by Ed Gorman
“There weren’t any nulls at any of the other agencies,” Amelia said. “It’s got to be either John Robert or his clerk. I didn’t get to check either of them.”
“He’ll be going to lunch any minute.” I said, glancing down at my watch. “Probably Sally will be, too. I’ll go to the back where they park and stall them. Do you have to be close?”
“If I have one of my spells, it’ll be better,” she said. She darted over to her car and unlocked it, pulling out her purse. I hurried around to the back of the building, just a block off the main street but surrounded by crepe myrtles.
I managed to catch John Robert as he left his office to go to lunch. His car was dirty. His clothes were disheveled. He slumped. I knew him by sight, but we’d never had a conversation.
“Mr. Briscoe,” I said, and his head swung up. He seemed confused. Then his face cleared, and he tried to smile.
“Sookie Stackhouse, right? Girl, it’s been an age since I saw you.”
“I guess you don’t come to Merlotte’s much.”
“No, I pretty much go home to the wife and kids in the evening,” he agreed. “They’ve got a lot of activities.”
“Do you ever go over to Greg Aubert’s office?” I asked, trying to sound gentle.
He stared at me for a long moment. “No, why would I do that?”
And I could tell, hear from his head directly, that he absolutely didn’t know what I was talking about. But there came Sarah Lundy, steam practically coming out of her ears at the sight of me talking to her boss when she’d done her best to shield him.
“Sally,” John Robert said, relieved to see his right-hand woman, “this young woman wants to know if I’ve been to Greg’s office lately.”
“I’ll just bet she does,” Sally said, and even John Robert blinked at the venom in her voice.
And I got it then, the name I’d been waiting for.
“It’s you,” I said. “You’re the one, Ms. Lundy. What are you doing that for?” If I hadn’t known I had backup, I would’ve been scared. Speaking of backup…
“What am I doing it for?” she screeched. “You have the gall, the nerve, the, the, balls to ask me that?”
John Robert couldn’t have looked more horrified if she’d sprouted horns.
“Sally,” he said, very anxiously. “Sally, maybe you need to sit down.”
“You can’t see it!” she shrieked. “You can’t see it. That Greg Aubert, he’s dealing with the devil! Diane and Bailey are in the same boat we are, and it’s sinking! Do you know how many claims he had to handle last week? Three! Do you know how many new policies he wrote? Thirty!”
John Robert literally staggered when he heard the numbers. He recovered enough to say, “Sally, we can’t make wild accusations against Greg. He’s a fine man. He’d never…”
But Greg had, however blindly.
Sally decided it would be a good time to kick me in the shins, and I was really glad I was wearing jeans instead of shorts that day. Okay, anytime now, Amelia, I thought. John Robert was windmilling his arms and yelling at Sally — though not moving to restrain her, I noticed — and Sally was yelling back at the top of her lungs and venting her feelings about Greg Aubert and that bitch Marge who worked for him. She had a lot to say about Marge. No love lost there.
By that time I was holding Sally off at arm’s length, and I was sure my legs would be black-and-blue the next day.
Finally, finally, Amelia appeared, breathless and disarranged. “Sorry,” she panted, “you’re not going to believe this, but my foot got stuck between the car seat and the doorsill, then I fell, and my keys went under the car anyway, Congelo!”
Sally’s foot stopped in midswing, so she was balancing on one skinny leg. John Robert had both hands in the air in a gesture of despair. I touched his arm, and he felt as hard as the frozen vampire had the other night. At least he wasn’t holding me. “Now what?” I asked.
“I thought you knew!” she said. “We’ve got to get them off thinking about Greg and his luck!”
“The problem is, I think Greg’s used up all the luck going around,” I said. “Look at the problems you had just getting out of the car here.”
She looked intensely thoughtful “Yeah, we have to have a chat with Greg,” she said. “But first, we got to get out of this situation.” Holding out her right hand toward the two frozen people, she said, “Ah — amuus cum Greg Hubert. “
They didn’t look any more amiable, but maybe the change was taking place in their hearts. “Regelo,” Amelia said, and Sally’s foot came down to the ground hard. The older woman lurched a bit, and I caught her. “Watch out, Miss Sally,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t kick me again. “You were a little off balance there.”
She looked at me in surprise “What are you doing back here?”
Good question. “Amelia and I were just cutting through the parking lot on our way to McDonald’s,” I said, gesturing toward the golden arches that stuck up one street over. “We didn’t realize that you had so many high bushes around the back, here. We’ll just return to the front parking lot and get our car and drive around.”
“That would be better,” John Robert said. “That way we wouldn’t have to worry about something happening to your car while it was parked in our parking lot.” He looked gloomy again. “Something’s sure to hit it, or fall on top of it. Maybe I’ll just call that nice Greg Aubert and ask him if he’s got any ideas about breaking my streak of bad luck.”
“You do that,” I said. “Greg would be glad to talk to you. He’ll give you lots of his lucky rabbits’ feet, I bet.”
“Yep, that Greg sure is nice,” Sally Lundy agreed. She turned to back into the office, a little dazed, but none the worse for wear.
Amelia and I went over to the Pelican State office. We were both feeling pretty thoughtful about the whole thing.
Greg was in, and we plopped down on the client side of his desk.
“Greg, you’ve got to stop using the spells so much,” I said, and I explained why.
Greg looked frightened and angry. “But I’m the best agent in Louisiana. I have an incredible record.”
“I can’t make you change anything, but you’re sucking up all the luck in Renard Parish,” I said. “You gotta let loose of some of it for the other guys. Diane and Bailey are hurting so much they’re thinking about changing professions. John Robert Briscoe is almost suicidal.”
To do Greg credit, once we explained the situation, he was horrified.
“I’ll modify my spells,” he said. “I’ll accept some of the bad luck. I just can’t believe I was using up everyone else’s share.” He still didn’t look happy, but he was resigned. “And the people in the office at night?” Greg asked meekly.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Taken care of.” At least, I hoped so. Just because Bill had taken the young vampire to Shreveport to see Eric didn’t mean that he wouldn’t come back again. But maybe the couple would find somewhere else to conduct their mutual exploration.
“Thank you,” Greg said, shaking our hands. In fact, Greg cut us a check, which was also nice, though we assured him it wasn’t necessary. Amelia looked proud and happy. I felt pretty cheerful myself. We’d cleaned up a couple of the world’s problems, and things were better because of us.
“We were fine investigators,” I said, as we drove home.
“Of course,” said Amelia “We weren’t just good. We were lucky.”
CHARLAINE HARRIS is the New York Times bestselling author of the Southern Vampire novels, which were turned into the HBO series True Blood in 2008, and the Harper Connelly series. She’s been nominated for a bunch of awards, and she even won a few of them. She lives in southern Arkansas in a country house that has a fluctuating population of people and animals. She loves to read.
A Sleep Not Unlike Death
BY SEAN CHERCOVER
Gravedigger Peace was already sitting up when his eyes opened. It had been years since the nightmares, but his face and forea
rms were clammy with perspiration and his heart was racing, so he assumed there’d been one. Truth was, Gravedigger Peace didn’t remember his dreams these days. Not ever. Not one.
A sleep not unlike death.
Gravedigger drank from the water glass on the bedside table. The digital clock said 3:23. He stood, peeled off his moist T-shirt, wiped his face and arms. Tossed the shirt into the laundry hamper, then shuffled to the kitchen. Instant coffee with a couple ounces of Jim Beam. Final drink of the night.
He sat on the couch in the living area and drank his bourbon-laced coffee and listened to the rain drumming on the metal roof. He stared at the dead grey television screen. No point turning it on; he knew what he’d seen and nothing would have changed in the last three hours. He turned it on anyway. The set came to life right where he left it, tuned to CNN. The news hadn’t changed. The bodies, what was left of them, were back in the United States. Next of kin had been notified, and the names of the five civilian contractors slaughtered in Ramadi had been released to the public.
Civilian Contractors. A family-friendly euphemism for mercenaries. The euphemism had never bothered him when he was in the business, but it bugged the shit out of him now.
The television screen showed heavily compressed digital video that had originally aired on Al Jazeera. Five bodies, dumped together in a heap in the middle of the street. Burning. A couple dozen young Iraqi men dancing around the fire, chanting God Is Great and Death To America and other things Gravedigger could not understand. Then the television showed photos of the five Americans. Four white kids in their late 20s, and one black man in his late 40s.
Gravedigger took a deep breath and blew it out, and consciously relaxed the white-knuckle grip that threatened to shatter the coffee mug in his right hand. He didn’t recognize the younger men on the television screen, but he knew Walter Jackson, and had served under him in Nigeria a decade earlier. Back in another life, when Gravedigger Peace was still Mark Tindall.
The barracks smelled like cigarettes, stewed goat, and the collective body odor of seven testosterone-rich men. No breeze came through the screened windows, and the cigarette smoke hung like a fog in the dim light.
Mark Tindall tossed three .45 caliber bullets into the center of the table. “Raise it up, ladies.”
“Fuckin’ Africa,” said Walter Jackson, and tossed his cards in. “I fold.” He wiped his ebony torso with an olive green T-shirt. “Never cools down, not even at night.”
“I thought you were from the Southland, Sarge,” said Raoul Graham. “Heat shouldn’t bother you.” Then, to Mark, “I’ll call your bullshit.” Raoul tossed three bullets into the pot.
Walter Jackson leaned back in his chair and grabbed a Coke from the cooler, “Milledgeville’s hot but you get a break every now and then.” He popped the bottle cap with the edge of his Zippo, gulped down half the bottle. Then held the cool bottle to his chest, rolling it across a faded blue tattoo. The Insignia of the 1st Special Forces was still legible — Two crossed arrows, with a fighting knife in the middle, pointing skyward, above the motto: De Oppresso Liber. Liberate From Oppression.
Underneath the motto, Walter Jackson had added:… Or Not.
Mark Tindall never asked what had turned Jackson’s army life to dog shit, but he knew that Jackson was bitter about it and saw the military as no more noble than the world they now inhabited. Fighting for whichever side offers the most money.
Mark had never served in the military, and he hadn’t become a mercenary for the money. He just wanted to kill things. To inflict pain on others. Like his dad inflicted pain.
Around the table, the other three men folded their hands in turn, and Mark shot a hard look to his only remaining opponent.
“How many?”
“Three,” said Raoul, and Mark flicked three cards face-down across the table.
“And Dealer takes one,” said Mark.
“You’re gonna miss that straight-draw,” said Raoul, grinning.
God, Raoul had a knack for pissing him off without even trying. “Flush-draw, asshole,” Mark sneered. He separated six bullets from his pile, added them to the pot. “And it’ll cost you six to find out I made the nut.”
Walter Jackson stood and got a fresh shirt from his foot — locker, put it on. “Tindall, when you’re done taking Graham’s money, I need you. Perimeter survey. Bastards are gettin’ closer every day.”
Brian Billings sat up on his cot and closed the book he was reading. “I’ll go, Sarge.”
“No you will not.”
“Aw, how come Golden Boy always gets the glamour jobs?”
“Fuck you, Billings,” said Mark, without looking up from his cards.
Jackson spoke before Billings could answer. “Tindall goes because Tindall is better than you. Quietest white boy I’ve ever seen, outside Special Forces.”
“Thanks a heap, Sarge,” said Mark Tindall. “Raoul, you gonna play, or what? I gotta go.”
“Just trying to decide between a call and a raise.”
Mark Tindall dropped his cards facedown. “Take it.” He stood from the table and strapped on his sidearm.
Raoul giggled and raked in the pot. “I knew you missed your flush.”
“Wrong again, genius. I was bluffing all along. Didn’t have shit.”
Walter Jackson slung an M-16 over his shoulder, “Let’s go, Golden Boy.”
In the morning, Gravedigger avoided the television altogether. Queasy from the hangover, he made a solid breakfast. Three eggs, four rashers of bacon, three slices of whole wheat. And coffee. Always coffee. He considered a slug of bourbon, just to smooth out the rough edges, but the urge itself was a red flag. Sure, he’d been drinking the night before, but now it was morning. It had been years since he drank before the day’s work was done. He deferred to his better judgment, taking his coffee black. He could feel Mark Tindall creeping around in the back of his skull, and it worried him. He’d killed that guy years ago, and he was fucked if he’d ever go back.
I am Gravedigger Peace, he reminded himself as he washed the dishes. That’s who I am.
It had been raining for two days straight, and it was still falling at a steady pace. He put on a plastic poncho and walked to the groundskeeper’s shed, where he assigned the day’s muddy tasks to his crew. There was his assistant, Sam, who’d worked at Mount Pleasant Cemetery for longer than anyone could remember, and Sam’s son Bobby, who was approaching 30 but had the mental capacity of a 12-year-old. Larry and Jamie were a couple of black kids who’d just graduated from high school and were working to save money for college.
And then there were the losers — Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Gravedigger called them. They didn’t get the reference and seemed to enjoy the nicknames. A couple of teenage metal — head stoners, they’d barely made it out of high school. But most people don’t want to work in a cemetery, and Gravedigger had given them a chance. The latest in a long series of small acts, since he’d killed off Mark Tindall. Small acts to confirm his status as a member of the human race.
So far, the stoner kids had worked out okay. Just barely. They weren’t going to set any records for speedy work, they sometimes called-in hungover on Mondays, and he suspected that they often smoked-up on their lunch breaks. But graves were getting dug, bodies buried, and the grass was getting mowed. So he’d decided to keep them on for the rest of the summer, but wasn’t planning to invite them back next season.
Gravedigger made it through the morning meeting on autopilot, and dismissed his crew. The walkie-talkie on his belt crackled to life, summoning him to the office. He hopped on an ATV and drove through the hot summer rain to the main building near the cemetery’s entrance. Without a word, the receptionist ushered him in to see the boss.
“Thanks for coming, Gravedigger. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No thanks.” Why thank him for coming? And why the solicitous tone? The boss sounded like he was talking to a customer.
“Reason I called you in, we have… well, we ha
ve a body, just arrived for burial. No funeral, just burial. Employer’s picking up the tab.”
“Okay.”
“The deceased put it in his will, to be laid to rest here, because you’re the head groundskeeper.” He looked at a sheet of paper, put it aside. “His name was Walter Jackson. I guess he was a friend?”
The room spun and Gravedigger closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Gravedigger. Take a few minutes to collect yourself, I’ll wait outside.”
A silver sliver of a moon provided just enough light to move. More light would make them more vulnerable, while a moonless night would force them to use flashlights, which was even worse. This was perfect.
Mark Tindall and Walter Jackson made it out to the perimeter — five hundred yards from the barracks — at an easy pace. But the perimeter survey would be tediously slow. As Jackson so often said, “You can go fast or you can go quiet, but you can’t go both.”
Silence demands a kind of slow that very few men have the discipline to achieve. The vast majority of military men could never sustain it, but it is mastered by Navy SEALS and Special Forces. And few mercenaries. Mark took a justifiable pride in his ability. Still, he berated himself for every cracked twig underfoot, for the rustle of his pant legs, for the very sound of his own breathing. But there was none quieter, and even Walter Jackson could not hear him.
It took over an hour to make one hundred yards along the perimeter. Mark walked point, with his commander ten yards back, following — quite literally — in his footsteps. The night vision goggles were a necessity, but in this heat Mark had to take them off every few yards and wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Each time they made twenty yards, Mark stopped and Jackson slowly closed the distance between them. They used hand signals to communicate the All Clear. Then Mark started again, ever so slowly.
At two hundred yards, Mark saw the camp. Both the sight and sound of it had been blocked by a small hill, and by the time it appeared, they were close. Too close.
