“What for?” Wells asked.
One of Simpson’s thin, gray eyebrows shot up. “I never asked.”
Wells’ eyes narrowed at Simpson. “And the dead bodies? Did Dreadmore ‘purchase’ them, too?”
Simpson’s eyes bulged. “No, sir! You must believe me. I knew nothing about them. That is, not until the accident. It was terrible, I tell you. I hit a pothole and the tailgate unlatched. The coffins ... well, you can see for yourself what happened.”
Wells glanced over at the splintered coffins strewn along the road. He turned back to Simpson. “How could you not be aware there were bodies in the coffins?”
“I didn’t load them. Just transported them.”
“Who did, then?”
“Load them? Why, my assistant of course.”
“Your assistant?”
“Yes. He works part-time for me and my brother, Jeremiah Simpson. You might know Jeremiah? He’s the director at McGreggor Funeral Parlor.” Simpson smiled broadly and reached for a card. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
Wells sighed. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Excellent! My brother and I like to keep the death business all in the family.”
My nose crinkled. I bet your family reunions are a real blast.
Wells cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Simpson, do you have any idea how Lester Jenkins’ body ended up in one of your defective coffins, and why your assistant loaded him in the back of your truck?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that. I was as surprised as you were when I found Jenkins’ body lying in the dirt. And then to hear that banging.”
“Banging?”
“Yes. From inside one of the coffins.”
Wells’ eyes grew wide along with mine. “From inside?”
Simpson cocked his head at Wells. “Well, yes. That’s why I called the police, of course. You know. Because I found that man over there alive inside one of the coffins.”
Simpson pointed toward the men being guarded by Grayson and Earl.
“Which one?” Wells asked.
Simpson sneered. “The unattractive older gentleman with the distended belly.”
Wells blanched. “Hank Chambers?”
Simpson shrugged. “I don’t know his name. All I know is when I got the lid off, he came at me like a crazy man. He’s the one who started this whole unfortunate fracas.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You say you don’t know Hank Chambers, but you knew who his brother Lester Jenkins was?”
Simpson’s pasty features scrunched together, making me think of Templeton the rat. “Well, of course.”
“How? From the funeral home?” I asked.
His face relaxed a notch. “Yes. That’s it.”
“So, how do we get in touch with this assistant of yours?” Wells asked.
Simpson’s lips curled upward, but I wouldn’t call it a smile.
“Easy,” he said. “He’s standing right next to your Mr. Chambers. His name is Jake Hinson.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
“HIT RECORD AGAIN,” Wells said to me.
His interview with Samuel Simpson was over. Simpson’s assistant, Dreadmore’s very own “Emeril of insects,” Jake Hinson, was next in the hot seat. With no lips and a skeletal face, Jake looked like Fire Marshal Bill after a particularly nasty arson case.
“I know my rights,” Jake hissed through his slit of a mouth. “I don’t have to answer your questions without my attorney.”
Wells’ face registered surprise. “You have an attorney, Jake?”
“No.”
“Then why bust my—” Wells glanced over at the recorder, then back to his fellow Dreadmore member. “I just have a couple of quick questions. Okay, Jake?”
Jake gave a quick nod and grunted his consent.
“You’re a member of Dreadmore, correct?” Wells asked.
“You know I am, Jimmy. Why you wasting my time?”
“It’s for the record,” Wells said. “Do you really work part-time with Mr. Simpson at McGreggor?”
“Yeah.”
Wells’ nose crinkled. “That’s kind of gross, even for you.”
Jake sneered. “I just started a couple a months ago. Just to pick up some extra cash during the winter rush. Snowbirds don’t always outlast the snow, you know.”
What a sentimental sweetheart.
Wells nodded. “Okay. So Simpson says you loaded the coffins onto his truck. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Jake scowled. “Because they told me to.”
“Did you know what was in them?”
“No. Only thing they told me was that your brother ordered ’em.”
Wells nearly choked. “Gary ordered the coffins?”
“Yeah. For the worm farm. Simpson told me he has some kind of deal going with old man Rexel to drop off defective coffins.” Jake laughed. “But turns out this time Rexel was too busy doing a strip tease on the water tower, so your brother took the delivery. Or, at least he was supposed to.”
A vein pulsed on Wells’ neck. “But when you loaded the coffins, you’d have to have noticed two of them were pretty heavy.”
Jake’s tanned-leather face twisted into a sour sneer. “Listen, I don’t want nobody snooping in my business, and I return the favor by doing likewise.”
Wells sighed. “I get that, Jake. But I’m trying to help you out here. Who had access to the coffins before you loaded them?”
Jake shrugged. “Just about anybody, Jimmy. They were in a heap out in back of the funeral home.”
“Okay,” Wells said. “So you had no idea what was in the coffins?”
“I figured they were stiffs. But at least they were going to a good cause.”
“What do you mean?”
“For the ALF program. Hey, we all end up as worm food in the end.”
I cringed and almost ALF-ed.
“Okay, Jake. You’re free to go for now. But stick around.”
Jake nodded. “Much obliged, man.”
The two men shook hands. Jake turned to leave. Wells called after him. “Oh, and Jake?”
Jake turned around. “Yeah?”
“Do you guys have any deer meat in the ALF program?”
Jake shook his head. “Like I told you, Jimmy. Deer ain’t sustainable.”
Wells nodded. “Good. I mean, no. Deer isn’t sustainable. So do me a favor. If you run across any, don’t eat it.”
Jake eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just a friendly heads up. You mind your business, I’ll mind mine.”
Jake nodded. “As it should be.”
Jake headed on foot back toward Dreadmore. I clicked off the recorder and shook my head. “Now what, Officer Wells?”
“Time to figure out who’s lying.”
Wells nodded over at Hank Chambers, who was busy trying to stay out of the sights of Earl’s shotgun.
“I’m thinking Chambers should have the answer. If he doesn’t know who nailed him into that coffin, then we may have a real twister of an investigation on our hands.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“ALL I KNOW IS, I FELL asleep on Arlene’s couch and woke up in a coffin,” Hank Chambers said. He pointed over at Samuel Simpson. “That ghoul over there was standing over me. I freaked and came out swinging. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Look at his face! I thought I’d died and gone to Hell.”
Wells and I glanced over at Simpson, then at each other. We could see Chambers’ point.
“Why do you stink to high heaven?” Wells asked. “And don’t say collard greens.”
Chambers grimaced and brushed dirt off his sleeves. “I think the coffin was used.”
Wells cringed, but not as much as I did.
“What were you doing at Arlene’s?” he asked.
“You know what, Wells. You called me yourself when you found Arlene in that bunker. I was watching over her place while she was ... you know ... in the hospital recove
ring.”
“Right,” Wells said. “Do you know anything about that guy?”
“Who?”
“The ghoul,” I said.
Wells shot me a dirty look. “Samuel Simpson.”
Chambers glanced at Simpson. His face twisted with disgust. “No.”
Wells glanced over at me. “Hit stop.”
I mashed the button on the recorder.
Wells sighed. “Okay, Mr. Chambers, you’re free to go for now.”
Chambers nodded, took a step to leave, and stopped. He eyed both of us. “How the hell am I supposed to get home?”
“SO LET ME GET THIS straight,” Earl said from the driver’s seat of his truck. “None of those fellers was zombies?”
“For the last time, no,” Wells said. “And please, do me a favor and drive slower. We don’t want to tip our cargo.”
Earl shifted gears, and I flinched as his humongous elbow came at my face like a side of beef. The four of us were wedged into the cab like human sardines, rocking and swaying in unison as Earl pivoted his muddy black monster truck forward, then backward, four times until he’d turned the massive vehicle around on the rutted old country road.
Compared to Bessie, Simpson’s battered black pickup looked like the loser in a bar fight as it wobbled down the road in the opposite direction, carrying its load of empty, damaged coffins to Dreadmore Village.
I, personally, was overjoyed at the prospect of not having to see Dreadmore again. Or Simpson, for that matter. As far as I was concerned, the guy was up to no good.
“I can’t believe you let Simpson go,” I said to Wells.
“Being creepy isn’t a crime,” he replied.
Grayson eyed me playfully and pressed his palms together as if in prayer. “And for that, I am truly thankful.”
I smirked and elbowed Grayson in the ribs. Then I shot a glance in the rearview mirror at Bessie’s payload.
Hank Chambers sat in the back left corner of the truck bed, his longish gray hair flapping in the breeze. His weathered face was tilted toward the sun, and his arms rested atop the truck bed’s side and tailgate.
On the other side of the truck bed lay a broken coffin containing the pulverized remains of Lester Jenkins. Seeing as how both men smelled like “eau de dead guy,” we’d voted unanimously for them to make the trip together alfresco.
“What’s going to happen to poor old Lester?” Earl asked. “He can’t seem to get no rest.”
“I guess that’ll be up to Arlene,” Wells said.
“I say ixnay on an open casket,” Grayson quipped.
Earl, Wells, and I groaned in unison.
Distracted, Earl hit a pothole so deep it sent our butts rising off the bench seat.
“Watch it!” Chambers called out from the back.
Earl rolled down the window. “Sorry ’bout that.”
All four of our faces puckered.
“Whoo-wee!” Earl hollered, rolling up the window. “Smells like polecat stew!”
“And weed,” Wells said. “Anybody else smell pot?”
Grayson and I exchanged quick glances, then we knocked heads trying to catch a glimpse through the rearview mirror. Grayson reached up and adjusted the mirror to his advantage. He took a peek and laughed. I grabbed the mirror and angled it for a peek of my own.
Chambers was sitting on Jenkins’ coffin—smoking a fat number.
“Maybe it’s medicinal,” Grayson said to Wells.
The young cop blew out a sigh. “At this point, I honestly don’t give a rat’s ass.”
Grayson grinned. “So what do you think’s going on with this whole ‘coffin-whack-a-mole’ business?”
“I have no idea,” Wells said. “I just hope things don’t get any weirder.”
“Hate to break it to you, Officer,” Earl said. “But I think they just did.”
He nodded toward the back of the truck. We all turned and stared.
Chambers was yammering away, a joint in one hand, and Lester Jenkins’ rotting skull in the other.
I nearly swallowed my tongue and then puked it back up.
“Alas, poor Yorick,” Grayson said.
I stared at him, incredulous.
He shot me a snobby look. “What? Not a Hamlet fan?”
Chapter Forty-Nine
“I TOLD YOU HE WAS ACTING fishy,” Earl said, winking at me. “You ought to listen to me more, Bobbie. Just for the halibut.”
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Wells said.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said, glaring at Earl.
Earl’s grin melted. He blew out a breath and climbed out of the truck. We all piled out after him and scurried to the back to get a better look at Chambers. He was still in the truck bed, engrossed in a riveting conversation with his half-brother’s rotting head.
“Chambers? You okay, buddy?” Wells asked.
Chambers’ wild, dilated eyes darted from his brother’s skull to us. His expression was one of a man who’d never seen us before, and wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
“Go away. I don’t want any!” he growled.
Grayson elbowed me. “Either that was some killer ganja, or he’s been bogarting the venison.”
“Chambers, we need to get you to a hospital,” Wells said.
“Hospital?” Chambers asked. His gaze returned to his brother’s rotting head. “I thought we were going to the Poconos.”
“I think we’d better hurry,” I said. “He doesn’t look too good.”
Earl opened his mouth, but I shut it with a dirty look.
“You’re right,” Wells said. “Earl, once we get to the highway, step on it. I’ll call Freddy—uh, Dr. Crum, and have him meet us at County Memorial.”
Chapter Fifty
DR. CRUM WAS STANDING outside the ER when we arrived. Dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat, I almost didn’t recognize him.
He scurried over to the truck, took a gander at Hank Chambers’ Shakespearean sonata, and went as pale as his lab coat.
“Holy mother of pearl,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong with him, Doc?” Earl asked.
“Looks like advanced stages of Mad Cow,” Crum said. “I’m still waiting on Arlene’s results before I call the CDC, but Chambers here pretty much confirms my worst fears.”
“What should we do with him?” Wells asked.
“I already called for a stretcher,” Crum said. “I’m going to admit him, then run some tests.”
Earl crinkled his nose. “Might want to hose him off, first.”
Crum ignored him. “Jimmy, did you get the samples of deer meat I asked for?”
“Not yet,” Wells said. “So far, we’ve checked the Jenkins’ bunker, but came up with nothing. We’ve still got Jenkins’ cabin and Dreadmore to search.”
Crum nodded, his brow furrowed. “Well, I suggest you get on it. And hurry.”
“Dr. Crum!” a woman’s voice shrieked.
We turned to see a nurse running toward us. She grabbed Crum by the shoulders, nearly slamming into him. “Dr. Crum!” she panted. “Arlene Jenkins ... she’s missing from her room!”
Crum’s face went slack. “Oh, crap.”
“It’s an angel!” Chambers hollered at the nurse. He dropped Lester’s skull. It rolled down the pavement and came to rest at the nurse’s feet. She took one look at it and collapsed in a heap.
“Oh, crap,” Crum repeated absently.
“What should we do?” I asked.
Grayson cleared his throat. “First, might I suggest—”
“Shut it. I’ll take it from here,” Wells said, his jaw set like a vice.
A couple of orderlies arrived with a stretcher. “You, men,” Wells barked at them. “Help me load this man, then get a wheelchair for the nurse.”
The orderlies looked over at Crum. He nodded. “You heard the man.”
Wells turned to Grayson, Earl, and me. “I’m going to search the hospital for Arlene. You guys go back to Jenkins’ cabin and see if you can
find any of that contaminated venison. The sooner we get a sample, the sooner we’ll have some answers.”
“Yes, sir,” Earl said, and saluted.
“What should we do with the rest of Lester?” Grayson asked.
“I’ll call for a body bag,” Crum said.
Earl sniffed the air and winced. “Better double bag him, Doc.”
For once in my life, I thought Earl had a valid point.
Chapter Fifty-One
“SO HERE WE ARE, BACK at the scene of the crime,” Grayson said.
Earl shifted into park. The three of us stared through the truck’s windshield into the ocean of palmettos and pines that stood between us and Lester Jenkins’ cabin.
An eerie feeling came over me. I felt as if the woods had been waiting for this moment all along, patiently biding its time. Something told me that the second we stepped off the crumbling asphalt, we’d be crossing into enemy territory.
Mother Nature’s declaration of war.
I swallowed hard. “You got the baggies?”
Grayson nodded. “Right here in the trusty Walmart bag.”
“Barbeque tongs?” I asked.
“Roger.” Grayson pulled out the tongs and clapped their ends together like a pair of castanets.
“What? No sauce?” Earl quipped.
I shot my cousin a sour look. “All right, guys. Remember, nobody touch anything that even looks like meat. And that means you, too, Earl.”
Earl laughed and opened the door. But as he climbed down out of the truck, his demeanor changed. “I hope we don’t run across no zombie deers out here.”
I touched Grayson’s arm. “I hope we don’t run across any zombie anything.”
WE WERE ABOUT HALFWAY down the switchback trail. Earl had the machete and was in the lead, chopping at the palmettos, which seemed hell-bent on scratching raw every inch of exposed skin they could reach.
Suddenly, Earl stopped short. I nearly ran into the back of him.
“What?” I asked impatiently.
“Look at that.”
Earl pointed to a scraggly vine with hairy, serrated leaves. A half-dozen yellow fruits hung from it, each roughly the size and shape of a small egg. Bands of tiny spikes, about half an inch apart, ran lengthwise down the odd fruits. One of the pods had split open, revealing a stash of shiny, pea-sized seeds, each bright red with a black spot in the center.
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