Prayer for the Dead (31 page)

Now the scrubland had been cleared and torn by Nordholm’s plow. Dyce had noticed the bushy, stunted tops of soybeans planted there when he drove to the neighbor’s cornfield where he hid his own car. For several hours he could faintly discern the sound of the tractor in the far distance, and when the wind turned and blew toward him, he could occasionally hear something of the music, a phrase or two of melody, or a few lines of the lyrics, not distinguishable as individual words but clearly a human voice. Twice he had started at the sound, thinking it was a real voice he heard, but there was no one there, not even a vehicle all morning on the long approach road that came through the fields to grandfather’s house, then past it to outlying farms. From his vantage point Dyce could see not only the approach road but much of the valley and a long stretch of the county road that led to town. Anyone coming would come from there and he would be able to see them miles away.

At noon the tractor returned and stopped in front of the porch. Dyce could see him clearly as the driver descended and removed his cap, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. It was not Nordholm, but Nordholm’s son, grown now to his mid-twenties and every inch the offshoot of his father. Dyce struggled with the sounds that wanted to come out of his throat, beckoned by the perfect look of the boy. He could have been Dyce’s father himself, the way he kicked his boots against the stone steps, the way he hitched his pants before sitting with his back against the pillar, the way he stretched his legs and sighed as if they had been carrying a dreadful weight. The boy was thin like Dysen, and the sharp bones pressed against his skin so hard it looked as if it would be painful just to wear his face. The Adam’s apple was prominent in his throat when he swallowed and even the hair was right, blond and short and straight as a freshly ironed crease. With the cap off, his ears stuck out from his head.

Dyce felt as if his father had somehow risen-from the dead after all, summoned not by Dyce and grandfather’s vigil of prayer, but by Dyce’s inexplicable tears at the graveside the day before.

The cop lay still behind him, not moving, barely breathing, no longer a worrisome consideration. Dyce wanted young Nordholm, desired him so much, he could feel himself trembling. He had known it would build to this point again, the awful, irresistible yearning that had to be placated before it drove him crazy. He needed it and it had been presented to him in the form of perfection. In the dark, drained of color, still as death itself, the man would not just look like his father, this man would
be
Dysen as none of the others had ever quite been.

He would take this one, he would give himself this one, perfect man, and he would make it last longer than ever, days and days and days. And the cop could be a sort of side attraction. An appetizer or a dessert.

Dyce wiggled backward, still watching the farmer, until he reached the syringe. It was full and ready and all he needed was a way of getting down and appearing to the young man without scaring him off. Close enough to touch him, that’s all he needed to be. Then he would handle him so gently.

Back at the edge, Dyce glanced up and saw three cars on the county road coming so fast that the first one was almost to the approach road before Dyce had noticed them. The farmer had pulled a bottle of bourbon from somewhere and was sipping from it while holding a sandwich in his other hand. He was oblivious to the cars, oblivious to Dyce stalking him.

All three cars were on the approach road now, sending up plumes of dust. The lead car was state patrol and its lights were flashing, but Dyce heard no siren. The lights went off abruptly as the patrol car approached the farm. In the distance another patrol car appeared on the county road, this time following a civilian auto. Lights were flashing on that patrol car, too, but it was not chasing the other car; it was following it.

The three lead autos tore into the drive and jerked to a halt as the Nordholm boy frantically sought to hide his liquor bottle.

As the men who poured from the cars spun and braced him against the porch pillar, the bottle fell and clattered against the steps, but did not break.

“Nordholm,” the boy sputtered in answer to the first in a volley of questions. “Daniel Nordholm. This is my farm, my dad’s farm. I didn’t do anything.”

The second team of cars ripped into the drive. Dyce, now far out of sight, heard doors slam like volleys of gunfire. The other men were shouting questions and commands at the farmer, fear and urgency in their voices. Dyce did not know how the boy decided which questions to answer as he pleaded his innocence of everything and anything, his voice even more fearful than the other men’s.

Finally one voice took over, asserting itself over the police and FBI.

“The property is registered in the name of Roger Dysen,” said the voice.

“Well—sure, but it’s ours.”

“How is it yours?”

“He made a deal with my dad when his grandfather died.”

“Who made the deal?”

“Mr. Dysen, Roger Dysen. His grandfather died and the house burned down and he was going to college to study math or something. That’s what my dad says. I don’t know, I was too young, but there’s no way to make a living in math around here, so he knew he wasn’t going to be staying, he sure wasn’t a farmer …”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you seen him?”

There was a note of annoyance in the voice. “No.”

“He’s soft, he’s very soft, he couldn’t farm a garden. My dad offered to buy the land, but he didn’t want to sell; he didn’t want to work the place but he didn’t want to give it up, either. Like he expected to come back and fix up the house someday, you know? So he worked out a deal with my dad; he gives us permission to farm the land and all we have to do is pay the taxes on the place.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Mr. Dysen?”

“He calls himself Dyce now. Or Cohen.”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Have you seen anyone around here in the last three days? Anyone at all?” The original voice was back in charge again.

“No. Nobody.”

“Have you noticed any sign that anyone has been here? Anything out of the ordinary at all?”

“No.”

“How often do you come here?”

“Here? To the house? Every day.” Someone snapped off the radio as if it had just been noticed.

“Why?”

“I eat my lunch here. I like it.”

“What’s to like?”

“I—I just like it.”

Dyce heard the clink of glass against stone, then the voice of another man.

“You keep your hooch stashed here, son? Come here to drink where your parents don’t know about it?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Didn’t say it was illegal. Is that why you come here?”

“I like a drink once in a while,” Nordholm said defensively.

“You know the place well, do you? Would you know where someone might hide if he had to?”

“The old well house, maybe. Or the cellar. But I would know if anyone was around.”

A fourth voice spoke. “You can see right through what’s left of the floor into the cellar from here. There’s no place to hide.”

“There’s an old root cellar down there, dug into the ground. I don’t think you’d want to hide there very long, but you could.”

“Marquand, check out the root cellar. Mr. Nordholm, I want you to show me the old well house. Lieutenant, if you and your men would examine the barn, please?”

Dyce heard voices scattering, then calling to each other from the distance, moving around. They stayed for a long time, searching, until finally the doors of the cars slammed again, then the tractor engine roared to life.

I’ve lost him, Dyce thought. He was perfect and I lost him, the police took him away from me. Just thinking about the young man made him terribly excited again. It was safe now; the FBI visit had just proven that. It was safe, but they had taken the young man away from him.

Dyce turned his head and studied the cop. The man’s eyelids were beginning to flutter. He needed another dose … and while he had his sleeve pushed up and access to the vein … The cop was a poor substitute, but Dyce was so excited.

Becker caught her as she walked in the door and lifted her off her feet, kissing her deeply, then standing her against the wall. He held her up with his body as he peeled off her clothes, then entered her while she was still off the floor, lowering her slowly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. His passion was overwhelming and contagious and Cindi was ready when he entered her, then ready when he was and they both cried out in completion as he was carrying her toward the bedroom. Becker stood on the stairway, shuddering like a man freezing while Cindi clung to the banister to support them.

After he laid her on the bed he kissed her lips and face with a tender urgency for several minutes. When he embraced her it was so firmly she gasped involuntarily and only then did the intensity of his passion subside.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Cindi said after a few moments, “but what was that all about?”

“Lust?” said Becker.

“No,” she said. “I mean, maybe partly. But it felt more like—need.” Becker was quiet.

“You felt wide open, John. I thought I could have reached right inside you and touched your heart—if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.”

Becker murmured something against her neck.

“What?”

“You already have,” he said.

“Have what?” She pulled away from him far enough to look him in the eye. “If you’re going to break down and say something good, I want to be sure I hear it right.”

“You’ve already touched my heart,” Becker said.

“Really?” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can think of to say. You haven’t whispered many sweet-nothings, you know.”

“I know,” said Becker. “I was afraid to start, didn’t think I could stop.”

“You don’t have to stop now.”

“I’m a frightened man, Cindi.”

“You, John?”

“A frightened man.”

She realized the seriousness of his tone. “I know you are,” she said. “I’ve just never been sure of what.”

“That’s some of what Gold and I have been looking at,” he said.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said, hoping very hard that he would. “I know that’s private.”

“Part of the cure is making it unprivate. Admitting it. Aloud. To myself. To my loved ones.”

He faced away from her, pulling his knees to his chest.

Cindi could see she would have to help him with this.

“And I’m a loved one?”

Becker nodded. She put her hand on his back and felt him trembling. For a moment she thought he was truly frightened—or crying, but when he turned to her again, he was grinning ear to ear.

“Isn’t that stupid? I don’t mean loving you; I mean that it’s so damned hard to say. It’s stupid, it’s stupid.”

“So is that what you’re actually saying, John? You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to say it directly? I hate to be a stickler about this, but everything is sounding rather oblique.”

“I love you,” he said.

She touched his cheek. “I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I’ve been reading so many tea leaves, trying to figure it out … I’m sorry. I’m not really taking it lightly. Maybe
it
isn’t that much easier for me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Becker said. “I’m not asking for a response. It’s just something I had to face up to and deal with.”

“Why now?”

Becker eased back down on the bed. “That’s the other thing that frightens me,” he said and the joy was gone from his voice.

“What?” She rose up on one elbow to look down at him. He was staring at the ceiling.

“What else frightens you, John?”

“Me,” he said. “I scare the shit out of myself.”

The room fell silent as Cindi sank back to the bed. A neighbor slammed a car door and yelled at a child.

“Can you tell me why?” she said finally.

“When I come back,” he said. “I’ll try then.”

“Come back from where?”

Becker paused a long time. “I’m not quite sure. Wherever I need to go.” He rolled over and put his hand on her hip and ran it slowly along her thigh.

“And I’m not quite sure who I’ll be when I come back,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer but ran his fingers the length of her leg, then feathered them across the skin on the back of her knee.

He’s the sexiest man in the world, she thought. I have no idea what’s in his mind—I’m not sure he does—but I want him so.

“Can you promise at least that you will come back?”

“Yes. That much I can promise. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave you … I don’t want to find out what’s going to happen—but I seem to have a talent for coming back.”

That will have to do for now, Cindi thought. He moved his hand to the very top of her inner thigh and just held it there where it burned a hole in her skin.

“You have a lot of talents,” she said as she leaned forward to kiss him.

As they made love she thought of saying, “Thank you, Mr. Gold,” but didn’t for fear she would be misinterpreted under the circumstances.

Chapter 15

B
ecker found Nate Cohen’s grave
and stood before it like a mendicant before a shrine, his hands folded at his waist. Agent Reynolds, watching Becker through binoculars, wondered if he was praying. His head was bowed and he had the look of a man who had come to stay for a while.

Hatcher had told Reynolds that Becker would be there, if not today then the next, and the Duck had been right. “Donald” was usually right, Reynolds had to admit that. It was not a job in which a man could make decisions and hope to do better than be right most of the time. The problem with Hatcher was that when he was wrong he could never admit it; there was always someone else to blame. That someone else was invariably one of the agents under his command. What Hatcher didn’t seem to grasp was that his men would hold his mistakes against him far less if he didn’t shirk the responsibility for them. Apparently, Hatcher’s superiors viewed things differently because the man held on to his job while the agents under him got transferred or held back from promotion. Hatcher was not a hard leader to follow; he made no extraordinary demands—but he was impossible to forgive. That was one of the things Reynolds most admired about Becker. He had never forgiven the Duck and was as vocal about it as Pavarotti with a paying audience. The man told Hatcher to his face what he thought of him while the other agents could only choke back their laughter and sit on their hands to keep from applauding.