Grave Intent (21 page)

The elfish look on Wilson’s face told Michael
there was more to the story than he was letting on.

“What else?” Michael asked.

“Huh?”

“There’s something you’re not telling
me.”

“Uh—no. That’s it. I swear to—”

“Dad . . .”

“Okay, okay, so there’s the thing with one of
the back windows on your house,” Wilson blurted.

“What about it?”

Wilson sat up straighter and stuck his hands
between his knees. “I kind of broke it.”

Michael frowned. “Why?”

“Well . . . well, dammit, I didn’t mean to.
It just kinda happened. I didn’t want you to find out about me
taking the medallion, so . . . ” He looked down at his knees. “Shit
. . . okay, so I tried to get into your house without you knowing.
Tried jimmying the window, but the sonofabitch broke.” Wilson let
out a thin, regretful snort and shook his head. “All that trouble,
and I couldn’t even pull myself up through it.”

Michael didn’t know whether to hit him, this
time on purpose, or fall on the floor from shock at having been
told the truth. He did neither. He just stood, staring at Wilson,
wondering what was going on. Ever since the incident in the
embalming room, when he’d inadvertently punched him in the jaw,
something seemed to be changing with his father. Admitting his
faults—owning up to his actions—telling the truth—well, eventually
telling the truth. Definite changes. Big ones. It made Michael
nervous.

Deciding it better not to kick a zebra while
it was in the throes of possible mutation, Michael bypassed the
window incident and said, “Then we’ll search my house.”

Wilson looked up at him with a shocked
expression. “You’re . . . you’re not pissed?”

“I’m not jumping for joy over the fact that
you tried breaking into the house, but at least you told me the
truth about it. The most important thing right now is getting that
gold piece back to the Stevensons. Once you return it, and maybe
with a little damage control, you might only have to spend a year
in prison instead of ten.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Michael allowed the following silence to
breed into a level of discomfort that made Wilson chew on his upper
lip.

Finally, Michael said, “All right, we’ll
start with this—I’ll go to the house and look for the coin. You
finish aspirating the body in the prep room. I don’t want to leave
it overnight. When you’re done, come meet me. We’ll figure out what
to do from there.”

Wilson stood up and glanced around nervously.
“How come I’m the one who has to stay?”

Michael eyed him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll aspirate,” Wilson said,
then trudged off to the prep room, grumbling.

Still amazed at the seemingly evolving
Wilson, Michael left the funeral home and headed across the street
for home.

Ponderous clouds clotted the dark, western
sky, and Michael spotted lightning knit the horizon to the
firmament. The lightning quickly grew in frequency and brightness,
and Michael loitered, watching the light show. Each flash brought
to mind the events of his day. The Stevenson service, the missing
coin, the shadows he’d chased, hitting his father, the vanishing
old man. Alone, each had been duly weird, frustrating, a challenge
he’d never faced before. But now, reviewing them collectively,
Michael had the odd feeling they were like the lightning, all
warning signs, but of some strange, cosmic storm preparing to
strike.

Michael quickened his steps and wiggled the
knot loose on his tie. “You’re flaking out, Savoy,” he muttered.
“You need sleep.”

By the time he reached home, Michael
remembered the broken window his father had told him about. At this
late hour, it would be impossible to find a repairman to fix it.
He’d have to find a trash bag or piece of cardboard to tape over
the hole before the rain came.

“Thanks, Dad,” he mumbled, and entered his
house. For a moment, Michael stood by the kitchen door, breathing
in familiar scents. Janet’s favorite lavender soap, lemon furniture
polish, a hint of chicken stew.

He went to the refrigerator and opened it.
Just as he suspected, a blue Tupperware bowl sat on the second
shelf with a note taped to the lid. It read: Supper. Please eat!
Love, me.

Loneliness settled over him. Though they’d
only left that afternoon, Michael missed his family. The special
smile Janet always gave him when he came home from work. The way
Ellie bounced around his legs, always so excited to see him. Her
bright blue eyes always lit up something in his heart that he
would’ve died for.

With a sigh, Michael removed the bowl from
the fridge, placed it on the counter, then glanced over at the
kitchen clock. A quarter to eleven. Way past Ellie’s bedtime, but
if he was lucky, Janet might still be awake.

Michael grabbed the cordless phone and dialed
the number to the cabin. After two short rings, he heard a
recorded, female voice say, “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy
now. Please try your call again later.”

He hung up and carried the phone with him to
the bathroom.

A quick inspection of the tidy, blue-carpeted
room turned up nothing but the standard bathroom essentials.
Michael checked behind the door and found one of Ellie’s butterfly
barrettes on the floor. He picked it up and without thinking, stuck
it into his pant’s pocket, then moved on to the tub. No gold piece
there, either, just yellow, nonskid appliqués shaped like
daisies.

Michael lowered the lid to the toilet and
sat. He considered the possibility that his father might have been
lying to throw him off track. Maybe Wilson already hocked the
piece. But if he’d sold it to a pawnshop, there would have been no
need for him to admit he’d broken the window. The confession
would’ve been useless and dumb, even for his father. That left
Michael with Wilson’s original story. If his father had come into
the bathroom, removed his jacket, and the coin fell out, logically,
it should still be here. Logic was one thing, however, reality
often another. The damned coin wasn’t here.

Giving his brains a rest, Michael punched the
redial button on the phone, then once again listened to the two
short rings and, “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy now. Please
try your call again later.”

“Shit.” Michael didn’t know anything about
phone circuitry, but he figured if the technology was available to
send men to the moon, somebody should be able to get a simple phone
call through to Carlton, Louisiana.

He clicked off the phone and with a groan,
got to his feet and went back into the kitchen.

Once there, he placed the telephone back on
its charger, then retraced what he thought his father’s steps might
have been from the kitchen door to the bathroom. Along the way, he
looked behind doors and under furniture.

Still no coin.

Michael repeated the same process from the
living room door to the bathroom, just in case Wilson had come in
from that direction. It yielded the same results—nothing.

Deciding to wait until his father returned
before going through another search, Michael detoured to the
kitchen. He divided the stew into two portions so Wilson would have
something to eat later, then heated his share in the microwave.

Twenty minutes later, with his stomach full
and eyelids drooping, Michael plodded off to his recliner in the
living room.

“Just for a minute,” he said aloud, settling
into the chair. “I’ll sit for only a minute.”

Almost immediately, Michael felt his
breathing deepen and his mouth go slack. He lifted his head,
thinking he’d better get up. The chair was too comfortable, and he
too tired. Not a good combination for someone who needed to stay
awake. But he allowed his head to drop back and his eyes to
close.

A little bit longer
, he thought.
That’s all. I promise
.

His last thought before falling into deep
sleep came by way of an image. Anna Stevenson’s worried face. She
was saying something—warning him—crying. . .

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By late afternoon, gray clouds hung over the
fairgrounds like thick fungus. Janet swatted at a fly with the
notepad she’d used to tally the day’s sales.

“Not a bad haul,” she said to Sylvia.
“Forty-eight dollars and only two pies left.”

“I say that calls for a break.” Sylvia wiped
sweat from her face with a paper towel.“We might be closing shop
early anyhow by the looks of this weather.” She stuck her head out
from under the tin awning of the concession stand and peered up at
the sky. “Could use a little sprinkle to get rid of this heat.”

“That’s for sure.” Janet tossed the notepad
into a cardboard box. “Why don’t you go and get something to drink?
I’ll stay here until you get back.”

“And miss sticking that skinny hairdresser,
Mae Beth, with one of these pies? Not a chance.” Sylvia stuck a
hand into her blouse to adjust a bra strap. “I forked out nearly
four bucks for one of Mae Beth’s barbecue dinners at noon, so she
owes me. You go on and find Rodney and the girls. Take a little
walk, stretch your legs. You can bring me a lemonade on your way
back.”

Janet gave her a little salute. “Yes, ma’am.
I’m not going to argue with a deal like that.”

“Good.” Sylvia said, perching on a wooden
stool. “Take your time.”

With a wave, Janet left the concession stand
and headed for the midway. The air was still and scented with
cotton candy, roasted hot dogs, and horse dung from the nearby pony
rides.

She paused near the Tilt-A-Whirl and watched
the buckets twist and race at breakneck speed. Its prismatic light
show flashed to the beat of an old Beach Boys’ tune. A few feet
away, staggered like giant toys on display, the Rocket Swing and
Zipper, Snake Coaster and Tornado called to only the bravest of
hearts. Chattering, flush-faced kids squirmed in lines, waiting
their turn. Just beyond them were rides more suited to Janet’s
taste, the merry-go-round, kiddy boats, and bumper cars. She’d
never been able to handle the spin, height, or speed of the other
rides, even as a little girl. Just looking at the Ferris wheel,
which she spotted churning in the distance, made her feel queasy
and light-headed.

She concentrated on the nearby barkers who
shouted their bargains to passersby.

“Two tries for a buck, five for two,” one
called as he threw darts at inflated balloons on a corkboard behind
him. “Best deal of the day!”

“Right here, pretty lady, right here,”
another cried after her. “Three balls for two bucks. Make the hoop
and win yourself a stuffed panda.”

Janet smiled politely and shook her head.

“Aw, come on. I’ll even give you a free
throw. How ‘bout it?”

“Maybe later.” Janet spotted Rodney, Ellie,
and Heather at the Ring-Toss booth and headed toward them.

As she stepped up behind the threesome,
Rodney tossed a rubber ring at a pegboard. It fell to the ground
with a plop.

“Doggone it,” Rodney said. He slapped five
dollars on the counter.

“Yeah, doggone it!” the girls chorused.

Janet watched the scrawny teen running the
Toss, scoop up Rodney’s money, then place three more rings on the
counter.

“Three’s a charm,” Janet said. She reached
around Rodney to tickle Ellie’s ear, happy to see her daughter
smiling. Last night, after the humming episode, Ellie wound up
tossing and turning in her sleep. Four times she’d cried out for
Janet, and all four times when Janet rushed to her bedside, Ellie
detailed the same nightmare. A man wearing a white hat chased her.
He ran fast, Ellie claimed, because he could turn into a dog with
big, long legs. She also said that a woman with pointy black hair,
which, after deciphering Ellie’s adamant gestures, Janet translated
to mean a widow’s peak, tried to help her. But the dog-man was
bigger and ran faster, and just when he was about to bite into her
leg, Ellie would wake up. She’d looked so exhausted this morning,
Janet had considered canceling the fair. But after an hour of the
girls’ begging, she’d conceded. Now, judging by the shine in
Ellie’s eyes, it had been the right call.

“Hey there, Little Bit,” Rodney said,
grinning over his shoulder. “‘Bout time Syl let you out that
cage.”

Ellie scrambled to Janet’s side and tugged on
her blouse. “Mama, look what Mr. Rodney’s gonna win for me.” Her
face radiated with excitement as she pointed to the shelves of
prizes along the inside of the booth. There were stuffed dogs and
giraffes, posters of the latest teen heartthrobs, flags and
whistles, pouches and zippered bags, and on the very top shelf, a
menagerie of handblown glass animals. Each item had a numbered tag
hanging from it, which Janet assumed corresponded to the numbers
taped below each peg that jutted out from the back wall.

“Which one?” Janet asked her.

“That one.” Ellie jabbed the air with a
finger. “Number—uh—” She looked up at Rodney.

“Forty-two,” he said with his hands cupped
around his mouth as though sharing a covert code.

“Yeah, forty-two.” Ellie pointed again.

Janet surveyed the numbered tags. “Which
one’s forty-two?”

“Up there,” Ellie said, jumping up and down.
“The pony.”

Heather’s head poked out from around Rodney’s
side. “I’m getting the big Pooh bear,” she announced.

Janet spied the Pooh bear sitting on a bottom
shelf with the rest of the stuffed animals, but the only horse she
saw was one made of glass. It sat on the corner of the top shelf
and was about the size of Ellie’s hand. The transparent head was
thrown back, its nostrils flared, and the large, red glass eyes
appeared frozen in virulent madness. An orange tag with the number
42 hung around its neck. The sight of the glass beast made Janet
uneasy.

“Why not try for a stuffed giraffe?” she
coaxed.