Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

“That’s your style, Dad, not hers.”

  “I’m telling you, Sally’s your thief!”

  “She’s not!”

  “Then one of the Stevensons did it, you goddamn ingrate!”

  Michael held his growing fury in check and leaned in farther. “You saw those people. They wouldn’t touch that body for anything.”

  Wilson opened his mouth as though to fire a retort, then snapped it shut. Michael held his ground, refusing to drop his glare.

  After a long moment, Wilson harrumphed loudly. “What the hell do you know anyway? You weren’t in the room. Anybody could have taken that gold piece.”

  The level of disappointment that suddenly settled over Michael unnerved him. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he’d been hoping against hope his father was telling the truth. That he hadn’t taken anything from the casket. All fools have their dreams.

  Michael sighed heavily. “Who said anything about a gold piece, Dad?”

  Wilson jerked his head back in surprise. He stammered, “I. . . wait . . . I. . .you did!”

  “No, I didn’t. I never mentioned anything about a gold piece. I asked where the stuff was. Why in the hell would you—”

  Wilson’s backhand caught Michael off guard. It came fast and hard, landing on his left cheek. Before the pain could fully register, however, Michael’s right hand reflexively balled into a fist and slammed into Wilson’s jaw. The old man flew backward into a utility cabinet, then dropped to the floor on his butt, out cold.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Michael breathed. He rounded the embalming table, then took a hesitant step toward his father. Emotions battled inside him, a sickening satisfaction of too long awaited retaliation, and the horror of punching his father. Horror won. Michael still couldn’t believe he’d done it. It had happened too fast, had come out of nowhere, like someone had taken over his body and shut down his brain. Never in his wildest dreams would he have even considered hitting an old man, much less his father. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  Wilson groaned, and Michael hurried over to him.

  “Dad?”

  Another groan, then Wilson slowly lifted his head and rested it against the cabinet. He raised a tentative hand to his jaw and groaned again.

  Michael squatted beside his father. “I never meant to—I mean—are you okay?”

  Wilson rolled a weary eye toward him and gave a barely perceptible nod. He opened his mouth gradually and, wincing, worked his chin from side to side.

  “Look, I’m . . .well . . .I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I didn’t mean to—“

  His father held up a hand. “Never mind about that,” he said through scarcely parted lips. “Just help me up.”

  Michael helped Wilson to his feet, then grabbed a nearby stool and offered it to him.

  Wilson sat gingerly, cupped his knees with his hands, and hung his head.

  Something’s definitely wrong, Michael thought. His father should have exploded by now, hurt jaw or not. Too many past experiences had proven to him that little stopped Wilson from giving anyone their just due. He should be ranting by now, swinging with both fists, grabbing the embalming fluid tank so he could whack his son over the head with it. Something. Anything.

  Yet, Wilson sat there, saying nothing. He barely moved. He seemed to be concentrating either on his shoes or the floor.

  Michael cleared his throat. “We should have a doctor take a look at you,” he said. “You know, check your jaw, your tailbone, too, maybe.”

  “I don’t need any doctor touching my ass or my jaw. I’m fine,” Wilson said, finally looking up at him.

  “But I think—“

  “I already know what you think,” Wilson said. He lowered his head again. “And you’re right.”

  “So what are you saying? You want to see a doctor?”

  Wilson blew out a long breath and shook his head. “What I’m sayin’ is you’re right, Michael. I took that gold medallion from the casket. And everything you think about me from asshole to worm is true. I’m all that and probably worse.”

  Stunned beyond words, Michael gaped. Who was this man? Surely not Wilson Savoy. Not the Wilson Savoy.

  “No question that I’ve done a lot of crap in my life,” Wilson continued, his voice low. “Things I’m not proud of.”He laced his fingers together and studied a thumbnail. “I didn’t mean to steal from that casket, no more than you meant to punch me. It just happened. Kind of like a reflex thing. I was in a major bind—it was there—I took it.” He tilted his head to one side and looked at Michael. “Understand?”

  Michael looked away. He did understand about reflex. It was a lousy excuse for what his father had done, but just as pathetic a reason for the role he played as boxer. Understanding it didn’t explain what this Wilson confessional deal was all about, though. Michael didn’t want to say anything to jinx it. He figured it better to hang on and ride for a while, see where his father would take it.

  Wilson, evidently interpreting Michael’s fidgeting as an affirmative answer said, “I figured you would—“

  A loud hammering knock from somewhere in the funeral home caused Wilson to jump off the stool, his eyes round with fear. He motioned to the prep room door. “Hurry, Michael, close it!”

  The knocking continued, a loud, persistent pounding that seemed to carry the weight of a five-hundred pound man.

  “Close it? I’ve got to find out—“

  “Fuck!” Wilson hobbled to the door and closed it himself. He pressed his back against the jamb. “It’s Lester, I know it. If we don’t answer the door, he’ll think nobody’s here and leave.”

  “Who’s Lester?”

  “He’s . . .he’s . . .one of the investors I told you about.”

  The unmistakable sound of glass shattering sent Michael charging for the door. “I don’t care who he is, Dad. I’m not going to hide in here while somebody destroys the place.”

  “No, don’t,” Wilson pleaded. “Don’t go out there!”

  Michael opened the door, easing his father out of the way. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, the knocking stopped.

  Cautiously, Michael made his way down the corridor, looking over his shoulder every few steps. He saw his father’s head peek out from the embalming room, then quickly duck back inside.

  Just as he reached the dark, intersecting hall, Michael spotted the photo of Saint Peter’s Cathedral laying face down on the floor. It was the same picture that had survived meatball target practice by the Stevenson clan. Now its glass covering was shattered. Whoever had knocked had evidently done it hard enough to vibrate the picture off the wall. He bent over to pick up one of the larger, longer shards.

  “See anybody yet?”

  Wilson’s whisper startled Michael, and he jerked upright. “Jesus, Dad, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  His father drew a trembling finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  “Why? Nobody can get in here. I locked all the doors.” Michael frowned. “Unless you used the front door and forgot to lock it again.”

  “No, I came in through the back. The one with the auto—“ Wilson suddenly cast a look past Michael, and his brow ridged with confusion.

  “What?” Michael looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see anything but more dark hallway.

  “There’s somebody over there,” Wilson said under his breath. “End of the hall, left corner, against the wall.”

  Michael turned around and squinted, but still couldn’t see anything. He took a step to cross the corridor so he could flip on the light switch, and Wilson grabbed the bottom of his suit coat.

  “Don’t,” Wilson warned, keeping his voice low.

  “I’m just going to turn on the lights. No big deal.” Michael twisted to one side and freed himself. He crossed over to the light switch, slapped it on, then pointed to where his father had indicated. He was about to say, “Look, nobody there.” But someone was there.

  An old man stood quietly watching them. Except for his age, which looked to be around
ninety, and the man’s large, protruding ears, he could have passed for Ephraim Stevenson’s twin, down to the white fedora perched on his head. Stranger still was the man’s attire. He wore a long-tailed, black mourning suit with a blue silk shirt and accompanying cravat. He kept his hands primly folded over one another just below his belt, and his feet were bare. Even from this distance Michael could make out thick, yellow toenails that looked as if they hadn’t been trimmed in years. Michael figured this guy wasn’t the investor his father was expecting, but the old man’s large eyes stayed intensely focused on Wilson nonetheless.

  Michael glanced back at his father to see if there was any hint of recognition on his face. There wasn’t, only a bewildered gawk highlighted by a developing bruise on the left side of his chin.

  Perplexed not only by how the Ephraim look-alike got into the funeral home, but how he’d missed seeing him in the shadows a minute ago, Michael asked the old man, “Uh—may I help you?”

  The old man blinked, a slow, seemingly laborious process, then lifted a hand and pointed a crooked finger at Wilson.

  Michael waited, but when the man didn’t say anything, he whispered to Wilson, “You know this guy?”

  “Not a clue,” Wilson murmured. “Kind of looks like Stevenson.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. But I don’t remember seeing him at the service. You?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Sure looks like he knows you, though.”

  Wilson squared his shoulders, “Yeah, well, if he doesn’t point that goddamn finger somewhere else pretty soon, I’m going to shove it up his ass. That’ll get him to talk.” Wilson scowled, winced, then said to the stranger, “Hey, how’d you get in here?”

  A look of raw, unabashed hatred flared in the old man’s eyes. He took a step forward, and his body wobbled as if he walked on Jell-O. The accusing finger jabbed fervently at Wilson. “Thief!” he declared in a thunderous voice. “It is you who has released curse of death!”

  Wilson reared back his head. “What the fuck?”

  Michael grabbed his father’s arm, suspecting he’d spring after the guy any second.

  “Let go,” Wilson demanded, yanking his arm free. “If you got somethin’ to say to me, mister, then you’d better hurry up and finish sayin’ it because I’m going to call the cops. You’re trespassing.”

  With a gleam in his eye, the old man spat on the floor. His saliva crackled on the carpet like acid. “You have taken granddaughter’s passage,” he said, each syllable heavily accented, the r’s rolling off his tongue with venomous purpose. “And for that you shall pay.”

  Michael cringed. He remembered the pomp and circumstance the Stevensons had given to the gold coin they had him place under Thalia’s hands. Ephraim had said something then about it being her right to passage. Evidently, this man was Thalia’s grandfather, and somehow he not only knew about the missing coin, he knew Wilson had taken it. But how? The man would have had to been at the viewing to know, and Michael was convinced he wasn’t. No way he would have missed a character like this, especially near the end of the viewing when there were even fewer people in the room. Regardless of how the old man knew, from the look on his face, it was easy to assess that Wilson was in deep shit.

  “I don’t know nothing about no granddaughter’s passage,” Wilson declared to the stranger. “So if that’s all you got—”

  “You will end!” the man bellowed. He lifted his arms and spread them expansively. “You are to receive but one warning, and this I give to you now. Unless it be returned to her before rising of second sun, you shall die without mercy!”

  “Whoa, hold on now—” Michael said.

  “Now just a goddamn minute—“ Wilson shouted.

  “The second sun,” the old man reiterated louder. “Return it so granddaughter may find way or it is done, Wilson Savoy. For you, for—”

  “How the hell do you know my—”

  “ . . . for anyone who dares possess it. It shall be done.”

  Wilson spun around and faced Michael. “I’ll show that sonofabitch who’s gonna be done! I’m gonna kick his ass!”

  Although Michael agreed that the old man was going over the top with the melodrama, he pulled his father close. “The gold piece,” he whispered in his ear. “That’s what he’s talking about. That’s what he wants.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he’s talking about. He threatened me!”

  Figuring it best to handle the matter himself, Michael held up both hands and turned to signal a truce to the stranger.

  But the old man was gone.

  Bewildered, Michael dropped his hands and took a cautious step forward. Then another. And another.

  When he reached the spot where the stranger had stood, the only evidence that gave proof the man had even been there was a depressed set of prints in the carpet. Not the footprints of a man, however. But those of a dog—a gargantuan, long-nailed dog.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Janet finished the last of her coffee with a hard swallow. "—then to top it off, I thought I saw a man behind her.” she said, keeping her voice low so the girls, now watching television in the Theriots’ living room, wouldn't hear. The hair on her arms stood on end as she recalled the event.

  "Oh, God," Sylvia gasped, pressing her hands against the sides of her face.

  Janet nodded. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack right then and there.”

  "What did you do?" Sylvia asked.

  “You should’ve called me,” Rodney said, a little too loud. “First thing.”

  “Hush,” Sylvia warned.

  “Well, she should’ve.”

  Sylvia threw her husband a stern glance before turning her attention back to Janet. “Then what?”

  "I ran into the house, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, then took off for the stairs, yelling like a banshee."

  "Should've called me first," Rodney said with a shake of his head.

  "For heaven's sake, Rodney," Sylvia snapped. "You think she was gonna stop, pick up the phone, and call you when all the time she's thinking those babies are just a whiff away from danger?"

  "She'd have had time," Rodney said indignantly.

  Sylvia tsked and turned to Janet. "Then what?","You’re probably right, Rodney.” Janet reached across the table and patted his arm. "But I didn’t even think. I just ran for Ellie's room.”

  “But the girls were okay?” Sylvia asked.

  Rodney rolled his eyes. “I would s’pose so, Syl. They’re sittin’ right over there.”

  Janet jumped in before Sylvia could counter. “The girls were fine. They just looked at me like I was crazy."

  "What about the man?" Sylvia asked.

  "Nothing," Janet said. "I searched every inch of the house and didn't find a thing. After a while I figured it might have been the sun reflecting off the windowpane."

  "I don't understand," Sylvia said. "Then why was Heather screaming?"

  "That’s the funny thing. She claims she wasn't. In fact, both girls swear she was nowhere near the window."

  "That's really weird," Sylvia said. She got up from her chair and began gathering dishes. "Maybe the girls just played a joke on you, then got too scared to admit it when they saw you run in all serious."

  "I don't know," Janet said. "That’s a pretty sophisticated joke for a five and six-year-old.”

  "Computers and television, s’all they’re good for. Teaches kids stuff they got no business learnin’,” Rodney said. He pushed his chair away from the table. “Anyways, no harm done. Kids’ll be kids.” He rubbed his stomach. "Syl, your fried chicken'd make an angel cry."

  Sylvia stopped midway to the kitchen sink. "Here Janet is all worried, and you're talking 'bout food."

  Rodney leaned back in his chair. "What's to worry about? I’d bet you a dime to nothin’ that it was the kids playin’ around.”

  Sylvia shook her head dismissively, and Janet used the few seconds of silence to change the subject. Rehashing this afternoon only heightened her
worry.

  "Rodney's right, you know," she said to Sylvia. "Your chicken is the best. I'm so stuffed I can barely move." Janet sucked in a deep breath for emphasis, got up, then gathered her plate and glass from the kitchen table and went to the sink where Sylvia was already elbow deep in soapsuds.

  A blush spread over Sylvia’s face. The sleeves to her white and pink blouse were pushed up nearly to her armpits, and meaty slabs of skin swung under her arms when she rinsed a dish. “I’m glad you liked it. My mama left me that recipe.”

  Janet kissed the old woman’s cheek and reached for a dry towel. "Well, you did your mama proud.”

  A loud belch from the table made Sylvia spin around with a look of disbelief and disgust. "Rodney!"

  Janet bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

  "S'cuse me," Rodney said, sheepishly. "But it ain't bad manners, Syl, just good food. Ain't that right, Little Bit?"

  “That’s right.”

  "Told you.” Rodney said to his wife. He drummed his fingers on his stomach, and when Sylvia only glared back at him, he got up from his chair. "Okay, guess it's time for me to go join the girls."

  When he left the room, Sylvia shook her head. “I guess we just gotta be grateful it didn't come out the other end.”

  Janet grinned. She enjoyed working alongside Sylvia in her kitchen. It reminded Janet of homey, childhood times, a time before Alzheimer’s stole her name from her mother’s memory.

  "We should be at the festival by nine,” Janet said, rinsing soap from a glass. “I can help at the pie booth if you’d like."

  Sylvia dried her hands on the checkered apron cinched around her thick waist. "I sure would. I baked tons this year. Didn't do blackberry, though. Just fig, pecan, apple, and a few custards. I'm thinkin' that—" Her eyes darted past Janet, then narrowed with worry. "What's the matter, munchkin?"

  Alarmed, Janet spun around and nearly knocked over her daughter, who stood inches away with her arms folded over her stomach.

  "My tummy hurts," Ellie said. She leaned her head against her mother's leg.

  Janet tossed the towel onto the counter and placed a hand on Ellie’s forehead. It felt cool and dry. She cupped Ellie’s chin and lifted her head for an eye inspection. Heavy lidded, but clear.