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Authors: P.J. Parrish

An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) (18 page)

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

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Louis turned quickly. “You thinking of relocating?”

“I was. But then I met my wife, Dee,” he said, turning a photo on the desk to face Louis. The woman in the picture was a brunette, maybe forty, with eyes that were not afraid to still seduce the camera.

“That was twenty years ago,” Dalum added, nodding to the books. “I kept the Florida study guide just in case she ever left me.”

Louis smiled. Dalum set out two small glasses, then picked up a ceramic decanter. It was a figurine of a drunk cop leaning against a lamppost, gun in one hand, whiskey bottle in the other. When Dalum uncapped it, a song tinkled out. “Show Me the Way to Go Home.”

Dalum poured two glasses and held one out to Louis. Louis took it down in one gulp. The burn felt good.

“So,” Dalum said, reaching for a manila folder, “you interested in what we know about Rebecca Gruber?”

Louis only nodded, his throat still on fire. He didn’t want to tell Dalum that Alice had already given him some details.

“Based on what Alice said, and the last time the salvage men saw Rebecca, we’re guessing she disappeared Tuesday afternoon,” Dalum said. “Her abductor kept her about fifteen, sixteen hours, then dumped her in the woods behind E Building, where Charlie says he found her Wednesday morning.”

“You find anything close to a murder scene?” Louis asked.

“We searched every building,” Dalum said. “We didn’t find a thing.”

Louis had another question, but he was afraid if he asked it, Dalum might think he was questioning his competence. But he wanted to know exactly where things stood.

“Have you talked to all the salvage guys? And the security guards?”

Dalum nodded. “We’ve cleared all but one, the graveyard security guy. I’ve known him for a few years, and he seems clean, but it’s hard when your alibi is working alone in a place where a murder is committed. I don’t believe he’s involved.”

Dalum was fingering the folder in his hand and he didn’t seem anxious to open it.

“You have any other locals in mind you think might be involved?” Louis asked.

Dalum shook his head.

Louis motioned toward the folder. “Is that Rebecca Gruber’s autopsy?”

Dalum sighed and opened it. “She was raped, but they didn’t find any semen or fluids. The M.E. says the perp used an object, something long and sharp, with a jagged point. It ripped up her insides pretty bad.”

Dalum’s voice had grown tight and he paused, head down. The light bathed his thick curly hair a white gold. For a few seconds, the room was very still. Then he went on.

“She was beaten and the red marks on her neck and wrists were likely restraints. She was manually strangled. He crushed some of her vertebrae.”

Dalum’s eyes flicked down to the empty shot glasses. But he kept reading. “And she was burned with a cigarette.” He slipped a photo from the folder and held it out.

It was a glossy, color photo of Rebecca Gruber’s inner thigh. In the soft depression of pale skin up near her pubic hair were three small red scabs, aligned in a row. Louis looked up. Dalum was holding a second photo of Rebecca’s other leg. It had the same three burns.

Dalum slid the photos inside the folder and set it down, dropping slowly to his chair. Louis reached for the decanter, poured two more shots, and sat down in a chair across from Dalum. They drank in silence, the rattle of the wind on the window the only sound.

The photo was vivid in Louis’s mind. Burning was the kind of thing a killer would do while the victim was alive. So he could watch her, smell her skin burn, and hear her scream.

Did you hear them?

Louis stiffened.

I heard her crying.

Where did you hear her, Charlie?

In the cemetery.

Louis stood up. “Chief, can I see Charlie?”

“Now?”

“Yes,” Louis said.

“I don’t know how much he’ll tell you,” Dalum said.

“He won’t talk to us at all. Just keeps asking about Alice and Rebecca and saying he wants to go home.”

“I have something that might help,” Louis said.

Dalum eyed Louis for a second, then stood up. “All right, then. I’ll take you to him.”

Charlie stood up quickly when he saw Chief Dalum and Louis standing at the bars to his cell. He wore an oversized gray cotton jumpsuit, the letters A.P.D. stenciled over the chest. His hair was tangled, and his face was slashed with shadows. In the dim light of the cell, he looked like a frightened animal.

Charlie didn’t move until Dalum unlocked the cell. Then he shuffled backward deeper into the shadows. Louis went in the cell and Dalum closed the door. He hesitated a minute in the corridor, then walked away.

“Hello, Charlie,” Louis said. “Do you remember me?”

Charlie nodded, his body now pressed against the wall.

Louis held out the book Alice had given him,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, making sure Charlie saw the cover. Louis had read enough of the book to know that special flowers were placed on the sleeping eyes of men and women. The juice from the flowers would leak into the eyes and when the person awoke, he or she would fall in love with the first face seen. Oberon was some kind of king who was trying to get his queen Titania to give him her baby so he could use the child as his page. But Titania had been a victim of the flowers and was in love with a man who wore the head of a donkey.

Charlie was staring at the book. “That’s Rebecca’s,” he whispered.

Louis nodded. “I know. Will you talk to me about it?”

Charlie didn’t move. Louis held out a hand, hoping to draw him back to the bunk, but Charlie stayed against the wall.

“Can you tell me what this book is about, Charlie?”

Charlie’s pale eyes clouded with confusion.

“Can you tell me about the flowers you put on Rebecca’s eyes?”

“Where are the flowers?” Charlie asked.

“The chief has them,” Louis said. “They’re safe.”

Charlie’s hand came out slowly, palm up. “Can I have that?”

Louis hesitated, then gave him the book. Charlie stayed against the wall and opened it.

“‘You spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen,’” Charlie said. “‘Newts, and blind-worms, do not wrong. Come not near our fairy queen.’”

Charlie looked up at Louis, then back at the book. “‘To bring in—God shield us!—a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing, for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living!’”

“Charlie . . .”

Charlie looked up at Louis, his eyes wide. “‘I have a reasonable good ear in music!’” he said. “‘Let us have the tongs and the bones!’”

It took Louis a second to realize Charlie wasn’t reading from the book but merely repeating words and phrases he remembered. It wasn’t making any sense and Louis let him go on until he started to turn a page; then he interrupted him.

“Charlie, I need to ask you a question.”

Charlie looked up. “‘I am slow of study . . . I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice.’”

Louis wasn’t sure how to go about this, then decided straightforward was the best. “Did you love Rebecca?” he asked.

Charlie’s eyes went back to the book in his hands. “‘This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad—’”

“Charlie, stop reading for a minute.”

The pale eyes came up to focus on Louis.

“Let’s put the book away for now, okay?”

Charlie nodded and closed the book.

“Charlie,” Louis said quietly, “did you love Rebecca?”

“Yes,” Charlie whispered.

“Did you ever tell her you loved her?”

Charlie held the book to his chest and his eyes squeezed closed. Louis suspected Charlie was about to tell him that yes, he had professed his love to Rebecca, but that Rebecca had rebuffed him.

“I was a changeling child,” Charlie said.

“A what?”

“I was Rebecca’s changeling child. She said I was left for her a long time ago because I was sick.”

Louis stifled a sigh. “Left at the hospital?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “I was left because I was sick.”

“Who left you there?”

“The fairies.”

Louis moved to the bunk, sitting down.

Charlie took a step toward him. “You don’t believe me.”

Louis looked at him quickly. He was surprised Charlie had picked up on his frustration. He hadn’t thought him capable of that kind of perception.

“Tell me again how you heard Rebecca crying,” Louis said.

“That night she cried and the graves cried back to her.”

“Have the graves cried before?”

“Sometimes.”

“When did they cry before?”

Charlie came closer, the book still against his chest, but the frightened look in his eyes was gone. “A midsummer’s night before.”

“How long is that?”

“A long time. It was warm.”

“Last summer?”

Charlie’s face blanked and Louis knew he had no conception of how long ago he heard anything. “Were you a child or a man when they cried before?”

“I am a changeling child.”

“I know that,” Louis said. “But when did the graves cry before?”

Charlie stared at him for a minute, then slowly came closer. To Louis’s surprise, he sat next to Louis on the bunk, their shoulders touching. Louis wasn’t sure where else to go with this. He could ask him about the bones, but he didn’t know how to approach it in a way Charlie would understand.

“Charlie,” Louis began, “did you ever see anyone else sleeping like Rebecca was sleeping?”

Charlie’s eyes widened, and Louis thought he even blushed.

“With no clothes on?” he asked.

“Yes,” Louis said.

His answer was whispered. “No.”

“Did you ever try to put flowers on anyone’s eyes before Rebecca?”

“No.”

Louis knew he needed to ask something else. “Charlie, do you know what sex is?”

Charlie’s gaze swung to the concrete floor and his breathing quickened. Louis didn’t make him answer. It was pretty clear he knew what it was, in some form or another.

“Did you and Rebecca have sex?”

Charlie said something, but Louis didn’t hear it. He leaned closer. “Have you?”

“‘I must go seek some dew drops here and hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear,’” Charlie whispered.

Louis touched his arm. “Charlie . . .”

“‘So we grew together, like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet a union in partition . . . two lovely berries molded on one stem—’”

“Charlie, answer my question, please. Did you have sex with Rebecca?”

When Charlie’s eyes came up, they were filled with tears. “No. That would be bad.”

Louis let it go, trying to figure out what else to ask, but nothing was coming. Maybe he would talk to Dalum about letting Alice question him. Maybe Charlie’s ramblings would make more sense to her. Or maybe they needed a psychiatrist.

Louis started to get up, but Charlie’s hand came down on his forearm. Louis almost pulled away, but he didn’t.

Charlie was staring at him, his eyes moist with a need that seemed to swell up from somewhere deep inside. In the drifting darkness of the cell, Charlie looked as sad and empty as Louis had ever seen any human being look. And in that sadness there was a speck of normalcy that told him Charlie understood he was not the same as everyone else and never would be.

Suddenly, Louis could not imagine this man putting his hands around anyone’s neck and crushing it.

“Will you read to me?” Charlie asked.

“Read?”

Charlie held out the book.

Louis hesitated, then took the paperback, opening it to the middle.

“‘I may never believe these antic fables, nor these fairy toys,’” Louis read out loud. “‘Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends—’”

Charlie interrupted. “‘The lunatic, the lover, the poet, are of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold.’”

Dalum was pouring another shot when Louis walked back into his office. He held the bottle up to ask if Louis wanted one, but Louis shook his head. He was tired. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep.

“Well?” Dalum asked.

“Nothing,” Louis said. “I can’t relate to him, Chief.”

“Sounded like you were doing a pretty fair job of it.”

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

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