* * *
Sometimes it seems like just about everything in the city of Buffalo is either directly on or just off of Main Street, and Forest Lawn was no exception. We didn’t talk much during the ride. I wasn’t yet adept at judging my brother’s moods. Was he truly angry or just annoyed?
We drove through the cemetery’s back gate, and Richard slowed the car to the posted ten miles per hour down the narrow roadway. The tombstones stood stoically against the brisk March wind.
“Where to?”
I had no idea, hoping the funny feeling inside would guide me. “Take the next left,” I bluffed.
Richard complied, and we meandered down the single lane of asphalt, following the twists and turns through the older, more historical sections and then into the newer parts of the cemetery.
“This is hopeless, Jeff. How’re you ever going to find Sumner’s grave among all the thousands here?”
“Well, for one thing it’s fresh.”
Richard glared at me.
We came to another crossroad and I pointed to the right. Richard slowed the car as a lone woman dressed in dark sweats jogged toward us. Solidly built, with pink cheeks, she looked like she’d been out in the cold for some time. Richard muttered something under his breath, and I kept a sharp lookout, hoping I’d know Sumner’s grave when I saw it. Instead, that weird feeling vibrated through my gut.
“There!”
A mound of freshly-dug earth marred a snowy hillock. The crowds had gone. No headstone marked the grave, just the disturbed ground and several sprays of frozen roses and carnations. Richard stopped the car and I got out. I walked up the slight hill, looked around, saw no one. Good. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, concentrating—waiting for that funny feeling that had been guiding me, for some fragment of intuition to drift into my consciousness.
Nothing.
I frowned. The niggling feeling that had drawn me here was still strong, but whatever compelled me to come had not been the victim.
I heard the hum of a power window. “Well?” Richard yelled.
“I don’t know.”
The window went back up and Richard revved the engine.
I ignored him and walked around the grave. Many sets of footprints marred the light dusting of snow, but only one stood out in the freshly smoothed-over dirt. I stared at the prints. Someone had stood here for several minutes, judging from the depth of the prints. Someone in jogging shoes. I compared the print to my own foot and frowned. About the same size. Lots of people jogged through the cemetery, so who would’ve noticed if one of them stopped at one particular grave for an inordinate period of time on a cold, wintry day? It was probably one of the mourners—maybe even the one I’d tried to follow into the church. Too bad we hadn’t hung around until after the Mass. But then how would I have known what to look for?
I closed my eyes, concentrating again, hoping to suck up some residual . . . feeling, sensation—something.
Nothing.
I looked down at the prints and placed my own feet on either side of them. I closed my eyes, my right hand balling into a fist. Yeah. Now I was getting something. Triumph? Yes, the person who’d stood here felt triumph over the dead man—the same emotion I’d experienced in the dream. Already I trusted these feelings . . . hunches? . . . as real.
And there was more.
Dread.
But dread didn’t adequately describe it. Overwhelming despair made my eyes tear. The quack in New York had said a head injury fucked with your mind, and now I couldn’t tell if the emotions bombarding me were my own or the dead guy’s.
Suddenly something I’d felt so sure about only seconds before seemed insubstantial when I tried to analyze it rationally.
None of this was rational.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. I took a breath and gathered my resolve. Okay, so what was I experiencing? I closed my eyes—thought. Cold, calculating, bean-counter mentality at work.
Thoughts that were not my own crept into my mind, lingering like a fog: Youprickyouprickyouprickyouprickyouprick.
Nothing new in that.
Try again.
Eyes closed, breathing steady, sensations seeped into me. My fists clenched in righteous indignation. That fucking prick had it coming to him.
Images.
Twilight.
Sumner’s eyes bugged in terror.
Heart pounding.
A heavy object—a brick?—slammed into his temple. He went down.
Darkness.
The scene shifted. A baseball bat came at me—split my skull.
I staggered, nearly fell.
“Jeff!” Richard’s voice shattered the spell. “Are you okay?”
My hands shook. I stared at a trampled pink carnation. I’d learn nothing more here.
“Yeah.”
Shoving my right hand in my coat pocket, I started for the car, grateful to get back to its warmth.
Richard studied me, waiting. “Well?”
“Well, what? I don’t know anything I didn’t know before. Being here’s just convinced me that I need to look further.”
“And where’s that, Orchard Park?”
I flexed the fingers on my left hand as far as the cast allowed, desperate to warm them. “I have to start somewhere. Maybe his neighbors can tell me something.”
Richard put the car in gear and headed for the exit. “I should’ve brought a book.”
“You could just loan me the car.”
“No, next time I’ll bring a book.”
Murder On The Mind Page 11
