The Family Plot (29 page)

“Seriously? You? Ms. Savior of the Old Houses?”

“Yes. Seriously. Me. Next time we're all sitting around drinking, I'll tell you about the ghosts. I'll take rats and bugs and bats any day of the week.”

“Since when are you afraid of ghosts?” he asked, half joking and half wondering in earnest. “In our line of work, I'd think you'd get used to them.”

“I've been afraid of ghosts since I met the ones here in the Withrow house. There's one in particular, this awful girl … it's weird and bad, and … Let's just get the house into pieces and hit the road as soon as possible. Please?”

He was quiet, and then he asked: “How much have you sorted out already?”

“The carriage house and the barn are all done, except for that metal roof, but we've barely started on the house. We'll get everything but the last of the fixtures by tonight. The last thing we want to do is sleep here without power.”

“It's that bad, huh?”

“And then some. But nothing tried to murder us or scare us half to death last night, so we can swing another one—if we all stick together.”

“What do you mean, stick together?”

“I mean, we're all sleeping in the living room, with the lights on.”

“No shit?” He sounded completely baffled.

“No shit, Daddy.”

“All right, if it's that important to you … I'll pack up and see what I can do. I'll get one of the guys to watch the shop, and head down first thing in the morning. Will that make you happy?”

“Yes. Oh God, yes, it totally will. The boys will be thrilled. Thank you, Daddy.”

“No problem, baby. But what about that cemetery? Will I be able to get the trailer up to the house? You said it might be a problem.”

“Fuck the cemetery. Drive a tank over it, for all I care.”

“Wait, what? Did you talk to Old Lady Withrow about it?”

She stared out the window, down at the place where an open grave was covered by a tarp, collecting a puddle. “I talked to her, and she said it wasn't a real cemetery. Her grandpa owned a monument company, and had a funny sense of humor. Apparently it was all part of some neighborhood-wide Halloween party, back around World War I.”

“That's … that's the craziest thing I've ever heard.”

“Well, that's what she said. She swore on a stack of Bibles, ain't nobody buried there.”

“Do you believe her?”

To lie to Dad, or not to lie to Dad? Dahlia hedged her bets, and told half the truth. “I don't know. It sounds crazy, but it's within the bounds of Tennessee crazy. I looked it up online”—that was a fib, but not quite a lie—“and it's not an open cemetery so far as the county is concerned. If anybody's buried there, you couldn't prove it without a shovel.”

“That's a lovely image. Thank you, dear.”

“I'm here for you, Pops. Just get down here, would you? We'll figure everything out when you arrive.”

“I'll drag out a shorter trailer for the Bobcat, if you think we can do without the extra storage in the one-ton. You pack your trucks so tight they squeak. Do you think we can make it work?”

She mentally mapped the remaining space in the two trucks she had on hand. “I think so, yeah. Bring straps and we might be able to roll up the copper roof and tie it up. We still need to grab the stained glass, and there's a lot of it … but we'll have room. The rose transom can ride shotgun between me and Brad if it has to.”

“All right, then that's what I'll do. If worse comes to worst, I can always drive back down before the fifteenth for one more go.”

With a plan in place, they said their good-byes. Dahlia hung up, relieved that he was coming, and wondering what the hell she was going to tell him about the tarp outside, if they didn't have the time or weather to finish covering up poor Gregory.

She was doing her dad a favor, really. He was happier not knowing, she was sure of it. He could find out after the fact, when Bobby or Gabe inevitably spilled the beans; but by then it'd all be over, and he could freak out all he liked.

A prickly feeling tickled the back of her neck.

She turned around and saw nothing and no one, so it must've been the atmosphere. The broken window would let in anything, even those curly little drafts of cold, wet air. Just standing there beside it, she could almost see her breath.

“Temperature's dropping,” she muttered to herself. “I ought to throw some plastic up here before some birds or bats find their way inside. Or more bugs.”

As far as she knew, there hadn't been a good freeze yet. She'd been smacking mosquitos left and right outside, which implied the thermostat hadn't fallen that far yet. What if it froze overnight? Would they get some snow, or would all the mud freeze?

She shuddered at the thought of throwing blocks of frozen mud on top of the old soldier, but if it came to that. “Ugh.”

Back downstairs, the guys were ready to get moving. “I talked to Dad,” she informed them. “He's coming first thing in the morning, so let's cross our fingers and hope it stays too warm for ice.”

“Preach it,” Bobby muttered. “So let's quit burning daylight, huh? We've got a shit-ton of work to do if we're going to have the house ready before Uncle Chuck gets here.”

Dahlia laughed. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Bobby Dutton?”

“I am a man who's had just about enough of this bullshit house and its bullshit ghosts who like to jump you in the bathroom and give you bullshit dreams.”

She almost asked about his dreams, but didn't. “Once again, we are on the same page. If I'm not careful, I might forget you're a lazy douchebag.”

“And if I'm not careful, I might forget
you're
a controlling bitch.”

“We'll have to be on our guard, then.” She put her hands on her hips. “All right, fellas. Let's spread out and wreak some havoc. Leave the electrical fixtures for now, and leave the plumbing in the bathrooms alone—they don't have anything we want. But tonight, before bedtime, we're turning off the water, okay? Nobody gets a shower, because we're safer without them.”

Brad frowned. “What about the toilet?”

“If it's yellow, let it mellow. We'll fill up a few buckets to flush, and leave them in the tub. But once that's done, I want the water
off
.”

“Where's the main?” Bobby asked.

“I haven't the foggiest. Check around outside—it can't be far off. But there's no rush for now. As long as you get it done before dark, I'll be happy.” Dog tired and desperately wanting a nap, she tried not to sound exhausted when she continued, “So here's where we're at: I want Gabe and Bobby on the stone mantels and surrounds, because those things are fucking heavy. Brad, me and you will start tackling the smaller things, like some of the stained glass and the gothic windows above the kitchen—”

“Are you calling me a puss?” he objected.

“No, I'm saying more than two people on those stone surrounds will be too many cooks in the kitchen. Bobby and Gabe, if you need help, you holler for us.”

“Yes ma'am,” Gabe promised.

“When we're all done—hopefully before lunch, but afterwards, if it comes to that—we'll pool our elbow grease and start grabbing whatever's upstairs, then work our way downstairs, and then to the floors.”

“Give me your keys, and I'll pull both trucks up as close as I can get them,” Bobby offered. “Some of that old shit won't stand for getting wet, and the marble won't travel across the yard too well.”

“I like it.” She fished her keys out of her pocket and chucked them into his open palm. “Bring those bad boys around, and haul in what's left of the tools. Let's make this happen.”

Gabe took his father's keys and made for the other truck. Brad turned to Dahlia and asked, “Got anything in particular in mind for me? I kind of … I don't know where to start.”

“You could start in the kitchen if you want. We've eaten through most of our food, and the rest will fit in the coolers. The cabinets and appliances look like shit, but double-check and make sure all the cabinets are sad mid-century particleboard. If some of the original stuff is there, and it's solid, let me know. Check the dumbwaiter and find out what's at the bottom. Go exploring along those back stairs, and see if there's anything worth grabbing, and look under the house, while you're at it. Gas fixtures are fair game, so grab them if they're good—because the gas has been off for years. Everything in this house has been electric since the sixties. If the fixtures are newer, or they're rewired for electricity, don't touch them until we've closed down the breakers.”

His chin was up and down, following along with her off-the-cuff instructions and getting the idea. “And if I run across anything, but I'm not sure—I'll set it aside and ask you later.”

“Good man. Yes. Do that.”

“Where are you starting?”

“Upstairs,” she said firmly. “I'm working top to bottom. But first, I'm going to do something about the hole in the hallway window.”

“Why?” he asked. “If we're just going to tear it out anyway?”

She went past him to one of the bags of tools and assorted useful items. A roll of duct tape was right on top. “The windows will be among the last things we yank, along with the electrics. There's no need to let the floors up there get soaked, on the off chance we can salvage what's underneath that god-awful runner. Honestly, I should've done something about it sooner.” She collected the tape and a cheap painter's tarp, then took a box cutter and carved off a large square. “But once I get that patched up, I'll make sure there's nothing worth taking from the attic, then start working my way through the second floor. When you're done in the kitchen, you can help me with the furniture. I want to take some of the things in the master bedroom, and we'll need to get inside Hazel's room—which may or may not require the Sawzall.”

“Hazel's room?” He gave her a funny look.

“Oh, the locked one up there. It was open last night and me and Gabe took a look around. But it's locked now, so unless she sees fit to open it up again, we'll have to cut the door. I'd rather not, but I guess it's up to her.” She said that last part loudly, in case Hazel was listening.

“You are so weird.”

“
I'm
weird? Should I bring up your speculative grave robbing again?”

His face went sour. “I wish you wouldn't.”

She stopped. “All right, then I won't. But we need to do something about that tarp and that body before my dad gets here, and you offered to fill the grave back in. Pack it down good, and throw some rocks over it—if you can find any gravel, that'd be perfect. Daddy might need to drive over it when he gets here.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Then pitch me something else,” she commanded. “You're the one who made this mess.”

“Do … do you think Chuck will fire me, if he finds out about it?”

No, she didn't. Her dad was the softest touch this side of the river, but she was annoyed with Brad, and she didn't feel like reassuring him. “I don't know, man. Either he'll laugh it off, or he'll call the cops and pretend he's never heard of you. So if I were you, I'd bury the poor guy again, and keep my mouth shut.”

She left him and went to see about the upstairs window, stopping by the bathroom to grab a towel someone had left behind on a hook.

Carefully she swabbed the damp glass, losing another few shards in the process. They toppled out into the rain, breaking on the ground below, but she didn't hear them. The rain drowned everything out, leaving the sky too gray for morning. Even though the painter's tarp was light and opaque, once it was taped into place, the hallway felt unnaturally dark.

She stood with her back to the window and listened to the sounds of the trucks barely rumbling over the rain.

Downstairs, the clatter of cabinetry suggested Brad had started his tasks; and if the sound of truck engines straining against the wet grass and mud meant anything, Bobby and Gabe were moving, as well. It was time for Dahlia to get started, too.

A gust of wind rattled hard against the plastic patch, but didn't strain the tape too much.

“The attic it is,” Dahlia concluded, and returned the now-damp towel to the main bathroom down the hall. Before leaving, she paused and looked around the violent pink bathroom. There was nothing in particular she wanted to keep, and she sure as hell didn't want to waste time pulling pink subway tiles down from the walls. Maybe if there was literally nothing left to do, and she couldn't sleep.

She stared into the mirror, daring it to show her something other than her own damn face. “I'm on to you, Abigail,” she told her reflection. “You can't slow me down. You can't stop me, either, and that means you're going to have to leave soon. You don't have to like it, but there it is. Whatever's on the other side of … of wherever you are these days … you have to go find it.”

Out in the hall, a click and a creak echoed off the paneling.

She popped her head around the bathroom door. It looked like Hazel had decided to cooperate, because her bedroom was open once more. “Thanks,” she said to anyone who might be listening. “You're saving me a lot of trouble, and saving your door a date with a power saw.”

“Dahlia?” Bobby called loudly from downstairs. “You talking to someone up there?”

“No one but myself,” she replied in kind.

Dahlia's phone said it was barely breakfast time, but the dull gray light indoors felt like the far edge of dusk—and inside the narrow stairwell leading to the attic, she was climbing almost blind. But she knew the way by now, and didn't even hit her head when she reached the trapdoor. She pushed it up with her elbow and climbed into the angled space of wide, exposed rafters and bat shit.