Final Justice

by Patricia Hagan

  "I'm losing patience, Hardy. Now let me hear it."

  "The only thing you're going to hear is me telling you to kiss my ass."

  "Wrong. In about fifteen minutes I'm going to hear you gasping your last breath."

  Hardy was sure Luke was bluffing. All he had to do was wait.

  Luke leaned back against the coffin directly behind him. It was expensive, cherry mahogany. Most of all, it was sturdy, and it was sitting on a steel casket standard, not like the flimsy kind his mother's had been on, which he would never, to his dying day, forget having turned over. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. Five minutes passed.

  Hardy felt his pajamas clinging to his skin as nervous sweat oozed from every pore. "Luke," he yelled, then coughed and gasped. The air was getting thin, real thin. "Luke, cut it out, boy. I can hardly breathe."

  "Then you better start talking."

  "Luke, come on now. You don't want to fry for murder."

  "You know I'm too smart to get caught. They won't know who did it. You'll just be found dead, but even that will take a while. Nobody will think to look in there. You'll start to smell before..."

  Hardy was starting to hyperventilate and warned himself to calm down, but it was too late. "Please let me out of here."

  "As soon as you talk, Hardy. As soon as you admit everything."

  Luke prepared to switch on the Dictaphone, figuring Hardy was ready, and he was, words firing like angry bullets. "All right. All right, so I admit it. I dumped bodies out of coffins and right into the ground and then resold the coffins. But it's no big deal. And it helps keep the overall costs of funerals down for everybody, so nobody really gets hurt. Besides, they don't need a coffin, anyway. Hell, even the Bible says 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' It's a waste. Everybody and everything eventually rots."

  "How many times have you done it?"

  "A couple of dozen. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. What's done is done. And I'll never do it again. I swear."

  "What else have you done that was unethical or illegal?"

  "Flowers..." his chest was hurting as his lungs fought desperately to suck in the last of the air. "Stole flowers from one grave to use for another funeral. Won't do it again either."

  "What about the babies you've cut out of female corpses, Hardy?"

  "Oh, shit. You know about that?"

  "I know everything."

  "Okay. Okay. But what's the harm? Everybody collects things. Stamps. Spoons. So I'm different. So what? My profession is unique. But I promise not to do that again, either. I'll... I'll burn it all."

  "I have everything in a safe place," Luke said. Actually, he didn't, not yet. But he would before the night was over. If Hardy ever started backsliding, or Lucy died, Luke intended to make sure he would always have the goods to send him to prison, no matter where he, himself, happened to be at the time.

  Hardy moaned again, but this time it was barely distinguishable. Luke knew the air was almost depleted. "Everything you have said has been recorded on a Dictaphone."

  Right then, Hardy didn't care. He just wanted to breathe.

  "I also have a typed confession for you to sign when I let you out. And don't get any funny ideas about refusing once you are, because I'll put your sorry ass right back in there. Understand?"

  Hardy understood a lot of things. He understood that he hated Luke Ballard's guts. He understood that he was capable of killing him with his bare hands and never feel a second of remorse. And he also understood that he had no choice but to do everything the bastard told him to.

  "Do you?" Luke prodded, louder, harsher. He was tired of fooling around. The night was wearing on, and thoughts of Emma Jean waiting for him made him all the more anxious to finish with Hardy.

  "Yes, yes, I do. Send me to jail. I don't care. Just let me out of here..."

  Luke chuckled. "Oh, you aren't going to jail. Not in the real sense, anyway."

  He moved to the end of the coffin and began to turn the crank once more.

  This time, with each methodical kah-lank, Hardy's panic diminished a little. He didn't give a damn what he had to sign or what he had to do. He just wanted out of there.

  * * *

  Lucy stood midway on the stairs listening to their confrontation, clutching the collar of her bathrobe around her neck. She was shaking, but not with fear. Oh, no, not fear at all. Fear was now a thing of the past.

  No longer would she have to listen to Hardy's taunts over how ugly she was and how appreciative she should be that he had spared her from being an old maid. Never again would he bully her into doing anything she didn't want to do. Hugging herself with delight, she turned and ran back up the stairs. Life, at last, was going to be very good, for her, anyway.

  * * *

  Luke cut the headlights as soon as he left the pavement. The nearest house, Leonard Letchworth's, was a half-mile away. It was nearly two o'clock, so everybody there would be asleep. He hadn't passed a car driving from town. One of the benefits of being sheriff was that if he were seen at an unusually late hour, folks thought he was still on duty.

  The house was L-shaped, the bend at the back off the kitchen, where he could park his car so it wouldn't be seen should anybody happen to turn around in the drive.

  Emma Jean had been sitting on the steps watching for him. As he started walking across the yard, she struck a match to light a candle she'd stuck in a Pepsi bottle on the porch railing.

  He took the steps in one bound and wrapped an arm around her tiny waist. "Did you give up on me?" He brushed his lips against her forehead and felt her tremble at his touch.

  "No. I didn't even doze off. I've been sitting right out here, wrapped in a blanket, because it's so cold, and..." She giggled nervously, "Listen to me. I'm supposed to play hard to get, and here I am letting you know right off the bat how eager I was to see you."

  "That's fine, 'cause I've been counting hours and minutes, too."

  She opened the screen door and beckoned him to follow. Her eyes were glowing in the candlelight, her long hair flowing down her back. She was wearing a short cotton dress that came just to her knees, and Luke thought she looked like a little doll baby.

  "I've got a surprise." She set the bottle with the candle down on the kitchen table, then crossed to the kitchen sink. Opening the cabinet door beneath, she reached for the bottle of cooking sherry she had hidden. "I thought we could celebrate our first time. I managed to get this through the checkout at the supermarket without Nonnie Bynum saying anything, because it was a real busy day, and she was swishing stuff by like turkeys on parade, and..."

  He took quick strides to sweep her into his arms and crush her against him. "That's nice, honey, but all we need is this..."

  Chapter 16

  Luke had stayed with Emma Jean till nearly dawn. He hadn't dared go home. Instead, he went straight to the office. Ned had been asleep in the magistrate's office, as usual, so Luke had curled up in his chair behind his desk to catch a few winks. Later he claimed he'd fallen asleep around midnight and didn't wake till morning.

  It had been two weeks, and he couldn't stop thinking about her. He knew things shouldn't go any farther regardless of how he felt about her. She wasn't the type for an occasional tumble in bed, and he had enough problems just wanting to complete his vendetta and get on with his life. So as bad as he wanted to, he had not called her as he had promised he would and hadn't gone anywhere near the laundromat. She'd be hurt, even mad, but eventually she would get over it.

  Now, however, it was New Year's eve, and there was no way he could avoid seeing her because he was responding to a fight at the Moose Lodge. There was a big dance there, and he had seen Rudy's truck parked outside when he had passed by earlier, which meant he and Emma Jean were there.

  Luke pulled into the lot with blue light flashing and saw that Matt and Kirby had already arrived to break up the fisticuffs between Cliff Meyers and Jobie Bushnell. Tension was still thick as molasses as supporters of the two men shouted challenges back and
forth, but things calmed down as soon as Luke appeared.

  He instructed Matt and Kirby to lock up Cliff and Jobie for the night so they'd cool down. He was about to drive off when he saw Emma Jean. She was standing outside with some other folks and looking at him with those big eyes of hers like a puppy that had been kicked and didn't understand why.

  Suddenly Ned came over the radio. "Base to twelve. Base to twelve. Come in, sheriff. It's a 10-43."

  That meant a chase... but who was doing the chasing? He and his deputies were here.

  He pressed the mike button. "Say again."

  "Sheriff Mosby just radioed that he and two of his deputies are in pursuit of a car he believes is running 'shine and wants you to know they didn't stop at the county line. They're on the back road to Cheaha, and he needs assistance."

  "He's got it." Luke hit the blue light again and spun gravel leaving the parking lot. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Emma Jean in the rear view mirror, staring after him with that same whipped-puppy look on her face. He was grateful for the chase, grateful to have something else to focus on. Hell, he wouldn't care if Buford County all of a sudden had a mass murderer to worry about. Anything to get his mind off Emma Jean. He also wished he could hurry up and figure out a way to nail Burch and Buddy so he could hit the road.

  Just before he got to the spot where he had caught Junior meeting his bootlegger, Luke heard on the radio that the chase had ended. The runner had lost control of his car and smashed into a tree.

  "He lost it going into the curve. He's dead," Sheriff Mosby told Luke when he arrived on the scene. "Sorry we had to cross into your bailiwick without letting you know we were coming, but there was no time, and I've been after this runner for months."

  "It's okay." Luke walked over to the car. The driver was dead, all right. Probably killed on impact. He radioed Ned. "Call Hardy and tell him to bring the wagon." He lit a cigarette and leaned against his car to wait.

  Ralph Mosby joined him. "I've been meaning to call you, Luke. I'm hearing reports the Klan is stirring around in my county."

  "Are they causing any trouble?"

  "Not yet. But you never know. They've got a place out in the boondocks where they rally ever so often. I try to keep an eye on 'em, and all they've done so far is shout about how the country is going to hell in a hand basket thanks to the negroes and the commies, and then they burn a cross and that's about it. But I don't like it, and I wish I could drive 'em out like you did."

  "It was easy for me, Ralph. The man I beat for sheriff was a Klan member. When he went, so did their support." Luke had also knocked a few heads together, but that was beside the point.

  "Yeah, I know, but I thought you'd be interested to know that we spotted a plate from your county at a rally last week. You might want to run a make on it." He took a slip of paper from his wallet and gave it to Luke.

  Luke very definitely did want to run a make because, if someone from Buford County was going to a Klan rally in Coosa County, it probably meant that either the old bunch was going to start stirring again and wanted to brush up on what the Klan was into lately, or they needed help with a problem they couldn't handle due to the breakup of their own group.

  He called the Highway Patrol headquarters in Montgomery as soon as he got back to the office. It wasn't long before he had the name the car was registered to—Cubby Riddle, a supervisor at the mill. It was also known he was Buddy Hampton's right hand man. The only reason he would've been at the rally was because Buddy sent him. And Luke intended to find out why.

  * * *

  "I saw how you was dancing with Frank. When are you gonna learn I don't put up with that shit? You might've screwed around before, but them days are over."

  Emma Jean stood on the other side of the kitchen table, trying to keep distance between them.

  "I asked you a question, woman."

  Rudy took a step, and she backed away.

  He had started railing at her in the car on the way home from the dance. She had kept quiet, hoping he would let up, but the minute they walked in the door, he started chasing her around the table.

  "Rudy, you got no cause to be mad. I didn't do anything wrong."

  "That's what you call rubbing yourself all over a man? Nothin'?"

  His eyes were wild, and his mouth was twisted with rage, and she wondered how she could ever have been stupid enough to think he was cute and want to marry him. But she'd been so confused back then, and he was a totally different person now. He hardly ever bathed and had a sloppy beer gut that hung over his belt. He didn't brush his teeth either, and she had to fight to keep from gagging when he kissed her. He was crude, too, farting whenever he felt like it. Once he'd done it in bed, and she'd complained, so he had held her head under the sheet and made her smell it, laughing like it was the funniest thing ever.

  "Answer me, bitch."

  Terror began to snake up her spine. When he started calling her names it meant he was getting madder and not about to back off. She knew she had to try and pacify him quickly, or he was going to beat her. She didn't want that, didn't want to be laid up in bed two or three days unable to go to work for the bruises and welts. She had to go to the laundromat, had to be there in case Luke called. Only the good Lord knew how it was killing her that he didn't. She'd told herself maybe it hadn't meant anything to him, that he was exactly what Wanda Potts had said he was—a cockhound, and she was just another notch in his thing. Only he sure as hell hadn't made her feel that way that night, and the look in his eyes when she'd seen him earlier wasn't how a man looked at a woman that didn't mean jack shit to him. He cared. He cared, by God. Only he was scared, and she had to find a way to make him see he had no reason to be, that she wasn't asking a damn thing from him except to give her some pleasure once in a while, and she'd give the same to him, as good as she could. He'd enjoyed it. She knew he had. But now she had something more important to think about.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she attempted reason. "Look, Rudy, you've got to believe me. I didn't do anything. It's Frank." She lowered her voice, embarrassed, "He's the one who pushes his thing at me. You need to fuss at him, not me."

  "You think I didn't?" he yelled. "You think I didn't say something that other time, too? Yes, I did, by damn, and he swore up and down he'd never do nothing like that to another man's wife, especially mine, 'cause he knows I'd kill him or anybody else who tried to mess with you. He says it was you, that you probably had too much to drink. But I know different. I know it didn't have nothing to do with liquor. You were a whore when I met you, and if you get a chance, you'll be one again. It's how you are. It's how all women are if you don't watch 'em. Now you better come here 'cause you're really pissin' me off."

  She saw how he was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Fear was a hot lump in her throat, making it hard to plead around it. "Rudy, you've got to believe me. Frank is lying. And you made me dance with him, remember?"

  She continued to retreat as he continued to advance. "He came to the table and asked me to dance, and I said no, and then you said I shouldn't be so unsociable and to get out there."

  "So? That didn't give you permission to rub all over him."

  "Rudy, I didn't."

  "You callin' me a liar? I saw you with my own two eyes, Emma Jean. Now you stop runnin' from me."

  He lunged, but she was quicker and pulled a chair out to block him. He stumbled and almost fell, hitting his toe, and yelled with the pain. "Now you done it, bitch. I'm gonna teach you who's boss around here."

  He picked up the chair and threw it at her. She ducked and it hit the pie safe, shattering one of the glass doors.

  "See what you made me do? My momma gave us that pie safe."

  He lunged again, and this time Emma Jean was not fast enough. He caught her arm and twisted it painfully. She whimpered, "Rudy, don't hit me. I've gotta go to work, and if you bruise me up, I can't."

  He let go of her arm and grabbed her face with his hands to squeeze in a viselike grip. Taunti
ng that she looked like a fish with her mouth all puckered up, he kissed her, forcing his tongue so far and so deep in her mouth that she gagged when he let her go.

  "Oh, I ain't gonna mess you up, sweetie pie. I want you to go to work. I want you to make that measly buck an hour my cheap-ass cousin pays you till summer gets here and you can start makin' real money pickin' tomatoes. So you ain't gotta worry about me leavin' no bruises as long as you do what I say, which is get your sorry ass in there on that bed right now."

  He had been dragging her to the bedroom as he spoke and finally gave her a push that sent her sprawling backwards across the mattress.

  She watched with panic creeping as he stripped off his clothes to tower over her naked.

  "Now strip, damn you," he roared.

  There was no point in resisting, and she began to quietly sob as she worked the buttons on the front of her dress with shaking fingers. Her only solace was knowing it would not take long. When he was drinking, he came quick, if he was able to at all. It would end, and he would slump against her and fall into a deep sleep.

  She could then roll out from beneath him and slide from the bed to run into the living room and cry and cry and wonder what she was living for. She had dared to hope lately it was for Luke Ballard. Now hope was a dead thing, as dead as her body that refused to offer the slightest sign of life for the man pummeling into her so brutally.

  He had pulled the light cord when they had come into the room, and the bare bulb spotlighted her stricken face.

  "Don't like it, huh?," he grunted, staring down at her. "But you don't mind flirting with other men, trying to turn them on, do you?"

  He raised his hand to hit her, and she threw up her arms to fend him off. "Please, don't..."

  "Please, don't," he mimicked. "I'll do anything I damn well please, and I please to do this..."

  * * *

  January passed beneath a shroud of gray clouds spitting icy rains and blowing chilling winds, and February dawned with not much promise of anything better.