Uncertain Justice

Cocking his head to the right--the catch in his neck hadn't completely worked itself out--he tried to imagine a reason for the strange architecture. The house didn't seem to be using the granite wall for support where they met--it was just ... there. It didn't appear the house was modern enough to have running water. So where was the water coming from?

Too many questions and too few answers.

Shaking his head in defeat, he walked back to the front of the building and sidestepped through the narrow opening until he was again outside, leaving all the questions he had for later. There might be a clue inside the home.

His belly growling, he climbed back up the slope to his tent for his canteens. The water in the narrow channel was cold, clear, and sweet. Just what he needed to wash down a little brunch.

§

"Command Post ... Major Winters." The tent was crammed full of radios set to the various frequencies used by the search teams from as many state and federal agencies. For the moment the Major was alone, both communication specialists having trotted hastily for the short row of Porta-Potty cubicles fifty yards down the hill. Something from last night's dinner had everyone feeling a little queasy.

The secretary on the other end of the line asked him to hold for Deputy Attorney General of the United States Carl Brady and the Colorado State Patrol officer quickly agreed. His feet came off the desktop where they'd been comfortably parked while he read yet another field report and he sat up in a respectful posture.

The hoarse voice on the other end of the line was nearly impossible to understand. Its rasping, harsh intonations alternated with sibilant wheezes and stumbling halts. The pitch rose and fell without warning. It grated on the ear, wearing out the listener even as he strained to understand. He waited, more or less patiently, while the voice tried to form words.

"No, sir," he replied to a question he barely understood. "We haven't located Mr. Underwood yet. Search teams are still ... no, sir, they haven't found any trace since ... no, sir ... nothing whatsoever." The major waited through a short silence.

When the voice continued in a loud whisper, he involuntarily hunched his shoulders to concentrate all the better. The whisper was more understandable than the attempts to speak normally but now the voice had a distinct note of viciousness that hadn't been clear before.

"Yes, sir. I can assure you we are not going to rest until this fugitive is found and brought to justice," Winters assured the distant caller. "I ... yes, sir ... I can call you as soon as we find out anything. Yes, sir. I ... thank you, sir." He hung up and leaned back in his chair. A frown clouded his sunburned face.

The voice had asked, though it was plain the request was an order, for Major Winters to call the Deputy Attorney General's office if there was any sighting of Underwood. He would do that after telling his boss, of course.

It was several minutes before the significance of the caller's name struck him. The frown deepened. The term "conflict of interest" had been coined for situations like this.

§

In Washington D.C., the man to whom the Colorado officer had been talking punched a button on the phone set to terminate the call and slammed the handset into its cradle while he massaged his throat with his other hand. His voice was still not ready for the demands he was placing on it and it rebelled from time to time.

He slapped at the intercom switch to summon his secretary and made motions for a glass of water. The ceremony where the President had officially introduced him to the world as the number two man in the Department of Justice had only been the week before but the entire staff had quickly caught on to his needs.

While he waited for the girl to return with the cooling drink, he seethed. The anger burned so hot it threatened to gag him. It happened every time he thought of Underwood ... and he thought of Underwood often.

He forced himself to relax as the glass of water with a few tinkling ice cubes was placed in front of him. He waited until she closed the outer door before fumbling a pain killer from the prescription bottle. It wouldn't do for her to see him so furious. He was a federal official now, cool and remote ... a powerful man immune to minor irritations. He swallowed, the capsule hurting as it slid down his throat.

He fingered the red scar on the left side of his throat and the rage returned full strength. Over the past few months, when he bothered to examine the emotion at all, he surprised himself with the fury that built within him every time he thought of the confrontation with the fugitive ex-Army NCO.

He'd not been attacked physically since that unfortunate incident in the fourth grade and his parents had promptly dealt with that. The bully had been expelled from the academy within the week and the private school had gained a grant for a new wing on the library. Brady hadn't thought of that boy for many years.

Though a healthy youngster, he'd been too slight to participate in sandlot football games as a child. He'd been too uncoordinated to play baseball and even Sally from two blocks over had run faster than he had. His one sports injury had been a twisted ankle caused by an unseen croquet ball left behind on the back lawn. He'd never had to endure much pain before and certainly not for such an extended period. But these days, the pain from the neck wound was always there, grinding down his endurance and inflaming a surly temper he hadn't known he had.

Father and Mum were no longer around to straighten out such things now. He was personally going to see that Miles Underwood got what was coming to him. Oh, yes ... he was going to make sure the insolent thug was well taken care of. Waiting for the analgesic to take effect, he smiled for the first time that morning.

§

Mid-morning came and went before Miles was without some critical need he had to address. Shelter had been taken care of by the spacious cave but survival depended on him finding food too. A quick search along the river revealed some bushes carrying full loads of ripe berries. He picked about a quart of the ripest and stored them in the fanny pack while he explored the riverbank south of the cavern.

Scrambling over wet rocks to get beyond the southern cliff point, he found some tall cattails growing in the slow moving water of a wide bend there and harvested a half dozen of the youngest. On the way back, he found a patch of wild onions growing up against the cliff and pulled a number of them from the loose earth. By the time he got ready to climb the slope back up to the cavern, he was carrying an overflowing fanny pack of wild fruits and vegetables and there were more in the hat he was carrying now instead of wearing.

Brunch consisted of berries, raw cattail root, and strips of deer jerky washed down with mouthfuls of cold water. There were enough onions and leftover cattail roots for supper and at least breakfast tomorrow. With tonight's food and shelter already provided for, there was nothing he absolutely had to do for the time being. He relished the sensation of being rested, comfortably full, and having nothing in particular that required his attention.

The stone house caught his eye. A loose shutter on the side window flapped idly in the breeze, seeming to wave him over. So he did. Capping the canteen, Miles grabbed his flashlight and strolled over to the debris-filled terrace to examine the ruin of the stone house.

It was immediately clear there wasn't very much ruin to it. Everything looked as solid as the day it was built. Most of the 'debris' on the terrace was nothing more than broken and dead branches from pine or fir trees. Most of them had already crumbled into dust, but a couple still had a fragile integrity--enough to show what they'd once been. With a good shovel and broom, he could clear everything off in half an hour.

He thumped one of the vertical posts that supported what had been a roof with the heel of his hand. If the stout beam gave at all, he couldn't see it.

Miles rubbed his abused hand with the other. This wooden column wasn't about to crumble anytime soon ... as in this millennium.

He had some really crazy dreams last night; in his mind's eye, he could see the supports that ran from column to column and column to house overlaid with aromatic pine boughs. Rebuilding the overhead roof with limbs hacked from trees he could see just across the river would give him a shaded terrace in late afternoons and it'd be a snap to do.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. Where the hell had that idea come from? Until this moment, he hadn't thought of staying in the little valley any longer than it took to find a way out. He considered the house more closely.

What if he did stay here for a while? The valley had enough fish and other game to keep him well fed for some time. He could enjoy living in the sturdy, primitive house for a while.

He squinted, imagining himself sitting in a chair on the front terrace of this old house, kicking back and gazing out over the stream and the valley floor beyond. The picture had more than a little appeal. It would be good to stay in one place for a while--kind of like a home away from home.

Shaking off the vision, Miles climbed the broad steps from the cavern floor up to the terrace and shuffled through the remains of the tree limbs. The flat stones had been fitted together in the little courtyard as tightly as had the ones in the stone house itself ... and whoever had done it had made the patio as horizontal as anyone could wish.

The door was made of rough, thick boards split from whole tree trunks and bound together with rusty iron straps attached with crude nails. Large, clumsy iron hinges were bolted to the left side near the top and bottom. The overall impression was one of unsophisticated solidity. It wasn't pretty, but the door undoubtedly did the job it was designed for.

Miles put his hands on the right side of the door and pushed tentatively. It moved inward a little, and then stopped. When he pressed harder, the door gave a bit more but was obviously blocked by something he couldn't see. He pushed harder and heard wood creak loudly in protest, but the door didn't move any further. He stepped back to look things over.

On the right side of the door near the top, a small hole caught his eye. Protruding from it was a short, narrow length of rawhide. He didn't know what it was, but it fairly begged to be pulled. Shrugging, he pulled gently on the thin leather string. Miles could hear and feel something rasping against the wood as it moved on the inside of the door. He pulled several inches of the rawhide through the hole in the door before the dried-out strip broke just above his fingertips.

"No!" The shout echoed crazily around the cavern as Miles' left hand flew up to catch the string before it disappeared. Slapping at the hole in the door with an open palm, he captured the last inch of the rawhide strip between his little finger and the door.

Carefully, he used the fingernails of his right hand to pry the string from the surface until he could get a good grip. He got a secure hold on the brittle rawhide at the entrance to the hole and lifted as he pulled to reduce the friction between the rawhide and the wood. Slowly he nursed it out, careful to avoid jerking on the fragile remnant. He was rewarded with the sound of something rubbing against something else behind the door.

Abruptly the scraping noise ceased and the door swung inward. It opened slowly on squealing rusty hinges and bright sunshine lit the interior. Assured the entry was open, Miles released the rawhide and watched a bar fall through an arc on the inside of the door. If the door had been closed, it would have been captured and held by a U-shaped piece of iron he could see attached on the inside of the doorframe.

The latch was crude, but effective, he mused. It wouldn't have been strong enough to keep him out if he'd put the full weight of his body into forcing the door open, but he hadn't known that from the outside. There was a larger iron hook a couple of feet above the latch and another one below. Presumably, companion pieces on the other side were hidden behind the door. They were big enough to hold bars much thicker and stronger. They would have undoubtedly provided greater security.

"Interesting," Miles remarked. "So you were just keeping the rain out huh? Mind if I come inside for a bit?"

The door creaked as it opened wider.

Miles' eyes widened at the apparent reply to his question. Then he shook it off. He grinned. The breeze had pushed against the door. It had ruffled the shorthairs on the back of his neck too, giving him a chill before it died. That was all it was.

"We be telling ghost stories 'round the camp fire tonight," he joked to himself. In passing, he wondered what had happened to the resolution to quit talking to himself. He never quite managed to stop.

He stepped across the threshold to find the cabin surprisingly well lit. The sun shone brightly through the large, open doorway and less brightly through the windows too.

The rock and adobe walls were stout--easily a foot thick, maybe more. The inside of the walls were covered with a coating of light tan-colored adobe that had been carefully worked to be smooth and appealing. The interior of the hut was cool and promised to be comfortable through the warmest summer days.

A table was pushed into the corner of the house on his left, behind the door, where light from both windows would provide the best light when the door was closed. A crude chair was shoved against the table, its back to the interior of the house. Between the table and the door, there was a sturdy wooden peg holding a heavy coat. Brown and shaggy, it looked like a furry rug. Miles let his fingertips brush across the coarse hair, but he didn't dare take it off its hook.

On the other side of the room, nearly in the middle of the northern wall, was a large elevated fireplace. The wide stone hearth that wrapped completely around it was a couple feet off the floor. A big upended kettle, well blackened from frequent use in open fires, sat there as if it had been recently washed and set aside to dry. The pothook, upon which the kettle would be hung, stood ready to swing into the fireplace. Above the fireplace mantle, an old flintlock rifle rested on pegs set into the chimney. He palmed his flashlight and clicked it on to probe the far corners of the room.

The reason for the stone house sharing a corner with the cavern wall was obvious now. A slow flowing spring in the corner delivered water from a crack in the living rock to a natural stone tank whose upper surface was almost waist high.

A channel had been chiseled into the stones of the cabin's outside wall to carry the overflow from the tank down to a small hole bored through the side of the house. This was obviously the source of the trickle of water outside. Whoever had built the house had ingeniously assured themselves of a ready supply of running water that didn't have to be carried up the long grade from the river.

Between the water reservoir and the fireplace stood a delicate little table with a dust covered marble top about eighteen inches on a side. It was the only piece of professionally finished furniture in the room. A large shallow bowl and a pitcher made of fired clay sat on the table. They were arranged meticulously in the middle of the top surface, ready for instant use. A dingy mirror with an intricately carved frame hung on the wall behind the table and a narrow marble shelf was mounted immediately below. It had obviously been built as a companion piece to the table below. The fragile, almost dainty, appearance of the washstand and mirror was startlingly out of place in the primitive dwelling. Miles grinned. It made the unknown builder more human.

Staring hard into the shadows, he was sure he saw an old fashioned straight razor laying on the marble shelf. He rubbed the whiskers on his face and chin and resolved to check out the razor soon.

Against the back wall was a bunk with a pile of faded blankets heaped on it. One end was only a few feet from the water cistern. Pegs on the wall at the foot of the bed still held some crumbling, tattered scraps of clothing. There was a pile of paraphernalia on the floor at the foot of the bed between it and the southern wall. A large ax stood out, but he couldn't tell what the other things were.

"Excellent," he breathed, smiling happily. He was going to have fun sorting through all the treasures in the little hut. From surprise at himself for thinking to stay in the valley for any length of time, he'd shifted to eager anticipation. This was a good place. He liked it.

Across from the fireplace, on the southern wall, were more shelves and pegs holding instruments and gear that Miles couldn't identify. He did recognize an old "coal oil" lantern perched on the topmost shelf. A large tin sitting next to it had probably contained a supply of the flammable liquid at one time ... he doubted there would be any in it now.

Completing his circuit around the room, he found another set of pegs and more shelving set into the wall on either side of the side window. These were empty, waiting for garments or equipment to be hung there.

He suppressed a quick urge to fill the shelves and hooks with his own gear, and do it now--make this house his home.

Miles snapped off the flashlight. His eyes were adjusted to the comparative dimness and he could see well enough inside the house now. He wanted to conserve the batteries as much as he could too. When the cells he had with him expired, there would be no more.

He walked deeper into the little one-room dwelling and spun around slowly in place. His eyes were drawn to the table under the front and side windows where a slim book sat framed in a dusty shaft of sunlight.

Miles tapped the flashlight against the tabletop a couple of times and then used a bare knuckle to rap on the surface. There was a solid thump in return both times. Squatting low, he saw the tabletop was a good two inches thick. The undecorated but functional legs were double that.

The rough chair seemed sturdy enough, though not as heavily constructed as the table. Carefully, Miles pulled the chair away from the table and gently lowered himself onto the hard wooden seat. It screeched a little in protest at the burden of his two hundred-odd pounds, but didn't immediately collapse.

Wiggling his hips a little, Miles felt a little sway to the chair that he didn't like at all. The thing could fall apart at any moment. As he grabbed the edge of the table to haul himself up, his fingers touched the book on the table in front of him.

More intrigued by the book than he was concerned about the chair coming apart with him in it, Miles eased himself back down. Mindful of its fragile condition, he was careful not to put much stress on the crude chair by dropping back down into it.

Wiping his hands on his pants, Miles cautiously lifted the cover of the volume to find a folded piece of paper lying inside. He lifted the sheet carefully to reveal the front page. It was blank except for a brief handwritten proclamation.

"Zebidiah Cross, his Jurnal," it read.

"Zebidiah ... Zebidiah," Miles repeated the name a couple of times. Not a name you ran across a lot these days, he reflected. Wasn't it something out of the Bible? What the hell did old Zebidiah mean by 'jurnal.' What was a 'jurnal?' Then he had it.

"Journal! Okay ... I see ... creative spelling." Pleased to have deciphered the cryptic lettering, Miles frowned in concentration. "But why call it a journal? Miles shrugged his shoulders. The man had been entitled to call it whatever he wanted.