Grave Intent (28 page)

Wilson had spent most of the night sitting
against the north wall, keeping watch through a two-foot by
three-foot, screened air vent. From there, he could see Lester’s
red Suburban parked a block away.

Sleep must have crept up on him because the
next thing Wilson knew, he’d awakened to gray, hazy daylight and
voices down below. The Suburban was no longer at the corner, but
now he had a new problem to deal with. A funeral home full of
people. He’d had to wait them out because the alternative was
unthinkable. Just appearing from out of the attic meant he’d have
to explain to Michael what he’d been doing up there in the first
place. And no matter what color Wilson tried painting a lie, it
came down to the same issue. He’d been hiding up there like some
wimpy, tail-dragging pussy.

So, he’d waited, using an old vase for a
urinal and staying near the air vent where it was cooler. When the
rain came, it had cooled off considerably, and the sound of wind
and raindrops beating against the roof had lulled him in and out of
sleep. His last nap must have been a doozie because it was now
night again.

Wilson yawned and peered out of the air vent.
Under the glow of streetlights, rain fell like silver tinsel. He
pressed his face against the screen and scanned as much of the
parking lot as he could. It looked empty.And the Suburban hadn’t
reappeared.

Grinning, Wilson stood up. He yawned again,
stretched and studied the wide musty space around him. Darkness
lent little definition to the objects cluttering the room, but he
knew if he walked straight ahead twenty feet, then doglegged right,
he’d wind up at the attic door.

“Okay, old boy, it’s now or never,” he said,
and began to shuffle along, sweeping both hands out in front of him
like divining rods.

When his foot finally bumped against the bulk
of the stairs that were attached to the attic door, he paused. The
only way for him to open the door from up here would be to push
down hard on it with a foot. Once opened, the stairs would
immediately unfold. That meant noise. Lots of noise. He’d have
little chance at stealth if anyone remained downstairs.

Holding onto the corner of an old kneeler for
balance, Wilson settled a foot over the edge of the steps and
pushed. The attic door creaked open a couple of inches, then
snapped shut with a bang. He quickly lifted his foot again and this
time stomped down hard. Just as he suspected, the attic door
crashed open, and the stairs unfolded with enough noise to wake the
dead in the next parish.

Wilson held his breath and waited. No shouts
of alarm came from below. No sounds at all. He peered down through
the opening, confirmed that the immediate coast was clear, and
began his descent.

Once he reached the bottom, Wilson stood
silent, surveying the halls. When no one jumped out at him, he
refolded the stairs, closed his escape hatch, and crept down the
hallway toward the front of the building.

Light from a brass picture lamp cast a feeble
yellow glow across the intersecting corridor. Wilson took a left,
crossed the area where he and Michael had seen the old man the
night before, and shivered. The air felt heavier here, musty, like
he’d walked into some old, forgotten closet. He quickened his pace
to a near run.

His imagination kicked into gear with his
feet, and soon every shadowed chair, every curio cabinet and
occasional table seemed to inch closer to the middle of the hall as
if meaning to trip him. Wilson’s breathing became labored. He
considered turning on the next light switch he came to, but didn’t.
Someone might see the lights on from outside. He kept moving,
peering over his shoulder every few seconds.

After cornering the last hall that led to the
entrance doors, Wilson’s paranoia began to ease a little. Enough
for him to slow to a fast walk and stop hyperventilating. As a last
precaution, he whipped around, planning to take by surprise anyone
who might be lurking behind him. The only one startled, however,
was Wilson when his feet tangled together and he pitched face first
to the floor.

He groaned and was struggling back upright
when the lights from one of the viewing rooms snapped on.

“No need to get up on my account,” a gruff
voice said.

Wilson ducked reflexively, and when nothing
clobbered him, he looked up. Standing at the threshold of viewing
room A was Lester Vidrine, complete with tawny polyester suit and
Panama hat.

“You know, you really should have the lock on
that lobby window checked,” Lester said.

Wilson glanced toward the front door,
calculating the distance he’d have to run.

“Don’t be stupid,” Lester said, his face
hardening. He unbuttoned his suit coat, revealing the handle of a
.38 in the waistband of his pants. “I’m getting too damn old for a
game of tag.”

Wilson squared his shoulders. He figured he
had about two seconds to produce a brilliant excuse as to why he
didn’t have Lester’s money or wind up on his own embalming table.
“Look, Lester, buddy—”

“Don’t buddy me. Those days are over.”

“But ten years, Lester,” Wilson whined. “Ten
years, and I’ve never skated out on you once. That’s gotta count
for something.”

“Nothing counts but the last deal.”

“But—”

“My last favor to you was my coming here
instead of sending Tank. I want my money . . . now.”

Wilson cleared his throat, feeling a little
more confident. Lester showing up alone was a good sign. He’d never
known the man to shoot anyone himself. Rumor had it that blood made
Lester squeamish. Broken kneecaps were a different story. “Well,
you see . . .it’s like this. I . . . I don’t have it.”

Lester wrapped a hand around the pistol
handle. “You got one minute to reconsider what you just said.”

“Whoa, no need for the drama,” Wilson said,
holding up a hand. “All I need is a few more days, that’s all.” He
held two fingers an inch apart. “I was this close to getting it,
Lester, I swear. But something came up, and—”

Lester’s fist jackknifed across Wilson’s jaw,
dropping him to his knees.

“Play time’s over,” Lester said. “Out of the
fucking kindness of my heart, I gave you extra time. Now you wanna
screw me out of what’s mine?” He pulled the .38 out of his pants
and aimed the barrel between Wilson’s legs. “Take my stuff, I take
yours. That’s the rule.”

Wilson winced.

“You’re ball-less anyway, Savoy, so what’re
you worried about? I’d be doing every woman in America a favor by
shootin’ ‘em off.”

Thinking fast and sweating like he’d just
stepped out of a sauna, Wilson said, “Wait up, all right? Just
wait. My son’s office, we’ll go in there. I think he keeps some
cash—”

“Now you’re talking,” Lester said, and pulled
Wilson to his feet by his collar. “Lead the way,
buddy
.”

Before Wilson could explain that the cash in
Michael’s office might only add up to twenty bucks, he heard a deep
moan overhead.

Lester jerked his head up, throwing his hat
askew. He pointed the gun at the ceiling. “What the hell was
that?”

Instead of answering, Wilson cocked an ear
and heard jumbled, faraway voices over the moans. How could anyone
be up in the attic? He’d been up there alone. No one could have
possibly had time to sneak up there. Wilson stepped back, suddenly
desperate to hide again.

“Who the fuck’s here, Savoy?” Lester shouted.
“You got backup hiding somewhere?”

“No! I don’t know—”

A loud thump riveted both men’s attention to
the reception desk nearby. It was floating three inches off the
floor and jittering from side to side. The desk legs thumped
against the carpet with each tilt, pitching notepads, pens, and a
tissue box to the floor. The phone slid across the desk like a
hockey puck before flying off and crashing into the wall with a
loud
brrring!

Awestruck, Wilson stumbled back, flattening
himself against the wall.

“Holy fuck,” Lester muttered, and pointed a
shaking pistol at the desk. Red splotches sprang to his cheeks, and
he began to back away slowly. When he reached the front door, he
clawed blindly at the deadbolt lever until it flipped upright.

At any other time, Wilson might have laughed
at the panic plastered on Lester’s wide face. But not now.
Definitely not now.

The voices and moans, which seemed to
originate from the attic, migrated to the walls, growing louder and
angrier. The desk began a slow, end over end spin.

Lester let out a keening whine while
frantically twisting and pulling on the doorknob. “It won’t open!
Jesus, it won’t open!” He let go of the knob and kicked the door
hard. When that didn’t open it, he backed up, and aimed the .38 at
the knob.

The sound of three rapid shots jerked Wilson
into action. He ran to the door and without thinking, shoved Lester
aside. He saw two bullet holes the size of quarters in the middle
of the door, and the knob, having taken a direct hit, hung aslant.
Wilson grabbed the knob and pulled. It fell off in his hand. He
stuck two fingers in the bullet holes and yanked. The door creaked
in its jamb, but held fast.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Lester
yelled.

“How the fuck should I know?” Wilson shouted
back.

Lester pushed Wilson out of the way and tried
the bullet holes for himself. The door didn’t budge.

Wilson spotted movement to his left and
looked over in time to see the desk sailing in their direction.

“Duck!” he cried, and dropped to the
floor.

Lester fell beside him with a grunt, and his
hat popped off his head like a cork from a champagne bottle.

The desk crashed into the lobby wall and
exploded into splinters. Immediately, the clamor of voices and
moans died.

Neither man moved. They just stared at each
other, listening, waiting.

Lester was the first to lift his head, his
eyes wide. “You hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen!”

Over his hammering heart, Wilson heard low,
throaty growls coming from above. Then came the sound of heavy,
padded feet racing across the ceiling. He looked at Lester,
bewildered. “Dogs?”

“Sounds like it.”

Wondering how in the hell dogs had gotten
into the attic, Wilson scrambled to his feet. He’d had enough
Twilight Zone for one evening.

“Hey!” Lester jumped up and grabbed Wilson’s
arm. “Where the shit you think you’re going?”

“The back door and out of here,” Wilson said,
jerking his arm free

Lester glanced up nervously at the ceiling,
then waved the .38 at Wilson. “I’m in charge here, remember?”

The padded, thumping feet sounded more
frantic, the growls growing louder and closer.

“I don’t think so,” Wilson said, and took off
for the hall.

Lester caught up to him quickly and shoved
the gun barrel against Wilson’s back. “Move,” he demanded. “We’re
going out the back door.”

“No shit?”

Lester pushed him. “Just move!”

They hurried out of the lobby with Wilson
continually glancing over his shoulder, and Lester jabbing the
pistol into the small of his back.

When they reached the intersecting hall that
led to the back door, Wilson stopped short.

“Go!” Lester snapped.

Wilson held his ground, listening to the
growls overhead. “They followed us,” he said, pointing up.

Lester shoved him. “Just go!”

Wilson lurched forward, then turned left. He
swallowed hard as he approached the back door. Something didn’t
feel right. After all the weird commotion in the lobby, he felt
they were getting out far too easy.

Suddenly, Lester’s hand clamped down on
Wilson’s shoulder. “Don’t move,” he croaked. “Don’t fucking
move.”

Wilson stiffened and at first all he heard
was Lester’s rapid breathing in his ear. He started to turn his
head, and Lester’s fingers dug into his collarbone. The sounds of
snarling and the snapping of teeth quickly reached Wilson’s ear.
Lester must have heard it, too, because his grip loosened, and
Wilson felt his fingers tremble. Cautiously, hesitantly, Wilson
turned around.

At the opposite end of the hall stood a huge
Rottweiler poised for attack. Its massive head looked like an
over-inflated basketball tucked low between a two and a half-foot
shoulder span. Its dark eyes bore into them while long, sharp teeth
bared, then chomped. Its large front legs were splayed, and its
paws, the size of a man’s hands, were turned slightly inward.
Short, black hair bristled on its back.

“Call it off,” Lester gulped.

Wilson looked at him, incredulous. “You think
that
belongs to me?”

Lester raised the .38 slowly, and the dog
inched forward. Lester cursed under his breath and took aim. The
dog’s legs quickly bunched before stretching out to incredible
lengths. It rocketed toward them.

With a shout, Wilson whirled about and
sprinted for the exit. His fingers flew over the lock pad, and he
nearly cried with joy when the door opened on the first tug. His
exuberance was quickly squelched, however, when he caught sight of
a second Rottweiler guarding the concrete sidewalk outside. Nearly
twice the size of the one behind him, it crouched, ready to pounce.
Wilson slammed the door shut. Before he had time to refocus on
Lester, he heard a gunshot and spun around to see a lunging, black,
blurry mass. Two more gun blasts rang out as Lester emptied the
pistol into the beast. But instead of falling dead, the dog
vanished in a puff of smoke and wind.

Wilson gawked in disbelief.

Lester turned to him, pale and slack-jawed.
“Get outta my way,” he mumbled, and pushed Wilson aside.

“No, d-don’t,” Wilson said. “There’s another
one out there!”

Lester looked at him calmly. “Then I’ll shoot
the sonofabitch just like I did the last one. What’s it going to
do? Smoke me to death?” He ejected the empty clip from his gun,
then dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a fresh one. After
slapping it into place, Lester yanked the door open.