Grave Designs

by Michael A. Kahn

  Cindi and I checked the locks on the doors and all the windows before we got into bed.

  Neither of us slept well.

  Chapter Thirty

  I reached for the telephone receiver on the third ring.

  “Hello,” I croaked, my head still on the pillow.

  “Guess what the police just gave me?”

  “Maggie?” I turned toward the clock radio on the nightstand. Nine thirty-eight Sunday morning. Sunlight was streaming in through the bedroom window.

  “Guess what just got returned?”

  “What?”

  “That coffin we’ve been looking for.”

  “Canaan?”

  Cindi sat up in bed.

  “Yep,” Maggie said. “I matched the serial number on the coffin against my log book. Same one.”

  “Did you open it?” I asked.

  “Didn’t have to. The police did before they brought it out.”

  “And?”

  “Bones. Just bones.”

  “I’m coming right out, Maggie. Don’t bury it yet.” I hung up and looked at Cindi. “Let’s go,” I said. “The cops found the Canaan coffin.”

  ***

  We were in Maggie’s office in the back of the chapel—Cindi, Maggie, and I. The coffin was on the desk, and the coffin lid was on the carpet in front of the desk.

  I was staring at the skeleton inside the coffin. It looked like the skeleton of a small dog. The thin bones were clean and white. Bone-white. One eye socket stared blankly up at me. The skeleton was resting on its side on the satin cushion that lined the bottom and sides of the coffin.

  “They found it behind the police station?” I asked again.

  “Yep. Out near the back steps,” Maggie said. “Someone left it there. I guess they could tell it was mine because of the stamp on the bottom.”

  I lifted one end of the coffin. Stamped in black ink on the bottom was WAGGING TAIL ESTATES—MARGARET SULLIVAN, PROP., along with the address and telephone number.

  “One of the boys at the station dropped it off this morning,” Maggie said. “They had already looked inside. They were so relieved it wasn’t a human body that they hardly asked me any questions. I made up some story about a client who had decided to transfer her pet from another cemetery to Wagging Tail and lost it in the process. They bought the story.” Maggie leaned back. “Well, maybe that Graham Marshall wasn’t so crazy after all. It could be just some punks pulling a prank. The same ones who tried to dig up the other grave.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You two want some coffee?” Maggie asked.

  “Sure,” Cindi answered.

  “Let’s go on over to the house and I’ll put on a pot.” Maggie stood up.

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” I said.

  Maggie stopped at the door. “Your pal Benny called here a while ago, Rachel. Said he’s been looking for you everywhere. Tried me as a last resort. Said he had something to show you. I gave him the address and told him to come on down.”

  After Maggie and Cindi left, I stared at the skeleton. It was all too pat.

  What happened, Graham? Someone pulled your documents out and replaced them with a skeleton. Was someone on to you, Graham? Was someone afraid of those documents? Did you suspect that back in 1986 when you buried the coffin?

  If you did, if you thought someone was on to you, then maybe you knew who that someone was.

  I sat back and mulled it over. You bury your secret but set up a bizarre legacy in a codicil to make sure your secret gets discovered after you’re dead. What if you are worried that someone else might try to spoil your plan? That someone else might get to the coffin first? That someone else might dig it up, destroy the documents, and bury it again? What do you do?

  Maybe you leave a clue for the second one who finds the coffin.

  I leaned forward again and looked into the coffin. Where do you leave the clue? In the coffin? Maybe. Before you bury the coffin you hide a clue inside the coffin. You hide it where someone interested in the documents won’t think to look.

  I reached inside the coffin and, with a shiver, lifted out the frail skeleton and set it on the carpet next to the coffin lid. I put the coffin on my lap. The satin-covered padding that lined the sides of the coffin lifted out in one piece, a rectangular belt of cushion. I checked both sides of the satin covering. Nothing. I squeezed it. It felt like foam rubber. There was a sharp-edged letter opener on Maggie’s desk. Using the letter opener, I poked a hole in the satin and ripped off the covering. Nothing inside but foam rubber. I looked along the inner sides of the coffin. Nothing.

  I reached inside the coffin and tried to pull out the cushion lining the floor of the coffin. It was glued down. I yanked, and it popped out with a tearing sound. I turned the pillow-sized cushion over. Nothing. A piece of the satin covering had torn off when I pulled out the cushion. I tore off the rest of the covering. Nothing. Just foam rubber. I tossed the cushion onto the floor and looked inside the bare coffin. Two small scraps of satin were still glued to the floor of the coffin.

  And then I saw it. In the upper right corner of the floor of the coffin, where it had been hidden under the glued-down cushion. Printed in black ink:

  00320-1953

  GAM

  I picked up the coffin and hurried toward Maggie’s house.

  ***

  Cindi and Maggie were seated at the kitchen table drinking coffee. I showed Maggie the handwritten code on the inside of the empty coffin.

  “Did you write this in here?” I asked.

  Maggie frowned and shook her head. “No. Definitely not.”

  “What is it?” Cindi asked.

  I handed her the coffin and turned to Maggie. “You mentioned something about a serial number over the phone,” I said. “You said that that was how you knew it was your coffin.”

  Maggie reached for the coffin and turned it upside down. “This is what I was talking about,” she said, pointing to a twelve-digit number stamped on the bottom of the coffin. “The manufacturer stamps a serial number on the bottom of each of the coffins. I always copy it down in my log book next to the name of the pet and the name of the owner. Sometimes I have two burials in the same day. Keeping track of serial numbers is just a precaution, to make sure I don’t bury a pet in the wrong hole.”

  “What does the code mean?” Cindi asked.

  “I don’t know what the number stands for,” I answered, “but I’m sure GAM stands for Graham Anderson Marshall.”

  There was a knock at the back door. We turned around to see Benny standing there with a newspaper folded under his arm.

  “C’mon in,” Maggie called. “The door’s open.”

  “Hi, gang,” Benny said as he walked in. “I’ve got something interesting to show you.”

  “So have we,” said Cindi. “Maggie got the coffin back.”

  “No kidding?”

  Maggie explained how the coffin got back to Wagging Tail Estates, and then I showed Benny what I had found inside it.

  “Do you recognize the code?” Benny asked.

  “No. There’s something familiar about the sequence of numbers, but I can’t figure it out.”

  Benny stared at the numbers, frowning.

  “What was your news?” Cindi asked.

  Benny looked up and smiled. “Oh, yeah. You guys are going to love this one.” He opened the newspaper and laid it flat on the table. “I was reading the Sunday paper this morning,” he explained, “and I turned to the classifieds. I’ve been looking for a roll-top desk, and I wanted to see if there were any available. Then I remembered those Canaan messages you found, Rachel. So I turned to the personals.” Benny opened the newspaper, folded it over, and laid it back on the table. “Look what I found.” He pointed.

  I bent over him and looked where his finger was pointing. “We
ll,” I said. “Another one.”

  It was another Canaan message:

  Canaan 3: Grand-S

  1 a.m., Monday

  I stared at the message, my thoughts racing. “One a.m. Monday is tonight. After midnight. This is a terrific break.”

  “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

  “Don’t you see? Tonight the Canaan drop point is down at the Grand subway station.”

  “You’re not suggesting that we go down there, are you?” Maggie asked.

  I looked at each of them. “Someone has to. We have to find out who’s behind all this. How do we know they won’t try to kill Cindi again? Or one of us? I’m scared of these people, whoever they are. But I’m also scared to go home at night. I can’t go on living like that. If we can find out who these Canaan operatives are, follow one of them to his home, we’ll finally have enough to go to the police.” I shrugged. “Right now all we have is a lot of weird incidents. We need something more. We need to find the connection.”

  We were silent for a while. Benny studied the Canaan personal. Cindi lifted the empty coffin and turned it over. Maggie walked over to the coffeepot for a refill.

  “I’m going with Rachel tonight,” Cindi said, looking at me.

  Maggie replaced the coffeepot and looked at Benny. “You going too?”

  Benny turned to me and, after a pause, grinned. “What the hell? Subway station, one in the morning. You never know. I might meet some nice chicks down there.”

  Maggie shook her head. “What kind of shape are you in?” she asked Benny.

  He patted his ample belly. “Two hundred and seven pounds of blue twisted steel.”

  Maggie stared at me. “You’re crazy, Rachel,” she finally said with a sigh. “But if you cowboys are really going to do it, you ought to do it right. This ain’t no Sunday school picnic. Two of you ought to follow the guy who gets the package and two more ought to follow the guy who hands him the package. Maybe both of them are just messengers, but the guy who hands over the package is at least one step closer to the source.”

  “Are you volunteering?” Benny asked Maggie.

  “Well, I got me a Ford pickup parked out front with a tankful of gas. It looks a little beat up, but let me tell you something: You give that baby some gas and she can shit and split.”

  Benny and Cindi both broke up with laughter.

  “You shouldn’t feel you have to do this,” I said to them. “It could be dangerous.”

  “Listen, Rachel,” Maggie said, “somebody stole a coffin out of my cemetery. And tried to steal another one. If it’s just vandals, well, there isn’t much I can do about it. But if it’s connected with this Canaan, I got some obligations to my clients and their pets.”

  I looked around the table and smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

  “We can’t go down there unprotected,” Cindi said.

  “Well,” I said, “I can go get Ozzie. Maggie has her brother-in-law’s German shepherd.”

  Benny shook his head. “I don’t know. We’d look like a blind circus down there.”

  “Hang on,” Maggie said, getting up from her chair. “I got something that packs a little more wallop than a couple of dogs.” She walked out of the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two handguns and a box of ammunition cradled in her arms. “My Carl collected these things,” she said as she laid them on the kitchen table. “Taught me how to use them too. Any of you ever fired one of these?”

  I shook my head.

  “I have,” Cindi said.

  “You?” Benny asked her.

  Cindi nodded. “I own one. Same model as that Smith and Wesson,” she said, pointing to one of Maggie’s guns.

  Maggie slid it across the table to Cindi. “See how it feels.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  At 12:30 a.m. Maggie parked her pickup truck a half block from the entrance to the Grand Avenue subway station. Maggie, Cindi, and I climbed down out of the cab of her pickup as Benny pulled his Nova into the space behind the truck. Cindi and I were in jeans and sweatshirts. Maggie was wearing a green double-knit jogging outfit with white piping, and Benny had on a Chicago White Sox T-shirt and baggy khaki slacks.

  “Listen, gang,” Benny said, “we don’t need any heroes tonight. Let’s just find out what we can—and run like hell if we have to.” He looked at Maggie. “You bring your license for that gun?”

  Maggie patted her bulging shoulder bag. “Right here,” she said.

  Benny grinned at me. “Are we fucking nuts or what?”

  I forced a smile. “I hope not.” The guns made me queasy.

  Walking down the stairs toward the fare booth, we passed a recruiting poster: THE MARINES—WE’RE LOOKING FOR A FEW GOOD MEN.

  “And a whole bunch of sadistic bastards,” Benny added.

  Maggie snorted. “We could sure use a few tonight.”

  We paid the fare, passed through the turnstiles, and took the stairway down to the tracks. Maggie and Benny waited near the foot of the stairs. Cindi and I walked ahead, stopping about fifty feet away.

  “This is creepy,” Cindi whispered.

  I nodded. Two gray rats waddled along the tracks below us. There was a hollow plunk-plunk-plunk of water somewhere off in the darkness.

  Two college-age boys—both pasty-white and fat—were huddled together farther down the platform. One of them pointed at us, and they both grinned. Each had a can of beer in his hand.

  I leaned my head toward Cindi. “Here come the men of our dreams,” I said.

  “Terrific.”

  They walked single file, stopping about ten feet away. The one in front had curly black hair, a beer belly, and a red football jersey with the number 69 on the front. His buddy peered around him with a gap-toothed leer.

  The one in front grinned, raised his can of beer, and belched. “Good evening, girls. How are we tonight?”

  “Take a hike, you clowns,” Cindi said.

  The guy in front winked and turned back toward his buddy. “Sure, girls. But first we’d like you to meet Red. Go ahead, Pete. Let these girls meet him.”

  Pete stepped out from behind his buddy, wagging his half-erect penis in his right fist. “Say hello to Red, girls.”

  “Ignore these bozos,” Cindi mumbled as she grasped my elbow to pull me away.

  I didn’t budge. Instead, I stared at Pete’s crotch, and then glanced at Cindi. “Look at that,” I said to her, nodding at the display. “It looks just like a penis, only smaller.”

  Pete’s face dropped, followed by his penis. He looked down at his crotch, then back at me, then back at his crotch.

  “Poor thing looks undernourished,” Cindi said, picking up on my lead.

  Pete pushed his penis back into his pants and yanked up the zipper. He turned and walked away, followed by his buddy.

  When they were almost twenty yards away, one of them shouted “Bitch!” without looking back at us.

  Cindi burst into laughter and held out her palm. I slapped her five.

  “That was beautiful, Rachel. Just beautiful.”

  My smile froze. “Someone’s coming.”

  Cindi turned slowly. Coming down the stairs toward the subway platform was a skinny Hispanic man dressed in a baggy gray suit and a dark brown shirt open at the collar. He brushed past Benny and Maggie, who were still standing at the bottom of the stairs, and walked nervously down the platform with his hands in his pockets. Benny and Maggie looked toward us, and Benny pointed at the man. I nodded and checked my watch. It was 1:01 a.m.

  “Think that’s him?” Cindi whispered.

  I shrugged and checked my pocket for the key. It was still there. Cindi and I were to follow the recipient of the package—and if I was right, the skinny guy was our man. If something got screwed up, Benny had given me an extra key to his car—just in case.

  The
skinny guy stood with his toes on the yellow warning line at the edge of the platform. He started cutting his nails with a nail clipper. Maggie and Benny had moved down the platform to within twenty feet of him. Cindi and I stood quietly, listening to the click of the nail clipper and the plunk of the water and the rustlings of the rats below.

  From off in the distance, in the darkness beyond the north end of the platform, came the sound of an approaching train. It was barely audible at first—a low growl. The noise grew louder, and suddenly the train screamed out of the tunnel and rumbled into the station. It stopped with a squeal of brakes several feet shy of where Cindi and I were standing. It was one of the newer trains—silver with large windows.

  The skinny Hispanic had backed up a few steps. He was standing near the front doors of the train as they opened. Cindi and I moved toward him. Out from the train walked the same man I had seen on the el tracks at Addison, the one I had followed to Shore Drive Tower. He was dressed the same: black T-shirt and khaki work pants. He had a thick manila envelope under his left arm. The skinny guy stepped forward and said something to the man with the envelope, who then handed it over. The skinny guy stepped into the train, and Cindi and I followed him in.

  He sat down in the first row of seats on the side opposite the door we had entered. Cindi and I sat down two rows back on the side closest to the platform.

  I peered out the window as the train lurched forward. The other man was walking at a brisk pace down the platform toward the stairs. Maggie and Benny were following him. I watched them until the train passed beyond the end of the station and plunged back into darkness.

  “All systems go,” I said to Cindi. “We have lift-off.”

  Our man got off at the Washington subway station. We followed him across the Loop to the First Illinois Bank Building. We waited across the street from the entrance as he entered the building. He stopped at the security guard’s desk for a moment and then moved past the guard toward the elevator banks.