Dead Voices

by Rick Hautala

  “Thanks for the lead,” Elizabeth said. “I feel kind of funny, though, not working with you any more. I’ll follow up on it right away; I promise.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Gavreau said. “I won’t take it personally. I know these things happen. My bottom-line concern is for you.”

  “Thank you very much,” Elizabeth said, choking up. “I ... really appreciate what you’ve done for me.” As she was talking with Dr. Gavreau, she took the telephone directory from the counter drawer, looked up Graydon’s number, and jotted it down on a piece of paper. As soon as she hung up, she dialed Graydon’s number, before she could chicken out. After four rings, she heard an answering machine click on.

  “Damn! I hate these things,” she muttered, when she heard the tape-recorded message begin to play.

  “ ... So if you leave your name and phone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Wait for the beep.”

  Roland Graydon’s voice sounded pleasant enough during the brief recorded message. Actually, Elizabeth thought, it had the mellow tone of a late-night FM disk jockey. As she waited for the beep and mentally phrased her message, she felt herself tensing up, wondering what kind of man this Dr. Graydon might turn out to be.

  — Beep —

  “Uh, hello, Dr. Graydon. This is Elizabeth Myers. Paul Gavreau in Laconia gave me your name and told me to call you to set up an appointment. I’ve been seeing him for almost a year now, ever since my ten-year-old daughter ... Well, I guess we can get into all of that later. You can reach me or leave a message at this number any time. We don’t have an answering machine, but someone’s usually around the house most of the day.” She repeated her parents’ phone number twice, mumbled a quick “Thank you,” and then hung up.

  She noticed her palms were sweating, and she rubbed them together vigorously as she began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. She saw the prescription bottle up on top of the refrigerator where her mother had put it; she considered taking a tranquilizer now but stopped herself, determined not to use the medication unless she absolutely needed it. Instead, she decided to try for another walk around the old neighborhood.

  Maybe, she thought, now that the sun is shining brightly, I might even make it out past the Oak Grove Cemetery.

  TWO

  Plot 317

  1.

  The warm, May night air sliced into the cruiser through its open windows as Frank Melrose and his partner, Brad Norton, drove down Main Street in Bristol Mills. It was still early in their shift, but they had decided to stop by the 7-Eleven for a coffee breake — especially after the incident they had just finished checking out.

  “I’d say old lady Weatherby is getting to be quite the pain in the ass. Wouldn’t you?” Norton asked, glancing over at Frank.

  Frank snickered, letting the steering wheel play loosely in his hands. They passed Hardy’s Hardware store on the right, and Frank’s trained eye scanned the darkened storefront for any sign of trouble. Not that he expected it, but these days, even in a quiet Maine town like Bristol Mills, you could never tell.

  “I have to thank you for backing me up, though,” he said. “If you hadn’t been there, I might’ve been ripped to shreds by that savage beast.”

  Norton hissed with frustration. “I don’t see how you can be so — so, I don’t know, so not pissed off about this! It’d be one thing if there was ever anything to these complaints of hers, but — shit! She’s getting to be like that kids’ story, about the boy who cried wolf. You know the one I mean?”

  Frank grunted.

  “Well ... one of these days — or nights, probably, because you and me seem to get most of her calls — she’s gonna come up against something that’s for real, and we ain’t gonna go out there because of … of shit like tonight”

  “What do you mean, ‘shit like tonight?’ “ Frank replied. “There was absolutely a ‘wild, rabid dog or wolf’ clawing at Mary Weatherby’s front door, trying to get at her.”

  Norton’s disapproving hiss got louder.

  “Okay, okay,” Frank said, “so the rabid wolf turned out to be the neighbor’s miniature poodle, who’d gotten off its leash. Still, she was scared out of her mind.”

  “Who was more scared?” Norton asked sharply. “Old lady Weatherby, or that damned dog?” He cocked his head to one side, considered for a moment, then began to laugh as he recalled the incident. “I mean,” he said, his shoulders beginning to shake as the humor of the situation got to him, “did you see the expression on Mary’s face? Goddamn! If I was that poodle, I would’ve pissed myself as soon as she peeked out the door at me with that pancake makeup she was wearing.”

  “You see, Brad. You just gotta look for the humor in these things-and be grateful we don’t have a whole bunch of shit to deal with like we’d get in a real city,” Frank said. He smiled over at his partner, who was almost out of control laughing. When Frank put on his turn signal and slowed for the turn into the 7-Eleven parking lot, Norton glanced over at one of the houses on the opposite side of the street and, cutting his laughter short, slapped his hands together.

  “Oh, Christ — that’s right. I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Did you hear Elizabeth Payne’s back in town? Seeing her aunts’ house there just reminded me of it. “

  “You mean Elizabeth Myers, don’t you?” Frank said. He had felt a cold twisting in his stomach the instant Norton said the name. “Myers is her married name.” His hands involuntarily clenched the steering wheel, hard enough so that the heels of his palms began to ache. He swung around in the parking lot and stopped the cruiser up close to the store. where he could look across the street.

  “Not any more, from what I heard,” Norton said. “If you can trust what Betty was saying.”

  “And what — exactly — was she saying?” Frank asked. He had never paid much attention to or put any credibility into anything Betty Stevenson said. She worked the counter night shift at the 7-Eleven, and just about everyone in Bristol Mills acknowledged that she had the lowdown on all the town gossip before anyone else. Sometimes, Frank half-suspected she made up some of it just to see sparks fly. It sure seemed as though she knew things about people even before they knew it themselves.

  Norton glanced at Frank. “Betty said that ... well, you know what happened to Elizabeth’s daughter and all about a year ago.”

  Frank nodded and bit down gently on his lower lip. He sure as hell did remember; he had been on duty that night and had heard the call for the rescue unit over his police radio. Because the accident hadn’t happened in Bristol Mills, he hadn’t responded; but he had monitored the radio transmissions and had spoken to the rescue personnel after they returned from the hospital.

  “Well, Betty says several people saw Elizabeth out walking this afternoon along Brook Road. And she heard from Gail Allen that Elizabeth’s husband is divorcing her. She’s come home to her parents — I guess to stay awhile, by the sound of it.”

  “I — uh, I hadn’t heard that,” Frank said tightly as he began digging into his hip pocket for his wallet.

  “No, no,” Norton said, waving his hand in front of Frank’s face. He already had his door open and one foot out on the pavement. “I’ll buy. You got it last time.”

  Saying that, Norton got out and walked into the store, returning a few minutes later with two large cups of coffee. Both men silently stirred in the sugar and half-and-half, then ripped out the tabs on the plastic covers so they could sip without spilling while they drove.

  “Betty have any more pearls of wisdom?” Frank asked, nodding toward Betty’s back, clearly visible through the storefront window. He hoped his voice didn’t reveal the true level of interest he felt. Norton simply grunted something Frank took to mean no, so Frank started up the cruiser and pulled out onto Main Street, heading north out of town.

  He drove slowly past the aunts’ house, his mind almost reeling with the rush of memories. He figured he must have driven past Junia and Elspeth’s house at least ten times a day every da
y of his life; and every time, his mind inevitably turned back to Elizabeth and their high school romance twenty years ago. Once Elizabeth had married Doug, he’d had to give up on the idea that they could ever rekindle what they had lost. Even now, knowing she might be divorced, if Betty’s gossip proved true, he realized that he and Elizabeth just weren’t the same people they had been back then. The past was dead and gone, and he knew he’d be wise to leave it that way.

  Still, a faint spark began to warm his chest, and he wondered how he would act and what he would say when he finally saw Elizabeth. In a small town like this, it was inevitable; it was just a question of how much or how little he should actively work toward that first meeting.

  “You aren’t trying to start a traffic jam or anything at this time of night, are you?” Norton asked with a chuckle.

  “Are you criticizing my driving?” Frank snapped. He hadn’t realized he was driving as slow as he was, and his partner’s laughter irritated him. “You think you can do any better?”

  “No, no — I was just … never mind,” Norton sputtered. He took a slurping sip of coffee and nodded at the road ahead of them. “Just drive. Sorry I said anything.”

  “Hey! If you don’t like the way I drive, why don’t you take over for a while?” Frank said angrily, slamming the shift into PARK. He got out of the cruiser and walked over to the passenger’s door. Through the open window, he irately waved Norton over to the driver’s seat. “Go on! Go on!”

  Norton looked up at him, a confused expression on his face, then brightened and said, “Oh, I see. You’re all hot under the collar ‘cause of what I said about Elizabeth Payne, right?”

  “That’s Myers! Got it?” Frank shouted. “Just get behind the fucking steering wheel, or I’ll write you up for insubordination!” He opened the car door and wedged himself onto the seat. Norton had no choice but to move over, while being careful not to spill his coffee. Once he was settled behind the steering wheel, he looked over at Frank and opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, shifted the cruiser into gear, and took off down the road. About half a mile past the 7-Eleven, Norton veered left onto Brook Road.

  Frank immediately noticed where they were heading and wondered if this was a random choice or if Norton had consciously decided to turn here, knowing that Elizabeth’s parents lived about three miles down this road. He told himself not to let it bother him. He stared out the open passenger’s window, sipped his coffee, and continued to mull over what he had learned about Elizabeth being back in town and — maybe, just possibly — soon to be divorced. As they were passing Oak Grove Cemetery, he suddenly slapped Norton hard on the arm and shouted, “Pull over! Quick!”

  “What?” Norton said as he veered over to the side of the road. “You haven’t even finished your coffee. Is your bladder giving out on you already?”

  With the cruiser’s tires rasping loudly on the dirt shoulder, Frank jabbed his thumb toward the passenger’s window. The glow from the headlights illuminated one of the two wrought-iron gates that led into Oak Grove Cemetery, while the rutted dirt road that cut straight between the gravestones and up over the hill was cast deep in shadow.

  “What — ? What is it” Norton asked, twisting around in his seat when Frank grabbed the cruiser’s spotlight and started swinging it back and forth across the front of the cemetery. The black metal rail of the fence sliced the beam of light, making it strobe wildly. Wavering shadows swept dizzingly across the tombstones nearest to the road.

  Norton didn’t have long to wait for an answer. The bright oval of yellow light crept up the hill and fixed on a mound of fresh turned soil between two headstones right at the crest.

  “No one’s being buried out here tomorrow that I know of,” Frank said suspiciously. “And I don’t think Barney’d be digging a grave this time of night. Do you?”

  Norton grunted and shook his head tightly as Frank opened his door and stepped out into the warm night. He took a second to adjust his utility belt. The spotlight beam was still trained on the mound of dirt at the top of the hill, drawing his attention.

  “Give a call into the station,” Frank said over his shoulder to Norton. “Tell ‘em we’re checking out something suspicious at the cemetery.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t think we need to —”

  That was all Norton got to say before Frank swung the spotlight around and shined it full force into his face. Shielding his eyes from the blinding light with one hand, Norton waved his other hand wildly at his partner.

  “Jesus Christ, man! You fucking trying to blind me?”

  “I said radio in — now, Goddammit!” Frank commanded. He clicked off the spotlight and, reaching to his holster, unsnapped his revolver and let his hand wrap comfortably around the grip.

  Norton picked up the radio microphone and thumbed the switch. He quickly told the dispatcher back at the station that they were at Oak Grove Cemetery “checking somethin’ out,” and that they would call for backup if they needed help. He signed off and got out of the cruiser to join Frank, who was waiting just inside the cemetery gate.

  Frank shivered as he looked at the night-stained rows of tombstones. The darkness inside the cemetery seemed somehow thicker, deeper than the night on the outside. Only a thin sickle of a moon rode low in the sky, and the stars looked like white powder sprinkled across black velvet. From the wetland down behind the cemetery hill, the loud sound of spring peepers filled the air, sounding like jingle bells. The mound of dirt that had caught Frank’s attention was a slouch-shouldered hump, clearly marked against the starry horizon.

  “Let’s just go have ourselves a look-see,” Frank said, taking the flashlight from his utility belt and clicking it on. The grass along the center strip was heavy with dew, and it wet Frank’s shoes and the cuffs of his pants as he and Norton started up the dirt road. Norton also held a flashlight, and walked along beside him, unable not to notice that Frank had his hand on his revolver.

  “You didn’t see anyone, did you?” Norton asked, keeping his voice hushed as he scanned back and forth, trying to pierce the surrounding darkness with his eyes.

  “I barely caught a glimpse of that mound of dirt,” Frank said. “Looked suspicious to me, is all.” He thought his own voice sounded tense, but there was a harsher, more urgent tone in Norton’s voice that caught his attention.

  They walked about a hundred yards up the road, then came to a stop at the crest of the hill. Everywhere they looked, tombstones stood their silent vigil in the night, some of them catching faint beams of moonlight and reflecting eerie gray and blue light, dew glistening in the neatly trimmed grass between grave sites.

  “Ahh, it ain’t nothing,” Norton said, as they approached the mound of freshly dug earth. “Just Barney’s been working and didn’t finish up.”

  “Bullshit!” Frank snapped. “Take a look at this.”

  He was shining his beam down into the freshly dug hole, and what he and Norton saw illuminated there instantly nauseated both of them. Before Norton could say anything, he was down on his hands and knees in the grass. The violent retching sounds he made filled the night, overpowering the lulling song of the spring peepers.

  The hole had obviously been dug within the past hour, if the moist-looking soil was any indication, and Frank knew right away that this most certainly wasn’t a new grave. Someone had overturned the headstone and had dug the six feet into the earth to expose the top half of the buried coffin. The lid had been smashed in and then torn upward, Frank figured either with a shovel blade or an ax. Jagged spikes of wood stuck straight up like teeth, and the wood of the coffin was dented and gouged, as though whoever had done this had worked fast and furiously. None of that would have sent Norton to his knees vomiting, however, or made Frank’s stomach churn as though he had swilled battery acid. It was the condition of the exposed corpse, at least what was left of it, that sickened both of them.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Norton sputtered, once the initial wave of sickness had receded. He
stood up shakily, unconsciously wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Who in the fuck could do something like this?” He was unsteady on his feet and had to lean against one of the other tombstones for support while he took several deep breaths. The moist spring air was sour, almost fetid as it filled his lungs.

  Meanwhile, the putrid smell that wafted up from the hole in the ground, mixing with the fresh aroma of Norton’s vomit, made Frank choke.

  The top part of the coffin lid had been ripped open, and the body inside had been dragged up into a sitting position. The corpse — an elderly looking man — was propped against the dirt wall of his grave. His waxy, pale face was splotched with decaying skin, and the thin, gray hair was caked with dirt and hung in clumps of rotting scalp. His lips were peeled back and his mouth gaped open, as if he were railing against this desecration in speechless protest. The corpse’s tongue hung out to one side, looking like a huge white slug that had died while crawling from his mouth, and the rotting funeral clothes had been shredded by the vandal’s efforts; Frank wondered if this was all normal deterioration of a corpse, or if the person who had opened up the grave had purposely mutilated the body. Fighting waves of nausea, which hadn’t been helped by hearing Norton vomit, Frank stared in disbelief at the disturbed corpse.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered. “Will you look at that!”

  Still unable to speak, Norton did no more than grunt as he edged his way cautiously to the side of the grave and looked down.

  “Look at his left arm,” Frank said, his voice wound up tightly. “Whatever sicko did this must have used their shovel or something to cut off its left hand!”

  2.

  While Frank secured the area, making sure not to disturb the freshly dug earth or mess up any of the footprints around the site, Norton pulled himself together enough to go back to the cruiser and radio in the incident. He asked the dispatcher to call Barney Fraser, the Oak Grove caretaker, and tell him to come right out to the cemetery with a plot plan, if one was readily available. He also requested two detectives from the Criminal Investigation Division and an evidence technician to come out to the scene as soon as possible.