Grave Intent (16 page)

He stumbled to a halt. The prep room door had
a keypad lock of which only three people had access. His father,
Chad, and himself. Since Chad was busy with a hearse, and he was
standing in the hall feeling like an idiot, that left Wilson.

Michael stormed up to the keypad and punched
in a code. As soon as he heard the click of the lock release, he
shoved the door open.

“Dad, where the hell have you been?” he
demanded while flipping on the light switch.

When Michael’s eyes adjusted to the sudden
brightness, he frowned. Aside from the two corpses from Magnolia
Nursing Home, the room was empty.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The last time Wilson squatted behind a bush
was four winters ago when he’d gone hunting with Buster Fremont, an
old lodge buddy. Three breakfast burritos had sent him shimmying
down from a deer stand and into the nearest thicket. Montezuma’s
revenge wasn’t Wilson’s problem now, however. His own stupidity
was. He should have never taken off his jacket.

“Mother friggin’ piss ant,” he muttered as
another leg cramp seized him. He sat, resting his back against the
house, and stretched out his hampered leg. From this position, he
couldn’t see the road or the funeral home unless he leaned far to
the left. Not the best conditions for surveillance, but his legs
would only take so much stress.

He rubbed his right calf and listened
intently to the rustle of hedge leaves and the sound of car engines
growing ever distant. Finally, no more Stevensons.

“About damned time,” Wilson fumed.

He’d been hiding out ever since Janet left,
which seemed like forever ago. After she’d given him a lousy twenty
bucks, he’d headed for his car, which he’d parked two blocks north
of the house. On his way there, Wilson had reached into his jacket
pocket for the gold medallion he’d swiped from the casket, a big,
expensive looking piece that would surely get Lester Vidrine off
his ass for a while. But the damn thing wasn’t there. Wilson had
retraced his steps to and from the house again and again but found
nothing. He was convinced that the only other place the medallion
could be was in Michael’s bathroom. It must have slipped out when
he’d taken off his jacket before washing. And with the rash driving
him crazy, his hearing not being what it used to be, and the
carpeting on the floor, it was no wonder he hadn’t heard it
fall.

“Who the hell puts carpet in a bathroom?”
Wilson mumbled for the hundredth time. Asking the question gave him
a droplet of satisfaction. It allowed the blame to be redirected to
something other than his own asininity. Hell, if there hadn’t been
carpet, he’d have heard the medallion fall to the floor. And if
he’d heard it, it wouldn’t be lost. It’d be in Vidrine’s hand right
now, probably on its way to Porter Smack, his fence.

But no, he was stuck here, waiting for the
coast to clear so he could break into his own son’s home.

Although Wilson’s original plan had been to
wait until the funeral home had emptied, he decided to hold out a
little longer. There was still too much sunlight for him to attempt
climbing through a window. If he had been younger, he might have
given it a shot instead of hiding in the bushes like a goddamn
squirrel. But he wasn’t young. The way his body moved now, the
neighbors would have time to contact the FBI and the local news
station, then have both of them set up on Michael’s front lawn
before he’d make it across a windowsill. That left Wilson no
alternative but to hide and wait. He couldn’t hang around here too
long, though. Sooner or later, Michael would come home.

Wilson scowled at a miniature triangle of
twigs, through which he viewed Michael’s mailbox. By now, he
figured his son knew about the theft. Michael might be soft around
the edges, especially where his wife and kid were concerned, but he
wasn’t dumb.

An empty funeral home undoubtedly meant a
closed casket, and with the apprentice out making removals, Wilson
knew Michael would have been the one to close it. He also knew he’d
taught his son too well. Check the hair, the casket lining, the
clothes for wrinkles. Make sure everything is in pristine condition
before closing the lids. Unless Michael had suddenly gone blind,
the boy knew by now the medallion was missing.

Wilson didn’t feel especially proud about
what he’d done. In his opinion, stealing from a casket put a man on
the same level as vomit under a shoe. But he’d had no choice. He’d
told Michael this morning he’d gone to visit his dying sister, and
he had, but his delay in returning to the funeral home hadn’t been
caused by an accident on the Pontchartrain. That had been Lester’s
fault.

Lester, Shit Face, Vidrine, with his tinted
glasses and crooked teeth, had caught up with him by happenstance
at an intersection, just as Wilson drove into Brusley from
Metairie. After forcing Wilson’s car to the side of the road,
Lester promised him two broken kneecaps and a missing spleen if he
wasn’t paid in forty-eight hours.

Two damned days. One bad marker after fifteen
years of doing business together, and Lester acted like he couldn’t
trust him anymore. And for ten grand no less. What kind of business
partner snubbed you for ten grand? That was rabbit food compared to
the money Lester had made on him over the years.

Wilson kicked at a branch, wishing it were
Lester’s face. He could do it, too, pulverize the bastard and shove
him into a milk carton—if he caught him alone. But when it came to
Lester making good on a promise to punish, he never handled that
business alone. He always brought along backup. The kind with
bulky, hairy arms and chests the size of Oldsmobiles.

Frustrated and hot, Wilson rested his head
against the brick siding. The rash he’d had earlier was no longer
noticeable, but he still felt it prickle just below the surface of
his skin. He forced himself not to scratch, assuming the allergy,
or whatever it was, would react like poison ivy. The more you
scratched, the worse it got.

To take his mind off the hives, Wilson closed
his eyes and thought about Magdala Rhimes.

Magdala was a feisty, fifty-eight-year old
widow from Jacksonville, Florida with huge silicone boobs. More
importantly, she had money. Wilson had met Magdala on a casino boat
in Baton Rouge and wound up relocating to Florida with her and her
cash for over two years. Except for her constant bitching about him
drinking too much, they got along fairly well. Their relationship
went south, though, after he’d gotten a tip on a sure shot with
forty to one odds. When Wilson told Magdala about the opportunity,
she suddenly went stingy on him, refusing to fork over the money.
The stakes were too high she’d said, even for the potential payout.
Wilson all but begged, wanting to run the tip high and hard. But
Magdala wouldn’t budge. So, not being one to let an opportunity
slip by, Wilson had called Lester. A few long-distance connections,
and all he’d had to do was sign his name on the dotted line, then
let the ten gees roll.

How was he supposed to know the damn horse
would trip a quarter of the way to the finish line? Hell, wasn’t
that why they called it gambling?

Wilson was tired of everyone getting on his
case. Magdala for his drinking, Lester for his damn money. It
seemed like no matter where he turned these days, somebody was
riding his ass about something. Even Michael. But his son was a
situation he would straighten out soon enough. The boy was getting
way too big for his britches, turning his back on him like that. If
Michael had given him Stevenson’s money like he should have in the
first place, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Kids just had no gratitude these days. No
respect for the sacrifices their parents had to make day after day,
year after year. That bullshit needed to be set straight once and
for all.

First things first,
Wilson thought.
The number one order of business was getting the gold piece back.
The second, shoving it up Lester’s ass. After that he’d take care
of Michael. It was time somebody taught the boy respect for his
elders, and Wilson figured he was just the elder to do it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Janet tapped her foot against the brake and
slowed the van down to thirty-five miles an hour. Creeping along
Highway 6 into Carlton, she noted, as she did every year, how
little the town had changed. Herbert’s Garage still stood in rusted
determination on the corner of Highway 6 and Madeline Street next
to the Fountain of Life United Pentecostal Church. A block down on
the right was Settler’s Mini-Mall, home to Cal’s Western Store,
Louisa’s Naked Furniture, and Bubba’s Drive-Thru Bar-B-Que. Two
blocks ahead, just before a fork in the road, cows grazed in a
nearby pasture blanketed with blue-green grass.

To the left of the fork stood the Cotton
Patch, a long, white building with cherry red trim that served as
Carlton’s service station, grocery store, three table restaurant,
and overall gossip center. Rodney and Sylvia Theriot owned the
Patch. They’d known the Savoy family since the mid ‘50s, when
Michael’s grandfather, Joseph, built the cabin west of town. Joseph
had hired the Theriots, at that time a couple in their
mid-twenties, to watch over the place when the family was away. In
exchange for grass cutting and weekly checks on the place, the
Theriots were assured free burial services and heavily discounted
caskets.

Janet veered right onto Highway 1226, which
led to the cabin. Across the narrow road, massive oak and pecan
tree branches arched and sagged, offering shade and a temperature
drop of at least ten degrees. A little farther on the right ran an
unmarked, limestone street that meandered through a forest for
about a half mile. Janet turned onto it, listening to the stones
crunch under the van’s tires.

“Finally,” she muttered when she turned into
a clearing.

The cabin was a white, two-story Acadian
style built on brick piers. Thick columns supported the roof over a
wide front porch, and hunter green shutters trimmed each window.
The two-acre lawn surrounding the house looked freshly mowed.

She pulled up to the front of the house and
killed the engine. Resting her head back against the seat, she
basked in the stillness. Such a long way to travel for such a short
stay in an old house. Getting away from the madness in Brusley had
been worth the drive, but just as important, coming here also made
her husband and daughter happy. When Michael was a boy, his
grandfather had brought him to Carlton each year so they could
attend the fair together. It was the only family tradition Michael
seemed eager to hold onto, and one she would never deny him.

The thought of Grandpa Joseph made Janet
smile. He’d been a kindhearted man with a round face and small
frame. He’d compensated for his stature with attitude, one of
overwhelming generosity and a stoic love of family. Except for
size, Michael was the axiom of the apple and tree. One certainly
hadn’t fallen far from the other. Wilson, on the other hand, seemed
to have come from a completely different orchard.

Quickly dropping Wilson from her thoughts,
Janet reached for the rearview mirror, tilting it down so she could
see the girls, who were asleep on the back seat. Overall, they’d
done well on the four-hour trip. They’d kept each other occupied
with singsongs and little girl gossip. She grinned at the contrast
they created sitting together, their heads drooped to one side,
touching. Heather’s black hair—Ellie’s blonde. Heather’s skin sun
toasted—Ellie’s pale. Unusually pale—too pale.

Janet sat up and turned to look at her
daughter. Her usually scrubbed pink face looked chalky and dry. She
reached over the seat and touched Ellie’s knee.

“Honey, wake up.”

Ellie’s eyes fluttered open. “Are we there
yet?”

“I’m hungry, Aunt Janet,” Heather said. She
sat up and rubbed away spittle that had dribbled across her left
cheek.

“Me, too,” Ellie agreed with a nod.

“Both of you ate just an hour ago, so I don’t
think there’s a threat of starvation. Ellie, lean over here a
minute.”

With a yawn, Ellie unbuckled her seatbelt and
scooted to the edge of her seat. “But we’re starving a lot,
Mama.”

“Where’s the cabin?” Heather asked. She
pressed her face against the window.

“Right there, silly.” Ellie pointed to the
house.

“But a cabin’s supposed to be all broken down
and stuff.”

Ellie shook her head. “Huh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Aunt Janet . . .”

“Time out, you two.” Janet touched Ellie’s
right cheek. Faint pink tracks followed her fingertips over her
daughter’s skin. “What’s on your face?”

“Huh?”

“Your face,” Janet said. She sniffed her
fingertips. “Were you playing with chalk?”

Heather reached up with a finger and rubbed
it against Ellie’s other cheek. “Look,” she said with a giggle, “I
can draw a smiley face.”

Ellie shooed Heather’s hand away. “We don’t
have chalk, Mama. Only colors and markers, and see?” She held out
her arms and flipped them back and forth. “I didn’t even get none
on me.”

Janet opened the glove compartment, but found
the Wet Ones container she kept in there for emergency cleanups
empty. She closed the compartment and opened the van door.

“Come on,” Janet said. “Let’s go inside so
you can wash up.” She made a mental note to check Ellie’s fanny
pack later for face powder.

The girls scurried out of the van and started
chasing each other around the yard. Janet took the keys from the
ignition, found the one labeled CH for Carlton house, and made her
way to the front door.

Once inside, she crinkled her nose at the
smell of old upholstery and mothballs. Hard as she tried, Janet
never felt comfortable in this place. There was something about the
dark paneling and old oak floors that seemed determined to keep the
past as present, consequently leaving her to always feel like an
intruder.