Final Justice (25 page)

Her last words melted in the sound of squealing tires as he escaped.

Such times made him wish he had never come back, despite his promise to his mother. Avenging the misery of her life was robbing him of his own, which he needed to get on with before it was too late. So he had to start concentrating on what he had to do and not let anything get in his way—like Emma Jean. Just thinking about her soothed like a shot of bourbon as he realized he was doing fifty in a twenty zone and quickly slowed.

What was the harm, he argued with himself, in both of them taking a little pleasure in each other to escape the way things were at home? Emma Jean was smart enough to know that's all it would be—a diversion. Nothing serious.

As he stopped for a red light before turning the corner to the courthouse, he saw Matt and Kirby standing on the sidewalk. He could see they were excited about something from the way they were laughing and waving their hands as they talked. They were good guys, and they had made damn good deputies. Even the rednecks, the ones always getting arrested for being drunk, speeding, brawling, whatever, treated them with respect, and, so far, there had been no complaints. Sure, they ran around on their wives. It was, Luke supposed, part of that southern male culture, the country side of it, anyway, that adhered to the notion that a man wasn't a real man if only one woman could satisfy him.

"It's like eating Moon Pies," a beer-bellied redneck had once remarked to him. "They're sweet and good and you enjoy 'em, but you don't want 'em all the time. Every once in a while, you need a Twinkie or a bag of pork skins just for a change."

If Luke had never left the backwoods of the south, he might have had the same kind of weak mind-set, but he had learned sex could be real good and satisfying with one woman when things were in sync, like with himself and Coquina.

He'd had no reason to try a Twinkie.

He'd been happy with his Moon Pie.

The only wrinkle was knowing he could never love her, that all they'd ever have was a lot of different ways of doing it, like with strawberry body paint, whipped cream, and chocolate-flavored condoms. He supposed it was like eating for taste and to hell with nutrition.

Still, he could remember long nights in Nam, laying in a muddy ditch in the warm, steaming rain and staring up at the sky and wondering if he would ever find his place in life, his reason for being. And to take himself away from the misery of the moment, he would think about what it might be like to be married to a woman who loved him as much as he loved her and how great the sex would be because of their love. They'd have kids, a home, a life. He would find out what it was like to live normal. Silly, soppy dreams he'd never share with anybody but there just the same.

The light changed.

One day,
he promised himself as he made the turn. One day and,
someday,
things would be different.

As soon as he stepped out of the car, Matt and Kirby were on him like yellow jackets after spilled soda.

Matt was grinning from ear to ear. "Wait till you hear. Oh, man, just wait till you hear."

Kirby was actually bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in his eagerness to convey the news, "Junior Kearney's been laughed out of town."

Luke played dumb. "What are you talking about?"

They proceeded to take turns telling him how the night before—Friday—Junior had gathered some of his buddies out back in the closed-up-for-the-winter fruit stand to watch him and his girlfriend, Reba Lou, have sex, and it had turned into a circus. Junior couldn't keep an erection, and, after a while, everybody felt so embarrassed for him they got up and left. But one of the last to go said Junior had finally given up and curled up in a ball right there on the floor and started crying, and Reba Lou was yelling she was leaving town because she could never face people again.

Kirby said, "I drove out there this morning to see if he'd just totally lost his mind and needed to be locked up, but there was no sign of him."

Matt reported, "Tommy Creech said when he opened the station Reba Lou was there waiting for the early bus. Maybe Junior's gone for good, too."

"I doubt we'll be that lucky." Luke figured Junior would go off a few days to sulk, then realize he had no choice except to return and face the humiliation he would never be able to live down.

As they walked on toward the office, Kirby added, "They say the only thing Junior said was that he wanted to prove he could outdo coloreds, so it must have had something to do with his making those kids do it the other night."

"Probably." Luke said absently, like he didn't care.

"But can you imagine pulling a stunt like that? He'll be a laughingstock for years to come."

"Yeah. Just imagine."

On to number two, Momma.

* * *

The day was brisk and cold with storm clouds hovering, but bad weather would not deter the golf nuts headed to the course at Lake Martin for the afternoon, including Hardy Moon.

Luke parked in front of the post office, just down the street from the funeral home and waited. He knew Hardy would be playing with Burch and Buddy. A real threesome they were. Golf together on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. Breakfast every morning at the Bulldog. Once upon a time they had gotten together, gang-banged a young girl, and ruined her life. Real pals they were, shared everything, and if Luke had anything to do with it, they were going to share a living hell, as well, and
he
was going to be the one to jab them on their way with a pitchfork, one at a time.

When Hardy finally left, Luke continued on and pulled into the drive. No other cars were around, the hearse was backed into the shed at the rear, and he hadn't heard of anybody dying lately so it was a good time to talk to Lucy.

He stepped up on the porch as a rude burst of wind sent leaves dancing around his feet. Rockers where mourners passed time during the summer were turned about and neatly propped against the wall like kneeling soldiers. A conservative wreath with a white bow, the only hint of Christmas, hung primly on the door. He rang the bell and could hear the mournful sound echoing through the big, rambling house.

After a few moments, Lucy opened the door. "Oh, don't tell me we're about to have some more business. I hate it when someone passes away close to the holidays."

"Miss Lucy, you know I would've called if that were the case. I'm here to see you about something else."

"Well, come on in. It's nippy out here." She cast a wary eye skyward. "Maybe we'll have a white Christmas. You ever seen one, Luke?"

"No, but if one comes, those sleds down at the hardware store covered with years of dust will sell like hotcakes." He followed her as she led the way down the dimly lit hall and wondered, not for the first time, why she didn't sit some of those bottles around with the wet, green, slimy things sticking out of the neck—air wicks, they were called—to try and tone down the smell of the place.

She took him into the office he had rummaged a week earlier.

"I was just having a cup of tea. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks. I'm not much of a tea drinker." He sat down in one of the velvet-upholstered chairs that had seen better days. Jesus stared down at him complacently from a calendar advertising a casket company in Baltimore. Gray light filtered through the frosted glass of the one and only window.

It was a depressing room in a depressing place, and as he scrutinized Lucy to see if she appeared at all nervous, he thought how she fit right into the scene like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, giving her face the look of a peeled onion. She had clear blue eyes behind round spectacles that forever slipped up and down on her pointed nose. Her lips were perpetually turned down at the corners like an inverted "U," but Luke supposed if he had to live with Hardy Moon, he'd look pissed all the time, too.

He wondered if she had ever owned more than two dresses in her life because, in all the times he'd seen her through the years, she was wearing either a brown or wine color with a high peter pan collar trimmed in white lace, the sleeves tapered to the wrist, and a straight waistline with the skirt hanging just to the tops of her black leather, high-top, pointed-toe shoes. Her jewelry was always the same, amethyst ear bobs edged in silver and a tiny pin that was actually a watch hanging upside down so she could tell the time without turning it around.

Lucy's brow furrowed. "Luke, is something wrong?"

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. "You know there is, Miss Lucy. Suppose you tell me about your part in it."

She avoided making eye contact, which, to Luke, being a lawman, signified discomfort that most of the time translated to guilt.

She licked her lips nervously. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"I believe you do. Now if you feel uncomfortable talking about it, I can go ahead and order the funeral home books audited. At the same time, I can do an inventory of the stock."

She had been lifting her tea cup but suddenly set it back down with a loud and nervous clatter against the saucer. "Why on earth would you want to do all that?"

"To prove that more coffins have been sold than bought. Then there's the matter of flowers being stolen off graves to use at the next funeral." He watched her as he spoke and saw how her mouth changed from the upside down "U" to a thin line, the edges of her teeth pressing against her lip as her jaws began to twitch.

"I'm afraid..." she paused, then unleashed the plea like air from a leaking tire, "...that you will have to talk to my husband. It's not my place..."

"Your place isn't in jail either, Miss Lucy, but I'm afraid that's where you're headed if you don't cooperate with me on this. You see..."he uncrossed his legs, pressing his knees against the desk as he spread his hands on the top, "last week I saw Hardy, Ozzie, and Hank take Minnie Plummer out of her coffin and dump her in her grave, then put the coffin back in the hearse."

Lucy drew back into her chair as though sucked by a giant vacuum cleaner. Her first attempt at speech failed, lost among the knots jumping in her throat like a child's game of ball and jacks. Then, finally, she was able to croak, "That... that's not true."

Luke sighed, disappointed she was not breaking as fast as he'd hoped. Lucy was a mouse, otherwise she would never have put up with Hardy's shenanigans. "If you don't want to cooperate then you leave me no choice but to place you under arrest."

"But if I tell you, then you
will
arrest me..." Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, God," she whispered through her fingers, horrified to realize she had just as good as confessed.

He shook his head. "Not if you help me on this because I know you could never condone what your husband did."

"Oh, heavens no, Luke. Heavens no. I hated it."

"I don't imagine Hank and Ozzie liked it much either."

"Oh, they didn't. Ozzie was all the time talking to me about it, worried that sooner or later somebody was going to find out. He even told Hardy he didn't like being involved, but Hardy said if he and Hank didn't go along with it, he'd fire them and swear it was because he caught them stealing jewelry off the bodies."

"Well, I'm not going to mention this to them. Hardy is the one who has to be punished."

"Will he go to prison?"

He smiled. "Oh, I've got something else in mind that he'll find a lot worse."

"I don't understand."

"He's going to stay right here under your thumb and toe the line, while you see he operates this place like it should be. He's also going to get rid of that weird collection of horrors he's got stashed in the basement."

She turned even paler. "You know about that, too?"

"Oh, yes."

"Look, I want you to understand that I've not had a say about anything that goes on around here since my daddy died."

"Well, that's all going to change now."

She gave a nervous little laugh. "You don't know my husband very well, do you? He doesn't take orders from anyone, especially me."

"When I get through with him, he'll sit up and beg for dog biscuits if you tell him to. You're going to run things around here, Miss Lucy. After all, your family started this business, so it's fair you should have a say.

"Only from now on," he added with a wink, "You're going to be the one doing
all
the talking."

Doubt was melting from her eyes like frost in sunshine, her acquiescing nod firm and positive. "Luke, I swear to you I've never approved of the way he's done things. Sometimes I think that's why he married me, anyway, so he could take over."

Luke did not pick up on that. Hell, she didn't
think
it, she
knew
it. But why twist the knife?

She started to lift the tea cup, but her hands were shaking too hard. "I want you to know I did argue with Hardy about it. But he said it didn't matter whether the body was in a coffin or not, that sooner or later it was going to decay, anyway. I was always glad when the family bought a vault because it had to be in the ground before the funeral, so that meant the body was at least buried inside that and not just put down in the raw earth."

Hesitantly, she continued, "I know the bodies will have to be dug up and reburied proper in coffins. I'll be glad to pay the cost, and..."