“Inconclusive,” Skidmore affirmed.
“What about the threads I found in the graveyard?” I ventured. “Truevine’s?”
“Nope,” Skid answered blankly. “Far as they could tell, just random threads.”
“Damn.” I rubbed my eyes. “I was sure they had something to do with all this. You didn’t do anything else, the two of you?”
“We had a nice lunch,” Andrews said.
“So you were mostly just messing with me, then,” I said.
“Exactly,” Skid agreed. “It was fun.”
“Well, it worked; I was messed with.”
“Job well done.” But Skidmore didn’t smile the way he might have the day before.
We knew we were stalling; the subject of the conversation didn’t matter the way it might have any other day.
“But we’re still considering the whole mess,” Andrews said, gazing down the slope into the shadows, “as motive for what happened to Harding.”
I had to smile at Andrews. “We are, are we?”
“Don’t you think?” He turned to me, ignoring the tone of irony in my statement.
“How far does this state property go, Skid?” I asked.
“All the way up to the cemetery. That’s where it stops.”
“This land goes all the way to that graveyard?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Not so far as the crow flies,” he told me. “You’re thinking of how it was when we were kids. The graveyard expanded a little, and the new roads weave all over the mountain from here, but straight shot? It ain’t but a mile, I reckon.”
“Why did Harding do this?” Andrews whispered. He’d borrowed one of my old overcoats, knowing we’d be out in the cold all day. It was a long navy blue monstrosity, too big for him, natty, torn at one sleeve. He’d stuffed his hair into a stocking cap and looked like a derelict sailor. Skidmore was in tight official regalia. I’d layered sweatshirts and sweaters, black hunting jeans with big pockets, heavy wool socks, and hiking boots. We were men from three separate realities.
“What’s the Wallace Stevens poem, Andrews,” I asked, pulling on my black gloves, “that goes: ‘Thirty men crossing a bridge into a town are actually thirty men crossing thirty bridges into thirty towns’?”
“‘Or one man crossing one bridge,’” he finished. “It’s called ‘Metaphors of a Magnifico,’ I think. And I’m not sure you’ve got the quote exactly right. Why do you ask?”
“That’s us. The three of us.”
He nodded. “I’m going into the woods for an adventure; you’re going for a cause; Detective Needle’s on the job.”
“But we’re all going to do the same thing,” Skidmore chimed in. “Let’s get to it.”
He was right. We’d wasted enough time. He handed me a small bundle of numbered red tags, Andrews a bunch of blue.
“Start with your lowest number; tag every body you come across.” Skidmore kept his voice dry, businesslike, hollow. “If you run out of tags, call me.” He gave me a walkie-talkie, Andrews had already picked his up. “If you have tags left over, we do the math at noon. Check in with me every so often. Questions?”
A thousand questions assaulted my brain, but none that anyone could answer.
“I take the east, Andrews the west; Dev, you go straight down. It would be better if we kept in eye contact, but the area’s too big.” He blew out a breath we could see in the morning air. “Cold for October.” He headed off without another word.
I looked over at Andrews. “Are you okay?”
“Christ,” he said softly. “I’m not nearly okay.”
I nodded, reached into my pocket. “Here, I brought this for you. Don’t tell Skid.”
He focused his eyes on the bottle in my hand.
“Is that your apple brandy?” Hushed reverence hung his voice in the air around us.
“The same.”
“I think I’m going to cry.” He took the bottle from me quickly. “Don’t you want some?”
I pulled a small thermos out of the other pocket. “What do you think is fortifying this coffee?”
“You know you’re a genius, right?” he said, pocketing his bottle in the greatcoat.
I headed down the slope.
An hour later Skidmore called. He was the first to find another group of bodies. Seven, including a child.
“What’s that make the total?” Andrews’s voice scratched over the walkie-talkie.
“We’re over a hundred,” Skid answered coldly.
I had done my best to keep a more or less straight path from where I’d started. It was slow going because I felt I had to scour every inch of the woods within my vision. I took ten steps, swept everything in a ninety-degree angle from my extreme right to a parallel point at my extreme left. Then ten more steps. Focus was intense, and there was little on my mind. The wind and cold swept away any clinging distractions, and since I had not found anything, the exercise might have been a pleasant meditation—but for the ever-present worry that my eye would come across a pile of rotting corpses.
“How are you holding up?” I asked Skid over the airwaves.
“I’m all right.”
“Signing off, then,” I said. I didn’t like hearing his voice so cold.
I thought I must be nearing the lower edge of the cemetery if it was only as far from the mortuary as Skid had said. I scanned the woods in front of me for the line of state barbed wire.
The woods were a perfect autumn world. A few leaves still pinched the branches of the chestnut and sycamore; their kin carpeted the ground. The air was crisp, the sun dodged clouds, and the sky, when it broke through, was hard blue.
I was a little surprised I hadn’t seen much animal life. The occasional squirrel, a darting bird, but nothing else. Considering that the land had not been hunted, I’d half-expected to see deer. The terrain sloped grandly up and down twice before trending steadily upward, ascending the gentler side of the mountain toward the cemetery. The trees, never too close, were thinning as the incline grew.
Just as I was thinking how glad I was that I hadn’t found any bodies, I saw something black dart past my peripheral vision, to the left. I jerked my head in the direction of the movement, but there was nothing there. Then a rustle of leaves disturbed the silence behind a large fallen tree. Pines toppled regularly in the autumn, and this one had been old. It had fallen recently; the roots still dangled upward in the air.
Bears sometimes found food in fallen trees of that size, a final bite before lumbering off for the winter’s nap. I stood very still, my breathing a little too loud, waiting. I hadn’t fired a gun since I was a boy, but I wished then I’d brought one of my father’s hunting rifles. I was standing in a relatively clear patch of ground, nothing around me, nothing to dive behind or climb up. No big sticks or heavy rocks were anywhere near.
“Dev?”
The walkie-talkie scraped the air all around me, twice as loud as it had been a moment before. I jumped, gasping.
The thing behind the tree did the same. It scrambled, growled, and sprinted away. I heard it more than saw it, but it was large and black.
“Dev?” the walkie-talkie said again. It was Andrews.
I grabbed it out of my pocket.
“What?”
“I’m running low on fuel. Do you have any ‘coffee’ left?”
“Christ.”
“What?” he said innocently.
“I was just …” but I didn’t finish.
“Just what?”
“I saw something, an animal, but it ran off.”
“What was it?”
“Could have been a bear,” I answered. “But it was a small one.”
“A bear?” His voice was higher. “Are there bears out here?”
“Probably not.”
“But you just said.” His pitch grew.
“Could have been a wild dog, I guess, but …” I stopped. “Oh my God.”
“Do you see it?” He’d jumped an octave.
“It
could have been a big black wild dog.”
“Well, be careful,” he mused, calming. “In some ways I’d rather run into a bear than a wild dog.” He hesitated. “So your coffee …”
“It’s gone,” I lied. “Sorry.”
“Okay. When’s lunch?”
“Andrews,” I shot back.
“Fine,” he said quickly, “I’m going back to work.” His walkie-talkie clicked off.
I tried to see where the dog had gone. It was too much a coincidence, June’s telling me about the witch’s animal companion, then seeing its twin in the woods. Darting up the final slope winded me, but it brought me to the end of the government property and the barbed wire fencing.
Slipping under it was harder than it had been on the other side. Rocks had been piled on the ground and had to be moved. I still managed to catch my sweater and it took me a few minutes to get loose, all the while convinced that the wild dog would return, find me helpless, and eat my esophagus.
Finally freed, I got to my feet quickly, scanning the edge of the graveyard, trying to get my bearings. I didn’t recognize anything.
Find the Angel of Death, I thought.
Grim as it was, the statue was the perfect landmark, tall enough to be seen from most of the yard and clearly appropriate for the day.
After wandering and skirting impossible bramble thickets, I saw it and headed toward its dark wings.
The statue was weathered, covered with lichens, beautiful in the autumn light. It had been purchased by the Newcomb family to be placed at the tallest point in the cemetery, atop the largest communal crypt. The crypt itself was at least twice the size of my house. It was made mostly of granite; the iron gates guarding the entrance were highly stylized art deco monstrosities, the fashion of the decade in which they were commissioned.
The Angel soared over the building, arms reaching out, gown blowing behind, on its way to gather souls. The substantial wings seemed quite capable of carrying angel and company away. The angel’s face had always been, to me, the most disturbing aspect of the thing. It was smiling. Mona Lisa had learned from this angel. The smile was grim if I stood on one side of the statue, serene from another angle, ominous straight ahead. Deeply troubling.
I thought it best to try and stand beside it to survey the entire yard. It took some doing to scramble up on top of the crypt, but once I was there I could see that others had come before me: beer bottles, cigarette butts, chicken bones decorated the roof. Fine place for a midnight tryst among the ghoulish high school set.
I stood, arm on the statue, and took in as much of the place as I could. Once again I thought the quiet concentration would have been pleasant under other circumstances. I lost myself in the exercise, and time passed in silence.
The meditation was brought to an abrupt end by the sound of something moving in the crypt.
Impossible for me to get off the roof without making noise, all sound from within the crypt ceased when I moved.
My heart was thumping, my eyes burning. I was trying not to blink. Could be an animal, I thought. A rat would be right. My breathing was uncontrollably loud from the effort of quitting the roof.
A closer inspection of the iron gates at the front of the crypt revealed that they had been opened recently; the hinges showed signs of disturbed rust and moss. Something had gone into the tomb—and closed the door behind it.
Fear could easily have prevented me from moving had it not been for the curse of curiosity. I had to know what was inside. Still, precautions had to be taken. I pulled out the walkie-talkie and made a loud noise, clearing my throat, then called in.
“Deputy Needle?” I said loudly into the thing. “I’m here at the Public Crypt as you instructed. How close behind me are you? Over.”
There was a pause. The thing in the crypt was deliberately still.
“Dev?” Skidmore’s voice was uncertain, but he knew better than to ask questions. He’d heard the tone in my voice.
“Yes,” I answered more loudly, “I can see you now; the rest of the men are on their way to meet us here.”
“Good,” he said hesitantly. Then, an afterthought, “Don’t go shooting off your gun, all right? I don’t want any more disturbance up there.”
“Yes, sir,” I told him, “I won’t shoot my rifle again. Sorry.”
“Good. Be right there.” Pause. “Andrews, you copy all this?”
Silence reigned.
Then: “Copy?” Andrews had clearly finished all the apple brandy. “Sure. I guess.”
“Bring the rest of the men and meet us up at the big crypt.”
“Under the Angel of Death,” I inserted quickly.
“Oh.” Utter bafflement filled Andrews’s voice. “Okay.”
I thought there might be a back exit out of the crypt and I was half-hoping whatever was inside would find one and take it. Moving away from the gates, I took a vantage point slightly behind a nearby grave marker.
The sun dodged behind a fast-moving cloud; without warning it was twilight. A cold shot of wind speared through the yard; everything was animated for a moment. I looked down at the tear in my sweater. When I looked up, there was more noise from inside the crypt.
I ducked down behind the tombstone, trying to hold my breath. Then scraping sounds, like someone moving furniture, sang out. A human moan, I thought, rolled out from between the bars of the gate. Could have been creaking tree limbs in the wind.
I reached into my pocket and turned off the walkie-talkie. I had no intention of its scaring me or the thing inside. I squinted into the place, willing my sight to pierce the darkness. I thought I saw something, but it moved too quickly.
Suddenly there was a clatter from deep inside. I stood.
There is a back door, I thought.
I shot around the side of the place before I could think.
The ground was level all around the crypt. When I got to the back side I could see two high windows, thick stained glass. One was broken. And it was moving.
There was a hand at the edge of the window, clearing away the broken bits of glass. Then a voice sounded.
“Damn,” it said quietly.
The face appeared, and I burst out laughing.
Inappropriate laughter is often the result of released tension. In this particular case, enormous relief was involved.
I stared up at the face. “Able!”
He hadn’t seen me and I frightened him. He jerked, startle response, and fell backward into the crypt.
Able Carter lay on the floor of the crypt, barely conscious. Skidmore was kneeling beside him, making certain he hadn’t broken anything. Andrews and I stood staring.
Though they’d met, Andrews had not recognized Able’s face. It was haggard, covered with stubble, grim-eyed.
“I can’t believe that’s the same person I saw at the church just the other night,” Andrews said again. “He’s aged ten years.”
“Let’s just get him on his feet,” Skid said. “Don’t appear he’s got any broken bones.” He looked down. “You stand up, Able?”
Able managed a feeble nod.
On his feet he was still dazed, not quite understanding who we were, even his brother-in-law.
“Girlinda’s been worried sick about you, boy,” Skid said gently, trying to revive him.
“Worried?” He looked around, trying to imagine where he was.
“Did he hit his head?” Andrews whispered.
“Got the breath knocked out of him,” Skid answered. “He’ll come around in a minute.”
Able looked Skidmore up and down. “Am I under arrest?”
Skidmore started to say something, took in a breath, remained silent, darting his eyes to me for a second.
“We’ve been looking for you, Able,” I said calmly. “Your sister was scared something happened to you.”
“Sister?” He was still dazed.
I reached into my pocket for the small thermos. “This might help.” I handed it to Able.
“Hey,” Andrews obj
ected, “you said that was gone.”
Able looked down at it.
“Coffee,” I told him.
He nodded slowly. I unscrewed the top for him. He sipped. He sighed. He finished the coffee in one or two more gulps.
I took the thermos back from him and watched his eyes gradually return to the present moment.
“Wow,” he said, “I fell.”
“You did,” Skid agreed, looking up at the high broken window.
“Am I under arrest?” Able repeated.
“Yes,” Skidmore said evenly.
Andrews and I kept still.
“Let me explain,” Able said, looking down; his hands began to tremble. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do it on purpose. But I can see how it looks. And I almost got lynched by the Deveroe boys too, so I understand what everyone’s got to be thinking.” He looked up, locked eyes with Skidmore. “I’m scared, boy. I’m really, really scared.” He was starting to shake all over.
“It’s okay,” Skid said plainly.
“You have to take me into the jail, I get that, but you got to promise me the Deveroes can’t get at me. Not until we straighten all this out.” Tears were in his eyes. “I loved her, Skid. You know that. Everybody knows that. We were going to be married. I swear to God. You have to believe me.” He closed his eyes.
“Able?” I took a step closer to him.
“It was an accident,” he snapped at me fiercely; a violent shaking overcame his body. “I could never murder Truevine. I loved her.”
Skidmore wouldn’t allow Able to speak another word until we were all back down the mountain, seated in his office. He’d called his wife, sent out for food, and warned Able of his rights before any of us were allowed to speak.
“All right, now,” Skid began, pencil in hand. “Tell me what happened.”
The walk back down the mountain had been a trot. Andrews kept starting sentences that were cut off by sharp looks from the deputy.
Skid placed Able, unhandcuffed, in the backseat. Andrews and I followed in my truck. Skid had tried to send us home, but he could see what a fight he’d have had on his hands, so he gave up and let us sit in a corner watching the strange scene.
The Witch's Grave Page 12
