A Darker Justice (15 page)

CHAPTER 23

Far beyond the reach of Safer’s piano, the bare limbs of maple trees sang in the darkness, played by a winter wind that whipped and eddied across the Little Tennessee River. Ruth Moon stood naked in the bedroom she shared with Jonathan Walkingstick, staring out into the inky darkness, shivering as a frigid whisper of air seeped in beneath the drafty window. For hours she’d lain awake, gazing at the North Star, trying to pinpoint the vague sense of unease that had crimped her sleep ever since she’d first shaken hands with Mary Crow.

At first she thought it was simple jealousy—Mary was pretty; Mary was smart. Mary walked through Little Jump Off with a grace she, Ruth, would never possess. But there was also a darkness about Mary Crow. She had a sadness that sucked people up. Jonathan had only now begun to heal from the wounds she had inflicted upon him. Only now did his mouth begin to turn up in a real smile. Only now did he love Ruth with ardor of their own making, instead of passion remembered for the woman he’d left behind. How could she let that woman come back into his life—into their life—to gnaw at his gut once again?

She turned from the window and studied him, lying on the bed behind her, sleeping on his back, his face and body open to the night around him. How she loved him. How she longed for him to look up and say to her
You have become my love. I want you to become my wife.

“Udolanushdi.”
She whispered his name in Cherokee, speaking in the Atali dialect she’d grown up with. “I’m going to protect you.”

She closed her eyes as wind rattled the window, then she tiptoed to the bed. In her hand she held three seeds, all from the same red apple. Moving without a sound, she pulled the blankets from him, exposing his nakedness to the cool air. Soon he would awaken. She must hurry. She placed the largest seed between his feet, then the next largest over his head. The smallest, a mere dot of a seed, she put ever so gently on his heart, so perfectly that she could see the tiny brown drop throbbing with his heartbeat.

“Selu,” she whispered. “Keep this man safe. Safe for me, safe for the purpose he was intended. Above all else, keep him safe from the one from the south, the one who would steal his soul.”

At that word, Jonathan began to stir, lifting one hand to scratch at the tickle on his chest. Hastily she gathered the apple seeds up and placed them in her special box on the dresser, the one she’d brought all the way from Oklahoma. Then she hurried back over to the bed.

“Ruth?” Jonathan lifted his head and gazed at her, groggy. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“No,” she replied, lying down beside him. She pulled the blankets back over both of them and rested her head on his chest. How she loved his smell, the texture of his skin. “I was just looking at the stars.”

Laughing, he wrapped his arm tighter around her and kissed the top of her head. “Any one of them in particular?”

“I was thinking about what you told me about Polaris.”

“Polaris? What about it?”

“That in twenty-six thousand years it will no longer be the North Star,” she answered. “Lyra will be.”

“Lyra Two, actually.”

“That makes me sad,” she whispered, knowing it was crazy to care about some icy ball of gas light-years away. “I mean, Polaris has always been the North Star.”

“Things change,” he replied, yawning. “Shit happens.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said with a secret smile, suddenly cheered by the notion that if something as vast as the cosmos could change, then surely so could the desires of a human heart.

She kissed him, then she straddled him, placing his hands on her thighs. “Do you think a lot about Mary Crow?”

“Some, I guess,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. “I wish I could figure out who she came up here to visit.”

“Maybe she really came to see you.” Ruth threw out that notion like bait, to see what his response would be. “Maybe she just got scared and told me a lie.”

“Mary?” He laughed softly. “No,” he added, after a pause that lasted a jot too long. “Mary wouldn’t get scared over seeing you.”

Ruth guided his hands slowly up to her belly. “You know, I was surprised she was so light. The way you spoke of her, I assumed she was a full-blood.”

“No.” He cupped her breasts and squeezed them in the way she loved. “I’ve seen pictures of her father. He was tall and blond.”

Ruth giggled. “A cowboy in the woodpile, huh?”

His caresses stopped. “No. That wasn’t the case. Her mother never loved anyone else after her husband died. I don’t think Martha even had another date.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just surprised you would ever be with someone like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. . . . You’re more
Tsalagi
than any man I’ve ever known. It just seems that you’d be happier with one of your own kind.”

“Ruth, I grew up with her,” he said, a trace of huskiness in his voice. “Who could be more of my own kind?”

“Nobody, I suppose.” She lay down on top of him, pressing herself into the concave curve of his belly. “Let’s not talk about her anymore.”

“Fine with me.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, threading his fingers through her hair and holding her head tightly in his hands. When she felt him grow hard she scooted down and lowered herself onto him, moving her hips with his. In a few moments he came with a cry and shudder, then she did the same, hot little jolts of bliss fusing and circuiting and cross-circuiting inside her. As her pleasure faded and their breathing slowed, she kissed him, but felt a distance between them. Suddenly she grew uneasy all over again. It was as if some invisible beast was circling their home, just waiting for the right moment to spring. As she felt him slip into sleep beneath her, she again turned her face to the window, where Polaris twinkled in the winter sky.

She sighed. In twenty-six thousand years Polaris would be a has-been. She turned that thought over in her mind and wondered if, when Lyra Two assumed the title of North Star, Jonathan Walkingstick would still be in love with Mary Crow.

CHAPTER 24

For the remaining hours of the seemingly endless night, Mary Crow lay awake in the upstairs bedroom, listening as the wind rattled her windows, reliving each hour of the day a hundred times over. Why hadn’t she remembered that cell phone? Why hadn’t she called Safer to tell him they were going to the dentist? Why hadn’t she just gone back inside the building with Irene?
Because you thought she would be safe,
she told herself in disgust.

She thought about Irene, remembering Christmas Eve, when the tall red candles on her dinner table had reflected the pure happiness on her face. And Christmas Day, when she’d reared up on Spindletop, quoting Shakespeare. Just twelve hours ago they’d laughingly conversed in Cherokee. Now she was gone. All that happiness was over.

While she thought of all that had transpired between them these last three days, a single sentence Irene had uttered yesterday kept popping into her head.
I have one small client file with all your mother’s legal business in it.

One small client file in Irene’s closet. One small, last link to her mother. Mary stared at the ceiling until the shadows blurred before her eyes. The client file still belonged, theoretically, to Irene. But as Martha Crow’s sole heir, the file also rightfully belonged to her. There would be no problem if Irene were here, she was going to give it to her anyway. But Irene was gone and the file could now reasonably be considered part of her estate. Though it would be a breach of every personal and professional standard she honored, she was going to see that file. Otherwise, who knew how long it might be before she would get another look at it.

Forgive me, Irene,
she whispered when she heard the clock downstairs chime five.
But I know you’d understand.

Slipping from beneath the quilt, she pulled on her jeans and sweater in the dark. She left her shoes under the bed, but grabbed a tiny flashlight key chain from her purse and tiptoed down the hall to the head of the stairs. The gleaming oak floor felt cool and slick beneath her bare feet. Downstairs, the house was wrapped in a dark silence broken only by the sonorous ticking of the old clock. Holding her breath, she began to creep down the steps with exquisite care, easing down each riser as if it were made of glass. After what seemed like decades she reached the bottom and peeked into the hall. To her left, the windows in the living room were small squares of cold light, illuminating the dark silhouette of the Christmas tree. She turned her head. The banked fire cast the kitchen in a dim glow. She could have sworn she heard the faint rattle of pages turning.
Safer,
she thought.
He’s reading in the kitchen.
She was hoping he’d be stretched out and snoring on the sofa, but it didn’t matter. She had only one chance to get this file before Irene’s papers were sealed, and she was going to make good use of it. Turning, she looked across the hall. Though the Feds had dusted the whole house, they hadn’t cordoned off any rooms with tape. The door she needed, the closet door, stood not five feet away. If Irene had left it unlocked, she would be in business.

With a final glance toward the kitchen, she inched across the hall. One floorboard gave a long, complaining squeak. She froze, heart thudding, waiting for Safer to appear in the doorway, but he remained in the kitchen. She inched forward. Finally she reached the closet and grasped the doorknob, turning it as if she were cracking a safe. She heard one tiny, metallic
click,
then pulled it open. Moving like a shadow, she wedged herself in between a heavy wool coat and something wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic and closed the door behind her.

She stood still, listening for Safer to come rumbling down the hall to investigate, but the house remained quiet. A cord from the light fixture on the ceiling batted against her cheek. She was tempted to switch it on, but opted for the tiny flashlight on her key ring instead. She felt ridiculously exposed. If Safer opened this closet and found her here, she would have no excuse.

Squeezing through the coats to the back of the closet, she flashed her light along a row of cardboard packing boxes labeled
XMAS DECORATIONS.
Finally she found what she sought. A squat, two-drawer file cabinet sat in the rear corner of the closet.

She dropped to her hands and knees and fumbled over several pairs of riding boots. Holding the flashlight in her mouth, she opened the top drawer of the file. It opened willingly, but with a loud, grating screech. She froze, her pulse thumping in her ears. What could she say if Safer opened this door?
Don’t let him hear me,
she prayed.
Don’t let anything keep me from getting this file.
She grasped the file drawer so tightly her fingers started to tingle. Finally, holding her breath as she lifted the drawer from its squeaky rollers, she pulled it toward her. She remembered Irene’s filing system well—logical, but quirky. Sometimes she filed things under litigants’ names, other times under the type of litigation involved. Smiling at the eccentricities of the system, Mary rifled through the first drawer.

She found it exactly where anyone would have put it. In the alphabetical files, under the C’s, between Crane and Crudup. A discolored manila folder, older than the others. She pulled it out.
Crow, Martha.
The name had been scrawled across the top in Irene’s own flamboyant hand.

Quickly Mary opened the file. Inside were copies of her mother’s birth certificate and marriage license. Her light flashed across a bill of sale for a tiny piece of property Martha had sold to a man for a tobacco barn, a copy of Mary’s birth certificate, and finally, an oversized envelope from the Department of the Army.

Department of the Army? Frowning, Mary bent closer and opened the envelope. It contained three letters—one business-sized, on Army letterhead; the other two smaller envelopes with red-and-blue-striped margins, the word
FREE
printed where a stamp should have gone. Square, angular printing like an architect’s hand addressed both letters to “Martha C. Bennefield.”

“Good grief,” Mary whispered, the letters trembling in her hand. These were from her father, from Vietnam.

At that instant, she heard a noise. She switched off her tiny flashlight and listened. Safer’s voice came from the hall. He was walking into the living room from the kitchen. She could tell by the crisp way he talked that he was wide awake and on his cell phone. She needed to get out of this closet, now.

Swiftly she stuffed all the letters in the back pocket of her jeans. If the Feds impounded these files, she might never see them again. Of course, if they found that she had hidden them upon her person, she might be disbarred and put into prison. But she didn’t care. These letters had nothing to do with Irene Hannah’s abduction, and everything to do with her.

Listening at the door, she heard Safer’s footsteps pause, then continue toward the living room. Though he still talked on the phone, he began to diddle on the piano, tinkling out a somber, distracted rendition of “Jingle Bells.” Then the music stopped. She heard his footsteps cross the room and he walked back down the hall, past her door, heading once again to the kitchen.

Now,
she thought.
Now!
She turned the knob and cracked open the door. Safer talked from the kitchen, but no one was in sight. She leaped into the hall and closed the door softly behind her, her heart racing as if she’d run a mile. For a moment she stood there, waiting for Safer to appear, demanding “What were you doing in that closet?” But he didn’t. She stood alone in the empty hall.

Stashing her key ring in her jeans pocket and pulling her sweater down to her hips, she turned to go back upstairs, then she heard Safer’s voice ring out.

“Ms. Crow?” he called, sounding surprised. “Is that you?”

“Yes.” She hurried into the kitchen before he could peer out into the hall. “It’s me.”

He stood at the sink, pouring a cup of coffee, the cell phone glued to one ear. Overnight his team had turned Irene’s kitchen into a crime lab. A bank of laptop computers, fax machines, and cell phones covered one end of the old kitchen table, while topo maps and files marked
FBI
covered the other. One tall, thin agent sat sneaking little glances at Mary over a laptop computer, at the same time rattling in a bag of barbecued pork rinds. When she came into the room Safer held up the carafe of coffee.

Yes, she nodded, she would like some. Without missing a beat on the phone, he retrieved another cup from the cabinet and began to pour. She had just opened the refrigerator when she heard someone knocking. She turned. Two men stood at the door. One was young and bald, and looked as if he was force-fed a steady diet of sour apples. The other was old, mustached, and looked as if he’d just been blinded in the headlights of someone’s car. One man she did not know; the other was Hugh Kavanagh.

“Oh, no,” Mary whispered. Hugh had been gone since the day after Christmas, making his flower deliveries in Raleigh. Now he was back, collared by some federal thug. She hurried to open the door.

“Hello, Mary,” Hugh said. Napoleon stood behind him, grinning up at Mary and wagging his tail.

“Step aside, please.” The short man escorted Hugh into the kitchen, his hand on his elbow. He kicked the door shut with his foot, slamming it in the dog’s hopeful face.

“Hugh.” Mary reached to hug him. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Jerking his elbow away from the officer, Hugh stood stiffly in her embrace. “Would you mind tellin’ me what the bloody devil is goin’ on? I was out checkin’ on Lady Jane and this stupid git hauls me up by me collar like I’m some hooligan on the street.”

Mary shook her head. This was awful. This was unforgivable. “Hugh, I need to tell you something—”

“
You
don’t need to tell him anything, lady,” the short man cut in. “He needs to tell us quite a bit.”

“Who are you?” Mary demanded, anger warming her face.

“Mike Tuttle.” The little man whipped out a badge similar to Safer’s. “FBI.”

“Look, Agent Tuttle, if you think this man had anything to do—”

Suddenly Safer was at her side. He jerked his head at Tuttle, brusquely motioning him away, then he extended his hand to Hugh.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, his voice kind. “I’m sorry about all this. I’m Daniel Safer.”

Hugh blinked up at him through his glasses. “Hugh Kavanagh, sir. Wexford Farm. I repeat my earlier question. What the bloody devil is goin’ on?”

With a glance meant to silence her, Safer locked his eyes on the stocky old Irishman. “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Mr. Kavanagh. Yesterday afternoon—”

“It’s Irene, isn’t it?” Hugh stared at Mary, unbelieving.

Mary nodded.

“Mother of God! What happened?”

“We don’t know yet exactly what happened,” replied Safer. “But we think Judge Hannah’s been abducted.”

“When? Where?” Hugh peppered them with questions, struggling to make sense of the incomprehensible.

“We were downtown at her dentist’s office,” Mary explained. “She ran back to get some pills she’d forgotten. I waited in the truck. When she didn’t return I went inside to see what had happened. She was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Mary called me almost immediately after it happened,” Safer added. “We have no evidence that Judge Hannah’s been hurt or killed. But we do suspect an abduction.”

Hugh frowned, as if he found Safer’s beard and blue jeans lacking in investigative presence. “Then if you sods are the FBI, why haven’t you found her?”

“Actually, I was hoping you might help us out, Mr. Kavanagh. You know a lot about Judge Hannah that Ms. Crow and I don’t. Maybe you could answer some questions for us.”

Hugh glared at Tuttle. “Ask away, boys. I’ve got nothin’ to hide.”

Mary poured everyone coffee and sat down beside Hugh at the cluttered table. In the time-honored tradition of all interrogators, Safer and Tuttle started soft, hoping to gain trust before the questions became sharper and more pointed. Name. Occupation. Relationship to the victim. Hugh sailed through the first questions, unabashed that he was Irene’s neighbor, farm consultant, and bed partner nine nights out of ten. By the time Mary freshened Hugh’s coffee, Tuttle had picked up the pace. When did you last see the judge? Do you own any weapons? Can you account for your whereabouts during the last forty-eight hours? When Tuttle began hurling the questions like darts, Mary glared at Safer. Hugh fumbled on his answers; any seventy-year-old man who’d just found out that the woman he adored could have been murdered certainly would. And any cop knew that only criminals could supply witnesses to corroborate how they’d spent every minute of every day.

She knew Hugh was telling the truth. She could only hope Safer shared that conviction. When he finally halted the questioning, she put one arm around Hugh’s shoulders and hugged him.

He turned and looked at her, his eyes brimming with accusation. “You were sent to guard her, Mary Crow. Why did you leave her alone?”

“I have no excuse, Hugh. I thought she would be safe in the thirty seconds it takes to run inside. I was wrong.”

As the ruddiness drained from his face, Hugh seemed to age before her eyes. His shoulders slumped, his head bent low. Finally he muttered something under his breath and wobbled to his feet. “I’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your morning,” he said, his voice close to cracking. “Right now I need to go.”

Safer stood, too. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Kavanagh. Would you be willing to talk to us again? Maybe at your house?”

“I live a mile down the road.” He pointed toward the barn. “That way. But then, you already know that, don’t you?”

Walking like a very frail man, Hugh turned away from them. Napoleon leaped to his feet as he opened the door, his tail wagging.

“Come on, lad,” Hugh muttered as he stepped outside. “Let’s get us some fresh air.”