A Ghost of Justice (16 page)

35

John
Hardy shifted for a more comfortable position.  Lying flat proved to make for harder breathing, so he sat with his back to the tree and his feet downhill.  That way it seemed his cough did more to clear his chest and he could breath better.

Dimly he remembered that drinking fluids helped a cold.  He resolved to venture out after dark to the nearest vending machine and buy the largest beverage he could with what money he had left.  But he didn't feel up to the effort just yet.

Rest had been nearly impossible.  He was hidden off the quietest, remotest road in the cemetery, but cars and people still would come by once in a while.  Usually with little warning.  Several times he had to stifle a cough as people came by.  He hadn't slept at all.

Finally, the cemetery gate had been locked and the grounds were at peace again.  But his cough was worse and he still didn't rest.

Maybe this was better, he thought.  If he stayed hidden long enough, then those people would leave Richmond.  It would be safer for him.

He was wracked by a severe spell.  Of course, he thought wryly, I may just die right here and save us all a whole lot of trouble.

Hardy wrapped the ragged blanket tighter and pulled the dirty knit cap down over his ears.  The night was warmer than any previous, but he was too sick to appreciate that.  He repositioned the jacket hood to cover as much of his head as possible.

Before he fell into an exhausted and restless sleep, he vaguely wondered if he was right.  Had that man last night been Sheafer?

Intuition told him it was a certainty.

36

Emily
awoke to early morning sun beaming on the house above them.  Glancing up, she saw clear sky.  But it looked, and felt, frigid cold.  She shivered under the blanket.

"Cold?  I'll turn on the heater if you need it," her father said from behind the wheel.  They had switched places some time after two in the morning.

She yawned and stretched as best she could.  "No, thanks.  I'm be okay.  Plus it'd drain the batteries.  Anything happen?"

"Nothing," Eric said, shaking his head.  "Not since he got through taking us all over the south of town.  I swear I felt like stopping him and telling him we checked that area the other night."

The chill helped Emily wake up.  "I know what you mean.  So much for him taking us anywhere new."

The sun cast long shadows reaching across the street from the houses and trees on the east side.

"What time is it?" she said.

"A quarter to seven."

"When do they get up in this neighborhood?"

"It's Saturday."  Eric was silent for a moment.  Then he stiffened.  "Maybe this is it."  He nodded forward, switching the car to 'on.'

James Hardy's thin form was walking down the short path to the street and the blue Chevy.

"Want me to drive?"

"No.  You're not fully awake, yet."

Just the hearing of it made Emily stretch again, yawn again.  She wondered if her father had slept at all.  His endurance amazed her.

He waited until Hardy had shut his car door before letting off the park brake and inching the Volvo back in its space, gently tapping bumpers with the car behind them, ready to pull out.  Then he waited some more.

After a minute and a faint puff of blue-brown smoke, Hardy pulled out.  Eric whipped into the lane, but kept his distance.  Just another early commuter on the street.

Half-an-hour later, they were winding through Oakwood Cemetery in the southeast end of the main city.  Again in the Shockoe Slip.

Emily asked, "Do you think he knows any other part of town?"

"I'm sure he does.  There must be some reason why he keeps coming to this section."  Eric curled his lower lip between his teeth.  "Do you remember the dossier on John Hardy?"

"Sort of."

"Pull it up on your PDM.  Check my memory."

Her father kept talking as she did it.

"Do you remember what courses he took at UNC-G?  Specifically, do you remember his major?"

"Not really," she said as the file came up.  "He majored in a lot of things.  Seems he couldn't make up his mind."

"One of them, the one he stuck with second most, was History.  Richmond has a ton of history.  A ton and a half.  This is an old cemetery.  I'll bet he liked it."  Eric gave a short bark of a laugh.  "I'll bet he loved the whole city.  All those Confederate monuments all around, the museums, the Revolutionary history here.  All the battlefields here and not far away.  A history nut's dream town."

"You're right.  We
did
find him that night behind the Confederate Whitehouse.  Kinda makes sense.  Makes a lot of sense," she said, looking down at the PDM readout.

"Yeah."

Eric slammed on the brakes.  Emily looked up to see why.

The Chevy sat motionless only thirty yards away, brake lights glowing.  Then they winked out and Hardy's car sped toward the gate.  Eric bolted after him.

Over the whine of the motor, Emily shouted, "Do you think he saw it was us?"

"It looks that way," he shouted back.  "Try to keep your eye on him."

The distance closed rapidly.  Hardy's car couldn't handle the little winding lanes as well as the Volvo.  But its gas engine was quicker.  He flew through the gate and onto the residential street beyond.

"I can't keep up with him like this," Eric admitted.  "Maybe when the traffic gets heavier, he'll think he's lost us and will slow down."

"Please," Emily said.  "Just make it so that only he
thinks
he lost us.  Don't let it be a fact."

Hardy raced down Oakwood and turned on P Street.  There the traffic thickened and Eric had to wait at the stop sign for a few seconds.

She looked frantically ahead for the blue car.  "I can't see him, Dad."  Then she spied it not too far away.  "There!" she shouted, pointing.  "A couple of blocks up."

He jerked the car around a slow driver and accelerated as fast as the battery rheostat would allow.

"Stay in third gear a little longer," Emily suggested.  "It gives better pick up."

"I know that, but these cars up ahead of us aren't in any hurry," he said, easing off the accelerator.

"He's going to get away from us," She fretted.

"No, he won't."

The car swayed as he swung into the oncoming lane and passed the first slow poke.  Two horns blew, pokey's and the truck heading for them, but they made it.  For a second Emily thought of making a smart remark about how he was driving, but it wasn't the time for it.  Plus she was too busy straining to keep Hardy in view.

The Chevy didn't seem to be speeding any more, for all she could tell.  But it suddenly made a sharp left turn.

"He's turned," she reported.  Desperately she sought a landmark, finally noting the corner's house had two brick chimneys, painted e-yellow.

"Which way?  Where?" her father demanded.

"To the left, about three blocks.  I'll tell you when we get there."

The seat pressed against her back as the car surged around another slow vehicle.  In a matter of seconds they closed on the glossy double chimneys.

"Here," she said, pointing.

Eric wheeled the car through the turn before the oncoming pickup could enter the intersection.
She peered ahead, saying more to herself, "Where is he?"

37

"Slow
up," she warned.

  "See him?"

"Yeah."  Ten cars ahead of them James Hardy was slowing behind a turning car.

"Not far up.  Try to stay behind this big Honda.  Maybe he really
will
think he's shook us off."

"Okay.  But watch careful for any turns he might make."

The area was near the river and getting hilly.  They went for several blocks with only glimpses of the blue Chevy.  Emily had begun to fear they truly had lost him when she caught sight of him turning again.

"There he goes," she shouted.

"Where?"

"Right turn.  I think on Main Street."

"Good.  He's heading back into town.  That'll make it easier for us."

"How will that make it easier?"
"Main is relatively flat and the heavy traffic will slow him down.  He can't make any moves without us seeing him."

They reached Main and Eric turned, sanely for once.  The street was lined with large warehouses on the river side and smaller ones opposite, with scattered houses and shops among them.

After passing under I-95, Main stared climbing steeply.  There were more stoplights and circles, too.  Maneuvering carefully, Eric brought them to four cars behind the Chevy.

The hill abruptly leveled off.  Richmond's tallest buildings soared above them on the right as they continued to follow James Hardy.

Emily was suddenly uneasy.  "You don't think he's giving up?"

Her father shifted in his seat.  "I hadn't thought of that.  I wouldn't give up."

"I know.  But he's not you."

"Still.  He's a father."

Emily nodded.  "I hope that's what it is and he keeps going.  It'd just be our luck if he
is
quitting.  It'd give Hardy time to get out of town without our knowing it."

"Keep heart, Em.  If James isn't going to lead us to his son, then we'll go back to the way we were doing it before.  Maybe we can pay another visit to Brother Will's church and find Parker's contact.”

"I don't want to repeat that experience."

"Neither do I.  But I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

In the corner of her eye, Emily saw they were passing by the hotel.  Hardy showed no sign of deviating his path as he held to the center lane.

A few blocks later he suddenly weaved into the far left lane and stopped, waiting for the turn signal light.

"Whoa," Eric said, easing on the brakes and signaling hastily.  "I wasn't ready for that."  He waited for a truck to pass, then changed lanes.  The light soon turned and they followed Hardy and the truck onto Belvidere Street. "So much for the 'giving up' theory," he said happily.

James Hardy traveled close to the right-hand curb.  Eric followed suit a full block back.

They drove over the Downtown Expressway and past one side street, then Hardy turned at the next corner.  Eric slowed and stopped just before making the turn.  The blue Chevy was a short distance away at a stop sign.  It quickly moved on and Eric followed.

The street went on for only three short blocks, at the end of which Hardy again made a right turn.  Eric drove to the intersection, but the Chevy was nowhere to be seen.  They faced a wrought iron fence, flaky brown with rust, and the dense shrubbery of another old cemetery, this one much larger than the others.

Just as Emily was about to suggest it, Eric turned in the direction Hardy had taken.

Peering through the leafless shrubbery, she could see asphalt.  Then light blue flashed by.  It happened so quickly they were almost past the entrance before she shouted.

"Where is he?" her father demanded.

"To the left.  In there.  In the cemetery."

Eric stopped short and looked around.  The entrance was almost hidden between two mortared stone pillars.  The engraved concrete of one gave the name as 'Hollywood Cemetery.'  "I know this place," he said as he swung them in a tight circle to get through the gates.

Glancing onto the grounds nearly gave Emily acrophobia.  No evenly graded resting place here.  The whole cemetery was a series of such steep hills and ridges that it seemed mountainous, all close together under a nearly unbroken canopy of huge trees.  Even with their leaves just budding, they shrouded the graveyard in dimmed sunlight.

To call the motorways streets would have been stretching the definition.  Her father could bring this search to a most abrupt end with only a little imprudent or inattentive twist of the wheel in the wrong direction.

Fortunately it was easy to spot Hardy's car.  The light blue flashed bright as a light in contrast to the dull brown, gray and green of the soil, tree trunks, headstones and leaves.

"Let's find a place to pull off and follow him on foot," Eric said.

"What for?"

"You see how much his car stands out?  Well, this white Volvo with its e-paint stands out worse, even with these patches of snow still around."

"But how can we keep up?"

"Look around.  This cemetery is nothing but hills and the roads have more curves in them than Lombard Street in San Francisco."

He stopped in a little circle before a crypt, jerking on the hand brake.

"He was going around that bend," Eric said, pointing as he got out.  "Let's get up on this hill and locate him.  I think I know where he's going, anyway."

"Care to share?" Emily said, confused.  She started pulling herself up the slope, using saplings and stones to help.

"Well," he said as he followed.  "I don't know why I haven't thought of it before.  Hollywood is steeped in history.  Maybe you'll see it when you get to the top.  Back toward the business district is a stone pyramid.  It was built here to honor hundreds of Confederate graves over there."

"Is that all?  We've got Confederates buried in Green Hill back home.  Maybe they don't have a damn pyramid to honor them, but there's more than three hundred of them."

They stood atop the rise.  Eric said, "Several presidents are buried here, including Jefferson Davis."  He paused, looking around carefully.  Softly, almost casually, he said, "There he is," and started at a fast pace along the ridge they were on.

Emily caught sight of the Chevy, moving slowly away from them.  She hurried after her father.

As she came up close to him, he repeated, "I should have thought of this place before.  Just look at it.  You could easily hide in here.  No one would ever bother you, as long as the caretaker never knew about you.  And that would be easy enough."

Eric led them along, just off the pavement of a stretch of lane that came up on the ridge.  Their brown and dark blue clothes blended well with the dull colors in the cemetery.

It was a fortunate accident of choice because James Hardy stopped the car and didn't move for several seconds.  Eric and Emily froze in place, waiting.

Finally the Chevy moved on.

Emily sighed with relief.

Her father only said, "Come on.  He's about to get out of sight."

The two stepped up their pace as the car disappeared down an embankment.  They slowed again as it rose back into view up the next rise.

"He
is
going there."

Frustrated, Emily demanded, "Well, will you please tell me?"

"Jeff Davis's grave.  Be ready.  This could be it."

They hurried along.  When Hardy's car dropped from sight again, Eric broke into a run.  Emily followed and soon caught up, holding her pocket to keep the pistol from bouncing out.  Soon they reached the dip and, with a brief loss of momentum, went up onto another ridge.

Suddenly Emily felt her father grab her by the arm and stop her.  She looked where he was pointing.

There, not twenty yards away on the road below them, James Hardy stood with one foot still inside his car, looking river-ward of Davis's statue and grave.  She glanced thankfully at her father, for Hardy would have seen her had she not been stopped.  But Eric was keeping his eyes glued to the scene below.

Hardy studied the road to his fore, where it was obscured by a small rise with several graves and a line of trees on it.  He sat back behind the wheel and rolled slowly behind the bend and out of sight.

Eric pulled her close.  "You follow him as fast as you can.  Be careful he doesn't see you."  Pointing at right angles, he said, "I'm going straight over that hill and see where he goes from there.  Now go."

The steep grade gave her added momentum and she quickly reached the roadside off the rise.  The lane continued to curve around the side of the hill, just like a mountain road.  A stand of white pines lined the river side shoulder.

She should have been but nevertheless wasn't prepared to see brake lights glowing ahead.  Hastily she flung herself flat against the bank.  Wet snow sifted into her jacket sleeve as she turned to look.  The curve blocked her view.  That meant it also blocked James Hardy's line of sight.  Maybe he hadn't seen her.

Barely audible came the click of a car door opening.  Next came the racking sound of the parking brake.  She raised her head slowly until she could see the Chevy's rear.

The car rocked slightly and the brake lights went out.  She heard the scuff as his shoe touched the pavement.

Then he called out, "John?"

Emily felt her pulse quicken.  Had James seen his son?

He called out again.

A brief scrambling sounded from behind the pines.  Emily cut her eyes to the sound.  There was a spate of coughing, then a head, looking blankly around, stopping to  focus on James Hardy.  The head was followed by the rest of the man, emerging to stand on the road.  He faced James.

The man was thin, about her height, and had a short, scraggly beard.

And he called out, "Dad?  Is that you?"

Without thinking, Emily shoved off the bank and stepped out into the open, reaching for her gun.  She was horrified to find the pocket empty.

John Hardy turned and she was staring into the face of her brother's killer - a face she loathed and she didn't know what to do.