight and bicker among themselves until every last one of them had been destroyed. Such was the way of men.
He had every reason, he told himself, to take his son and leave that place. But he knew it would be the same no matter where he might go. Perhaps there would be no evil spirit, but there would be something else. People always found reason to tear themselves apart, rather than come together.
Would it really be so different in another village, a bustling city, or a far-flung country? Their village was the only home he’d ever known, and he thought just maybe, despite the evil which appeared to triumph all around him, it was as good a place as any.
“Friends,” said the priest, who had taken his usual place at the front of the church. “You have come here to seek sanctuary, and for good reason. Our lands have been plagued for too long, our precious sons and husbands have fallen. And in your most desperate hour, the very Devil himself has tempted you away from the Lord. But hear me now, it is never too late for God’s loving forgiveness. Be not weak. Be not the fir bough which bends and breaks beneath the weight of a heavy snow in winter. For one day the trumpets will sound, our spring will come, and we shall again find ourselves in the resplendent light of the Lord.”
Their nervous chatter fell silent. All eyes were upon the priest, with his wild hair and disheveled robes. The old man was fighting a battle for their hearts and minds, and he was winning.
They may be as fickle as children, Bogdan thought, but they were also desperate. They were in need of a strong leader, and who else might lead them if not he?
“Good people,” said the priest, “your prayers have not gone without answer. For the Lord has sent us a son. He is the only one among us capable of lifting the curse. We must have faith. We must not be lead astray.”
He raised his arms one last time over his head, as if he might call down the heavens. “My dear brothers and sisters, I am but a tired priest. I have little more to offer than words. But I implore you, hear my words now. The Lord has heard your prayers and delivered us Bogdan the Great.”
The old man dropped his arms and they were left once more in silence. It was the voice of a woman that rose first, drifting in from the back of the church. “Bogdan,” she said. “Bogdan the Great!”
Soon her voice was joined by the others, until every last one of them was chanting his name in unison. The priest stepped aside from the pulpit, and it was his turn to address the tired and huddled crowd.
He’d planned no words of his own. Moments ago he’d loathed them, but as he took his place behind the pulpit and stared into their weary eyes, he saw reflected back at him something they’d long-since given up. It was hope—and the strengthened belief that somehow he would save them. But what might he say? It was only when he opened his mouth that the words came, as if arriving at his lips from some distant place.
“I am a simple man,” he said. “If you would ask the priest, he would speak of miracles and saviors. I am not a savior, and I know nothing of miracles. Why has this terrible beast cursed us with his presence? Why must our children suffer and pay with their lives? Who among us can say? But of one thing I am certain.”
The crowd leaned in, as if he might reveal some great secret. The shaky wooden benches of the church strained beneath their weight. Even the priest had moved closer, an old and wrinkled hand raised to his ear, so that he might hear whatever Bogdan would say next.
“For too long we have waited, tending to our fields in the hope that somehow this evil would abate. It’s clear now it will not. And so we cannot wait any longer. We must seek him out, in the very place where his dark spirit lies dormant in the bright light of day. Good people, we must find him, and with our courage and our faith in the Lord we must send his wretched soul back to Hell.”
At this they stood, several of the benches toppling over beneath them, as they jumped to their feet and shouted cheers of approval.
“Bogdan is right,” said a woman who’d lost both her husband and her son. “We mustn’t wait any longer.”
“Yes,” said another. “We must act now, before the last of us has perished.”
Bogdan looked at
the priest, standing quietly in his black and ruffled robes. A peculiar expression had taken over the old man’s tired face—something which had been unimaginable only hours before. It was a smile.
Bogdan felt renewed. How he would find and destroy the evil spirit was still a question for which he did have an answer. It would be a difficult and dangerous task, no doubt, but it was a risk he would rather take than to stay and dig another grave.
“Very well,” he said. “I will leave before sundown. Who will come with me?”
His questioned silenced them. Anxious faces looked from one to another. It was one thing, he knew, to volunteer himself for such a dangerous mission. It was quite another thing to expect the others to go so willingly.
He’d almost given up hope when the first volunteer stepped forward.
It was Svyatoslav.
“I will go,” said the big man. “I would follow you, Bogdan the Great, to the Gates of Hell.”
Svyatoslav’s son, rarely a man of words, stepped forward to join him. “As would I,” he said. “Wherever you lead, Bogdan the Great, I will follow.”
They were a fair enough search party, and would do well to travel light. But it was the last volunteer, a young boy not much older than fourteen or fifteen, who he’d not expected to stand up.
“I will go,” said the boy, as he stepped forward to take his place beside the two men, much larger than himself, who had already joined Bogdan at the front of the room.
“No, Vladislav.” The boy’s mother wiped tears from her eyes and pulled at his shirt. “We buried your only brother this very morning. I will not bury a second child.”
“Yes,” said the boy. He kissed her hand and returned it gently to her side. “That is why I must go, for if I do nothing but wait here I will surely die.”
“It’s settled,” said Bogdan. “Gather your things and say your goodbyes. We leave before the last ray of sun has departed the sky.”
