Grave Intent (14 page)

“He’s not mean,” Ellie said. “Mama says he’s
my grandpa . . . huh, Mama? And grandpas aren’t mean.”

“Is too mean,” Heather insisted.

“Is not.” As though to emphasize her point,
Ellie stood and adjusted her fanny pack over her stomach like a
gunslinger with a poor sense of direction.

“Okay, but he looked like he had the
cooties,” Heather said. “All bumpy and itchy.”

An indignant look crossed Ellie’s face. “If
my grandpa’s got the cooties, then yours has ‘em, too.”

“Does not.”

“Does, too.”

“That’s enough,” Janet warned, although she
wanted to agree with Heather about Wilson’s condition. She picked
up the cooler and handed it to Ellie. “Run this out to the van for
me, okay? Heather, you can carry my purse. Just put it on the
driver’s seat.”

Instantly, the girls’ disposition changed
from confrontational to pleased that they were being assigned a
grownup duty. Ellie took hold of the cooler with great care, and
Heather latched onto Janet’s purse as though the crown jewels
rested inside.

Janet watched them head outside and couldn’t
help but wonder at their ability to leave arguments behind so
quickly. Adults had a tendency to hang onto almost
everything—words, slights, resentments—like they were tickets
needed for entry into some future argument. She was guilty of that
herself. Especially with Wilson.

Agitated with a sudden twinge in her
conscience, Janet turned to the sink and snatched up a dishtowel so
she’d have something to do with her hands. So what if she resented
Wilson? It wasn’t like the old bastard hadn’t earned every bit of
it. He’d hurt Michael. He’d hurt the whole family. She didn’t trust
him. Even now Janet suspected Wilson of being up to something. He
was being too—too—nice. Still, her conscience needled her. Maybe
Wilson was just an old man who didn’t know any other way to survive
in life other than being an asshole. He
was
Ellie’s only
remaining grandfather, and he
did
look sick.

Janet weaved the dishcloth between her
fingers and listened to the sound of running water coming from the
bathroom. Moments later the toilet flushed. She tossed the towel
onto the counter. All right, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be more
civil to Wilson. Maybe even smile at him once in a while. Though
she didn’t think the endeavor would transform him into Grandpa
Walton, it would be a start.

She tested her theory the moment Wilson
walked back into the kitchen. Seemingly refreshed, his hair was
slicked back, and the splotches were gone from his face. He carried
his suit jacket draped over one arm.

“Feel better already,” he said.

Janet forced a smile. “Good.”

Wilson’s left brow arched with skepticism.
“Good?”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

As his right eyebrow lifted to match the
left, Ellie and Heather burst into the house in a fit of giggles.
They ran to Janet’s side.

“All done!” Ellie declared.

“Yep, all done!” Heather beamed and did a
pirouette. As soon as she spotted Wilson, her cheerfulness
deflated. “Uh . . . can we go now, Aunt Janet?”

Janet smoothed Heather’s hair, sensing her
unease. “In a moment, honey. Bathroom first, okay?”

Heather whispered, “But I don’t gotta
go.”

“Me neither,” Ellie added loudly.

“At least try,” Janet urged. “It’s going to
be a long drive.”

Ellie sighed expansively. “Okay, but
nothing’s gonna come out.” She reached for her cousin’s hand. “Come
on, Heather. You can get the Barbie bag from my room while I go
first.”

The uncomfortable silence that followed their
departure made Janet straighten a toaster and coffeepot that didn’t
need straightening.

“She’s something else,” Wilson finally
said.

Janet gave him a quizzical look.

“The girl . . . Emma . . . she’s really
something. Bright, you know? Got a lot of spunk for a kid.”

“Her name’s Ellie, and, yes, she is very
smart.”

“Oh, right, right, Ellie. Nice name.”

Another smothering pause spanned between them
while Janet tried to figure out if Wilson’s amicable behavior was
genuine. His eyes didn’t reveal anything one way or the other. They
were too busy darting from her to the nearest window. Either
geniality made Wilson nervous or he’d found a new way to scratch
itchy eyeballs.

“You should see a doctor about that rash,”
Janet said.

“Huh? Oh, nah. It’s nearly all gone.” He
lifted his chin so she could see the full length of his neck. “Soap
and water took care of most of it.”

Janet offered a nod. In truth, his face
looked bloodless now, his eyes puffy and red.

Wilson sidestepped his way to the door,
opened it a few inches, and peered out. “Michael didn’t happen to
come by while I was washing up, did he?”

“No. Was he supposed to?”

“No, no, just wondering was all.” Wilson
glanced toward the window again. “So you guys are heading up to
Carlton I hear?”

“Well . . . yes.”

He nodded, but to the clock on the stove not
her. “I guess you won’t be seeing Michael again before you leave
then, huh?”

Janet’s internal defenses went to full alert.
Why was Wilson suddenly so interested in when she’d see Michael? “I
suppose I won’t,” she admitted.

He grinned, and his blood-webbed eyes
fastened on the window again. “Good, good.”

“What?”

“I mean . . . uh . . . I’m sure you’ll have a
good trip.”

Growing more bewildered by the minute, Janet
turned away from Wilson and called out, “Girls, you about
ready?”

“Almost!” Heather shouted from the hall.

“Janet?”

Shocked by the nearness of Wilson’s voice,
Janet spun about. He stood an arm’s length away from her.

“No need to be so jumpy,” he said. “I just
wanted to ask you something.”

She took a step back. “What?”

Wilson frowned and seemed to study the top of
her head. Finally he asked, “Why do you dislike me so much?”

Stunned by the question, Janet gawked.

“Really,” he said. “I want to know.”

Janet couldn’t remember the last time she had
so much trouble swallowing saliva. “You sure you want to discuss
this?” she asked.

They stared at each other for a long,
unblinking moment. In the distance, a drawer banged shut and small
feet shuffled across wood floors.

“Nah,” Wilson said. “Suppose not.” He put his
jacket back on, then shrugged. “Guess I’d better be going.”

Janet didn’t reply.

Wilson lowered his head and walked slowly
away. Old age appeared ponderous on his shoulders, like a load of
bricks, causing his body to slump, his back to bow. Janet couldn’t
get used to seeing Wilson this way, so frail looking, so brittle.
Empathy welled up inside her, which took Janet by surprise.

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him to
stay, to talk, when he suddenly stopped and snapped his fingers. He
turned around, and Janet saw a glint of mischief in his eyes. It
was quickly replaced with a mournful, pitiful gaze. The right
corner of his mouth jittered.

“I meant to ask,” Wilson said. “Would you
have a few bucks to spare until Monday?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A panoramic view of hell, disguised as beige,
floral wallpaper, stretched out before Anna, and she studied it,
transfixed. Every floret had become Thalia’s frightened face, every
petal her daughter’s open mouth, crying for help, each twining vine
Thalia’s arms desperately reaching for her mother. No matter how
long Anna stared, no matter how many times she shifted in her seat,
she sensed the same message deep in her soul—in her womb. Thalia
was in trouble. Dead, yes—but somehow, somewhere in trouble just
the same.

Anna fidgeted in her seat again, wanting to
look back at the casket. She knew if she did, though, Ephraim would
have her hauled out of the room, stripping her of the last chance
she’d have to be near Thalia’s body. So she focused harder on the
wall, trying to decipher the turmoil percolating inside her. She
knew timing was everything, but
had
the time come? Was it
this moment? Should she wait a bit longer?

Even more confusing to Anna was the
occasional mental image she received of a fair-haired child with
dead, blue eyes—and the dark-haired woman Anna had met earlier by
the water fountain. What did they have to do with Thalia?

Oh, my beautiful daughter, my Thalia, I hear
you. I feel you. But how do I find you? Where do I even begin to
look?

A memory suddenly tagged Anna’s heart. It
reminded her of the time Thalia was five and had gotten lost in a
crowded market. Anna had been so alarmed and distraught by her
disappearance, she’d barely had the wherewithal to think. She’d
pushed and shoved her way through people, shouting for Thalia until
she was hoarse, searching for any piece of clothing, any hair color
that might match her daughter’s. Soon, Anna discovered herself
silent and tracking Thalia strictly by sense. She allowed
everything around her with no significance to fade away,
concentrating only on the vibrations of Thalia’s emotions. Anna
felt them so strongly it was as though they belonged to her.
Fear—loneliness—the despair of one being too small in a world much
too big. Those sensations had led Anna to Thalia like mud tracks on
a white floor.

Anna sat back in her chair expectantly. Maybe
that’s what she needed to do now. Simply follow the tracks.

Urgency suddenly grew up Anna’s spine, like a
tree with a thousand crooked branches. Each bough reached, poked,
prodded against a nerve ending until she could barely remain
seated. She felt it so strongly.

Thalia’s fear—

Anna reached for the tool she’d managed to
keep hidden from Ephraim.

Thalia’s loneliness—

She slipped it out from beneath the cuff of
her blouse. The tip pricked the pad of flesh beneath her fingers,
drawing a drop of blood.

Thalia—too small in another world much too
big—

The fear Anna intuited from Thalia quickly
escalated to dread, the loneliness to a profound sense of
abandonment.

Toosmall—too big.

Too much.

It was time.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Michael wasn’t accustomed to
hyperventilating. He’d heard breathing into a paper sack helped,
but even if he had one, it wouldn’t solve his real problem. It
wouldn’t bring back the coin.

He lowered the top lid of the casket a few
inches, hesitating. He hated to close it, but what other choice did
he have? If he brought the missing coin to the Stevensons’
attention, there was little doubt all hell would break loose. He
didn’t think Ephraim, or Antony, or any other member of their
congregation had removed it because they’d been too adamant about
not touching the corpse. Almost to the point of disgust. That left
only two other possibilities. Sally and Wilson.

Michael wrote Sally off immediately. He’d
known her most of his life. She would have sawed off her own arms
before stealing anything. Even during business hours when she had
free access to his office, Sally had never so much as taken a
postage stamp from his desk without asking. Wilson on the other
hand . . .

Although Michael knew his father was capable
of making hard-hearted, stupid choices, he’d never known him to
steal from a casket. Not in all the years they’d worked together,
no matter how tight money got. Misappropriate funds from the
business? Yes. Swipe grocery money from his wife? Yes. But steal
from a casket? This would be a first.

Reluctantly, Michael closed and latched the
lid, then polished a smudge on the coffin with his coat sleeve.All
the while he took deep, slow breaths in an attempt to control his
anger.

In through the nostrils, out through the
mouth. In through the nostrils, out through the mou—

A loud, long scream froze Michael’s deflating
lungs.

Oh, shit, someone noticed the coin was
missing.

He turned around slowly, his mind whirling
through nonsensical explanations.

The few people left in the room didn’t point
at him accusingly nor did they storm the casket. They were too busy
gawking at the blood dripping from Anna Stevenson’s wrists.

Within seconds two-dozen women raced into the
viewing room and fluttered around Anna like myopic moths.

Michael hurried toward them. “Give her room,”
he said, and the moths pressed closer to the bleeding woman. “She
needs air!” The circle grew tighter still, hiding the calm, white
face from his view.

Turning on his heels, Michael rushed for the
phone in the reception area. He collided with Sally in the
doorway.

“Where’s Stevenson?” he asked, catching her
by the shoulders.

“Which one?”

“The girl’s father, Ephraim.”

“Outside, I think. Why?” Sally peered over
his shoulder. “What’s going—is that blood?”

Michael looked back at the crimson pool
widening on the floor. “Yeah, it’s Stevenson’s wife.”

“Oh, Lord.” Sally’s face turned ashen. “You
find him. I’ll call 911.”

“You will call no one,” Ephraim’s voice
boomed behind them. He shoved his way past Michael and Sally and
stormed into the room. His voice thundered as he commanded the
women surrounding his wife to step aside.

“Mr. Stevenson, we need to call an
ambulance,” Michael insisted. “Your wife’s losing a lot of
blood.”

“You will call no one!” Ephraim repeated,
shouting over his shoulder. “We will tend to our own.” Then he
turned back to Anna and grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him.
Her eyes were dull brown stones that Michael suspected saw nothing
at all. The hollows of her cheeks were splotchy and paling fast,
her lips an almost nonexistent waxen line. Her forearms dangled
over the arms of the chair, and her sliced wrists dripped
relentlessly.