Otherworld (26 page)

Pops opened the door. Graham Lattimer. That Southerner. That
show stopper
. It was hard to keep from vomiting. Heck, it was hard to keep from dashing into the kitchen, grabbing his shotgun, and blowing a couple of holes in the man.

“What's going on?” Pops grumbled.

“Mr. Dickey,” Graham began, “I'm Captain Lattimer. This is Officer Petrie—”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

“Been outside, Mr. Dickey?” Graham asked.

“Call me Pops.”

“Okay. You just get back from somewhere, Pops?”

“Why?”

“Your hair's wet.”

“What's it to ya?”

“Do you mind answering the question?” Graham asked.

“I don't gotta answer nothin'. What's it to ya?”

“A man was murdered tonight.”

“So?” Pops said.

“So, a man was murdered about four miles from here, and the clothes you got on looks like you been outside awhile. Have you?”

“Yeah,” Pops said.

“Where you been?” Graham asked.

“In my backyard,” Pops said.

“What were you doing out there?”

“None of your business.”

“Do you mind if Petrie and I come in?”

“Am I a suspect in this murder, son?” Pops asked.

Graham leaned in close. “Well, no, no,” he said, “except that, well, everyone's a suspect. Pops, you gonna let us in?”

“You got a warrant?” Pops asked.

“No.”

“Then I'm not gonna let you in.”

“Why not? Just a friendly visit,” Graham said.

“I've never had a friendly visit with
you
.”

Petrie asked, “What happened to your window, Pops?”

“What?”

“Your window,” Petrie said. “It's boarded up. What happened?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Pops, c'mon, let us in,” Graham said.

Pops turned around and looked behind him.
Let's hope Mr. Black finds a little common sense in that bathtub and stays there.
He faced the men at his door. “All right,” he said. “Just be quiet. Gertie's sleeping.”

The two officers entered and sat down on the couch. Pops sat down in his chair and hoped the house was too dark for them to notice his shotgun on the kitchen table behind him. He crossed his legs, tried to look at ease, and hoped Mr. Black stayed put.

“What were you doing in your backyard?” Graham asked.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes, I would. Very much.”

“Okay,” Pops said. “I made a fire for warmth, and I was waiting.”

“Waiting for who?”

“The grays,” Pops said.

“What are the grays?”

Petrie said, “Cap, the grays are a term given to aliens. On account of their gray skin.”

Graham gave a
what're you, an idiot?
look at Petrie. He turned back to Pops. Graham squinted, had an unease in his face, looked like he'd tasted something sour. He asked, “That true, Pops? You were waiting for aliens?”

Pops noticed the cop nonchalantly lower his arm onto the bulge of his holstered pistol.

“Yeah,” Pops said. “I'm sure you think I'm crazy, but you know what? I don't give a flying fugazi what you or anybody else thinks.”

Something was definitely wrong.

“Mr. Dickey, do you mind if I use your toilet?” Petrie asked.

The old man righted himself.
Okay, Pops. What do we do now?

“It's pretty urgent,” Petrie added.

Graham looked at him disapprovingly.

“Sorry, Cap.” Petrie stood. “Pops?”

Pops watched him closely.
What to do, what to do?
“First door on your left,” he said.

“Thanks,” Petrie muttered, and he jogged down the hall.

Pops got up. “Gonna make some coffee. Want some?”

“No, thank you,” Graham said.

Smart thinkin', you redneck. A little coffee—cream, sugar, some rat poison, maybe.
Pops didn't turn on the kitchen light. He stayed within arm's reach of his shotgun.
Any second now.
Any second, Mr. Black will come bounding down the hallway—after killing the kiddie cop, of course.
Pops supposed the kiddie cop was dead already, or close to it.

An odd sensation of dread overcame Graham. Suddenly, the house seemed darker than when they had first entered. And why didn't Pops turn on the kitchen light?

 

In the bathroom, Officer Petrie stood over the toilet and read the cross-stitched poem hanging framed on the wall over it. He whistled. The tub lay to his right, its curtain drawn.

In the bathtub, Jimmy remained motionless and alert. He thought it might be the old man, but the man cleared his throat, and it sounded like the voice of one much younger. Jimmy wanted to jump out and kill him.
In a shower, man! Just like
Psycho
!
He felt for his butterfly knife.

 

Graham strained his eyes to discern what Pops was doing in the kitchen. It didn't sound like he was making coffee. And, for goodness' sake, how long does it take a grown man to go to the restroom! Graham suddenly felt as if there were more people in the Dickeys' house. More than just him and Petrie and Pops and Gertie, who was apparently still sleeping in the bedroom. He believed the house crawled with people. People he couldn't see.

Be assured.

He began to sweat, and he placed the palm of his hand on his weapon. “So, you still into this alien stuff,” he said to Pops, not really asking—just trying to get a sense of the old man's mood and where he stood in the kitchen. Graham couldn't see him.

“Yeah,” Pops said warily. “Why?”

Graham heard steps coming down the hallway.
Finally
, he thought.
Petrie's done his business, and we can get out of here.

 

Pops heard the steps too, and he picked up the shotgun, bracing its butt in his armpit. His finger fondled the trigger.

Graham rose to his feet, turned to the hallway, and Pops took a step forward, aiming the gun at Graham, and Petrie emerged into the living room.

“'Bout time,” Graham said.

Pops skidded around, stuck the shotgun between the refrigerator and the cabinet, and called out, “You want some coffee, kid?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Dickey,” Petrie said.

“I think we've seen enough,” Graham said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Sure,” Pops said.

The officers left.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Graham and Sam Petrie walked up the path away from the Dickeys' front porch and exited through the gate. The captain could feel the burn of watching eyes on his back, and more than anything in the world, he wanted to get away from there. Fast.

Graham noted that the windshield of Pops's pickup was frozen over.

The two officers climbed into the patrol car, Petrie driving.

“You think Pops killed Carlos Diaz?” Petrie asked.

“Naw,” Graham said. “If his truck's cold, he ain't been nowhere. 'Cause if he did, he ran. And if he ran, he's in pretty good shape for a seventy-one-year-old man. Seem out of breath to you?”

“No.”

“He's been out, but I don't think he's been
that
far out. Still … I think he's hidin' somethin',” Graham said.

“Could get a search warrant for his place.”

“With what evidence? He's acting really creepy? That sheesh don't hunt.”

Having completed their visits, they drove back to the Diaz home. The two-story house looked like a beehive with all the uniformed officers, detectives, and paramedics buzzing in and out and around the property. The flashing lights of the police cars and the single ambulance swam across the house in a kaleidoscope of emergency colors. Sadly, the paramedics were of no use.

Graham asked, “You mind gettin' a ride?”

“Nope. You're not coming in?”

“Naw. I'm gonna head back to the station.”

“All right,” Petrie said. “See you later.”

Petrie got out and walked up to the house, doing the limbo under the yellow police tape stretched across the front lawn. Graham settled into the driver's seat and drove to the station.

 

8:00 a.m. The phone rang in Steve Woodbridge's hotel room, ripping into his sleep and sending him rolling across the bed and nearly onto the floor. He reached over and answered, “Hello.”

“This is your eight o'clock wake-up call, sir.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” He hung up.

Why did hotel beds always feel so snug? Steve didn't want to get up. He lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. His own phone buzzed.

“Hello?” Steve answered.

“This is Mike. Just wanted to let you know I'll be over in about forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, sure. See ya then, Mike.”

Steve sat up, perched on the edge of the bed, and scratched his chest. That always felt so good in the morning.
Time to get up, Steve
, he thought.
Got a funeral to do.
He managed to rouse himself, and he shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. He splashed cold water onto his face.
Okay, big guy. Gotta wake up.
He looked at himself in the mirror. It appeared to him that he had aged so much in the past few months. He could see the fine etchings of wrinkles in his once-childish face. His eyes seemed so … what's the word?
Old
was all he could come up with. Looking into his eyes, he felt so old. Or maybe it wasn't his eyes, but what lay behind them. He hadn't been very happy with himself lately. Okay, for a long time he hadn't been very happy with himself, but he was just now facing the music. He didn't much care for the man in the mirror.

He removed his suit from the garment bag and examined it, making sure it, unlike himself, was wrinkle free. He got dressed, grabbed his Bible, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Steve had just finished his second cup of coffee when Mike strolled in.

“You ready?” Mike asked.

“Yep,” Steve said.

They got in Mike's rental and drove out to Roselawn Cemetery, neither of them saying a word.

 

Roselawn's staff had set up two sections of folding chairs, with five rows per section. Seventy chairs total—more than enough. The first two rows of the sections lay in the shade of the canopy resting Vickie's coffin, the open grave, and the wooden pulpit from which Steve would conduct the funeral. Every person attending enjoyed the shade, for only fourteen people came. Mike sat with Molly in the front row of the right section, with Robbie and Teri to his left. Mike's parents sat to Molly's right. On the front row of the left section sat a few of Vickie's friends, six artists and one lady who directed the gallery that displayed most of Vickie's paintings.

A cool morning breeze flowed through the cemetery, and the sun was shining.

Steve assumed his place behind the pulpit and asked everyone to stand for an opening prayer.

“Heavenly Father,” he said, “we are here this morning to mourn the passing of Vickie Holland. A beloved sister, a dear friend, and a beautiful lady. God, we know it's not easy when someone so close passes on, so we want to ask You right now for Your gentle touch. We want to ask You for Your loving hand. Your peace that passes all understanding. We can't understand what has happened, Lord. We can't begin to understand it. An accident that seems so unjust, so undeserved, and just so unexpected. It breaks our hearts, God. She was loved so much. All we can ask, Lord Jesus, is that You show us how to remember her. Show us how to learn from her, Lord. Show us how to love those that we have more dearly. And, Lord, through this, somehow, draw us closer to You. We pray this in the name of Your precious Son, Jesus. Amen.” Steve opened his Bible, pressed it firmly down to hold it open, and said, “You may be seated.”

That's a whole lotta “Lords,”
Mike thought.

Everyone settled in, but the metal seats of the chairs challenged comfort. Mike noticed that several of Vickie's friends were already crying. Molly was not, but he put his arm around her. He did not like being in the cemetery. For Mike, a man whose ultimate fear was DEATH, the graveyard seemed a haunted hell. He could not bring himself to look at Vickie's casket. He half expected to see the lid pop open and the river corpse spring up like a Jack-in-the-Box, saying, “Now I've got you, Michael Walsh.” He kept his eyes on Steve.

“It's very hard,” the minister said, “to talk about death. For one, it's just not something you or I like to think about. But, in a time like this, it's even harder. Losing a loved one is perhaps the most difficult aspect of the human experience. Nothing can really prepare us for it, even when it is expected. And then, to lose one so young and without warning … it just kinda knocks your breath out. The least we can do is to remember Vickie, to cherish her life in our hearts.

“Vickie Lorraine Holland was born in Dallas, Texas, in 1975. Two years later, her mother passed away giving birth to Vickie's sister, Molly. Two years after that, their father passed away. Vickie and Molly grew up in an orphanage and in several foster homes where, even at an early age, others could see Vickie's talent for art. While the other children played with dolls or read books or played make-believe, Vickie would not leave her drawing and coloring and finger painting. Vickie was an introvert. She was shy and very intellectual. She loved the world around her, immersed herself in it, and then reflected it with her paintings. With her God-given talent, Vickie managed to make quite a living from selling her work, and she has some of her paintings displayed in a few art galleries here in Dallas. Vickie was a woman who loved life and had others who loved her. And miss her. Molly wanted me to read this poem this morning. It was a favorite of Vickie's.”

Steve began, reading: “Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost:

“Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.”

Molly began to cry, and Mike handed her his handkerchief, thinking how stupid the Frost poem was and how stupid and obvious Vickie was to have it as her favorite. Molly leaned over and placed her head on his shoulder. Mike's mother patted her on the knee.

“Nothing gold can stay,” Steve repeated. “For those who held Vickie's life so precious, that seems so painfully true. Let's pray.”

The mourners bowed their heads.

“Father, we thank You for being here with us this morning. We thank You for comforting us in our time of need and sadness. Help us to make sense out of this tragedy, and if not to understand it, to get a glimpse of You and Your love for us. In Jesus's name we pray. Amen.

“I'd like to speak for a little bit about death and what it means for us. This morning, and for mornings to come, it means a time of grieving over the loss of Vickie. At times like these, we wish life wouldn't work that way, but there is a time to be born and a time to die, and so, every day, babies come into this world and others leave it. It's such a mystery, isn't it? We really don't understand it. We really don't. But that's the way it happens, and the good news is that there
is
good news. God, for reasons mysterious to us, has set up life to work with births and deaths, but He has also provided an escape from eternal death for us. Romans 6:23 says, ‘For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus.' See, death has come into our world because of our sin, and while escape from death is impossible, escape from eternal death is
possible
. The Bible says that ‘it is appointed one time for man to die, and after that, the judgment.' Because we are born into sin, we face separation from God for eternity after we die. But God loves us. It's hard for me to fathom sometimes, but He really does. He loves me, and He loves you very much. So He's provided a way for us to spend eternity with Him in Paradise after we die.

“First Corinthians 15:53 through 57 says, ‘For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'

“God loves us so much that He sent His Son, Jesus, to die for us—to pay the debt we owe and can't pay ourselves. And, Jesus, God in the flesh, came to earth and faced a terrible death. He may have feared the pain, just as we do. The Bible says He sweated blood on the eve of His crucifixion. That's how anguished He was about what He was about to do. He cried and prayed and sweated blood, but He allowed them to kill Him. Why? Because He did it for you. And so He let them torture Him and spit on Him and slap Him and curse Him and hammer nails through His hands and feet into a cross, when He could have said, ‘Okay, I take it all back. I won't bother anyone anymore. I won't teach, I won't preach, and I won't tell people that I'm the Son of God. I'll just go away.' He could've said any of those things. He could've run away in the middle of the night and just disappeared. But He didn't. He died because He wanted to.

“So make no mistakes about death and God's position on it. He understands our grief. He understands our sadness better than we do, because His loved one was murdered. His grief, like ours, was real. And in His dying, Jesus defeated death. He rose from the dead three days later to claim victory over death, and now that victory can be applied to us.

“John 3:16 says, ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.'

“Today, we face death with all of its sadness, but I want to offer you a hope. A reason to live. And a reason not to fear death and, beyond it, eternal death. Accepting God's free gift of love will give you eternal life. Perhaps Vickie's passing has got you thinking about these things, and maybe you'd like to know more about what I've said this morning. If you want to, please feel free to approach me afterward, and I'd be glad to talk to you about whatever you'd like to talk about.