Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  Not bothering to assess the rest of the damage to the Cadillac, Michael stumbled down the driveway toward the clapboard house. His head ached, his tongue burned from having been bitten, and his neck felt like it was attached to his torso with staples. He balled his hands into fists, pictured Ellie and Janet, and willed more strength into his body.

  A porch light came on the moment Michael stepped up to the house, and he saw a curtain part in a front window. An old woman peered out at him, her short white hair willowy and wild as though she’d just risen from sleep, her wrinkled, toothless mouth moving frantically against the mouthpiece of a telephone.

  Michael knocked on the door, and the curtain snapped shut. He waited, listening for footsteps. When no one came to the door, he knocked again.

  As he raised a hand to knock a fourth time, he suddenly found himself bathed in red and blue light. Puzzled, he looked back to see a white patrol car barreling down the drive. Only then did he hear the crunch of gravel beneath its tires.

  The patrol car rocked to a stop fifty feet from the house, and a young, heavyset woman stepped out. Her black ponytail swung from side to side as she scanned the front of the property, corded radio mike in hand. She mumbled something Michael couldn’t understand into the mike, then tossed it back into the car. Moving out from behind the car door, her small eyes narrowed, and a hand settled over the gun holster strapped to her side.

  ���Wanna tell me what you’re doin’ here, mister?” she asked in a congested, north Louisiana drawl. She sounded winded, as though moving those few inches was more exercise than she’d experienced in a month.

  “Looking for help,” Michael said. “My car . . .” He pointed toward the Cadillac and for the first time, noticed the condition of his hands and arms. Both were streaked with dirt and blood. His fingernails looked like he’d been digging mud holes with them. By the look of disgust on the officer’s face, the rest of him must have looked even worse.

  “Yeah, I noticed how well you relocated Miss Mert’s mailbox,” she said. “Just step on down from that porch now. Slow and easy.”

  Michael did as she asked and stumbled down the last step. “Officer, listen, I—”

  A flashlight beam struck him full in the face. “How much you have to drink?” she demanded.

  “Huh?”

  “To drink, mister,” the officer said. “You know, booze, beer, bourbon?”

  “Nothing!” Michael said. “I—”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Michael snapped. “I haven’t even had water since I left Brusley!”

  “Brusley, huh?” She eyed him. “Then what say we see some I.D. License, registration, that sorta thing.”

  Michael quickly patted his back pockets, then remembered he didn’t have his wallet with him. He slumped. “Officer—”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said. “You left it at home.”

  “Yes, but I can explain.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, taking out a small notepad and pen from her shirt pocket. She tucked the flashlight under one arm and flipped open the notebook. “Wanna try for registration?”

  “Please, I know what this must look like . . .what I must look like, but I’m in the middle of a crisis.” Michael started toward the woman, and her glare stopped him cold. “I have to get to Carlton. It’s an emergency, a matter of life or death.”

  She frowned. “Whose?”

  “What?”

  “Whose life or death?”

  “My wife, my daughter.” Michael began to pace, anxious over the time being wasted. “They’re in Carlton, alone at our cabin, and I’ve got reason to believe they may be in danger.”

  The officer cocked her head to one side, keeping a wary eye on him. “And what reason is that?”

  Michael opened his mouth to tell her, then snapped it shut. If he told her the truth, she’d haul him away for sure. Straight to the nearest mental ward.

  “Well?”

  “They left yesterday. I haven’t heard from them since. I’ve tried calling dozens of times, but haven’t been able to get through.”

  “And?”

  Michael tried not to slouch under the weakness of his excuse. He had to come up with something plausible, something that would get this woman’s attention. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t very well tell her the complete truth.

  Kneading his forehead, Michael said, “Look, it’s a complicated story, but the bottom line of it is my father owes a man money. A dangerous man. And I’m afraid this guy thinks my father is at the cabin with my wife and daughter. I’m almost positive he’s headed over there right now.”

  The blue uniformed woman pursed her lips, then relaxed them, pursed, then relaxed, as if she was sucking in what he’d said. Finally she asked, “If you’re that worried about your family, why haven’t you contacted the police in Carlton or even the parish sheriff’s department?”

  “I tried,” Michael said. “I even had a police dispatcher from Brusley try to get through to them. But all the phone lines have been down.”

  She sucked in his words again. “What’s the man’s name?”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  “The guy you’re so worried about getting to your wife and kid.”

  Not anticipating that question, Michael blurted the first name that popped into his head, “Ephraim Stevenson.”

  The officer started to write in her notebook, then stopped and glanced up at him. “You got a spellin’ on that first name?”

  “E-P-H-R-A-I-M.”

  “’Preciate it. Now you?”

  “Me?”

  She nodded. “Your name.”

  “Michael Savoy.”

  “Wife’s?”

  “Janet Woodard Savoy.”

  “And the phone number to this cabin you’ve been talkin’ about.”

  “What do you need with the number?”

  The officer let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, you got no I.D., a car wrapped around Dora Mert’s mailbox, it looks like you’ve been fist fighting in a pig’s wallow for a week, and you don’t seem to be able to walk a straight line for shit. Now, that’s not to say there’s no reason to trust you, mister, you understand? But so far, your one and one ain’t addin’ up to two. Anyway, I’m going to call these names in, make sure nothin’ shows up. If they come back clean, I’ll have somebody give this alleged cabin number a call. We’ll take it from there.”

  Michael crossed his arms, wanting to hold onto the little bit of hope she’d just given him. “Instead of calling, couldn’t you send a patrol car out there? The address is—”

  She ticked a finger at him. “First things first. What’s the phone number?”

  He gave it to her, and she repeated it back to him for confirmation.

  When he agreed that she’d written the number down correctly, she pulled the flashlight our from under her arm and pointed the beam at the front of the patrol car. “Now you just come on and stand right here where I can keep an eye on you. I won’t be but a minute.”

  Michael dropped his arms. “But you don’t understand, we’re wasting too much time!”

  “You’re the one wastin’ it by arguin’ with me.” She waggled the beam over the hood of the car. “Now git.”

  Only when he was in the instructed position did she get back into the squad car, leaving one leg out, foot firmly planted on the ground.

  From where he stood, Michael heard the click of the mike as she keyed it.

  “Unit five to dispatch.”

  “Go ‘head, Unit five.”

  “Yeah, we got a ten thirty-five charlie on China Valley Road right in front of Dora Mert’s place. We’re gonna need a wrecker.”

  “Ambulance?”

  Michael saw the officer peer at him through the windshield before sticking her head out the door.

  “You need an ambulance?” she asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t need a damn ambulance,�
�� he shouted. “I need somebody to go and check on my wife and daughter!”

  She glared at him for a beat, then turned away. She leaned over to one side for a second, and after that all Michael could hear were mumbles and clicks.

  He began to pace again, keeping himself between the headlights lest she panic and eat up more valuable time. To keep himself under control, he watched his feet like they were hands to a clock and counted each step as a passing second.

  By the time the officer got out of the squad car, Michael was up to five hundred forty-three and ready to kick out both headlights.

  “Well?” he asked when she snapped the flashlight back on and pointed it at his feet.

  “Well is right, Mr. Savoy,” she said sharply. “If I were you, I’d find the registration to that car out there right fast.”

  “What?—wait! Did anyone call the number I gave you?”

  “Oh, yeah, they called,” she said, her eyes hardening. “I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with out here, Mr. Savoy, but I can tell you, it ain’t a bunch of small town yokels. We don’t take kindly to people yankin’ our chain.”

  Michael threw his hands up. “What the hell are you talking about? Did anyone get through to that number? Were the circuits working? Did my wife answer?”

  She scowled and lifted the beam of light to his chest. “Circuits were fine, number rang right through in fact. All four times—straight through to Carlton—and the town morgue.”

  “Whoa! What? Somebody dialed the wrong number. They had to have dialed the wrong number!”

  “Four times?”

  “I don’t care if they dialed it ten times,” Michael said. “They had to have dialed it wrong!”

  The officer looked at the notebook, repeated the phone number he’d given her earlier in a sharp, loud voice, then asked, “Now you gonna stand there and tell me you accidentally gave me the wrong number?”

  “No, that’s the right one, but—”

  “For a man so worried about time, you’re sure throwin’ away a lot of it, Mr. Savoy. Both yours and mine. So let’s get this movin’. Time to see your registration.”

  “But—”

  “Look, you’ll have a chance to do all the buttin’ you want down at the station. Once you get me that piece of paper out of your car, we’re gonna take a little ride and get a few things straight. Find out exactly how much you mighta been drinkin’, figure out why you got blood in places without any cuts, and get to the bottom of why you’re runnin’ around over a hundred and fifty miles from home without any I.D.. Come on now, let’s git. We’ve kept poor Miss Mert up long enough with all this hurrah.”

  Michael slammed a fist against the hood of the squad car. “I’ve already told you I haven’t been drinking, goddammit, just like I told you I forgot my wallet at home!” He yanked on the front of his T-shirt. “This blood comes from an injured woman. Her car ran off the road just outside of Pucket, and I stopped to help. All you’ve got to do is call the ambulance service in that area to confirm it. Now that’s the whole goddamn story. I don’t need to go down to any police station. I need to get to Carlton!”

  A brilliant sword of light pierced his eyes. “And I need your registration!” the officer said. “Now if you wanna go ahead and add destruction of public property to the crap already hangin’ over your head, you just go on. But let me warn you, I might be a woman, but I can cuff you and haul your ass outta here faster than anybody. So you either get on out there to that car right now and get me that registration or you’ll be spending a hell of a lot more time in Sunton than you planned to.”

  With a shout of frustration, Michael pushed away from the squad car and stormed down the driveway toward the Cadillac.

  A wobbling light beam appeared on his left side.“Slow it down, Savoy,” the officer said. They’d barely walked a hundred feet, and he could already hear her panting and huffing for breath behind him.

  Michael’s mind pureed his thoughts until they were soup. He kept his walk brisk, his eyes straight ahead.

  “I said slower,” she wheezed.

  Michael started to jog.

  “S-stop! Now! Y-you hear?”

  The beam of light swung wildly now, across the open field to his left, down near his feet, over his head, revealing the thick wall of trees and brush across the road—nature’s sanctuary—a fortress against questions and delays.

  Without a second thought, Michael ran for it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Wilson Savoy mumbled a Hail Mary, then the Pledge of Allegiance. Those were the only prayers he knew.

  Shaking, he got to his feet and leaned against a wall for support. His mind felt perforated, too fragile to hold the image of the dog-man without splitting apart—that blood-soaked snout shrinking into a human aquiline nose, those lips, swollen and stained from the fruits of their most recent labor. Every time he tried to force the vision out of his brain, however, it only made more room for Lester. In the forty-three years Wilson had been a funeral director, he thought he’d seen more faces of death than any one person had a right to. Mangled bodies, flattened bodies, burned ones, floaters, infants, hangers, crap that kept you awake at night for weeks. This was the first time he’d ever watched one of these gruesome deaths actually take place. Between the sights and sounds of Lester’s flesh being torn apart and dog-man’s transmutation, Wilson figured he might never sleep again.

  Kneading his bottom lip between two fingers, Wilson glanced over his shoulder at the back door. He had to find a way out of here, out of this building, out of Brusley, out of Louisiana. But how? Even if he managed to escape through a window, that dog-thing might still be lurking outside. Hell, for all he knew, another one might be hiding in the funeral home.

  Unsure of what to do next, Wilson turned back to face the length of the hall. That’s when he noticed the slugs, a parade of them, hundreds, crawling along the baseboard of the wall to his left. Their slick, brown-green bodies were long and as thick as a man’s finger. Their trail seemed endless. Stunned, Wilson followed their path with his eyes, down the entire length of the baseboard, up the corner of the rear wall to the ceiling, then along the crown molding where they seemed to loop back to where they began. Wilson turned slowly, looking for the last slug, following the trail that led to the back door—and the old, barefoot man standing beside it.

  Wilson gasped.

  “There is no escape,” the old man said fiercely.

  A warm, wet patch suddenly spread across the front of Wilson’s pants. “But—”

  “No escape!” The old man lifted his arms up at his sides, and his chest began to expand. “No mercy!” Thicker, wider, his sternum bulged until the buttons on his black mourning suit popped off.

  “I don’t have it!” Wilson cried. “I don’t have your medallion, I swear!”

  The old man’s eyes darkened to the color of pitch, and he lowered his head, chin to chest. A low rumble emanated from him, the vibrations of which Wilson could feel under his feet.

  “I swear to God,” Wilson said backing away. “I don’t have anything! I don’t have it!”

  The rumbling became a roar of anger, and the old man’s head lifted abruptly, revealing a wide, protruding forehead. The lower half of his face began to shift, collecting nose, mouth, and chin into one thick, black snout.

  Wilson whimpered and held out his hands. “No, wait! Wait! You said I had time, right? Right? Didn’t you say that? The sun, some deal about the sun, right?”

  In one last shuddering motion the transformation became complete, and Wilson no longer faced an old man with large ears and bare feet, but a Rottweiler of enormous proportions.

  “Shit!” Wilson whirled about and ran down the hall.

  He heard the thunder of heavy, padded feet racing behind him.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace—with liberty and justice for all,” Wilson mumbled frantically while urging his legs and arms to piston faster. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t look back.

  He was abo
ut to dodge left into one of the viewing rooms when he envisioned the dog’s teeth shredding through the flimsy accordion doors like they were tissue. He bolted right instead, into the casket selection room and kicked the door shut behind him.

  A heavy thump vibrated against the door, making it shudder in its frame. Then came the chomp, snap of gnashing teeth, so loud it was as if the animal stood beside him. With jittering fingers, Wilson managed to turn on the lights. He quickly scanned the room, searching for a place to hide.

  Another thump. Then another. The sonofabitch was going to break down the door!

  The sound of splintering wood sent Wilson racing for a mahogany casket, which was set up on a two-foot bier at the back of the room. He jumped into the casket and closed both lids. Only seconds passed before he heard the Rottweiler snorting around the seals.

  Wilson lay very still, his face a bare two-finger distance from the inside lining of the top lid. Springs beneath the casket mattress poked into his back, but he dare not move to readjust his position.

  The dog whined, then growled and scratched on the coffin, causing it to shift slightly on the bier.

  “Go away,” Wilson mouthed, clutching the satin lining.

  The animal scratched again as though for good measure, then Wilson heard nothing but his own labored breathing. He listened intently, forcing slow, even breaths. Did it leave? Had it given up that easily? Or was it just sitting there, waiting him out? It was too quiet. Too damn quiet.

  Wilson nervously clicked a thumb and fingernail together. He glanced up, then to each side. No matter the direction he shifted his eyes, the darkness remained so complete it seemed palpable. His nostrils burned from the new material smell, and his right arm began to itch. Carefully, Wilson reached over and scratched. Instead of relieving the itch, the prickling sensation traveled up to his shoulder, then to his neck. Wilson followed it with a trembling finger. When he reached his shirt collar, he felt something thick and wet crawl onto his hand. Letting out a low moan of disgust, he swiped the back of his hand against the top of the casket. Whatever he wiped off fell across his left eye with a plop.