A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Read Free Book Online

CR-V’s engine and set the heater on high. Then I rehearsed my speech.
    Twenty minutes later, the fog on the crest of the road beneath the arch brightened. The glow concentrated into two headlights and the oncoming vehicle swung wide to park on the turnout behind me. I grabbed the floppy leather hat off the seat, plopped it on my head, and stepped out of the car to face what I thought would be a mystified group of Japanese intellectuals who wondered what kind of culture I represented.
    Nakayla’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie on the passenger’s seat. “Arrived at Helen’s Bridge. Sam is waiting.”
    â€œOkay from base,” Nathan replied.
    I closed the car door, walked back to the small bus, and stood in front of the headlights.
    Nakayla alighted first, wearing an orange slicker and carrying her walkie-talkie in her right hand. A thin Asian man followed her into the pool of light.
    â€œSam, this is Mr. Tanaka. He’ll be your translator, although everyone in the group has at least a rudimentary knowledge of English.”
    â€œA pleasure to meet you,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I should nod, bow, or offer my hand.
    Mr. Tanaka did all three. His grip was firm. “Thank you, Mr. Blackman. Miss Robertson has informed me as to what will transpire. I ask that you pause every few sentences so that I might translate and make sure no one misses a word of your marvelous story.”
    â€œThen stop me anytime if I’m going too fast.”
    Mr. Tanaka turned to the bus and waved. I didn’t realize it was a signal for The Charge of the Light Brigade. The Japanese riders cascaded out like a bomb on the bus was seconds away from detonation. The light of Light Brigade became an explosion of camera flashes as they encircled me. Had they meant me harm, there would have been no escape.
    I removed my hat, vainly thinking the bare-headed look might not appear as stupid when my picture was posted back to Japan.
    Mr. Tanaka waved his hand again and the photo frenzy instantly ceased. He raised his voice and made a short statement. I recognized two words, “Sam Blackman.” Several members of the group repeated my name in reverent whispers I fantasized might have been the awestruck tone women used when they said, “George Clooney.”
    More flashes came from behind me. I turned to see Collin McPhillips, camera close to his eye, documenting this international encounter. Angela stood beside him jotting notes in a small journal.
    â€œSam, you can begin now,” Nakayla prompted.
    What the hell. I pulled the hat down to my ears. “Follow me to the base of the bridge.”
    They jumped in line like a platoon called to move out and we marched up the rise to the looming arch. As soon as I stopped, they fanned into a perfect semi-circle with Mr. Tanaka and me at the center point of its radius.
    I cleared my throat and then spoke with as much solemnity as I could muster. “The bridge over us was built in 1909 as a carriage way to the mansion on top of this ridge.”
    I paused and Tanaka delivered unintelligible, rapid-fire syllables while heads bobbed in unison.
    When he finished, I picked up my story and we continued this verbal leapfrogging as I went through the history of the Pennsylvanian John Evans Brown making his fortune in New Zealand, returning to his native country, and settling in Asheville, where in 1889 he constructed the mansion he called Zealandia. I told of a small, nearby cottage that mountain lore claims housed a beautiful woman named Helen and her young daughter. Then, with dramatic intensity, I described the young girl trapped in the burning mansion and the mother’s vain efforts to brave a barricade of flames and rescue her. I wandered off script in the enthusiasm of the moment, feeling myself swept up by the currents of my imagination.
    â€œAnd in her grief and desperation, Helen dragged a rope from her cottage to this very bridge.