A Ghost of Justice (9 page)

19

Ruth
Luptman came down as they were removing their coats.  "Eric," she said.  "Call Andrea."

Eric raised his head quickly at the mention of his sister-in-law.  Exchanging glances with Emily, he then said, "Thanks, Ruth.  Did she say why she didn't call me direct?"

"She said she tried but couldn't get through.  Plus, it was too personal and wanted to get you somewhere private.  I tried to get her to leave a message, but she just said to call any time."

Eric nodded and activated his PDM.  Ruth went back upstairs, honoring the nature of the message.  He sat on a bar stool.

He went to the com programs as soon as its images materialized.

Emily watched as he selected Andrea from his n-phone list.  After a few seconds of waiting on the 'CONNECTING' icon, it gave way to Andrea's image.

"Oh, good," she said at once.  "It's working again.  I'm glad you called back, Eric."  Her eyes shifted to Emily and she said, "Hey, Em," to her with a wave.

Eric reclaimed her attention with a rush of words.  "What is it, Andrea?  What's happened?  Is there anything wrong with David?  Bob?"

"Wait a minute.  Of course not.  Let me get to it," she interjected.  "We're fine.  As can be, at any rate.  It's Kelly's father, Don Morton."

"Yeah, yeah.  I know him.  We saw him and Mary Alice just last year.  Well, what is it?"

"I'm trying to tell you.  The both of them were in Knoxville, checking a sighting there, you know."

"No, but go ahead."

"He had a heart attack.  Mary Alice called this morning.  He's in the CCU there.  I feel so sorry for her.  She was crying the whole time, Eric.  I couldn't tell if it was more for Don or that she was saying they had to quit the search.  I've called her brother--"

"Kelly's?  Oh, God, no.  Of course not.  She was an only child. 
Her
brother, ah, Mary Alice's."

"Right.  He lives in Asheville, too.  He went to be with her.  I don't know, Eric.  I couldn't really tell how bad it was."

"Well, Andrea, it wouldn't have to be all that bad to stop him.  He's only fifty-four, but his health is bad.  Damn!  They shouldn't even have tried.  I should've realized.  He can't handle it.  I should've told them to stay home and leave it to us."

"Stop it, Eric," she said, frowning at him.  "You can't know or do
everything
, you know.  If you'd been the weaker one, and you
are
older than he is, you wouldn't have stayed home, either."

He looked down, sighed and ran his hand up the back of his head, leaving it on top.  "I know.  I…"  He hesitated, brought his hand down, then continued, more subdued.  "Tell Mary Alice we're thinking about 'em, praying for them.  And…not waste any concern about the hunt.  We can take care of it.  Keep in touch with her, Andrea, please?  Tell her I'll call soon as I can."

"I will.  What are you going to do?  About the reports from Tennessee, I mean."

"Nothing.  I don't think he, ah, Hardy, is there."

Emily said, "Don's a nice man.  I hope he'll be okay."

"There shouldn't be any problems," Andrea assured them.  "Especially if he doesn't need a transplant, as rare as good donors are now."

"Maybe I can deliver the heart of the man who murdered his daughter," Eric said heatedly.  Then, with an embarrassed glance at Emily, he quickly said, "God, I'm sorry, Andrea.  That was a damned awful thing to say."

"Yeah.  It's okay.  I understand.  Listen, you two be careful.  I love you both."

"Thanks, Andrea.  Thank you for telling us about Don.  We'll call probably on Tuesday."

Emily stood.  "Excuse me," she said, and went into the bathroom.  Once she closed the door, she leaned against the wall, face in hands.  Tightening them into fists, she banged them on the tile, first soft, then with increasing intensity.  "Damn him, damn him, damn him," she repeated in an angry whisper.

When she returned a few moments later, Eric was still sitting at the bar, focusing on nothing.  She joined him and they remained in communal silence.

Then he took her arm, held it in both hands and said, voice husky, "We'll find him."

Emily stared dully at the t-vid.  Eric had gone into the bedroom to make another call to Andrea and to call Mary Alice.  She was glad he'd gone in the other room.  She didn't feel strong enough for that call.

Supper had been good, but she'd had little appetite for food and none for company.  So she sat with eyes aimed at the images.

PBS was rerunning the special on the Australasian Mars Mission, which she liked the first time, but now she couldn't pay attention.  She started flipping through the channels, stopping on CNN East.  Maybe someone else's problems would take her mind off her own.

The stories were mildly interesting at first:  Completed repairs on the Death Valley Solar Station meant the ageing western nuclear plants could be taken off line again; A car collided with a Transamerica passenger train, killing four and injuring over twenty; Voters in the Slavic Federation re-elected the prime minister, but put many new faces in the Duma.

After the headlines her eyes began to lose focus.  She barely heard a door being closed upstairs and footsteps on the hardwood of the hall.

Deciding to go to bed, she raised the remote to kill the t-vid but stopped short.  The image was the outside of a jail and a reporter was clearly excited.

"This footage was taken earlier today and provided to our affiliate by a family member of the victim," he was saying.  "At two p.m., CMT, the Vigilante Fugitive Michael Terry was released by the order of Federal District Court Judge Robert Troxler.  The family of rape-murder victim Lydia Powell was waiting, and filmed their vengeance."

As if on cue, Terry appeared at the door, escorted by a deputy.  The officer removed his handcuffs and opened the door.  Terry looked around, reluctant to leave.  Then he was pushed out, the deputy locking the door behind him.

Terry came at an angle toward the camera, looking all around.  He was clearly fearful, moving about in quick, spasmodic motions.

All at once, three men jumped out at him.  Before Terry could run more than a step he was tackled by two of them.  Then they all set on him with knives.

Emily watched transfixed as the blades rose and fell several times.  Terry struggled to get away but one of them drove his large knife down between Terry's shoulder blades.  The fugitive ceased moving and the scene was replaced by the reporter.

"We will not show the rest of the footage.  It gets more graphic."

She couldn't imagine how.

He signed off and the studio returned.  The anchorwoman announced it was time for the updates for fugitives at large.  Rotating images came up in turn of four men and a woman, with brief descriptions, summaries of their crimes, and the latest of where they were thought to be.

John Hardy was third.

Emily watched closely as the voice-over said he was probably in the mid-Atlantic region.  "But do be careful," the anchor cautioned.  "Hardy's appearance has already resulted in the mistaken execution of a man in Philadelphia."

Disappointed that he wasn't definitely sighted somewhere, Emily finally switched off the vid.  There had been nothing new.  But at least his face was being shown on national networks.

She settled on the sofa and tried to sleep.

20

"It's
about time you got up," Eric said.

Emily leaned against the door frame.  "Couldn't get to sleep for a couple of hours," she muttered.  "I keep seeing that man getting stabbed."

"You saw that, too?"

"CNN East."  She eased onto the first barstool.

"I saw it on JNBC this morning.  They interviewed Lydia Powell's mother.  In some ways I think it's better the way we've got it, so long as we catch him.  No press hounding us.  Of course, the first one was a circus.  They did a story on that, too.  Seems it'll be the anniversary this weekend of the first Vigilante Execution.  That one had it the worst.  Six networks followed him full time, with the others racing in whenever they felt like it.  JNBC took credit for finding the fugitive.  Only fair they should find him.  The way they all kept tabs on the poor EOR the fugitive had to have known his every move."

"Right now I'd welcome the help."  Emily took the cup her father handed over and sipped once.  Hot Irish Breakfast tea; it brought some more life into her.  She set it down.  Staring into it, she said, "How on earth are we ever going to find him?  There's only you and me.  We can't cover the whole country."

Eric set his fork down.  She could feel him looking at her.  "You feel, this morning, that this task is too big?"

She nodded, eyes still unfocused on the dark brown-amber liquid, faint steam transiently clouding it.

"I know it seems that way," Eric said with a sigh.  "But we're not really alone.  Already that AI cop has been helpful."

"Yeah,  sure.  Gave us a list of cities which, by themselves, are impossible for just two people, total amateurs at that, to search."

"Don't forget: we're not just
any
two amateurs in matters of this nature.  We are used to seeking out things with even less info than we have on Hardy.  Remember Henry Hudson's last camp?  That one was actually a lot of fun.  And the grave of redcoats under that corner shopping center back home?"

"Yeah.  I guess."  Emily rubbed her forehead.  "I don't know."  She dug deep in herself for some semblance of determination.  Even if it wasn't there, she had to show it for him.  "Oh, hell," she said, throwing in a tinge of self-disgust.  "Just ignore me.  I'll be all right after a shower."

"Here.  Eat your breakfast first."  He pushed a breakfast toward to her.

She waved her hand at the plate.  "No thanks.  I'm not hungry."

"Those are sim-eggs.  They're going to get cold and disgusting.  Now eat 'em.  I don't need you giving out on me in the middle of the morning.  It's supposed to be mostly cloudy, still cold, but no rain expected.  We can make a full day of it."  Eric took a large swallow of his tea.  "Oh, and we have an appointment with some PI for lunch."

"Private investigator?"  Without raising her head any she cut her eyes to look at him through her bangs.

"Some guy named Jerry Maxwell.  He called last night."

"How'd he find out about us?"

"Probably through some contact with the police.  Likely they sell the info to increase the department funds.  Anyway, it won't hurt us to see him.  I agreed to meet him in the coffee shop in Wally's museum for lunch."

Emily then raised her head level.  "Do you think he can help?"

"I don't know."  Eric drained his tea.  "Maybe.  We'll just have to see how he impresses us.  Now eat."

"'Kay," she mumbled.  "Can't afford him anyway."  She forked up some eggs that  already had lost much of their warmth.

"If he seems good, then we'll find a way.  Take out an equity loan or something."

Her father had been annoyingly right.  Emily's small breakfast had given out and she was fading by eleven, the cold and the gray sapping her energy.  To her relief, Eric turned across the Mall toward the American History Museum.

"I thought we'd go on and eat early.  Maxwell is supposed to be there at twelve, and I'd as soon not be distracted while evaluating him," he said.

"Fine with me."

"Appetite back?"

"No.  But I need something.  The idea of food doesn't excite me.  It's only fuel."

"That's okay.  So long as you're willing to eat.  It'd also be nice to get out of this cold."

"Yeah," Emily agreed, feeling the bitter air even more because her father had acknowledged it.

On the way across the park lawns Emily glanced up to see the solid gray-white sky had begun to break here and there in fuzzy blue streaks.  The light breeze, constant all morning, was turning brisk.  As they neared the side entrance of the building, the gloomy Mall was transformed by moving patches of sunlight.

A sudden bright ray made the aluminum door frame glow as they reached the entrance, making Emily squint.  At the same time a concentrated gust arrived, too, and, to her, it seemed the elements of light and wind were pushing them inside.

Hot chocolate and a warm tempeh sandwich had her thawed out by the time an average-sized, average-looking blond man, white shirt and black tie under an overcoat, approached them.

Tentatively, he said, "Dr. Sheafer?"

Eric looked up.  "Mr. Maxwell.  Have a seat."

Relieved, the man set his tray down across from Eric.  He seemed about thirty.

"And this is your daughter?  Pleased to meet you, Miss Sheafer," he said, using the restored obligatory title, which she hated.  Without waiting for her reply, he started speaking immediately.  "You know, it's really hard for most folks to get as far as you have already.  Most don't have the time, resources, ability or what have you, for it.  That's where someone like me comes in.  Then you may wonder what I can do for someone like yourselves, where you have time and capabilities, and are willing.  Obviously you are actively searching for your man."

"The question did cross my mind," Eric said evenly.

"And so it should, doctor."  Maxwell paused for a moment, then continued.  "What
I
can help you with is this:  my company has contacts all up and down the East, and from the coast to the Mississippi.  The average citizen out there won't report a sighting of Hardy to the authorities.  My contacts have access to these people.  I won't lie to you: my contacts must 'encourage' them.  It's expensive, but we get more and better information than the police will ever get on these fugitives.  And that's
because
we appeal to the only power of persuasion that has been known to work in all cases."

"You pay 'em.  Isn't that against the law?" Emily asked.

Maxwell looked at her as if he had forgotten about her.  She was certain he was irritated by the question, and the fact that it came from a woman, but he said, "Ah…That is a good point.  But the short answer is: no.  The law
does
state that it is prohibited to kill a vigilante fugitive for pay, but we don't do that.  It would cost us our license, among other things.  But there is nothing in the law that prevents us from searching a fugitive out with cash payments.  Nor is there a prohibition against holding a fugitive for the designated executioner.  Does that cover your question, Miss Sheafer?"

His tone and manner sent a creeping up the back of her neck.  She viscerally didn't like him.  "I suppose so," she allowed.  It was unusually hard for her to say it.

Maxwell smiled with practiced ease.

Eric said, "Who do you work for, Mr. Maxwell?  What company?"  To her amazement, his voice stayed conversational with this too slick man.

Oddly, the slick man hesitated a moment before saying, "CCF, Dr. Sheafer.  Security, investigation and tracing," he finished, sounding like an add man.

She noticed her father boot up his PDM in micro-vid mode while Maxwell went on.  Remotely she wondered why, but tried to listen to the PI until Eric interrupted him.

"That's CCF Service Agency, Inc?"

"Um, right.  We can handle any volume of business east of the Mississippi.  And we have a partnership with the largest western agency in the industry."

"Yeah, I see that," Eric said, looking up from his PDM.

There seemed to be a faint edge in his voice.  Maxwell didn't appear to notice.

The PI said, "It gives us a huge advantage in cases like yours."

Eric waved him silent.  "I'm sure that's true.  What I am interested in is that the firm is Eagle Private Defenses, a large contributing member to the Greater Safety PAC, as is CCF."

Maxwell's face took on a wide-eyed but blank look, morphing into one of desperate annoyance.  "Dr. Sheafer, how is it you have that information, if you don't mind me asking?"

Now her father really puzzled her as he smiled broadly.  He pushed his chair back.  "No.  I don't mind at all," he said and stood.  "Come on, Em.  We're done here."  He turned and started walking away.

Emily hurried to join him, Maxwell's voice trailing after them.

"But…where did you… But we can help you.  Come back.  I wasn't finished."

Barely turning his head, Eric said over his shoulder, "Yes.  You are."  He pushed the door open and stepped out in the cold afternoon with its patches of sunlight scurrying across the great lawns of the Capital Mall.  There seemed to be a few more such bright patches than when they had gone inside.  The cold gusts remained, however.

Running a few steps, Emily caught up and kept pace, eyeing him with curiosity.

He caught the way she was looking at him.  "What?" he asked her.

"What was all that about?  Why did we leave?  Not that I really care.  It just seemed a bit abrupt."

"Did it?"

"Yeah.  Yes it did.  I'm not used to that with you.  At least not without an immediate explanation given to the other person."

"Well, that's easy to explain.  I didn't want to tell him why."  He walked up a gentle rise in the ground.

Emily hadn't seen it and stumbled through a staggered step, recovered and regained his side.  "Well, can you tell me?"

"Sure.  It's possible that it could have been imprudent to tell him."  He shook his head in a unsatisfied way.  "Not actually dangerous, but the way I got that information - specifically, the fact that I
kept
it - some government circles could construe it to be illegal and confiscate my PDM.  If I had told Maxwell, he doubtlessly would have reported it."

"What did you do?  I mean, ah…"

"The Freedom of Information Act still exists, but it's been amended so that some actions of Congress can be first published, then all reports redacted from the media after only a few days.  They call it The Freedom of Action clause.  It's so congress can act without fear of interference or something."  He stopped suddenly and smiled at her.  "I automatically download the Congressional Record, but randomly through social media, and other sites, so it can't be traced.  Then I can look it up whenever I need to."

"Like today."

"Yeah.  Like today."

"So what was the deal that made us leave?"

"The Greater Safety PAC donates huge sums to the campaigns of candidates of their choice for president, senate or house.  The money gets enough of their people elected that they can control the outcome of any legislation they are interested in.  There are other PACs just like them.  Defense, oil, finance.  Nearly every congressman, senator and every president is owned by somebody.  Some state reps are owned.  It's disgusting."

"I…didn't know it was that bad."

His gaze wandered over the Mall.  Shrugging, he said, "Maybe I'll let you look at my files some time.  I won't send them to your PDM.  It would create a trackable action and get us both in trouble."

She scoffed.  "What kind of trouble?"

He looked back at her.  In deadly seriousness he said, "There is a little-known law that was thrown together based on Homeland Security.  It could be used to cite us for conspiracy to share national secrets if I did that."

"You're kidding."

"No," he said, shaking his head.  "Let's get back to work."

They started with the Lincoln Memorial.

Four-and-a-half hours and two slow circuits of the Mall later they ended up in a musty alcove of the Air-Space Museum along with a few other weary souls.  Emily was sure one of them was homeless.

"My legs hurt," Emily said, sipping a not very good hot chocolate from a machine.  At least it was warm.

"Mine, too," her father admitted.  "It's the cold.  Makes you tend to get stiff, tenses your muscles, no matter that you're walking."

"I guess.  All I know is they are tired and they ache.  And my feet are numb."  She gave a thigh a two-handed massage.  The result was less than satisfactory.

"Do you want to quit for the day?"

"No.  Just rest for a while."

"I think I can do that," he agreed.

"Which means you want a rest, too."

Eric grinned.  "You're too damn smart, you know it?"

"Yeah.  So are you."

"You make a compliment sound like an insult."