[Lady Justice 39] - Lady Justice and the Raven

by Robert Thornhill

  Kevin grabbed my arm. “Walt! That guy is crazy as a bedbug. Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  As we headed out, I called 911, but by the time we reached the front yard, fire trucks were pulling up in front of the house. A neighbor must have seen the smoke and called.

  As I watched the firemen pour streams of water on the raging fire, I couldn’t help but wonder why we had been led here.

  At first, I thought it was to save poor Bertha, but that certainly wasn’t the case. Then I wondered if it was to close out a decade’s old homicide cold case, but why? After all these years, who would really care?

  In spite of everything, I still couldn’t believe that all that had transpired was just a coincidence. For some unknown reason, we had been led to that hidden manuscript. I had the unsettling feeling that there was still more to come.

  CHAPTER 5

  When the blaze was finally extinguished, firemen found five bodies in the smoldering ruins: Lenore and her incestuous father under the floor in the parlor, Galen and poor Bertha in the basement, and a cat, claws extended, clinging to the body of Galen Unger.

  With the discovery of the bodies, the police were summoned. Homicide detective, Derek Blaylock, just shook his head when he spotted Kevin and me.

  “Frick and Frack. Why am I not surprised? How is it that the two of you are always mixed up in the weird ones?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Kevin replied.

  Blaylock listened in disbelief as I told him the strange sequence of events that led up to the devastating fire.

  “I’ll need to see that manuscript,” he said when I had finished.

  “No problem,” I replied. “I’ll drop it by the precinct.”

  The next day, after dropping off the manuscript, I returned to my office and sank into my chair, deep in thought. I still couldn’t fathom why we had been led to that manuscript in the first place.

  As I thought about the details of Lenore’s story, I suddenly realized that there was one element that hadn’t been explored --- her children. Lenore had passed away when Roderick and Madeline were still quite young. What became of them? Did Galen take the twins under his wing? Too late to ask now.

  So far, everything that had taken place in this bizarre sequence of events had somehow related to one of Edgar Allen Poe’s stories. Playing a hunch, I opened my book and the next story was The Fall of the House of Usher.

  As I read, the hairs stood up on my arms and a chill ran down my spine. Poe’s characters in this story were twins, Roderick and Madeline Usher. Lenore’s twins were Roderick and Madeline Unger. Once again, this couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew then and there that my next step would be to find Lenore’s offspring.

  I booted up the computer and pulled up the county tax records. I found a listing for a Roderick Unger off Holmes Road near the Big Blue River in the far southern part of Jackson County.

  My next decision was whether to take Kevin with me or go alone. I decided to take the first trip by myself, then decide whether I needed backup for subsequent visits.

  It was a grey, dreary day when I turned south on Holmes Road. The weatherman had forecasted drizzle and the sky looked like that would happen soon. The particular part of the city where Unger’s house was located was sparsely populated. Each parcel occupied several acres and the houses were so far apart, one neighbor could scarcely see the next neighbor’s house.

  I found the house number I was looking for on a mailbox and turned up a long gravel drive. When the house came into view, I came to a stop and my mouth dropped open. I remembered reading the description of the Usher house in Poe’s story.

  In the early evening I came within view of the House of Usher. I do not know how it was — but, with my first sight of the building, a sense of heavy sadness filled my spirit. I looked at the scene before me — at the house itself — at the ground around it — at the cold stone walls of the building — at its empty eye-like windows — and at a few dead trees — I looked at this scene, I say, with a complete sadness of soul which was no healthy, earthly feeling. There was a coldness, a sickening of the heart, in which I could discover nothing to lighten the weight I felt. What was it, I asked myself, what was it that was so fearful, so frightening in my view of the House of Usher?

  That was exactly how I felt as I looked at the structure before me.

  I took a deep breath and moved on up the driveway. When I stepped out of the car, the air was heavy, and it felt like something unseen was pressing against my chest.

  I heard a guttural croak. I looked up and spotted a raven perched on the weathervane at the top of the roof. Not the welcome I was hoping for.

  I swung open the rusty gate. At the entrance, there was no doorbell, just a heavy metal knocker in the shape of a claw. I rapped with the claw several times. Minutes later, the door opened a crack and a frail man peered outside.

  “Yes, what is it you want?”

  “Uhhh, my name is Walt Williams. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”

  “Alas, my time on this dreadful orb is nearing an end. I have no intention of spending what little time I have left with a total stranger.”

  “I’m not altogether a stranger,” I replied. “I believe with all my heart that I was directed here by your mother.”

  “My mother?” he gasped.

  “Yes, Lenore. I came upon her manuscript describing her life and her last days. She talked about you and your sister, Madeline. May I come in?”

  He thought for a minute, then opened the door just wide enough for me to enter.

  “Come,” he said, directing me to the parlor. “Please, sit.”

  I looked around the room. The parlor like the other rooms we had passed, was dimly lit. Heavy drapes covered the shuttered windows, blocking out even the tiniest ray of light. I remembered reading that both Roderick and his sister were sensitive to light.

  “You spoke of my mother,” Roderick said, taking a seat across the room.

  “Yes, I came upon a manuscript she had written. It was hidden in the bottom of an old chest we bought at a craft fair.”

  “Then you know about her father and the despicable things she was made to endure at his hand.”

  “I do, and I’m so sorry. What he did was horrible.”

  “Then you also know that Madeline and I are of his seed.”

  I nodded.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “Something transpired recently I thought you should know about. Just yesterday, the house of your uncle, Galen Unger, burned. The police found the remains of your mother and her father along with the bodies of Galen and his wife, Bertha.”

  I left out the part about the cat.

  I saw the far away look in his eyes. “Galen. We hadn’t spoken in years. When the illness overcame my mother, Galen looked after Madeline and me as long as he could. It became quite obvious that our presence in his house was a constant reminder of his father and what he had done to his precious sister. As soon as we were of age, we left, and we haven’t communicated with him since that day.

  “With Galen gone, Madeline and I are nearly all that’s left of the house of Unger, and alas, our days are numbered. In mother’s writing, did she speak of the torment that was heaped upon us by her incestuous father?”

  “Yes, she mentioned that the two of you suffered from some kind of nervous disorder.”

  “Nervous disorder! Hah! If it were only as simple as that. We cannot tolerate the light of day, or the ticking of a clock, or the aroma of fresh-baked bread. We have lived our lives cut off from the outside world, and all we have is what lies within these walls.”

  “I can’t imagine how horrible that’s been for the two of you.”

  “For Madeline even more than me. The sickness has weakened her such that I fear her death is imminent.”

  Hearing that, brought back Poe’s description of Madeline Usher.

  The illness of the lady Madeline had long been beyond the help of her doctors. She seemed to
care about nothing. Slowly her body had grown thin and weak, and often for a short period she would fall into a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far, she had not been forced to stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the power of her destroyer (as her brother told me that night) was too strong for her. I learned that my one sight of her would probably be the last I would have — that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.

  At that very moment, a shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Madeline,” Roderick said, “come in. We have a guest.”

  She stepped into the room just enough for me to see her frail frame and her sunken cheeks.

  I rose from my seat. “Pleased to meet you, Madeline.”

  She nodded, but came no further.

  I noticed that a huge black cat was weaving between her legs. I couldn’t help but wonder why the Unger’s were so fascinated with black cats. At least this one had both eyes.

  “This is Walt Williams,” Roderick said. “He found mother’s manuscript and came to meet us.”

  “That’s nice,” she replied so softly I could barely hear. “You can tell me later. I must lie down.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  “You see my concern,” Roderick said. “Soon, my sister will draw her final breath, and surely me shortly thereafter. Thankfully, I have no fear of pain nor fear of death itself, but of the terror that fills my heart when I contemplate what must come before.”

  Again, I was reminded of Poe’s description of the poor Roderick Usher.

  A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master. “I shall die,” he said. “I shall die! I must die of this fool’s sickness. In this way, this way and no other way, I shall be lost. I fear what will happen in the future, not for what happens, but for the result of what happens. I have, indeed, no fear of pain, but only fear of its result — of terror! I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy: fear!”

  “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  He smiled a weary smile. “Do? What can any man do to forestall the fate that awaits him? The answer, of course, is nothing. What shall be, shall be.”

  I looked around the huge old house and a question popped into my head that I had to ask.

  “Roderick, with your condition and that of your sister, how have you managed to keep up the house and the grounds?”

  “Oh, that. For years we had Henry, Henry Baskerville. He was a handyman, jack-of-all-trades kind of fellow. He took care of the grounds, made minor repairs about the house when needed, and cleaned inside twice a month. I recently let him go.”

  “Why in the world would you do that? It would seem that you need him now more than ever.”

  He looked around. “As I said before, my sister will be going soon, and me shortly thereafter. The dust that accumulates and the weeds that grow in the interim are of no consequence.”

  He rose from his chair. “Thank you for coming. Please don’t think me rude, but like my sister, I must lie down now.”

  “Of course not,” I replied. “I understand completely.”

  I handed him my card. “If there is anything I can do for you, please give me a call.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the card. “You have been very kind. Can you see yourself out?”

  I nodded. “Take care.”

  As I drove away, my heart was heavy thinking about the life of suffering that Roderick and Madeline had endured. The irony of it all was that it was not of their doing, but the result of their grandfather’s lustful ways.

  These thoughts brought to mind a scripture.

  He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations.

  As Walt pulled out of the gravel driveway, he didn’t notice the car tucked away in the trees along the road.

  CHAPTER 6

  As I was driving away from the House of Unger, I was totally bummed out. The events of the past few days were taking a toll on me. First, the gruesome deaths of Galen and Bertha Unger, and now, seeing the horrifying condition of Roderick and Madeline.

  I needed something to take my mind away from the morose and melancholy.

  Then I had a thought. Unless I was mistaken, tonight was amateur night at the local comedy club, and if so, my tenant, Jerry, would certainly be there. Normally, I try to avoid Jerry and his goofy jokes, but with all that had gone on, that might be exactly what I needed to lighten my spirit.

  I gave Maggie a call. She said she was in. By the time I got home, everyone in the building but the Professor had decided to tag along. It goes without saying that Jerry was beside himself.

  Jerry and Willie, my friend and maintenance man who lives in the basement studio, rode with Maggie and me. Dad and Bernice, both in their mid-nineties, drove separately in case one of them got pooped and had to leave early.

  On the way to the club, Jerry announced, “I’m going to tell jokes about death tonight.”

  Great! I thought. I’m trying to get death out of my mind and Jerry’s going to make jokes about it!

  The first act of the evening was the guy who did Rodney Dangerfield. He was a tall, goofy-looking character with the bulging eyes like Dangerfield. I had seen him before and liked his patter of “I don’t get no respect” jokes.

  The next act was a guy doing Steven Wright. I love Steven Wright. He has a droll sense of humor that makes you think, but he’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

  He started off. “I’m writing a book. I have the page numbers done; now I just have to fill in the rest."

  Some of the crowd laughed, others didn’t.

  “I spilled spot remover on my dog and now he’s gone."

  Willie leaned over and whispered. “I don’ get it. What’s funny about dat?”

  “A lot of dogs are named Spot,” I replied. “You know, run Spot, run.”

  He just shook his head. “Dat’s dumb!”

  Evidently Wright wasn’t Willie’s cup of tea.

  “If a man says something in the woods and there are no women there, is he still wrong?”

  Dad laughed, winked, and gave me a high-five. We both got a punch in the shoulder for our trouble.

  He then told one of my favorite Wright lines. “Last night, someone broke into my house, stole everything, and replaced it with an exact duplicate.”

  After several more Wright classics, he said, “I’ll leave you with this question. If your knees bent the other way --- what would a chair look like?”

  About half the people applauded. The rest just looked confused.

  It was finally Jerry’s turn.

  “It is said that there are only two sure things --- death and taxes. The tax bill comes, we pay it and life goes on. But when we get a visit from the grim reaper, that’s pretty much it.

  “All of us have to go sometime, but it’s not something we like to dwell on. I think Woody Allen said it best. ‘I’m not afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ A perfect example of this was the guy who read that most fatal accidents take place within a mile of their homes --- so he moved. Another guy heard the same thing but didn’t move. Sure enough, he had a car crash and lost his left arm and left leg. He’s all right now.”

  Willie leaned over and whispered again. “Dat’s as dumb as dat other guy!”

  Jerry continued. “Death can be very upsetting for those left behind. My girlfriend’s dog died, so I tried to cheer her up by getting her an identical one. It just made her more upset. She actually screamed at me, ‘What am I supposed to do with two dead dogs?’

  “And speaking of pets, I read that 29% of pet owners let their pet sleep on the bed with them, so I gave it a try. My goldfish died.

  “I suppose not everyone is affected by death the same way. Two men were fishing in a river when a hearse came slowly by. One of the fishermen put down his
rod, folded his hands in front of him and bowed his head as it passed. Afterwards, when he had resumed fishing, his friend said, ‘Impressive! I didn’t know you were so respectful.’ His friend shrugged. ‘Well, I was married to her for thirty years.’”

  “Thank you all very much!”

  Jerry took a bow as the audience applauded.

  As he returned to our table, a woman approached. “Well done, Jerry.”

  “Thank you, Marie.” Then he turned to us. “Folks, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Marie Toussaint. Marie, this is Walt and Maggie Williams, John Williams, Bernice Crenshaw and Willie Duncan. We all live in the same building.”

  Marie smiled. “Pleased to meet all of you.”

  “Marie is a psychic,” Jerry announced proudly. “She can tell fortunes, read palms, the whole ball of wax.”

  I thought Jerry was pulling our leg. “Crystal ball too?” I asked.

  Marie smiled again. “Ahh, a skeptic.”

  I realized Jerry was serious. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Not a problem,” she replied. “I get that a lot. Not everyone is open to the occult.”

  “Quite the contrary,” I replied. “With the things I’ve seen in the past few years, I don’t rule anything out.”

  Jerry clapped his hands. “Walt, let Marie give you a reading.”

  “No --- I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” Jerry asked, obviously offended that I was turning down a freebie from his friend.

  Then Dad entered the fray. “Yeah, why not? What could it hurt?”

  I looked at Maggie and she just shrugged. “Your call.”

  I didn’t want to be a poop and offend Jerry, so I reluctantly agreed.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  Marie took the seat next to me. “Just relax and give me your hand.”

  I extended my hand, and the moment it touched hers, I felt a jolt, much like when you are charged with static electricity and touch something metal.