A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  In fact, she dumped him, even though they had been engaged the previous summer. She said he was too flighty, not dependable. That was what she claimed. It hurt, too, but not as much as the real reason. He found that out in March. She had been seeing other guys - plural. For years. He still felt a used fool for it.

  The music ended. In the silence before the next piece he remembered the name. "Serenade for Winds," he whispered.

  41

  The car swayed ever so slightly as Emily shot a glare at Hardy. She couldn't believe he knew the name, let alone anything at all about classical music.

  She forced her attention back to the road and her driving, but she kept glancing over now and then. His head leaned a little forward as he listened closely, bloodshot eyes unfocused. Hardy appeared to recognize all of it. Yet she had selected a couple of rather obscure Mozart concertos. And this guy seemed to know them. She knew he did, because sometimes his head nodded a tiny bit to the tempo, anticipating the flow of the melody, the timing of standout notes.

  No. She refused to believe this of the brute who killed her brother. He could not possibly have any appreciation of beauty. She stoked her hatred, remembering the teacher Steve was, recalling the autopsy reports.

  The traffic began thinning more as they left Petersburg behind. She maneuvered around a slow transfer van and pressed down on the accelerator.

  For the next several miles she diligently ignored Hardy. When she looked again, he was still listening. By now the clarinet concerto was playing from the speakers.

  Angrily, she cancelled the music. A few punches and she started a collection called 'The Best of Wagner' going. No one's favorite except aficionados.

  From the back, Eric said, "Slow down, Em."

  The interruption of her thoughts irritated her, but she dutifully glanced at the speedometer. She was nearing eighty. It was a wonder she hadn't been pulled over already. She let off the pedal and the speed dropped quickly to just under seventy. "Sorry," she said and set the cruise control.

  "Just watch it a little better from now on. And do the limit."

  "Okay," she said, then dismissed the speeding incident immediately, keeping a furtive eye on Hardy. No one knew Wagner anymore. She reset the cruise, letting her speed drop to sixty-five.

  The romantic strains of the Tannhauser overture swelled to fill the car. After a few minutes she checked on him.

  He was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. Sometimes he made throat-clearing sounds or coughed, but all the time his mouth made little motions to the music.

  Quickly looking back at the highway, she discovered she was biting her lip.

  Hardy's reverie was broken by Eric Sheafer saying, "What is it, Em?" Hardy opened his eyes and turned enough to see Emily.

  Her jaw was set so tight he could see the muscles. Knuckles white on the wheel., her lower lip was curled between her teeth.

  "Nothing," she blurted. Then she mashed the cancel button on the stereo and Wagner's most eloquent work dropped away to silence.

  Then he thought he understood. "I think it bothers her that I know classical music, Dr. Sheafer."

  After a moment Sheafer said, "Is that true, Em?"

  Emily reached across the space between them, Hardy flinching at the sudden motion. But all she did was open the glove box, pull out a pair of sunglasses and slap it closed.

  "I don't give a damn what he knows," she said.

  A moment of hesitation, then the elder Sheafer said, "I don't give a damn either. At this point."

  John Hardy blinked. What did that mean? He heard a rustle of paper from the back.

  Emily glanced for an instant over her shoulder. "What's that," she demanded.

  Eric said, "A plan."

  "For what, may I ask?"

  "You may ask, and I will tell you. But not now."

  If Hardy's hands hadn't been tied behind him he would have smacked himself on the forehead. Instead, he coughed twice, then sneezed. This conversation's bare hints were extremely frustrating for him. Emily he readily understood, but Eric was the definition of vagueness. And his were the statements that concerned Hardy's own future.

  They were crossing the southern fingers of Lake Jordan. It was then her father leaned forward and started talking to him again.

  "How is it you know classical music, Hardy?"

  Their prisoner was visibly startled at having a question put directly to him. Emily would have smiled at his discomfiture, but it startled her a bit, too. And the question was so innocuous. Damn near friendly, she thought with an upsurge in her anger.

  "I…ah…used to play the clarinet," the bastard said.

  "In school?"

  "Yes, sir. I started in middle school."

  "Are you any good?"

  Emily listened closely, wondering where this was going, wondering what her father's ulterior motive might be. A glance at Hardy showed him sitting stiffly, facing forward.

  He said, "Probably not anymore, but I did well enough in high school."

  "Play anymore after that?"

  "Yeah…yes sir. Through college."

  "Why did you give it up?"

  Confusion began to eat at the edges of Emily's anger, though it remained predominant. What was this course of questions going to accomplish? What good was it to learn the entire musical history of John Hardy?

  "I…didn't have… I just wasn't able to, Dr. Sheafer. Anyway, I wasn't really that good. Maybe so-so for an amateur."

  "Okay. So you went to college. UNC-G, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  All at once it came to her: make him feel comfortable so that he confesses even before he knows it. Then maybe her father could get over this thing that was keeping him from pulling the trigger and he'd kill Hardy. They could roll him over a guard rail, into one of the ravines they were passing. It would be more than fitting, she felt.

  "What attracted you there?"

  "Nothing."

  The response came too quickly.

  "Come on. All the way from Richmond, with four good schools of its own? There had to be something.”

  Emily wasn't prepared for the answer.

  Hesitantly, Hardy said, "It was a girl."

  "Oh?" Eric prompted.

  "I…we dated in high school and she wanted to teach. I'd rather not talk about it."

  Emily was breathing heavily, feeling her nostrils flare. She didn't understand why. Sure, she hated him for what he had done. But this anger was different. It went beyond the rage she had developed on this search-and-capture mission.

  Then it hit her, physically jolting her, causing the car to again swerve under her grip.

  "What was that, Em?"

  "Ah…nothing," she said, trying to get back to the revelation. "Just…something in the road."

  It wasn't fair, she thought. It just wasn't fair, damn it all. Damn him!

  Eric accepted her explanation and continued with Hardy. "What did you major in?"

  "History and English."

  "That wasn't all, though, was it? You majored in Art and Math, too. Didn't you?"

  "How do you know so much about me? And why do you care?"

  Biting her lip, Emily worked her jaw back and forth, listening intently.

  "The police were very thorough," Eric said.

  "Not thorough enough, damn it," Hardy said as he continued to take a more defensive stance.

  "Why?" her father asked.

  "Because…" he said, voice acquiring a pained sound. She heard him whisper, "Oh, God."

  Unable to stop herself, she looked at him for a careful second. He was staring straight ahead. She could hear the air sucking in and out as he breathed, rapidly, tightly. With an effort, she held her hands steady on the wheel and kept the car in the lane.

  "Because," Hardy started again. "They didn't…" He faltered, voice now shaky. "Damn it, I didn't do it!"

  The car was silent but for the ripping whine of the tire treads on the pavement. Emily waited, willing for s
omeone else to end the quiet. For her father to deny Hardy his claim of innocence.

  After an eternity Eric finally spoke.

  "The court says you did. The evidence was overwhelming."

  She could see him from the corner of her eye, slumping in the seat, heard his sigh of frustration and exhaustion. He coughed twice, hard.

  "I know," he moaned. Another sigh, a softer cough. "I guess I would have convicted myself…based on the evidence," he said, his voice soft but tainted with irony.

  "Is that why you never said anything to us about being innocent before?"

  Barely audible, Hardy said, "Yeah."

  Why, Emily's thoughts screamed in anguish. Why did this monster have to have feelings?

  42

  "Don't be fooled by the way things look," Eric Sheafer said at the top of the stairs. He reached in and switched the light on.

  John Hardy came up beside him and looked in the room, taking in the wallpaper with its sparse but pleasant design of tiny flowers, bees and bluebirds. The bed had a high headboard with built-in shelves, which were bare. The remaining furniture consisted of a desk and a very old-fashioned and stained beanbag seat in the corner to the right. But there was also a generous supply of tissues. He would finally be able to sneeze cleanly and blow his nose.

  Eric was saying, "This room is well fixed with alarms and locks. The windows are reinforced Plexiglas in ceramic frames and sash." Pointing, he added, "Same for the bathroom there. The sashes are bolted shut, from outside. The bolts are welded to imbedded steel."

  At a glance John saw the double window was large enough, but the individual panes were small and the assembly indeed looked very substantial.

  "You're not getting out. And if you try, one or both of us will be up here long before you could get out," he said as if reading his mind and confirming the lack of escape through the window.

  John turned toward him.

  "I'll bring you a sandwich in a little bit. I'm sure you'll find this more comfortable than the cemetery."

  John waited as the door was closed. "For how long?" he whispered after the deadbolt clacked home.

  Sitting downstairs in the kitchen, Emily propped her head up on the table. Her eyes felt as if they would close of their own volition, despite that her lids felt more like sandpaper than soft, damp folds of tissue.

  Her father busily unloaded the car and carried the stuff in. It didn't take long Then he was phoning on the house data manager com unit. She could hear him fine, but the volume was down on the replies. Didn't matter; they were implied.

  "Bob, we're back… Yeah… The room's fine, really good. Listen: Tomorrow I want to do something…"

  She must have fallen asleep for she jumped as he came back in the kitchen. She couldn't remember anything else of the call. Yawning, she rubbed her dry eyes.

  "Tired?" he asked.

  She nodded, a shiver running through her.

  "This place does feel a little cold," he said. "I think I'll turn the heat up."

  Good, she thought as he went back to the house DM. She thought of the hot sands outside Siwah. Was it really less than two weeks ago?

  Eric came back in and started making sandwiches.

  She covered her mouth as she yawned again. "What did Bob have to say?"

  He looked at her oddly, eyes a bit wide. "You didn't hear?"

  "Hear what?" Emily straightened, suddenly alert. "Is there something wrong? Anyone sick? Grandma…"

  Eric shook his head. "Everyone's okay. Well, in the family. It's just that they found Joan Devereux beaten to death in her office."

  "What? When?"

  "Today." Turning back to the counter, he said, "This afternoon, actually." He shook his head again. "No leads, yet. The police think it may have been robbery but they're not sure."

  "At her office?"

  He shrugged with one shoulder.

  "Dear God," she said softly. "We saw her just days ago."

  "Yeah." He finished the sandwiches without another word. He put them on the table and sat across from her. Looking at her (pinning her with his eyes was more like what he was doing) he said, "What do you think about what was said in the car on the way back?"

  Emily massaged her temples, trying to stave off a threatening headache. "I…don't know, Dad. What should I think? That he's some sort of poor soul gone astray or something? Not really a killer? You tell me." She challenged him with a sullen glance.

  A hint of pique lined the corner of one eye, but left quick as it came. "I can't tell you what to think. I'm not sure myself," he admitted. "We'll know more tomorrow afternoon."

  Dimly, Emily remembered the legal pad. "Something to do with your plan?"

  "Yeah. I've got to make another call tonight. I hope I can get someone on such short notice."

  "Who? What are you talking about?"

  "I can't come to any conclusions about this. Not by myself, Em. I need some help, some more opinions. Professional ones."

  "What do you mean?" She was fully awake now, looking squarely at her father. Irritation swelled and she gave vent to it. "You can't take the word of the court? I know: you haven't the nerve to do it without at least the tacit approval of someone. Well, I give you approval. Give you an opinion, too: He's guilty as hell. Gimme my bullets back. I'll do it myself. Right now."

  "It has nothing to do with nerve or approval. Didn't you listen to anything I said back in Richmond?" Eric held up a hand, shaking his head. "I don't want another argument, Em. We're in this together. It's just… Damn. How can I make you understand?" He brushed his fingers through the hair above his ear. "I don't mean to sound corny, or repeat myself, but life, once you take it, you can't undo that, Em. I just have to be sure. The whole thing seems to me to be incomplete, and I don’t know what's missing. So…what if he's innocent?" He held up a hand again, forestalling her comment. "I know you don't even want to entertain the possibility, but you must."

  "I…" Emily started to refute, but the words failed to come. She closed her mouth, waiting for him to continue.

  He didn't right away. Thoughtful for a moment, he evidently took her silence as acquiescence. When he did speak, it was on a different subject. "I guess I'll never know what Joan Devereux wanted to tell me."

  43

  John Hardy felt more trapped than ever. Sitting on a straight back chair in the dining room, he was the center of attention. Late afternoon sunlight poured into the space between him and six pairs of eyes, all seeking to bore into him. And he had nowhere to hide. He dabbed at his nose with a tissue. At least he was no longer coughing so much.

  The table had been off to one side under the windows and six people sat in their own chairs across from him in the small room. Emily sat off in a corner, seeming to sulk and ignore him. Eric stood. He appeared to assume the role of a moderator. Or judge.

  "You can ask him anything," he said to the four men and two women. One of the men, a large man, seemed only a little older than himself, a tall one a bit older, and the third about Eric's age. The fourth man was ancient. The women matched the middle two men. Eric continued in his smoothly authoritative voice. "Don't any of you leave your chairs until I say this is over. Then leave the room and go into the study." Turning to John, he said, "This is my family, excepting the children and my mother."

  The ground rules were thus laid and participants identified. Eric went over and leaned against the room's inner wall. John waited for the verbal assaults. It occurred to him that Eric very much wanted him to know of these people. And that a certain two were missing.

  He thought of the ways to respond, but the only one that made any sense was to be confident with the truth. John didn't feel any confidence, but he vowed to stick with exactly the truth. He wished his story was stronger.

  He remembered seeing some of them at the trial. Bob, Eric's brother, had sat with the prosecution. He was the first to speak.

  "Mr. Hardy, I, ah, my brother tells us that you deny committing the murders. So said your attorney at the trial. Wha
t I want to know is, ah, what you can say to convince us of this."

  So there it is, John thought. Instant retrial. That's what Eric wants. He missed the official one, so he wants to make up for it. Once these people are through with me, he'll probably haul me into the back yard and blow my brains out.

  He swallowed with difficulty, his palate dry and sticky. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to work up saliva.

  Looking Bob Sheafer in the eye, he said, "You have heard what was said on my behalf in court. It's the truth."

  Before he could continue, Ed, the large young male Sheafer, said, "Maybe you ought to tell us again, yourself, without some free lawyer doing it for you. If you can.”

  John tried to hold his gaze on the big man's face, but couldn't against the hate that resided there. He looked back at Bob.

  "I don't know how Steve Sheafer died that night. I was never inside. The woman …um, Kelly…was already bleeding badly when she came out the back door. I…" John paused to collect his thoughts. He didn't want to ramble in front of them. "I had been sleeping in the house next door. You see, I had a job with the contractor who--"

  "We heard all this at the trial, Uncle Eric. Why do you want to go through it all again?" the taller nephew, Frank, said. For some reason, he would not make eye contact with John, except fleetingly.

  Bob held up a hand and answered for Eric. "Don't forget, son. Eric wasn't there. Besides, during the trial, I couldn't concentrate very well and Mr. Hardy was never on the stand. Now we have the chance to hear from him directly. If this is something Eric wants, then we will do it."

  "I still think it's a waste of time," Frank grumbled.

  Ed said, "I agree with you, but it's like Dad says: If this is what Uncle Eric needs from us--"

  "All right! We do it! I get it." Finally looking at John, Frank said, "Okay. You were doing bit work for the carpenter renovating the Turner's house. So what then?"

  John looked down at his shoes. He took a deep breath and concentrated on The Night. "I wasn't really asleep. I wasn't drunk, either. I'd only had a couple of swallows to help me relax and feel warmer. The carpenter didn't pay me all that well, and most of the money went to replace my old clothes and for food. I'd been taking sips from the same wine bottle for over a week and it was only half gone, so I wasn't drunk.