The cop opened his mouth and tried to say something, but all that came out was a high-pitched grunt. He didn’t reach for his gun and, in his blinding pain, hadn’t even thought of it.
Tasha swung her other foot over onto the side of freedom and then, kicking back, dropped to the ground. Her legs hurt when she landed, but, not as bad as the cop was hurting! She collected the groceries that spilled from the bag and then, without another backward glance, turned and dashed into the woods, expecting to hear the sharp report of gunfire behind her.
Until she was well-concealed by the foliage, she was careful to avoid the place where Hocker was waiting. Only after she was deep in the woods did she turn and start backtracking. She intended to circle around town, find Hocker, and tell him they had to pack up their gear and run away.
What was the name of the town? she wondered as she ran. Dyer? It didn’t matter. They had to be miles from here by evening!
PART TWO
“Night falls like fire; the heavy lights run low,
And as they drop, my blood and body so
Shake as the flame shakes…”
—Swinburne
Chapter Four
“A Visit to the Home”
I
“I noticed you were limping coming up the walkway,” Dale said as he swung open the front door. He stepped back, and Winfield forced a thin smile as he entered Mrs. Appleby’s house.
“Aww—nothing serious,” Winfield said gruffly. “Just bumped into the edge of my desk. Hurt my leg a bit—that’s all.” To add weight to his lie, he rubbed the top of his thigh.
Lil poked her head out from the kitchen and waved. “Good afternoon, Jeff. The two of you make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right in with coffee and a little something to eat.
Winfield looked at Dale and said, under his breath, “If I know Lillian Appleby, her little something will be fresh, apple pie topped with homemade vanilla ice cream.”
“She fed us a supper last night that would put to shame most people’s Thanksgiving meals,” Dale said.
Winfield grunted as he limped painfully into the library and lowered himself into the chair nearest the fireplace. He let out a sigh of relief, grateful that those yellow spots had finally stopped spiraling in front of his eyes. It had been a while since he had been in this house, but it was exactly as he remembered it: clean, warm, homey and secure.
An awkward silence descended, broken only by the throaty tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the entryway, but that sounded natural in such a quiet room. Dale was yearning to ask Winfield what he had found out from Rodgers at the funeral home, but he bided his time, realizing he had just met Winfield that morning, and there was no reason for either of them to implicitly trust the other. What he wanted to overcome was the edge of suspicion he felt from Winfield whenever Winfield looked at him.
While Dale considered ways to gain Winfield’s trust, Lillian arrived with a large serving tray loaded with goodies. Winfield had been wrong about the apple pie, though: it was blueberry. But he had bit it right with the homemade ice cream, and there were fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and raisin bars to make up for any disappointment he might feel about not getting apple pie.
“Some things never change,” Winfield said as he snatched up one of the raisin bars. “I swear, you’re trying to fatten me up for the kill, Lillian. You should see the treats she comes up with for the Congregational Church Fair.” He looked at Dale and shook his head. “She practically sends the whole town into a sugar coma.”
Lillian chuckled, almost spilling the coffee as she poured. “That’s not true at all, Jeff,” she said. “Lately I’ve been trying all sorts of desserts with less sugar.”
Dale took the cup Lillian was holding out to him, then picked up a plate with a wedge of pie. Thick, purple juice ran from the edges as soon as he cut into it with his fork. He popped the pie into his mouth and closed his eyes with pleasure at the burst of flavor.
“I’ve got no complaints,” he said. “We’ll be leaving day after tomorrow, right after the funeral,” he added, hoping mention of the funeral would prompt Winfield to fill him in on what he had found out.
Lillian sensed something was up. After all, Jeff Winfield didn’t make a habit of dropping in for social calls. She put the coffee pot down on the tray and sat down. She was burning to know what was going on, but she reassured herself with the knowledge that, in a town like Dyer, word would get around soon enough.
Winfield revealed nothing the whole time they sat pleasantly chatting in the living room. He and Lillian caught up on the latest local gossip, and Dale had a chance to tell them about himself. At one point, Winfield asked where Lisa was. Dale told him she had gone downtown with his daughter Angie. The policeman stiffened.
“You have a teenage daughter?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. His first thought was, I wonder if that’s the girl I met earlier today? The one who gave me the shot to the balls!
“Yeah. Her name’s Angie. She and Larry were pretty close,” Dale said. “I thought it would be important for her to come to the funeral, too. You see, when her mother died, she was only four years old. I don’t think she knew what was going on. I mean, all of a sudden, Mommy wasn’t there anymore, but she wasn’t old enough to experience real grief. I talked with a psychologist about it at the time, but he said I shouldn’t worry unless she started showing any unusual behavior. You know, really morbid thoughts or whatever. Anyway, I think she still has some… I guess you’d call them hang-ups about death and feeling deserted and all. It’s nothing serious, but I wanted to make sure she worked through those feelings this time.”
“I can understand why,” Winfield said, nodding his head. “It must he terrible, losing your mother at such a young age.” His voice softened, but he kept an intense gaze focused on Dale, as though he was measuring him.
“It’s terrible at any age,” Lillian said. “But from what I’ve seen of her, she’s a perfectly wonderful girl. It’s obvious you’ve done a marvelous job raising her, Dale.”
She had been avoiding the temptation of her own treats for the better part of half an hour, but now she snatched up a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite.
Dale shrugged, feeling uncomfortable under Winfield’s scrutiny. “It hasn’t been easy.”
“Do you happen to have a picture of her?” Winfield asked. The question popped out of him, and its suddenness seemed as disruptive as a gunshot.
“What kind of father would I be if I didn’t have a picture of my kid?” Dale said. He punctuated his question with a small laugh, but his hand was trembling as he hiked forward, fished his wallet from his hip pocket, and flipped it open. “This is her class picture from last year. Her hair’s a lot longer now.”
Winfield took the photo from Dale and looked at it for a second before handing it back to him. For all the interest he had suddenly shown in Angie, he didn’t seem to care much once he saw the photo. Dale slid the picture back between the credit cards in his wallet, wondering what the hell was going on.
Winfield’s mood changed after that. He and Lillian batted gossip back and forth, commenting on a dozen different situations and incidents around town. But as he sipped his coffee and ate his pie, Dale felt on edge. He was poised in his chair, leaning forward, as though waiting for a starting gun to go off. He just wanted to go with Winfield to the funeral home and, ask the funeral director if he could view the body. Nothing wrong with that! A bit morbid to consider, but not wrong!
So why, he wondered, do I feel this wound-up? His stomach felt like the coil in a mattress, twisted up, ready to go sproing and shoot out through the tatting. Winfield’s sudden shifts in mood didn’t help either.
“Well, I’d better get things cleaned up in the kitchen,” Lillian said. She stood up and started collecting the now-empty pie plates on the tray. In a clatter of cups, plates, and silverware, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.
“Did you get a chance to talk with Rodgers?” Da
le asked. He hoped that by speaking honestly about what was bothering him, he could diffuse the tension he sensed building between him and Winfield.
Winfield nodded and got up, rubbing his hands over his bulging stomach. Then he shifted his gun belt into place. Not wanting to let Harmon know too much, he decided to bend the truth a bit and not say that he had spoken with Rodgers. “I talked with his receptionist and made it clear we’d be by this afternoon. Maybe a little later than I’d wanted to, but I ’spect he’ll still be there.”
“Did you?” Dale started to say, then paused, unsure exactly how to phrase his question. “Did you tell her why we’ll be stopping by?”
Winfield snorted a short laugh. “Why? Hell, no! Larry ain’t going anywhere.” He limped as he walked over to the kitchen door and, leaning through the doorway, called out his thanks to Mrs. Appleby.
“Don’t make yourself such a stranger,” Lillian said, her voice muffled by distance and the loud clatter of dishes as she loaded the dishwasher. “It doesn’t take an official visit for you to be welcome here.”
Winfield laughed again, louder. “I’m gonna have to punch a new hole in my belt tonight ’cause of what I just ate,” he replied. But his eyes weren’t smiling when he glanced back at Dale. As they went out the door and down the walkway to Winfield’s cruiser, they were both wondering how much Lillian Appleby knew about how official his visit had been. In the backs of their minds, they both wondered how much either of them knew what in the hell was going on!
II
Rodgers’ Funeral Home sat on a gently rising hill well back from the road, its spacious lawn and wide circular driveway—wide enough to get quite a funeral cortege lined up, Dale thought with a shiver—embraced on both sides by curving arms of deep forest. The funeral home itself was palatial by Aroostook County—or any—standards. Its white pillared front with black door and shutters made it look more like the home of a successful politician than a funeral home. Sunlight slanted through the trees, etching the eaves with a golden warmth.
The theme song from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood sprang into Dale’s mind, but he didn’t allow himself even the slightest of chuckles when it registered that the next cortege was going to be Larry Cole’s!
As Winfield pulled to a stop and cut the cruiser’s engine, Dale realized that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a long, whistling sigh. Several tiny specks of white light zigzagged across his vision, and he forced himself to breathe evenly.
“Funeral homes always give me the willies,” he said, glancing at Winfield.
Winfield opened his door and, stepping out onto the driveway, shook his head. “Can’t say they’re exactly my favorite place, either.”
They went up the stairway to the business entrance at the side, rang the bell, and stepped into the entryway. Soft organ music floated through the too-warm room, thick with the cloying smell of flowers. The furniture in the waiting room was a collection of beautifully refinished Victorian antiques: no industrial cloth and metal frames here. Everything was perfectly restored, and Dale had the fleeting thought that maybe Rodgers jacked the furniture up with embalming fluid to make it look so well-preserved.
Margaret Sprague, the receptionist, looked up and stiffened when she saw Winfield. She was a middle-aged woman with graying hair and dull brown eyes. Her complexion was pale and pasty, and Dale’s first thought was that she needed to spend more time outside.
“Afternoon, Maggie,” Winfield said, giving her a half-hearted salute as he strode over to her desk with Dale in tow. “I’d like you to meet Dale Harmon. He’s up from Augusta for Larry Cole’s funeral.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Maggie said, standing up and extending her hand over her desk for Dale to shake. It was surprisingly warm and firm. “I’ll page Mr. Rodgers and tell him you’re here.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice, deep and resonant said from behind. Maggie and Dale both were startled, but Winfield calmly turned around as the funeral director came over to them from the hallway door.
He was at least six feet tall and dressed in a beautifully tailored blue suit with matching dotted tie and handkerchief. His light brown hair was combed straight back, exposing a wide, pale forehead. When he spoke, his teeth appeared to be slightly too large for his mouth, and his thin lips added to the illusion.
“Nice to see you, Jeff,” Rodgers said, extending his hand to the policeman. Then turning to Dale, he said, “I’m Franklin Rodgers.”
“Dale Harmon,” Dale managed to say, even though his throat felt lined with sandpaper.
His first impression of Rodgers was that his handshake was just what a funeral director’s should be: cool and moist, a gentle grip, but with a hint of restrained strength that made his fingers vibrate with energy. Hell! Dale thought, trying desperately to keep at bay the memories of the last time he had dealt with a funeral director when Natalie had died. You’d have to be strong to work with corpses every day.
“Officer Winfield spoke with me earlier and said you’d be coming over,” Rodgers said, his voice low and soothing.
Dale glanced at Winfield. His raised eyebrows silently asked, “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I must tell you how sorry I am about Larry’s untimely death,” Rodgers said. “I’ve been in this business for… going on ten years, now, and I still can’t accept it when the young die. So tragic… so tragic.”
Then Dale got his second clear impression of Franklin Rodgers. It hit him so fast and so hard, he was surprised it didn’t register like a flashing neon sign on his face. Right from the moment Dale had first seen Rodgers, walking toward them from the darkened hall doorway, there had been something… something weird about his looks. It wasn’t just his pale, thin face, or the shadows from the dimly lit room, or the atmosphere of gloom and mourning that wrapped around him like a dark cloak. It was something about his eyes.
… His eyes!
It was damned near impossible for Dale to focus on Rodgers’ face until he realized what it was: the man’s right eye was absolutely normal, a perfectly average brown eye, but his left eye looked damaged. The white had a sickly yellowish tinge; the iris was pale blue, like a chip of ice and the pupil was almost fully dilated, a swelling black hole that glistened so brightly, Dale was convinced that, up close, it would reflect the room like highly polished onyx.
“Please,” Rodgers said, stepping to one side and directing Winfield and Dale down the hallway.
At the far end, a door stood ajar, and they could see Rodgers’ office. Doors on both sides opened onto large rooms with dark wood paneling. Dale felt a sudden dash of chills when he saw that the room to the left was “occupied.” Wall sconces lit with dim, flame-shaped light bulbs illuminated a mound of floral arrangements that surrounded a coffin. The coffin lid was open, and an elderly woman lay with her hands folded across her chest. The organ music in the room was just a notch louder, and the smell of the flowers was almost choking.
Dale pushed aside the thought that beneath those folded hands, stuffed into the cavity of that old woman’s chest, was her brain, removed from her skull and placed there by Rodgers, just as artificially as the pink flush on her cheeks and the plastic cups that held firm the rounded edges of her closed eyelids. Dale didn’t know what they did with the removed eyeballs. They were probably stuffed into her chest along with her brain. He shivered, remembering how, during Natalie’s funeral service, she had looked merely asleep and he had been positive he had seen her chest heave up and down as she breathed.
She’s not dead! his mind had screamed, time and time again throughout the service and for weeks after that. She isn’t really dead!
But he knew it was nothing more than an illusion and a credit to the mortician’s art. He wished he didn’t have to think about it now as he silently followed Winfield and Rodgers into the office. Once he and Winfield were comfortably seated in a plush leather chair, Rodgers shut the door and took his seat at his desk.
“To get directly to the point, I un
derstand, Mr. Harmon, you have been shall we say concerned about Mr. Cole’s body since the night of the accident.”
Dale shifted nervously in the chair. When he glanced at Winfield and saw no support in his expression, he cleared his throat and said, “You have to understand, Mr. Rodgers—”
“Won’t you be my neighbor?” Indeed! Dale was angry with himself for allowing such a sick parallel to enter his mind.
“Larry Cole and I were close friends. The shock of his death has been…” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed with difficulty.
In his line of work, Rodgers must face people who, out of grief and anguish, are unable to speak. He quickly rose and filled a cone-shaped paper cup with water from a cooler and handed it to Dale with a sympathetic nod.
“Thanks,” Dale said, still not quite wanting—or daring—to look squarely at Rodgers’ strange eye. He quickly drained the cup before it became a soggy mess in his hand, took a deep breath and continued.
“I went to visit Larry’s mother last night, you see, and she, well, actually, Roberta, her sister, expressed some concern that they hadn’t been allowed to view the body. You must understand that, in order to get through the grief surrounding a death, it is sometimes necessary actually to see the body. That’s part of the healing process: to see and verify that a person is really—gone.”
“I understand your concern entirely, Mr. Harmon,” Rodgers said. “And I understand Mildred Cole’s depth of grief, perhaps more than you do. Now, you may not have spoken with Mildred directly, but I have, and I can assure you of a couple of things. Officer Winfield was the policeman on the scene that night. I’m sure he’s mentioned the condition of Mr. Cole to you.”
Dale nodded, wondering why water coolers always used such damned small cups. His throat still felt constricted, and he still didn’t dare to look directly at Rodgers’ dilated pupil.
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