Slippin' Into Darkness

by Norman Partridge

  The click of the camera brought Steve out of it. He realized that he hadn’t been breathing, and he gasped deeply. No one noticed, because they were concentrating on the umpire.

  The paramedics taped the wounded man to the backboard, stowed him in the back of the ambulance, and took off for the hospital. Steve wandered over to the grave. Brown water lapped gently against the muddy walls; he couldn’t see the coffin.

  The dreamweaver’s coffin was a sunken treasure in a tiny sea.

  No. He had no time for waking dreams or silly imaginings. He needed to get back on track. There weren’t any prints on the coffin to worry about. But there wouldn’t have been any prints even if the grave had remained dry.

  Steve had worn gloves during that part of the operation. He was sure of that.

  Steve hadn’t worn gloves while he was pitching, though. He skirted the mound of dirt that he had shoveled from the grave and wandered over to the granite cross with April’s name on it. A little pile of broken glass glittered beneath the cross, the morning sunlight dancing off the remains of the beer bottle he had shattered during his game of graveyard baseball. The shards of glass were wet, thanks to the sprinkler system. Most likely, the spray from the aged pipe would have eliminated his fingerprints as thoroughly as any dishwasher.

  Still, Steve wished that he had removed the broken glass. Jesus, he had remembered to collect his tools, baseball glove, Royce Lewis’s flashlight, even the beer bottle that had missed the tombstone when the umpire surprised him. Why hadn’t he remembered the broken glass? It could be a real problem. Graveyard baseball wasn’t in vogue anymore, and he had been the main proponent of the game back in high school. There were no official records of that, of course. He had never been caught by night watchmen cops, but there were more than a few people who might remember his passion for a good game under the moon.

  Bat Bautista, for one. But Bat Bautista wasn’t a policeman. He couldn’t connect Steve to this scene. He wouldn’t even hear about it, because any details pertaining to the case would be kept out of the newspapers.

  Brakes screeched on the twisting drive. Another patrol car. Kellogg hurried toward it, yellow boots squealing over the slick grass. Sergeant Mick Chestney stepped from the patrol car, his lips quivering into a smile at the sight of Kellogg’s yellow boots.

  Steve leaned on the broken glass with the heel of his boot, quietly crushing the shards into smaller bits. Pleasant pops and crunches filled the air. He thought of breakfast cereal. Snap, crackle, pop. Yeah. This was the way to get the morning started. Soon the shards were little brown pebbles. Wet pebbles reflecting a brown sky, a brown sun. Wet, sharp pebbles reflecting Steve’s face, chopping his features into weird sections. Steve confronted his smile, dissected there at his feet, as brown as a faded photograph. His twisted lips were trembling, and he imagined that they were a picture of his guts. Ground glass cutting through him, freeing something that had been asleep for a long time, something he couldn’t deal with. Something—

  He bit off an uneasy laugh. Hell, there was nothing to worry about. Sergeant Chestney hated baseball. He was a football nut who had come to the department from New England because he was tired of shoveling snow. He had only been in town for a year. He wouldn’t know graveyard baseball from surfing. He didn’t even know that Steve had played high school ball.

  But Chestney and Kellogg were heading in his direction, and Steve couldn’t hear what they were saying. He moved away from the glass, keeping his eye on the ground, as if intently searching for clues.

  “Is there any way that we can conduct our business in my office?”

  Chestney looked at the undertaker as if he were the stupidest creature on earth. “This is a crime scene,” he said simply.

  The sergeant took a few moments to get the story from Steve. They talked it over, ignoring Ernest Kellogg as best they could, and then they went into clean-up mode. First Chestney got on the radio and sent another unit to the hospital with instructions to interview Royce Lewis should he regain consciousness. Then he returned to the grave and photographed the crime scene. Meanwhile, Steve popped the trunk of his cruiser and grabbed a fuchsia-colored roll of plastic tape.

  The rule of thumb with a crime scene was always go too big. Later you could shrink the scene if necessary, but you couldn’t make it bigger since evidence outside the original line might have been disturbed in the interim. Steve knotted the tape around the base of a tree. He made his way from the tree to a tombstone that had served as first base in last night’s game. He circled the tombstone with tape, blindfolding a couple of marble cherubs.

  “Officer Austin?” It was Ernest Kellogg’s voice. “A moment, please? Have you forgotten the service that I mentioned?”

  “No. I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Kellogg.”

  “Well, in light of this morning’s events…this is difficult situation. Might we forego the tape until…oh, say nine-thirty or so?” Steve graced Kellogg with Chestney’s patented stupidest creature on earth glare. “This is a crime scene,” he said, echoing the sergeant’s words, and he continued on with the tape. Ran it to the marble Christ out in centerfield, did a little mummy-wrap job on the son of God. Snaked it around a simple cross that had been third base, drawing the tape taught. Tied off behind home plate—April’s grave.

  Turned and saw Kellogg frozen between first and second—too much of a leadoff for any base runner. An easy pick-off play. It was stupid, daydreaming like that. Steve knew it. He wasn’t Walter Mitty. He had to concentrate. Take care of business.

  Be careful.

  Chestney called him over. Together they asked Kellogg a few more questions, but the undertaker didn’t have anything to add to his initial statement. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” was the general tone of his comments.

  Chestney walked Steve back to his patrol car. He took a towel from the trunk and tossed it to Steve, and Steve started cleaning the mud from his boots and his uniform. “We’ll get someone out to do some plaster work on the tire tracks,” Chestney said. “That might give us something. The rest of it—well, who the hell knows.”

  Steve nodded.

  “What do you think?”

  “Satanists.” The word popped out of Steve’ mouth like an answer in a word association test.

  “Yeah.” Chestney shook his head. “Shit. You’re’ probably right.” He gave Steve a long, cool look which was interrupted when a white hearse turned slowly onto the snaking drive.

  A line of cars followed suit. A short beat passed before Ernest Kellogg noticed the hearse. The two cops exchanged smirks as the undertaker ran toward it, yellow boots pumping like muddy pistons in some kid’s toy, black tie flying over his shoulder.

  Chestney laughed. “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday.”

  The hearse passed by. Steve’s gaze didn’t follow it. He was staring at a stand of eucalyptus trees a hundred yards away. A garden of granite and marble lay between him and the trees.

  Something yellow darted from behind a tombstone on the edge of the cemetery and raced into the dark shadows that pooled beneath the eucalyptus trees.

  Steve’s heart raced as if he himself were running. Chestney hadn’t noticed a thing. He eased into his car and started the engine. He said, “You mind doing the paper on this one, Steve?”

  “No. Not at all.” Steve pointed at the grove of eucalyptus. “Maybe I’ll take a look around, though. Check for signs of satanic worship. See if I can turn up something a little more tangible than a hole in the ground.”

  “Sure. We’ll cover your beat. You take your time and do it up right. You know that’s the way I like it.”

  “Sure,” Steve said.

  * * *

  Steve climbed behind the wheel of his cruiser. So far, so good. He was still a little shaky, but as far as he was concerned the scene was clean. The tire tracks were a mystery, and they would probably remain as such.

  Someone else had visited April’s grave. So what. Maybe just some kids on a joyride.
Or maybe Doug Douglas had been there. Steve thought about it. Maybe Doug had seen him at the grave, followed him to the house.

  Maybe not.

  Steve started the engine and cruised past the funeral. The mourners were clustered around another hole in the green grass, this one lined with Astroturf that hid the naked soil from view. Steve passed a sea of gray faces inclined in grief. One face rode the gray wave, as white as cresting foam. Ernest Kellogg stood among the mourners in his big yellow boots, oblivious to everything but the embarrassment of having the law on his premises.

  Steve was tempted to wave at the man. Shoot him the old thumbs up or something. But he didn’t. He eased past the Meditation Garden and the funeral service, and then he made a lazy cut to the left and followed a narrow dirt road to the stand of eucalyptus.

  He parked and stepped out of the cruiser. A warm wind ruffled his hair and tumbled dry eucalyptus leaves, and the leaves were a hundred tiny kites rattling against a breeze that promised summer. The breeze came from behind, from the cemetery, and carried with it the harsh smell of incense. Steve didn’t need another look at the funeral to tell that it was a Catholic service. Instead, he glanced at the sun. Warm, and it was still early. It was going to be a hot one. Rare for April, but not unwelcome.

  Okay. There’s the weather report. Satisfied now? Going to stop stalling for time? Going to take a few steps and find out if you’re seeing things?

  The shadows pooled before him. Thick tree trunks leaned at odd angles, scabbed with loose hunks of bark that threatened to flake away at the slightest touch. The ground was matted with dead leaves the color of old bones.

  Steve stepped into the grove. The leaves crackled under his heavy boots. The dry, minty smell of eucalyptus drew him forward, into the cool shadows. The smell was soothing, more appealing than the harsh odor of incense or the stink of water standing in a grave.

  Okay, this is silly. This is just seriously insane, and I’m not going to open my mouth.

  But he did. He couldn’t help it. “Homer,” he whispered, and he was instantly embarrassed.

  He stood motionless for a couple seconds, not making a sound, hearing nothing but a faint whisper of Latin.

  “Homer,” he called, and then he whistled. “C’mon, boy. Homer! You here, boy?”

  The wind rose behind him. Scabs of bark tore loose and skittered across the ground. The sound masked a series of short, sharp noises.

  A dog barking?

  “Homer? C’mon, boy. Don’t be afraid. You remember me, dontcha, boy? April’s waiting for you, boy. C’mere, and I’ll take you to her.”

  Leaves rattled in the shadows. Steve moved forward, kicking up dust motes that swirled in rare shards of sunlight.

  “C’mon, Homer! C’mon, boy!”

  He stopped again. Stood still. Listened.

  A short, sharp sound. Yes. It was a dog’s bark.

  And it had come from his left.

  Steve turned and hurried down a narrow path. The trees grew close here, crowding him, and his shoulders ripped loose scabs of eucalyptus bark as he ran. Up ahead, he saw something moving in the shadows, speared now and then by a gauntlet of hard, sharp shafts of sunlight. Little stubby legs, like broken branches, pumped within a dust devil that swirled down the path. Sunlight glinted off an eye that was nothing more than a blot of yellow paint without an iris.

  An eye that was looking back at him.

  “Homer!” Steve hurried down the path. “C’mon, boy. It’s me!”

  But the sticklegs were charging now, driven by a wind that pushed dry leaves in curtains that rose and fell, rose and fell, moving away in an awkward jog that belied the reality of their speed.

  Steve tried to catch up. A fallen tree lay just ahead, blocking the path.

  The tree would slow Homer’s progress….

  Up ahead, a little startled yelp. Dead leaves rattled over a papery coat. Tumbling sticks scratched against the dead tree. Steve raced ahead, his gun belt jangling, his breath catching in his throat.

  A pile of broken branches and torn leaves lay at the base of the fallen tree. Steve almost lost control, but then he noticed the slight indentation that tunneled beneath the tree.

  A hole. Just enough room for a dog to squeeze under. Steve leaned against the trunk and looked on the other side. The small tunnel opened onto a ditch. The ditch ran downhill and became a gully.

  There was no sign of the dog.

  “Homer!” Steve called. “Homer!”‘

  But it was no use. April’s dog had gone.

  Steve climbed over the tree and knelt in the dry ditch.

  His fingers explored the underside of the tree.

  He found leaves that were the color of old paper. Or maybe they were the color of faded yellow paint. But there were other things under the tree. Bits of dried roots, twisted from fighting the hard earth, roots as hard as petrified bone. Steve held these things in his hand, closed his fist around them. They were roots, they were leaves.

  Or they were the bones of a dog born in a dream, and skin from the back of a painted ghost.

  Steve’s grip tightened.

  He opened his hand.

  The bones fell away.

  And he blew the yellow dust into the cool mint shadows.

  8:13 A.M.

  Amy had long since stopped screaming, but she hadn’t moved from the corner of the basement. Her shoulder muscles cramped. Earthen cold leeched from the concrete walls and chilled her bones.

  It could have been worse. She could have been Doug Douglas, dead on the floor, with skin fading to arctic white.

  Doug. He’d held his silence for nearly eighteen years. If he had kept his mouth shut another eighteen, he might still be alive.

  The thought gave Amy no relief, and she turned away from the dead man. April Destino’s corpse stood unmoving in the far corner. Mud stains dappled the hem of her red dress; her long blonde hair was twisted in a dry, almost fashionable tangle; her skin was oyster gray and slack. April’s blue lips were swollen in a half pout, half pucker, as if she were awaiting a final kiss from an uncertain lover.

  Amy drew a shallow breath. Her chest was so tight with fear that it seemed she was breathing through a straw. She had come here intending to give Doug a good scare. She had come here to teach April how an expert played the game.

  And she realized that she hadn’t even known where she was. This wasn’t Doug’s house. It was Steve Austin’s. Ozzy Austin’s. Doug’s words came back to her: You get in that fancy car of yours and you follow the yellow brick road. She was the one who was learning. She had thought that she was the smart one, the unflappable one, but now here she was, huddled in a corner, hiding in the shadows, worrying that her body would shatter if she so much as moved an inch.

  But she had to move. She eased away from the cool concrete wall. Dank air stirred behind her, and her naked legs grew gooseflesh under the short cheerleader’s skirt. She moved forward slowly, a wary prizefighter answering a final bell, but April’s corpse didn’t advance from the opposite corner. Thank God, Amy thought. This isn’t turning into a horror movie after all.

  The doorknob twisted easily in her grip, and the lock popped free. Her heart jumped. She tugged the knob and the door gave a fraction of an inch, but then it held tight. Frustrated, she pulled harder. Something slapped against the wood, and she realized that there was another lock on the opposite side of the door.

  Shit. Amy’s fists thudded against varnished oak, and the sound told her the door was solid. She backed off, eyeing it. Expensive knob. Brass hinges.

  The basement air seemed suddenly colder, heavy with the earthy stink of the grave. An icy whisper filled Amy’s ears. She whirled, instinctively retreating toward the corner, her eyes trained on April’s pouting blue lips, but April’s corpse hadn’t moved. It still leaned at a crazy angle against the far wall—half hidden in shadow, half bathed in flickering light.

  Light that created the illusion of movement.

  It’s just an illusion.
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br />   The hem of the corpse’s dress was a curtain made of stone.

  There’s the proof. She’s not moving. She’s not breathing. She’s dead.

  Once again, Amy’s throat was nothing but a straw, only now someone was pinching it. The light brightened and April’s face became a pool of milk in a bone-china bowl, and then shadows poured over April’s forehead and dripped down her face, transforming the blue pout into a sagging frown.

  An icy buzz redirected Amy’s attention to the bank of fluorescent tubes in the lone ceiling fixture. There were three tubes, and only one of them was working. It didn’t look like it would be working for long.

  The tube buzzed, then flickered.

  Shadows seemed to pour from the corners.

  Now you see it, now you don’t.

  Now you hear it, now you don’t.

  The light was the source of the sound that had startled her. Her back had been turned while she examined the door, and she had heard the fluorescent light buzzing.

  No. She had heard a whisper.

  Don’t be an idiot. Stay cool and you’ll get out of this. Start imagining things and you’ll be swimming in dangerous waters.

  The door. It was the only thing keeping her here. Maybe she could get the hinges off. If she had a screwdriver and a hammer, she could pop the pins easily enough. But a quick search told her that there weren’t any tools in the room. She tried to loosen the pins but couldn’t get a grip on them. They were lodged tight. And her purse was in the Mercedes. She kept a Swiss army knife, a gift from Ethan, in the zipper pocket. If she had that….

  But she didn’t. Her car was parked out front.

  Unless Steve Austin had moved it.

  There had to be something she could use.

  Doug Douglas lay at her feet. There was no other choice. She bent low, close to him. She could smell soap, deodorant, and blood…and she knew instantly that Doug had fouled himself in death.