Grave Situation (39 page)

Now, Herb believed, it was Slick’s
absence of conscience and of consequence that had brought him here.
A man who was driven by some misfiring machinery he could never
understand.

“My God, man. What are you
involved in?” Herb asked him, incredulous. “Hasn’t prison changed
you? I thought you turned over a new leaf when you got
out.”

Slick seemed to blink, as if taken
aback. Then he said with quiet dignity, “I did for a time. Or at
least I tried for Mom and Dad’s sake. But life after prison is
tougher than it is on the inside. I’ve come to realize that. No one
wants to hire an ex-con. You’re forever branded.

“Besides, I am who I am, pal. I
can’t change that. You can’t run away from who you really are.” He
leaned forward. “What the fuck’s in this shit town? Nothing, that’s
what. There’s no work here, no money to be made. It was your
decision to stay. I got out.”

Herb could only look at
him.

Got out for
what
? he wondered.
A better life of crime
?

Abruptly, he rose from the chair
and he walked to the fireplace. Hands on the mantle, he gazed down
into the dark hearth.

“I had no choice but to
stay.”

Across the room, he heard Slick
rise. “Because your dad walked out and left you here
alone?”

At once, Herb became very still. A
surge of emotion swept over him—fear, shame and regret.

How many times
have I betrayed everyone with that story
?

His father, overwhelmed by the
grief of his wife’s passing and the pressures of operating the
dairy farm, just packed up one day and left. No one ever questioned
it, no investigation ever launched. The man had a reputation around
town for being irrational.

In the last few weeks, Herb had
seen his world crumple, his farming business end. Now the past had
come back to haunt him.

Herb swallowed and said in a hushed
tone, “The farm was all I knew.”

“I’m offering you something to
think about.”

Herb turned a fraction. “It’s sick,
man. Not to mention immoral.”

Slick was behind him now. “It’s
immoral what the fucking government did to you. It wasn’t your
fault what happened. Big industry has been polluting the
environment for decades, but nothing has been done about it and
nothing ever will. These idiots in our government don’t care.
They’re only in it for the gold-plated pensions and outrageous
spending allowances. And to act like they care about the
environment, they pick on the little guy.” Slick put a hand on
Herb’s shoulder. “And that little guy is you, pal. Like that judge
saying that he was going to make an example out of you. That’s to
make everyone believe they’re actually cracking down on polluters.
It’s all bullshit.”

In his heart, Herb agreed with
Slick. “But do you realize what you’re asking of me?”

Slick paused a moment, considering
him. “I know this seems shocking, but after a couple of jobs, it’ll
be like clockwork.”

“I don’t know, man,” Herb
remarked, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“Please.” Slick touched his arm.
“I don’t want you to tell anyone about this. Like I said I’m
risking a lot by even telling you. There’s a lot at stake
here.”

Herb simply stared at him. He was
starting to regret allowing Slick back into his home. Through the
living room window he looked out at the front lawn, where as a
teenager, he had often tossed a football back and forth with a
scrawny, dark-haired boy he nicknamed Slick. Without realizing it
then, the two would become best friends.

Next to him, Slick stood,
quiet.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Herb said
finally. He looked at the envelope in his hand, and then handed it
back to his friend. “Sorry, man, but I can’t do this.”

Slick’s shoulders dropped. Herb saw
disappointment cross his face.

“I understand, pal.” Slick turned
his watch over. “I have to go now.”

He walked to the front door, paused
there a moment, one hand on the knob, and then stepped
outside.

Herb turned back to the fireplace.
Behind him, he heard muffled footsteps on the porch. Seconds later,
the sound of a car started and then the crunch of gravel as it
pulled away.

All at once, Herb felt deeply
lonely.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He
sat in the dark living room by himself and uncapped a bottle of
whiskey. The first swigs felt like a warm ball in his stomach,
radiating out to the rest of his body. After its calming effects
took hold, he began to reassess his life, the confusing and the
painful events of his past.

To his surprise,
he found himself weeping out of loneliness, the tribulation he had
been made
to face as a child and how
little the years since then had brought him
peace.

For a moment, he
was a boy again, terrified of his father, intimidated by the
outside world, convinced he was the failure he had been so often
told he was. Pieces of memory rode across his
mind—a frightened little boy hiding in the closet of his
bedroom to escape the booming voice of his father’s rage; a
bloodied little boy, struggling to pull himself into bed; a tearful
little boy holding the body of his dog as the last of its life
twitched away. Yards away, his father standing with a rifle cradled
in his arms.

Herb remembered a boy in elementary
school who always kept his shirtsleeves rolled down so no one could
see the bruises. Shy, distant, avoiding contact with his
classmates, ignorant teachers thought he was mentally
challenged.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to
drive out the images. As he tipped the bottle to his lips again, he
recalled the little boy sitting in his bed one night. His mother
sat beside him. In the dim glow of a bedside lamp, her face looked
drawn, sad. It was the booze, she tried to explain, that turned his
father into another man—menacing, hateful, violent.

Sober, his father was cold,
resorting only to derisive remarks or shunning his son and wife by
burying himself in the duties of the farm. But there was never any
physical abuse.

Drunk, the man became a nightmare
who unleashed his fury by pummeling his son until he
tired.

Herb put down the bottle of
whiskey, ashamed at his feelings of powerlessness. He had risen
from the depths of adversity many years ago. Now, he would have to
do it again. His deepest fear, he realized, was the uncertainty of
what lay ahead.

What do I do
now
?

Then he thought of Slick’s
offer.

I can’t do that.
Or can I
?
What
the hell do I have to lose at this point
?

Herb was drunk. He knew it. He
could feel the whiskey’s glow in his face, the dampness on his
forehead. Awkwardly, he reached for the lamp, snapped it on. Then,
pushing off the arm of the chair, he rose on his unsteady legs. He
crossed the living room, weaving as he went, until he reached the
closet by the front door. On an overhead shelf inside was a small
box. Herb brought it down and opened it. Inside was an attractive
hunting knife. Nothing more.

Hands shaking, he unsheathed the
knife. Through his drunken haze, he admired the drop point blade
and black Micarta handle with nickel silver butt and
guard.

“It’s immoral what the fucking
government did to you.”

Herb shut his eyes. Slowly, he
shook his head.

“That little guy is you, pal. They
used you…”

He staggered to the phone and
called Slick.

“Is that offer still open?” Herb
asked.

“It sure is, pal.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

A pause. “What changed your
mind?”

Herb stared at the knife in his
other hand. “I need the money.”

“And the money is good,” Slick
said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow with details on your first job.
Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it might seem.”

* * *

Herb opened his eyes and shook his
head, overwhelmed by guilt.

What have I done?

There was a movement on the road
ahead. A black car was approaching, moving slowly over the soggy
road, swerving occasionally to avoid potholes filled with
rainwater. It stopped across the road from him.

Herb picked up the envelope from
the seat and stepped out, hurrying through the rain to the
passenger door of the car. As Herb got in, Slick looked around him
with a curious expression on his face.

“Where is it?” he
asked.

“I didn’t get it.” Herb handed him
the envelope. “Sorry, man. I’m out.”

“That head was worth a lot of
money, pal.”

Herb shut his eyes, saying
nothing.

“Fuck,” Slick said. “That means
I’ll have to get it from my job. Why the change of heart? You had
no trouble getting the other parts.”

Herb looked out the side window,
staring at the rain dripping from the branches of trees. “This was
different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know.” Herb winced. “I
was there, but couldn’t do it.”

Pausing a moment, Slick counted
through the money inside the envelope, as if to make sure it was
all there.

“I’m afraid you might
crack.”

“Don’t worry.” Herb turned to him.
“I won’t run to the police, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m in
this as deep as you are.”

Slick tucked the envelope into his
pocket. “I’m disappointed, pal. Business is picking up and we
could’ve used your help.”

His cell phone rang. Herb watched
Slick listening to someone on the other end.

“Ok,” he said. “Hold on a
sec.”

Slick reached past Herb’s knees and
opened the glove box and retrieved a pen and a blue-covered
notebook. He opened it to a blank page.

“Ok, go ahead.” He scribbled with
his pen. “Got it. I have that other job tonight, but I’ll get to
this one over the weekend.”

He hung up and put the cell phone
away.

“Who was that?” Herb
asked.

“The boss,” Slick said, holding up
the notebook. “Location of my next job.”

As Herb looked at the name on the
page, a sudden image flashed in his mind—a gaunt young woman
sitting behind a birthday cake with her thumb raised in the
air.

On the page, Slick had
written:

Dartmouth Memorial
Gardens

Cathy Ambré

41

Acresville, May 21

12:02 p.m.

It was no act of murder, but it
filled Allan with a revulsion that equaled his sense of foreboding.
A light rain pattered steadily against the hood of his raincoat as
he stared down at the desecrated grave of Hector J.
Walsh.

What the hell is going on
here?

He glanced around the dreary
landscape. Nearby, David and Sam talked quietly to the cemetery’s
caretaker. His name was Jack Greer, a squat, chubby man of fifty
who was balding on top. The rain had pressed his remaining hair
flat to his head. He wore dark work pants and a flannel jacket, no
hood.

Allan watched them for a moment.
Then he focused his attention on a mound of sod heaped to one side
of the grave. Lips pursed, he stared at it.

Our guy? Has to be. Did he actually
dig it up or just made it look that way?

That question, Allan knew, would
have to be answered. He slowly shook his head, absorbing the task
in front of them.

Four boot impressions were in the
topsoil where the sod had been. He knelt to one knee for a better
look. Two, he saw, had clear details of the sole and heel design;
the other two contained a small amount of standing water. From
their general characteristics, they all appeared to have been made
by the same pair of boots.

Allan reached into a pocket of his
raincoat and produced his spiral. On a blank page, he wrote down
his time of arrival, the address of the scene, those present and
the weather conditions.

“Lieutenant.” Someone shouted
out.

Allan saw David coming
over.

“Do you need to speak to Mister
Greer?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

David motioned the caretaker to
join them. As he approached, Allan’s gaze drifted to the man’s
boots, to the mud that rimmed their soles. Inwardly, he
winced.

Let me guess.

Without ceremony Greer spoke first,
“Fuckin’ kids, I tell ya.”

Allan shot him a quizzical look.
“Pardon me?”

Greer leveled a pudgy finger at the
grave. “This,” he explained in a tone laced with anger and disgust.
“Last year, they kicked over headstones. Tossed flowers around.
They even sprayed graffiti on the wall outside. This year they’re
messing up graves.”