Find Her a Grave (24 page)

“You’re right, of course. But you should consider that, if we have it here, in the passenger’s compartment, and we’re stopped by the police, we would have to kill them.”

Fabrese took his eyes off the road, looked at the other man. Chin allowed himself a small smile. The message: yes, Chin would do it—kill a policeman, no questions asked. Suddenly Fabrese felt himself go hollow at his center. How had it happened that he was driving down this dark, deserted two-lane road, heading for a tiny town he’d never heard of, taking orders from a Chinaman he hadn’t even known a week ago? All he’d had was a name and a city: Brian Chin, available for hire, an independent operator with an organization that ticked like a watch.

Strange bedfellows, someone had once written.

Dead bedfellows?

Now Chin was nodding. Saying quietly: “All right. Pull over.”

As Fabrese braked the car to a stop, Chin reached across, took the keys from the ignition, swung the passenger door open. There was a thump as the trunk lid came up, another thump as the lid slammed down. Carrying the compact rifle, Chin reappeared beside the car and got back in. He handed over the keys, glanced at the scanner as the Buick’s engine came to life. Only one of the five distance calibration lights shone.

“Hurry,” Chin urged. “We’re losing them. Floorboard it.”

As the car surged forward, screaming through the gears at full throttle, tires shrieking, rear end fishtailing, Chin braced himself as he turned the rifle upside down, checked the magazine. Yes, the tab showed twenty cartridges, a full load. He drew back the bolt, let it slam forward, set the safety, and tested it. The rifle was ready to fire. He propped it on the floor, with the barrel between his thigh and the door panel. The car was rocking precariously as it gathered speed: eighty-five, and still accelerating. The scanner still showed only one light; the heading was still constant. Ahead, the road was completely dark, with no winking taillights.

“That’s fast enough for this road,” Chin said. “Back off.”

“What’s the scanner say?”

“It says back off, dammit.”

Fabrese glanced at the speedometer; the needle touched ninety. He eased off, gripped the wheel more firmly. Asking: “So what
is
the goddam plan? I say we should wait until they start digging, then hit them.”

“Are you willing to kill them?” Chin asked the question quietly, frowning slightly as he spoke, as if he were puzzled. “All three of them? Is it worth that much to you?”

“For half a million, I’m ready to kill them.” But as he said it, Fabrese felt conviction dissolve, fall away. Only the emptiness was left, most certainly revealed in his face, himself betraying himself, his own worst enemy. It had always been like this, the prisoner of his own fear, a nameless desperation that numbed the senses, left him helpless.

Never had he killed anyone. Never.

On the scanner, the second light came on. Then, quickly, a third.

“Slow down,” Chin ordered sharply. “Fifty. Forty-five.
Now.”

As Fabrese stepped on the brake, Chin spoke calmly, concisely: “If we can, we will do as you say. But we must be careful. The woman, surely, will be present, wherever it is that they dig. And one of the men, too. But the other man will probably be the lookout. So we must be very careful. Very deliberate.” As he spoke, Chin saw the lights of a town materializing ahead. Just as, a half hour ago, Isleton had materialized on the eastern horizon.

Fowler’s Landing.

Certainly, Fowler’s Landing was just ahead.

There were four taillights ahead now. And a shift in heading. Bernhardt was slowing for the tiny town, and now turning thirty degrees to the north, away from the levee road.

“Slow down to about twenty,” Chin said. “We’re close now. Very close.”

E
XCEPT FOR ONE TAVERN
that had attracted a small cluster of cars and pickups, the single main street of Fowler’s Landing was deserted. Downshifting, Bernhardt spoke into the walkie-talkie: “We’re in town. Where’re you?”

“Maybe a mile behind you,” Tate answered.

“Any lights in your mirror?”

“There was one pair until a few minutes ago. Then they either doused their lights or else turned off. Jesus, this place is empty. I never
been
in a place like this.”

Bernhardt smiled, a surprise to himself. “What’s the matter, C.B.? Afraid of the dark?”

“Man, maybe that’s it. Seems like I want to feel the pavement, see a few streetlights, even if they’re busted out.”

“Well, just think about—”

“There,” Louise interrupted, pointing to a narrow road that led off into the night. Repeating urgently: “There, that’s the road to the cemetery.”

“How far on that road?”

“Two miles,” she answered. “Maybe three.” Her voice was hushed. In the dim light, her eyes were awed. Bernhardt saw her swallow once—twice. Watching her, he felt the sudden emptiness of fear.

He turned onto the road, stopped, switched off his lights. Leaving the engine running, he keyed the walkie-talkie again. Saying: “We’re on the last leg, C.B. When you get into town, you’ll see a tavern on your right. It’s the only place that’s open, as far as I can see. Drive two streets past the tavern, then turn right. You’ll see me, parked. When we see each other, I’ll move out. Louise says the road is gravel once we get away from town. I’m going to use my parking lights.”

“How far should I stay back?”

“Maybe two hundred yards, something like that.”

“Right.”

“How’re your butterflies behaving?”

“No comment.”

There was a short silence. Then, still staring straight ahead, Louise said, “You’re friends, the two of you. Aren’t you?” In her voice, Bernhardt could clearly hear a kind of puzzlement. In her forty years, had she known many blacks? Any blacks?

“That’s right,” he said, “we’re friends.”

“Is he a private investigator, too?”

“No. He’s a bounty hunter. A very successful bounty hunter.”

She frowned. “What’s that mean—bounty hunter?”

“If someone is arrested, the judge sets bail. If the bad guy can put up ten percent, a bailbondsman posts the rest of it with the court. If the bad guy jumps bail, the court issues a warrant, and the bailbondsman pays C.B. to go find the bad guy and bring him back.”

She nodded, then said, “The woman—Paula. She works for you.”

Bernhardt considered, decided to say, “She works for me part-time. Otherwise—” He hesitated. “Otherwise, we’re friends. Good friends.”

“She seems very nice. Pretty, too. Very pretty.”

“When she got out of college, she tried acting, down in Hollywood. She was off to a good start. But then she made the mistake of marrying a scriptwriter.” Ruefully, he smiled. “Don’t let Angela marry a scriptwriter. She—”

In the mirror, he saw headlights, quickly replaced by parking lights. Tate had found the turnoff. Bernhardt spoke into the walkie-talkie: “Okay, here I go. Let’s see how the parking lights work on this road.” He put the Honda in gear, moved out. The graveled road was narrow and uneven, but there was enough moonlight to avoid the worst of the potholes. Ahead, in the direction of the levee, Bernhardt saw a low-lying whiteness.

“Fog,” Louise said.

“Do you think it’ll come in over the cemetery?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been here at night.”

Now they were passing a cluster of buildings on the right: apparently a house surrounded by several one-story warehouses.

“That’s a catfish farm,” Louise said. “As far as I know, except for stores that sell bait and tackle to weekend fishermen, that’s the only business around here that amounts to anything.”

“How much farther?”

“I think we’re about halfway.”

Bernhardt relayed the information to Tate, adding, “There’s fog ahead, it looks like. It’s coming from the water—the estuary.”

“I see it,” Tate answered.

“Anything behind you?”

“Nothing.” Then: “Maybe the fog’s a plus.”

“Maybe,” Bernhardt answered.

“How much farther?”

“Less than a mile.” Bernhardt looked at Louise for confirmation.

She nodded, licked her lips, nodded again. She raised her hand to point ahead. “There. It’s right up there, across the road from that little grove of trees.”

“This road—does it continue on, beyond the cemetery?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve only been here twice since the funeral.” She considered, then spoke defensively: “See, I haven’t had a car since my mother died.”

“The checks from your father quit coming. Is that it?”

“They came, but not so often. And not so big. My father didn’t like my choice of husbands. And he didn’t like Walter, either. Walter Draper, the guy I was living with in San Francisco.”

“So he cut back on your checks.”

She made no reply.

“Do you have any idea how deep the stuff’s buried?”

“No.”

“Bacardo came up here yesterday to look things over. Could he guess how hard it’d be to dig it up?”

“He didn’t think it’d take long. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“I keep wondering,” Bernhardt said, “whether he could’ve gotten the treasure when he came up here. I keep wondering whether he’s made Cella a present of it, to show his loyalty.” Without waiting for a response, Bernhardt went to the walkie-talkie again: “C.B.”

“Right here.”

“There’s a little grove of trees up ahead, right across from the entrance to the cemetery. If possible, I’ll park in there, out of sight. The road probably goes on. See if you can find a place beyond the cemetery to park so you’re concealed. Then take the guns and walk back to me. I’ll wait at my car for you. If everything looks all right, Louise and I’ll go into the cemetery. You can stay near my car, out of sight.”

“If there’s going to be a problem,” Tate said, “it’ll probably happen after we get the stuff.”

“I know.”

“If I were them,” Tate said, “considering the terrain, and how this is pretty much a moonscape out here, I think I’d figure on bringing, say, four cars. I’d blockade this road ahead and behind. That’s unless I got turned on by the idea of hiding my guys behind tombstones, something colorful like that.”

Within two hundred feet of the iron fence that surrounded the cemetery, Bernhardt downshifted to first gear. Lights out, they were crawling ahead.

“Okay,” he said into the walkie-talkie, his voice hushed. “Okay, here we go. It looks like I can get the car maybe half out of sight.”

“Hmm.”

Bernhardt gave the walkie-talkie to Louise, stopped the Honda at the small grove of trees. Yes, there was room enough between two large sycamores to conceal most of the car from casual observation. Bernhardt backed in between the two trees, switched off the engine, put the transmission in park, then turned to Louise. “If you want to do it, you can tell me now where the stuff is. You can stay in the car while I get it. You’ll have C.B. here with you.” As he spoke, he twisted, opened the duffel bag, withdrew two flashlights.

“I can’t tell you where it is. I mean—” She drew a deep, tremulous breath. “I mean, I
can
tell you, but then you’d still have to look for it. And that’d take time.”

As he waited for her to go on, he saw Tate’s Ford come into view, slowly passing from right to left. As Tate drew even, Bernhardt saw the big black man raise a forefinger—then two fingers, the victory sign. Bernhardt watched the Ford pass beyond the cemetery and then disappear, blocked out by the trees that concealed Bernhardt. Finally the walkie-talkie crackled to life.

“There’s no place where I can get the car out of sight,” Tate said. “No cover, except for those trees you’re in. I’m coming back to where you are.”

“Okay,” Bernhardt said. “Let’s just get it done, the sooner the better.”

“I agree. Definitely, I agree.” And, moments later, the Ford appeared, running with only the parking lights.

Acutely aware of his own anxiety, the growing fear that somewhere in the darkness there was danger, Bernhardt swung open his car door. Ordering brusquely: “Okay, let’s do it.” He took a flashlight and the shovel from the station wagon, closed the doors, gave the second flashlight to Louise. He walked to the front of the Honda. Also out of the car, Louise came to stand timidly beside him. Bernhardt looked at her one last time, handed her the walkie-talkie, her assigned task. He forced a smile. Then they were walking across the gravel road to the graveyard.

“N
OTHING,” FABRESE SAID, PEERING
out into the darkness. They sat in the Buick. They were parked on the shoulder of the gravel road, lights out. “Are you sure they’re stopped?

“They’ve been stopped for two or three minutes.” As Chin spoke, he glanced again at the scanner: all five lights were lit. Bernhardt’s car, then, was less than a half mile ahead, invisible in the dark, featureless landscape. Conclusion: the quarry had gone to ground. Without doubt, Bernhardt’s car was parked in the small grove of trees just ahead, the only identifiable feature of a dark, desolate landscape. Chin was aware of a sudden breathless constriction across his chest. He recognized the feeling. It was the excitement of the hunter, closing in for the kill. He switched off the scanner, touched the breech of the M-16, close beside him. Was the rifle set for single shot, not automatic fire? He glanced down, verified that, yes, the rifle would fire single shots. And, yes, the rifle was still on safety, with a round in the chamber.

“So what do we do?” Fabrese demanded. “Walk? Do we walk from here? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“No,” Chin answered, “I think we should drive ahead. But slowly. Very quietly, very slowly, without lights. I think another hundred yards, and we’ll see their cars.”

“Okay.” Fabrese put the Buick in gear, began their slow, blind progress. In the last several minutes fog had begun to drift around them. Was it an advantage? For whom—which side? “Okay,” he repeated. “But as far as I can see, you’ve fucked this whole thing up. If we had two cars, one of us could stay here and the other one could go ahead, beyond them. Then we’d have them bottled up. Another M-Sixteen, an Uzi, one of those, and we’d blast the shit out of them.”

“That’s one way,” Chin answered calmly. “A war—three bodies, two cars shot up, all before we knew they really had the jewels. Is that your plan?” For the first time he allowed the contempt he felt for this repulsive little man to surface.