A Darker Justice

by Sallie Bissell

  Though Dunbar had been tempted to push LeClaire forward in 2000, he held back, sensing, somehow, that the momentum was not yet there. “Our people are all in place, but we need something to really set us off!” Dunbar had railed at him during one of his rare visits to the camp. “Some huge, irrefutable sign from God.”

  Six weeks later, it came. Wurth opened a letter sent to every FaithAmerica patriot from Gerald LeClaire himself. It delineated his hopes and wishes for “his new America” and ended with his false Solomons dream. Though LeClaire had signed the letter, Wurth knew it was Dunbar’s handiwork. This Solomon shit was the huge and irrefutable sign he’d been searching for. Wurth just wondered who the twelve Solomons were.

  The next day he found out. He was called to a secret meeting in St. Louis, where Dunbar told him that federal judges would serve as the false Solomons, and had given him a list of every judge in each of America’s twelve federal districts. His only instructions to Wurth were to make the eliminations look accidental and execute them one per month in no discernible geographic pattern. Beyond that, it was Wurth’s choice. By December 31, the twelve Solomons would need to have all passed away. Then Dunbar could present evidence of the fulfilled prophecy in Miami and the awed believers would sweep Gerald LeClaire into the highest office in the land.

  Now, Wurth thought, everything depends on me. If he didn’t eliminate this last judge in the next week, the twelve false Solomons would become just another entry in the great book of prophecies that had come to naught, and the folks who were now convinced that LeClaire was God’s own chosen might reconsider. He squinted down at a particularly dismal-looking part of Nevada and again thought of David Forrester. Right now he didn’t care if Gerald LeClaire got elected dogcatcher. Right now he just wanted to teach Richard Dunbar that he couldn’t butcher his boys when they made a mistake. Particularly not his boys who’d become Feather Men. They were simply too precious a commodity.

  The kid behind him kicked his seat again, jolting the migraine knife deeper into his temple. He could, he supposed, go back to his camp, pack his gear, and just forget about the twelfth judge. That would leave Dunbar with an unfulfilled prophecy and a fair amount of egg on his face. But that would demean him more than Dunbar. His honor as a soldier was in question here. Never once had he failed to carry out an order. He would do the twelfth judge as planned. Then he would take the black briefcase that held all his numbered bank accounts and quietly slip away. He would be a dead man then, anyway. Feather Men were always expendable when their usefulness was over.

  He plugged in his earphones. Bouncy Christmas music assaulted his eardrums as he gazed out the window again. As the plane’s wing sliced through a wispy cloud bank he saw Dunbar’s picture of headless Judge Klinefelter and felt a warm glow of pride. Even though David had gone overboard in his killing of the judge, he’d done it perfectly. One clean, beautiful blow between the fifth and sixth vertebrae. The woman probably hadn’t felt a thing.

  The brat behind him started another tap dance on the back of his seat, sending tendrils of pain deeper into his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, mentally raising the great hara zukuri. He would grasp the great sword with both hands, steady himself, then choose his spot. When the tip of the blade hung like a raindrop, he would swing. With a silent chuckle he pictured himself rising from the airplane seat, turning, and with a single fluid motion lopping off that whiny brat’s head. His little noggin would hit the floor with a thud, but after that, there would be blessed silence. The kid’s kicking would cease. His incessant mewling for a cherry Coke would stop. His mother probably wouldn’t even look up from her magazine.

  Wurth opened his eyes to find his sweaty seatmate staring at him, her bright red bosom heaving. With a contrite smile, he removed his earphones and looked out the window, refocusing on the matter at hand.

  He would, of course, do the last judge as David should have done the other woman. Quietly, with stealth. To accomplish that within the next week, he would have to work fast.

  He would start as soon as he got back to camp. Then, after he had taken care of this last judge, he would turn his attention to Dunbar.

  “Sir?”

  Someone touched his arm. He looked over. A harried blonde flight attendant was pushing a cart of drinks. “Would you like Coke, Sprite, or mineral water?”

  “Coke,” he replied, wishing she were peddling aspirin or Percodan. That would make his headache go away.

  “Peanuts, pretzels, or trail mix?”

  “Peanuts.”

  The flight attendant poured him a small plastic glassful of Coke, tossed him a minuscule bag of nuts, then moved back toward the brat.

  “It isn’t like the old days, when you used to get real food, is it?” asked his seatmate, tearing open her bag of trail mix with her teeth.

  “No,” he said, suddenly feeling nauseous as the woman poured an array of M&M’s, nuts, and Rice Chex into her sweaty-looking palm. He sipped his Coke as the plane adjusted its course for Dallas–Fort Worth. “But when you think about it, not much is.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Mary yanked open the truck’s door and sat down hard in the front seat. Safer must have eaten a mint, for the cab smelled vaguely of wintergreen. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deeply, thinking how much better even a lousy Life Saver smelled than the western sage aroma with which Ruth Moon had perfumed Little Jump Off.

  “What’d you find out?” Safer asked.

  “Nothing,” Mary lied. “My friend wasn’t there. I had a chat with his girlfriend.”

  “You didn’t tell her where you were going, did you?”

  “I told her I was visiting an old friend,” said Mary, turning her face away as he started the Dodge. “I didn’t tell her who.”

  Whatever else Daniel Safer had learned in his months of searching for Eric Rudolph, he had gotten to know the roads of Pisgah County well. Without asking Mary for directions, he pointed the truck toward Hartsville and navigated the curving mountain roads like a native. As he drove she stared out the window, replaying her conversation with Ruth Moon. That Jonathan would find another woman, she could understand. But why some New Age activist? Jonathan was the most apolitical person Mary knew. What did he see in a Legend Teller whose burning desire was to send Indians to Congress?

  “Do you speak Cherokee?”

  “Hunh?” Safer’s question pierced her gray cloud of doom.

  “I said, do you speak Cherokee?”

  She sighed. It was among the standard set of queries everyone asked when they found out her heritage—did she speak Cherokee, did she know lots of wood lore, had she lived in a teepee.

  “I know enough to chitchat. I couldn’t discuss economic theory or cancer research.”

  Safer snorted. “Could you do that in English?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Depends on who I’m talking with.”

  “Oh.” Safer coughed. “I guess it would.”

  Smiling at his discomfort, she changed the subject, resisting the urge to phrase her next question in Cherokee. “So who do you think might be killing these judges?”

  “Well, decapitation is an unusual MO, which indicates an individual, perhaps one with a Middle Eastern background.”

  “You’re thinking maybe a terrorist?”

  “Possibly. Several Islamic countries have been known to administer justice in this fashion. What I can’t figure out is why they would so carefully assassinate the first ten and then whack off the eleventh one’s head. Like I told your boss, decapitation gets everyone’s attention.”

  “Maybe somebody screwed up. If he’d already injected her with poison, maybe he just got cocky and decided to go for a big finish.”

  “But why the eleventh judge? You’d save your big finish for the last—particularly if you wanted to send some kind of message.”

  Mary clutched the armrest as Safer careened down the twisting road. “Who’s on your short list of suspects?”

  “Given the random order of the murders and th
e physical distance between them, the Bureau likes a conspiracy better than a single individual with a hard-on for federal judges. The State Department’s already got the willies about it being some international Islamic fundamentalist faction.”

  “Okay. What domestic groups make the chart?”

  Safer shrugged. “Take your pick. It could be anybody from pro-lifers to pro-choicers to people who are still pissed about Ruby Ridge. Everybody in America’s got some kind of grudge against the judiciary.”

  She gave a grim smile as a bright red cardinal flitted through green pines. “It’s just a big bad country out there, isn’t it?”

  “That it is, Ms. Crow,” he replied, shifting the truck into fourth gear. “That it is.”

  They drove on, finally twisting down into the little town of Hartsville. When Mary had left thirteen years earlier, everyone had been atwitter about McDonald’s coming to town. Now Hartsvillians could choose between Taco Bell, BoJangle’s Chicken, Arby’s, and the Pizza Hut. As they stopped at the first of the town’s three tinsel-laced traffic signals, the sun broke through the clouds, bathing the street in soft gold light. Like Atlanta, the little town looked both festive and deserted at the same time. Most mountain people spent this day at home, either cooking monumental Christmas dinners or wrapping packages for relatives who would show up on their doorstep, ruddy-faced with egg nog and good cheer. The usual group of curmudgeons, however, were still gathered in front of Comer’s Drugstore, where old Doc Comer provided them with free coffee and enough rocking chairs so they could play their banjos and gossip. Mary smiled as she watched the old men frailing away, playing the tunes their ancestors had brought from Scotland two centuries ago. Hartsville’s fast-food options may have expanded, but Christmas Eve still looked exactly as it had when she was five.

  Her smile faded, however, as Safer drove through the intersection, then nosed the big Dodge into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s office.

  “Why are we stopping here?” she asked, opening her door to a tinny version of “Silent Night” that issued from a speaker above the sheriff’s office door. “Don’t we need to get on to Irene’s?”

  “We do. But we’re checking in with the sheriff first.”

  “But . . .”

  “Let’s just say the Rudolph case taught us a lot about the way things work up here.” Safer’s voice took on a Southern edge. “These good ol’ mountain boys don’t take kindly to Yankee G-men sniffing around their territory.”

  Though Safer’s drawl was laughable, Mary had to admit he’d gotten the accent perfectly. She almost expected to see a brown bullet of tobacco juice come flying from his mouth as she followed him into the sheriff’s office.

  The jail had been built around the turn of the century. High-ceilinged with thick stone walls, it was tiny by Atlanta standards, heated by a woodstove that burned short lengths of hard seasoned oak. Although much of the building looked so old as to be picturesque, an elaborate communications center spread over one corner, a significant arsenal of rifles stood locked in a case along one wall, and the cells themselves looked every bit as substantial as any she’d seen on the tenth floor of the Deckard County Courthouse. As quaint as Hartsville law might look, it obviously still meant business.

  A waist-high railing separated the small waiting area of the jail from the office part, where half a dozen desks stood in two rows. A female dispatcher sat at one of them, staring at a television tuned to the FaithAmerica Christmas extravaganza. The woman turned when Mary and Safer walked in.

  “Merry Christmas,” she called, a sequined holly wreath pin sparkling above her badge. “Can I help you?”

  “Sheriff Logan, please,” said Safer.

  “Is it an emergency?” The woman’s voice rose in concern.

  “It’s official.” Safer flashed his badge to let the woman know he wasn’t kidding. Leaving her television, she got up and hurried over to a door in the corner. “Just a minute,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Mary and Safer waited while a huge FaithAmerica choir sang an upbeat rendition of “Joy to the World.” Moments later the dispatcher reopened the door. Behind the desk in the room beyond sat a man Mary recognized immediately. Except for a slightly pudgier jaw and a good bit less hair, he had not changed since the day she’d first met him, that April afternoon in 1988, when her mother lay dead at her feet. He wore the same khaki uniform with the same gold badge pinned to the left breast pocket. In his other pocket he would have chewing tobacco and a small spiral notebook. Though his trademark white cowboy hat sat on the credenza behind him, she knew that if he stood up she would see tooled leather cowboy boots on his feet and a .357 just beneath his right arm. Stump Logan had always been a curious combination of Roy Rogers and Dirty Harry.

  “Mary Crow?” He called, squinting at her. “Is that you?”

  “Hi, Sheriff Logan.” Stepping ahead of Safer, she pushed through the little gate in the railing and entered Logan’s office. The sheriff grinned broadly, as if she were some local hero come home.

  “Mary Crow! I can’t believe you’re here. We haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.” He stood and pumped her hand heartily, his paw engulfing hers like a catcher’s mitt.

  “No, I guess you haven’t.” Not since I brought Alex and Joan camping, Mary thought, hoping Stump would not choose to stroll down that particular block of memory lane.

  “Are you spending Christmas with Walkingstick?” Logan widened his smile and winked conspiratorially.

  “Why don’t I let him explain.” Mary turned to Safer, who stood behind her. “You want to tell the sheriff why we’re here?”

  Safer shot her a dark look, but again pulled out his ID. “I’m Agent Daniel Safer,” he said as Logan scanned his badge.

  “Have a seat.” Logan motioned to the chairs stationed at the corners of his desk. “Make yourself at home.”

  As Mary sat down, she practiced an old trick Jim Falkner had taught her. She pulled her chair closer to the desk and studied the photographs on Logan’s credenza. She saw a sweet-looking woman she decided was his wife, three blond little boys who looked like grandchildren, and an older, black-and-white photograph of a teenaged Logan dressed in a Hartsville Rebels football uniform. The wall behind the desk was decorated with plaques from the Lions Club, twenty years of citations from the Department of Human Services, and an old photo of four rail-thin young men in jungle fatigues, grinning amiably with a long rock python draped over their shoulders. She knew immediately that Logan was a family man, a veteran, and had carved himself a niche in his community. Once again Jim’s theory had held true—people revealed themselves best by the images they treasured.

  “FBI, huh?” Logan raised his eyebrows at Mary, as he closed the door and sat behind his desk. “You working for the Feds now?”

  “No, I’m just along for the ride.” She looked over at Safer, cuing him into explaining their mission.

  “Sheriff, we have an unusual situation on our hands. We suspect that federal judge Irene Hannah could be the target of an assassination plot. Ms. Crow is assisting me in trying to protect her.”

  “Judge Irene Hannah?” Logan’s slate-gray eyes narrowed. “Here in Pisgah County?”

  “Either here or at her home in Richmond,” replied Safer.

  “Could I ask what kind of plot you suspect?” Logan lowered his voice.

  “We’re not sure. We’re guessing either an individual or a fringe political group acting against the judiciary.”

  Logan whistled through his lower teeth. “I’ll be damned.”

  Safer pressed on. “Have you heard of any outsider groups around here who might have a grudge against federal judges?”

  Logan pulled his long left earlobe and scowled at the calendar on his desk. “Let’s see. Midget Smith still flies the Confederate flag every Sunday. And two years ago somebody burned a cross in front of Rafe Gardner’s tobacco barn, but it was Halloween night and the boys what did it were dressed up like vampi
res.” He frowned a moment longer, then shook his head. “That’s honestly all I can come up with. People aren’t much concerned with federal judges up here. Asheville’s where all the political activists live.”

  “I see.” Safer’s smile was tight. “Well, before we met with Judge Hannah I wanted to check in with you and let you know that we’ll be maintaining a presence in Pisgah County until Judge Hannah returns to Richmond.” He pulled a business card from his wallet. “If you happen to think of anybody who might be hostile toward either Judge Hannah or the federal government, could you give me a call at that number?”

  “Absolutely,” Logan said. “Are you gonna need any backup from me? We aren’t as fancy as you Feds, but I’ve got three deputies who are dead-on with a varmint gun.”

  “I might take you up on that, Sheriff,” said Safer grimly. “I’ll know more after we talk to Judge Hannah.”

  Logan leaned back, squeaking his chair. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, son, but did you happen to work the Eric Rudolph case up here?”

  Safer nodded. “I did.”

  “You know I think you boys made a big mistake by runnin’ after that turkey. You coulda caught him easy if you’d just set a trap and laid low.” Logan winked at Mary. “Don’t you think it’s amazin’ what can wind up in a trap if you just set it in the right place?”

  “I’m amazed by that every day, Sheriff.”

  Safer smiled. “That’s good advice, Sheriff. I’ll keep it in mind.”