Graveminder (11 page)

“Nope.”

Amity poured the pale liquid into a glass, shoved the cork back into the mouth of the bottle, and brought the wine to the bar. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.” Rebekkah wrapped her fingers around the glass. It felt fragile in her hands, enough so that for a moment she considered squeezing hard, driving shards of glass into her skin. She lifted the glass and drank half of it.

“A little space, boys?” Amity uncorked the bottle and refilled the glass. “Should I have asked, ‘Who are you looking for?’ ”

“No.” Behind her, Rebekkah could hear the door opening and closing. Footsteps clomped across the room. The door opened and closed. More footsteps sounded. The door opened again. It clicked.

“Bek?” Amity’s hand came down on Rebekkah’s. “You can handle this.”

Rebekkah nodded.

After a couple of silent minutes had passed, Rebekkah looked around. The room was empty. Bar rag in hand, Amity came out from behind the bar. From the way she was dressed, the bartender looked like she had been expecting a half-decent crowd: her short skirt and tall boots were look-at-me fare. On slow nights, Amity wore jeans—not that she looked slouchy even then—but a generous glimpse of skin helped part patrons from more of their money, so busy nights meant skirts.

“You kicked them out,” Rebekkah said.

“They didn’t have to obey me.” Amity tossed a bottle toward the trash bin as if it were a ball through a hoop.

Rebekkah left her drink behind and walked over to stand beside Amity, who was now singing softly to herself while she tossed bottles, emptied ashtrays, and swished crumbs onto the floor. Rebekkah gathered up several half-full glasses that patrons had left behind and carried them over to the bar. “Nothing shakes you, does it?”

For a moment, Amity stilled. A flicker of fear crossed her face. Then she lobbed another bottle. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Rebekkah wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask or let it go. She paused, and the moment stretched. “Maybe some night you can tell me what frightens the invincible Amity Blue.”

“Maybe,” Amity murmured. “Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.” Rebekkah walked over to the bar. She put her hand on the pass-through. “May I?”

“Sure. Hell, if you want, you can have a few shifts for as long as you’re here ... It might help keep your mind off the claustrophobia of being in Claysville,” Amity said.

“I don’t know about all of that.” Rebekkah lifted the bar flap and went behind the counter. Then she flipped it back, once more making the bartender’s domain separate from the rest of the main room. She and Amity were now on opposite sides of where they’d started the evening.

A job? In one place?
Rebekkah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a regular job. Portions of the alimony checks her mother received from her various ex-husbands and Jimmy’s very generous insurance had left her with a bank balance that never seemed to decrease much. She’d added to it with the proceeds from a few commissioned art contracts, but that was about her own self-esteem, not about need.
Jobs mean staying.
The thought of staying in one place never made sense.
Except when I’m here.

“I have questions about Maylene’s death, but that doesn’t mean ...” Rebekkah shook her head: she knew she wasn’t leaving right away. She needed answers. Weakly, she finished, “I don’t know how long I’ll be around.”

Amity’s dry tone filled the suddenly awkward pause. “Temporary is not shocking in this business, Bek. If nothing else, I’ll give you a few Bar Wench 101 classes to distract you ... unless you have another distraction lined up?”

The thought of Byron came unbidden to her mind, but using him as a distraction was wrong.
Is it?
She shoved that thought away and looked at Amity. “No. I have nothing else in mind to distract me.”

“I thought maybe you and By—”

“We’re old friends, but he’s a relationship guy and ...” Rebekkah paused at the tight smile Amity offered her. “Am I missing something?”

Amity shook her head. “I think you know a different Byron than I do.”

Rebekkah felt an awkward burst of jealousy. She didn’t look at Amity while she opened the cooler, uncorked the wine, and poured two glasses. Once she was sure the undeserved jealousy wasn’t visible in her expression, she looked at Amity. “So you know Byron?”

“There are only a few thousand people in Claysville, Bek. Most of them aren’t anywhere near as interesting as Byron.” Amity opened her arms wide. “Plus, Gallagher’s is the hottest bar in town—and I
am
the hottest barmaid in town—which means I know everyone old enough to drink.”

Rebekkah laughed. “Maybe you ought to visit me when I go ... wherever I go next.”

“I don’t think I’m the sort to go anywhere, but thanks.”

Glass in hand, Rebekkah half sat, half leaned on one of the hip-tall beer coolers and braced her feet against the stool Amity had placed behind the bar for that very purpose. “You running the place now? Last time you wrote, you said Troy was the manager. Are you two ...”

“No. Troy’s not really the commitment sort, or maybe I’m not the sort of girl guys want to commit to.” Amity shrugged. “We split up a few months ago. We’re cool, though ... or we
were
. He needed a week for personal stuff, but he was supposed to be back to work almost a month ago. No show, no call. And Daniel ... well, he might
own
the place, but he’s not saying much other than ‘Amity, you handle things.’ So I’m handling them.”

“Troy just vanished? Did he leave town?” Rebekkah’s heart felt constricted. He’d never been the responsible type, but he loved the bar. Gallagher’s and Amity were the only two reasons she’d ever seen him get excited—or possessive. In high school, they’d been in art class together, but after Ella’s death, they hadn’t really talked until she’d come back for a visit and found him slinging drinks at Gallagher’s. He’d introduced her to Amity, his younger coworker and his very obvious infatuation.

“I don’t know.” Amity wiped down the last of the tables that had been occupied earlier. “He’s just gone. Considering how rarely anyone leaves,
I
think it’s something to worry about, but what do I know, right? Daniel acts like it’s a ‘lovers’ quarrel’ thing, but Troy and me ... we weren’t like that. He wouldn’t take off because I started seeing someone new.”

“Do you think the new guy said something to Troy? Did you ask him? Troy’s a sweetie, but that might be an issue. Do they know each other? Or—”

“He ... the
new
guy
is just filling time with me, Bek. Trust me on this.”

Rebekkah couldn’t make herself ask, but she wanted to know. She wanted to not care if it was Byron, but she did care. “Maybe I ought to give him a talking-to. Have I met him?”

Amity came over to the bar, put both hands on it, and pushed up so her feet were off the floor. She leaned forward, reached under the bar, and pulled out the jukebox remote. She hopped back down and aimed the remote. “Credits. Go pick us some songs. If you’re here, might as well dance or shoot.”

“My pool skills still suck.” Rebekkah came back through the bar door. She paused beside Amity. “Did you tell Sheriff McInney?”

Amity’s smile was strained. “About Troy? Yeah, he knows.”

“And?”

“And Troy’s a bit ... unreliable, so the sheriff’s not thinking anything of it. I asked Bonnie Jean to mention it at the next town council meeting, but”—Amity shrugged—“my sister’s so worried about impressing the mayor that I’m not really counting on her.”

The door opened. A half-dozen men stood there. The one in the front of the group looked at the two of them; he took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Ma’am?”

Amity’s barmaid smile returned instantly; she motioned them forward. Then she murmured, “Break’s over, Bek. Set us up with something loud. Nothing country or blues tonight.”

Rebekkah nodded and went over to the old jukebox. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Amity, but the bartender was beckoning to the men tromping into the bar, acting as if the two of them hadn’t had any sort of personal conversation.

“Belly up, boys. Those tip jars don’t fill themselves, and we’ve got a new barmaid to train. Can’t train her if you don’t order up a bunch of drinks.” Amity hopped up onto the bar, swung her legs over, and jumped down. “What’ll it be?”

Chapter 21

B
YRON SAT AT THE TABLE WITH
C
HARLIE AND HIS FATHER.
A
WOMAN IN
a floor-length dress with charcoal-dark hair and smoldering appeal reminiscent of Bettie Page sashayed across the room. She paused at their table.

“You wanted me, Charlie?” Her voice was breathy, but that could’ve been a result of the corset and bustier that cinched and lifted her breasts so they were a gasp away from spilling out of the deep-V cut of her dress.

“Be a good girl, and go sing for us.” Charlie patted her ass absently. “I can’t stand the quiet.”

A single spotlight came on with a sharp click. The curtain over the doorway opened, and three dead musicians came through it to join the singer onstage. One carried a cello, and the other two took their places on the stools in front of the piano and drums.

“Graveminder?” Byron prompted.

Charlie lifted his glass in a toast as the breathy girl started singing. “Ahhh, that’s what we needed. Now, back to business ... Graveminder: the woman who keeps the dead from going out on rampages; the partner of the Undertaker. Maylene’s replacement is”—he tilted his head as if thinking—“Rebekkah.”

Byron looked from Charlie to his father.
“Rebekkah?”

“Yes.” Charlie snapped his fingers.

The waitress came over carrying a dark wood box. She placed it in front of Charlie, glanced at him, and then turned away when he neither spoke nor acknowledged her presence. As she walked away, the singer sang-whispered something almost too soft to hear into the mic.

Charlie reached in his pocket and drew out a key. He slid the key into the box’s lock. “The Graveminder keeps the dead in the earth or brings them to me if they go out walking. You need a new one to replace Maylene.” He unfastened the latches on either side of the box. “The Graveminder is the only living person—other than you now—who can come here.”

“Why would she do that?” Byron stood. “Why would
I
, for that matter?”

The spotlight seemed to brighten as the pianist’s fingers danced over the keys. The rhythm from the drums added a sense of urgency to the music as Charlie opened the lid of the box.

“Because the alternative is violating the contract.” Charlie reached into the box and grabbed a scroll. “Because the alternative is that the dead will kill the lot of you.” He unrolled the scroll, pulled a pen out of the box, and tapped the pen on the scroll. “You sign here.”

Charlie held out the pen, and the musicians stopped all at once as if they’d been cut off. They, much like everything else since Byron had arrived in the land of the dead, seemed to be under the control of the man currently watching him expectantly. Byron wasn’t eager to be under anyone’s control. “What’s my part? You talked about the Graveminder, but what is it that I’m supposed to be promising to do?”

Charlie smiled magnanimously. “The very thing you want, Byron, the thing you’ve wanted since Ella died: you protect our Rebekkah. You love her. You keep her from wanting death.”

Byron fixed his gaze on Charlie. “Can you come to our side?”

“If the Undertaker and the Graveminder do their job,
none
of the dead will come to your town. Your children will stay in the town, be safe from ... well, quite a few things. Your town will stay strong, safe, flourish, all that rot.” Charlie tapped the scroll. “It’s all there in the fine print, spelled out in black and white.”

“It’s simply the order of things, Byron.” William’s voice was weary. “Go ahead.”

“Why? You expect me just to ...” Byron backed from the table. “No. You’re not thinking clearly, but I am. Let’s go.”

He turned and made it as far as the door before he heard his father’s voice: “You drank with the dead, son. You sign, or you stay.”

Byron put his hand on the door, but he didn’t open it. His father had
knowingly
brought him here and put him in this predicament.

“I’m sorry,” William added softly. “There are traditions. This is one of them.”

“Your old man is right.” Charlie’s voice echoed in the quiet room. “Make your choice.”

Slowly, Byron turned around to face them. “And if I don’t sign?”

“You die. It won’t hurt: you simply stay here. He finds a new Undertaker over in the land of the living. His Graveminder died; he’s done with his duty now.” Charlie didn’t rise from his seat. Nothing in his expression offered any clue to what the dead man thought. “I can’t force your hand. If you stay, you won’t lack for entertainment, and if you sign, you’ll go back and forth between worlds. It’s no matter to me in the end.”

While Charlie spoke, the cellist and pianist had begun to play, and the girl started singing again softly
.
She stared only at Byron.

He took a step back toward the table. He looked at his father. “How could you—” He stopped, not even certain what he wanted to ask. “Help me understand, Dad. Tell me ...
something.
”

“After Ella Mae died, Maylene and I agreed that it was for the best to delay telling you until you were ready ... or it was necessary.” William looked as implacable as he had looked during all the years Byron asked questions without answers. “She was a child. We couldn’t risk losing you or Rebekkah, too. Now here we are.”

“Ella died because of
this
?” Byron’s mouth went dry. His heartbeat pounded too loud under his skin. “She knew. That’s what she wouldn’t tell us. I thought ... I thought all sorts of things. That someone hurt her or that she saw something or ... but it was this.”

“It was,” William admitted.

Gracelessly, Byron walked over to the table and dropped into the chair he’d vacated.

William tossed back the rest of his whisky. “Being the Graveminder is a family burden.”

“Bek’s not Maylene’s blood-family.” Byron felt stupid saying it, but it was true. If blood-family was the criterion, that would leave the role to Cissy or one of her twins. He grimaced at the thought.

“Ahhh, yes, Cissy,” Charlie said. “She’d make of mess of it, but it would be entertaining nonetheless. Her Elizabeth’s not a bad sort, though. Do you fancy her?”

“Why?” Byron tasted his Scotch; it had the delicate aroma and slight saltiness that bespoke a Northern Highlands origin, one of his favorites.
That’s probably not accidental either. Is anything coincidence?

“If your Bek dies, it’ll be one of the others. That’s how it works. Chain of command and all. Maylene was a clever old bird. She designated Rebekkah, but if she’d let things fall as they might ... things aren’t always predictable with so many women in the family. One of the girls would be your partner then ... you
are
signing, aren’t you, Byron? Going back, keeping the girl safe and all that? Doing your part?”

“You’re a bastard.” Byron reached out his hand, though.

“Atta boy.” Charlie extended a pen and then smoothed out the scroll. “Right here on the line, son.”

For a moment, Byron paused. His fingers played at the edge of the scroll.

“Sign it,” William instructed. “The terms don’t change the truth: you sign or you stay. You can read it later in search of the loophole. We all do. None of it changes what you need to do right now.”

Byron ran his finger over the column of names.

1953–2011 William B.

1908–1953 Joseph

1880–1908 Alexander

1872–1880 Conner

1859–1872 Hugh

1826–1859 Timothy

1803–1826 Mason

1779–1803 Jakob

1750–1779 Nathaniel

1712–1750 William

Some of the signatures were in tight script; others were jagged. He wondered how many of the men on the list had been as clueless as he felt, how many wondered at their sanity.
How could they bear to sentence their own sons to this? How had his father?
Byron let his gaze lift to William for a moment. William didn’t flinch or look away.

“I don’t have all day,” Charlie nudged. “Actually I
do
, but I’m getting bored. Sign, or send your father back to find a new Undertaker. Rebekkah needs a partner, and until she’s brought here to my domain, she is only a shadow of what she needs to be. They will see her, but she won’t know what they are or what she is. She’s vulnerable to them. Either be her partner or move out of the way.”

Byron wasn’t going to abandon her, or his father, or accept dying. He scrawled his name beneath his father’s.

Charlie flipped the page over, and on it, Byron read
THE BARROW WOMAN
followed by another list. This time, the names were all written in the same hand. These weren’t signatures, but a list of women who were selected to fill a role. For them, there was no real choice.

2011 Rebekkah

1999 Ella

1953–2011 Maylene

1908–1953 Elizabeth Anne (called “Bitty”)

1880–1908 Ruth

1872–1880 Alicia

1859–1872 Maria

1826–1859 Clara

1803–1826 Grace

1779–1803 Eleanor

1750–1779 Drusilla

1712–1750 Abigail

Byron’s gaze lingered on Ella’s scratched-out name.
She was to be the one.
He clutched the edge of the paper. “Why? Why don’t they get a choice?”

“I wasn’t going to make
everything
easy.” Charlie rolled up the scroll, returned it to the box, and locked it.

The waitress came over and took the box away.

Abruptly, Charlie stood. “Feel free to stay and enjoy the show.” He nodded at them both and put his hat on his head. “Be seeing you soon, William.”

As soon as Charlie left, the bar started filling up. Whatever privacy they’d had before vanished as dead men and women sat down at the tables. Many of them nodded to William.

Byron turned to his father. “I have questions.”

“I don’t know that I have answers you’ll like.” William motioned to the waitress. “The bottle.”

After she was gone, Byron stared at his father. “Did Mom know?”

“She did.”

“But what about Maylene? If Graveminders and Undertakers are
together
, and each job’s passed on in families ...” He paused, thinking. “It doesn’t work after one generation.”

“Love doesn’t mean marriage, son. If they choose to be together, one of them has to pick a new family to pass his or her duty on to. The son or the daughter is spared. That’s the benefit of the contract. You pick one of the children to let free of it.” William laughed, but there was only bitterness in the sound. “If I’d married Maylene, one of our children would have been chosen, and the other role would’ve moved to another family in town—someone we chose. If we had no children, or if we had no blood-heirs we deemed worthy and capable, we could
pick
a successor. That’s the loophole that Maylene was clever enough to use to choose Rebekkah: she decided that
the choice to be Graveminder
was part of being worthy, so she decided to give Ella and Rebekkah both the choice, but Ella made a different choice before Maylene even told Rebekkah.”

“So you could’ve ...”

“Only if you were a wastrel. Only if you couldn’t handle it. Only if it was—
in my heart’s truth
—better for the town. There’s no one I’d trust more with the duty; you’ve always been meant to be the new Undertaker.” William accepted the bottle from the waitress before she had a chance to set it on the table. Silently, he poured Scotch into their glasses.

When Byron realized that the waitress was still beside the table, he looked up at her.

She bent down and whispered, “If you want”—she flicked her tongue along the curve of his ear—“Mr. D says you can have a full night on the house.” She straightened up and gestured around the room. “
Anyone. Anything.
No kink too bizarre.”

Most of the club’s occupants were staring at him. Amused smiles, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, disdainful glares, and raw hunger—there was no continuity in expression. Byron felt curiously exposed and uncertain of how to react.

The waitress pressed an envelope into his hand. “Here’s a chit. It’s got no expiration date ... unless you die, of course. As long as you’re alive, though, we’re available.”

“Thank you,” he said, not because he was truly grateful, but because she looked at him expectantly. “I’m just not ... I don’t know what to say.”