A Darker Justice

Chapter One

Sixth U.S. Circuit Court

Cincinnati, Ohio

November 21

Squeeaak.

The first time it came so softly into her awareness that she thought she’d imagined it. She rubbed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the pages in front of her. Then she heard it again. Squeeaak. A cry of sorts, but soft, like the complaint of an unoiled hinge or the cracked leather heel of a shoe. Squeeaak.

Carmen?  Is that you? Judge Rosemary Klinefelter looked up from the circle of golden light that the lamp cast upon her desk, puzzled by the sound that seemed to come from her empty courtroom. The clock had struck nine as she began reading this page, and she would have sworn that her secretary Carmen had left hours ago with the rest of the judicial staff workers. Judge Klinefelter cocked her head to listen again, but the squeaking stopped. Only the distant blare of a car horn disturbed the silence of the room.

She shook her head and returned her attention to the opinion she was proofing. She was working late tonight, adding her signature to the documents of her last case, trying hard to clear her desk. Tomorrow would be Thanksgiving, and she and her husband Rich were flying to Miami to board a ship that would ultimately deposit them on one of St. Bart’s sandy beaches. Smiling, she glanced up at the three framed photographs clustered beneath her lamp—her daughter Emily unpacking at Penn, her son Mark in his Navy uniform, and Rich, grinning from beneath a hard hat as they broke ground for one of the solar powered buildings he’d designed. She sighed and rubbed a smudge from his picture. How wonderful it would be to get away, just the two of them, with nothing facing them but azure sky and an aquamarine ocean.

Suddenly, she jumped. She heard another noise. Not a squeak this time, but a single thump, like a book dropped on a carpeted floor. She frowned. Carmen wouldn’t stay past 5:30 unless asked. Could it be one of the clerks, coming back in for something and trying not to disturb her?

No, she decided, dismissing the little frisson of nerves that chilled her. It was probably just the cleaning crew, trying to finish early because of the holiday. Quickly, she pushed away from her desk and rose from her chair. She crossed her blue-carpeted office in three strides and turned her dead bolt into place, afterwards trying the big brass doorknob, just to make certain her door was locked. It did not budge. Now safe from all distractions, she could finish up and go home.

You’re getting dotty, kiddo, she murmured as she brushed a speck of lint off the black judicial gown that hung on the back of the door. You’re way past due from a stretch on the beach.

She re-crossed the room and settled back in her chair, chuckling as she wondered if she were being visited by the ghost that reputedly walked this courthouse at night. Boots, they called him. Supposedly the spirit of some maligned bootlegger seeking exoneration for an erroneous murder conviction.

She tried to re-focus on her work, but she felt edgy, tensed for Boots’ next manifestation. The words that she’d written this morning seemed to squirm like small black bugs on the pages, not forming clauses or sentences or anything that made sense.

Come on, Your Honor, she scolded herself. Just two more pages and you’re out of here. Let the ghost have the damn courtroom. Beginning tomorrow you can dance all night and have a massage every morning.

Again, she tried to read. This time the letters formed words that made dull but legal sense—her learned opinion about whether a bank could cancel its own cashier’s check. Searching for errors and typos, she scanned down the lines Carmen had typed from her own handwritten notes. Finding none, she turned the page and released the breath that she’d been unconsciously holding. Three more paragraphs, and she could sign her name and leave. She started reading aloud, hurrying. At last, she came to the last line. She was uncapping the Mont Blanc fountain pen she always used to sign opinions, when she heard the third noise. Not a squeak, this time. Or even a thud. This time she heard a series of soft bumps moving from left to right across the courtroom, plaintiff to defendant side. Footsteps? She wondered, staring at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

Okay, she said aloud, now irritated with both the noises and her own Nervous-Nelly reaction to them. That’s it. I’m calling Security.

She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers that connected her with the three-man security crew in the basement. The phone rang four, five, six times, but no one answered. Probably outside smoking, she muttered as she hung up in disgust.

Irritated, she picked up her pen and scrawled her name, Rosemary Rogers Klinefelter. The very act gave her courage. After all, she was a Federal judge in the Third Circuit Court, not some nitwit who spooked at ghosts.

Suddenly she remembered a memo she’d seen on Carmen’s desk. The courthouse had experienced a number of cases of vandalism lately. Obscenities spray-painted on the second floor men’s room, files in a clerk’s office strewn all over the floor. Everyone assumed the vandals had sneaked in during the day, and done their mischief while court was in session. But maybe they broke in at night and did their damage then. Maybe they were just outside her door now, spraying fuck and dickhead on her hundred-year-old burled walnut paneling.

Bastards, she cried, incensed by the idea of anyone desecrating her courtroom. She reached down and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. The old Colt .32 had been her Aunt Esther’s chicken coop gun, but within its limited range, it shot straight and true. She cocked the hammer, fuming. No pimply-faced punks were going to trash her courtroom.

She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against the crack. Now she heard nothing except the rapid beating of her own heart. For a moment she wondered if she wasn’t just tired: if her imagination hadn’t embellished the thousand tiny noises that empty buildings make, but she decided no, she wasn’t. She’d definitely heard three separate, distinct noises that had no business coming from an empty courtroom. Slowly, she reached for the wall switch and turned off the lights behind her. All she had to do was open her door and flip the light switch on the other side of the wall. The whole room would be illuminated instantly, and when she caught the bastards who were spray-painting her walls, she’d train this gun on them until she could get Security on the line.

Gripping the little revolver tightly in her right hand, she turned the deadbolt. It made a soft click, the door shuddering slightly as the bolt slid out of the lock. The brass doorknob felt cool against her sweaty palm as she turned it to the right. Slowly, she pulled the door open. The cooler air carried the familiar smell of her courtroom—a combination of lemon furniture polish and leather-upholstered chairs. Moonlight from the tall windows on the left wall cast everything in shadow—the courtroom chairs looked like dark hulks on the other side of the bar. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she groped from the light switch on the wall. Her left hand fumbled against the plaster. Where was that stupid thing?  She’d turned it on and off a million times. The edge of her palm brushed against something hard. There!  She had it! Now she would see what was going on.

But before she could reach any of the three switches that would set her courtroom ablaze with light, she felt someone grab her right arm, hard. They forced her wrist backwards to the point of snapping, and with a single quick jerk, flicked the gun from her hand. The pistol caught one corner of the witness stand and bounced somewhere on the dark floor.

What? was the only word she could utter before whoever-it-was twisted her arm viciously against her spine. Something banged against the back of her knees, and before she could draw a breath she’d fallen to the floor. Hands explored all of her now, racing up her thighs, plucking at her panty hose.

She realized that this was far worse than vandals spraying curses on her walls. Kicking and squirming with all her strength, she curled her free hand into a claw and tried to swipe at her attacker’s eyes. But the dark, hooded figure was quick, and strong. He sat down on top of her, pinning her legs beneath him, wrenching her hand so hard she felt as if it were caught in a vise.

What do you want? she managed to croak. Surely not her. She was 62, soon to be a grandmother, of sexual interest to no one but her husband.

The black feather, he whispered.

Judge Rosemary Rogers Klinefelter felt a tiny pin prick on the left side of her neck, and  her body began to feel like a ponderous loaf of unleavened dough. She could no longer raise her arms or lift her legs. As the dark figure rose to his feet and moved the prosecutor’s chair to the center of the room, she realized sickly that she could do nothing to stop whatever this freak intended for her. With her body limp as a rag doll, she could only watch as he pushed her arms into her own black judicial gown and lifted her to the prosecutor’s chair.

She thought of her children when they were young—her daughter’s voice, musical as a little flute; the sweaty sweet smell of her son after a Tee-ball game. Then she thought of Rich, his lips on the back of her neck, his arms around her as they sailed on a boat bound west, skimming over the waves, into a luminous and fiery sea. She lingered there a moment, as if to bid farewell, then she began to scream in silence, watching as the hooded man unsheathed a long sword that glittered like death in the moonlight.

Chapter Two

DECKARD HILLS COUNTRY CLUB

Atlanta, Georgia

December 23

" Come on, Mary. You haven’t danced with me in months." With a broad grin, Wyatt Prentiss held out his hand. Behind him, the Darktown Strutters Jazz Band launched into a sinuous version of Brazil, a trio of trombones keeping the hot pulsating rhythm at a slow boil.

Mary Crow smiled. How could she refuse?  The Strutters were Atlanta’s most seductive band—when they played, everyone not comatose moved to the beat. She grabbed Wyatt’s hand and together they rode the music like a wave, gliding across the floor, tight in each other’s arms.

Who’d have thought anybody would get married the day before Christmas Eve? Wyatt turned Mary in a tight, sexy circle that brought the bride and groom into her view. Mary’s oldest and dearest friend, Alexandria McCrimmon, now Mrs. Charles Ensley Carter, was dancing with her new husband. Though the Latin music throbbed around them, they danced their own private sway in the middle of the tent, laughing and kissing at the same time. Mary closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks. Just fourteen months earlier Alex had accompanied Mary on a  camping trip in the Nantahalah Forest. The trip had turned disastrous when Alex had been abducted by Henry Brank, a psychotic killer. That Alex was functional at all was astounding. That just an hour ago she’d married a man who had never once faltered in his love for her, Mary considered a true gift from God. She smiled at Wyatt. He had no idea what an utter miracle this wedding was.

I think it’s terrific, Mary said, winking at Alex as she caught the bridge’s gaze. Christmas will just start a day early this year.

I will say these Texas McCrimmons really know how to celebrate, said Wyatt as he danced her past the long table that stretched along one side of the country club ballroom. At one end of the table stood a huge wedding cake topped with flowers; at the other end a fountain bubbled with champagne. In between lay all manner of Christmas delicacies, from sugared Georgia pecans to great platters of Texas barbecue, interspersed with conveniently placed bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey. A number of Stetson hats bobbed among the crowd of Atlantans, but nobody seemed to mind. The Texas McCrimmons and the Carters from Georgia got along well, finding—as all Southerners can—common ground in good food and strong whiskey.

The song ended. Wyatt escorted her off the dance floor, next to the only other woman dressed in an elegant green gown identical to Mary’s.

Joan Moretti grinned at Mary. Some party, huh?

I’ll say. I nearly cried.

Me, too, said Joan. Especially when that bagpiper cranked up and piped them out of the church. Jeez! They call that music?

I think it’s a tradition with them, Mary explained. Means good luck or lots of children or something.

Joan rolled her eyes. Mary studied her in the diffused light. Joan, too, had been a victim of that camping trip from hell. She’d been raped and beaten—her nose broken so severely that even the act of breathing had been nearly impossible. Today the only evidence of her injuries was a tiny red scar alongside one nostril. Her Uncle Nick had gotten her the best plastic surgeon in Manhattan, along with a fleet of psychiatrists and rape counselors. The results were amazing. Her skin had regained its creamy luminosity; her dark Italian eyes again flashed with joy.

Alex makes a beautiful bride, doesn’t she?

Mary nodded, recalling the little stone church bedecked with holly and white orchids and Joan’s voice soaring high into the air, the notes floating so perfect and beautiful that everyone instinctively held their breath. She looked gorgeous. And you sang like an angel.

Thanks. Joan leaned over to whisper in Mary’s ear. I was so hoping Jonathan might be here…

I haven’t heard from him since my grandmother died, replied Mary.

You miss him a lot, don’t you? Joan asked softly.

Mary sighed. I miss both of them a lot.  An odd little bubble of silence encompassed the two friends, then the band started up again. As Bill Davis, Joan’s new boyfriend, appeared from the buffet table and swept Joan onto the dance floor, Mary again felt Wyatt’s hand on her arm.

May I have another dance, Ms. Crow? He asked, courtly as ever.

I’d love to.

Wyatt began a languid two-step, perfect for the Strutter’s soft, soulful version of Honeysuckle Rose. He led Mary so perfectly to the music’s rhythm that goose bumps ran down her spine.

Mary said, I’m guessing here, but I’d say you’ve taken dancing lessons.

My parents made me spend one miserable year at Miss Forte’s Ballroom Academy, Wyatt drawled. I was thirteen and stood eyeball to collarbone with every girl in the class.

Mary laughed. You must have paid attention, though.

I’m wonderful when I have the right partner, he replied, swooping her in another quick, sexy circle.

He pulled her closer. She nestled her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. His cheek was smooth and soft, and he clasped her hand against his chest so tightly she could feel the beating of his heart. She smiled ruefully. Every unmarried woman in Atlanta would love to be dancing with Wyatt Prentiss, the youngest man ever to make partner at Barrett, Church & Morton, yet all she could do was compare him with Jonathan Walkingstick. How Wyatt’s muscled shoulders were sculpted at the gym instead of earned in the forest; how the hair on the nape of his neck grew bristly instead of soft, how he smelled of sandalwood cologne, rather than Jonathan’s Ivory soap.

Stop it, she told herself. You and Jonathan gave it a shot. It didn’t work out. Now let it go.

Wyatt held her closer as the sax player did a long, smoky solo, then the band’s husky-voiced alto began again. Just as she started the last chorus, Wyatt began dancing quickly to the other side of the floor.

Is something wrong? Mary lifted her head at his abrupt movements.

Unless I’m seriously double-parked, I think someone wants to talk to you, said Wyatt. There’s a big, mean-looking cop motioning me over.

Mary looked up, surprised. Wyatt hadn’t been joking. He was leading her over to the far side of the ballroom where stood Martel Madison, former tackle for the Atlanta Falcons, now a Deckard County sheriff’s deputy assigned to the courthouse. Although Martel tried to look inconspicuous, he was failing miserably. Three hundred and fifteen solid pounds of armed, deputized power was hard to miss.

Martel? Mary failed to keep the surprise out of her voice. What are you doing here?

Mr. Falkner said to come get you. He needs to see you, bad.

What’s the matter? Mary had nothing on the docket; she wasn’t even scheduled to show up in court until after New Year’s.

Don’t know. Mr. Falkner’s up in his office with his Santa Claus pants on, talkin’ to some dude from D.C. Martel gave a helpless shrug. He called me and told me to come get you, now.

Like this? Mary held out the skirt of the green maid-of-honor gown that wished around her ankles. Surely Jim Falkner wouldn’t actually call her away from Ale’s wedding reception.

Martel shrugged again. I just do what they tell me, Ms. Crow.

Mary looked around. Already some of the wedding guests had begun to stare, curious about why an armed officer would intrude on a wedding party. Okay, Martel, she sighed. Go wait in your squad. I’ll be there in three minutes.

As Martel retreated from the ballroom, Mary turned back to Wyatt, smiling apologetically. Looks like you’ll have to finish this dance with someone else.

They can’t do without you?

I guess not.  Usually she didn’t mind being called back to work. Tonight she did. Tonight was her best friend’s wedding. Tonight was the most fun she’d had in a long, long time.

Wyatt squeezed her hand, which still rested in the crook of his arm. I’m sorry you have to go. Any chance we could get together over the holidays?  My boss has a big party the day after Christmas.

I’d love to, but I’ll have to see what kind of ants have gotten in Jim Falkner’s pants.

I’ll give you a call. If you can go, we’ll just make an appearance and go do something fun.

Sounds good. Thanks!  She kissed him on the cheek, then she began to move toward the exit. She wished she could say good-bye to Alex before she left, but the wedding couple stood engulfed by a crowd of well-wishers. Still, as Mary made her way towards the door, she caught Alex’s eye.

"I have to go!" Mary mouthed.

Alex nodded. Smiling, she gave Mary a thumbs-up and blew her a kiss.

Mary stopped for a moment, wanting to freeze Alex’s image like a photograph. A clear winter evening, the ballroom looking magical as a snowflake, Alex beautiful and happy and waving good-bye. From here on, their lives would go down different paths. Mary would still be a part of her dearest friend’s life, but never again in quite the same way as before. Blinking away sudden tears, she walked out of the ballroom and turned toward the squad car. Alex had a man to love. Mary probably had another one to hang.

Chapter Three

FaithAmerica PAC Headquarters

San Francisco, California

December 23

"Brothers and sisters, someday soon folks like you and I are going to run this country again. Just as Jesus drove the money lenders out of the temple, someday soon we are going to Washington and drive out all those bankers and corporations and special interest groups that foul our air and poison our water and contaminate our TV sets with violence and filth. I tell you, soon the reign of the pseudo-Solomons will end, and our time will come. And it won’t be long, brothers and sisters. We will take the reins of power before you know it!

An endless loop of Reverend Gerald LeClaire’s words echoed through the long hall down which Robert Wurth walked. Escorted by a single security guard, Wurth got to hear LeClaire’s speech three times, along the ten second segments of cheers, whistles and a thunderous chanting of Take America back! In a way, LeClaire’s impassioned oratory reminded him of some of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches. In another way, LeClaire reminded him of the carnies that passed through his hometown every fall with the State Fair—the barkers who inveigled boys to part with their dollar for peeks at three-breasted women and grotesquely misshapen chickens.

You ever get tired of hearing that? Wurth asked the armed guard who walked at his side.

I never get tired of listening to the next president of the United States.  The guard glared self-righteously at Wurth, who gave up on any further conversation and followed him to the end of the hall, where the guard opened a door marked Apostles.

In there, he said without smiling. They’re waiting for you.

Wurth stepped into a low-ceilinged room, one wall of which was covered by a photograph of Gerald LeClaire in his visionary stance, barefoot on the beach, smiling at the sun rising over the sea. In front of that picture seven men sat at a long table, decidedly not smiling, nor in any mood for a seaside frolic.

Sergeant Wurth.  The man in the center of the table locked eyes with him. Just the man we’ve been waiting for.

Wurth walked to the center of the room, his footsteps soundless on the colorless carpeting, the collective gaze of the seven men upon him. This was worse than he’d had thought. He figured he’d have some explaining to do to Dunbar. He had no idea all the  FaithAmerica big wigs would be here. With a soft clearing of his throat, he stopped three feet in front of the table and struck the military pose he always took at times like this—-at ease, his legs slightly spread, his arms behind his back. His only concession to the room and the men was a quarter he rolled across his fingers, a feat of legerdemain he’d used for thirty years to keep his hands from trembling when he was scared.

I’ve got just one question for you, Wurth, snarled Sherman Dunbar.

Yes?

What the hell did your boy mean by this?  Dunbar held up a picture of  Judge Rosemary Klinefelter, or at least the headless body of Rosemary Klinefelter, sitting primly in her courtroom, her robe soaked with blood.

I guess he got carried away.  Robert Wurth worked the coin behind his back. He was young. It happens, sometimes.

Carried away?  Dunbar pinned Wurth with a steely-eyed stare. Wurth, I’ve got half a million FaithAmericans ready to start actively campaigning for Gerald LeClaire’s presidency as soon as this prophecy is fulfilled. Now is not the time for anybody to get carried away!

I realize that.  Wurth kept his voice soft.

Then why the fuck did he cut off her head? shrieked Dunbar, the large vein that bisected his forehead swelling with rage. I made it clear to you–these judges, the pseudo-Solomons, are supposed to be killed by the hand of God. Not by some ninja-in-training!

Wurth kept his eyes straight ahead. The Army doesn’t consider an operative reliable until they’ve eliminated half a dozen targets. This was Forrest’s third.

There was a single tap on the door. All the men looked past Wurth as a waitress entered the room bearing a tray laden with coffee. Dunbar hid the gruesome photograph in his lap as she put a steaming cup in front of every man along with a big basket of pastries in the middle of the table. Anything else, Mr. Dunbar?

Not right now, Judy.  Chameleon-like, Dunbar beamed appreciatively, looking, in Wurth’s estimation, exactly like the slimy huckster he was. Gold rings on his fingers, razor-cut hair moussed to perfection. And so much cologne that Wurth knew none of the men seated at the table would taste their pastries at all. They would sit there and consume little morsels of Polo or whatever the hell Dunbar doused himself in.

Still, Wurth knew this was not their average breakfast meeting. He’d been summoned to FaithAmerica only once before, and never to the Apostle Room, the underground bunker where Gerald LeClair’s political future was plotted. This was more serious than he’d thought.

Wurth, your boy’s little spasm of extravagance may have cost us years of work! Dunbar pulled the photo from his lap and resumed his tirade after Judy closed the door behind her. "After twelve years of anonymously getting rid of the people who stood in our way, you fuck up. And we were just one Solomon away!  If our FaithAmericans catch wind of this, everything, everything will go up in smoke."

Wurth tried to judge the mood of the other men. Every one could have been clones of Dunbar—dark suits, muted silk neckties, thin gold watches on their wrists. All were white, all wore the same cross-and-eagle lapel pin, all stared at him with hard, piggish eyes.

Just explain this to us, Sergeant Wurth, said a bald-headed man at one end of the table, trying to assuage Dunbar’s fury. Explain how this could have happened.

Wurth cleared his throat. David Forrest was the best student I ever had. He eliminated the first two targets perfectly, and I had every reason to think he would execute the third in the same way, he said, startled by the tremor in his own voice. Obviously, I miscued.

Where is this Forrest now? asked a state senator from Alabama, who sat on Dunbar’s left.

Here.  Dunbar pulled a photograph from his jacket and tossed it on the table. Wurth stole a look at it. His David Forrest, lying on the ground, his legs broken, his battered face gazing sightless into the