Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  The bodies were in various stages of decomposition. Some were little more than bone fragments; others retained flesh. All had been covered in lye to help with the process—dust to dust.

  The dogs found another spot in the woods, and then another.

  Jackson had duly served the warrant—to the housekeeper, not Dr. Lawrence. His housekeeper had been completely flustered.

  She couldn’t find Dr. Lawrence. He had apparently suspected he was being watched, slipped out the back and made his way through the heavier woods behind his house.

  A manhunt was on.

  As the hours went on toward morning, the area was flooded with police officers and agents, then the medical examiners and, finally, forensic anthropologists.

  Angela remained with the housekeeper; the woman appeared to be at a total loss. She swore she’d thought that Dr. Lawrence had been working in his study. She’d had no clue that he’d left. He couldn’t have gone far. He only kept the one automobile. It remained in the driveway.

  Because of the scope of the investigation, Dr. Beau Simpson was called down, along with Dr. Bowen out of Alexandria. Detectives Fred Crandall and Jean Channing arrived.

  Something big had broken.

  “That’s... I think they found me,” George Seasons murmured. “I’m...bone. Bits of bone. I guess... I guess I’ve been here a long time.”

  “I’m still rotting,” Tim Dougherty said. He sounded angry.

  “But you’ve been found,” Stacey said gently.

  Dr. Beau Simpson had hunkered down by a grave in the woods closest to the house where it seemed that Ronnie and George and Tim had been buried.

  Beau stood and looked at Keenan and Stacey grimly, brushing the dirt off his knees with gloved hands. “At this moment, we believe we’re going to find over a dozen bodies, several male, but there are young women here, too. Bones and bone fragments...and, trust me, enough so that this county is more than happy to have federal intervention and help from anywhere.” He hesitated, looking at them. “The bodies are so decomposed, it’s hard to say...but on a few, yes...it appears that vital organs have been removed. Cause of death, from what I’ve ascertained so far, appears to be blunt trauma to the head. This is preliminary, of course, but the damage on some of the skulls is evident.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Tim whispered behind Keenan.

  “So, it seems that this has been going on a long time—murder committed to steal organs, most probably for illegal transplants,” Keenan said.

  “Either that,” Beau agreed, “or we have a tribe of cannibals who aren’t interested in consuming anything other than human organs.”

  “That’s sick!” George breathed behind Keenan.

  Yes, sick. But so was killing one man to possibly let another one live.

  “This is amazing, what you’ve discovered,” Beau told Stacey. “Now, if they can just find Dr. Lawrence and bring him in...”

  He turned away and headed back to the closest patch of graves.

  “You have to catch that bastard!” Tim said, pain in the whisper of his voice. “Oh, God! All these people. Me!”

  “He’s out in the woods. So are dozens of police officers and agents. He will be caught,” Keenan said. But he was restless. He knew that other law enforcement—good cops, good agents—were on the hunt. He and Stacey had done their part.

  But he couldn’t just wait any longer. No, he didn’t know these woods or anything about the surrounding homes or estates—all of them on good stretches of property. But he couldn’t stand still.

  He turned to Stacey. “Listen, I’m going to—”

  “Not without me,” she said.

  “Stacey...”

  “I move damned fast, and you know it. Please, Keenan! I’ll never have any peace. If we can get Henry Lawrence...just get him locked up...maybe the dream will stop because we have taken the steps to change what might have happened.”

  He looked at her skeptically.

  “We’ll take Butch,” she suggested.

  “Butch is busy—”

  “No, they’re trying to make sure that the dogs don’t disrupt the scenes now. Brutus will stay with Raina and be here if they need him. Butch can come with us.”

  “All right, all right, wait!” Keenan said. He strode over toward the closer gravesite. Raina stood there with the dogs, behind the work being done by Beau, Dr. Bowen and the local ME.

  “Bodies are fresh enough here—forensic anthropologists are deeper in the woods, places Stacey and the dog found,” Beau said.

  Keenan knew not to come too close while the MEs were still working. “Right,” he said, and then he called to Raina. “May I borrow Butch?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Butch, go on.”

  She released the dog’s leash. Somewhat to Keenan’s annoyance, the dog ran toward him, and then past him, making his way straight to Stacey.

  “Which way?” Stacey asked him.

  “Maybe we should ask Butch.”

  “Maybe. He’s being trained as a cadaver dog, but he’s also had general search training. Let’s get something from the house, something with Henry Lawrence’s scent on it.”

  He left her with the dog and strode quickly to the house. Angela opened the door.

  “I need something of Lawrence’s,” he told her.

  Angela quickly understood. There was a jacket hanging on a hook by the door. She called to the housekeeper. “This is the doctor’s, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Oh, yes, ma’am, oh... I just don’t believe this! Dr. Lawrence. And I live in this house—with him. Oh! Maybe I should thank God for my age...or...”

  She was going on. Angela handed the jacket to Keenan. “Mrs. Tremblay is going to need a sedative,” she said. She smiled grimly. “Go.”

  He hurried back to Stacey, who had, thankfully, waited. The ghosts of the four men buried on the property stood behind her.

  “We’re going to get him,” Keenan assured them. “Look at the officers running around—he can’t escape this kind of a dragnet.”

  “Thank you,” Tim said, and the others nodded.

  “All right, Butch, which way?” Stacey asked, loosening the big shepherd’s leash.

  Butch sniffed the jacket and barked.

  His nose toward the ground, he started off as if he was headed back to the known burial site.

  Then, he turned so suddenly that he almost lifted Stacey off the ground.

  “Hey, I can take the leash—” Keenan began.

  But she was already running with the dog.

  He followed.

  Butch ran up and down along the road, sniffing at the many cars parked there now.

  Then, he barked and tugged against his leash to cross the street.

  It was close to 3:00 a.m. There were no cars on the street. Stacey let the dog lead her across the road to the old cemetery, Mount Hope. Butch went to the gate, barking.

  “How the hell could Dr. Lawrence have gotten across the street without us seeing?” Keenan wondered aloud. “All this commotion, but...”

  “But?” Stacey asked. Butch was trying to get through the iron grill of the gate; the bars were a little too close together.

  “If he ran south, the road takes a little bend. He could have crossed there, and we don’t know if the entire place is walled or gated, and even if it is, it’s easy enough hop over.”

  “For you, maybe,” Stacey said. “Probably for me. But... Butch?”

  “Butch can jump it. Here, I’ll give you a hike.”

  He was glad of his hours at the gym; Stacey wasn’t heavy, but he was boosting her straight up to sit on top of the wall.

  Butch had evidently decided that Stacey was his master. He jumped at the wall, once, twice, and then he backed up, eyeing it, then came back running and made a flying leap.

  He cleared it.


  Keenan jumped up after the dog.

  The cemetery was shrouded in darkness with only the multitude of lights from the Lawrence estate stretching over it to provide any kind of visibility.

  “Butch?” Keenan said.

  Butch barked. Stacey and Keenan drew out their penlights together and started into the darkness of the cemetery.

  “Be careful,” he warned, almost tripping over a stone broken so that only an inch or two of it remained, hidden by the grass surrounding it.

  He shone his light the best he could.

  Butch and Stacey were moving, quickly.

  He kept pace, reminding himself that Stacey had passed the academy; she had a gun, and she knew how to shoot.

  But someone involved in this knew her and might well have it out for her. They passed tombs and stones and came to a site where a large cement flag played over a group of graves. Behind it was a holding house, a place for the dead to rest when the ground was frozen and graves couldn’t be dug. Life-sized angels with chipped wings and noses stood guard.

  Butch stopped there, barking.

  Where a door to the holding house had once been, there was nothing. Not even a gate. Butch sniffed at the entry, whining.

  “Watch the door—and my back,” Keenan said, heading into the house.

  He had barely crossed the threshold when he heard a thudding sound.

  And then Stacey’s voice. “Don’t! Don’t make a move. It will not break my heart if I have to shoot you, Dr. Lawrence.”

  Keenan stepped back out of the house.

  Stacey had her weapon trained on Lawrence. He stared at her; he was dusty and dirty, and his eyes were bright, as if the very pale light there had captured the glow within them.

  “No, no, no—you don’t understand! I didn’t do this—I swear to you, someone has been using my land. I’m innocent, I swear it!”

  “There may be two dozen bodies—on your land—but you’re innocent?” Keenan demanded.

  He saw then what had caused the thump. An angel’s head lay on the ground. He saw that Tim Dougherty’s ghost was standing behind Dr. Lawrence, and Tim was looking very proud of himself.

  “I didn’t do this! I didn’t kill anyone!” Lawrence cried again.

  “On your knees, hands behind your back, please,” Keenan said.

  “I didn’t do this!”

  “Then, why did you run?” Stacey demanded.

  “Because...because I panicked. I saw you people coming back, saw that the other guy had an envelope, and I just... I panicked.”

  Keenan cuffed him as he spoke and drew him back to his feet.

  “I didn’t do this!”

  “Dr. Lawrence, your guilt or innocence isn’t up to us,” Stacey told him. “That will all be up to a jury of your peers. I’m assuming you have a good lawyer. Make sure it’s a criminal lawyer. Let’s go!”

  Keenan led Lawrence, reading him his rights as they went.

  Stacey hung back a step. He heard her whisper, “Thank you!”

  She was speaking to the ghost of Tim Dougherty.

  The ghost replied, “No. Thank you.”

  He went back across the street.

  Jackson was talking with the local authorities; it was decided that it would be a federal case, and a federal arrest.

  Dr. Lawrence would be held back in DC.

  Keenan was glad to turn him over to Jackson.

  “We can go home now,” he told Stacey.

  She nodded. “We can go home,” she said.

  * * *

  In the car, she was silent a long time. He thought she might fall asleep again as he drove. But then she turned to him. “Keenan, it isn’t over. Not unless Lawrence talks. You don’t think he can be innocent, do you?”

  “Let’s see. He was a transplant doctor. Dozens of bodies found, and it’s looking like they’ll discover that the organs were taken. Half of them were on his property—half in the forested area beyond. What do you think?”

  “He didn’t do it alone.”

  “We’re going to have to hope to hell that he talks, and faced with the death penalty, he may choose to do just that. Stacey, it’s after four in the morning. It will be close to six by the time we get back. We need to rest. To sleep.”

  “‘Perchance to dream,’” she murmured.

  “I hope that, at least tonight, you don’t dream.”

  She smiled at him. “One night would be nice. And we do have Dr. Lawrence.”

  “We do,” he agreed.

  “But it isn’t over,” she said softly.

  “No, but I do believe we’ve begun the ending,” he said, and he cast her a smile. “I wonder if anyone is going to have hitchhiking ghosts.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Tim, Ronnie, George, Harvey—those guys aren’t going to want to hang around where they were.”

  “Do you think they’ll get to move on?” Stacey asked. “Now that Lawrence is in custody.”

  “I don’t know, Stacey. I honestly don’t know.” He glanced her way with a frown. “What happened tonight? Lawrence didn’t just walk right up to you, did he?”

  She shook her head. “He was carrying something...a broken piece of funerary art.”

  “An angel’s head.”

  “He might have meant...well, he might have meant to crown me with it, though it would have been stupid, since you were right there. Tim followed us. He may not be able to open a mailbox, but he managed to scuff some stones on the ground. I heard Lawrence coming and was spinning around. I don’t think he would have gotten me, but I know that Tim believes he was helpful. And I’m happy for him to believe that he saved me, because...he needs to believe that he mattered.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “You are the best rookie. Ever,” he told her.

  She smiled and leaned back. Her eyes closed. In a few minutes, she appeared to be asleep.

  At this time of night, the drive back wasn’t as bad as the drive there, and he made it right before six.

  Stacey seemed to have slept easily. Keenan nudged her gently to wake her.

  Her eyes opened. She stared at him for a minute. Then she smiled. “Keenan, I didn’t dream!”

  “No, you didn’t dream. Let’s get in for some real sleep. What do you say?”

  She nodded and opened her door. They walked the path to her house, and she pulled out her keys.

  The door swung open. Marty was there, looking at them anxiously. “Oh! I was so worried about you!”

  “We’re fine, Marty,” Stacey said.

  “There was someone out there again,” Marty said. “Sneaking around the house. I was worried. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “We’re here now.”

  “I called the local police, and they did come. But they didn’t find anything. They thought I was a crazy woman. They told me that it was legal for people to walk on the sidewalk. They said that our neighbors were probably out. But I could feel it, you know? Someone was sneaking around. Where have you been?”

  Keenan reckoned that one thing about making a discovery out on a country road meant that the media hadn’t had a chance to seize on it yet.

  “Working, Marty,” he said pleasantly. “We desperately need some sleep. It’s day—hey, nothing happens by day, right?” he said.

  That wasn’t true.

  But they had to escape Marty.

  She nodded and swallowed. “Okay, the door is locked. The alarm is back on. I’m glad you’re safe. Good night.”

  “Thank you, good night,” Stacey said.

  Marty headed up the stairs. They watched her go, and Stacey opened the door to her apartment, walking in with an exhausted sigh.

  “I’m so tired!” she murmured.

  “You go have the first shower.”

  “Not on your life,” she told h
im. She swirled and smiled and kissed his lips.

  They showered. They held close; they made love.

  Seconds after, she was asleep.

  He let himself drift off as well, ever aware of her, even while he slept.

  No alarm rang; there was nothing they had to do early. They would have a go at Dr. Lawrence themselves, but they knew that others would be handling him as he sat in jail.

  Jackson would talk to him early, and then maybe Angela.

  The MEs and forensic anthropologists and dozens of CSIs would be busy.

  But they could sleep late.

  It was almost noon when he felt Stacey stirring and he opened his own eyes.

  She kissed his lips quickly and gave him a brilliant smile.

  “I slept, Keenan. I slept so well. I didn’t dream. Do you think that means...”

  “I’m so glad you had a good night’s sleep,” he told her softly. “I don’t know what it means.” He shrugged, not wanting to ruin her morning.

  He knew that they were just beginning.

  And she knew that, too. But for the moment, they could be pleased with the night that had passed.

  “It means breakfast!” he said. “I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  She leaped happily out of bed. She left the room just seconds before his phone rang.

  It was Jackson.

  And, as Keenan had expected, the end was just beginning.

  * * *

  Stacey wanted to make omelets; Keenan was happy to chop up tomatoes and peppers to go in them and grate cheese.

  They enjoyed the meal, managing to talk about something other than the case for a bit.

  But the case was an elephant in the room. And with breakfast enjoyed and over, they left for the office.

  “So much will happen today—mediawise,” Keenan told her as they locked up.

  “Of course. People... Well, the media is important. When it isn’t skewed.”

  “It’s always skewed these days.”

  “I don’t think that this is the kind of thing anyone needs to skew,” she told him. “Wouldn’t it be great if Dr. Lawrence did just start talking?”

  “It would be great,” Keenan agreed. “But unlikely to happen.”