A Ghost of Justice (5 page)

11

A
half-hour later they were on 29-North, passing out of the city limits.  Traffic was heavy for a Sunday, but cleared out after the last Reidsville exit.

Eric switched on the radio, immediately getting a talk show.  "See what else is on," he said.

Emily ran it through all the bands with neither of them liking the choices.  She switched to the internal selections and picked a Mozart concerto.

The music brought to mind how hard Steve had tried to share in her and their parents’ love of classical, but he never could do more than 'kinda like it.'  He really loved rock and rap and pop and slip, and continued to as an adult.  And it paid a benefit, helping to make him a bit more popular with students, because he
really
knew all the groups, or so it seemed to her.  Lazer Wrath, HEAT II, Beyond It All, Lumpy Gravvy, Lower Earth.  She even liked some of the last group's work.  Beyond that, she knew none of it.

She felt better with the long dead composers.  It seemed only fitting.  She studied  people who were way long dead .

It was a waste of his best talents to have left the classroom for administration.

God, he was a good teacher, she thought.  If only Steve could understand what that little bastard took from them, then he'd understand why she would pull the trigger on the worm with pleasure.

The long day disappeared into a blurred mix of old memories intruded upon by endless hours of wet gray highway, music played, switching drivers, a forgettable meal somewhere, rain upon rain sprayed up by other vehicles.  And that was if the pavement was good.  Twice they had to leave the main highway to detour around repair work.  And if there was no rain then it was mist, and still the spray from tires.

Traffic around Washington was thick and slow on the beltway, in spite of the excellent surface.  To the inside of the belt she saw a large mass of people milling around in project housing.  They were surrounded by what looked to be several hundred police.

It was nearly midnight when they got back on 29.

The next thing Emily knew, she was waking with a start.  Alarmed, she realized she was in a fast moving car.   She blinked hard and shook her head to clear the disorientation,  calming when she saw her father, alert at the wheel, breath visible in the glow of taillights.

"How long have I been sleeping?"  Her own breath issued out a cloud.

"About an hour."

She concentrated for a few seconds, trying to think coherently.  She remembered that Eric had been at it since before the Capital.  Traffic was still atrocious, the road more rough than smooth.

"You've been driving for hours.  Are you okay?  Do you want to change?"

"No," he said.  "I'm fine; not sleepy."

"How much longer?"

"We just got past Baltimore.  About another hour.  The traffic should thin out soon."

Emily gazed out at the red-amber taillights, blurry-clear-blurry-clear as the wipers went back and forth.  She adjusted the seat up some, but not all the way, leaving it at a comfortable recline.  Despite the long nap she was still tired.  Not sleepy anymore, but weary.  Letting the seat back support her, she turned slightly toward Eric.  A shiver ran through her and she pulled the cotton hoodie tighter.  It was considerably colder than back home.  Unreasonably cold.

Eric noticed her chill and turned the meager heat up.

"Thanks.  I'm glad you told me to pack for this.  I didn't really think about it."
"We've had our minds on…things. Other things."

Emily leaned against the door, looking at Eric.  Through the haze of her fatigue, she was surprised to find herself thinking clearly now.  Something was nagging at her, but the harder she tried to figure it out, the faster it fled ahead of her consciousness.  Still, she was vexed by the unshakeable and unsettling notion that it concerned her father.

Giving up, Emily decided her problem was one of continued orbiter lag.  Had they really been digging under a hot Egyptian sun only a couple of days ago?  That thought wouldn't leave her alone, either.  Her brain kept repeating:
blissfully working with Dad and on my doctorate while my brother was beaten to death
.

That moment of ignorance galled her.  Bad as it was, at least she had been present and aware when her mother died.

She shook her head.  It just made no sense.  Not this.  Not Steve.  Why did John Hardy have to kill them?  Over some money and old jewelry?  And the bastard lost it all, too; even Great-granna's edelweiss pendant.  Or, at any rate, he never would say where it was.  He probably went back where he stashed it and got it before leaving.  Bought a ticket out of town with the cash, no doubt. 
God, he needed to be dead
.

The elusive thought suddenly took shape and gave itself up.  Eric wanted him dead, too.  He could kill, if he needed to, anyone.  She knew that about him now.  She thought of the pistol inside his jacket.  It still clashed with her image of him.  "Dad?"

"Hmm?"

Looking at him, she tried to visualize her professorial father aiming the gun at another man.  "Will you kill him?  Soon as we get him?"

Eric took a deep breath.  She heard the long sigh escape from his lips, saw the enormous cloud of vapor, and wondered if he was going to answer or ignore her.  He finally said, "I don't really know, Em."

Emily turned back.  That was what had nagged her, all right.  Looking out at the dwindling number of taillights, she said, "I think I must be more like Mother."

"Why is that?"

"She was always so quick to get mad.  She seemed to enjoy it.  I could kill him right now."  That thought led to the obvious next one.  More heatedly, she said, "I'll be ready to gun him down any second.  That's the way Mom would be.  She wouldn't think about anything else until Hardy was dead."  That said, she added, a little calmer, "Or locked up forever like they used to do."

Eric said nothing for several minutes.  Emily thought maybe he wouldn't talk about it anymore.  She was almost right.

"Are you disappointed in me, Em?"

The question caught her by surprise.  She hadn't meant to belittle him.  Quite the contrary.  She was trying to find a precedence or rationale for her own feelings.

After a brief, stunned silence of her own, she hastily said, "No.  Not at all.  I… well… Steve wouldn't do it at all…if he were the one doing this.  It wouldn't be right to him.  I just…"  She sought for the words.  They wouldn't come easily, and they didn't seem adequate.  "Dad.  I've only been trying to figure out why I feel this way."

Eric parted his lips to speak.  She expected something more, but he only said, "You just feel the way you do.  That's all."

The silence then dragged out uncomfortably.  Eric seemed to need to fill the void.  He switched on the radio and found the North Maryland University station.  It was in the middle of the Peer Gynt Suite.

The strains of
Asa's Death
were too depressing and struck too close a chord.

Emily changed it until she had some jazz out of Jersey State.  The jazz wasn't right, either.  She turned it off.

Eric started to protest but she cut him off.  "I'm sorry, Dad.  I didn't mean to start an argument."
"There was no argument."

"Don't be evasive.  There was.  And I caused it."

"No, you didn't.  Don't worry about it.  No argument."

"Yes there was," Emily said sharply.  She caught herself before continuing, reminding herself that you didn't shout when you were apologizing.  Quietly she added, "And I didn't mean to imply that I was better, or anything, you know, for knowing what I'd do."

"That's okay, Em.  I never thought--"

"No," she interrupted.  "Hear me out.  It seemed like I was comparing us, saying it in a way that hurt you.  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that was what I was doing, Dad.  But I do now.  And it's not what I meant."

Eric held up his hand.  "I know, Em.  You said you were only trying to understand yourself.  I never once thought you were putting me down.  No apology."

"Then why were you so quiet about it?"

He chewed his lower lip as he thought of what to say.  "I was worried."

"Worried?"  Again her father said the unexpected.

"You've got it wrong, Em."  He gave her a long glance, then back to the road.

"What?"

"You're not like Rose.  Steve was like Rose.  She was quick to anger, true.  But there wasn't a violent bone in her.  You're far more like me."

Emily blinked and her mouth opened.  Once she'd slapped a man in a public park, hard, for beating his dog.  Just an instant reaction on her part.  At the time Eric told her she was lucky the man didn't take out charges against her.  And now, though she'd never known him to do more than raise his voice, he was saying she was just like him.

"Don't be surprised," he told her.  Then, "I thought you knew."

"What?  Because I went into archeology, too?"

"No.  No.  Not that.  The other thing.  Because…"  His voice trailed off.  "Maybe it wasn't so obvious to you.  Rose and I would talk about it so much I guess I took it for granted that you saw it, too."  Briefly he glanced at her again.  "You're almost exactly like I was at your age."

"And that makes you worried?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because…well…your mother would frequently worry that I'd do something rash or careless."

"Like what?  You're the most careful supervisor I've ever seen at any dig."

"Yeah.  Well.  Now.  That's not the way I've lived my entire life.  I did pretty stupid things in Bagdad."

He paused.  She waited for him to go on.

"Sometimes, when I wasn't on duty, I'd change into civs and go out into the city, even though it was off limits to do so, on our own, while I was there.  Against orders.  Every now and then with some other crazed out guys, but usually alone.  Not really looking for trouble, but not caring if we found it.  Sometimes we, or I,
would
look for it.  Like I said: stupid."

They drove a while without speaking, her thinking about what had been said.  It was something totally new to her about him and she didn't know what to make of it.

A sign flashed by, announcing five more miles to Philadelphia.

It acted like a trigger to make Eric speak again.  First he said, "Two o'clock."  Just a noncommittal observation.  But then his voice came out dry and strained.  "Em?"

"Yes?" she answered quickly.

"Promise me you won't do anything rash?  You won't do anything careless, or stupid?"

She saw him staring rigidly down the highway.  Then he turned to face her.  She met his eyes and nodded.  "I won't," she confirmed.

Eyes back on the highway, he extracted another promise from her.  "And please don't do
anything
without letting me know?  I can't coddle and protect you from bad things like when you were little.  I know that.  But I don't think I could take it if anything happened to you, too."

Emily thought it over for all of a second.  "I won't, Dad, as long as you promise me the same.  We don't do a thing without the knowledge and consent of the other."

"Deal."

"Deal," she echoed.

When they entered the city limits, Eric asked, "Shall we go on to the police station?"

Emily listened to her travel-weary bones.  "Please, no.  Let's go to the motel and get some sleep."

Eric sighed, long and tired.  "I suppose you're right.  I'm probably too tired to handle that right now myself."

He aimed the car for their hotel.

12

The
grass and  trees glistened wetly, but the rain had finally stopped.  John Hardy shivered, not only from the cold (though it was bitterly cold) but also from the memories of that other night.

This night's character was almost the same.  All he needed was to add her blood to his shirt.  One set of images invariably led to the other.  Hardy shook his head, trying to erase the pictures of the trial from his mind's eye, but it also played through to the end.

Again he cursed himself, wondering why he was here.  Some damned neighborhood sentinel would probably see him wandering through, a man out of place, must be dangerous.  Bums don't come into neighborhoods.  They would call the cops.  Damned stupid, coming here.

But he continued anyway, not knowing why, not able to stop.

Like some night animal, he stayed away from the lights.  And when he couldn't avoid them, he tried to walk natural, as if he belonged.  Most of the time he scurried along, bending low against being seen and holding his jacket close against the wet cold.

It was about two-thirty when he got to Jackson Square.  Traffic was non-existent this late (or should it be called early?) so  he went onto the wide, tree-covered median and continued down its center among the shadows.  Soon he was there.

For long minutes he stood, leaning against a tree, looking across the lane at the ground-level condo.  He search for signs of activity through the windows of the only lit room.  Were they even still living there?  The curtains were closed.  A dim vague shape of something was there.  But he thought he would recognize the silhouette, if it was one of them.

So what if they are still here, he asked himself.  Would they help him?  Could they help him?  Even if they did, it would be in violation of that damned law.  Would they, anyway?  Or, rather, would
he
help?

Fruitlessly he strained to see beyond the curtain.  The light was steady, so the t-vid wasn't on.  Probably the light was left on and the people were already in bed.

Concentrating, he tried to remember what Dad's sleeping habits were, wondering if they had changed: up late, up early.  It wouldn't matter about the woman.  She'd never consider seeing him.  God, how she had screamed at him that last time.

He'd always felt closer to his father.  Maybe it was contrary to what experts said, but John Hardy had never felt any real warmth from the woman that was his mother.

He kept staring at the window, willing for some movement to appear, for a figure to show so he could know if they were home.  Still no detail from the shape.  With mounting frustration, he left the doubtful security of the median and cautiously crossed the out-bound side of the street.

From the sidewalk he was only ten yards from the window.  The shape was now clearly the back of a chair, and above it rose what seemed to be a person's head.  But the image was too dim to be sure.

Then, to Hardy's astonishment, the 'head' grew into a familiar lithe form with various projections.  It arched in the classic pose of a stretching cat.  He could have laughed at how he had been fooled, but he truly wished it had been his father's head.

As John Hardy watched, a person's shadow bobbed onto the curtain, first large, blurred and indistinct, then condensed down into a sharpened form.  That of a man.

His father?

The man picked up the cat, cradled it, then moved away from the window.  A porch light blazed into existence.

Instantly Hardy ran to some bushes, away from the intruding and revealing brightness.  Just as he slid behind the bush, he heard a door open.  Peering through the branches, he saw his father set the cat down.

His voice drifted to Hardy's ears, but he spoke too low to catch the words.  The cat rubbed against the man's legs.  The voice was unmistakably his father's.

A little twig flipped off the one Hardy was holding, barely making any noise, but the cat was vigilant.  It looked right at him, back hairs rising.

"What is it, Pete?" he heard his father say.  The man glanced in his general direction, then turned back to the family cat.  "What is it, boy?"  James Hardy looked up the street, beyond the bushes, unable to see much because his eyes were dazzled by the bare bulb.  "Must be those damned loose dogs, again.  Well, you don't need to go out, boy."  Reaching down to collect Pete, he said, "Come on.  Let's go back in."

The door was pulled closed sharply, but John Hardy didn't rise from the bushes until the porch light went out.  Then he stood, watching the apartment.  Pete hopped up onto the chair back.  Instead of settling, he pushed between the curtains, looking out the window to the left and right.

Hardy realized his old animal friend couldn't see him, but his resolve suddenly left.  He started running, running back the way he had come.  Back into the night and away to hide.  It was the only thing to do.  Hide.