Final Justice

by Patricia Hagan

  It was still a couple of hours before Rudy got off work, so back in the privacy of his office Luke dialed Emma Jean's number and let it ring twice, the signal he was coming by, and hung up.

  He was almost to the highway when Ned radioed with a report of suspected looting at Saulston's store. "Billy says somebody stopped by his house to tell him they saw some kids prowling around over there. He's scared if he catches 'em he'll wind up killing somebody, so he wants you to handle it. He thinks it's the Scroggins boys. He's had some trouble with them in the past."

  "Who hasn't?" Luke fired back irritably. He wanted to see Emma Jean, not deal with smart-mouth punks like Rossie and Ollis Scroggins trying to steal cigarettes and beer.

  He'd had run-ins with them in the past. The whole family was white trash. Old man Reuben Scroggins was a drunk and hell-raiser from way back and had been in and out of prison all his life for one thing or another. His wife, Nina Lou, was currently doing time at the women's penitentiary in Montgomery for stabbing a woman she had caught sleeping with Reuben. Then there were two teenage daughters who had never been married and had half a dozen kids between them and lived on welfare.

  Luke arrived at the store just as it appeared the boys had gathered the nerve to go in and start loading up. Rossie was climbing through the same window Sara had cut herself on. Ollis saw Luke and yelled and tried to run, but Luke felled him with one blow from his flashlight.

  "We ain't doin' nothin'," Rossie yelped as Luke jerked him down out of the window. "Just lookin' around, that's all. Makin' sure there ain't no damage. Tryin' to do a good deed," he added with a smirk, dusting the front of his shirt as Luke let him go.

  "Yeah, that's right," Ollis said from where he was sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from a slight cut over his ear.

  Rossie saw his brother's injury and roared at Luke, "Hey, what'd you do that for, you asshole? You didn't have to hit him." He turned toward Luke in menace, fists clenched.

  Luke did not back away, merely slapped the flashlight rhythmically in his open palm. "You want some, too?"

  Rossie backed off but continued to smirk. "You'd like me to jump you, wouldn't you? Well, when I do, you won't see me comin'. You can bet on that."

  Luke nodded to the patrol car. "Get in."

  Rossie demanded to know where Luke was taking them, angrily protesting that he hadn't actually caught them stealing anything and couldn't disprove their story of merely checking things out.

  Luke said not to worry, he was only giving them a neighborly ride home, and, hearing that, they both tried to get out of the car, but they were locked in.

  "You can't do that," Ollis cried. "If our old man is there, and you tell him you think we was gettin' ready to loot Billy's store, he'll beat the shit out of us."

  "And if he's drunk," Rossie added in rising panic, "He'll do worse. You let us out of here, you bastard."

  Rossie saw how that needled Luke and zeroed in to twist the knife even deeper, "Bastard," he repeated. "That's what you are, for sure. Your momma didn't even know who your daddy was. My momma said so. She said..."

  Luke flung his right arm out to slam the flashlight against the wire cage, and they recoiled like monkeys in a pen. "If you don't want me to stop this car and beat you myself, you'd best keep your mouth shut, boy."

  Ollis jabbed Rossie with his elbow, and Rossie reluctantly leaned back in sullen silence. A few moments later, Luke turned into a yard void of grass and littered with beer cans, whiskey bottles, and old tires. In the middle of all the trash sat a rusting, dilapidated trailer, most of the windows broken out, and a bent television antenna hanging over the side.

  The trailer door opened with a bang, and Reuben Scroggins, bare-chested and wearing stained trousers, appeared. He was holding a beer and swaying from side to side as he wondered what the law was doing in his yard. Then he saw his sons in the back seat and bellowed, "You little shits. What've you done now?"

  He began tugging at his belt as he stumbled down the steps.

  Rossie hissed at Luke, "I'm gonna get you for this, you bastard. I swear I will. You're gonna pay."

  Luke got out of the car and opened the back doors. The boys took off running, but Rossie slipped and fell. Before he could scramble to his feet, Reuben brought his belt zinging down across his back. Then, holding him down with his foot, he angrily demanded of Luke, "Tell me what they done, damn it."

  Luke explained that while he had caught them about to loot Billy Saulston's store, he didn't have enough evidence to arrest them but wanted Reuben to know about it.

  Reuben stomped on Rossie's head and whacked his buttocks with his belt. "I told you I ain't puttin' up with that kind o' shit. I ain't raisin' no thieves..."

  Rossie screamed and railed at Luke, "You son of a bitch..."

  Reuben Scroggins whacked him again. "Shut your mouth. The sheriff's just doin' his job."

  But Rossie kept on yelling. "Maybe I'll just go piss on your whore-momma's grave, sheriff."

  "I'll beat you till you bleed, boy." Reuben hit him again, this time across his face.

  Rossie shrieked and grabbed Reuben's ankle and twisted, knocking him off balance, then scrambled to his feet to escape to the woods with his brother. Luke got back in the car and drove away.

  Rossie and Ollis would eventually get the beating Reuben intended, and Matt and Kirby could finish checking out the storm damage. He had more important things to do, like get to Emma Jean's to spend the precious few hours before time for Rudy to get off work.

  * * *

  Emma Jean was waiting when Luke turned into the yard, and since it was dark and no one could see, she threw herself in his arms the second he got out of the car. She would not let him go, even when he tried to unwrap her arms from around his neck.

  "Just kiss me," she laughed, pressing her mouth against his.

  He obliged till they were breathless, then held her tight against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head. He wanted to feel her warmth, smell her sweetness, and, most of all, experience the wonder of having someone who cared about him so very, very close.

  Emma Jean had never known him to act that way and finally pulled back to ask, "Is something wrong, Luke? You seem so... I don't know... so sad, somehow."

  He admitted he was and told her why, knowing he could trust her not to tell anyone and confident Sara would not mind that he had if she knew how things were between them.

  Emma Jean was horrified. "Oh, that's awful. Just awful. Oh, Lord, Luke, after all these years of them loving each other, and she's got to act like he's no more to her than her uncle. I feel so bad for her."

  "I probably shouldn't have told you, but..."

  "Stop it." She pressed a finger against his lips. "I want you to always tell me when you're troubled, Luke. We're best friends, remember? We tell each other everything. Lord knows, I've cried on your shoulder plenty of times."

  She was wearing shorts and a blouse with the hem knotted under her bosom. Her hair was braided into pigtails with bows, and he thought how sometimes she seemed like just a little girl, all baby powder and ribbons, yet he knew she was a woman who could satisfy him like no other ever had.

  Only it was not desire he felt for her this night. It was closeness and friendship and all the wonderful things that make a relationship between a man and woman mean more than sex. It was what made life tolerable, that special feeling that somebody else gave a damn.

  "I've got us a beer hid under the sink. It's not cold, but..."

  "It doesn't matter. We'll drink it, anyway."

  So they sat on the back steps in the dark and shared a warm beer and listened to the constant churr-churr-churr of the tree frogs, watched fireflies dancing, and slapped at mosquitoes, all the while reveling in the joy and contentment of just being together.

  "Look!" Emma Jean suddenly cried, pointing skyward. "A shooting star. Did you see it?"

  Luke had caught the tail end of it. "Yeah, I sure did. That's one thing I always liked about Alabama—the falling st
ars."

  "We're supposed to wish on it." She closed her eyes briefly, brow furrowed in deep concentration, then opened them and said, "You tell me your wish, and I'll tell you mine."

  "We aren't supposed to," he said, not about to confide his wish that he never had to go home, that this was actually their house, and he had the right to take her inside to bed and make love to her and fall asleep afterwards and wake up in the morning with her head on his shoulder.

  When he did not say anything, she prattled on, as was her way. "I think I know what Sara must be feeling, because I'd be the same if anything happened to you. I mean, what would I do if some crook shot and killed you? I'd have to do my grieving in private or else Rudy would figure out why I was so upset. Then he'd kill me, and you wouldn't be around to help me, and..."

  "I may not always be around, anyway, Emma Jean," he felt the sudden need to make clear.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, frowning as she absently tugged at one of her pigtails.

  "I mean that maybe I'll decide to leave here one day."

  She was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "Well, I guess folks do what they've got to do, but I'd miss you."

  Suddenly uncomfortable, he downed the rest of the beer, feigned a yawn, and got to his feet. "Well, for now, I'd better just leave from here. It's almost time for Rudy to get home."

  She followed him to the car. "You go home and get some rest, you hear? You've had a really rough day. And I'll bet you haven't had time to eat supper, have you? Well, Alma probably saved it for you. So you eat, you hear?"

  His chuckle was bitter. "She always has supper ready at six and throws it out if I'm not there by seven. She says she's got other things to do besides cater to my being so inconsiderate and maybe throwing it out will teach me to get there on time."

  Emma Jean flared, "That's awful. I'd never treat you like that. I'd have a hot meal ready for you no matter what time you got home if you were my husband, Luke."

  He had no doubt she would but was feeling more ill at ease by the second. Things were getting complicated. Real complicated. And thinking about how Sara now faced a lonely, bleak future after losing the warm, hand-holding kind of love that had been her breath of life since she was practically a child filled him with a strange kind of desolation.

  Chapter 24

  Dewey's coffin had been placed in the parlor of the farmhouse where he and Carrie had lived since their marriage forty years ago. Carrie sat nearby with her six grown children in a row of metal folding chairs that Hardy had brought from the funeral home. As a seemingly endless procession of people filed by to offer condolences, no one noticed Luke and Sara, who stood together in the shadowed hallway just outside. Casseroles and cakes covered the dining room table along with sandwiches and potato salad. A large galvanized tub, filled with fried chicken, sat on the floor. Another tub held ice and bottles of sodas.

  Luke spotted Betsy Borden moving along the food line stuffing sandwiches and chicken into her large handbag. Betsy never missed a wake, and it didn't matter whether she knew the deceased or not. She came for the food, but no one ever said anything because there was always plenty to spare. Southerners, Luke knew, believed a balm for grief was having plenty to eat.

  Sara made a face as Burch came in. Luke reminded her he was a deacon, and it was only natural he'd show up at the wake.

  "But look at him," she said bitterly, "how he's shaking Aunt Carrie's hand and oozing sympathy. I wonder what everyone would think if I just marched right in there and told how he ran off and left poor Dewey to die."

  "They'd be too busy wondering how you knew that to care."

  "Well, I can't help it."

  "You'd better try because I've got a plan to fix Burch's ass for all time, only you're going to have to be quite a little actress if we're to pull it off."

  Her eyes flashed with interest. "Tell me."

  "I will later. Meanwhile, just try to be friendly to him. Real friendly."

  "Are you crazy? If I were Bette Davis I couldn't act friendly to that monster."

  "You have to if you want revenge."

  "It won't work. He knows I hate him."

  "Maybe, but remember he never stopped to think you and Dewey loved each other. He figured your motive was money, and it's only natural you'd be looking for a new sugar daddy so you're willing to forgive and forget."

  "That's disgusting."

  "To you, but not Burch. So do as I say, and I promise he'll be so miserable he'll wish it was him instead of Dewey in that coffin."

  She looked doubtful. "Well, I just hope he doesn't come near me tonight. God knows, I'm dying inside."

  He gave her a gentle pat on the back. "Dewey would be proud of how you're holding together. I know I am."

  She leaned into him. "I don't know what I'd do without you. It was bad enough all these years, anyway. Sort of like living between heaven and hell, having to sneak and lie, when all I ever wanted was to belong only to him, have his babies, wake up with my head on his shoulder every day for the rest of our lives. Now I can't even mourn him properly. I have to hide in the shadows like I'm ashamed of what we had, and I'm not. It was beautiful and good and..."

  "You're on the edge, sweetheart," Luke spoke in her ear. "And you're making me have to stand too close to you in case anybody is watching to remind you of that fact, so calm down before you get both of us in trouble."

  "I'm sorry. I really am. You just don't know what it's like."

  "Oh, yes, I do."

  He hadn't meant to say it, but he had, and she turned to look up at him with wonder splashed on her face. "Why, Luke, I really believe you do. I've suspected it, but I wasn't sure."

  "And you still aren't, so forget I said anything." He glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention to them. "Look, I've got some business to take care of. Are you going to be all right without me?"

  "I think so."

  He had turned away but paused when she called softly, "I'm happy for you, Luke. I really am."

  He kept on going, all the while thinking what a big mouth he had, but he could trust Sara. If suspecting he had something serious going with somebody took her mind off her troubles, then maybe it was a good thing.

  * * *

  Cubby Riddle unzipped his trousers, took out his penis, and peed on the ground next to the back door. Janie Sue always bitched about him doing it, claiming it drew flies. He argued that her chickens dumpin' all over the place was what did it, not him taking a piss because he didn't feel like going inside and walking all the way down the hall to the toilet. Hell, he'd been pissing in the yard his whole life and no woman was going to tell him what to do, anyhow. He started up the steps, felt a hand close about his throat and immediately lost consciousness.

  Luke quickly dragged him across the yard through the chicken droppings and behind the barn where he'd earlier managed to park the squad car without anyone hearing. He opened the trunk, tossed Cubby inside, and closed the lid.

  He waited a moment to make sure no lights came on inside the house, then took the car out of gear and pushed it all the way out to the road before jumping in to start the engine and drive away.

  All the preparations had been made early that morning, just before dawn. Now it was nearly midnight, and he had been waiting for two hours for Cubby to come home from playing poker and boozing with his buddies. He had signed off to Ned. Alma thought he was working, and Ned knew better than to tell her he wasn't if she called looking for him. He had decided the logical place for Cubby's confession should be at the Klan's meeting place in Coosa County.

  The Klan burned a cross at every rally, igniting kerosene-soaked rags that had been wrapped around the wooden cross bars. But they never let it burn completely to the ground, probably, Luke figured, because they didn't want to go to the trouble of building a new one for the next gathering.

  That morning he had brought a saw and cut the cross down, leaving a six-inch base, which was where Cubby would awaken to find his penis pressed tightly and hel
d firmly in place by a thin chain. He had positioned Cubby with his legs straddling the base, ankles tightly tied to stakes. His left arm was bound to his side; his right was free.

  Luke sat cross-legged on the ground approximately twenty feet away, holding the end of a rope that ran along the ground to the base. Both rope and base had been soaked in kerosene.

  First, Cubby began to twitch, then he groggily lifted his head to glance about in the darkness, wondering where he was and what was going on. He tried to move, then realized his arm was the only limb not secured at the exact same instant Luke struck a match to the small torch he was holding.

  "Evenin', Cubby," he said lazily.

  Cubby's eyes went wide. "What the shit?" Then, anger rising, "What's goin' on? How come you got me hog-tied, and..." He looked down and saw his shackled member, a nail pounded into each end of the chain to hold it down. "Hey, what have you done? You let me go, damn you..." With his free hand, he tugged at himself, only to shriek in simultaneous pain and rage to realize it was no use. He was held fast.

  "Shut up and listen, Cubby."

  Cubby beat at the air with his fist. "You let me go. I'll have your badge, you asshole. Who the hell do you think you are trussin' me up like this? You hurt my dick, and I'll kill you, I swear..."

  Luke smiled. "Smell anything?"

  Cubby sniffed and unleashed a fresh round of screams. "Oh, God! Kerosene! You done soaked me in kerosene!"

  "Not you, Cubby. Just the base of the cross you creeps use so profanely, as well as the rope tied to your ankles. All I've got to do is light the end I'm holding, and..."

  "Don't. Oh, don't. Please, Sheriff. Don't light it. What'd I ever do to you that you want to kill me? I've never give you no trouble, ain't never done nothin' to you..."

  "That's right," Luke said matter-of-factly, "You've never done anything to me, Cubby, but you did something real bad to a friend of mine the other night."

  "No. Not me. I ain't done nothin'..."