Grave Situation (44 page)

There was nothing left to live for.
He had no friends, no family and no future. Consciousness was a
misery that not even alcohol could relieve anymore.

Only, he thought, the gun in front
of him could do that now.

Blessed are they that mourn, for
they shall be comforted.

Tears surfaced in Herb’s eyes. It
was all a lie, every bit of it. Thirty-six years on this earth had
taught him that.

His hand trembled as he reached for
the revolver and pressed it to the side of his head. With slow
deliberation he wrapped his finger around the trigger and
squeezed.

Click.

It would be that easy.

Click.

One quick pull would end a lifetime
of suffering.

Click.

Then why was he so
afraid?

Herb took the revolver from against
the side of his head, opened the cylinder, and fed the five bullets
into it. Then he closed it with a sharp snap and laid the gun on
the table.

He rose and walked slowly to the
window. Dusk was settling over the countryside. On the far side of
the mountains, the sky glowed with gradient colors.

Herb’s gaze wandered the empty
fields of his farm and settled on an area where the north pasture
met a belt of trees and shrubbery. It was rank with overgrowth. On
a gentle slope a lone crab apple tree stood. Years ago its branches
had flourished with fruit, now they were bare and
gnarled.

As Herb stared at the tree he felt
a cold chill that bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. A
sudden memory, unbidden and unwanted, flashed before his
eyes.

He leaned heavily on the handle of
a shovel, peering down into an open grave at the foot of the tree.
Autumn leaves swirled around his feet and a crisp October breeze
chilled the sweat on his skin.

For the past two hours he had dug
the grave to a depth of three and a half feet. Not the standard
measurement, but one that would serve its purpose.

He mopped his forehead with the
sleeve of his plaid shirt and turned around. A huge gunnysack lay
sprawled next to the mound of earth he had shoveled from the hole.
It had taken him every ounce of strength to carry the sack up here.
At times he had to stop to catch his breath, as the contents inside
were heavy and awkward. During the last few legs of his trip, he
was forced to drag it.

He threw down the shovel and walked
over to the sack, looking at the bulges within. Here and there red
blotches stained the coarse fabric. He reached down and, with a
grunt of effort, hauled the sack over the edge of the grave. As it
landed inside with a heavy thump, part of a seam tore open and a
human arm, limp and bloody, fell out.

He stared at it in silence. He
wondered if he should push the arm back inside the sack.

Let the bugs take care of it, he
decided.

He bent over and picked up the
shovel, then paused a moment to stare up at the crab apple tree,
its naked branches like jagged cracks in the dreary sky. Darkness
was fast approaching and he had to finish while he could still
see.

He began shoveling soil into the
grave. Soon the top of the sack was covered; only the curled
fingers of the hand could be seen. After a few more shovelfuls,
even those disappeared.

Half an hour passed quickly. When
he finished, his face was streaked with dirt and his body trembled
with nerves and exhaustion. The day seemed surreal, a bad dream. He
felt that he should be happy or relieved in some way—he was at last
free of the fear and abuse. Still his heart ached with a deep
sorrow and regret.

Tomorrow he would have to come up
with a story and stick to it—his father, overwhelmed by his wife’s
passing and the pressures of running a failing dairy farm, just up
and left. People should believe him. After all, he was a good boy
who had never been in any trouble before.

Herb shut his eyes. He ran a hand
over the coarse stubble on his jaw and realized that he was still
trembling.

The sudden ring
of the telephone startled him. He swung around.
The clock on the wall said 7:45 pm. No one should be calling
here.

With slow steps, Herb approached
the living room. On the fourth ring, the answering machine cut in.
He waited for a message, but whoever it was didn’t leave
one.

Seconds later, the phone rang
again. He caught it on the second ring.

“Herbie?”

Herb paused. At first, he didn’t
recognize the voice. It sounded familiar, but older and rougher
somehow, one that he hadn’t heard in many years. Only the pain and
urgency in it was unmistakable.

“Missus Eagles?”

“Yes, it is. I’m calling to tell
you about Stephen.”

Herb became very still.

They found him.

“What is it?”

There was silence. Then, quite
softly, she said, “The police were just here. Stephen’s
dead.”

Herb steeled himself against his
own emotions, tried valiantly to keep his own tone from
quavering.

“How?” he asked. “When did this
happen?”

She sniffled. “Sometime today. They
told me Stephen was murdered, but wouldn’t say how.”

“Murdered?”
Despite his best efforts
to sound astonished, his voice came out flat to
him.

“Yes. The police were asking all
these questions. I thought Stephen was staying out of trouble since
he got out of prison.”

“Did the police tell you that he
was involved in something?”

“No, but they alluded to it. You
and him were always good friends, did he ever tell you about any
enemies he might’ve had?”

Herb felt his stomach
knot.

Only me.

All at once, he was hit by a wave
of shame, guilt and anguish. He knew that he would never be able to
face this woman or her husband again; a couple who had once treated
him like a second son.

“No, Missus Eagles,” he answered
finally. “He didn’t.”

“If you think of anything, could
you tell the police?”

Something caught his eye—a wash of
lights over his front windows. Someone was here.

“Herbie?”

“Can you hold on for a second?”
Herb set the phone down without waiting for the reply.

Heart pounding, he crossed the room
to the windows and peeled the curtain back an inch with his finger.
He first saw the white sedan and then the roof light bar of an
Acresville Police car.

Herb’s breath caught in his
throat.

The headlights dimmed. The engine
silenced. Both front doors opened in sync.

Paralyzed with fear, Herb watched
an older, stout man with a graying beard emerge from the
passenger’s side. Out of the driver’s side came a youngish cop with
a slim build and dark hair.

Shit.

Herb rushed back to the phone. “I’m
sorry, Missus Eagles, but the police are here.”

“I thought they might visit you,”
she said. “They asked me for the names of his friends. You’re the
only one I could think of.”

Herb wished she hadn’t said
anything. “If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to call
me.”

“I thank you, Herbie.”

Herb put down the phone. He heard
the cops on the front steps and then came a knock at the
door.

Get a grip on yourself.

He hurried to the kitchen and took
the revolver from the table, tucked it into the back of his pants
and pulled his shirt down over the gun to conceal it. The empty
casing went into his front pocket. He left the bottle of whiskey on
the table.

More knocking.

Herb released a shaky breath. He
was sober enough to answer, but before he did, he must compose
himself. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink and dried
with a dishtowel. Then he walked into the living room, switched on
the light against the impending dark, and went to the
door.

The older cop stepped forward,
holding out his hand. “I’m Chief David Brantford with the
Acresville Police,” he said graciously. “I’m looking for Mister
Herb Matteau.”

Herb accepted the hand with a firm
grip. “That would be me. How can I help you?”

“Do you know Stephen Victor
Eagles?”

Herb paused, forcing himself to
look at David. “I do. It’s tragic what happened to him.”

David tilted his head. “You heard
already?”

“His mother just called
me.”

“I’d like to ask you a few
questions. May I come in?”

Grudgingly, Herb stepped aside. He
watched David walk into the middle of the living room, take a seat
on the chesterfield, and motion the young cop to wait by the
door.

“This won’t take long, Sam,” David
told him.

As he reached into a shirt pocket
and produced a notebook and pen, Herb sat down on the chair across
from him.

“Okay,” David began, “how long
have you known Stephen?”

“Twenty-eight years or
so.”

David raised his
eyebrows. “That’s a long time. You were
close
friends?”

“Closer when we were kids than as
adults.”

“Why is that?”

Herb paused to choose his words.
“Our interests became different. He was always in trouble during
his teenage years and my mother was after me all the time to stay
away from him. Then he left Acresville when he was nineteen and
spent most of the years since in and out of prison.”

“Did he have a violent side to
him?”

“None that I saw.”

“There were never any conflicts
between the two of you?”

Herb felt himself
swallow.

Jaw clenched, Slick took one step
backward, then another. As he withdrew his hand from the pocket,
Herb froze at the sight of a black pistol.

“What are you doing, man?” Despite
his best efforts, he detected the tremor in his own voice. “You
going to shoot me now?”

Eyes moist, Slick raised the gun.
“Yes.”

“No,” Herb answered at last,
trying to keep a deadpan expression on his face. “There were never
any conflicts.”

David scribbled in his notebook.
“When was the last time you heard from him?”

Reflexively, Herb’s gaze wandered
in the direction of the answering machine. He had forgotten to
erase Slick’s message from earlier.

How much do they know?
Anything?

He couldn’t take the risk of
lying.

“He called me this morning,” Herb
told him.

David looked up. “Really? Tell me
about the conversation.”

“It was short. Stephen told me
that he had some business to take care of in town and that he might
stop by later in the day.”

“What was his
demeanor?”

“He sounded normal enough. Nothing
out of the ordinary.”

David seemed to consider
this.

“Did he tell you what this
business was about?” he asked.

“No.”

“Did it seem odd to you that he
never came by?”

Herb gave a listless shrug. “Not
really.”

David frowned. “He’s done this
before? Just never showed up after saying he would?”

“All the time.”

David stared at Herb with probing
eyes, as if appraising him.

The last person to hear from a dead
man. Am I now a suspect?

Herb became mindful of the hard
bulge at the small of his back. He could do it—pull out the
revolver and shoot both cops dead before they even knew what hit
them. Make that one final statement to this fucked-up
world.

David pocketed the notebook and
pen. Then he leaned forward and briefly tapped a finger to his
pursed lips.

“When Stephen’s
parents gave me your name,” he said, “I thought it was vaguely
familiar. Then, as we drove up to your farm, I remembered a story
that I read in the
Gazette.
You had an environmental issue here, didn’t
you?”

Herb breathed in. “I had an
effluent pond overflow and pollute the Elm River. Killed a bunch of
fish.”

“Some heavy fines were levied
against you, weren’t they?”

A slow, sick anger began to well
inside Herb. “Yes.”

David hesitated a moment. He stood
up and spread his hands. “Accidents happen, son.”

Herb stared him in the
face.

Fucking government doesn’t look at
it that way.

He watched David prepare to leave
and was grateful for it.

“I won’t take up anymore of your
time, Mister Matteau.” David said.

Herb saw him to the door. “Thank
you for stopping by.”

He watched the two cops head back
to their car and get inside. The headlights came on. The engine
started. Then the car drove away.