A Ghost of Justice Page 3

  Frank gasped. "Emily!"

  "Shut it, Frank! You know I'm right. Everybody knows I'm right. If the goddamn Congress was here, they'd know I was right," she shouted, stabbing the air with a finger. "What I want to know is: if I'm so damn right, why is it the way it is?"

  Emily felt tears coming. She didn't want to cry here, in front of them all. And she was too angry to control it. "Oh… Hell with it," she blurted and hurriedly left the kitchen.

  Dimly she heard her father's voice, but she couldn't catch the words. Lindley's voice followed. She didn't care what he had to say. It held no importance anymore.

  The tears streamed as she reached the first guest room. She fell on the bed and the sobbing came.

  6

  About mid-afternoon Eric came into the room. Emily heard the door open quietly as she lay on her side, gazing out at the rain without seeing it. She was too drained to turn and see him.

  The mattress shifted as he sat on the bed, a spurt of detergent smell wafting up through the bedclothes. She felt his hand on her arm.

  Softly he said, "We've got to go, now, Em. Phil…ah…We have an appointment with a clerk of the court in an hour."

  "What for?" she murmured.

  "There're some things we need to know."

  "What?"

  "I don't know." His hand lifted from her and the bed shifted again. "If this John Hardy killed Steve and Kelly, I want him to pay for it, Em."

  She turned her head, then rolled over to see her father. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the wall as he spoke.

  "You can come with me, if you want. I'd like that, Em."

  Emily slid her legs off the bed to sit next to him. "You know how I feel, Dad," she said, her own voice sounding to her like a dry papery whisper.

  "Yeah. But you must promise me." He locked eyes with her. "You've got to be very, very careful. I don't want to lose you."

  "Same here," she assured him.

  Eric stood and held out his hand. She took it and they went out of the room.

  7

  Eric accelerated the Jaguar down onto south-bound Bryan Boulevard, its EuroMax turbine emitting a powerful whine. It rocked into a long gouge in the asphalt, bouncing out at the end. "Handles a lot like the Volvo."

  "I'd rather be in your car. This is too big," she said sullenly.

  "That old thing? This is nice. Smooth ride, even on these roads."

  "Yours is friendlier."

  He sighed. "I suppose."

  She thought of her earlier behavior, felt embarrassed. "Dad, could you tell Mr. Lindley I didn't mean anything against him. I know he's only doing his job. He's a good man, trying to help."

  "I already have, Em."

  She smiled weakly. "Thanks."

  "Yeah."

  The rest of the ride to the Courthouse Complex was quiet except for the slapping wipers and the rumbling in and out of rough pavement. Traffic was light for a Saturday. The cold rain must have kept people in. A damaged bridge forced them to exit the Boulevard early. Eric took Fleming to New Garden Road.

  She gazed unfocused out the window until she recognized the grounds of New Garden Friends Meeting. She'd always admired the way they had built such an elegantly simple building and kept so many beautiful trees, both pines and shades.

  They then headed downtown on Friendly Avenue, still arriving in time for the appointment. With only some of the directions on the walls inside the courthouse vandalized, they had little trouble finding the right office.

  Clerk-of-Court, Post-Sentencing, turned out to be assistants of the same, populating a large room of many cubicles. A reception desk sat unmanned at the entrance to the room. At a loss for what to do at the moment, she and Eric sat at the few small waiting rooms. After a moment, one head popped up above the sea of cubicle panels, held there for a second, then dropped back out of sight.

  Father and daughter exchanged puzzled glances.

  Then a hasty swishing could be heard from the same direction. The sound quickly shifted to one of fast walking and in another instant a stout young woman came into the reception area. A photo ID hanging from her neck gave her name as Darlene Jacobs. "May I help you?" she said.

  Eric stood. "Maybe so. I am Eric Sheafer, and this is my daughter, Emily. We had an appointment to see someone here at this time."

  Wordless, the woman seemed to take in Eric's explanation, then leaned over the reception nanoputer. Instantly a translucent field materialized and she looked at it from her side. Emily could see nothing on it, but the clerk seemed to be studying it. A privacy holograph, she realized.

  Then Ms Jacobs touched the pseudo-screen twice and it dissolved.

  "Yes. I see," she said as she straightened. "Come with me, please," she beckoned without warmth.

  Must feel jerked 'cause she's working the weekend, Emily thought. Could at least try to be a little friendly. And how is this kid going to explain an entire law to them, Emily wondered. She couldn't be over twenty-two.

  Taking them to her cubicle, Ms Jacobs sat behind her desk and gave them no time to settle in. She went straight to the point. "Mr. Lindley has informed me that you have been introduced to the basic concept of the Vigilante Act. Some of what I tell you will be a repeat of what he has told you. But we are here to acquaint you with how the law applies directly to you and your case."

  "I understand," Emily heard her father say. She didn't trust herself to speak to the woman in a civil way. Instead she concentrated on listening.

  "Dr Sheafer, Ms Sheafer, the spirit of the law is expressed in its statement. Details are covered in its sections. A guilty verdict under the Act is essentially a death penalty. But, in the past, when the convicted was kept in prison, there was a lengthy and expensive appeals process and then counsel would seek additional costly stays of execution. The Act automatically accelerates the appeals process greatly in the event of a guilty verdict. In your case, this has already transpired. Conviction is absolute except in the light of significant new evidence. From the moment appeals have ended, the state releases pertinent facts, descriptions and images to the media for comprehensive distribution. In other words, it is certain that John Hardy is well known to a significant percentage of the population. All before he could be released. Do you follow me so far?"

  Of course he does, Emily thought acidly. He's not an idiot.

  Eric simply nodded.

  "Another facet of the law is that anyone, anywhere, can lawfully execute Mr. Hardy. But the law does not intend the survivors of victims to just stand by and wait for someone else to carry out what is essentially their duty. The penalty for failure to perform is two-hundred thousand."

  Emily was amazed at how the girl could calmly discuss these things. She could have been explaining parking rules for the way she sounded.

  "The state will provide the following assistance to you, Dr Sheafer." Jacobs pulled opened a drawer and laid a card on the desk top. Picking it up, she said, "This is a waver allowing immediate purchase of a hand gun. It is also a permit for concealed carry, and for using it as the executioner-of-record in a vigilante case. Do you need training for using a gun, Dr Sheafer?"

  A few seconds dragged out. "No," he finally said, sounding reluctant.

  The word and the tone in which it was said grabbed Emily's attention. "What?" she said, speaking for the first time since they arrived. "You don't…When did you--"

  Jacobs offered an explanation. "Apparently your father never told you about his service record."

  Emily kept staring at Eric. He turned to look back, but said nothing. "But mom said you just put in three years and that was it. Said you were at Camp Lejeune," she said. "Logistics service."

  He finally spoke, a huskiness flavoring his voice. "I was in Iraq. 2003."

  Jacobs cut off further discussion for now. "I think we can assume your father knows how to use a firearm, Ms Sheafer."

  She brought her holo screen back up. "The next thing we must do is set up communications. Do you have a personal data base manag
ement device?"

  Emily started to hold up her wrist. She got her first InTouch PDM when she was fourteen. But Eric spoke before she did. "I have a Hiro Perdatum Oh-Nine," he said, showing her the device on his wrist.

  "Very good. That will do fine." Jacobs worked on the keyboard image for a few seconds. "Please place it on the desk and activate it, sir."

  Eric abruptly stretched his arm enough to free his wrist watch. He removed it and pressed the button on its left side. A green mist appeared above it, then formed into a keyboard and screen much like the clerk's.

  "Thank you. I am going to send to your PDM a program for two-way communication." She typed as she talked. "It will then be able to receive any and all reports and information on Mr. Hardy. It will work like any application you already have, with interactive ability so you can manage files and make simple inquiries. Use it often. It has been shown to be highly useful in over 80 percent of the cases where a citizen has successfully searched out a vigilante criminal."

  She drew a breath. "This next piece of information is secret, for reasons that will be apparent. To aid in being certain you have the right person, Mr. Hardy has been tattooed twice with the notation 'JH-16.' This was done under an anesthetic drug and is on the upper back of his left bicep and behind his left knee. He should be completely unaware of it. These are areas almost impossible to see, even with a mirror. He also has a chip embedded in his left axilla that can be detected within a hundred meters by a program your PDM now has. You can set it to alert you. Instructions are in the program.

  "The penalty for removal of either tattoos or the chip is quite severe enough to dissuade anyone from doing so.

  "The last form of assistance the state will provide is pro-rated compensation for reasonable expenses. I'm required to inform you that this is based on a 'minimum cost' schedule and will be about 25 percent. Do you understand everything I have covered?"

  Eric nodded.

  "Good. Now. If you kill someone who is not John Hardy, then you are subject to the charge of involuntary manslaughter. If someone other than yourself does this, they will be charged with voluntary manslaughter."

  "Is my daughter under the designation of executioner-of-record?"

  Ms Jacobs looked hard at Emily for a moment. "No. But she will be covered by a rider. Look for confirmation on your n-com access." Another breath and she went on. "I must also stress that you are required to check in with law enforcement headquarters in any area where you go searching. It may save some unpleasantness with them. And they may be able to help in some ways. Such assistance varies locally. You may get lucky. I understand that recently the police in Wilmington virtually handed a VF over to the EOR. That's 'vigilante fugitive' and 'executioner-of-record.' And the last is how you should identify yourself to the police. That is proscribed by the law."

  Eric shifted his weight in the chair. "Is that everything, Ms Jacobs?"

  "There is one more thing. You are expected to carry out this duty yourself. Do not hire anyone else to execute John Hardy. That is considered a contract killing and the penalty is twice that for failure to perform." She stood and finally performed an act of civility, shaking hands with them both. At the same time she offered justification for the meeting. "It's a good thing you came. Every now and then some skip these interviews. They invariably encounter trouble." Then she actually smiled. "Good luck, doctor. Check in with the Sheriff's office on your way out. They may have something for you."

  8

  Half an hour later they drove from the complex and west on Friendly Avenue.

  Emily sat in the passenger seat, studying her father. She guessed he was already planning the trip to Philadelphia, but she was thinking about something else, of a time before herself and a world away.

  He stopped for a light.

  "Dad?"

  A raised eyebrow was his only response, but it was enough.

  "What happened back then?"

  "When?"

  There was no delicate way to say it. "In the war."

  The light turned green and Eric eased on the accelerator. It wasn't until the next light before he spoke. "Em. Rose and I never talked about it much. And we wouldn't in front of you and Steve. It was my decision, really."

  "Why?"

  "Because…It's not a good thing to remember."

  "But you do."

  "Every day. As often as I remember your mother." The light changed and he drove on. "Emily, I had to kill some people back then, over there."

  "Oh." Emily tried to let it seep in, but the contrast of her professor father with her father the killer wouldn't take hold. She resorted to banality. "But it was a war, Dad."

  "Yes, yes, of course," he retorted heatedly. "It was a war, as if that one word makes sufficient excuse. That's what my father told me: 'It's okay, son. I killed a whole lot of 'em in the Tet.' But, Em, we weren't always killing men in uniform. And not always men. Not always women, either."

  Emily was almost certain she didn't want to hear any more. And her heart was rocking in her chest. She could feel her eyes stretched open wide and how fast she was breathing. But now it was started, he kept talking.

  "Plenty of it was legitimate defensive or offensive firing at real military targets." His voice took on a harsh huskiness. "Not all, though."

  The stream of talking seemed to end there. For a long time he simply drove. Drove past the shopping centers, through the neighborhoods and a school. Out past the Orthodox Church. Silent.

  Then he said, "But I guess there's some reason I should share it with you now. I hope they outweigh the very good ones I had for not doing so."

  Now truly fearful of what he might be about to tell her, Emily still wanted to know. "Okay," she said.

  He slowed and pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned medical office. With a ratcheting sound, he set the brake. Without facing her, he resumed the revelation. Or was it a confession? She would never be sure.

  He came up with an emotional time bomb.

  Voice still husky, but also squeezed tight, he said, "Em… I…had to kill a child."

  A gasp, tiny but obvious, escaped her before she could stop it.

  He looked at her then. She would never forget the anguish and fear in his face. Or the deepest remorse she would ever see. Against her inner voice, she said, "Tell me."

  "No. I can't."

  Too late now, she told herself. Finish what you started. "Go on, Dad." Emily took a shaky breath. "I think you need to."

  He whipped his head around to stare out the windshield. "Yeah. That's what the VA said. Well, I told it to them, but it didn't help much. That's why I take Holistahlt. Started on Zoloft, but it barely helped me keep things in check." A pause, then quickly he added, "Never mind all that. If you want to know the damned story so much, I'll tell you. My section leader, an E4 - I was an E3 - told me to take this poor kid out. Before you start to think my sergeant was a murderous SOB just wanting me to be his triggerman, it was the right thing to do."

  "Why? How, if it still gives you this much anguish?"

  He chanced a glance at her, but diverted back to the front. "The bastards had put a vest on the kid." Eric looked out his side window for a long moment. Once he rubbed his face. Then he spoke. Forcing the words out fast, he said, "It was a sui-bomber's vest. They wanted to blow us up, with the kid delivering the bomb. I already had my weapon trained in his direction. The sarge saw it all right away. He was real quick. Saved us all a hundred times. He just said, 'Sheaf, take the kid out now.'"

  He stopped sudden, the deep frown fixed on his face. A shaky breath, then another. He went to staring out over the steering wheel with unfocused eyes. Finally he finished, blurting out a phrase at a time, little pauses between. "And I did. I aimed… closed my eyes…tapped off three rounds. And the kid…blew up."

  Now he gave in. Emily sidled over, accepted sitting on the hard, uneven projections of the center console and wrapped an arm around him. Her strong, cerebral father suddenly needed her help. The turn was dizzying
to her. Uncomfortable, but right all the same that she should give it to him. So she did, her tears mixing with his because he had been grieving so for all these years after the deed. Placing her free hand on his shoulder, she said, because it was true, "No choice, Dad. Sarge was right."

  Wet sounding, muffled against her sweater, the words blurted out. "Same age as Steve then, maybe younger. Nothing left of him but a spray."

  Just holding him, Emily didn't really know what else to say. They stayed there until it reached a natural end. And when that finally came, Emily took over behind the wheel, turned the other way and drove them to the house on Mayflower.

  Emily had been relieved when her father had regained his composure while she drove. All those years of her parents conspiring to never tell her or her brother had made her suspicious that it had been a bad experience. But never in her life could she have had the imagination to dream of just how horrible it really was. And she now wondered if learning the truth of it would prove ultimately helpful, or not.

  She parked on the street in front of their home.

  Leading them to the driveway, Eric said woodenly, "I thought we might check on the cars first."

  Emily took refuge in more mundane areas of life. Like how she was sorry for the sharp cut-down she had given in response to the attentions of the student staying there, but Anthony just didn't seem to get it that she was in no mood for a relationship right after Lee.

  Looking at the house as they walked up the sloping drive, she noted that there was no sign of the little green Honda three-wheeler. Good. Anthony was out somewhere. They would have the house to themselves and there would be no awkwardness they hadn't brought in with them.

  Everything seemed in order inside the garage. Eric's slightly dented white Volvo E40 sat next to Emily's yellow Mustang SP. Still plugged in, its special generator-paint shiny even in the gloom of the garage, her father's car was fully charged and ready to go. But her old propane-fired steam Mustang took a while to build up pressure.