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

Blinded by tears, she tied one end through a chink in the stone work and then pulled the knotted noose over her head. Calling out to the daughter whose name has been lost to time, she flung herself from the center of the bridge and hanged herself.”
    Mr. Tanaka nudged me and I realized I’d gotten so carried away, I’d forgotten to wait for his translation.
    Although I couldn’t understand his words, I felt the emotion with which he infused the tale. His listeners’ mouths opened and their eyes danced back and forth from Mr. Tanaka to the top of the bridge above us.
    â€œNow, the ghost of that poor woman walks forever searching for her daughter. Maybe Helen will come to us tonight, asking if we have seen her child.” I turned around and stared at the bridge while Mr. Tanaka translated.
    When he finished, I let the silence build for a moment, and then stretched both arms up to the sky. “Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth! Helen, come forth.”
    Mr. Tanaka mimicked my gestures and started speaking.
    A blur of pale fabric appeared on top of the bridge’s stone wall, hung for only a second on its edge, and then tumbled down toward us. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as we all jumped clear of the falling object. But it never struck the pavement. A thick rope snapped taut, jerking the object to a halt with a distinct crack. Then, swinging in the night breeze, the blur became the recognizable shape of a woman, her neck crooked at an impossible angle, her bare feet dangling six feet above the ground.
    The Japanese group broke into spontaneous applause. Camera flashes fired like strobe lights making the gowned woman seem to twitch as the wind blew stronger.
    â€œOh, my God!” Nakayla ran to my side and clutched my arm.
    Above us hung neither an apparition nor a theatrical specter, but Molly Staton in the flesh, and very dead.

Chapter Five
    â€œSam Blackman, you’re as contagious as a medieval peasant with the plague.” Homicide Detective Curt Newland made the accusation as he, Nakayla, and I watched the second ambulance roll down the mountain bound for Mission Hospital.
    Two of the Japanese students had fainted when they realized a real body dangled from the bridge. Nakayla and Angela had tended to them while Collin and Mr. Tanaka herded the others back on the bus. I radioed Nathan Armitage to set both police and medical responders into action. Then I personally collected every camera and cell phone, insisting that they were evidence that would be returned as soon as any photographs were transferred to the police. I didn’t want Molly’s body posted on Twitter and Facebook. The Japanese were most cooperative and understanding.
    â€œFirst, Heather Atwood and now Molly Staton.” Newland turned and looked up at the body still suspended above us. “It doesn’t pay to stand too close to you.”
    â€œI don’t think I was close to her. At least not when she died.”
    â€œYou touched her?”
    â€œJust her foot. Body temperature was much lower than if the hanging killed her.”
    Newland shook his head. “Poor woman. When was the last time you saw her alive?”
    â€œI didn’t see her at all today. We were to meet up here about thirty minutes before that first bus arrived.”
    Newland looked at Nakayla. “You see her?”
    â€œNo. She never came by our headquarters at Pack Square.”
    â€œWas she expected to?”
    â€œWe all had our assignments and costumes. Most people checked in but it wasn’t mandatory.”
    â€œUncle Newly, there’s no sign of anyone.” The voice came out of the mist masking the top of the bridge.
    Either Ted or Al Newland must have been manning the scene. The two uniformed Asheville policemen were the nephews of the old detective. Even if I could have seen the speaker, I wouldn’t have known who he was. Ted and Al were identical twins, and they only called Newland