They Thirst (25 page)

Oh God,
Gayle thought as she came to her own name.

There were four words scribbled on her card, "See me. HOT! Trace."

She drank down half of her coffee before she knocked at his door. "In!" the voice behind the door said.

Trace was on the phone; he waved at her to close the door and sit in a chair next to his desk. A fresh copy of this week's
Tattler
lay open before him. "Okay, Warren, okay!" he was saying. "So I ruffled some big money birds with the story. So what? I mean, if the
Tattler
can't print the truth, who can?" He paused, his high forehead wrinkled; he was in his early forties, a hippie who'd never quite outgrown the life-style. He was almost bald except for the wild tufts of graying hair that stuck out from the sides of his head, and his thick-lensed glasses had slipped down on his severely hooked nose. As he listened, he unscrewed a bottle of Vitamin C and popped down a couple of orange pills, then offered some to Gayle, who shook her head.

"Fine." he said. "Warren, I don't give a shit! Those guys have built a condo that's going to go sliding into the Pacific the next time the San Andreas fault even
think'
about moving! What are they going to do, sue the earth?" He listened again, his face beginning to redden. "It's structurally unsound, the engineering reports prove it! And I don't care if some people are moving out of their condos. Jesus, they
should
move out before the next quake hits! And everybody—all the national psychics— are predicting The Big One within five years! So let 'em get out while they can! Listen, Warren, I've got to go, I've got a paper to put out." He paused, his lips working, but no sound coming out. "What do you mean by that remark? My people can write rings around the
Talking Leaf!"
He slammed down the receiver so hard his desk trembled. "Wait a minute, Gayle," he said and began to breathe rhythmically. "Negative air floating around here. That was my silent partner, not so silent today." He shrugged and pushed the paper across to her. "Seen this yet? The front page is a grabber!"

She turned the paper around and opened it. There was one of Jack's photos of the skeletons at Hollywood Memorial; the picture took up the entire page and was bordered with red spot color. Above it, also in red, the headline screamed, "WHO IS THE GRAVEDIGGER?"

Beneath that in much smaller print, "See Gayle Clarke's shocking story, page three."

"The . . . Gravedigger?" Gayle said quietly, a knot of tension growing in her stomach. "Trace. What's this . . . this Gravedigger bullshit?"

"It's not bullshit," Trace said, looking genuinely hurt. "I thought the buildup would please you. Listen, the Gravedigger's going to knock Roach out of every paper in this town!"

"The Gravedigger," Gayle repeated, not believing what she was seeing. She felt like crawling into one of those ragged holes in Jack's photo. "Trace, I don't think the story merits a push like this. Okay, I admit it's a weird item. I don't think anything like it has ever happened before, at least not in L.A., but what's the bogeyman angle? I didn't imply anything like this in my piece."

"Roach is old news. The guy's gone underground. He's all used up. You know what sells papers, Gayle? Evil. That's right. People pick up a magazine or a tabloid or even the
Times
looking for evil, for something to blame for all the misery in their lives. And most of all they want a villain, a Nixon or a Dracula or a Hillside Strangler. The Roach has disappeared, so we've simply given the people what they want—another villain. And we can build this thing, Gayle, God can we ever! The Grave-digger, creeping through cemeteries in the dead of night, digging up coffins and scattering the bones . . ."

"Please," Gayle said and shivered. "I was there, remember?" She felt sick to her stomach, as if she'd had another whiff of the reek of rot in the hot, lazy sunshine. "The cops say it must've either been a death cult or kids on drugs, and that's what my story says, too. So how can we say anything that may be untrue?"

"Ah. You don't read your own copy, do you? Look at page three."

A surge of panic rushed through her. She opened the paper and saw a red-bordered box right in the middle of her story surrounded by more of Jack's gruesome photos. The headline of the story read, "Did The Gravedigger Visit Resurrection Cemetery?" "What is
this?"
Gayle said, her voice trembling between horror and fury.

"You think I don't have contacts too? I got interested in this thing and made a few phone calls over the weekend. The same thing that happened in Hollywood Memorial happened at Hope Hill and at Resurrection. Missing caskets and everything." He shrugged. "Friend of mine on the force owes me a favor, so I collected. I went over to the printer's Saturday night and typed the story right there."

Gayle quickly read through the article. It was written terribly but got its message across: Resurrection Cemetery had been vandalized in exactly the same manner a little more than a week ago. "So you see?" Trace said, lifting one eyebrow. "The Gravedigger makes the Roach look like an amateur, at least in the chills department."

"Christ." Gayle put the paper back down on his desk and looked at him in numb astonishment. "What's going on?"

"You're going to tell me. I want you to forget about old Roachie
and concentrate
on the
Gravedigger. Maybe he struck somewhere else before he ripped through Resurrection, maybe he's done another job since Hollywood Memorial. I want as much as you can get, and I want it complete by Thursday afternoon. Can you handle it?"

"Trace, it can't be just one guy! Nobody could rip up a cemetery like that alone!"

"Maybe he's strong. Maybe he drives around in a custom-built bulldozer, who knows? Anyway, narrowing the angle to one weirdo sells more papers. Evil, babe, evil!" He caught the flicker of hesitation across her face. "Now what's wrong?"

"I'm so into the Roach thing, I . . . Trace, I don't think I should leave it just yet. I think it's way too early to write him off. Why not let Sandy take care of this?"

"Look," he insisted. "Nobody's seen the Gravedigger, and anyway you're about three times the writer Sandy is. Now go. Get started!"

Gayle reluctantly stood up. She said, "I'd like to stay with . . ."

"The Gravedigger. Out!"

She moved toward the door, unable to believe this wild turn of events. Her head was throbbing, her stomach roiled, she felt sick to her very soul.
This is bullshit!
she told herself.
The Roach is really important. Doubly important when you think about my career. But this is . . . bullshit!

"Wait a minute," Trace said as she turned to go. "Have you seen Kidd? I need him to get some shots of Miss California Redwoods this afternoon."

"No, not lately. We went to a Joan Baez concert Saturday night, but I didn't see him all day yesterday. He may have gone out to see the Greenpeace people."

Trace grunted. "That guy's spreading himself a little thin, isn't he? Listen, will you try his number for me when you get a minute? I really need him to come in early and set up the shot."

She nodded, still in a daze, and left his office. Outside Holly Fortunato was telling the sportswriter, Bill Hale, about the wide variety of whips her director friend kept in his closet. Gayle sat down at her desk, shuffled papers, and tried to think how she could get out of the story Trace wanted. Still, three cemeteries vandalized—no, not just vandalized, ripped to shreds—in less than two weeks. Possibly more. Who could she call to find out? She jotted down the names of several police force antivandalism squad members she knew. She thought Davis Tortirici was the captain of that squad, but she wasn't sure.

But there was something else bugging her that hadn't surfaced until Trace had pointed it out—where was Jack? He'd said he was going to splurge and take her to dinner at the Mandarin on Sunday night, but he'd never called. She'd spent her evening drinking white wine and reading a nasty little book called
Bethany's Sin,
which she'd tossed away in boredom after the fourth chapter. She wanted to be with Jack, really needed to be with him, and she'd dialed his number three or four times during the course of the night. Each time the phone had rung at least ten times before she'd put the receiver down.

So where was he?

What am I?
she asked herself.
A mother hen?
But then her hand was reaching out, and she was gripping the telephone beside her. She dialed Jack's apartment again and let it ring.

No answer.

There were a dozen different places Jack could be; she'd gotten used to the fact that the only consistent thing about Jack Kidd was his inconsistency. That was due to his chart, he'd told her proudly, double Gemini.

She hung up the phone and wasted a few minutes making herself another cup of coffee, then wandered over to where Kenny Morrow was pounding out his health hints column. This week his column opened up with a letter from a Sacramento reader who thought the government was controling his sex desires through the rays from his color TV. She was looking over Kenny's shoulder when her telephone rang, and she hurried back to answer it, thinking Jack might be calling in.

"Gayle?" the man on the other end said. "This is Tom Chapman from the
Times.
Remember? We met at Palatazin's last press conference?"

"Oh, sure." She faintly recalled the guy—stout and balding, wearing a brown checked coat. "How are you, Tom?"

"Fine. Better since I . . . uh . . . picked up your paper and saw your piece on that cemetery business. I got quite a kick out of that. Who came up with the 'Gravedigger' angle?"

"My editor."

"That was great. Really sell some papers that way . .

"Can I help you, Tom?" she interrupted because the sarcasm in his voice was beginning to irritate the shit out of her.

"Huh? Oh, listen, don't get sore. I was just kidding. No, I thought I'd call to help you. Us journalists have to stick together, right?" He paused for a few seconds. Gayle was silent, her anger simmering at a low boil. "Our story's already out on the streets, so I thought I'd pass the information along to you. We just ran a few graphs on page eleven, but maybe you can ..

"Tom..

"Okay, okay. Somebody dug up Ramona Heights Cemetery over in Highland Park last night. Stole about twenty or twenty-five coffins, left the stiffs scattered to hell and back. The watchman, guy by the name of . . . hold on, I'm looking in the paper . . . Alcavar, is now on the missing persons list. The Highland Park cops are checking out some tread marks they found in the grass. It seems the Gravedigger drives around in a large truck. Now don't say I never gave you anything."

Gayle had started scribbling on a notepad.
What the hell is going on?
she wondered. For the first time a spark of real curiosity crackled inside. "Do you have Alcavar's first name and address?"

"Noel. Got his brother's address from the cops—he's the regular watchman—909 Costa Mesa Avenue in Highland Park. What are you thinking, that Alcavar loaded up those coffins himself? Why?"

"I'm not thinking anything. I'm just looking for a starting point. Thanks for calling, Tom. Incidentally, this doesn't mean I'm finished with the Roach."

"Yeah, I hear you've been sneaking in to see Palatazin when the rest of us had our backs turned. Well, anyway you can get it, I guess. Uh . . . listen, Gayle, you remember I told you about the situation with my wife? I've moved out of the house, sort of a free bird now. How about having dinner with me tonight? I've got a Playboy Club key, and you can take a look at my new apartment and tell me what it needs . . ."

"Tonight? Uh . . . no, Tom, afraid I can't..

'Tomorrow night then?"

"My editor's calling me, Tom. I'll talk to you later. And thanks a bunch for the information. Bye-bye." She hung up the phone and read over her scribbled notes.
Ramona Heights? That made four cemeteries vandalized in less than two weeks? What kind of freaks would do something like that? Death cultists, Satanists, what?
The term
Gravedigger,
repellent only a few minutes before, now chilled her. She put her notepad and a couple of Bic pens in her purse and hurriedly left the office, bound for the Ramona Heights Cemetery.

Police Commissioner McBride sat reading Palatazin's progress report on the Roach investigation at the far end of the conference room's polished oak table. Every few minutes he grunted, and when he did, Chief of Detectives Garnette glanced across the table at Palatazin with a look that said it all—
You'd better hope he's in a gracious mood, Andy, because there is
nothing
concrete in that report.

Palatazin was well aware of the fact. He'd come in before seven that morning to finish typing the report and felt ashamed when he'd taken it to Garnette for a first reading. There was nothing in it but speculation, vague theories, and leads that went nowhere. He'd included the information from Amy Hulsett and Lizz Connors toward the end, and detailed the work Sully Reece and his team were doing to track down the gray Volkswagen, but even that looked woefully ineffectual on paper.

McBride glanced quickly up at Palatazin and turned a page. From where Palatazin was sitting, McBride was bracketed by an American flag and the California state flag, and golden sunlight seeped through the
Venetian blinds at his back. There were dark circles beneath Palatazin's eyes, and as he lit his pipe for the fourth time during the conference, his hand was trembling slightly. His night had been terrible, his dreams filled with shambling horrors coming for him out of a snowstorm, creeping nearer and nearer out of the windswept pines that circled him. He had seen their burning eyes, their mouths slashed like grinning sickles, and in those mouths the terrible, unholy teeth. And just when they were about to claim him, his mother had appeared, floating over the snow, and gripped his hand.
Run,
she'd whispered.
Run, André!
But he had left Jo waiting in a cabin, and he had to get back to her, but that meant running the gauntlet of the grinning terrors.
I won't leave you,
his mother had said, and at that instant the things had leaped for Palatazin's throat.