A Darker Justice

by Sallie Bissell

  Mary shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Not really. I kept imagining all sorts of noises.”

  “Would you like some breakfast? Some eggs or toast?”

  “Coffee and toast would be wonderful, if it’s no trouble.”

  “Not at all.” Ruth started another pot of coffee and dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster. Mary sat down at the table, sleepily gazing at the Hartsville Herald crossword puzzle that Jonathan had worked earlier.

  “So what kind of noises did you hear?” Ruth snagged the slices of toast as they popped up, wondering if Mary heard the same late-night sounds she did.

  “Footsteps,” Mary said softly. “On the porch.” She looked as if she wanted to say something more, but instead she rubbed her eyes, as if trying to rid herself of some lingering bad dream.

  Ruth poured her a cup of coffee and put the toast in front of her, along with a jar of apple butter and a small pitcher of cream. Mary slathered the apple butter on the toast, but drank her coffee black. She ate neatly, but fast, as if she were ravenous. When she finished, she looked at Ruth and smiled. “That was delicious.”

  “Want some more?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Ruth removed the empty plate to the sink. Coffee and toast perked most people up, but Mary Crow still huddled at her table like some kind of refugee. “You’re welcome to take a shower if you want,” Ruth said.

  “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ll get you some clean towels.”

  She rummaged in Jonathan’s closet, then put two clean towels and a fresh bar of soap in the bathroom. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Mary looking at one of her computers.

  “What was that guy’s name we were talking about last night?”

  Ruth frowned. “I’m not sure who you mean . . .”

  “The ex-Ranger. The one with the boys’ camp.”

  “Sergeant Wurth. Camp Unakawaya.”

  Mary raised one eyebrow. “You know what ‘unakawaya’ means in Cherokee?”

  “White wolf.”

  “Mmm.” Mary tapped one finger on the monitor, watching the pixel display bounding across the screen. She looked up at Ruth. “Is there any way we could look up this Wurth on the Internet?”

  Ruth shrugged, secretly flattered that the great Mary Crow had taken her suspicions seriously. “I guess we could get online and find his address and phone number.”

  Mary glanced at Jonathan’s crossword puzzle. “Think we could access the newspaper’s files?”

  “Probably,” said Ruth. Mary grinned, as if she’d succeeded in persuading her to join in some bit of mischief. Suddenly Ruth found herself grinning back, pleased to be included as an accomplice. “Why don’t you go take your shower and I’ll see what I can pull up.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” said Ruth, now eager to join the adventure.

  “Thanks. That would be terrific.” Mary brushed past her and walked into the bathroom. As Ruth logged on to the Internet she heard the toilet flush, then the shower came on. She felt strange, having the woman she’d invoked Selu over bathing in her own bathroom, but she put it out of her head and concentrated on the task before her. She’d never aided in a criminal investigation before.

  By the time she accessed all the Robert Wurth articles from the Hartsville Herald, Mary sat beside her, warm and damp, her dark hair slicked back behind her ears. Both women watched as three little coffin-shaped icons appeared on the screen, inscribed with the dates 2–87, 7–93, and 10–95.

  “Try 1987 first,” suggested Mary.

  Ruth clicked her mouse. Seconds later, an image appeared.

  “Sergeant Robert Wurth Returns Home.” Mary read the headline above a photograph of a smiling man standing in front of a tall iron gate. The man wore an Army uniform and even in the old photo had light, piercing eyes that stared from beneath heavy brows.

  “Sergeant Robert Wurth has recently reopened Frieden,” the article went on, “the sanitarium built in 1920 by Baron Ernst von Loessing, as Camp Unakawaya, a summer camp for boys. Sergeant Wurth, retired from the U.S. Army, grew up in the area and is a 1964 graduate of Hartsville High School. ‘I hunted all over the Frieden land when I was a boy, and have always thought of it as home. When the old place came on the market, I jumped at the chance to buy it,’ said Sgt. Wurth.

  “Wurth plans to open Camp Unakawaya this June, adding archery and riflery to the program as soon as possible.”

  Ruth went next to the July ’93 article. The photo showed Sergeant Wurth grinning with those same cold eyes, a rifle in his arms. This time he was flanked by several other young marksmen. “Camp Unakawaya Rifle Team Takes Top Trophies,” read the headline.

  “For the first time, a rifle team from a local camp has swept the field in the statewide Sporting Guns Competition,” said the article. “Coached by camp owner Robert Wurth, the Camp Unakawaya marksmen hail from seven different states. ‘We work hard at Unakawaya to provide a good, safe shooting experience for our youngsters,’ said Wurth. ‘We’ve got some very keen-eyed young men.’ Camp Unakawaya, formerly the Frieden Sanitarium, was converted into a boys’ camp in 1987. The riflery program was added the following year. The camp also offers archery and an outdoor survival program.”

  Mary frowned at Ruth Moon. “It’s beginning to sound like a junior-grade Parris Island, isn’t it? Let’s pull up the last article.”

  Ruth again clicked her mouse. Another picture flashed on the screen. This time Wurth was accepting a check from a cluster of men who looked like a well-fed Chamber of Commerce.

  “Camp Unakawaya Changes Its Mission,” the headline read.

  “Camp Unakawaya, owned by Sgt. Robert Wurth, has just announced the inclusion of permanent year-round foster care to its summer camp for boys,” the newspaper reported.

  Mary sat up straighter in her chair.

  “‘We’ve just received a major grant from the FaithAmerica Foundation to augment our regular camp program with a residential camp for at-risk boys,’ explained Sergeant Wurth. ‘The number of abused and neglected boys here, in these mountains, is growing every day. Frieden Sanitarium’s original mission was one of service to our fellow man. We’re just following that tradition in a slightly different way. With our programs, we hope to turn these delinquents into productive and law-abiding young men.’ ”

  “Look.” Ruth pointed at the screen. “It’s that TV preacher. Gerald LeClaire.”

  Mary squinted at the picture of Wurth shaking hands with a doughy-faced man with a broad grin. “I’ve seen that guy before,” she said thoughtfully. “On television, at my grandmother’s house. Her nurse, Jonelle, loved the FaithAmerica hundred-voice choir.”

  “I read somewhere that he makes six million dollars every year on prayer requests alone.”

  Mary continued to stare at the picture, then she pointed to one of the men standing behind Wurth and LeClaire. “I’ll be damned,” she whispered. “That’s Stump Logan!”

  “Who’s Stump Logan?” asked Ruth.

  “Hartsville’s friendly local sheriff,” Mary said grimly. “That man’s passion for parking tickets may have cost Irene her life.”

  “That’s everything from the newspaper,” said Ruth. “You can stay up here and dig deeper, but I promised Jonathan I’d open the store on time.”

  “That’s okay.” Mary smiled at her as she rose from her chair. “This has been a great help, but I’ve got to get going myself.”

  “You do?” Ruth felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. It was fun having Mary Crow here, chasing bad guys through cyberspace. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mary shook her head. “All I know is that I’ve got to keep searching for Irene. Wherever that trail takes me is where I’ll go.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Mary stood behind the Little Jump Off counter, thumbing through the Pisgah County phone book while Ruth Moon sacked up a box of crackers and four cans of sardines for two men who were going fishing.
Mary shivered as she waited for them to leave; she regarded fishing as a pleasant way to waste a summer afternoon. To sit for hours by icy water with a cold wind stinging your face seemed closely akin to torture.

  She found the number she was looking for. When the fishermen were safely out of the store, she picked up Jonathan’s old rotary phone and dialed it. Moments later, Hugh Kavanagh answered, his brogue sounding gruff as Irish gorse.

  “Hugh? This is Mary Crow.” She knew Safer had probably bugged his line, so she would have about twenty seconds to find out what she needed to know. The Feds could trace any call lasting longer.

  “Mary Crow?” Hugh paused, confused. “They told me you went back to Atlanta.”

  “No. I’m here. Can you tell me what’s going on? What’s the FBI doing?”

  He snorted. “Not a bloody lot. Mostly they sit on their bums in her kitchen drinking coffee and pecking on those damn computers.”

  Figures, Mary thought, the hand on her watch sweeping through the seconds. “Any news of Irene?”

  “I asked this morning when I turned out the horses. The tall one with the beard told me they hadn’t found a thing.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Mary, what’s going to happen? I didn’t know—”

  She hung up at eighteen seconds, cutting him off in midsentence. “Sorry to be rude, Hugh,” she whispered as she put the receiver back in its cradle. “But I couldn’t have told you a thing.”

  “Any news on your friend?” Ruth Moon stood at Mary’s elbow, unabashedly eavesdropping.

  “Not as of this morning, if they told her friend Hugh the truth.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” Ruth offered. “We could get back on the Internet again.”

  Mary walked over to the fireplace and gathered up her coat and purse. “I think I’ll just do some snooping around by myself.”

  “Jonathan should be back in about an hour. Don’t you want to wait for him?”

  “Just tell him thanks—and thank you, for all your hospitality.” Over the morning, she’d almost grown to like Ruth Moon. She’d been helpful, considerate, and more than adept on that computer. If the circumstances were different, they would probably be good friends. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Maybe I’ll drop back by, the next time I come up here.”

  “Good luck.” Ruth shook her hand. “I hope you find your Judge Hannah.”

  Mary smiled. “I do, too.” Mary paused to glance at the front corner of the store, then she opened the door and stepped outside.

  She wiped a thin crust of snow off the windshield of the Toyota before she got inside. The engine started easily, and she had to admit that whatever Bingo didn’t do to his interiors, he at least kept his engines ready to roll. With a rev of the motor, she gave Little Jump Off Store a final glance and pulled out onto the highway beyond. She hadn’t told Ruth Moon, but she knew exactly where she was going. Something was odd about an ex-Ranger starting a camp, winning all sorts of elite shooting trophies, then opening his program to a bunch of foster kids. It could, of course, be a curious coincidence, but her years in the courtroom had taught her to pay close attention to coincidence. If Wurth had some kind of weird agenda, a camp like that would be the perfect setup. Big enough to hide a federal judge, but small enough to fly below the FBI radar.

  Mary heard Jonathan’s voice in her head, chiding her, telling her she was grasping at straws. “Of course I am,” she answered aloud. “But you’d be amazed at what winds up in my hands.”

  * * *

  Camp Unakawaya lay northeast of Hartsville. She skirted the town to avoid any Feds, then drove into the mountains along a bumpy two-lane road that snaked beneath a high canopy of trees that waved gray, skeletal fingers as she passed, whispering sibilant greetings to the icy wind. As she twisted up the highway a Cooper’s hawk swooped in front of her, nothing more than a high-pitched whistle and a blur of speckled feathers.

  Driving higher, she switched on the radio. A distant dance-band station bounced its signal through the mountain static—Doris Day singing “My Secret Love.” Mary shook her head. On overcast days, mountain radio was laughable—stations from all over the country came in erratically, so in the space of a fifteen-minute trip you could hear everything from Ella Fitzgerald to Britney Spears without ever touching your dial. She sped, listening to Doris Day. Though finding Irene never left her mind, part of her felt more alive than she had in a long time. For once she was not stuck indoors, in a courtroom bound by law and precedent, hurling words at surly defendants and their pompous attorneys. For once she was hunting no less earnestly than that hawk, seeking her prey with all her senses sharp as knives.

  “Maybe this is what crows were meant to do,” she whispered aloud. “Maybe I should have taken this path years ago.”

  Suddenly a small brown arrow-shaped sign on the left shoulder of the road read “Camp Unakawaya.”

  She drove on, passing what seemed like miles of a low stone wall, then finally turned onto a gravel drive that twisted between two crumbling stone pillars nearly invisible beneath a huge tangle of thorny vines. A rusted wrought-iron archway connected the two pillars, the word “Frieden” worked gracefully inside, tendrils of the vine curling around the rusted letters.

  “Pretty creepy,” murmured Mary as she passed beneath the archway. She looked at the fieldstone wall that lined the drive, holding back thick woods that coiled behind them. She caught only the barest glimpses of straw-colored fields through the crowd of massive oaks and maples. After the driveway traversed acres of forest, a wide bridge spanned a lake of churning gray water. An old-fashioned wooden diving platform caught her eye; when she turned her gaze back to the driveway, she gasped.

  At first she thought she must have taken a wrong turn. The building in front of her looked nothing like any camp she’d ever seen. Massive, constructed of hewn stone, it stood dark slate and mossy with age, sprawling like some medieval manor house, with turrets and chimneys sprouting at odd angles across the roofline. It looked as if it belonged not only to a different age, but to a different continent, incongruous as a woman coming to a barn dance in satin and pearls.

  The driveway curved into a huge porte cochere that extended from the front of the house, passing below rows of small leaded-glass windows running the length of the structure. As she drove closer, Mary saw that Frieden had not worn its years well. Moss stained the stone foundation, and one long, elaborate network of gutters had pulled away completely from the house. Though a section of the roof looked recently repaired, around the lower eaves several of the slate tiles were missing and a walnut sapling sprouted from one chimney. It occurred to her that Sergeant Wurth may have had the money to buy Frieden, but its maintenance was stretching him thin. That might account for his cozying up to Reverend Gerald LeClaire, she thought. Maybe Wurth houses his foster kids on the cheap and spends his FaithAmerica dough just trying to keep up with this place.

  She pulled under the porte cochere and got out of the car. A number of teenagers were at work around the property. Several strapping young men wearing handsome leather flight jackets were carrying plywood into what looked like an old gym. A thinner, younger boy clad in jeans and a worn cotton jacket bent over a broom, sweeping dead leaves off the porch. Despite the activity, there was an eerie quietness about the place, as if all the former Frieden residents still hovered over their old domain.

  Broad stone steps led to the lodge, and a huge American flag snapped in the cold wind. As she crossed the chipped tile porch, the boy with the broom turned and stared at her, his brows lifting in alarm.

  “Hi,” Mary called, smiling. “Could you tell me where I might find Sergeant Wurth?”

  The boy pushed his glasses back on his nose as he blushed tomato red. “I think he’s at the g-gym,” he replied, nodding over his shoulder.

  “Down that way?”

  Nodding
again, the boy looked increasingly flustered, as if he were afraid.

  “I wanted to ask him about his camp,” Mary explained. “See if he had any room left this summer.”

  The boy leaned his broom against the outside wall of the castle. “G-go on inside. I’ll see if I can f-find him.”

  He opened the door and stepped into the castle. Mary crossed the threshold behind him. When she entered the foyer, she blinked. While the lower half of the room was paneled in a somber chestnut, the upper half was a riot of color, with flags of every state hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Light from the diamond-paned windows illuminated the fields of red and white and blue. Mary picked out Georgia’s old version of The Stars and Bars, North Carolina’s big “NC,” and the mystical crescent moon of South Carolina.

  She frowned. Though the flags looked festive, she found the foyer oddly oppressive, as if she were trapped in the middle of an old Teutonic hunting lodge.

  “C-come on,” the boy said, pointing toward an even larger room to their right. “Wait in here. I’ll g-go get the sergeant.”

  He ran back out the front door, leaving her in a white plaster room with long floor-to-ceiling windows that could be raised high enough to allow passage out to the porch beyond. In the middle of one wall rose a huge fireplace; over that was hung a portrait of a handsome young man in a World War I Army uniform. A ballroom, Mary thought, fighting the urge to run and see how far she could slide along the glossy smoothness of the ancient wooden floor. She shook her head. A grand salon in the middle of Appalachia. The mountains never ceased to amaze her. She moved closer to the fireplace, looking up at the old painting.

  The door opened behind her. She turned. A man of average height stood there, dressed in a khaki army uniform and a brown leather jacket. His dark hair was buzz-cut, and his pale blue eyes bulged, giving him the air of a ferocious bulldog. His face and features were even, but he looked impatient, as if he were enduring some frivolity for which he had no time.

  “Good morning,” he called, his voice brisk. “I see you’re appreciating our artwork.” He nodded at the portrait over the fireplace.