Grave Intent (18 page)

Anna held her breath, watching the bouncing
headlights, the huge white eyes, now only a few feet away. She
grabbed the door handle and pulled. The wail of wind suddenly
filling the car sounded to Anna like the cry of angels. She hunched
forward, and amidst Mario’s shouts and the screech of brakes she
sprang into the night.

The last sound Anna heard was the crunch of
bones beneath a truck tire.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A thorough search of the funeral home proved
fruitless. No one was hiding in any dark corner or behind any piece
of furniture. Michael had gone so far as to open the refrigerator
in the visitor’s lounge to look inside, but nothing lurked in there
either. After a while, he forced himself to explain away the
incidents. The shadows, the snickers, only figments of his
imagination, tricks his eyes and ears played on him due to fatigue.
The prep room door closing, a quirk of fate and timing. Chad
probably forgot to secure it before he left. Though the
plausibility of that excuse seemed about as far-fetched as icicles
in the Sahara since Chad rarely forgot anything, Michael left it at
that. He had too much work to do and no further incidents to make
him push the issue further.

With one body already embalmed and the second
nearly finished, Michael worked a crick out of his neck. His
stomach rumbled, reminding him that dinner was way past due. He
ignored the hunger pangs, clipped the excess thread from the
baseball stitch he’d made over the corpse’s carotid, then reached
for the trocar.

Just as he positioned the point of the
hollow, metal rod against the side of the abdomen, the prep room
door banged open, and Wilson barged in.

Startled by the intrusion, Michael missed the
incision he’d made for the trocar and punctured a new hole into the
cadaver’s stomach. “Goddamnit, look what you’ve made me do!”

Wilson dismissed him with a quick wave. “Who
the hell cares about that? Nobody’s gonna know. Look here, I need
the—”

“For starters, I know.” Michael said, his
heart rate finally slowing to just below a gallop. He pulled out
the trocar and laid it alongside the body. “And for finishers, I
don’t give a damn what you need. You and I have to talk.”

Wilson stomped over to the opposite side of
the embalming table. “Now you listen here, boy. It’s about
time—”

“You’re damn right it’s about time,” Michael
said. “It’s time you stop acting like a fucking juvenile
delinquent.”

Wilson’s face went from a sickly chalk color
to bright red. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me
like that?”

Michael stripped the latex gloves off his
hands and threw them into a hazardous waste bin. “Where’s the stuff
from the Stevenson girl’s casket?”

It took a millisecond for the look in
Wilson’s eyes to shift from one of panic to

bemused. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about. And don’t try to change the subject. You have no right to
talk to me this way!”

“When you start ripping off caskets, I have
the right to say any damn thing I want.”

Wilson pounded the edge of the stainless
steel table with a fist. “You’re accusing me of stealing? Your own
father?”

“Stop with the games.”

“I’m telling you I didn’t take anything!”

Michael leaned over the table and brought his
face closer to his father’s. “Bullshit.Besides a few Stevenson
guests, you were the only one in the viewing room after I went to
see Janet and the girls off.”

Wilson’s eyes shifted rapidly as though he
were reading from a distant cue card. “I wasn’t alone. Sally was
with me.”

“Not the whole time. She told me she left the
room to answer the phone.”

Wilson slapped his hands together. “See how
gullible you are? She
said
she went to answer the phone, but
you don’t know that for sure, do you?”

“No, but Sally wouldn’t take a nickel if it
fell at her feet, and you know it.”

“So? People can change. They get into binds
and do stupid shit.”

“That’s your style, Dad, not hers.”

“I’m telling you, Sally’s your thief!”

“She’s not!”

“Then one of the Stevensons did it, you
goddamn ingrate!”

Michael held his growing fury in check and
leaned in farther. “You saw those people. They wouldn’t touch that
body for anything.”

Wilson opened his mouth as though to fire a
retort, then snapped it shut. Michael held his ground, refusing to
drop his glare.

After a long moment, Wilson harrumphed
loudly. “What the hell do you know anyway? You weren’t in the room.
Anybody could have taken that gold piece.”

The level of disappointment that suddenly
settled over Michael unnerved him. He didn’t want to admit to
himself that he’d been hoping against hope his father was telling
the truth. That he hadn’t taken anything from the casket. All fools
have their dreams.

Michael sighed heavily. “Who said anything
about a gold piece, Dad?”

Wilson jerked his head back in surprise. He
stammered, “I. . . wait . . . I. . .you did!”

“No, I didn’t. I never mentioned anything
about a gold piece. I asked where the
stuff
was. Why in the
hell would you—”

Wilson’s backhand caught Michael off guard.
It came fast and hard, landing on his left cheek. Before the pain
could fully register, however, Michael’s right hand reflexively
balled into a fist and slammed into Wilson’s jaw. The old man flew
backward into a utility cabinet, then dropped to the floor on his
butt, out cold.

“Oh, Jesus,” Michael breathed. He rounded the
embalming table, then took a hesitant step toward his father.
Emotions battled inside him, a sickening satisfaction of too long
awaited retaliation, and the horror of punching his father. Horror
won. Michael still couldn’t believe he’d done it. It had happened
too fast, had come out of nowhere, like someone had taken over his
body and shut down his brain. Never in his wildest dreams would he
have even considered hitting an old man, much less his father. He
suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Wilson groaned, and Michael hurried over to
him.

“Dad?”

Another groan, then Wilson slowly lifted his
head and rested it against the cabinet. He raised a tentative hand
to his jaw and groaned again.

Michael squatted beside his father. “I never
meant to—I mean—are you okay?”

Wilson rolled a weary eye toward him and gave
a barely perceptible nod. He opened his mouth gradually and,
wincing, worked his chin from side to side.

“Look, I’m . . .well . . .I’m sorry,” Michael
said. “I didn’t mean to—“

His father held up a hand. “Never mind about
that,” he said through scarcely parted lips. “Just help me up.”

Michael helped Wilson to his feet, then
grabbed a nearby stool and offered it to him.

Wilson sat gingerly, cupped his knees with
his hands, and hung his head.

Something’s definitely wrong,
Michael
thought. His father should have exploded by now, hurt jaw or not.
Too many past experiences had proven to him that little stopped
Wilson from giving anyone their just due. He should be ranting by
now, swinging with both fists, grabbing the embalming fluid tank so
he could whack his son over the head with it. Something.
Anything.

Yet, Wilson sat there, saying nothing. He
barely moved. He seemed to be concentrating either on his shoes or
the floor.

Michael cleared his throat. “We should have a
doctor take a look at you,” he said. “You know, check your jaw,
your tailbone, too, maybe.”

“I don’t need any doctor touching my ass or
my jaw. I’m fine,” Wilson said, finally looking up at him.

“But I think—“

“I already know what you think,” Wilson said.
He lowered his head again. “And you’re right.”

“So what are you saying? You want to see a
doctor?”

Wilson blew out a long breath and shook his
head. “What I’m sayin’ is you’re right, Michael. I took that gold
medallion from the casket. And everything you think about me from
asshole to worm is true. I’m all that and probably worse.”

Stunned beyond words, Michael gaped. Who was
this man? Surely not Wilson Savoy. Not
the
Wilson Savoy.

“No question that I’ve done a lot of crap in
my life,” Wilson continued, his voice low. “Things I’m not proud
of.”He laced his fingers together and studied a thumbnail. “I
didn’t mean to steal from that casket, no more than you meant to
punch me. It just happened. Kind of like a reflex thing. I was in a
major bind—it was there—I took it.” He tilted his head to one side
and looked at Michael. “Understand?”

Michael looked away. He did understand about
reflex. It was a lousy excuse for what his father had done, but
just as pathetic a reason for the role he played as boxer.
Understanding it didn’t explain what this Wilson confessional deal
was all about, though. Michael didn’t want to say anything to jinx
it. He figured it better to hang on and ride for a while, see where
his father would take it.

Wilson, evidently interpreting Michael’s
fidgeting as an affirmative answer said, “I figured you would—“

A loud hammering knock from somewhere in the
funeral home caused Wilson to jump off the stool, his eyes round
with fear. He motioned to the prep room door. “Hurry, Michael,
close it!”

The knocking continued, a loud, persistent
pounding that seemed to carry the weight of a five-hundred pound
man.

“Close it? I’ve got to find out—“

“Fuck!” Wilson hobbled to the door and closed
it himself. He pressed his back against the jamb. “It’s Lester, I
know it. If we don’t answer the door, he’ll think nobody’s here and
leave.”

“Who’s Lester?”

“He’s . . .he’s . . .one of the investors I
told you about.”

The unmistakable sound of glass shattering
sent Michael charging for the door. “I don’t care who he is, Dad.
I’m not going to hide in here while somebody destroys the
place.”

“No, don’t,” Wilson pleaded. “Don’t go out
there!”

Michael opened the door, easing his father
out of the way. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, the
knocking stopped.

Cautiously, Michael made his way down the
corridor, looking over his shoulder every few steps. He saw his
father’s head peek out from the embalming room, then quickly duck
back inside.

Just as he reached the dark, intersecting
hall, Michael spotted the photo of Saint Peter’s Cathedral laying
face down on the floor. It was the same picture that had survived
meatball target practice by the Stevenson clan. Now its glass
covering was shattered. Whoever had knocked had evidently done it
hard enough to vibrate the picture off the wall. He bent over to
pick up one of the larger, longer shards.

“See anybody yet?”

Wilson’s whisper startled Michael, and he
jerked upright. “Jesus, Dad, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

His father drew a trembling finger to his
lips. “Shhh.”

“Why? Nobody can get in here. I locked all
the doors.” Michael frowned. “Unless you used the front door and
forgot to lock it again.”

“No, I came in through the back. The one with
the auto—“ Wilson suddenly cast a look past Michael, and his brow
ridged with confusion.

“What?” Michael looked over his shoulder. He
didn’t see anything but more dark hallway.

“There’s somebody over there,” Wilson said
under his breath. “End of the hall, left corner, against the
wall.”

Michael turned around and squinted, but still
couldn’t see anything. He took a step to cross the corridor so he
could flip on the light switch, and Wilson grabbed the bottom of
his suit coat.

“Don’t,” Wilson warned, keeping his voice
low.

“I’m just going to turn on the lights. No big
deal.” Michael twisted to one side and freed himself. He crossed
over to the light switch, slapped it on, then pointed to where his
father had indicated. He was about to say, “Look, nobody there.”
But someone was there.

An old man stood quietly watching them.
Except for his age, which looked to be around ninety, and the man’s
large, protruding ears, he could have passed for Ephraim
Stevenson’s twin, down to the white fedora perched on his head.
Stranger still was the man’s attire. He wore a long-tailed, black
mourning suit with a blue silk shirt and accompanying cravat. He
kept his hands primly folded over one another just below his belt,
and his feet were bare. Even from this distance Michael could make
out thick, yellow toenails that looked as if they hadn’t been
trimmed in years. Michael figured this guy wasn’t the investor his
father was expecting, but the old man’s large eyes stayed intensely
focused on Wilson nonetheless.

Michael glanced back at his father to see if
there was any hint of recognition on his face. There wasn’t, only a
bewildered gawk highlighted by a developing bruise on the left side
of his chin.

Perplexed not only by how the Ephraim
look-alike got into the funeral home, but how he’d missed seeing
him in the shadows a minute ago, Michael asked the old man, “Uh—may
I help you?”

The old man blinked, a slow, seemingly
laborious process, then lifted a hand and pointed a crooked finger
at Wilson.

Michael waited, but when the man didn’t say
anything, he whispered to Wilson, “You know this guy?”

“Not a clue,” Wilson murmured. “Kind of looks
like Stevenson.”

“Yeah, I noticed. But I don’t remember seeing
him at the service. You?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Sure looks like he knows you, though.”

Wilson squared his shoulders, “Yeah, well, if
he doesn’t point that goddamn finger somewhere else pretty soon,
I’m going to shove it up his ass. That’ll get him to talk.” Wilson
scowled, winced, then said to the stranger, “Hey, how’d you get in
here?”