Find Her a Grave (25 page)

“T
HERE.” LOUISE’S VOICE WAS
a low, ragged whisper. “There—that one. It’s my—my mother’s grave. The jewels are buried—” She fell silent, one last hesitation, facing the abyss. “They’re buried behind the headstone.”

“Ah …”

A million dollars’ worth of jewels. Mafia treasure, his for the taking.

Holding an unlit flashlight in his left hand, Bernhardt propped the shovel against his thigh, took the radio from Louise.

“C.B.?” Spoken softly, cautiously.

“Yeah?”

“I’m starting to dig. It shouldn’t take long. Anything?”

“I’m not sure …” In Tate’s voice Bernhardt heard uncertainty. Or was it fear? Had he ever known Tate to be afraid? Of anything?

“What’s that mean?”

“I thought I heard a car, coming from the direction of town. But now I don’t hear anything.”

“You should get away from our cars. Why don’t you come here, inside the cemetery? We’re on the north side, left from the gate. You go to your right, keep some distance between us. You can get down beside a tombstone. That way you can—”

“A
tombstone?”
Suddenly Tate’s voice erupted in a spontaneous guffaw. “You know what? I just realized that I’m superstitious. Like, graveyards at midnight—hiding behind tombstones—all this goddam fog, suddenly. I mean, let’s dig this stuff up, then get back to the bright lights.”

“Jesus, C.B. Come
on.”

“Okay. Here I go.”

Bernhardt returned the radio to Louise, then stood motionless, staring through the gathering mist in the direction of the gate. The dim figure of Tate materialized, an outsize wraith disappearing now behind a large headstone. Tate, packing his two nine-millimeter Browning automatics, one with a twenty-shot rotary clip. Tate, with Bernhardt’s sawed-off, a walking arsenal.

Bernhardt calculated that perhaps a hundred feet separated them.

“Here.” Bernhardt gave his flashlight to Louise. Then he hefted the shovel and stepped behind her mother’s tombstone. “Shine it down there. Just for a second.”

She obeyed. The grass behind the tombstone was undisturbed.

“Ah … good.” Hearing himself say it, the words sounded like a benediction—a soulful prayer for final fulfillment. As the light winked off, he drove the spade into the hard, unyielding earth, stepped on the shovel with his full weight, turned a meager shovelful. He drove the shovel again into the earth—and again. Finally, with a foot-high mound of raw dirt beside a circular hole, he felt the shovel strike something solid, heard the dull thunk.

“Jesus,” he breathed, “there’s something there.”

Just as, from the walkie-talkie in Louise’s hand, he heard Tate’s metallic voice:

“Alan.”

Even in the single whispered word, Bernhardt could hear it: the life-or-death urgency of survival, kill or be killed.

“Gimme,”
Bernhardt hissed, putting out his hand for the radio.
“Quick.”
Then, with the radio pressed to his ear: “C.B.?”

“There’s a car, coming the way we came. It’s stopped now, engine turned off. But I can see it. And—” He broke off. There was a moment of agonizing silence. Then: “They’re getting out of the car, coming down the road. Two of them.”

“Can they see our cars?”

“Hard to tell. They will, though, before they get much closer. One of them, it looks like he’s carrying a rifle. Maybe an M-Sixteen, one of those. You know, heavy duty. This goddam fog, all I can see is shadows, like. Ghosts. They’re walking on either side of the road. You know, like skirmishers. How close are you to getting the stuff?”

“I think I’ve just found it. Anyhow, the shovel hit something solid.”

“Their timing is right on, then. Makes you wonder whether—”

The sharp crack of a single shot split the night like the crash of lightning.

“God—
damn.”
It was Tate, on the radio. “The guy with the rifle, he fell back a little. Then he let the other guy have it.”

“Jesus …” As he spoke, Bernhardt realized that he was staring down at the hole behind the tombstone. Repeating solemnly: “Jesus.”

“Now the guy with the rifle, looks like he’s going to make sure. He’s—”

Another shot.

“Yeah,” Tate breathed. “He made sure.”

Bernhardt had fallen into a crouch. But he wasn’t crouching behind the tombstone to protect himself. Revolver in hand, he was crouching in front of the hole he’d dug, as if to protect the treasure. Louise was close beside him.

“Don’t let him see you, C.B.,” Bernhardt breathed. “If he’s got an M-Sixteen, you’ve had it. That goddam sawed-off, it’s no good beyond—”

“Wait,”
Tate interrupted, his voice hardly audible now. Repeating urgently:
“Wait.
Hold on. This guy, the guy with the rifle, he’s—yeah—Christ, he’s going back to their car.”

Bernhardt realized that he was gulping incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“He’s just strolling along, carrying the rifle like he’s real comfortable with it, like that. And—yeah—he’s getting in the car now. You want my advice, get that goddam loot, whatever it is, and let’s go home.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s starting the car, I think. And—yeah, there go the headlights. Looks like he don’t care, now. Looks like he’s finished up here, and he’s going home.” Tate’s voice was louder now, more confident.

Still pressed close to Bernhardt, Louise began to mutter, “It’s a trick. They’re all around us, in the dark. They waited for us to find the jewels. And now they’ll kill us.” She began to cry: dry, desperate sobs. Then, fervently thankful: “Thank God I didn’t let her come.”

For a moment Bernhardt stared at her incredulously. Angela, she meant. She thought they were going to die. She was grateful that it would be her, not her child.

Suddenly Bernhardt put the radio on the ground, took up the shovel, began furiously digging. Whispering, “Shut up. They aren’t going to kill us. So shut up.”

As, to the west, he saw the flash of headlights. The intruder—the murderer—was backing and filling on the narrow gravel road until, finally, he could go back down the road toward Fowler’s Landing, taillights winking.

Again and again now, the spade was striking something solid. The treasure, surely the treasure. Mafia gold. The walkie-talking was crackling; Tate was transmitting. Breathing hard, Bernhardt snatched up the radio.

“Well?” Tate demanded. “How much longer?”

“A couple of minutes, no more. Shut up and let me dig, why don’t you?” And to Louise: “You shut up, too. And get your head down. If you’re worried, get your goddam head down.” He laid the radio on the grass behind the grave and began desperately digging. Three more shovelsful, then four, and he took up the flashlight, shone the light down in the hole. A white cylinder was visible, half uncovered.

A million dollars encased in a white sewer pipe. Gleaming in the flashlight’s beam like a bleached skull.

“My God,” Louise breathed. “My God, there it is.”

Bernhardt laid the shovel aside, fell to his knees, began scraping at the dirt with his hands.

“Hurry,” Louise breathed. She, too, was on her knees, working with her hands, clawing the dirt.

“Wait.” He kicked at the half-exposed canister. Feeling it shift, he grasped it with both hands, felt it shift again. Flat on the ground now, he twisted the canister—and felt it come free. On his knees, he was holding it in both hands: the million-dollar prize. Somberly, he presented the trophy to Louise. Then he keyed the walkie-talkie.

“Got it,” he breathed. “We
got
it, C.B.”

“All
right.”
It was a jubilant response. Then, urgently: “So let’s
go,
man. This place, it’s giving me the creeps.”

“I’m going to fill in the hole first.” And to Louise: “Take it to C.B. Wait there for me.”

Obediently, she rose, took the canister with both hands, as if she were serving at an altar. In the dim light, her eyes were rapt.

Bernhardt began filling the hole, urgently bent to the task. From the surrounding darkness, in the mist rising from the graveyard, how many eyes were watching?

How many bodies would the authorities find tomorrow?

Hastily, he finished the job, replaced the sod, tramped it down. In two hours, they would be back in San Francisco: the five of them safe at his flat, guarding the treasure.

Bernhardt slipped the flashlight into the pocket of his jacket, loosened the .357 in its holster, picked up the shovel and the radio. Now he was walking between the tombstones in the direction of the gate. To the left of the gate, inside the cemetery, he could make out two figures: Tate and Louise, waiting for him. Together, they would go to their cars. When they were under way, he would call Paula on the cellular phone, tell her they’d found the treasure.

Or, more precisely, tell her they’d found a length of white plastic sewer pipe, capped at either end, that rattled when it was shaken.

A small cylinder that, already tonight, had cost one man his life.

They gathered at the gate: Louise with the canister, the men carrying the guns, the radios, the shovel, and the flashlights.

“What about that dead one?” Tate asked, his voice pitched low. “What’ll we do about him?”

“Where is he?” Bernhardt asked.

Tate led them from the gate to the graveled road, where he pointed in the direction of Fowler’s Landing. “He’s just off the road, on the left shoulder. Two hundred feet, maybe.”

“Here.” Bernhardt gave Tate the shovel, then began walking down the road. Yes, he could make it out: a lifeless, shapeless, blood-drenched bundle with head and hands attached, the eternal caprice of death by violence. The victim lay on his back, one arm flung wide, one leg tucked beneath the other leg, as if he’d pivoted as he fell. The head and the torso were covered with blood, soaked with blood, clotted with blood. A revolver lay about a foot from the right hand.

As he stood motionless, frozen, Bernhardt felt his stomach convulse, felt the bile begin to rise. He bit his tongue, doggedly shook his head, moved the flashlight beam from the face down to the torso, the legs, the feet, then back again. The victim was dressed as Bernhardt was dressed: dark jacket, dark jeans. The shoes, though, were tasseled black loafers, Gucci style. And beneath the roughly cut outdoor jacket, call it army surplus, Bernhardt saw a gleaming white collar and silk tie. Conclusion: this well-dressed man had gotten costumed for the part—the hunter, tracking them in the darkness.

Bernhardt straightened, took an uncertain step to his right, toward Tate and Louise. The sooner they were in their cars, under way, the safer they would be.

But in seconds, if he could bring himself to do it, he might discover a wallet, an ID. If this man had come to kill them, then he must know the assassin’s identity—a deep, primitive necessity.

Urgently, he beckoned to Tate, who immediately put the shovel aside, said something to Louise. Then, carrying the double-barreled sawed-off, Tate quickly covered the distance between them, shone his flashlight down on the body.

“Jesus.”

“Here …” Bernhardt bent over the body. “Let’s roll him over. I want to get his ID.”

Both men found a grip on the dead man’s jacket, nodded to each other, heaved in unison—then stepped quickly back as the grotesque shape seemed to momentarily prop itself on its side before, suddenly capitulating to gravity, it flopped facedown on the gravel, one arm almost touching Bernhardt as it came over, crashed to the ground. Once more, gritting his teeth, Bernhardt touched the body, feeling below the belt, above the buttocks—

—finding, yes, the rectangular bulge of a wallet. Fumbling, he withdrew the wallet. Should he thrust it in his own pocket, to be examined later, back in San Francisco?

No. Not later. If the police questioned him, found him with the wallet … even the random possibility numbed him with fear. Causing him, therefore, to leave the body as it lay and beckon to Tate, who was pocketing the dead man’s revolver. They strode quickly to the Honda. Still cradling the white plastic canister in both arms, a maternal embrace, Louise stood motionless beside the car. Bernhardt put the wallet on the car’s hood, waited for Tate to shine a light on it. Then, compartment by compartment, he emptied the wallet, spread out the contents: folding money, lots of it, a driver’s license, a few business cards. All the documents agreed: name, James Fabrese, residence, New York City. As Louise, still cradling the canister, drew close, Bernhardt took the driver’s license from its plastic sheath, held it close to the flashlight.

“Come on, Alan,” Tate urged, “let’s move it. Let’s take the money, toss the goddam wallet and the gun. Let’s—”

“Profaci,” Louise said. She spoke in a small, cowed voice. “The picture on the license. It’s Profaci.”

“Jesus.” Bernhardt looked at her. “You’re sure?”

She nodded silently, conclusively. Yes, she was sure. Dead sure.

Bernhardt looked at her for one last long moment. Then he nodded to Tate, who began stuffing the documents back into the wallet. “Here.” Tate handed over the money.

Bernhardt momentarily recoiled from the blood money. Then he saw all the fifties, all the twenties, a few tens.

“Go on.
Take
it, Alan.”

“What the hell,” Bernhardt muttered. He took the money, folded it, thrust it into his jacket pocket. Saying to Tate: “We can’t toss the wallet and the gun, not here. Our prints are all over both of them.”

“Okay.” Impatiently, Tate thrust the wallet in his own pocket. “We get to the causeway back beyond Isleton, I’ll pull over, toss it all in the water. Okay?”

Bernhardt hesitated.

“Alan—
shit
—come
on.
Let’s
split,
for God’s sake. Snap out of it, will you?” It was an order. An angry order.

As he looked at Tate he felt himself coming back to himself, once more sharp-focused, ready. It had been the blood—all that blood—and the odor of death, sights and smells that had stunned him, left him helpless.

“Okay.” He gestured Louise into the Honda, slid the shovel into the station wagon, got in behind the wheel. “Here.” He handed the walkie-talkie to the woman. “Put the jewels on the floor.” He started the car, watched Tate get into the Ford. Bernhardt held out his hand for the radio, spoke to Tate: “Let’s run on parking lights for a mile or so, then switch on the headlights.”