Grave Situation (41 page)

“Was the blow hard enough to cause
death?”

Coulter shook his head. “Varying
levels of unconsciousness, yes. But not death.”

Allan pulled his car back onto the
road to find Fitzgerald long gone.

Trixy must’ve
been knocked unconsciousness in the Impark lot,
Allan thought.
Carried to the wharf
and had her eyes removed there before being disposed into the
harbor? That would explain the larger blood pool at the end of the
wharf.

Allan arrived at the morgue ten
minutes after Fitzgerald. He waited in the anteroom while the
coroner inspected the body. When at last he came in, there was a
puzzled expression on his face.

“Well, I have good news,” he said.
“The body is intact.”

“What?
”

Fitzgerald paused. “You seem
disappointed.”

Allan spread his hands. “More
surprised than anything. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. There is something I want
to show you.” Fitzgerald led him into the autopsy room.

The pallid, gaunt body of an
elderly man lay on the stainless steel dissection table. His
clothes and a bible were set out on the counter.

“Mister Walsh was autopsied,”
Fitzgerald said, indicating the stitched-up Y-incision in the man’s
torso. “It wasn’t me who did it.”

Allan walked over. “He was from
Fall River. Coulter would’ve been the one.”

“Do you know how he
died?”

“No,” Allan said.

“This is strange.”

“I know.”

Allan gave the body a quick
appraisal, thanked Fitzgerald, and then left. In the hallway
outside the autopsy room, he took out his pen and spiral. He opened
to a blank page and wrote:

1. Didn’t take anything.
Why?

2. Taunt?

3. Motivated by some ghoulish
curiosity?

4. Cold feet?

5. A statement? He knows the
information about the missing body parts was kept out of the
papers.

Allan closed the
spiral with a snap.
He called David and
told him of the discovery. For a moment, the Chief was quiet on the
other end.

“I don’t understand,” David said.
“Why go through all that work?”

“Who knows? Only he can answer
that.”

“James is going to see if he can
lift any prints from the casket. Mister Walsh will be reburied in a
new one.”

“Have him cast the tool marks as
well.”

“I will. Thank you,
Lieutenant.”

When Allan hung up, he placed
another call to Coulter’s office. Lawrence Sodero
answered.

“Hello, Lawrence. Can I speak to
the Doctor, please?”

“Lieutenant Stanton. Hang on a
sec.”

Within moments, Coulter came on the
line. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Hector Walsh,” Allan said. “What
can you tell me about him?”

“Walsh?”

“Yes. Didn’t you perform an
autopsy on him?”

A pause. “Yes, I did. Last Sunday.
Why do you ask?”

Allan told him about the
desecration, about the subsequent exhumation.

“Mister Walsh passed away in his
sleep,” Coulter told him. “His wife couldn’t wake him up on
Saturday morning. That’s how he ended up with me—to see what he
died from.”

“And what was that?”

“Heart attack.”

“I see.”

“Why are you in Acresville for
that?”

“I’ve been here since Wednesday,”
said Allan. “I’ll tell you, but this doesn’t leave our
discussion?”

“I understand,
Lieutenant.”

“The homeless man who was murdered
here was missing his hands.”

Coulter paused again. “And you
think that case is related to Trixy Ambré? Because of the
eyes?”

“I do.”

“I can see why you would. How does
the grave desecration fit in?”

A third pause. “I’m not sure. There
weren’t any parts taken from the body.”

“Well, I wish you all the best in
your investigation.”

“Thank you for your time,
Doctor.”

“Anytime, Lieutenant.”

Allan walked outside to the parking
lot and climbed into his car. He rested his head on the steering
wheel. He felt tired and troubled.

What am I not
seeing?
he wondered.
What the hell is this man up to?

43

Acresville, May 23

9:35 a.m.

When the phone rang, Herb was
sitting on the sofa with a half-emptied glass of whiskey in hand.
The wall clock showed 9:35 a.m.

Who the hell is
that?
he wondered.

He decided to ignore it. Probably a
wrong number or those annoying telemarketers trying to bum
money.

Two rings. Three. At four, the
answering machine kicked in. Through its speaker came Slick’s
voice. Slowly, Herb turned his head toward it.

“Hey, pal. I need to see you.”
There was a mix of urgency and edginess in his friend’s tone. “When
you get this, call me right back. It’s important.”

The answering machine clicked off.
Herb downed the last of the whiskey in one gulp.

What does he want?

He got up and dialed Slick’s
number. “What is it, man?”

“We need to meet.” Slick seemed
different somehow. “Now.”

“What’s this about?”

A pause. In the brief silence, the
connection seemed to fade in and out. Herb imagined his friend
talking on his cell while driving in his car.

“Something’s come up,” Slick told
him. “It’s important that I see you.”

“Why?”

“Not on the phone. Meet me where
we always do. In half an hour.”

With that, Slick hung up. Herb
released a heavy sigh as he put the phone down. He was puzzled.
What was going on?

He went to the kitchen counter and
opened the linen drawer. After moving aside a small pile of
dishtowels, he stared down at the revolver and then, taking a deep
breath, he pulled it out. The gun was as he’d always left it,
loaded and ready to use.

Herb felt foolish taking it with
him whenever he met Slick; they were friends after all. Yet with
everything that happened to him these past few weeks—the loss of
his farm, the start of that twisted job—his paranoia and mistrust
of people seemed to have only gotten worse.

He shoved the revolver in the back
of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. Then he glanced at his
wristwatch. 10 o’clock.

He drove to the forest service road
on the outskirts of town. As he turned onto it, he saw fresh tire
marks in the dirt ahead. He wondered if Slick had beaten him
here.

A quarter of a mile in and there
was no sign of him. Perhaps some forestry workers or even a Natural
Resources officer had come through. At some point, they would have
to return. This had better be quick.

Herb turned around at the meeting
spot and cut the engine. While waiting, he rolled down the window.
He leaned his head back against the rest and shut his eyes,
breathing in the pleasant smell of pine and spruce. In the trees
around him, came the sounds of birds singing. Further away,
somewhere on the mountainside, he could hear the faint buzz of
chainsaws.

He opened his eyes at the rumble of
an engine. Through the windshield, he watched Slick drive slowly
toward him. Unlike the previous times they met, he didn’t pull up
next to Herb. Instead, he parked on the other side of the road
several yards away. Herb knew something was wrong.

A few moments passed. Behind the
wheel of his car, Slick watched Herb, but made no gesture for him
to come over.

After checking the road behind him,
Herb slipped out of the truck. As he shut the door, Slick emerged
from his car. Right away, Herb noticed his tight-muscled walk and
heavy-lidded stare. Slick’s right hand was tucked away in the
pocket of a black leather jacket that seemed inappropriate for the
weather.

Without preface, Slick said, “Tell
me where you got those eyes and hands.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me where you got
them.”

Herb paused a moment, trying to
remember the name on the paper that Slick gave him prior to
starting his first job.

“Cecil Whytewood,” he answered at
last.

“You’re lying,” Slick
snapped.

Herb felt a spurt of anger. “Watch
your tone with me, man. If you want to go out there and dig up the
grave to find out for yourself, be my guest.”

Slick stepped back. His hand
remained in his pocket.

“And what if I did? Would I find
all his parts still there?”

“What the fuck are you getting
at?”

“You never went anywhere near
Whytewood’s grave,” Slick told him. “I just heard from a reliable
source that the hooker they pulled from the Halifax harbor last
week was missing her fucking eyes. And that park vagrant murdered
right here in Acresville was missing his hands. That’s where you
got those body parts. From them.”

Herb swallowed. He watched Slick’s
eyes searching his face with quick, nervous movements.

Keep calm.

“Who said?” he asked.

“The man I work for,” Slick spat.
“Like you, I’m just the hired help. He told me the cops are getting
close. They found the Walsh grave you dug up and connected it to
those murders.”

Heart racing, Herb tried to fight
back a wave of panic. He knew accepting this job had been a
mistake. There were no adequate reasons to justify his actions—he’d
murdered three people. Partly out of revenge, partly out of a wish
to redirect his pain back on the world.

Now life behind bars awaited him.
Caged like an animal. Trapped alongside lowlifes and sodomites. In
the newspapers, on the television, everyone would call him a
murderer, a madman. That would be his only lasting legacy. How had
he let this happen?

Slick took another step back. “Tell
me you never killed those people.”

Sweat dampened Herb’s forehead. He
opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t answer. Slick gaped at
having his suspicions confirmed.

“Fuck, what’ve you
done?”

Herb lowered his gaze and
swallowed.

For a moment, he didn’t want to let
her go. Somehow he felt peculiarly united with this woman. She,
like himself, had been a victim of life’s misfortunes.

He shut his eyes
tightly.

I’m sorry.

Then with a rush of power, he
hurled her into the water.

Herb flinched. Unbidden, another
memory came to mind.

As Herb reached in and yanked the
vagrant out by the lapel of his trench coat, the poor man
blanched.

A tremor carried his words,
“Whaddya doin?”

Silent, Herb hauled him to the
front of the truck and pressed him against the grille with terrible
strength. Through the vagrant’s trench coat, he could feel the
man’s thumping heartbeat, strangely mimicking Herb’s own racing
pulse. His fingers tightened on the knife hidden behind his
leg.

“Forgive me, friend,” he
whispered. “On Monday you were simply in the wrong place at the
wrong time in my life.”

He watched the vagrant’s Adam’s
apple move in one convulsive swallow, watched his eyes widen as
confusion gave way to terror.

“Buddy,” the vagrant
murmured.

Herb bit down on his lip, fighting
back a sudden rush of emotion. With great reluctance, he raised his
head to look Slick straight in the face.

In a voice laced with regret and
humiliation, he said, “The less you know, the better.”

Slick blinked.
“Have you gone fucking crazy? You killed
two
people?”

You don’t know
the half of it
, Herb
thought.

“And what you asked me to do is
somehow more acceptable?”

An expression of incredulity crept
across Slick’s face. “Murder was never part of the job.” He winced
as if his head hurt. “I never thought you’d be capable of something
like this. What the fuck happened to you, pal?”

Herb shot him a
look of marvel. “What happened to
me?
What happened to
us
, Slick? When you were
a kid, is this how you saw yourself? Look at all the things you’ve
done in your life, man. What you’re involved in right now. Had you
always wanted to be a career criminal?”

“No,” Slick hissed through
clenched teeth. “Don’t put this back on me. Murder is much worse. I
am who I am. You know that. How can you even compare what you’ve
done to what I’m doing? You knew beforehand what this job involved.
I didn’t twist your arm to take it.”