Mary Jane's Grave

by Stacy Dittrich

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so short.” I looked over at the road names so I could keep track of where I was. “It’s just that I’ve had quite an interesting day, and I can’t get hold of Naomi.”

  “You can tell me about it when you get here. How long will you be?”

  I slowed my car down to read the name of the road I was next to, then I hesitantly turned onto it.

  “Actually, Michael, I might be a little later than I thought.”

  Once I had turned onto Tucker Road, I headed to-ward Mary Jane’s Grave for what would be the very last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Earlier in the day, I had looked over the photographs taken of the grave and the abandoned house. Something about them kept gnawing at me, and I was determined to find out why. Luke Mengert was my motivation. He had some part, whether miniscule or large, in this.

  It was near dusk as I made my way down the now too familiar tunnel of trees to the grave. The usual feelings of dread and apprehension came as soon as my tires rolled onto the gravel. Before I parked at the gate, I picked up my phone to try to call Naomi again. There was no signal, not that I was surprised. The incident of my car radio and headlights blaring to life came to mind. I noted that it was probably in my best interest not to write off spooks entirely, assuming my lack of belief might potentially piss them off, if they existed. Standing beside Mary Jane’s Grave, alone under a darkening sky, was not the place I wanted to be proven wrong.

  Since I hadn’t planned on coming here, I didn’t have my heavy-duty flashlight with me, only a small penlight that might illuminate the stem of a leaf if I was lucky. As the sun went down, it became cold. I began shivering and breaking out in gooseflesh, which I hoped was from the cold, so I decided it would be best to grab my jacket out of the backseat. Once I was satisfied that I had all I needed, including my car keys, I started for the tree.

  I had barely walked through the gate when I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the smell, a rancid, overwhelming smell of something being burned. It was a smell I was familiar with, the smell of a body, or bodies, being burned.

  I had been on the scene of several fires where people had been trapped inside their homes and had burned to death. It was a distinct and indescribable smell.

  I realized that I was surrounded by smoke. Where it had come from or why it was there I couldn’t determine since I couldn’t see. But as fast it came on me, the smoke was gone, dissipating upward toward the trees. It was only then that I became aware of the jackhammer that used to be my heart, pushing out of my chest. Despite the cold, I felt the sweat run down my face. My breath came in short puffs from my dry mouth. What should have been my cue to sprint to my car and leave turned out to be one more reason to go on.

  As unnerved as I was, I walked forward, determined to find the answers and scratch the itch that had been bothering me. Suddenly the cemetery itself screamed out the sounds of a baby crying. I tried to pinpoint the source but it was coming from everywhere: the trees, the ground, the sky and the graves themselves.

  I was beginning to lose my composure when a strange wind ripped through a small part of the cemetery, whirling leaves and sticks in an odd, circular pattern. With the sound of the baby still tearing at my ears, I forced myself to walk toward the wind. Once I took a step, it stopped. So did the crying. But it was replaced by the faint sound of a woman weeping. Standing no more than five feet from the pine tree, I blinked my eyes as I watched an old woman wearing a white dress appear at the base of the tree. She was the one weeping. For a split second I couldn’t move, or breathe for that matter. I was succumbing to the grip of sheer horror. It took every ounce of energy I had to break free from my frozen stance and try to walk to my car, the hair on my neck standing upright. I kept looking at the woman out of the corner of my eye as I passed, convinced she was going to run over and behead me or worse, but like the other phenomena, she faded away.

  I had more than enough. My legs felt like pure rubber when I ran to my car. Having bona fide chest pains, I was certain this little horror show was going to throw me into cardiac arrest. I began fumbling around in my pockets for my car keys. I prayed out loud I hadn’t dropped them somewhere. That’s when I was hit in the back of the head with a small rock.

  More rocks and sticks followed, pelting me all over. I was too busy covering my face to see where they were coming from. My terror was slowly being replaced with anger.

  “Stop!” I screamed to the empty graveyard.

  Shockingly enough, the rocks and sticks stopped coming. I stood there, looking out over the cemetery, and gasped for air while I wiped the sweat off my brow. Just then I heard a faint sound coming from the far side of the cemetery, just inside the woods. It was a short, quiet cough.

  It took me only a split second to identify the sound and another split second to pull myself together and throw my fear out the window. I started a record-breaking sprint toward the woods and the sound. If I was right, more sounds would follow. As I neared the edge, I heard the running start. Not a deer, not a coyote or a rabbit, but a person running fast and hard. I noticed the small trail that ran alongside of me and decided to use it, knowing I would have better footing and a better chance of keeping up.

  Only when my face hit the ground did I become aware that I had tripped. And only when I saw what I had tripped over did everything come together. It was a black wire, a wire that had clearly gone unnoticed when the officers checked the cemetary the night we used Danielle Horton as bait.

  The person running had gained some distance when I fell, but that was okay. Once I saw the wire, I knew exactly where he was going. The itch I had all day came partly from the photograph of the abandoned house. Specifically, the thin, almost invisible wire that ran from the house to the outside door of the storm cellar several feet away from the tattered front porch.

  The house was supposed to have been abandoned, and unmodernized. No electric lines, phone or cable had ever been connected. Looking at the wire in the photographs earlier had piqued my curiosity, but stumped me nonetheless. I hadn’t paid attention. Although my instincts were on, and something about the photograph had bothered me, I had failed to understand what it was. Now I understood completely.

  Making my way uphill through the woods to the house, I was cautious. I no longer heard the person running and, for all I knew, he could be waiting behind a tree ready to clean my clock. When I finally came out into the large yard I had a clear view of the house, though it was almost completely dark.

  I heard a loud rattling sound from behind the house and made my way around, much slower now, gun in hand and ready to fire. I was taking deep breaths as I rounded the corner. In back, I saw every window and door boarded up. I couldn’t figure out how the person—I guess it would be safe to say the killer—got inside. Maybe that wasn’t what I’d heard. Then something inside the house suddenly was knocked over. I kicked at the boards over the door until they gave way.

  It was totally dark inside the house. My penlight provided minimal help. I tried to control my breathing as I let my eyes adjust. I thought the sound had come from the back left corner of the first floor, near the beginning of the stairwell.

  I slowly sidestepped, and half stumbled, toward the corner. There was debris all over the floor, what I assumed to be boards, drywall and other parts of the disintegrating house, but it was too dark to see. The closer I got to the corner, the stronger the smell of decaying flesh got.

  We weren’t missing any bodies, at least to my knowledge, so I was apprehensive at finding the source of the smell. But I found it when I accidentally walked into a small curtain that hung low from the ceiling. Except it wasn’t a curtain.

  I reached up to push the cold, clammy, gel- like material away from my face and became even more startled when I grabbed a handful of hair instead, dog hair to be exact. I had walked into the skin of the dog we had found at the grave, and it was beyond rotten. I let out a slight yelp before my stomach began convulsing.

 
I impulsively turned toward the door, gagging and spitting, trying to control my heaving. I only wanted to get outside and into the fresh air as quickly as possible. A difficult feat since I had to blindly make my way through the field of items that covered the ground. I was almost to the door when I was hit from behind in the lower back with such force it knocked me down and sent my gun flying. For a brief moment, I thought my back was broken. Only when I was struck again, in the back of my legs, was I able to react.

  I turned around to face my attacker. A large, dark figure stood before me, but I couldn’t see who he was. When I saw him begin to lift what looked like a long, thick tree branch, I reacted.

  Among all the debris, my hand found a board. Not a deadly weapon, but it would be enough to stop the threat. I sat up, ignoring the screaming pain that tore through my back, and swung the board at the man’s knees. He let out a loud grunt and fell sideways onto the floor next to me. By then, I was doing my best to stand up over him. He was doing his best as well, trying to get back up. I made it first and swung the board again, harder, against the side of his head like I was trying for a home run. Groaning, the man fell backward and hit the floor with a loud thud.

  I furiously looked around for my gun, which I found lodged between two pieces of paneling not far from where I had fallen. My penlight, still on, lay directly below the dog skin. I grabbed it and made my way back to the man, holding the light directly in his face. I almost fell back again in shock when I realized I was looking down at Martin Drake.

  He was unconscious, but still breathing. I turned him over on his side, took my handcuffs off my belt and put them on him, sliding one of the cuffs through the belt loop on his jeans so it would be harder for him to move.

  I stood up and winced at the searing pain that throbbed in my back and legs. I needed to call for help, but being able to do it was another story. I didn’t know if I was in any condition to hike back through the woods to my car. Right now, I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the front door. And there was something worse to worry about: Nicholas Drake. I assumed he was with his father, very close by. I wasn’t able to see much of Martin Drake, but I could see enough of him to know that he would never have been able to run through the woods as quickly, and with such maneuver-ability, as the man I had been chasing.

  As I walked through the front door, I decided my first priority would be to get to my car and radio for help, then look for Nicholas later. Evidently, that just wasn’t meant to be.

  As soon as I stepped out of the door, a shot rang out and flew past and missed my head by mere centimeters. The bullet hit the old, rotting door frame and exploded, sending wood fragments and small splinters flying all over me. Thankfully, I closed my eyes fast enough, but I had to brush the wood chips away from my eyelids before I could open my eyes to see where the shot had come from.

  A tall figure stood by the entrance to the storm cellar. Strangely, he was still pointing his gun at me, but he didn’t fire it. I raised mine, taking slow steps toward him.

  “Nicholas Drake! Police officer! Drop your weapon!”

  We were in a standoff, a good, old- fashioned draw down. He was breathing hard, and the tip of his gun was bobbing up and down from the tremors in his hand.

  “You killed my father!” he cried, his voice cracking.

  “He’s not dead, Nicholas. Drop the gun!”

  He remained defiant, raising his chin a bit, now gripping the gun with both hands to keep it still.

  “You’re not gonna shoot me!”

  “Maybe she won’t, but I will,” said a familiar voice from my right.

  Taking my eyes off Nicholas for a brief moment, I saw Michael standing about ten feet away, his gun raised and ready.

  “Drop the gun, Nicholas,” another calm, familiar voice commanded.

  Coop and Naomi stood to my left, also with their weapons raised and pointed at Nicholas. I wasn’t in a position to ask any of them how they came to be here. I assumed I’d find out later. Right now, my attention was on Nicholas, who was surrounded with nowhere to go. Off in the distance, I heard the sounds of sirens. The cavalry was coming.

  I was about to order Nicholas again to put down his gun, but knowing he was cornered with no way out, he quickly put the gun to his temple.

  “Nicholas, don’t—” was all I could say before he pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The force of the shot bowled him over to his left. He landed beside the storm cellar doors, which were sprayed with brain matter and blood. Nicholas Drake, just like his mother, had committed suicide—right before our eyes.

  “Jesus!” Naomi yelled, running over to him.

  I turned my back to Nicholas’s lifeless body and took a long, deep breath. Michael was at my side in a flash. He put his arms around me and squeezed, which caused me to scream in pain.

  “Cee? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He let go and looked at me with deep concern.

  I nodded, turned around and lifted up the back of my shirt. I didn’t need to see my lower back to know it was probably black already from bruising.

  “Oh my God! What the hell happened?”

  “My legs got it, too.” I put my gun in its holster. “Martin Drake is inside and cuffed…probably needs an ambulance to look at his head. I whacked him a good one after he hit me with a board.”

  Michael looked confused as he turned to the door of the house. He sat me down and he went inside. Coop was directly behind him with his flashlight. When I heard moaning coming from inside a few minutes later, I knew Martin Drake was conscious—and hurting.

  Naomi stood with me while the other police officers, the crime lab and coroner arrived to take Martin Drake to jail and his son to the morgue. When Martin first saw Nicholas’s body, he screamed in grief.

  “Oh, God! Not my son! Please, not my son!” he sobbed and fell to his knees.

  The uniformed officers and EMTs had to hold him up and walk him to the ambulance.

  As wrong as it sounds, I felt my eyes brimming with tears at Martin’s grief. They were both brutal murderers, but Martin Drake had now lost his entire family.

  “You don’t think he killed his own daughter, do you?” Naomi asked quietly.

  “No.” I watched as Martin was lifted into the ambulance. “Daniel Griffin and Meghan Dearth killed Melissa Drake…but I do think that’s what prompted this, their killing spree, I mean. I think it was revenge for Melissa’s murder.”

  Coop and Michael joined us. Michael made an honest attempt to lure me to the ambulance so my back and legs could be checked out but I was more than aware of what broken bones felt like and already knew I didn’t have any. Of course I would be sore as hell until the bruising went away.

  “Why did they wait twenty years?” Coop asked. “And they were all relatives of Mary Jane, including Melissa, who was killed at her grave. How do you explain that?”

  “There are a lot of loose ends that need to be tied up. I’m hoping I find some answers when we search this place top to bottom, starting with the storm cellar. I predict we’re going to find a large cache of high-tech audio and video equipment down there. By the way, how’d you guys figure out to come here?”

  Naomi explained that the Ocala Police Department had called shortly after I left the department.

  “I tried to call you, but I guess you weren’t getting a signal wherever you were.”

  She must have called about the same time I was standing in the Pleasant Valley Cemetery with Luke Mengert. The southern part of the county had only small pockets of cell phone signals, and I guess the cemetery wasn’t one of them.

  “Their apartment was empty,” she continued. “They hadn’t lived there for over a year but still had a lease on it. Ocala talked to the management company of the apartment complex, and Martin had written another mailing address on the initial application.” She looked at Coop apprehensively, as if she was afraid to say what was next. “Hold your breath, CeeCee. The other address was Martin’s father’s house
outside Bellville.”

  “Nathaniel Drake? Don’t tell me he’s still alive.”

  “Yes, sort of, I guess. Only he doesn’t go by Nathaniel Drake anymore. He changed his name over fifteen years ago.” She paused. “He changed his name to Walter Morris.”

  I was dumbfounded. I had been inside Nathaniel Drake’s house twice and never would have figured it out. He had warned me, though, by God. He knew what his son and grandson were doing.

  Naomi went on. “I sent uniforms to Nath—Walter’s house to find Martin and Nicholas.” She looked over as the coroner began to put Nicholas in a body bag. “Walter, at first, denied knowing them, but I guess with a certain amount of pressure, he ceded. He actually told them everything. He said it was time, that over a hundred years was enough. He told the uniforms that Martin and Nicholas were at the grave…and Maryanne’s house.”

  I still didn’t get any of this. I didn’t understand what Walter meant by a hundred years was enough. I was still reeling from the shock of his true identity as Naomi continued.

  “I was so excited, I called your house when I couldn’t get you on your cell. I figured you’d already be home by then. When Michael told me you had gone down to the grave, I knew you’d be in trouble.” She shook her head.

  “Of course, I had to come along after Naomi told me what was going on,” Michael interjected.

  I thanked all of them for coming to my aid, then told them about my run- in with Luke Mengert and my sup-posed supernatural experiences at Mary Jane’s Grave when I first arrived.

  “I’d have to remove ten pounds of shit from my underwear if I’d seen a chick like that sitting by the tree,” Coop joked.

  We all laughed. “I think a lot of those wires will explain that. You know, I should be ecstatic that we caught these guys, but I’m not.” I sighed. “I feel like there’s still so many pieces missing…like Luke. I know he has something to do with this, but what?”

  There wasn’t time for an answer because Bob from the crime lab, who had been processing the entire scene with the others, called out to us. They were standing next to the storm cellar and had opened both of the old, wooden white doors. We all walked over and peered down the cement steps that were now lit up by floodlights the lab had erected.