Grave Intent (23 page)

Around two-thirty, just as Michael started
out for the south side of town to make another removal, he spotted
Wilson’s car parked about four blocks away from the funeral home,
alongside Mouton’s Liquor Store. A suitcase sat on the backseat of
the Cadillac, and the keys were still in the ignition. Furious, but
not wanting to start a scene in the store, Michael pocketed the
keys. If his father planned to skip town again so he wouldn’t have
to face the Stevensons, he had another thing coming. No keys meant
no ride. Michael knew the fix was only temporary, though. Soon
Wilson would show up at the funeral home, albeit on foot, with
another cockamamie story prepared. That had been three hours ago,
and there still was no sign of Wilson.

“You having some kind of seizure or
something?” Sally asked, capturing Michael’s attention.

“What?”

“I’ve been asking if your father could—”

“I don’t know where Dad is,” Michael said
flatly. “So don’t count on him.”

Sally unfolded her arms and threw them down
at her sides. “Fine,” she said tersely. “But when people around
this town start going to another funeral home because this one’s to
busy
winging
it, don’t come crying to me.” With that, she
stomped out of the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Before the sound of reverberating wood
cleared in Michael’s ears, someone knocked on the office door.

“What?” Michael called, half expecting to see
Sally’s flustered face reappear. The door opened, and to his
relief, Richard Mason emerged.

“Sorry to bother,” Richard said. “But I’ve
got a little problem.” He folded his hands in front of his gaunt
body and bowed his head slightly as though preparing to pray.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

Richard glanced up. “I’m embarrassed to
say.”

“What?”

“Well, I was getting ready to go to K-Mart
because we’re out of pancake makeup and I need some for Mrs. Ossun.
I found liquid base in the prep room, but I can’t finish her
cosmetics with that stuff. Anyway, like I said, I was going over
there, but I can’t find my car keys.” His taut-skinned face turned
red. “I called home for my wife, Uneeda, to bring me a spare set,
but she’s not home right now. So—well, would it be all right if I
borrowed your car?”

Michael wanted to tell Richard to simply use
the cosmetics in the prep room, but that would mean hearing an
hour-long dissertation from Richard about the finer attributes of
pancake makeup. He wasn’t up for that.

He tossed him the keys to his Buick. “You
won’t be long, right?” Michael asked.

Richard blinked rapidly. “Oh, not long at all
. . . well, it is raining heavy out there right now, so I may have
to go slow. I wouldn’t want to wreck your car. Heaven’s I’d feel
terrible if that happened. Sometimes you can’t help accidents,
though. In this kind of—”

“Then take your time,” Michael said, hoping
to deflect a major discourse. “I’ll leave for Carlton whenever you
get back.”

Richard made a clicking sound with his
tongue, then shot Michael an okay sign and left.

Pleasantly surprised by Richard’s abbreviated
departure, Michael swiveled in his chair and stared out the window.
Rain pelted the pane, and wide rivulets distorted his view of the
outside world. In this weather, it would be a miracle if he reached
the cabin before ten tonight.

He turned back to his desk and picked up the
phone to call Janet and let her know he would soon be on his way.
Chances were, if this storm had traveled that far north, the fair
had ended early. She might be back at the cabin now, worrying about
why he hadn’t arrived yet.

Michael punched in the number for the cabin
and immediately heard, “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy now.
Please—”

He quickly disconnected the call and redialed
the number. Once again, the same recording chirped in his ear.

“Give me a break with the circuits already!”
Michael slammed the receiver down on its cradle. He dropped his
arms flat on the desk and lowered his head, frustrated. He heard
the phone ring.

Michael eyed the blinking button on the phone
as it rang again. Another death call? It rang a third time, and
Michael wondered why Sally wasn’t picking up the call.

More frustrated than ever, Michael scooped up
the receiver and forced himself to sound civil. “Savoy Funeral
Home.”

He heard the sizzle and crackle of static,
but no response. Assuming someone was calling from a cell phone,
Michael said loudly, “Hello?”

More static, then a young voice, the words
choppy, barely audible, “Hu—da—stop—co—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re
saying,” Michael said, speaking louder.

“Da—come—hur—”

“If you can hear me,” Michael said, “please
call back. We’ve got a terrible connection.” He hung up and
immediately the phone rang again.

Not waiting for Sally to pick it up this
time, Michael quickly answered, “Savoy Funeral Home.”

“Da—hurry—co—bad!”

Michael felt the hair on his arms stand
upright on gooseflesh. Though the words were still choppy, the
connection had less static, and he recognized Ellie’s voice. She
sounded terrified.

He pressed the receiver harder against his
ear so he could hear past the static and the blood pulsing in his
ear. “Ellie, what’s wrong? Where’s Mommy?”

“Bad—for—al—hur—”

“Ellie, where are you? Where’s—”

The line went dead with a click.

Michael quickly dialed the cabin number and
prayed that he’d at least hear a ring this time.

“We’re sorry, all circuits—”

“Fuck!” Michael disconnected the line and was
about to redial when the phone rang again. He punched the blinking
button and dispensed with the customary greeting. “Hello!”

No static blurred the line this time, only
hollow silence.

“Ellie? Are you there?”

A woman’s voice, clear and heavily accented
said, “Your daughter calls to you from her mind for she has no
other way.”

“Who is this?” Michael demanded. The woman’s
accent carried the same rolling r’s, the same staccato syllables
he’d heard from the Stevensons and the rest of their clan.

“Your daughter is in grave danger, and I
cannot hold them from her much longer. You must come.”

Michael bolted up from his seat. “Who the
hell is this?”

“It must be returned as has been told. One
sun has already passed its mark. The second will not be long in
coming. You have little time.”

As she spoke, an image of the old man Michael
had seen in the funeral home last night came clearly to mind, and
the words he’d spoken replayed in hi-fi in his mind.
The second
sun—return it or it is done, Wilson Savoy. For you and for anyone
who dares possess it.

“If it is not returned before then, both will
be lost,” the woman continued. “My child to nether world, your
child to death.”

“You leave my daughter alone!” Michael
yelled. “I don’t have what you’re looking for! Do you hear me? I
don’t have it!”

The line began to fill with static again.

“Do you hear?” Michael shouted. “Where is my
daughter? Who are you?”

Through the static, he heard the woman’s
fading voice say, “Beside you, Mr. Savoy. Beside you.” Then the
phone went dead.

“Hello!” Michael shouted. “Hello!”

A light rapping on the window made Michael
whirl about.

Anna Stevenson stood outside his window,
wearing a long white gown, her dark hair flowing over each
shoulder. She appeared dry despite the downpour, and her solemn
face held the color and translucency of gauze. So did her hand,
which she held out toward the windowpane. In her palm, lay Ellie’s
butterfly barrette. The same one Michael had found on his bathroom
floor the night before.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Janet cupped her hands around her mouth and
screamed once more, “Hold on, Rodney! Hold on!”

High above her head, Ellie lay flopped over
the lock bar of the Ferris wheel seat as though she had fainted.
Rodney still had her shirt clutched in a fist and one hand over his
heart, his mouth agape. Heather sat on the left side of the seat
nearly hidden by Rodney’s bulk. She had both hands over her eyes.
The three of them seemed frozen in time, an off-colored, Norman
Rockwell portrait.

“Wind’s too high, lady,” the ride operator
said. “They can’t hear ya.” She puffed rapidly on a long, thin
cigar and looked up at the sky. “Looks like it’s gonna get worser,
too. Rain, hail probably.”

“Christ, then why are you just standing
here?” Janet cried. “Do something!”

“Already did.” She held up a walkie-talkie.
“Got a roadie to call the cops. Should behere any minute.”

Janet wrung her hands and paced a short
horizontal path, never losing sight of her daughter or Rodney. “We
have to do something now, though. Look at him, I don’t know how
much longer he can hold her.”

The operator gave her a sympathetic look. “I
know you’re worried, lady. Hell, I’d be, too, if that was my kid up
there. But there’s nothing we can do right now. That little girl
ain’t shored up enough for me to touch those levers. We could lose
her. The wheel ain’t smooth. It jerks when it gets to movin’, and
when that happens the seats start to swingin’. Too big a chance to
take.”

The crowd swelling around Janet jostled her
closer to the big woman. “So that’s it? We wait? You’re not going
to try anything else?”

The operator squinted up at the Ferris wheel.
“If you got another idea on how to get them down before the cops
get here, share it, ‘cause I ain’t got the foggiest.”

Janet felt fresh tears sting her eyes. She
bit her lip and paced faster, working through a scrabble board of
thoughts. Rope—hail—net—rain—climber—help.

Sirens began to wail nearby, and Janet stood
on tiptoe to peer over the crowd. Red and blue flashing lights.
Heaven had red and blue flashing lights.

“They’re here, lady,” the operator said.
“Help’s here.”

As the sirens grew louder, the crowd seemed
to immediately double in size, pushing Janet farther away from the
Ferris wheel. A few people stared at her openly. Others she caught
peripherally, bare glimpses of faces. Excited faces, scared ones,
some that held sympathetic tears, a few that looked enthralled,
like they were watching an action flick on television. Voices
babbled incessantly from every direction.

“. . . that poor man can’t possibly—”

“My aunt had a heart attack once on a—”

“She could . . .split her head wide—”

“ . . . the mama . . . should have been
watching.”

Janet wanted to scream for every one of them
to shut up.

Please, God,
she prayed silently.
Please don’t let my baby die.

“Merciful Mary, no!” a woman wailed. The
sound of it, familiar and bordering on hysteria, forced Janet to
turn around. It was Sylvia Theriot, her horrified face only inches
away. “Oh, Janet—Jesus, oh, Mary, Rodney!” Sylvia cried. “My poor
Rodney! Those poor, poor babies!”

Janet reached for the woman’s flailing hands
but was jostled aside before she could grab hold of her.

“Out of the way,” a tall, tub-waisted
policeman demanded. He had a nightstick in one hand and a
walkie-talkie in the other. “Move back. Everybody move!”

Suddenly crushed between a toothless bald guy
and a woman wearing too much perfume, Janet was forced farther
back. “No, wait!” Janet yelled. “I’m the girl’s mother!” She looked
frantically about for the ride operator for help, but the woman was
nowhere to be seen. Neither was Sylvia.

The bald guy clamped a hand onto Janet’s
shoulder. “Hang on, lady,” he shouted over the sirens, and crowd,
and revving engines. “I’ll get you back through, but they gotta get
the cherry picker in first.” He pointed over the wall of heads to a
large, orange utility truck rumbling by. In its bed sat a wide
metal bucket, and inside the bucket stood a red-faced man dressed
in fireman garb.

The crowd cheered as the truck rolled up to
the Ferris wheel. In a matter of minutes, the bucket and fireman
rose into the air.

“Come on,” the bald guy said, taking hold of
Janet’s right forearm. With his free hand held out like a battering
ram, he charged through the throng, pulling her along.

They no sooner hit a clearing when the same
tubby policeman barred their way.“Stay back,” he demanded.

“She’s the—” the bald guy said.

“I said get back!” the policeman
insisted.

“No!” Janet said fiercely. She shook her arm
free and pointed to the Ferris wheel with both hands. “That’s my
little girl up there.”

The policeman’s scowl melted instantly, and
pity softened his eyes. “Come with me then,” he said, and led her
to the utility truck.

When they reached the driver’s door, the
policeman rapped a knuckle against it. “Jay?” he called.

“What?” A dark-skinned man with a harried
expression stuck his head out the window. “Oh, hey, Bufford.”

“Tell Dave I got the mama right here.”

Jay’s eyes locked onto Janet while he pressed
a radio mike to his lips. “Dave, hold on a second.”

Crackling static echoed from the cab of the
truck, then a voice said, “’S’up?”

“The mama’s here,” Jay replied.

More static, then, “Ten four. She belong to
one or both?”

Jay keyed the mike again. “Both what?”

When the bodiless voice returned, it sounded
aggravated. “There’re two little girls up here. Are they both
hers?”

Jay gave Janet a questioning look.

Janet stepped back, looked up at the fireman
peering down at her from the bucket overhead, and nodded. She
didn’t want to waste time explaining the difference between
daughter and niece.

“Yeah, both hers,” JayJay confirmed.