“She was…” Robert looked up at Gates and seemed to reorient himself. “I don’t remember,” he said.
“I love cars,” Gates said.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of car do you think she was sitting in?” Gates asked, his voice dead level.
Robert dropped his eyes and chose another donut. “Maybe a white car,” he said. He looked up again. “Did you tell me that?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Gates said. “What kind of car could it have been?”
“What kind of car?” Robert repeated.
Gates was silent.
“A white car, maybe. With something different. With something different, I think. I tried to remember. I told myself to remember, but I couldn’t.”
“Gosh,” Gates said, “there are lots of things that make cars different.”
“Yeah.”
“Was it an old car?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Was it an SUV?”
Robert shook his head, no.
“Was it all dented like it had been in a wreck?”
Again no.
“Was … was it all souped up? Uh, lots of chrome … mufflers rumbling?”
“Souped up?”
“Yeah, uh, tricked out, big engine. Oversized tires, mag wheels?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did it have any sign on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what else could make a car different?”
Robert scanned the donuts and chose the other strawberry.
“Spotlights?” Gates asked.
“What are those?”
“Never mind. Big loud bass speakers?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gates gave up. This was a start. Maybe Compton saw her in a car. Maybe the car was white. Nikki’s ex, Rudy, had a white Nova. Maybe more would come to Compton the more comfortable he got. Compton’s memory seemed to improve when he was contented and a little distracted.
“You like steak?” he asked Robert.
“Are you a queer?” Robert asked.
“No,” Gates said, surprised. A funny question at this moment. “Why?”
“What’s in it for you?” Robert said, holding another donut.
“I want to help the girl,” Gates said. “And I don’t know anything. And you do know some things, even though it’s not easy for you to remember. So I think you’re a good person who wants to help this poor girl, and I want to assist you in any way I can to recall the things you saw happen.”
“Oh,” Robert said, losing interest. “Can I take the rest of the donuts with me?”
“Sure,” Gates said, smiling. “Eat them all yourself or give some to your friends, whatever you want.”
“Okay.”
It was a warm December afternoon and they walked back to the hotel without saying another word.
FROGS IN THE DESERT
Murray was sitting with Dearly.
“She’s spunky,” Dearly said.
“Yeah, she is. She’s also a pain in the butt, but she grows on you.”
“Can she hear us, too?”
“No. I just tell her what you look like and what you say. So far, she’s interested, but I don’t think it will last long. I think she was just curious and probably wanted a little something to do around this place.”
“Does she help her father?”
“Not that I’ve seen. She plays basketball and does home-work and reads and stuff.”
“So maybe she’s kind of bored? I think I would have been.”
“Are you bored now?”
“No. I don’t know how to explain it. There’s nothing. And then there’s you. Like those frogs in the desert, and then there’s rain, and they come to life, and then it dries up and they’re gone again.”
Murray didn’t know what to say to that.
He changed the subject.
“So, have you heard any new voices or anything unusual yet?”
“No. You still don’t know what that voice is about, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Why don’t you check it out with Pearl? If she’s a little bored, she’d like a good riddle.”
Murray walked over to run that by Blessed. She was in a good mood since he’d brought Pearl by, and he was interested in her take on bringing Pearl into the puzzle. Blessed had given him good advice in the past.
“Hey, Punk Nasty, what’s cooking?”
Yeah, they were back on old terms.
“Hi, Blessed.” He could see she was smiling. “Have you heard anything more about a new person in here?”
“Nope. This is a whole city. We don’t really need any new people.”
“Right, people are going to stop dying because you don’t want to be overpopulated.”
“What’s up?” Blessed often seemed to know what Murray thought before he did.
“Well, about this new voice I think I’ve been hearing … Dearly thinks I should let Pearl in on the idea and see what she comes up with. I mean, I think that’s kind of silly, because she doesn’t even hear you all, so how could she help?”
“Hmm. Interesting. Well, Pearl’s a pretty sharp cookie. She reminds me a little of me. She’s smart. And she’s determined. And she’s mobile. And she knows this cemetery as well or better than you do. Why not?”
Yeah, he thought. Why not?
ARGU
Robert was chopping lettuce, a job that drove him nuts. He hated lettuce. It didn’t do any good. It just took up space. It didn’t have any nutritions or anything. He had learned that at school. Plus, when you were chopping the stuff, you had to pay attention or you might lose a finger. What a freaking rip-off. Lose a finger to some goddamn lettuce. Stupid job.
He finished, and the dippy do-right came over and gave him tomatoes.
“Chop ’em, don’t slice ’em. They’re for the taco bins.”
Robert hated his boss guy. The kid was younger than Robert, wore stupid wire-rim glasses like he was smart, and had the kind of superior attitude that made Robert feel murderous. He knew he better get his mind on the tomatoes before he did something dumb. He chopped as quickly as he could—a sloppy job really, but he was the one who put the crap on the tacos, so who was going to know?
When he finished, it was time to fry up some more chalupa shells. Robert was putting them in the basket and the basket in the hot oil when the noise of an argument caught his attention. He looked around. Nobody arguing in the restaurant. He looked through the take-out window. There it was. A guy and a girl yelling so loud it was coming over the orders speaker.
“… your goddamn dog out of the front seat and shut your hole, you scuzzy bitch, trailer—”
“—the cops, you junkie bastard. You hit that dog again and I’ll cut…”
And Robert zoned out because he had another piece. He had another part of the memory.
“Compton, I swear to God! Take the chalupas out before they’re black, and watch what the hell you’re doing! Wake up! I can’t keep telling you…”
Robert did what he was told. He was on automatic pilot. His hands and body were setting the chalupa basket on the drain board and picking up the tortilla rack to make another batch of taco shells, but his mind was stopped on the street in front of the gym.
They were arguing. The guy and the girl were fighting! And he hit her. Right in the neck. And she shut up. And the guy drove off, looking at the girl, and never even saw Robert. That’s what Robert had wanted to tell somebody!
Was the girl wearing a white outfit? Robert couldn’t remember. But he did the one new thing he was learning to do. He got out his wallet and pulled out his Social Security card and wrote “argu.”
Now he’d have something to tell that guy when they went out tonight to the wherever it was for steak. Steak. Robert remembered that.
THE CRYPT
Pearl caught up with him later in the day when he was talking with Edwin. Edwin was asking Murray how come he didn’t want to drive
.
“I always wanted to drive,” Edwin said, “since I was six or seven, playing trucks in my sandbox. My dad used to put me on his lap and let me steer when we were alone in the car, driving to the grocery store or someplace. It was great.”
Nobody had ever shown Murray anything. Nobody except teachers. He thought back. His mom had shown him how to fix breakfast cereal and how to boil eggs and how to wipe his butt cleaner so kids wouldn’t tease him and call him “Stinky.” But drive?
Pearl touched him on the shoulder, breaking his connection. Why did he never hear her coming?
“Hi. How did you get to be so quiet when you walk?” Murray asked her.
“I don’t know. You learn more that way. What are you doing? How’s what’s-his-name?” She looked at the stone. “Edwin.”
“He’s pretty good. We were just talking. Hey, I got something I want to ask you. Dearly and Blessed thought maybe you could help me figure something out.”
Murray told her about the new voice he had heard, and how it seemed different from the others. And how, if he was hearing it right at all, it seemed like it was lost or distressed, and he couldn’t locate it.
“Tell me again what it says?”
“Well, I think it says ‘him me’ or ‘hid me.’ And ‘fine’ or ‘find me,’ and ‘plea.’ Maybe more, but I can’t understand it. That’s all I can get so far.”
“Do you get any picture?” she asked.
Right then, Murray realized that Pearl was really into this whole thing with him. She wasn’t questioning or judging everything he said. She was imagining in her own mind right along with him. Like a friend would. Sweet!
“No. Everything is fuzzy, like a TV without the antenna hooked up.”
“Huh.” She sat down beside him. “So, tell me again, where do you hear it?”
“Where your dad is putting most of the new people.”
“The front third or so, nearest the street.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” She was twisting the ends of her hair and staring right through him. “Okay, let’s take one thing at a time. If the voice said ‘hid me’ and ‘find me,’ where would you hide someone in a cemetery?”
Good question.
“Uh, in the lawnmower shed.”
She gave him a withering glance. “My dad is in there every day and checks the lock on his rounds.”
“Uh, in a crypt … or in that big stone building—”
“The columbarium!”
They jogged to the big tan stucco columbarium, which had always looked to Murray like a small bank building. The front was marble, divided into orderly rows of compartments. Most had paper or plastic bouquets stuck through the door latches. Murray and Pearl pulled on every handle, but each was locked tight. If they couldn’t open them, they couldn’t see how anyone else could, either, without wrecking something. When they were done, Murray was shaking a little bit, but he didn’t let her see it. What if one had pulled open and a body had rolled out?
“Crypts,” she said. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’ve never been in one. I never really thought about it.”
“You’ve never been inside one? What kind of spook chaser are you?”
Murray looked at her. They both laughed.
“Have you ever been inside one?” he asked her.
She shook her head, no.
“What kind of cemetery brat are you?”
It felt good to let off a little steam.
“What about the crypt with the stone angels on top, over by Edwin’s?”
“Yeah,” she said, “let’s check it! And there’s the one just beyond the workshop, with the big statue of that woman with a scarf over her head.”
Pearl and Murray went to the angels crypt near Edwin first. Murray had never looked closely at a crypt before. Had never touched one. Crypts looked like miniature ancient temples, cold and windowless, with a front door you could bring the coffins through. Murray held back. This one was beautiful but creepy. Pearl marched right up and tried the door. It was locked and jammed so tight she couldn’t even move it.
After that, they tried the Mary Magdalene beyond the workshop. They could jiggle the door some, but the whole thing was chained shut with a substantial padlock. They walked to the end of the cemetery property high on the main road and checked for crypts they could see from there. By dusk, they had spotted four and tried them all, and they couldn’t get into any. None of the doors looked damaged or disturbed.
They agreed Pearl needed to ask her dad if they, or she, could go inside each one. Murray had to ask her, what if her dad wanted to know why?
“I told my dad a few days ago that I was writing a paper on cemeteries. I’ll ask him if I can see what crypts look like. I’ll tell him you and I have been getting along better, and I’ll ask him if you can come, too.”
That would work. In fact, it was brilliant. That would even explain what they were doing if he saw them messing around the cemetery together. Research!
Murray had always been curious about the crypts. Most of them were decaying and neglected but beautiful. They were old, stucco over cement or bricks, he thought. At least the first two they had seen today were. The exteriors were weathered a dark gray, mottled and water stained, with splotches of green lichen and ochre-colored mold making random designs on the sides. The doors were usually iron, a little rusty but still strong. Near the top of the door, thin bars, like a grate, would let in ventilation. They reminded him of old monster movies.
“I’ll ask him tonight,” Pearl said, “and I’ll see you tomorrow after school.”
They said good night. Murray was excited and that was new, and it felt great! He walked around for the next hour, asking his friends the hide-a-body question.
“I’d try to stick them in one of the crypt houses, I guess,” Edwin said.
“And if not there?”
“In one of the bushy areas, probably. It gets pretty dense. When the plants are close and the branches are low, you can’t really see inside. You know where it would be really neat to hide? I read this in a book.”
“Where?” Murray asked, glad that Edwin was taking the question seriously.
“In a tree. This kid hid on a high limb and bad guys were searching all over for him, but they never looked up!”
Blessed wasn’t as much help. “I wouldn’t hide anybody in a cemetery. I really wouldn’t. I think they’re a little creepy.”
“Yeah,” Murray said, “but say you did.”
“Gee, I don’t know. In the girl’s bathroom? No guy would ever look there.”
Not an idea really worthy of Blessed’s intelligence.
Dearly was supportive, as always. “Let’s see,” she said, considering. “Maybe I’d try to put her in plain sight. Some place so obvious she’d be overlooked. A while before I died, there was a movie called the House of Wax. Ever hear of it?”
“Yeah, that mean-looking Vincent Price guy, right? My mom let me rent dozens of those old horror movies when I would stay home sick,” he said, remembering.
“Yes, well, didn’t he cover people in wax and display them so nobody would know he had murdered them? Museum visitors saw them, but they didn’t realize what they were looking at.”
“So how would that work here?” Murray wondered.
“I don’t know. Plaster somebody and stick them in front of those little houses? Or whatever. The main thing is that if you two keep working on this, you’ll figure it out.”
* * *
Janochek was surprised that Pearl didn’t complain about another night of ham sandwiches and coleslaw. Even though he suspected that Pearl actually loved ham and coleslaw, she always griped about having them so often. Last week, she had used a new vocabulary word to describe their dinner: swill. They had both laughed. When he asked her what the word meant, she didn’t know. She had heard it during lunch at school, she said, and the other kids laughed, so she did too.
She also surprised him
in the middle of dinner by bringing up her paper on the history of cemeteries. He had thought that was just a ruse to distract him and keep him from asking questions about whether she had plans to take revenge on Kiefer.
“So, I’m to the part where I need to describe some of the different kinds of burial places. And I realized I’ve seen the outside of the columbarium but don’t really know what the individual lockers look like. And I’ve never even seen inside a crypt. Do you have the keys to any of the crypts here?”
Janochek smelled a rodent. He hadn’t seen her writing any long assignment during the past week. She had never been particularly interested in his work. He put his sandwich down so he could watch her more closely while she talked.
“Do you? Because I would really be interested in seeing what they look like in there.”
“I have the keys,” Janochek stated noncommittally.
“You know what else?”
Janochek waited. Punch line, he thought.
“I’ve gotten to know that Kiefer boy a little better since I apologized.”
Whoa! Janochek didn’t like what he was suddenly thinking. Was Kiefer putting a move on his daughter? Did they want to get inside those little buildings so they could do God-knows-what in privacy?
“What?” Pearl must have caught him narrowing his eyes. “What?” she pushed.
Janochek chose his words carefully.
“I know I don’t need to tell you that the safety and the sanctity of this cemetery are my responsibility, and I take that charge very, very seriously.”
Now they were both examining each other minutely, seeking clues.
“I know that, Dad. I would never do anything to jeopardize your work here.”
Janochek smiled in spite of himself. Jeopardize. Another new word.
Pearl marched on, apparently determined to reassure him, though she probably didn’t suspect the exact nature of his unvoiced concern. “I just want to see what they look like inside, really, each and every one. I’m just curious. It’ll make my writing better, and I know Murray would like to see, too. He spends so much time here, it’s like a second home. He really cares about this place, you know. We’re not going to do anything weird in there.”
Dead Connection Page 8
