Grave Intent (6 page)

“Dad?” Michael took an uncertain step toward
him.

Ephraim and Antony stood nearby with their
arms folded. They watched Wilson with casual amusement as saliva
escaped from the corners of his mouth and he abruptly dropped to
one knee.

“Dad?” Fearing a heart attack, Michael
hurried to his father’s side. A loud
rip
sounded from
Wilson’s chest, and the tie he’d been struggling with fell to the
floor in halves. Wilson gulped air as Michael helped him to his
feet.

“Are you all right?” Michael asked, puzzled.
He looked from his father to Ephraim, then back to his father.
“What happened?”

Wilson grabbed onto the edge of the desk with
both hands. “I-I don’t . . .the tie—”

Ephraim grunted loudly and rubbed his palms
together. “It is settled,” he said to Michael. “You will present
her in early morning.” With a brisk nod, he turned to Antony.
“Come, we have much to prepare.”

Antony opened the door and held it ajar for
his cousin. Before he crossed the threshold, Ephraim turned to
Wilson.

“Beware of such a hunger and where it will
lead you, Wilson Savoy. If you do not hold it in its place, this
greed will send most horrible death.” With that, Ephraim reached
into his coat again and pulled out a large pinch of white powder,
which he tossed across the carpet. Pollen-fine residue settled on
the desk, the urn shelf, and the picture of Ellie that rested on
the windowsill.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wilson
demanded.

Ignoring Wilson, Ephraim looked at Michael
and bowed his head stiffly. “A gift,” he said, “which your honesty
has earned. It will help carry your most heartfelt prayer to the
very gates of heaven.” Ephraim cocked his head toward Wilson once
again, eyed him gravely, then followed Antony out of the room,
closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Standing in the northeast vestibule of
Riverwest Medical Center, Anna Stevenson took the knife she had
borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember and stared at the palm
of her left hand. Never again would this hand touch the cheek of
her beloved Thalia. It would never feel the warmth of her like it
once did when they had hugged. There would never be another time
when it would feel the smoothness of a brush gliding through her
daughter’s hair as she helped to brush it before a party.

A party . . . a birthday party . . .
Thalia’s—

Anna sliced an X into her palm with the knife
and watched blood pour between her fingers, then splatter to the
floor. She felt only a tingling sensation from the wound, so
minuscule to the torture that ravaged her heart.

It seemed like only seconds earlier when she
had laughed and clapped as Ephraim promenaded their daughter before
friends and family. “Nineteen and so beautiful,” he had said with
so much pride, you would have thought he alone had given birth to
the girl. Thalia had held onto her father’s arm, glowing in the
congratulatory applause.

Anna had wondered then about the passage of
time. Hadn’t it only been a year or two since Thalia turned four?
Wasn’t it only a month or so ago that her daughter had lost her
front teeth? Surely it was no more than days since she had tried on
her first bra. As she’d watched Thalia dance and sing, Anna felt
happy but cheated. It was as if she had looked away for only a
second and some giant clock in nature had suddenly sped up, turning
her child into a woman.

Anna let her hand fall to her side and peered
over at the long double windows to her right. Such a beautiful day,
so bright, so full of promise—

“I won’t ruin my new skirt,” Thalia had
insisted. “I promise. I’ll even throw a blanket over Joe-Joe’s back
to make sure it stays clean. Just once around the field,
please?”

Anna had been basting a lamb quarter over an
open pit when she first heard the shouting. She looked on as
everyone ran toward the west end of the park where one of their
quarter horses bucked and neighed wildly. It took Anna a moment to
recognize the rust-colored animal as Thalia’s Joe-Joe. Two
arrhythmic beats of her heart later, she spotted the still,
crumpled form on the ground.

She’d ran, feeling her soul melt inside her,
hearing it whisper with horrid certitude and in breathless
agony—
She’s gone. Thalia’s gone.

A muted clatter drew Anna’s attention away
from the windows, and she looked down to see the knife lying on the
floor. There was an impressive splatter of blood on her clothes and
around her feet. Anna studied the dark swirls and droplets for a
moment, her mind straining to remember where the blood had come
from, then decided it didn’t matter.

She turned and faced the hall behind her.
Somewhere in this building, in this maze of corridors and
antiseptic-scented rooms, lay her daughter’s lifeless body. They
had moved Thalia from the curtained cubicle where a scrawny-faced
doctor had said simply, “She’s dead,” to some other place in the
hospital. Anna had held onto Thalia’s hand, wanting to follow the
gurney, but no one would allow it. It had taken Ephraim and two
other men to pry her away from her daughter.

“Anna, there you are!”

Anna’s eyes focused on her sister-in-law,
Roslyn, who waddled down the hall toward her. The short,
pear-shaped woman had black mascara streaks running down both
cheeks.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for—oh, my
God, you’re bleeding!” Roslyn hurried to Anna’s side, grabbed her
left wrist, and forced her hand palm up. “Oh, God, Anna, what did
you do?”

“She’s gone, Rosy,” Anna said quietly. “My—my
baby’s gone.”

“I know, honey,” Roslyn said shakily. She let
go of Anna’s wrist, then quickly dug through her shoulder bag and
pulled out a blue silk scarf. She wrapped it around Anna’s injured
hand.

“They—they wouldn’t let me stay with
her.”

“My poor, Anna,” Roslyn said, and softly
touched Anna’s cheek. “How hard this must be for you.”

“She’s all alone now. Gone forever.”

Roslyn shook her head slowly, tears following
mascara tracks. “She will never be alone, Anna. Thalia will be with
us always, in our hearts. Her memory will live there forever.”

Anna stared at her numbly. “But you cannot
feel the breath of a memory or feel the warmth of its skin when it
kisses you goodnight, can you?”

Roslyn let out a little sob, then stooped and
picked the knife up from the floor. After tucking it into her bag,
she stood and took hold of Anna’s arm. “Come. We need to find
someone to look at your hand. You’re cut pretty bad.”

Anna felt Roslyn gently tug on her arm, and
before she knew it, she was following her obediently down the
corridor.

Left then right, left again, left again, then
right. It seemed to take forever before they reached a set of steel
elevator doors. Roslyn pressed the down button, and for a fraction
of a second, Anna saw her reflection split in half when the shiny
metal doors opened. The image looked like she felt—divided, ripped
in two, never to be made whole again.

A middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair
followed them into the elevator, and Anna pressed herself against
the back wall. Roslyn stood next to her. The hoist hummed, then
lowered them from the third floor to the second. Between the second
and first floor, Anna heard something that made her stand at
attention.

Roslyn leaned closer to her and whispered,
“We’re almost there.”

“Shh, listen,” Anna said, stepping away. She
pressed a hand to the elevator wall. “Can you hear it?”

The bottle-blonde woman glanced over her
shoulder, then gawked at the blood soaked scarf. She inched closer
to the doors.

“What?” Roslyn asked. “I don’t hear anything
but elevator noise.”

“It’s her, Rosy.” Anna went to the elevator
panel and jabbed frantically at the numbered buttons.“Can’t you
hear? She’s playing it. Thalia’s playing her music box!”

CHAPTER FIVE

A cadaver, eating a chicken salad
sandwich.

That thought rolled continuously through
Janet’s mind as she loaded the dishwasher, one eye locked on Wilson
Savoy. She couldn’t help but stare. The man looked nothing like she
remembered. For as long as she’d known him, her father-in-law had
been an imposing man, tall and robust in stature and presence. He’d
carried the temperament of a pit bull and the attitude of a
selfish, manipulating asshole. The man who sat at her kitchen
table, however, was gaunt and bowed, with a gray, waxy complexion.
His eyes held a withered, defeated look, and his physical fortitude
seemed to be that of a cancer victim about to cross the threshold
to eternity.

“So why didn’t you invite me?” Wilson asked.
He took another bite of chicken salad sandwich and rolled his eyes.
“Heaven. You always were a good cook, Janet.”

“It’s from Champagne’s Deli,” Janet said
quietly. She closed the dishwasher, grabbed a dishtowel, and wiped
down an already clean countertop. She peered over at Michael, who
sat across the table from his father. He stared at Wilson in
silence, his eyes pained, his jaw muscles flexing rhythmically.
Ellie lay against Michael’s chest, her head resting against his
left shoulder as she slept. Michael patted her back gently,
absently. Janet could only imagine the emotions roiling inside her
husband. Three years was a long time to be steeped in
resentment.

During the pizza reception that had followed
Ellie’s recital, Michael told Janet about Wilson’s arrival at the
funeral home, and she’d told him about the man at the gas pumps.
Neither had been overtly surprised by the other’s news. What did
surprise them, though, was Wilson’s appearance at their front door,
tumbler of bourbon in hand, twenty minutes after they’d returned
home.

“Store bought, huh?” Wilson said with a shake
of his head. “Could’ve fooled me.” A few seconds of awkward silence
passed before he added, “It’s the truth, you know.” He gestured
toward Ellie with his chin.“I’d have gone to her dance thing if
you’d told me about it.”

Michael got up from the table, his face
reddening. Ellie stirred in his arms. “Since when do you care about
dance recitals?” Michael asked in a loud whisper.

Wilson wolfed down the last of his sandwich,
washed it down with the remaining bourbon, then covered his mouth
to staunch a belch. He grinned apologetically. “First time for
everything, I guess.”

Janet, sensing a Vesuvian eruption about to
occur in Michael, tossed the dishtowel into the sink and went over
to him.

“I’ll bring her to bed,” Janet said, reaching
for Ellie. Michael’s face softened immediately, and he handed their
daughter over to her.

Ellie nestled against Janet’s shoulder, then
abruptly lifted her head and opened one eye. “It’s morning?” she
asked.

Janet kissed her cheek. “Nope, still
nighttime.”

Ellie rubbed her eyes, then looked down at
Wilson. “Your hair’s white like a snowman’s,” she said with a
smile.

Wilson laughed, then coughed so hard he
gagged. When he caught his breath, he said, “And you’re cute as a
button.”

“Are you sick?” Ellie asked. She pointed to
the pantry. “’Cause Mama gives me that yucky stuff in there when
I’m sick. You want some? You can have—” She looked up at Janet.
“Mama, you’re squeezing me too tight.”

Janet felt heat spread across her cheeks as
she loosened her hold on her daughter. Ellie’s interaction with
Wilson made her uneasy to the point of nausea, and she didn’t know
why.

“No thanks, Ellie,” Wilson said. He lowered
his head and pressed a finger over stray breadcrumbs on the table.
After making a production of transferring the crumbs to his plate,
he added, “I’m okay.”

Janet felt her chest tighten. The man looked
so lonely, almost despondent. Maybe he really was ill.

“Time for bed, doodlebug,” Michael said. He
ran a nervous hand through his hair, and Janet caught the
underlying message that said he wanted to speak to his father
alone.

Unsure of how to make a gracious exit, Janet
said to Wilson, “There’s more chicken in the fridge if you’re still
hungry.”

“Thanks,” Wilson said. “But I’ve had plenty.”
He blew a kiss to Ellie. “Sweet dreams, cutie.”

Ellie yawned. “Night, Daddy. Night,
Mister.”

Janet gave Wilson a quick nod before leaving
the kitchen. Her nausea was in full bloom now and the bathroom much
too far away.

Once Janet and Ellie had left the room,
Michael walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. The
dull thud in his chest made it difficult for him to swallow.

“Kinda sad,” Wilson said. “She doesn’t even
remember I’m her grandfather.”

Michael forced down another gulp of water,
then placed the glass in the sink. “She was barely two when you
left. What do you expect?”

Wilson fidgeted with the edge of his plate.
After a long moment, he said, “Weird people that came in today,
huh? You know, with the powder and everything? Still don’t know
what the deal was with my choking, though. That Stevenson guy
didn’t even touch my tie, but it felt like he’d tightened it
somehow. Really weird. And you should have seen the guy they sent
over after you left the funeral home. I thought that apprentice of
yours was going to have a—”

“Is that why you came over here? To talk
about the Stevensons?” Michael shoved his hands into his pockets
and suddenly thought about the twenty-eight thousand dollars in
cash he’d hidden in his desk drawer, just below the box of Godiva
chocolates and small diamond ring he’d bought for Janet this
afternoon. He hoped his father hadn’t found a way to jimmy the
lock.

A clink of fingernails against Corningware.
“No, not just them.”

“Then what?”

Wilson crossed his arms and rested them on
the table. “The least you can do is come over here and sit.”