Find Her a Grave (23 page)

A million dollars in jewels and gold coin, the prize for interpreting these numerals and lights correctly. But make a mistake, one mistake, and the game changed, all bets canceled. Unless Fabrese believed that the treasure was within grasp, everything came tumbling down.

No, not everything. Because, back in the city, Charles Ng was about to actuate the second phase of a plan that, almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, had been nonexistent.

Simplicity …

Always, simplicity was the key.

And, yes, silence—the patience to listen, and the wisdom to analyze and make plans.

Followed, most essentially, by courage—the remorseless courage required to kill without hesitation, without mercy, without remorse.

All that the plan lacked was the exquisite taste of revenge. For all the indignities Fabrese had forced him to endure, there would be no payback, no final words, no parting smile.

I
N THE MIRROR, BERNHARDT
saw two sets of headlights behind him, one car passing another car. Guiding the Honda with one hand, he held out his right hand for the walkie-talkie. Sitting beside him, Louise dutifully handed over the radio.

“C.B.?”

“Right here,” came the prompt response.

“What are there, two cars between us now?”

“Right. That last one that passed us, I bet he was doing eighty, the dumb son of a bitch. I couldn’t see inside the car.”

“Anyone hanging back behind you?”

“Not that I can see. Maybe we should slow right down to forty, thirty-five, see who passes us, who don’t pass.”

“That’d indicate that we’re suspicious.”

“You mean we
aren’t
suspicious?”

Bernhardt made no reply.

As, closing the distance, a car from the opposite direction came abreast of Bernhardt, whizzed past, leaving the black void of the night ahead. Immediately, the car behind Bernhardt pulled out, roared past. Inside the car Bernhardt had a quick glimpse of two men, both staring straight ahead.

“That’s one between us now,” Tate said. Then: “How much farther?”

“I’ll get back to you.” Bernhardt switched off the walkie-talkie, handed it back to Louise. He took a moment to decide what he must say. Then, glancing quickly at her face profiled in the dim glow of the car’s instruments, he said, “We’ve been driving for an hour and a half. How much farther?”

“It’s—I think it’s about thirty, forty miles. Maybe a little more.”

Bernhardt drove for a time in silence before he spoke again: “I think it’s time that you tell me where we’re going. I haven’t pushed it, up to now. But C.B. and I have to know what we’re getting into, what kind of terrain. We have to make plans.”

Still staring straight ahead, Louise said nothing. Since they’d turned onto Route 12, she’d hardly spoken, except to answer questions or give cryptic directions.

“Louise?” The question was hard-edged, probing, demanding. The message: decision time had arrived, the point of no return. If she didn’t extend her trust now, Bernhardt would abort the operation.

“I’m scared.” Louise shook her head. “God, I’m scared.”

“I’d think it was pretty strange if you weren’t scared.”

“You aren’t scared.”

In the darkened car, Bernhardt smiled. “When did I say I wasn’t scared?”

She glanced at him, a quick look haunted by dark, dangerous demons. She began to speak, then broke off.

“If you want to turn around,” Bernhardt said, “that’s fine. But you’ve got to decide now. This country …” He gestured to the lowlands that surrounded them. There were no houses, no lights. Like the desert, the wetlands of the delta were unproductive, therefore unpopulated.

Therefore, tonight, potentially dangerous.

“This country,” he repeated, “we shouldn’t be out here like this if you’re having second thoughts.”

“I’m not having second thoughts. I’m just scared. Plain scared.”

“I’m not asking whether you’re scared. I’m asking you for a decision, go or no go. Now.”

She turned, searched his face. Briefly he turned to meet her gaze, then returned his eyes to the road ahead and another pair of headlights approaching. In the mirror, checking, he saw the headlights of the car that C.B. had allowed to get between them, a strategic decision. Bernhardt glanced at the odometer. He would give it five more miles. Then he would—

“We go through Isleton,” she was saying, speaking in a low, cowed voice. “Then we turn north, and follow the estuary. It—” She swallowed, searched his face one last time. “It’s a little town. It’s called Fowler’s Landing. It’s about ten miles from Isleton, maybe less. It—it’s where my grandmother was born.”

“Ah …” Encouraged, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I see.”

For a moment she lapsed into silence, as if his response had released her from the necessity of saying anything more. But then, still speaking brusquely, a command, not a request, he said, “Okay. So what then?”

“Then we—we go to the graveyard. That’s where it’s buried. In the graveyard.”

“Jesus.” In spite of himself, Bernhardt smiled out into the night. Repeating softly: “Jesus.” Then, explaining: “It’s all there, isn’t it? The buried treasure, the little town out in the middle of nowhere—the graveyard, at midnight.”

She made no response.

“This graveyard,” Bernhardt said, “how’s it situated?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it in town? Out of town?”

“It’s on the outskirts of town. There’s a gravel road on the east side of town.”

“How big is Fowler’s Landing? How many people?”

“I think it’s about three thousand people, something like that.”

“Is it incorporated? Does it have its own police force?”

“I—I don’t know. I haven’t spent that much time there. Neither did my mother. When she was still a little girl, her family moved to Sacramento. She grew up there. Then, later, they moved to Cleveland. When she was eighteen, maybe nineteen, my mother left home. She’d saved her money, from working in the dime store. Ever since she was in high school, she worked. And she—”

“Wait.” Bernhardt raised a hand. “Let’s go back to the graveyard. You know how to get there, I assume.”

She frowned. “Well, of course I do. I just told you how to get there, didn’t I?” She spoke primly, with feeling. It was the first time since they’d left San Francisco that she’d spoken decisively.

“The graveyard—are there trees around it?”

She hesitated, then spoke tentatively: “A few, but not many.”

“How long ago did your mother die?”

“It was six years ago.”

Bernhardt nodded, then said, “You have directions—instructions—on how to locate the jewels.”

“Yes …”

“Are the instructions clear?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“There must be measurements. You know—a hundred feet due north of a certain tree, something like that.”

“Well …” She nodded. “Yes, there’re directions. They aren’t very complicated. Once we get to the cemetery, it should take just a few minutes to dig it up.”

“And you’re satisfied that the instructions are perfectly clear, perfectly understandable.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Is there a fence around the cemetery?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s an iron fence. Very old, all rusted. The delta, you know—it’s very damp.”

“Is there a gate?”

“Yes, there’s a gate.”

“Locked?”

She shook her head. “No. At least, not that I remember.”

“How long has it been since you were here, Louise?” He asked the question sternly, as if he were prosecuting her.

“It’s been years. Two years, at least. But Tony Bacardo was here just yesterday.”

He nodded, held out his hand for the walkie-talkie. He pressed the “transmit” key, heard Tate’s acknowledgment, relayed Louise Rabb’s information. As the two men spoke, a sign materialized beside the road:
ISLETON, 10 MILES, POP. 6,040, ELEV. 12 FEET.

“Another twenty miles,” Bernhardt said, speaking to Tate. “Any sign we’re being followed?”

“Who’s to say? There’re three or four cars strung out back there. But they’re just headlights in the mirror.”

“In Isleton, in town, let’s pull over and stop, talk about this.”

“Right. You pull over. I’ll drive past you, then walk back, get into your car. In back.”

“Good.”

“I
T SOUNDS TO ME,
” Tate said, “like the two of you should park not too close to the gate of the cemetery. Hopefully, you should get your car out of sight. I should also park out of sight, but in a different direction, not close to your car. You should take the shovel, the two of you, and go into the cemetery, and dig up the loot—while I keep out of sight.”

They sat in Bernhardt’s station wagon. Staring straight ahead, acutely alert, Bernhardt sat behind the steering wheel. Half turned in the seat, Louise was looking back at Tate, who sat in the rear seat. Behind Tate, the shovel angled over the seat. Bernhardt’s canvas equipment bag was in the baggage compartment behind the rear seat. Like Bernhardt, Tate was scanning the cars that passed and the few pedestrians abroad in Isleton on a humid Sunday night in April. The Honda was parked in the center of town, on the north side of the square. Bernhardt looked at Louise, whose attention was still sharp-focused on C. B. Tate. Was she reassured by the big, burly black man? Or was she frightened? Did she distrust Tate because he was black? Did she, therefore, fear that Tate would kill them and take the treasure? As if she sensed Bernhardt’s unspoken questions, Louise now looked at him directly, fully. The message in her eyes was abject confusion compounded by fear and longing and, yes, suspicion.

To explore, probe the open sore, Bernhardt asked quietly, “What d’you think, Louise? How’s that sound to you?”

“I wish Tony was here,” she blurted. “Him and his people, with their guns. I wish they were here.”

“I do, too,” Bernhardt confessed. “But they aren’t. And if we’re going to do this, we do it tonight. Now. Right now.”

Bitterly, unpredictably, she snorted, a harsh, rough exclamation. “We’ve got to do it. It’s all over with me if I don’t get those jewels. You know that.” She spoke as if she were challenging him.

“Okay, then.” He twisted behind the steering wheel to look squarely at Tate. “Okay, let’s do it. You want to take the sawed-off in your car?”

“It’s whatever you say, Alan. It’s your show.” Inscrutably half smiling, Tate spoke so softly that his voice could have been a caress. Bernhardt recognized the mannerism. When violence beckoned, Tate grew still, focused inward.

“Take the sawed-off,” Bernhardt said. He watched Tate rummage in the canvas bag, come up with the shotgun, broken down into three pieces. Deftly, Tate assembled the gun, loaded it, slipped a handful of extra shells in the pocket of his jacket. Seeing Louise’s eyes grow large as she watched, Tate smiled reassuringly, patted the sawed-off affectionately. “This,” he said, “is big medicine. With one of these, nobody bothers you.”

She said nothing, gave no sign that she’d heard. Unconcerned, Tate opened the rear door, got out, slipped the sawed-off up inside his jacket, concealed.

“See you at the cemetery.” Tate waved once, then moved down the sidewalk to his Ford, parked a block away.

“T
HEY’RE MOVING,” CHIN SAID
. “Let’s go. Slowly.”

Fabrese started the Buick’s engine, put the car in gear.

“Not too fast,” Chin said as he studied the scanner. They were passing a lopsided sign that advertised motel rooms with phones and TVs. The scanner’s digital readout showed Bernhardt’s car at 347 degrees, traveling almost due north. Ahead, Chin saw Isleton materializing: a random collection of buildings surrounding a nondescript town square. Except for the lights of the town, there was only darkness.

“You’d better slow down,” Chin said. “We’ve got to find a road out of town that runs north.”

“It can’t be too much farther now. Christ, there’s nothing
out
here.”

“Which means,” Chin said, “that we must be especially careful. If we’re only three cars on a deserted road, we’re vulnerable.” They were approaching the Isleton town square now. The streets were almost deserted; in the whole downtown district, there were only two traffic lights. “There.” Chin pointed to an intersection ahead. “That must be it.”

“Fowler’s Landing? That road?”

“Yes.”

As they made the turn, Chin saw one of the scanner’s five indicator lights blink off, leaving only two still lit. “Speed up a little.” He glanced at the speedometer. “They’re probably doing fifty-five or sixty.”

As Fabrese increased their speed, the lights of Isleton quickly faded behind, leaving a darkness that surrounded them on all sides. Using a small flashlight to scan the map opened across his legs, Chin verified that they were traveling a road that followed a levee built along the western bank of the estuary that bordered Isleton, the largest town on the San Joaquin delta. Fowler’s Landing, the next town, didn’t show on the map.

The spike mike tapped into Louise Rabb’s living room had recorded a reference to Fowler’s Landing. But then the two women had gone into another room, probably the kitchen. At that distance their voices had been unintelligible. Later, though, there’d been talk of a grave.

“Christ, it’s dark out here.” Fabrese’s expression was uneasy as he stared resentfully out into the darkness. Except for the two cars far ahead, pinpoints of red taillights, the road was deserted. “This is the goddam middle of nowhere.”

“Perhaps you have lived too long in New York.” As Chin said it he glanced at the scanner, then at his compass. Yes, the two headings corresponded: 330 degrees. And, yes, Bernhardt and Tate were holding a steady sixty, about a mile and a half ahead.

“I have a feeling,” Chin said, “that they’re going to Fowler’s Landing.”

“Well, then,” Fabrese said, his voice heavily sarcastic, “Don’t you think maybe we should make some plans, figure out how we’re going to handle this? For instance, that M-Sixteen. Don’t you think we should pull over and get it out of the trunk? The way I see it, that M-Sixteen might be all the edge we have. But it sure as shit won’t help locked up.”