A Ghost of Justice (7 page)

15

They
pulled up to an elegantly modest Arlington town home.  A straight-forward, three-story affair, with the lowest level sunk to the sills, it was surfaced with vari-tone brown brick, glistening under its Gen-paint.  The overall effect was pleasing; certainly better than any hotel.

Inside it rather reminded her of their home in Greensboro.  The furniture had age, but was still good.  She had no eye for colors and décor, so long as there wasn't anything garish or tacky.  None of that here.

The same could be said for Ruth Luptman, an attractive, no nonsense woman of practical mien.  Emily had a hard time picturing her entertaining in the Washington way.  That suited her fine.  She also disliked functions or socials, and had no use for them now.

Ruth's meal was perfect, simple, exactly what the Sheafers needed.  Emily was glad the fast food burger languished, unordered by her father or herself.

Walter Luptman was another thing entirely.  But then his chatter may have been thoughtful in a way.  At least he didn't ask all the questions he could have.  Going on about the Smithsonian politics and inner workings certainly gave them a chance to rest, eat and listen without responding.  That is, until it got interesting.

"I tell you, Eric," he said.  "Crowder is a fine administrator.  And when it comes to procurements, he's the best there is.  Unbeatable.  Got a stealth orbiter for the Aero-Space back in thirty-two.  The Air Force is still having spasms over that.  It's a veteran ship from Second Korea, too.  To this day I don't know how he does it.  All he'll say is he knows 'this or that staffer for so-and-so,' and, like a magician, he conjures up what he's wanting."

"You're not so bad at that yourself, Wally," Eric said.  "One minute the Denver Museum is firing you as their curator of collections and then the Smith is hiring you as their curator of the American History unit.  You never have told me why Denver gave you the sack."

"And I never will, old friend.  Some stories are best left untold.  Rest assured it was nothing professionally related.  At least not in the strictest sense."  With that Luptman burst out laughing, a crazy hyena kind.

Eric chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes.

Ruth added, "I think the fact that I'm his
second
wife may be a hint."

"Now, my love," Luptman said as his laughter subsided to intermittent chuckling.  "Nothing like that really happened."

"No, you beast.  But everyone thought so."

"Gossip mongers, all!  And they all only thought what Muth told them to think, the ignorant, sycophantic bastards."  He laughed again.

Emily's curiosity had grown to the point that she asked, "Why is it so funny if it cost you your marriage, Dr. Luptman?"

"Oh.  That.  Well, Elaina was really just a rich society brat.  True, her father's connections got me on at Denver's, but the job was boring,
she
was boring as hell, and I'm
so
much better off now than I ever would have been there."  He reached over and clasped Ruth's hand.  "A lot better off."

"Keep telling yourself that, dear," she said.  "And maybe I'll stay.  I can always change my mind about believing you, you know."

Both Sheafers laughed.

Luptman snorted.  "I just hope Crowder continues to believe me."

"Crowder didn't hire you in spite of your alleged infidelity.  He just doesn't care."

Luptman was perplexed for a second.  "I don't know if I've been insulted or complimented."  Then he made a complete change of subject.  "Which reminds me.  Did I ever tell you about the time Old Crow - that's what we call him, got jet black hair, wears it slicked to the nape - nearly ruined an appropriations meeting?  It's all because he won't learn how to use modern technology.  He gets the latest junk, but refuses to believe he may need lessons in their use.  Got himself one of those brand new imbedded personal data managers made by InTouch.  The latest thing.  They're so easy that a quick lesson and any jerk can use them.  But there's the problem.  Crow may be opinionated, stubborn, brilliant.  But a jerk, no.  He makes a call on the thing, right before the meeting, to his daughter, speaks a while to his grandson, closes the video, then goes on in.  The meeting goes on like normal, but as the GAO rep starts making her case for budget cuts, we hear this maniacal giggling coming from Crow.  Only it's not him but his grandson.  He had forgot to turn his PDM off."  Luptman broke off to laugh that same hyena cackle.

As for herself, having doubtless heard the story many times, Ruth started gathering plates, saying, "I think these two would like some needed rest."

Luptman came out of his hysterics and agreed.  "Of course.  Please," he said to the Sheafers.  "Make yourselves comfortable in the den.  We'll join you shortly."

Minutes later, after they were done clearing away the dishes, the Luptmans came in.  Walter lit the fire (a
real
wood
fire) he had laid and they settled in.

Listening to the luffing as the fire caught, Emily began to surrender to the exhaustion of three days of much anguish and effort and little sleep.  Dimly she heard the voices of her father and Luptman droning on about their days at Chicago U.  Then Luptman penetrated her lethargy with a personal question to Eric.

"Okay," he said.  "It's been what, fourteen years, Eric?  How come you haven't remarried?  You know you aren't the single type."

Emily opened an eye and saw her father sitting back in one of the stuffed chairs, legs stretched out.  "Hell, Wally," he said.  "You know how it is.  After Rose died I had Emily at home, Steve…at UNC-G and also still at home.  They weren't what held me back, though.  Just too busy, I guess.  The department was just then beginning to expand.  So I buried myself in work and family."

"Okay.  I'll buy that.  For then.  But what about the past five years or so?"

"I don't know.  Out of the habit, maybe.  Dated several times.  Always with a faculty member, except for that once with an old friend of Rose's.  It's just there never seemed to be anyone that was more than a good friend."

Luptman made a small nod to Ruth.  "What do you think
makes
a good marriage, when it's boiled down to the bare bones?"

"Yeah.  But…let's just say the right set of bones hasn't appeared yet."

"Well," Luptman said with a chuckle.  "Okay.  Enough of prying into your personal life.  Feel like a game of chess?  I think the last time was over two years ago."

"At least that long.  Not tonight, Wally.  Em and I need to do a little planning for tomorrow.  Thanks."

"Sure.  I should help Ruth with the clean-up.  That's one way I keep her as my friend."

"Damned right," Ruth confirmed.

"Downstairs is all yours while you're here, Eric.  Has its own entrance at the driveway.  Put your car there off the road.  There's a good chance of it getting hit if you leave it on the street."

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 the 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.