A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique

few seconds, Ted’s doppelgänger materialized out of the mist. A light drizzle seemed to accompany him.
    â€œWhat is it, Uncle Newly?”
    â€œTake Nakayla to your patrol car and write down the list of names she gives you.”
    â€œI was helping the techs,” he complained, clearly wanting to stay at the scene.
    â€œI can help the techs. These names are a priority.”
    â€œOkay.” Al Newland pulled out his flashlight and flipped it on. “I’m parked down at the lower roadblock on College.”
    â€œAl Newland, can you come here?” The voice came from the glow of the bridge lights.
    â€œHe’s doing something for me,” Newly shouted.
    â€œThen have him check his shoe covers,” the bodiless voice demanded. “We found a ripped fragment and none of us has a tear.”
    Al played his flashlight over first one foot and then the other. The booties were intact.
    â€œI’d better get over there,” Newly said. “Take Nakayla, Al. Ted, wait with Sam till Tuck returns.”
    Ten minutes later, Tuck Efird and a couple of uniforms walked from the road to the small clearing where we stood on the fringe of the woods under an oak whose few remaining leaves offered a little shelter.
    â€œNewly wants me to give you a statement,” I said.
    â€œWhatever gets me out of the rain.” Efird shifted his weight from side to side with nervous energy.
    Wiry and twenty pounds lighter and twenty years younger than Newly Newland, Efird reminded me of a feral cat anxious to pounce on anything that came within range. And, like a cat, he apparently didn’t like water.
    â€œLet’s go to your car,” he said. “It’s closer.”
    When we reached the underside of the bridge’s arch, Efird quickened his pace and stepped away from me, hugging the edge of the road so that he could put as much distance as possible between himself and Molly’s body. He got in the passenger side of my CR-V, leaned across the seat and pushed the driver’s door open. As I slid in, I saw the rain on Efird’s cheeks wasn’t as heavy as the tears around his eyes. He pulled a note pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
    Without looking at me, he said, “You know what I need to know.”
    I gave him a concise summary of events from the time I checked in with Nathan Armitage, picked up my walkie-talkie, and drove to the bridge. I told him that I’d seen Hewitt Donaldson and Tom Peterson who were also getting their communications equipment. Tom was headed for the Grove Park Inn and Hewitt’s area was near a haunted B & B on the Hendersonville Highway. Neither had a storytelling role like me, but were simply on standby should some problem develop along the bus routes.
    â€œDidn’t you wonder why Molly didn’t show?” he asked.
    â€œYes. I radioed that she hadn’t arrived.”
    â€œDid you walk up the road to see if her car was parked above?”
    â€œNo. Our instructions were to meet under the bridge. There was no reason to go to the upper level. Did you find any tire tracks?”
    Efird ignored my question. “So, Molly was supposed to appear under the bridge?”
    â€œYes. But when the first bus arrived, I went through my ‘Helen, come forth!’ routine, thinking maybe she’d improvised and decided to appear at the top.”
    â€œWas that rope part of the props?”
    â€œNo. Molly was going to walk out of the dark asking if anyone had seen her daughter. That’s the way Helen’s sightings have been reported.”
    Efird drummed his pen on the note pad. “Well, did you see anything at all?”
    â€œThe occasional car came by while I was waiting. I saw headlights of a few going up to the houses, but if someone cut their lights, I wouldn’t have known they stopped atop the bridge.”
    â€œSo, you didn’t hear anything?”
    â€œNothing that caught my