A Ghost of Justice Page 2

  the law."

  Bob Sheafer asked, "Why does my brother get the job? I mean, it was his own…" Bob put his hand over his eyes for a second. "Steve was like one of my own to me," he said softly, gesturing to the two men beside him. "And mine are as much a part of Eric's own to him."

  The younger, Ed, laid a hand on his shoulder. Frank, at the far end of the sofa, was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He glanced at his father, then resumed

  studying the carpet at his feet.

  "God, Phil," Bob said. "If David hadn't been with Tricia and little Vicki at the game, Eric would've lost his grandson, too. Thank God Emily was with him and not staying with her brother. Eric would've lost his whole family. Now we're going to have to tell him we've already buried his son and daughter-in-law? And the state says, 'Sorry, but you've got to get their killer yourself,' on top of it all? Christ, that's a hell of a thing."

  "I'm sorry, Bob. There's nothing we can do. The law specifies next-of-kin as the 'executioner-of-record.' Strictly applied, that would mean David. But, since--"

  "Since he's a minor, " Frank interrupted. "That leaves Uncle Eric as the hangman. God, this is a shitty law."

  "Yeah," Phil agreed. "But there's a chance some gang of punks will kill Hardy. Jeez. A lot of redneck and militia types love this law. Turned it into a damned sport. He's likely to be dead before he can leave the vicinity of the jail."

  "And he will be if I get a chance," Ed Sheafer said bitterly.

  "Get in line, Eddie," Frank said.

  Phil studied Frank for a moment. Now the eldest of his generation, he sat staring at nothing, rhythmically pounding his palm with a clenched fist, the muscles in his neck standing out. Phil realized Frank had been in agony since that night, blaming himself for being the last to see them alive, for leaving when he did. Pointless self-blame, but all a part of his grieving. Ed was somewhere in the same mental state, having just returned, on

  that horrible night, from a trip to the western part of the state. Everyone here was blaming themselves for one thing or another in the aftermath of Steve and Kelly's deaths. Forgotten birthdays, a rudeness, argument. Anything, little or not.

  Better make sure they are clear on it, he thought. "The designation 'executioner-of-record' is more than just a legal term. It means that, given the right circumstances, Eric can be acquitted of wrongful death if he honestly believes he kills John Hardy and it turns out to be mistaken identity. That leniency extends to no one else. If any of you, or any other citizen, for that matter, goes after Mr. Hardy, be absolutely certain before you kill him." One by one, he called them by name and looked for their acknowledgment. He had to say Frank's name twice. The new eldest of old Eric's grandchildren lagged but raised up to make eye contact.

  That done, Phil glanced down at the carpet, not intentionally in mimic of Frank, then back up. "Have any of you been able to contact Eric at all? I've had no luck. I have sent a sub-orbit mailer to him, but I'd like to get hold of him in real-time."

  Ed spoke up. "Mom finally got through to Cairo last night. He's still out at his 'dig' site, but she talked to a Consortium member. They're going to get someone in Siwah to drive out and bring him in. They've had a lot of trouble with storms and atmospherics or something messing up communications all through Egypt and the rest of the Mediterranean. And I'm sure Uncle Eric's been more concerned with his work than in the world out here." Ed shook his head slowly. He leaned back, staring into space. "I'm glad I'm not the one who has to tell him," he said in a whisper.

  Phil nodded. "It's all going to be hard on him."

  "He's a Sheafer," Eric Senior said. "He can handle it. Handled Rose's death, you know."

  Phil nodded again. He remembered.

  "Comes from me. I was a company commander at the embassy in Saigon. Got a Purple Heart and DSC, you know. After losing Rose, Eric went on to finish raising those kids…" The old man paused. Then he cried out, "Good God, Phil! Steve was my first-born grandchild." He beat on the armchair with a wrinkled fist. Tears ran into the folds of his cheeks. "There's no sense to this law. No sense at all."

  Phil Lindley walked over and knelt by his old friend and client. "I know. I agree with you. But that's the way it is. What we must do now is help Eric all we can, any way we can." Phil touched him once on the arm and retreated back to the desk. He was a

  sensitive man, and right now he needed to remain strong for this family.

  He watched the four men leave his office after their goodbyes. Thinking of old Eric's bitter anger, he realized that it was just the reaction the designers of the Vigilante Act had intended. If Eric was like his father, John Hardy was already dead.

  4

  Dr Albert Evans-Thomas, chairman of the Archeology School at Cambridge, and consortium co-director, kept office in a warehouse on the northern outskirts of Siwah. At least he did when he couldn't be in the field. He came out to greet them. Solemnly.

  Eric stepped out of the land rover behind Emily. "What's this all about, Albert?"

  "Could we go in to my office? I would think that more appropriate," he said. The director's face was grave. "Inside, please," he said, gentle but insistent, holding his hand out. "Eric. Emily." Then he turned and went in.

  They had no choice but to follow. After the hour-long ride the cool interior should have been inviting. Emily hardly noticed the shelter from the heat.

  Albert gestured for them to sit once they were in his office. They didn't. He took a small flat package, obviously a book or document, and handed it to Eric. One end was jaggedly torn open. A simple label only said, 'Cambridge Egyptian Consortium.' "It, ah, came like this." The British professor began to look about. "I'm sorry. I-I had t-t-to open it to see what it was about. So, I-I-I, ah…" He stumbled to a halt.

  It wasn't normal for him to stutter so. And it seemed he was trying to apologize for something. Either for reading her father's correspondence or…what else?

  Albert found his words. "It came scuffed and all, addressed just to the consortium. I-I-I didn't know it was for you. Not until I read…" His voice faded again.

  She turned and saw her father staring at the page, sunned face strikingly pale. He reached out to a sconce on the wall to steady himself. "Dad?"

  He seemed not to hear.

  "Dad, what is it?"

  He looked up from the top page. She recognized the expression. She had seen it when her mother died. He held out the package, having only looked at the single sheet.

  "Grandma?" she asked, taking the bundle, which was heavy. Glancing in, she saw it was all hard copy. No n-pad. She briefly scanned his eyes, but he wasn't going to tell her; didn't seem capable of speech.

  Afraid of it, but drawn to it, she looked down. It was simple. Just a few lines on a sheet with Phil Lindley's letter head at the top.

  Emily scanned over it, barely reading, looking for the news that had rocked her father. And found it: 'With most regret I must tell you that your son and daughter-in-law were murdered February 17th. They were buried two weeks ago.

  'The responsible party has been tried and convicted. Documents related…'

  She couldn't read any more.

  Just like that. No more brother. She had a brother just a few months ago. The whole family, including him, all went to Carolina Beach. She thought she had a brother

  this morning. A few terse words and he was gone.

  She had a sister, too. Maybe not blood kin, but Kelly had become a real sister to her. But now…

  She sought one of Albert's offered chairs and sat. The parcel had gained a ton of weight. She laid it in her lap, unable to even think about it. It wouldn't sink in. Instead it raced wildly across her mind, not settling anywhere. The letter said it so bluntly: murdered.

  When was it? That suddenly seemed imperative to know. She glanced angrily down at her lap. The letter still lay on the top. Blinking to clear her eyes, she saw the date again. Thirty-two days ago! How could it have taken this long to tell them?

  Vaguely, Emily heard Evans-T
homas mumbling something about a screw-up with the n-phones, radios not working, i-systems messed up and other garbage. Just as quick as it was vital to know, she no longer cared about the time. Steve and Kelly were dead. Murdered. This had to be a trick, a mistake, a dream…nightmare.

  Albert was still talking. "I really felt it a frightful invasion of your privacy, Eric. But I did so want to help in any way I could, you see. The next page said something about reservations with the West Suborbiter out of Morocco, paid in advance. I took the liberty of checking. This Lindley fellow must be a good friend indeed."

  "Family lawyer," a voice croaked. Emily didn't think it sounded like her father but nobody else was there.

  "Yes, well. He made a Time-of-Claim reservation with EuroStratus. New thing, I understand. It's in effect for the first flight after you claim it, see."

  Poor man is nearly babbling, Emily thought. The irony wasn't missed by her. She and her father had lost Steve, and she felt sorry for Evans-Thomas.

  The Englishman continued. "Two reservations, of course. You must go with

  your father, Miss Sheafer."

  As if I'd consider otherwise, she thought.

  Her hands and feet suddenly lost feeling. The chair seemed no longer sufficient to hold her and the parcel. The document slid to the floor. Emily raised a shaking hand to the side of her face. "Oh, God," she managed to say weakly. Remembering the other victim in the tragedy, she moaned and let her head slump against the hand. "David," she managed to utter in a rasping voice.

  Her father sat down next to her, encircling her shoulders with his arm.

  Through a sudden and profound numbness she managed to notice a tremor going through him.

  5

  The cemetery so completely matched her mood under the heavy gray sky. Alone now, still standing next to the graves of her brother and his wife, Emily dabbed at tears with the sleeve of her sweater. Another wind came slicing through her clothes, making her shivering come harder, spasm-like, the air pushing away the odor of freshly turned earth, carrying the scents peculiar to winter: icy cleanness, wet of a coming cold rain, a hint of wood smoke. Finally she turned to walk back to where her father and uncle waited, talking. In a moment she was close enough to hear them.

  "I didn't know they'd be in on Saturdays," Eric said. He took another long look at the double mounds.

  The statement made no sense to her.

  Bob Sheafer stood next to the Jaguar. It occurred to Emily that normally he'd be remarking on Ed's fine new car. Things, however, were never to be normal again.

  "They do things they didn't used to. Plus, with that damned law, they don't any more do many of the things they should." Bob opened the driver's door. "I just don't understand how it ever came up, let alone got passed. Phil said it was the climate in Washington. Disastrous. That's the only word for it. Disastrous last three decades. No one trying to get anything done. Just all out for their own damned party. Now this guy Futrell in the White House. Seems intent on political suicide, but the news keeps saying he's popular. Chopped up Social Security, most of Medicare. Ended Homeland Security and reduced the FBI, Marshalls and the military. The nut has cut back so much to reduce the Debt that justice at the fed level doesn't really exist anymore. It's a mockery." He stood by the car, looked at the pair of mounds. Then he shrugged. "Goddamn mess, it is," he added, sliding behind the wheel.

  By now she figured out they had been referring to the clerk-of-court's office as being 'open on Saturday.' She reached out and opened the back door. Her father slid in next to his brother and she behind him.

  Bob resumed talking as he drove, ignoring the wobbling and bouncing caused by the potholed and buckled pavement. "Andrea is going to put that student - the one who's staying at your place - in a motel or something. But, until then, we thought you might want to stay with us. That okay with you?"

  "Yeah," Eric said.

  "Phil is supposed to be at the house. Maybe he'll have some news." Bob switched the heater on high. "Did you read the Court Summary? Phil told us he sent that, too."

  "On the sub-orbiter."

  Emily recalled the phrases in the document, how it spared nothing: Frank, the last to leave them both alive that night; the autopsy findings. In the latter she learned her wedding gift to Steve and Kelly had been the murder weapon. It seemed so wrong, so unreal, reading those plain words describing the wounds and saying how they were done with that graceful pewter vase.

  God, Emily thought, it's so unfair. Backlit by gray sky, the pines and bare trees drifted swiftly by, the car bobbing as if it were a boat on a large lake. I feel as though I were a part of the murder myself.

  She saw they had crossed Higgins Lake, whipping by the yellow hazard tape.

  Bob remarked that they had finally started replacing the guardrail. Her father said something about getting the road repaved and Bob made a single, disgusted noise. "Maybe in another two years. Maybe never," he said.

  Barely noticing what he said, she found the feelings of guilt were mixing with those of loss. By the time they turned off Lewiston Road she was crying softly again, not stopping until they were driving down Andrea and Bob's road.

  Bob swung into the driveway as a light rain began. "I don't see Phil's car," he said. They got out under the carport. "They predict this weather to last all week." He opened the trunk as Eric and Emily entered the house without comment.

  She wiped at the dampness on her face and looked around the large kitchen. Contrasting to the chill gray outside, this place modeled warmth. She felt none of it, retaining the cold, felt she would forever. Emily sat at the breakfast table, wanting to be alone and talk to no one. Her head felt heavy and ached behind the eyes, so she rested it in her hands.

  She didn't get to be alone. Andrea swept in to sit next to her. She put a hand lightly on Emily's arm, but at least she didn't speak.

  Eric took station by the stove. Ed and Frank appeared from somewhere and the three were talking. Bob brushed by and disappeared into the house with their luggage. Andrea got up, finally, and poured tea for everyone.

  Emily was beginning to sip hers when a car eased up to the house.

  Bob strode back through the kitchen to the side door. Peering out, he said, "That's him. He looks…pissed."

  He opened the door and stepped out. The scent of rain wafted in, but not any words the two men might have said. Bob was swearing under his breath when he and Mr. Lindley came in. The lawyer bore a grim expression.

  He pulled off his overcoat and shook hands with Eric. With a fleeting smile Lindley said, "Good to see you again, Eric. And you, Emily. Sorry for why, though."

  Eric nodded. Emily couldn't manage any sort of response.

  Phil Lindley then stood next to the kitchen bar so that everyone could see him. He looked down at the floor and said, "I regret with all my heart that I must tell you they released John Hardy last night under the provisions of the NC Jail Capacity Rule of '31."

  Emily parted her lips, but no sound came out. She couldn't even think of anything to say. She looked around the room. Eric was leaning forward a bit, eyes wide. Everyone registered some form of surprise.

  She met eyes with Ed, who could only mouth silently, "How?"

  As though he heard the unspoken question, Lindley went on. "The Act was passed because North Carolina requires a balanced budget and vast amounts of federal funds were no longer coming in. Rather than a costly expansion of facilities, the state opted to put a new absolute cap on jail occupancy. That figure is 130 percent. If a jail is more than that for three days running, then the jail director, the sheriff in Guilford County, is legally bound to release prisoners until below 120 percent. They must select who is let loose by a prescribed list. Vigilante Justice prisoners are at the top, just above traffic and ordinance violators. He had to let Hardy go. They were supposed to let me know beforehand, but some clerical thing got screwed up. I found out only an hour ago."

  Emily's father tried to speak, but he could only mutter, "How…what are we…to
…?"

  "To do?" Lindley finished for him.

  Emily found a sudden anger. She gave it voice. "Right. What are we supposed to do? They try this bastard, convict him, and then they just open the door and let him walk out. Is that justice? They call it 'Vigilante Justice.' Just what the hell does that mean?"

  Lindley turned his head slowly to face her, his face no longer bland, but deeply sad, with a trace of anger.

  She knew he was a decent, good man and, like most lawyers, completely contrary to the old jokes about lawyers. It made her feel a micron better to see that anger.

  Then he said, "You're right, Emily. Exactly right. I agree with you completely. But I can't change it one bit. It truly will take another act of Congress to do so. But, for now, that is not even a possibility. The issue now…" Lindley seemed to choke on his words. "The reality is that Hardy is free. Not really free. Anyone can kill him in the name of the law. It's just that the government isn't going to do it, nor will they lock him up. It's up to your father to see that the sentence is carried out."

  "God!" Emily said in a loud moan. Her shoulders slumped and she let her head rest on the chair's high back. Staring up at Andrea's crystal ceiling light, she said, "What you mean is that he's got to go find him and kill him."

  "Yes. That's what I mean," he said with a sigh. "You read the Court Summary. It explains the law."

  Emily sat upright, glaring at Lindley. "Well tell me again. Tell me about the goddamn law every time I want. You're Granddad's on-demand lawyer. It's what you're paid so crushin' much for, isn't it? Isn't it?" She paused for breath. Everyone in the room was silent, staring at her. She glanced swiftly about, taking it all in. Only her father wasn't looking at her. He just stared out in space, oblivious. At that instant she loved, hated and pitied him, all at once. Angrily she turned back onto Lindley. "At least we once could count on murderers spending some time in prison before they'd get paroled. Now they don't even need parole. They don't get prison. They just go fucking loose to murder again!"