Grave Situation (47 page)

He charged at his son.

In a panicky reflex, Herb shot the
knife out in front of him, felt the blade penetrate his father’s
abdomen as the man’s forward momentum carried him into it. He
grunted, sour breath expelling from his mouth.

Herb pivoted out of the way and his
father tumbled to the floor in a heap. He struggled to get back up,
fell down again to his hands and knees. The handle of the knife
stuck out of his belly.

Herb gaped in disbelief.

To him, his father suddenly seemed
old, broken, vulnerable. His look to his son was furtive, almost
timid. The fury in his eyes had dissolved.

“I was your father,” he choked.
“Your flesh and blood.”

To Herb’s amazement, his vision
became blurred with tears.

“You were never a father to me.”
He fought to steady his voice. “Never.”

A look of incredulity crossed the
man’s face. Gingerly, he touched the handle of the knife. His shirt
was becoming red around the guard. Throat working, Herb watched him
with a pity that he never thought possible.

“I was better…” The man coughed
and blood flecked his lips. “I was better to you than my father
ever was to me.”

Herb couldn’t stand to hear
anymore. He ran out of the parlor for the house. Behind him he
could hear his father calling after him.

“Herbie…call me an ambulance.
Herbieee.”

Herb burst open the door of the
kitchen. Overcome with emotion he crumpled against the cupboard and
sobbed.

Hours later, after he had summoned
enough courage to return to the parlor, he found his father dead on
the floor.

* * *

Swallowing, Herb’s thoughts shifted
back to the present.

A tremor ran through his words as
he spoke aloud to his father. “What would it have been like had you
only loved me?

“Childhood is supposed to be a
time of happiness, of magical things. Not of suffering and
worry.”

Herb touched his eyes and exhaled a
shaky breath. He gazed out at the green sweep of mountains. The sky
above them was a flawless splash of blue. In the quiet he could
hear a few crows cawing.

When at last he looked at his
father’s grave again, tears rolled down Herb’s face. He didn’t try
to stop them. This reservoir of emotion had to be emptied—just like
the unresolved matters he had to finally get off his
chest.

“You only fostered in me,” he
said, wincing, “everything that was bad in you. I guess there never
was any hope that I could live a normal life. Even with you gone,
the pain never left. Nor did the memories.

“Maybe it’s only now that I can
understand the circumstances that shaped the man you were. As much
as I tried to avoid it, I turned out even worse than you. God only
knows what I might’ve become had I left this place before
everything happened.

“I’m sorry,
Father. But even now on the eve on my own end, I can’t forgive you.
All I can ask is that you understand why I did what I did. And
maybe forgive
me.
”

Herb turned away and began walking
back to the farmhouse with his head down.

He didn’t plan to see this time
tomorrow.

48

Halifax, May 24

8:16 a.m.

There was a rose etched in the
upper corner of the granite headstone. With tired eyes, Allan read
the inscription:

Beloved husband and
father

Cecil M. Drake

August 23, 1954 – April 29,
2010

Absent from the body, Present with
the Lord

For perhaps the second time since
being laid to rest, Cecil Drake was about to be
unearthed.

Allan stood in the Gate of Heaven
Cemetery in Sackville, watching the gravediggers prepare to lift
the casket out of the ground. Since an excavator could disturb and
damage neighboring plots, they were using a chain hoist and gantry
instead. It was set up directly over the hole so the casket could
be brought up by hand.

Privacy screens surrounded the area
to keep out inquisitive eyes. Everyone allowed inside the perimeter
had to be dressed in protective clothing and respirators—Jim Lucas,
who documented all stages of the exhumation with his camera; Harvey
Doucette, who sifted through the excavated soil if the casket
wasn’t intact; the superintendent of the cemetery and a man from
the Department of Health, who oversaw everything going on; and, of
course, the gravediggers.

Only one person who needed to be
there was absent—Doctor Coulter. Allan had purposely given him a
later time to arrive.

He checked his watch, 8:25 am.
Thirty-five minutes to go. He tilted his head back and shut his
eyes, expelling a breath that warmed his face beneath the
mask.

For the first time in his career he
hoped his gut was wrong.

The morning was warming under a
clear sky. Around him came the sounds of briskly moving traffic on
Highway 101.

When Allan opened his eyes, he
noted the diggers looping heavy slings around either end of the
casket and then attaching them to a large snap hook at the end of
the hoist’s chain suspended above them. As they climbed from the
pit, the first man out began pulling down on one of the chain
loops, while the other guided the casket to the surface.

Allan moved aside. The casket, he
saw, looked expensive. Here and there the high-gloss finish peeked
out from the dirt and grime. Crosses were engraved in the corners
and decorative swing handles ran down both sides.

The diggers pushed the casket to
one side of the gantry and then carefully lowered it onto a metal
carriage next to the hole.

Allan stepped closer, examining the
bottom edges of the casket lids. He found striation and impression
marks in the wood where the locks were. Gently, he lifted on each
lid to see if it would open.

Both would.

He shook his head, suddenly filled
with revulsion. There was no question now. Someone had broken
in.

Allan cringed at the thought of
what he might find inside.

He called Jim over to photograph
the marks.

“I can cast those impressions with
silicone rubber,” Jim said, snapping his camera.

Allan remembered the pry bar found
in Eagles’ trunk. “I’ll get you the suspected tool so you make a
comparison.”

“When’s Coulter
coming?”

Allan glanced at the time again:
8:47. “Soon.”

“He should’ve been here throughout
the exhumation.”

“I know,” Allan said
simply.

He told the gravediggers to leave
the partitioned area. When they were gone, Allan lifted the top lid
of the casket a few inches to allow any gases to escape. He waited
only briefly before he swung both lids fully open.

As his gaze fell into the casket,
he felt himself swallow.

In repose, Cecil Drake was waxen,
mannequin-like. He was dressed in a navy suit with a white shirt
and striped tie. There were no shoes or socks on his
feet.

“Jesus Christ.”

The voice, close to his ear,
startled Allan. Jim had just seen the wickedness inside the
casket.

The sleeves of Cecil’s suit jacket
and shirt had been cut off and tossed on top of his legs. Both arms
below the elbows were missing.

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Jim
asked. “Is this why you were in Acresville?”

“Yes,” he answered softly. “I’m
going to break protocol here, Jim. I know Coulter isn’t present,
but there’s something I need to see.”

Allan reached in and pushed aside
Cecil’s tie. Pausing a moment, he looked into the dead man’s
face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I
mean no disrespect.”

As he began to unbutton the suit
jacket, Jim put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey! What are you doing,
man?”

Allan snapped his head around.
“Stand down. Please.”

Without another word, Jim took one
step back, then another.

Allan turned back to the body. He
fumbled with the buttons on Cecil’s shirt all the way down to the
trousers. When he finished, he felt a weird tingle on his
skin.

Goddamnit, I hope it’s not
so.

He opened the shirt and then
winced. It was as he had expected, but it never lessened the
shock.

A Y-shaped seam ran down Cecil’s
torso.

Allan closed the casket lids and
walked away. There had to be a simple explanation, he brooded.
Still he couldn’t piece it together. Logic seemed just out of his
reach.

Murders. Grave robberies. Body
parts.

Body parts.

That’s what it’s been all about, he
realized.

But why?

Deep in thought, Allan left the
exhumation site and removed the mask from his face. He saw
Coulter’s van pulling into the cemetery. The time was
8:58.

Coulter parked behind Allan’s car
and got out. He was dressed in Tyvek coveralls and he was
alone.

Allan went over to him.

“Morning, Lieutenant.” Coulter
greeted. “It’s shaping up to be a nice day.”

“That it is, Doctor. Where’s your
assistant?”

“Called in sick this morning. Said
he’s feeling fluey.” Coulter looked over at the partition of
privacy screens. “What’s going on? You started without
me?”

“We did,” Allan answered
matter-of-factly.

Coulter’s eyes narrowed. “What do
you mean? You know I’m supposed to be present.”

Allan gave a dismissive shrug. “I
know that, Doctor.”

“What’s going on, Lieutenant? Why
are we even here?”

“We’re here because of Cecil
Drake,” Allan said. “Do you remember him? Fifty-five year old male.
You performed the autopsy, didn’t you?”

Coulter licked his lips. “Yes. I
couldn’t understand why you were exhuming his body.”

Allan studied him. How many years,
he wondered, had he known Coulter, the medical examiner who seemed
so dedicated to his work, so professional. Was it possible to
misjudge someone that badly?

“How’d Cecil Drake die?” Allan
asked him.

“Aneurysm, if I remember
correctly. He died suddenly at home after being in apparent good
health.” Coulter put both hands on his hips. “Why was he
exhumed?”

“To find out if he still had both
arms, which he doesn’t.”

Coulter looked surprised.
“What?”

“Yesterday in Acresville we found
an amputated set of arms in the trunk of a car. The car’s owner was
shot dead.” Allan unzipped the front of his coveralls, retrieved
the notebook found in Eagles’ car and gave it to Coulter. “Cecil
Drake’s name is in there with a check mark beside it. Cathy Ambré’s
name is in there as well. Only her name has no check mark. I don’t
know what that means. Her grave didn’t look tampered with, but we
have twenty-four hour surveillance at the cemetery where she’s
buried.”

Coulter quietly thumbed through the
pages of the notebook. “I know these people.”

“You did autopsies on all of
them?”

“I think so.” Coulter frowned. “I
have to check my records to make sure.”

“Hector Walsh isn’t in there,”
Allan said. “I don’t know what that means yet.”

Coulter looked up. “You told me his
grave was dug up in Acresville. But no parts were
taken.”

“That’s right and I’m not sure
why. What I do know is that someone is targeting people on whom you
performed autopsies, Doctor.” Allan leveled a finger at him.
“Everything points back to you.”

Coulter blinked, swallowing. “My
God, you…you think I’m involved in this?” he stammered. “How long
have we been friends and colleagues, Al?”

It was the first time, Allan
realized, Coulter had ever addressed him by his
nickname.

“Who else would I suspect?” His
voice rose. “Who else was at each and every autopsy?”

A moment of awkward silence passed
as both men stared at each other.

When Coulter spoke at last, his
voice came out as a near whisper. “Lawrence. He was at all of
them.”

“How well do you know the
guy?”

“Not very.”

“He’s only been with you for a
year or so, hasn’t he?”

“Not even that long. I hired him
last August.”

Allan paused, staring down at the
ground.

“You enjoy this work?”

“Very much so.”

“It never bothers you? The sights
and smells?”

Sodero shook his head. “Not really,
Lieutenant. I find the human body very fascinating. I realized when
I dissected a fetal pig back in grade ten biology class I would
someday get into this type of work.”