A Ghost of Justice Page 7

  Emily went down to the little apartment while Eric moved the Volvo behind the Luptman's Ford Faraday. Furnished adequately, it had a sitting room with a kitchenette, a full bath and a bedroom in back.

  "This is great," she reported as her father came in.

  He gave it a quick appraisal and said, "I'll sleep on the sofa."

  "We'll take turns," Emily suggested. "You need to sleep well. Besides, after North Africa, I'm not all that used to a bed yet."

  "Okay. I get the bed tonight."

  "That was a quick change of mind."

  Eric shrugged. "Your idea."

  Half an hour later they had decided to start in the morning with the National Cathedral and the Navy Observatory. Then they would chose from there.

  By ten-thirty Eric was sleeping in the bedroom. Emily's prior lethargy had evaporated and she sat restless. The t-vid played, but she didn't really watch. Didn't even know what was on. She stood and paced once, then flipped the channel a few times before turning it off. Continued orbiter lag, she guessed. Just unable to relax.

  She wondered if Dr. Luptman was still in the mood for chess.

  Upstairs Emily found them in the den, watching a LifeRes 3D-vid.

  Ruth saw her. "Oh, hi, Emily. Can't sleep?"

  She nodded. "I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you."

  "What? This?" Luptman protested, gesturing at the images. "It's just some vid my education curator wants approved for a new summer exhibit." He touched his wrist and the images in the corner swirled into a green cloud and vanished. "Can we get you something?"

  "On, no. I don't need anything. I was…wondering if you were still in mind for a game of chess."

  "You play? Any good? At least as good as your father, I'm sure," he said excitedly.

  "Well," Emily confessed with a shy smile. "I beat him once in a while."

  Walter laughed. "More often than not, I suspect. He's really rather easy to take once you see his strategy. Though, I admit, I've lost to him myself. Your father plays a solid game."

  Emily nodded. "Just like him to. And you, I bet, play a wild one."

  "More like devious," Ruth said.

  "Bite your tongue, woman," Walter protested. "I'm most honorable on the board."

  To Emily, Ruth said, "Just mind your flanks. He likes to make a great show of coming up the middle, but it'll be a feint."

  "Now you've done it, dear. The poor woman won't know where to look for my hammer blows."

  It was half-past-midnight before Emily was too tired to play anymore. They left the game unfinished by the fireplace.

  16

  John Hardy woke up for what seemed the hundredth time under his bush. A freight train rumbled close by along the riverbank.

  That must've been what woke me this time, he thought, looking around. He was relieved to see it was finally night again. The only time he could feel even a little safe was at night. The only time he felt a little comfortable. The most comfortable since…

  He refused to think about it. Over the last few days he had gotten rather good at suppressing the memories. It was nearly automatic now. Yet he still kept in mind that he had to be careful.

  And it was working. His little hideaway looked like the rest of the overgrown bank. The biggest danger was if anyone spotted the trail he was unavoidably making, but it was so narrow he was sure it would be mistaken for an animal's path.

  The crude shelter was even drier than at first. A small ditch and berm he made now kept runoff water from getting in, and only a few drops ever came through the cover.

  Night was different. Concealing though the dark was, it was the most dangerous time, for he had to go out. He had to eat.

  There was no helping it. Time to leave. Time to scrounge. His stomach was already feeling a sick emptiness. I'm not quite used to one meal a day. With energy he didn't really have, and eagerness he didn't feel, Hardy hurried across the cemetery to the hole in the fence, scuttling past the headstones. Glancing up a hill to his left, he knew he should stop by. They had been disappointed like everyone else, but continued to welcome him warmly. She had only died last year, he the year before that.

  Not now. He felt a little sick. He needed food; real food. Not some garbage scrapings. If he got behind the Murata-Hilton at the right time, then maybe he could get some while it was still fresh, before it had been tainted by the rest of the spoilage. Two nights ago he even got a whole baked potato. Cold, but untouched. He'd always been amazed at how much food the rich people ordered, then left barely eaten. Now he was thankful as well.

  He felt it a good strategy not to hit the same restaurant two nights running, but to skip and try another. So far the Murata-H was the best provider. Must be the large number of foreign business hacks.

  And if other human strays were feeding at the same places, they seemed more tolerant if he didn't come every night.

  He skulked along a carefully selected route having the least lighting.

  It was too early yet to walk openly. Too much traffic. Nearing Monument Avenue, he turned down an ally and went the rest of the way along the backs of apartments and shops, many of them abandoned.

  Finally he got to the brick-paved area behind the Murata. He took station against the catering van, a double row of Leland cypress near at hand if he needed to move.

  After a short interval a busboy emptied a table's leavings into the large bin, but Hardy could see they were small, mere scraps. As the teenager went back inside, he saw the kitchen clock glowing "9:14" in blue numerals. The really big eaters were still in there, ordering huge portions of food even they could never finish.

  Looking about, he saw he was the only 'bum' here tonight. Before the court labeled him a fugitive, he called himself an 'honorable drifter,' doing day labor to support himself cheaply. But that was then. Now he couldn't even do that.

  How had things got so impossibly messed up? Irretrievably wrecked? I'll never know, he acquiesced. And if I ever do learn, I'll never understand.

  He only had to duck among the cypress twice before a large amount was dumped into the bin at about ten o'clock. He scurried over and peered inside, holding his breath against the stench.

  Hardy almost exclaimed aloud with pleasure. A whole chicken leg rested among some lettuce.

  Well, he rejoiced in his mind, whatever falls on the floor and becomes unacceptable in there is a banquet for me.

  He fished out the leg, a couple of the best-looking leaves and a half-dinner roll he also spied. Then he shoved it all into his pocket and ran back to the bushes.

  Another hour passed with little luck. Then a large load was dumped into the bin. When he got his chance to check, he found a taster bottle of red wine about half full. Not something he liked, but liquid was liquid. He snatched it up and, deciding he had risked enough out here, he headed away. The alcohol would take care of anything nasty in the small supper.

  In view of the somewhat balanced nature of his meal, he would eat somewhere special tonight. With more boldness than before, he made his way to the museum. Maybe it had fallen out of favor, but he felt the men themselves at least should not be vilified for fighting. They thought it was right at the time and right for them. So be it. Only with the clarity of hindsight does the morality of something become clear and be seen differently. And things were what they were when they were.

  He found his way to the little courtyard and settled on a marble bench. He took a deep breath of the damp, clean air. For the first time in two months he enjoyed himself, if only for a moment.

  John Hardy was careful to put the bone and the bottle back in his pocket. Better to wait and toss it in a public can than to risk any amount of detection. All he needed was for some curator, sexton or manager to find the remains of his meals out by their establishments or responsibilities and they might post upgraded security at night.

  So far, so good, he congratulated himself. He felt he was learning well how to live like a possum: eat and survive by night, sleep by day. It wasn't hard. You just had to find t
he right sleeping place and be very meticulous, not forgetting anything.

  Maybe that's why he ran the other night. Going up to his father would have been a mistake. No one is to recognize me. So no one is to ever get a good look at me.

  Time to leave. Looking up at the veranda of the old house, he wondered why he thought that. After all, time was nothing to him anymore; just a reference. It mainly existed as dark and light, stars and sun.

  What will I do in the summer, when the cold is gone and both people and sun are out late? Walking out of the courtyard, he realized he would just do whatever he could figure out. And would always, always remember the law he now lived with. His own new law: Never be noticed, never be seen.

  Walking up Twelfth Street, he saw a glinting in the gutter up ahead. He quickened his pace to it and found his luck for the night was better than good. Lying next to a parking meter was a ten-dollar coin someone had dropped.

  For a while he continued on his way, holding the metal disc in his hand.

  He stopped for a rest on the steps of the Main Street Baptist Church. For several minutes he turned the piece over, looking at it, thinking what to do with it. Save it; but what good is a stash of money to him? What to spend it on? Of course, it came to him. There was a bank of vending machines not far out of the way back to the cemetery. A soda would do well after the sour taste left by the wine. And would re-hydrate him better.

  Inside thirty minutes an empty can knocked lightly inside his pocket, chinking against the five almost useless dollars he got for change, as Hardy walked up to the hole in the cemetery fence and squeezed through. A few minutes later he found himself staring up the hill. He couldn't see their stone in the dark, of course, but he knew it was there and it gave him comfort.

  I should go up there, he thought, noting that this was his third night there.

  A heavy rumbling came to his ears. Not far off, either, for he then felt it under his feet. Must be the four a.m. freight on the riverside tracks.

  He turned from the hill and went to his den. Maybe he would stop by next time.

  17

  Gradually Emily awoke, feeling and smelling the upholstery against her face, and realized someone was moving about. Turning her head, she opened one eye. Stark light from the kitchenette made her squint, turning the room into a mosaic of shadows and brightness. Her father was clearing a place on the coffee table by the sofa serving as her bed.

  "It's about time you woke up. How did you sleep?" He walked around behind, out of her field of vision.

  "Uh," she grunted. She turned all the way over, feeling thick and uncoordinated. The air was cool. It helped her to wake.

  Finding the window, she saw it was still dark outside. An audio feed was softly playing. "What time is it?"

  "Six."

  "Ohh, crap," she groaned. Maybe she had four hours sleep. "Why so early?"

  "I've been up half-an-hour. Couldn't sleep anymore. What time did you get to bed?"

  She looked around, his voice not coming from behind. He had moved back into the kitchenette. "Never mind that. Is there any tea ready?"

  "Of course. Hot and strong. Irish black. Be right there. High today under thirty. Rain likely."

  Emily finally pushed herself up to sit. "What else is new?" She rubbed at her eyes and ran her hand over her face.

  Eric placed tea, toast and eggs in front of her, then went back for his own. Coming back, he repeated, "Sleep well?"

  "All right, I guess." She yawned and added, "When I finally got to sleep."

  "And that--? Eric nearly dropped his fork at the sound of frantic buzzing very close by. "What the--" He put the fork down and extended his arm so his watch came out from under the sleeve. Putting his thumb on the left side, it stopped the annoying racket and swirled a hologram up.

  In an instant glowing green words materialized in the air before Eric. They said:

  'CONNECTION MADE.

  FILES SAVED:

  Update of probable appearance, VF JH-16 JOHN HARDY

  Latest sighting reports, VF JH-16 JOHN HARDY

  PRESS HERE TO OPEN.'

  Eric reached onto the virtual screen where indicated.

  The words whisked away and a full color 3-D image came up, showing Hardy's face with dark hair unkempt, growing long, and a scruffy short beard covering cheeks and chin. Underneath was a scroll box listing a total of eight cities where persons matching the image had been reported. Included in the list were the number of reports per city, with dates and a probability rating of the accuracy of each sighting.

  Two each were in Washington and Richmond, all of which were given a probability of .90. Two more in Charlottesville rated a .70. All the rest were single sightings with low scores. Before he closed the PDM, Eric selected the D.C. and Richmond sightings. The link gave the general area in the cities of the sightings. The D.C. sites were in the area of the government Mall and the National Cathedral.

  Eric dismissed St. Louis and San Diego as improbable. "I don't think he would go that far."

  "Why?"

  "Well…he knows the east better. He may know where he can hide. Hardy's been bumming this region for five or so years. Hell, he may even have friends who would help him. No, he's not west of the coastal states. I doubt he's even outside the mid-Atlantic region."

  "Why do you think that? Archeologist's intuition?"

  "Some, I guess. Part deductive reasoning. For the past two days I've tried to put myself in his head. Or at least in his situation. I once took a course in criminology at UNC-G before going into the service, and I remember the instructor said that a person on the run, especially for the first time, is likely, eventually, to go to a place they know. Some place that represents safety to them. So I'll bet Hardy isn't even outside of the Virginia area."

  "Virginia's a big place."

  "Unfortunately."

  "But so's Egypt. And you found Alexander's tomb with no more to go on than we have here."

  "Yes, but it was predictable."

  "Apparently only to you."

  "The consortium listened to me."

  "Yeah. After you about shoved your theory and reasons down their collective throats."

  "Well, it was a risky proposition, in many ways. And our school still had minimal recognition in the field."

  "Which it owes all to you."

  "Why so complimentary this morning?"

  Emily shrugged. "It's all true. Besides, you know I admire your work."

  "I guess. You say that's why you went into it."

  "So it is. I could have joined Uncle Bob. He offered, you know. High school graduation, he said he'd pay my way through an MBA if I came to work for him."

  "That's because you're smart. I can just see you now, sitting behind some desk, sending real and sim books and pencils here and there, getting fat and lazy."

  She scooped up some eggs from her plate. "Would've paid me three times what I'm going to make with my PhD. And a mass amount more than the school pays me to work in the labs."

  "Yeah, but don't forget the travel opportunities. And, as I recall, you recently said it's in the blood."

  "Huh," Emily muttered. Her mind turned. For a while she ate in silence, chewing slowly on the food and her thoughts.

  Eric finished his tea.

  Finally she said, "How long are we going to search at the Cathedral and the Observatory?"

  "I don't know." He sighed. "Through the morning. If it leads nowhere then we'll go back to the Mall." He looked down at the empty plates. "Well, I'd better let you get dressed so we can get on with it." He went into the bedroom and shut the door.

  A moment after the door clicked, Emily left the couch and crept up to it. She surprised herself as she put an ear to the door, but she listened anyway. All she heard was the soft sounds of his footsteps on the carpet, then the sharp clicks as he checked the magazine of the pistol.

  The Metro was dirtier than she remembered, and smelled of various stinks, chiefly of urine. But it still ran pretty well. And, with on
e change of trains, they arrived at the observatory in twenty minutes.

  For the next two hours they wandered in the cold drizzle outside the cathedral, then an hour through its interior. When Emily spotted any man the right size, she then looked for the other factors. She sought details like she had never done before. And she found that the details eliminated any possible candidates she saw.

  She heard a sigh from her father as their searching brought them near the Metro station. He turned them in its direction. "Let's go back to the Mall," he said abruptly. "Hardy's not here."

  18

  They reached the Mall after one in the afternoon. The train was held when a protest had turned into a near-riot, spilling onto the tracks. They had to sit in place for over ninety minutes before the police could clear the way. Emily saw them use at least one canister of Dispersant.

  "Hungry?" he asked when they got off the Metro.

  "Not really, but I guess we better get something."

  He nodded. "It's getting colder. We'll need the energy. Come on. There's a good cafeteria under the Art Gallery."

  Soon they were thawing out in the warmth. Eric had a full tray before him and Emily a soup and soy-cheese bread.

  He said, "By the way, how'd the chess game go with Wally?"

  "How did you know we played a game? Never mind." She bent over to stir her soup. "It's not over. He's tough and I have to take my time, size him up. I think I'll have him tonight.”

  "Do you? You were right the first time: he is tough. Let me warn you, no move will be as it…"

  Emily looked up to see why he stopped. Eric was staring across the room somewhere behind her. She whipped around, hoping he'd seen Hardy. But there were no dirty gaunt young men. Just tables of diners in office clothes or tourists.

  She jumped when he shouted, "Callie. Callie Smith!"

  An attractive dark-haired woman, maybe in her late thirties, turned to look. A mention to her table mates and she was up, walking swiftly over. She had a roundish face and an athletic form. The face broke into a broad smile as she came their way.