He opened the door and withdrew the pint bottle of Dewar’s White Label. It wasn’t cheap booze, but it was the least expensive stuff in his cabinet. The bottle was half full. He reached for one of the cut crystal lowball glasses, poured generously, and eyed the bottle. Less than a quarter full now.
From the back of the bottom shelf where he’d hidden it yesterday, Grinold drew out the canister of methanol. An excellent solvent for some purposes, but deadly when ingested. He steadied his hand and dispensed the liquid into the Dewar’s bottle until it was nearly half-full again. He swished it around and capped it. It looked a bit pale now, but he wasn’t concerned. Kennet had probably never tasted anything this expensive and wouldn’t know the difference.
If he’s like that young fool Rick Hannah, he’ll swill it down without a thought, glad to “catch a buzz,” or whatever they call it, for free.
He hid the methanol and closed the cupboard. He straightened and took a healthy swallow of what was in his own glass, to make it look more like a normal drink. And to brace himself for the task ahead.
• • •
Kennet closed the crematory door on Putterman’s body bag and pulled off the shield to wipe his face on his sleeve. That damned Ms. Costa was up to no good, he just knew it. And Grinold, the bastard.
It cost little more to dig a hole and provide a pine casket than it did to heat this stupid death machine. But what could he do? Were Costa and Grinold in cahoots on the cremation of residents? This unsettled him. But it came without the certainty that attended his other revelations. When the flames engulfed the bagged body, Kennet turned away and tossed the face shield on the work table.
The funeral home door opened and Grinold entered, carrying a liquor bottle, a crystal glass, and a plastic cup, the kind from the dispenser by the water cooler. Kennet didn’t know that Grinold drank, but obviously he knew very little about the people closest to him. And what he was discovering, he didn’t like.
Grinold set the glasses on the work table next to the discarded face shield. “I’m sorry for being so stern, Kennet.”
You, apologizing? This was a first. The man’s words were already working on him, but Kennet refused to accept them so readily. Somehow he doubted they were genuine.
“You obviously had some affection for the man. But you’re doing the right thing.”
Kennet knew he absolutely was not doing the right thing, but it was done now. Putterman’s flesh was boiling off his bones this moment. He felt sick inside.
“How about a drink in honor of an old friend, hmm?” Grinold squinched his liver-colored lips into a smile and swished the bottle about. He poured half of it in the plastic cup and held it out between them.
Kennet never drank because he didn’t want to become like his father. But not everyone who drank became an abusive alcoholic. He always regretted not being able to enjoy a social drink like everyone else, even if he was under age.
Should he do it?
He didn’t want to drink with Grinold, the asshole, but he did want to honor Putterman. And all his lofty principles had led to nothing more than frustration and trouble.
He accepted the cup. He took a swallow as Grinold did the same, watching him over the crystal rim. Kennet drank, and the cool liquid burned its way down. “Hoo!” He coughed and spluttered, making a face at the foul taste.
The funeral director chortled and clapped him on the back, but there was a glacial glint in his eyes that Kennet didn’t trust. The man was phony through and through.
Grinold emptied the bottle into Kennet’s cup and raised his own glass. “To Albert Putterman. A fine man and a good friend.”
Kennet took another sip to honor the toast, then set the cup on the table.
Grinold picked it up and put it back in his hand. “You finish that off, you’ll feel better. My compliments. And thanks for being such a faithful employee.” He smiled his fake smile and carried the bottle and his glass back into the funeral home.
• • •
Grinold held the bottle and his glass behind his back as he approached Mary Grace’s desk.
She looked up from her computer monitor, eyeing him from beneath her garish orange hair.
“Why don’t you take the afternoon off, Mary Grace? With pay, of course. It’s a nice day, and I’m sure you’d like to get some things done at home.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she stared at him over her half-glasses as if he’d professed his heretofore hidden but undying love for her. She saved the document on her screen and blurted, “Sure.” Then she shut down the PC.
“Enjoy your afternoon,” he said and entered his office.
He needed her out of the way. If Kennet started getting sick, he wanted no one around to call 911. It would take Kennet anywhere from a few hours to two days to metabolize the methanol into formaldehyde.
Formaldehyde, which acted quickly when ingested, would be detected during an autopsy, and the coroner would conclude that Kennet died of formaldehyde poisoning. With the access Kennet had to Formalin and other chemicals in the embalming area, the next reasonable step would indicate that he ingested the poison here, at the funeral home. This was by no means an ideal situation, but it would be deemed an accident—or a suicide—if Grinold weren’t around when it happened. The only thing he needed to do was establish an alibi for himself for the next two days.
Time for another trip.
Grinold washed and dried the glass and replaced it in the cupboard beneath the bonsai. He withdrew the canister of methanol, made sure the cap was tight, and stuffed it in his briefcase along with the empty Dewar’s bottle. He would dispose of them at Grant’s Texaco on his way home. Then he gathered his things, closed his office door, and left the building.
In two days, he thought, my troubles will be over.
Chapter 28
Kennet’s head swam as if he’d opened the oven and been swamped by the revelation of Putterman’s death. But the process had just entered cool-down; it would be another hour before he opened the oven door.
He grew more lightheaded and, when dizziness set in, he thought it best to sink to his knees before he fell.
Shouldn’t have taken . . . that drink. If he hadn’t, it wouldn’t be coming back up. He vomited wetly on the floor, swore he was expelling his guts out his throat. He gagged and heaved until nothing more came up.
He collapsed on the cool concrete, his chest in the vomit and the heat of the oven at his back. Sparkles of purple and black invaded his vision, like the fireworks he saw the night his father killed himself, and he sensed himself floating . . . drifting upward . . . far beyond the hall of records where he received his death perceptions.
The darkness faded to light, a light so bright it would be blinding if he were seeing it with his physical eyes. But it did not hurt when he looked directly into it. A woman’s voice called out, strong and clear, like an echo in a canyon where a waterfall cascaded into a river clear as diamond.
“Be strong and do not fear! Behold, your God will come with vengeance. With recompense he will save you.”
His mother appeared in a white robe, emanating brilliant light. She was speaking scripture to him as she often did, but there was an authority in her voice that Kennet had never experienced, even in his last dream of her. She was taller, towering over him, exuding waves of power, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the night Sister Etta Hargrave laid her hands on him and prophesied.
He stood trembling before her, engulfed by her radiance and warmth. She spoke to him again as she had in his dream, but this time with holy force.
“For you shall be great in the sight of the Lord, and you shall drink neither wine nor strong drink. And you will be filled with the Spirit of God.” She gazed at him with eyes like burning sapphires, and he was filled with both fear and love.
She set her right hand on the crown of his head. Energy shot through him like electrocution. The core of his being expanded, and he was laid open from head to toe, connected from the highest heave
n to the center of the earth.
“Kenneth Banes Singleton, in the name of the Most High, I impart to you the gift of seeing clearly with both eyes.”
Searing light struck him, a flash like a nuclear detonation. A spectacular star of indigo light blasted through his forehead, burning away the fog. He was dying. He tumbled backward and down, down, down, as if he had fallen into the river, with the water roaring in his ears.
The vision of his mother, her voice, receded above him. “Be sober, be vigilant, my son, for your adversaries stalk about like roaring lions, seeking to devour you. Resist them. . . .”
Her echoing words and the sound of rushing water gave way to a scream . . . not a scream, but a groan. He was groaning, and the cool-down timer was beeeeeping above him incessantly.
He struggled to rise, his arms shuddering beneath him. His shirt peeled away from the vomit as he staggered to his feet and shut off the timer. His head throbbed and his stomach ached from heaving, but he was recovering from the drink.
Never again, he told himself. I’ll never let anyone intimidate me against my own convictions.
He snatched the paper cup of booze from the work table, carried it to the embalming sink, and threw the liquid down the drain. Then he peeled off his puke-stained tee-shirt and cleaned the floor where he’d been sick.
He pulled on his lab coat, which was tighter than ever, donned the face shield and gloves, and then opened the oven door. Over the ridge of ashes, something white flew at him, and Kennet reeled back as it swept over him. He glimpsed fierce eyes and a gaping mouth.
“Avenge us!”
Kennet knew it was the spirit of Albert Putterman. He dropped to the floor, shaking with fright.
• • •
In that moment, Kennet was certain how Putterman had died. It was simply from old age, of natural causes. But Putterman knew he’d been wronged. His friend wanted vengeance, and he wasn’t the only one. Putterman had said, “Avenge us.”
Who else are you talking about? Kennet addressed this question to the old man’s spirit. In his mind’s eye, Putterman stood flanked by a host of figures, spirits who were looking to him with expectation for help and justice. Before he could identify them, the vision faded, and he felt as if he was waking from a dream.
He finished pushing the ashes down the trough and then reached for the broom. After he swept the oven clean, he transferred the catchtray of hot cremains to the work table. He picked up the envelope with Putterman’s papers in it and recorded the account number on the circular graph paper. A chill swept through him when, inside, he heard a whisper like the wind through the cemetery pines:
Avenge us . . .
Kennet whirled around. No one was there, but all his senses were on edge. He was certain that someone was in the room with him. But he saw no one, and all the doors were closed. He batted back the curtain around the embalming area, but it was unoccupied.
He processed the cremains, yet the feeling of being haunted never left him. This tangible presence was much stronger than the inner inklings of the past. He wondered what happened to him while he was passed out on the floor.
He pulled the graph paper from the thermograph, folded it once, and inserted it in Putterman’s envelope. Again, the sound of rushing water and the echoing voice.
Avenge us. Avenge us!
Carrying the envelope into the funeral home, Kennet recalled what he saw when he passed out from the vile-tasting liquor. His mother, towering like a giant, robed in lightning and quoting the Bible to him, yet warning him—of what?
His adversaries. Who were they? Mr. Grinold? Alex? Ms. Costa? Or someone else?
The trembling returned, and Kennet stopped short of Mary Grace’s area to calm himself. He didn’t want her to see him this way. He buttoned the lab coat so that she couldn’t tell he was shirtless underneath it. When he rounded the corner, however, Mary Grace’s desk sat empty and her chair was pushed in all the way. The computer was off.
As he tossed the envelope in her in-basket, something shiny caught his eye. Her office keys dangled from the lock of a desk drawer. Perhaps she was on her way out. He waited for a minute, yet all remained quiet. He checked the restroom, but the door was ajar, the light off. He knocked on Grinold’s office door, but there was no answer, and the door was locked.
He returned to her desk, pulled the key from the lock. The chrome ring held a number of keys. Some were large, for door locks. Others were small, for her desk and filing cabinets. Kennet noted which key was for the desk and flipped the remaining small keys around the ring. He stepped to the bank of filing cabinets and read the labels on the drawers.
When he reached the drawer marked “Cremations,” someone placed a hand on his shoulder.
• • •
Kennet jerked around, but no one was there. His heart pounded and his hands shook, and he sensed that presence again, like someone was in the room with him. Someone or something.
“Who, who’s there?”
No answer.
He peered down the hall. It appeared empty. Yet he sensed it was filled with people—dead people—lining up to speak to him. He turned back to the filing cabinet.
What had his mother said to him in the vision? He closed his eyes and pictured her again, resplendent in light, her hand descending to his head. I impart to you the gift of seeing clearly with both eyes. . . .
An image flashed before his mind’s eye of his own hands opening the Cremations drawer, then riffling through the folders. He opened his eyes.
The drawer was still shut, but he was pinching one brass key between his thumb and forefinger. He tried it in the lock. The lock snapped out. The hair bristled on his neck, and he looked around again only to find himself alone.
He hauled open the cabinet drawer. It was two-thirds full. He ran his hand over the top of the folder labels.
“What am I looking for?”
Stroking his thumb over the protruding folder tabs, he shut his eyes again, and there was the vision he’d just seen of himself opening the Cremations drawer. It was faint, like the image on an old tintype photograph. His hands were pulling out a folder in the back of the drawer. Kennet opened his eyes and stopped moving his hand over the typed name SINGLETON, VIRGINIA B.
He pulled out the folder and leafed through its contents: the funeral home forms; the manila envelope with the death certificate; a photocopy of a check from Costa’s Personal Care Home, signed by Ms. Costa in her neat script. He picked out the manila envelope and opened the flap.
He sensed the ghostly presence again but checked himself from turning around. No one’s there. No one he could see, anyway. Perhaps this was part of the gift his mother had imparted to him, seeing clearly with both eyes: externally and physically, internally and spiritually. He didn’t know, but he could only test his theory. The presence beside him, or wherever it was—had it always been here and he simply never sensed it? He’d had dreams before, “visions in the night,” Ma had called them. But nothing this spooky.
He withdrew the contents of the manila envelope. His mother’s death certificate, signed by Dr. Grant. The circular graph that recorded the process of cremation. Odd. The disc was folded in thirds, two sides into the middle. He never folded them that way. Always in half.
He spread the flaps. There in his own handwriting were the account number and the time, 8:02 a.m. The sound of the canyon, the rush of water, the echo of his mother’s voice returned. He remembered recording the time because he rarely started work that early. It was the morning after his mother died.
Something fell from the folder to the floor. He picked up the yellow sticky note. The same account number was written on it in Grinold’s scribble. Then it hit him.
He remembered the time and the sticky note because he had performed the cremation. But he hadn’t folded the graph paper because Grinold never gave him the envelope with the death certificate—because the fat bastard didn’t want him to know he was cremating his own mother.
“Shit!” Anger
flooded him like crematory heat.
Grinold couldn’t be bothered to cremate one of his own customers—a paying customer—as a favor to a “faithful employee.” No wonder he wouldn’t consider a funeral service—Ma was already in the freaking oven!
Kennet clenched his curls in frustration. “Grinold, you miserable son of a bitch!” He felt sick to his stomach, like he would throw up again.
“Ma, if you can hear me, I’m sorry. Putterman, I’m sorry too.”
AVENGE US! The chorus was stronger than ever.
“I will. I promise,” he said. “But how?”
Sensing no immediate answer, Kennet stuffed everything back in the folder, shoved the folder in the drawer, and then slammed the drawer shut. He locked the cabinet and replaced Mary Grace’s keys.
Trudging back to the annex, something else bothered him. It scratched vaguely on the inside of his mind, prickling like the supernatural presence, but he knew this inkling was purely natural. There was something he needed to remember, but his brain wasn’t cooperating. What was it? It eluded him still. He hoped it would come to him soon.
He had a feeling it was important.
Chapter 29
“Search for Morse code,” Kennet said, looking over Christy’s shoulder at her Mac monitor. She typed the words into the Web browser and clicked the search button.
Kennet scanned the results on the Google page. “This one.”
She clicked the link, and a reference page for the Morse symbols opened. She looked up at him expectantly.
“Can you print it?”
“Sure.” She entered a command at the keyboard and the little inkjet on her desk started humming and jerking.
Kennet drew her blonde hair over her shoulders and let it cascade through his fingers.
She laughed. “What are you doing?”
“I love your hair. It’s so soft.” It smelled good too, like spicy fruit.
Death Perception Page 16
