Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  He lowered Heather to the ground and arched his back. “I believe so.”

  Janet glanced down at Ellie who walked alongside her engrossed in the details of the glass figurine. “How about it, honey?” she asked. “Want to ride?”

  Ellie adjusted her fanny pack, then slid her fingers across the horse’s back and down the length of its tail. “Okay,” she said absently.

  As the four of them neared the Ferris wheel, Janet leaned into Rodney. “I don’t have a clue as to what happened back there,” she whispered. “I aimed for number seven.”

  “Was the damndest thing I ever saw,” he mumbled back. He smiled down at Heather, who suddenly looked up at him. When she turned away, he said, “Saw the ring skip over a handful of pegs before it landed on that one.” After a long pause, he added, “Lucky shot I guess.”

  Janet shrugged for lack of a better response.

  The Ferris wheel operator, an overweight woman with facial hair, pulled on a long lever connected to a control box, and the ride offered her another half-cup-shaped chair. The few people in the seats swung back and forth as she checked the lock bars lying across their laps.

  “You gonna ride, Aunt Janet?” Heather asked.

  “No way,” Janet said with a grimace. “You two ride with Rodney. I’ll get Sylvia something to drink and meet you back here.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Rodney said. “Kinda nice lookin’ over the town from way up there.”

  Janet patted his arm. “I think I’ll stick with the street view, thanks.”

  The operator pulled the lever again, and another empty chair appeared. Heather squealed with delight, and both girls settled on either end of the seat. Rodney squeezed himself between them. The operator had to shove hard on the lock bar to secure it across Rodney’s stomach.

  “Why don’t you let me hold your pony?” Janet called to Ellie. “That way you can hold on with two hands.”

  Ellie shook her head, tucked the horse under her pink T-shirt, and wrapped both hands around the lock bar.

  “They’ll be fine,” Rodney said. He spread his arms across the back of the seat and rested a hand on each girl’s shoulder.

  The lever was pulled again, and the seat wobbled into the air. Janet shivered and quickly left for the nearest refreshment stand.

  While she waited in line for a cup of lemonade, a crack of thunder shook the ground. Janet gasped and hurried past the people behind her, imagining lightning bolts aimed at Rodney and the girls.

  She tried to remain calm, tried not to run, but a gust of wind slammed against her back, urging her faster. Janet’s hair tangled across her face when she finally peered up at the Ferris wheel, which now spun backward in slow, choppy jerks.

  Thank God, she thought. They’re taking them off.

  Rodney took his arms off the back of the seat and sent Janet a reassuring wave as their bucket reached the very top of the wheel then stopped. He turned to the girls and pointed in Janet’s direction. Heather flapped a hand at her and smiled. Janet waved back, mentally urging the wheel down faster.

  In a flash, the scene from above changed. Ellie began to twist and squirm in the seat, and before Rodney could stop her, she stood on the chair, the lock bar barely reaching her shins. She raised her hands above her head, the horse clutched between them, and shouted into the wind, “Mia lona!”

  “Sit down!” Janet screamed.

  Rodney grabbed for Ellie, every movement of his body swinging the chair harder.

  Janet raced for the ride operator, who was about to give the lever another pull. “Don’t!” she cried. “Stop!”

  The woman’s hand froze over the lever, and she threw an angry look over her shoulder.

  Janet pointed up. “My daughter—God, my daughter’s going to fall!”

  Bystanders pointed and shouted for Ellie to sit down.

  Heather yelled from above, her voice a high, pitiful shriek. “Help! Help!”

  Frowning, the ride operator looked up. Evidently not seeing anything unusual, she casually reached for a hand-held radio, then went to Janet’s side. She gaped when her eyes locked onto Ellie. Pressing the side bar on the radio, she said into it, “Bill, get your butt over here, now!”

  Suddenly, Ellie’s body pitched forward, and Janet screamed. She saw Rodney quickly snatch a handful of Ellie’s shirt, which stopped the child from completely flipping over the lock bar. The anguish on his face grew more and more pronounced as he strained to pull Ellie back into the seat. Abruptly, the look of anguish collapsed into a grimace of pain, and Rodney grabbed the left side of his chest with one hand, leaving Ellie to dangle precariously in the other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Michael hustled to his office with Sally at his heels. He glanced at his watch again. Still late, no matter how many times he looked at it.

  He barely remembered climbing out of his recliner this morning at five, when the answering service phoned with a death call. Chad, according to the woman from the service, couldn’t make the removal because he’d come down with a severe stomach virus during the night. Michael had no choice but to throw on a clean suit and run out to make the removal himself. He’d been running ever since.

  In the last twelve hours, he’d made two more removals, one involving a three-hundred pound corpse and a flight of stairs. Then he’d embalmed three bodies, dressed, cosmetized, and casketed the two Chad had picked up from Magnolia yesterday, then worked a viewing, and was now in the middle of another one. The piece de resistance came when his apprentice phoned, informing Michael that bodily fluids were still making explosive exits through both main orifices of his body, and he’d be out until tomorrow. Left with that news, Michael had to call Richard Mason in for backup.

  “I can’t believe you forgot Mr. Albert’s rosary,” Sally said to Michael when they entered his office. She marched past him to the credenza, where they stored the service accessories.

  “With everything else going on, you’re lucky that’s all I forgot,” Michael said. He went to his desk, scooped up two folders, and held them out to her. “Here’re the files for Mason. Make sure he gets the casket forms right this time.”

  “For Pete’s sake, hold on,” Sally snapped. “I’ve only got two hands.” She removed the rosaries from storage and dangled them on her fingers. “Black, brown, or clear?” she asked.

  “He’s in a black suit.”

  “Fine.” Sally dropped the brown rosary on Michael’s desk, then held up the remaining two. “Black or clear?”

  “Black. Black suit, black rosary. The women get clear, you know that, Sal. You’ve been doing this long enough.”

  “You don’t have to get testy. I wasn’t sure with Mr. Albert because he’s . . . was—” She let her hand go limp at the wrist.

  “Tired?”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? Fine. Gay, Michael. The man was gay, gay, gay. You happy now?”

  “Careful, your bigot slip’s showing.”

  “I’m not a bigot. I’m—aware.”

  “Right, and the KKK stands for kalm, kool, and kollected. Just use the black one.” Michael handed her the folders, which she took reluctantly.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave Richard Mason with two viewings tomorrow, Michael. You know how flustered he gets sometimes. Look how he bailed on us at the Stevenson service.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Richard about tomorrow’s schedule, and he doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. Both services should be small, nothing even close to the Stevensons’.” Michael rounded the desk and sat for the first time that day. His feet tingled with celebratory relief.

  “But what if we get another death call?”

  “Then we get another death call. Quit worrying. Everything’ll work out fine. You’ll be here, Chad’s supposed to be back in the morning—Richard will have plenty of help.”

  Sally shook her head. “This isn’t like you, leaving when there’s so much going on.”

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nbsp; Michael blew out a breath. She was right. Normally he would have canceled the trip, especially with it being so late in the day. But after the chaos yesterday, the busy day today, and the drama sure to come with the Stevensons and the stolen coin, he needed to give his body and brains a chance to recharge. More importantly, he needed a little quiet time with his wife and daughter.

  Sally, evidently thinking he was ignoring her last statement, curled a hand on her hip and scowled. “Well?”

  “Sal, I’ve already taken care of most of the work. All the three of you have to deal with tomorrow are viewings—yeah, I know—unless you get another death call.”

  “But what if Chad’s still sick tomorrow?”

  “Then wing it,” Michael said, growing agitated.

  Her brow furrowed. “Wing it? What do you want me to do? Pull somebody in off the street to do the embalming and casketing?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Why can’t your father come in tomorrow and help?”

  Because I don’t know where the fuck he is! Michael thought. When Michael had returned from making the first removal this morning, he’d wheeled the deceased into the prep room and saw the body from the night before still lying on the embalming table. The corpse had been aspirated, and the trocar, sharps, and other prep tools cleaned and neatly stored away in their assigned places. Michael wondered then about his father’s whereabouts. He hadn’t seen Wilson on the couch when the answering service woke him, or asleep in the master bedroom when Michael had rushed through there to dress. Although puzzled and a little worried, considering Wilson’s claim to vengeful investors and the threat from the old man who’d vanished last night, Michael had little choice but to concentrate on the volume of work before him. He didn’t think about checking Ellie’s room or the guest room for Wilson until later, when Bill Curry, a local handyman, called to say he was in Michael’s driveway and needed to get into the house to repair the broken window. Michael had hurried home, let Bill inside, then checked the other bedrooms. Wilson was in neither, and there was no evidence indicating he’d ever been. What Michael did find, however, was Wilson’s old Cadillac.

  Around two-thirty, just as Michael started out for the south side of town to make another removal, he spotted Wilson’s car parked about four blocks away from the funeral home, alongside Mouton’s Liquor Store. A suitcase sat on the backseat of the Cadillac, and the keys were still in the ignition. Furious, but not wanting to start a scene in the store, Michael pocketed the keys. If his father planned to skip town again so he wouldn’t have to face the Stevensons, he had another thing coming. No keys meant no ride. Michael knew the fix was only temporary, though. Soon Wilson would show up at the funeral home, albeit on foot, with another cockamamie story prepared. That had been three hours ago, and there still was no sign of Wilson.

  “You having some kind of seizure or something?” Sally asked, capturing Michael’s attention.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been asking if your father could—”

  “I don’t know where Dad is,” Michael said flatly. “So don’t count on him.”

  Sally unfolded her arms and threw them down at her sides. “Fine,” she said tersely. “But when people around this town start going to another funeral home because this one’s to busy winging it, don’t come crying to me.” With that, she stomped out of the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Before the sound of reverberating wood cleared in Michael’s ears, someone knocked on the office door.

  “What?” Michael called, half expecting to see Sally’s flustered face reappear. The door opened, and to his relief, Richard Mason emerged.

  “Sorry to bother,” Richard said. “But I’ve got a little problem.” He folded his hands in front of his gaunt body and bowed his head slightly as though preparing to pray.

  “What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

  Richard glanced up. “I’m embarrassed to say.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I was getting ready to go to K-Mart because we’re out of pancake makeup and I need some for Mrs. Ossun. I found liquid base in the prep room, but I can’t finish her cosmetics with that stuff. Anyway, like I said, I was going over there, but I can’t find my car keys.” His taut-skinned face turned red. “I called home for my wife, Uneeda, to bring me a spare set, but she’s not home right now. So—well, would it be all right if I borrowed your car?”

  Michael wanted to tell Richard to simply use the cosmetics in the prep room, but that would mean hearing an hour-long dissertation from Richard about the finer attributes of pancake makeup. He wasn’t up for that.

  He tossed him the keys to his Buick. “You won’t be long, right?” Michael asked.

  Richard blinked rapidly. “Oh, not long at all . . . well, it is raining heavy out there right now, so I may have to go slow. I wouldn’t want to wreck your car. Heaven’s I’d feel terrible if that happened. Sometimes you can’t help accidents, though. In this kind of—”

  “Then take your time,” Michael said, hoping to deflect a major discourse. “I’ll leave for Carlton whenever you get back.”

  Richard made a clicking sound with his tongue, then shot Michael an okay sign and left.

  Pleasantly surprised by Richard’s abbreviated departure, Michael swiveled in his chair and stared out the window. Rain pelted the pane, and wide rivulets distorted his view of the outside world. In this weather, it would be a miracle if he reached the cabin before ten tonight.

  He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone to call Janet and let her know he would soon be on his way. Chances were, if this storm had traveled that far north, the fair had ended early. She might be back at the cabin now, worrying about why he hadn’t arrived yet.

  Michael punched in the number for the cabin and immediately heard, “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy now. Please—”

  He quickly disconnected the call and redialed the number. Once again, the same recording chirped in his ear.

  “Give me a break with the circuits already!” Michael slammed the receiver down on its cradle. He dropped his arms flat on the desk and lowered his head, frustrated. He heard the phone ring.

  Michael eyed the blinking button on the phone as it rang again. Another death call? It rang a third time, and Michael wondered why Sally wasn’t picking up the call.

  More frustrated than ever, Michael scooped up the receiver and forced himself to sound civil. “Savoy Funeral Home.”

  He heard the sizzle and crackle of static, but no response. Assuming someone was calling from a cell phone, Michael said loudly, “Hello?”

  More static, then a young voice, the words choppy, barely audible, “Hu—da—stop—co—”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Michael said, speaking louder.

  “Da—come—hur—”

  “If you can hear me,” Michael said, “please call back. We’ve got a terrible connection.” He hung up and immediately the phone rang again.

  Not waiting for Sally to pick it up this time, Michael quickly answered, “Savoy Funeral Home.”

  “Da—hurry—co—bad!”

  Michael felt the hair on his arms stand upright on gooseflesh. Though the words were still choppy, the connection had less static, and he recognized Ellie’s voice. She sounded terrified.

  He pressed the receiver harder against his ear so he could hear past the static and the blood pulsing in his ear. “Ellie, what’s wrong? Where’s Mommy?”

  “Bad—for—al—hur—”

  “Ellie, where are you? Where’s—”

  The line went dead with a click.

  Michael quickly dialed the cabin number and prayed that he’d at least hear a ring this time.

  “We’re sorry, all circuits—”

  “Fuck!” Michael disconnected the line and was about to redial when the phone rang again. He punched the blinking button and dispensed with the customary greeting. “Hello!”

  No static blurred the line this time, only hollow silence.
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br />   “Ellie? Are you there?”

  A woman’s voice, clear and heavily accented said, “Your daughter calls to you from her mind for she has no other way.”

  “Who is this?” Michael demanded. The woman’s accent carried the same rolling r’s, the same staccato syllables he’d heard from the Stevensons and the rest of their clan.

  “Your daughter is in grave danger, and I cannot hold them from her much longer. You must come.”

  Michael bolted up from his seat. “Who the hell is this?”

  “It must be returned as has been told. One sun has already passed its mark. The second will not be long in coming. You have little time.”

  As she spoke, an image of the old man Michael had seen in the funeral home last night came clearly to mind, and the words he’d spoken replayed in hi-fi in his mind. The second sun—return it or it is done, Wilson Savoy. For you and for anyone who dares possess it.

  “If it is not returned before then, both will be lost,” the woman continued. “My child to nether world, your child to death.”

  “You leave my daughter alone!” Michael yelled. “I don’t have what you’re looking for! Do you hear me? I don’t have it!”

  The line began to fill with static again.

  “Do you hear?” Michael shouted. “Where is my daughter? Who are you?”

  Through the static, he heard the woman’s fading voice say, “Beside you, Mr. Savoy. Beside you.” Then the phone went dead.

  “Hello!” Michael shouted. “Hello!”

  A light rapping on the window made Michael whirl about.

  Anna Stevenson stood outside his window, wearing a long white gown, her dark hair flowing over each shoulder. She appeared dry despite the downpour, and her solemn face held the color and translucency of gauze. So did her hand, which she held out toward the windowpane. In her palm, lay Ellie’s butterfly barrette. The same one Michael had found on his bathroom floor the night before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Janet cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed once more, “Hold on, Rodney! Hold on!”