Final Grave
Authors: Nadja Bernitt
Final
Grave
NADJA BERNITT
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
Final Grave
Copyright © 2012 by Nadja Bernitt.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-4620-7593-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4620-7594-2 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 12/29/2011
Contents
“To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie,”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge vol. ii, (
Gipsies
)
For my husband Bob and my daughter Fran,
my two biggest fans.
I
owe thanks to so many. First to my writing group who read countless renditions of this work and who encouraged me when I needed it the most: Barbara Anton, Madonna Dries Christensen, McClaren Davies, Louie Dillon, Joanne Meyer, Peg Russell, Donna Singer, and JB Hamilton Queen. Thanks to my good friends in Boise, Greg and Marsha Johnson and Kathie Corn for their belief in the book and also to George Parker for a thorough edit. For the technical portions dealing with law enforcement, I thank Florida’s Sarasota Sheriff’s Office, Sergeants Ron Locke and Scott Osborne and the many deputies who were kind enough to answer my questions; as well as to Mel Arnold and Sergeant Linda Scown of the Ada County Sheriff’s Office in Boise who kindly showed me around and gave me a feel for crime in the northwest. A special thanks to Boise’s Basque Museum and Cultural Center’s Patty Miller. And to David Poyer and Lenore Hart who chose my book as Best Novel in the Florida First Coast Writer’s Festival and found me my agent, Jacky Sach, thank you so very much. For the many who offered advice while I wrote this piece and were not mentioned by name, please know you too were valuable resources. Finally, if I did not listen as well as I should have and there are creative deviations or technical errors—do not blame these terrific folks mentioned above.
Boise, Idaho—November 3, 1987
J
oanna Dunlap’s grocery cart steered like a wayward crab, fighting her every step as she made her way to the far end of the parking lot. She had stayed at the office too long and the ominous look of the sky promised another delay. In minutes snow would fall, backing up traffic and making her later than she already was.
One row over, a black Toyota pickup cruised parallel to her, the same one she’d seen on her way inside. Who could forget the rear window gun rack and over-sized tires? Now here were the same two boys, full of themselves with wheels to prove it.
The pickup swung into line behind her. Its music system pounded out Bruce Springstein’s
Brilliant
Disguise
. The powerful bass grew closer until it vibrated the pavement beneath her.
The truck pulled alongside and a punk in the passenger seat mashed his lips against the glass in a juvenile window kiss. He couldn’t be but a few years older than her fourteen-year-old daughter but light years younger in mental age.
Her husband’s prized Jeep was twenty yards ahead. To please him she always parked in the back to avoid dings. But there was no pleasing John these days, not with him still out of work. She tightened her grip on the grocery cart’s handle and picked up the pace.
So did the truck.
It swerved closer then lurched to a stop, the tractor tread tires barely a foot from her stack-heeled boots. She caught herself from hitting the fender but the jolt knocked the paper bags onto their sides. The milk carton and a jumble of canned goods slammed into the bag of tomatoes and lettuce.
“Damn it.”
The truck’s passenger-side window lowered. Music blared. A wisp of sweet, organic smoke wafted out. The boy’s eyes looked glassy.
“Some fine bitch,” he said, “how about some fun?” The door handle clicked, ready to open.
She had no idea what he meant to do, but positioned her cart to ram him if she had to.
A horn blasted. Joanna jerked toward the sound. A familiar red Jeep was parked beside hers, two years older but the same blood red. She called out, loudly.
Despite the music, the boys heard the horn, too. Their pickup veered away.
What timing, she thought, watching him exit the Jeep and lean against its grille. In his navy down parka and gloves, he resembled a big dark snowman. He smiled.
“You’re a welcome sight,” she said when she got closer.
“Did those creeps bother you?” he asked.
“Not really, but they could’ve run over my foot.”
He chuckled and nodded.
She was once again aware of the time and her tight schedule. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you. That pickup.”
“And you came to my rescue?” She shook her head at his obvious gallantry, the notion that she might need help.
The wind subsided and snowflakes fluttered down. Icy crystals stuck like glitter to the boughs of a white pine, hanging over the Jeeps. No way she’d get home before the sky opened.
“Well,” she said, “Thanks for stopping, but I don’t want to keep you.”
He extended his hand and tugged at a lock of her hair. “Silk mahogany.”
“Not quite.” She pushed her hair from her shoulders, aware it must look a mess. “Meri Ann’s waiting at the gym. Basketball practice. It’s almost six, and I promised I wouldn’t be late.” She checked her watch, hoping he’d get the message, but he just stood there. His presence was like a wall.
“Let me help you.”
“It’s fine, really.” She reached for the toppled milk carton, but he nudged her aside and took over the task.
“I’ve got it.” He motioned for her to unlock her back door.
She unlocked it, her impatience growing as he placed the bags of groceries on the floorboard.
He turned around, slowly. “Joanna… .”
Her name hung in the air, and she knew he wanted to say something else. She closed the door. “Thanks, really. Wish I weren’t so pressed for time.” She gave him the I’ve-got-to-go smile.
“I’ve got that kitten for Meri Ann.”
Joanna’s frustration built as she contemplated the myriad responsibilities of owning a pet. “You remembered,” she said, but without enthusiasm.
“I listen to you, but you’ve never listened to me. Not really.” He sounded angry and hurt all at once.
She’d never known how to read him, even with all the extra hours spent on his projects. Most of the time, he made her laugh with his antics or wowed her with his talent. But lately he flew off the handle over even the vaguest inequity. She shook her head in exasperation.
“If only you’d said something earlier. I’m on a tear. Can you bring the kitten over later? Please help me out.”
A snowflake stuck to his eyebrow, and he brushed it away. His movement was tight, the set of his jaw even tighter.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s just that I’ve gone out of my way to get this kitten. Now what am I supposed to do with it? I’m spending the weekend at the cabin and late getting up there. He pointed to his Jeep. “Come on, Joanna. It’s in the back.”
She rolled her eyes and gave him half a smile. “I give up.” Reluctantly she followed him to his Jeep’s tailgate
.
She shivered and rubbed her arms. Her designer jacket with the oversized shoulder pads offered little protection against the weather. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Meri Ann waiting in the same bitter cold. Feelings of guilt swept over her and she tried to reason them away
.
If
only
I
weren’t
running
late
. . . .
“It’s nice of you to do this.” She moved closer. “Is it a tabby or—?”
“Gray.”
“Meri Ann adores the gray ones. I hope it’s in a box.”
“Yup.” He fumbled with his keys. His hands were big, bigger still in his black leather gloves.
The lock clicked open. Joanna bent down. She stretched out her hands in case the kitten jumped out. The hatch inched up. She strained to see. But there was no box… no kitten.
He flew against her, knocked her off balance. His fingers bit into her arms. She reeled in confusion, struggled against him. But he was too strong. She screamed, but there was no one near enough to hear her.