The Less-Dead (15 page)

Strangely, the next stone contains a long list of names but only one date.

“Hey!” I call to the gravediggers. “Can I ask you guys something?”

One of them sighs, sets down his shovel, and walks over to me.

“What does this mean?” I ask. “Why so many names, but just one date?”

He studies the headstone for a moment. “That’s what we call a mass burial.”

Mass burial? I picture scenes from Auschwitz—a heap of dead bodies lying on top of each other. “You mean … they all died on the same day?”

“No. If no one claims a body, it’s cremated. The ashes get stored over there.” He points to what looks like a shed in the distance. “When there’s no room left, we bury their ashes together. It saves time and space.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, thanks.”

He goes back to work. I walk a few more paces, and
when I see the next two headstones, side by side, I stop dead in my tracks.

I stand there for a long time, trying to make sense of this. Suddenly everything is quiet. The wind has died down, the gravediggers have left, and I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around and see Doomsday. “Hello, Noah. I saw you walking around. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.”

He takes my hand. “Can I introduce you to someone? She’s waiting just down the hill.”

“Um, sure.”

He gives me a quick smile and motions for me to follow him. As we walk down the hill, I notice again how the landscape changes. The graves in this section are well kept, and there are clusters of cut fresh flowers, as well as planted mums and daisies.

Doomsday stops and points to a grave. “Here she is. My fiancée. Mary Turner.”

“Oh.” I stop and read the stone.

“I took liberty and called her my wife,” Doomsday says. “But we weren’t married yet. The quote is from the first poem she ever read to me. ‘Love Song,’ by Pablo Neruda. Of course, she recited it in Spanish at the time. It hadn’t been translated yet.”

“I know the poem,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.”

The two of us are quiet for a while. Finally I say, “Quindlan told me what happened to Mary.”

“Yes. Charles Whitman, the UT sniper, killed her. Mary and I were students at the time. So in love. She was studying Spanish literature and was going to be a poet. She was shot right on Guadalupe Street. I was there. She died in my arms.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nods. “Mary was five months pregnant. Her family was very religious and when they found out, they disowned her, even though we were engaged. Things were quite different back then. But still, I blame myself.”

“Why would you blame yourself?” I say. “There was nothing you could have done.”

He sighs. “Maybe so. But God works in mysterious ways, Noah. I’m sure your father’s taught you that. God took her in order to punish me.”

“What? No, that’s not true. I don’t believe God punishes people. God is
love
. That’s what it says in the Bible. You know that.”

He looks at me, shakes his head sadly, then kneels down and runs a hand over the stone.

I kneel beside him. “Doomsday? Sometimes bad things just happen. Like you losing Mary and the baby. And like
Will getting killed. Will was a kind and good person. He didn’t do anything to deserve that.”

Doomsday doesn’t answer for a long time. Finally he says, “Like I said, Noah, God works in mysterious ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“Will was a talented boy, a lovely soul, and a good friend. But only God can see into a man’s heart. I’m not the one to pass judgment.”

I study Doomsday for a while. He seems lost in his own sadness. “Doomsday? Is that why you preach on the Drag? Because you think you did something wrong? Something to cause Mary’s death?”

He nods. “Yes, I suppose that’s why. It’s a form of penance.”

“Penance? What about forgiveness?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Doomsday?”

He looks up. His eyes are red and filled with tears. “I don’t know anything about forgiveness, Noah.” He dries his eyes with his sleeve and continues brushing his fingers over the stone. “You should run along now. I’m going to visit with Mary awhile longer.”

I don’t know what to say, so I place a hand on Doomsday’s shoulder. “Don’t stay out here too long, man. It’s getting cold.” I stand up. The barren landscape around Will’s grave appears even bleaker than it did earlier.

“Doomsday, can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Why are certain people buried in that barren area, up the hill? Like the two other foster boys who were murdered,
and a baby with no name, and a guy who’s just called Jimmy?”

Doomsday peers into the distance. “That part of the cemetery is owned by the city. It’s for people whose bodies haven’t been claimed. If I didn’t have a plot right here next to Mary, that’s probably where I’d wind up.” He sighs. “Some people call it Potter’s Field.”

A cold wind blows. Sweat prickles under my arms. “Potter’s Field?”

“Yes. It’s a term from the Bible. I’m sure you know the story. After Judas betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, Judas realized the mistake he’d made, threw the coins onto the temple floor, then went out and hanged himself. Because the silver was blood money, the priests weren’t allowed to put it into the temple treasury, so they used it to buy the potter’s field. A place where they buried foreigners.”

“Also called field of blood,” I say.

“Yes, that’s right.” He shakes his head. “Like Judas, we all have blood on our hands.”

“THERE’S A
name for this, you know,” Carson says.

“Really?” I’m sitting on the floor in the DPCP’s weight room, flipping through Will’s book while Carson makes a sorry attempt at a military press. “What is it?”

He grunts loudly and heaves the barbell back onto the rack. “Schizophrenia.”

In the corner of the room is a pile of prosthetic limbs, left over from the DPCP’s last business trip. I’m tempted to grab one of the rubberized legs—the kind that bend at the knee—and wring Carson’s neck. “Come on, Carson! Look, I showed you the weird poem, the John eight Bible passage, the cemetery
phone number
. You got to admit, something’s up. This is
not
normal.”

Carson shakes his head and sits up. Unfortunately for me, he’s not wearing a T-shirt, and his not-so-toned abs bulge over his sweatpants. “Listen, Noah, first you tell me
that Quindlan’s an undercover cop, which is hard enough to believe, and now—”

“Dude, I am
not
making this up! Quindlan was at the crime scene. All the investigators knew him. Plus, we talked. God, I knew I shouldn’t have told you! I swear, Carson, if you say a word to anyone, or if you let Quindlan know that I told you—”

“My lips are sealed. No worries, Noah, you can trust me. And fine, whatever, maybe Quindlan really is an undercover cop, but now you’re telling me that some psycho wrote a poem in Will’s book,
after
he killed him, while he was waiting to carve a cross on his chest? I mean, really, dude, what am I supposed to think except that you’re going nuts?”

“Fine. Don’t believe me. I don’t care.”

“All right, all right, maybe I’m not being fair. Look, I know you’ve been through a lot, Noah, but will you forget about that book for a minute and listen to me?”

Suddenly I feel really tired. Like I’ve been running for hours and I’m about to collapse. I set down the book and fix my eyes on Carson. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, here’s how I see it. Nothing makes sense, right? We got to know Will, and he was cool. We liked him. He was our friend. Next thing we know, he’s dead. Murdered by some homophobic crazy guy. Worst of all, you’re the one who found his body, and that totally sucks. Plus you’re feeling guilty because you gave him the brush-off. So now you’re trying to find answers in a book? I think you need to leave it alone, Noah. Move on.”

“But you don’t get it, Carson. You weren’t there when I found Will. You didn’t talk to the police. You didn’t see what I saw. And today, at the burial, the whole thing was freaky. I don’t see how any of it could be just a coincidence.”

Carson leans over, picks up Will’s book, and turns to the page I’ve dog-eared—the one with the Lead Belly song and the Potter’s Field poem. “All right, what if Will wrote this poem right around the time of Kyle Lester’s burial? Or even Paul Mateo’s? Wouldn’t that explain the cemetery phone number, the references to the homeless, stillborn, Potter’s Field, and all that?”

I shrug. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Plus, you said John eight was Will’s favorite Bible passage. At least, that’s what Quindlan told you, right? Maybe Will jotted it on that page for a reason. A reason only he knew.”

“I’ve thought of all that. But how do you explain the different handwriting? And why is it written on the page with the Lead Belly song? That was the day I met Will. I
sang
it for him. I saw him write the lyrics in the book.”

Carson studies me. “Noah, you’re seriously scaring me now. Because if you believe some psycho killer wrote this poem, and that he wrote it on
this
particular page for a reason—because it was the day you met Will—then you would have to believe he wrote it specifically
for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you think that’s possible?”

I hesitate for a moment. “It could be.”

Carson throws up his hands. “Oh, man. I don’t know
what to say. What if … what if you brought the book to school and showed it to Hawk? Maybe he’d be able to explain it. Maybe it would all make sense.”

“Hawk? I don’t know. I don’t know if I can trust him. Honestly, I’m not sure I can trust anyone.” Carson is looking at me like I’m completely insane.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about me, all right? I’m
not
going crazy. I swear. I know this whole thing is nuts, but right now I just need to find out the truth. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it’s not. I just … I have to know, that’s all.”

Carson frowns and tosses the book onto my lap. “Do yourself a favor, Noah.
Burn
this thing. Or give it to the police, which was what you should have done in the first place.”

“Thanks for the great advice. You
know
I can’t give it to the police. First they’d charge me for tampering with evidence, and then they’d probably send me to a psychiatrist.” I sigh and shove the book into my back pocket. Carson is right about one thing. I need to give it a rest. At least for now.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Carson picks up a set of dumbbells and begins doing curls. A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the door. “Carson? Are you in there?” It’s the DPCP. Oh, joy.

“Yeah, Dad, come in. Noah’s here too.”

Slowly, Carson’s father enters the room. He looks flustered. “Oh, Noah, hello. Carson told me what happened to your friend. And I’ve seen the story on the news. I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

I’ve never seen the DPCP so uncomfortable before. I guess he’s feeling pretty guilty for how he treated Will. I hope there will be some poetic justice to suit his crime, like Prosthetics Inc. plummeting on Wall Street, or maybe a company tax audit. Yeah, that would work.

“Um, Carson?” he says. “The manager from Guitar Center just phoned. He asked if you would pick up a shift tomorrow. Apparently someone called in sick. I told him you’d get back to him.”

“Oh, all right.” Carson sets down the dumbbells. “Let’s see… . I’m going to church in the morning, but I can work after that. Thanks, Dad. I’ll let him know.”

The DPCP winces at the church comment, then manages a small smile. “Great. Well, I’m glad to see someone’s putting this weight room to use. I’ll, uh, have the housekeeper clean up those limbs in the corner.”

“That’s all right, Dad. I’ll do it. In fact, I’ll put them in the trunk and take them back to the factory for you.”

“Thank you, Carson. That’s very thoughtful.”

As the DPCP exits the room, Carson arches an eyebrow at me. “Pretty amazing, huh? He’s, like, almost human.”

“Yeah, how’d that happen?”

He shrugs. “It’s this job I got.”

“Oh, right, I meant to ask you, how’d it go today?”

“Really good. The manager is cool. He likes me a lot. The best part is, they’ve got these
sweet
vintage guitars all over the store, and I get to play them when it’s slow. I’m working those angles I talked about too. We’ll have another gig set up pretty soon. You know, when you’re ready. And get this: when I came home today, I told the DPCP how I
networked with the clientele, and now he’s calling me an entrepreneur.”

“Wow. Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, and he’s starting to lay off about me going to church. Only, I haven’t told him about the baptism yet. That could get a little hairy.”

“So you’re really going through with it?”

“Yeah. In a few weeks I’ll be getting dunked in Kat’s backyard pool. I was going to wait until summer, but I figured, the pool’s heated and she’s even got a Jacuzzi, so I won’t freeze my ass off. Plus, I’m ready. I really want to do it. And, Noah, the youth group’s having a party afterward. I hope you’ll come.”

I picture Aubrey and Brandon, side by side in the bubbly Jacuzzi, sipping virgin strawberry daiquiris and singing glory hallelujahs for Carson’s new leap of faith. “Gee, sounds like a great time,” I say. But Carson’s so high on Jesus he doesn’t even catch my sarcasm.

“Yep. And while we’re on the subject, I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

I hold up both hands. “Hey, I already did the dunk. When I was seven. And stupid. And severely brainwashed. I’m not doing it again.”