The Hanging Judge by Michael Ponsor Read Free Book Online Page B

of joy almost lifted him onto his toes.
    Dixwell, speechless, looked appalled.
    “Are you all right?” Anne asked.
    “I’m fine,” Claire said, “physically.” She looked up at Norcross again. “I’m so sorry!”
    Norcross and Dixwell bundled on their raincoats and hurried out into the night with Claire. The plunge into the raw, wet elements was shocking at first. Rain was clattering on the brittle leaves, and bursts of wind blew sleet into their faces.
    Claire took hold of Norcross’s elbow as they worked their way down the slick driveway.
    “I was backing up,” she said. “And the car just started sliding. I feel terrible.”
    Even in the darkness, one look told them the impact had produced much more than a ding. The whole right front panel of the judge’s car was pushed in, and the tire on that corner was flat. Norcross felt like laughing, clapping his hands, and breaking into a song.
    “I could give you a ride home,” Claire said. “It’s the least I can do.”
    “Oh, there’s no need,” Dixwell broke in. “I can take him.”
    “You cannot!” Anne’s voice shot through the wind, clear and penetrating even at a distance. She was standing on the front porch with her hands on her hips, sheltered from the rain.
    “What about the car?” Dixwell said. “We can’t …”
    “We’ll deal with it in the morning,” Anne responded, even louder.
    “But he’s way out of Claire’s way,” Dixwell called back.
    “Dixwell, don’t make me wake the neighbors,” Anne shouted, louder still. Dixwell tucked his chin in, looking alarmed.
    “That would be terrific,” Norcross said to Claire. “I mean, I’d very much appreciate that.”
    Dixwell hurriedly said his good-byes and walked up the driveway, bent against the slippery incline. David and Claire waved to Anne, and to Gerry and Brittany, who had joined her in the doorway. Anne swung her arms in an exaggerated fashion, like someone guiding an airplane into a gate.
    “Well, finally,” Claire said, her eyes shining in the darkness. “Let’s go.”

7
    S andra Hudson, the wife of Clarence “Moon” Hudson, woke with a leaping heart and a prickle of fear running up the back of her neck. The rain rattled steadily on the roof, and the sleet clicked against the windows. Someone, she was sure, was trying to get into their apartment. She could almost feel the weight of feet on the sagging front porch, hear the soft creak and strain of the door being tested. Was that a muffled voice? A thump?
    She reached over and prodded Moon, sleeping deeply, as he always did, on the far edge of their bed. He didn’t stir.
    Moon’s broad back exuded that heavenly, warm yeasty smell that, even in her jangled state, brought Sandra a wave of comfort. They had known each other two years now and had been married just under a year. Their baby, Grace (her grandmother’s name), would be six months old next week. Like her daddy, she was a good sleeper.
    It was probably nothing, and Sandra knew Moon would tease her again about her suburban nerves, but she needed to see his slow smile and hear his reassuring voice. She’d loved the way he talked right from their first meeting.
    Sandra met Moon at the University of Massachusetts while she was working on her master’s in library science. She’d seen him in the student union and, like everyone, was intimidated by him at first. His chiseled features were usually expressionless and made him seem reserved and aloof. He was nearly six feet, broad-shouldered, and very dark. A long, pinkish-gray scar drew a ragged furrow on his forearm. People gave him space.
    Sandra asked around and learned that Moon was attending UMass part-time through the University Without Walls program. He lived in Holyoke, and the word was he’d spent time on the streets, running with the gangs. Two or three times, in the cafeteria line or buying coffee in the morning, he caught her checking him out. She turned away and brushed her hair back in her most