“After receiving the body—well, in cases such as this, it is my determination whether or not I could possibly allow the next of kin to see the body. You’re correct on one point, Mr. Harmon. In most situations, viewing the body is a necessary part of the healing process. But think of the other side of it. Imagine if you will, as in Larry Cole’s case, that the body is severely mutilated in an accident. It not only does not help the grieving process. It can destroy it if a close friend or relative should see the deceased in such a mutilated condition.”
Dale felt chills like knife blades of ice run up and down his spine. He realized Rodgers was talking about his best friend, Larry, but all the while Dale’s mind was picturing Natalie lying in a closed casket somewhere in the basement of this funeral home, her twisted and torn flesh as cold as stone.
“In such cases,” Rodgers said, nodding in Winfield’s direction, “I, along with the approval of the police, will not allow the family to see the deceased. The psychological damage could be much worse than any amount of grief could inflict.”
“Were you in on this decision?” Dale asked, turning to Winfield. If he had been, Dale thought, then why the hell was he going along with all of this with him?
Before Winfield could speak, Rodgers said, “No, he wasn’t.” His voice maintained an even strength, but the way he responded surprised Dale and even seemed to surprise Winfield. “In fact, his mother requested the closed casket, based on my advice. I would suspect what we have here is simply a case of misunderstanding. Perhaps, in her grief, she’s forgetting her original request. More likely, her sister is projecting some of her own anxiety into the situation. In any event, it was Mildred Cole who specifically asked that Larry’s coffin be closed.”
Dale was disappointed that he didn’t gain even a small bit of ground in this confrontation. Oh, yes! It was a confrontation, all right. He didn’t know all the dynamics of the situation. Hell, he’d probably have to live in Dyer for years before he picked up on all the subtle power structures. But there was something going on here. If it didn’t include the death of his best friend, he would just let it all drop. But it did include Larry. Dale realized that as soon as he had entered the Rodgers’ Funeral Home, he had been on the defensive—
Why? he wondered. What in the sweet name of Christ was going on here?
Crumpling the paper cup, Dale twisted in his chair and shot the cup toward the plastic-lined wastebasket beside the cooler. Good for two! he thought when the cup hit the mark. Then, folding his hands together, he leaned forward and looked directly at Rodgers.
Dilated pupil be damned!
“I guess, then, for my own satisfaction, I want to ask you if I could see Larry’s body before the funeral,” Dale said. He tried to keep his voice as low and even as Rodgers’. “Even if I can’t reassure Mrs. Cole about it, I’d like to know that, if nothing else, I’ve seen him.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harmon, but I can’t allow that,” Rodgers said. The firm control in his voice slipped just a bit, and it looked as though his pupil dilated even further, leaving just the tiniest ring of surrounding blue.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand why not,” Dale said softly.
He glanced again at Winfield, wishing he, too, would jump in and press the attack. Yes! Dale thought, attack is the right word! But Winfield sat there, slouched in his chair, silently regarding the toe of his shoe as he stroked his cheek with one hand. The other hand rested on his gun belt, but Dale didn’t think that was significant. The attack couldn’t possibly get that serious!
“I can spare you perhaps some possibly complicated explanations and state simply that, because you are not the next of kin, you have no legal right to view the body.” Rodgers held his hands out toward Dale, as if to plead with him to see reason, but there was a harsh, commanding tension in him that suggested power beyond such a simple thing as being in control in the security of his own office.
It’s his damned eye! Dale thought. Don’t let something like that get to you!
“I just don’t understand your hesitation,” Dale said. He meant to continue, but Rodgers cut him off sharply.
“I’m not hesitating, Mr. Harmon. I’m refusing your request, flat out.” He shifted back in his chair and prepared to stand up, thus signaling that their conversation was concluded.
Dale was looking for support from Winfield, but the policeman appeared to be satisfied. He was already up and heading toward the door.
The first thought in Dale’s mind was to investigate the possible legal implications here; he’d like to look up a lawyer in town and see if there was any legal way he could demand to see Larry’s body. What would a lawyer ask for? Probable cause or some such nonsense. Dale didn’t have any concrete evidence to suspect Rodgers except his unnerving left eye. But he was convinced that there was something very strange about all of this.
“Good day, Mr. Harmon,” Rodgers said, extending his hand over the desk and giving Dale’s another cold, moist handshake. “Officer Winfield…”
Dale followed Winfield down the hallway, back to the entryway, where Maggie Sprague sat, crocheting at her desk. Dale passed up the opportunity to ask if business was slow this time of year, and with a friendly smile and nod, went out into the parking lot, where Winfield waited beside the cruiser.
“Well, there you have it,” Winfield said once they were sitting in the car. He started it up by giving the gas a few heavy pumps. “You’ve met Mr. Franklin Rodgers. What do you think?” Dale regarded the policeman for several seconds before answering. He couldn’t understand why he would bother to take him out here in the first place, and then, once he insisted on viewing the body, why Winfield wouldn’t offer even a word of support.
Bottom line, Dale thought, Winfield probably doesn’t give a shit! He’s the guy, remember, who had to scrape Larry up off the road. Probably a good chance he just didn’t want to see anything to remind him of that night.
Let it drop, a voice whispered in his mind. This is just your half-assed way of not admitting that Larry’s dead!
“I don’t know what I think about him,” Dale said, squinting as he looked at Winfield, desperately trying to read him. One thing you had to say about Winfield, though—he was a damned good cop. He never let what he was thinking show on his face. The man certainly didn’t need a pair of mirrored shades!
Winfield stretched out his arm and glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” he said as he turned the key and started up the engine. “I think it’s damned close enough to the end of my shift so I can call it a day.”
The driveway was big enough to turn around by making a wide circle before pulling onto Mayall Road. As they drove slowly toward Main Street, he whistled an off-key tune between his teeth and casually glanced at the scenery, apparently without a care in the world.
When they stopped in front of Appleby’s, Dale hesitated before getting out. He figured he should just say “thank you,” get out, go up to the house, and forget all about it until the funeral tomorrow afternoon.
Let it drop, the voice in his mind said again. Let it go! Larry’s dead, and that’s that!
“Tell you what,” Winfield said. “Give me ’bout an hour to go back to the station and clean up a few things. I’ll meet you downstairs at Kellerman’s at six o’clock. All right?”
Dale nodded his tentative agreement, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden change in attitude.
“Good,” Winfield said, nodding as Dale got out of the cruiser. “Maybe we can split a pizza and beer. You’ll gain too much weight if you eat at Lillian’s every night, anyway.”
“Sounds good,” Dale said, leaning in through the open door. “Should I bring Angie along?”
Winfield considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.” His voice was hushed and hesitant. “You know, I’ll tell yah. Something about Rodgers’ attitude today really got to me. Something stinks and stinks bad!”
He revved the engine, and Dale
shut the cruiser door, backing away as Winfield pulled out onto Main Street and left. Then he went quickly up the walkway to the house. He had time for a long, hot shower before meeting Winfield at Kellerman’s, and that’s what he needed because he felt a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the oncoming autumn.
III
As soon as Dale and Winfield left his office, Rodgers went over to his door and shut it. His pale hand trembled as he turned the bolt to lock the door. His forehead was slick with sweat, and he allowed himself a moment to lean it against the cool, polished wood. His breathing came in shallow gulps, as if he were drinking water.
He stood this way for several seconds, then straightened up and walked back to his desk. His leather chair creaked under his weight as he sat down and picked up the telephone. He punched the intercom button, and Maggie answered. “Yes, sir?”
After a deep, shuddering breath, Rodgers said softly, “I have a few phone calls to make. See that I’m not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” Maggie replied, and the line went dead. First things first, Rodgers thought, and then said it aloud. “First things first.”
Keeping the receiver to his ear, he dialed a number from memory, waited for four rings until a voice on the other end said, “Hello?”
“Higgins?” Rodgers said. That was all.
That was enough, though, because the voice at the other end suddenly tightened. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“It’s what I can do for you,” Rodgers said. “I have Mr. Cole almost ready for you.”
“Have there been any problems?” the man named Higgins asked. His voice sounded hesitant and filled with concern. “The last time, there were a few complications that I—”
Rodgers laughed softly, cutting him off. “Nothing I can’t take care of at this end.”
“Well, you know what happened last time.”
“What happened last time was merely a fluke,” Rodgers snapped. His warm breath moistened the receiver mouthpiece. “It was a simple mistake of dosage amounts that will not happen again.”
“I hope not, sir,” Higgins said. “It wouldn’t pay to—”
“You just let me handle the details on this end, all right?” Rodgers said. “What happens once I deliver is not my concern. It’s yours, correct?”
“Yes, but I…”
“But you nothing!” Rodgers shouted, cupping his hand over the receiver in case Maggie had gotten curious and was outside his door, listening. Not likely, but it paid to be careful. “I told you he’ll be ready by tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” Higgins said, “You told me it would be tonight!”
Rodgers sighed, as though he was carrying the weight of the world. “The funeral isn’t until tomorrow, so now I’m telling you—tomorrow night!”
The last thing he needed, he thought, was to let Higgins know about the visit he had had this afternoon. Sure, Winfield had sat there, silent and stupid as a stone the whole time, but just the fact that he had been by with that man Harmon. It didn’t bode well. There was no sense taking any risks. He just wanted to play it safe. C.Y.A., as they say: “Cover your ass!”
“Then tomorrow night it will be,” Higgins said. There was disappointment in his voice, but also a note of resignation.
“Any time after dark,” Rodgers said, and without another word, he cut the connection off by gently cradling the receiver. After a few seconds of staring at the phone, quietly enjoying the panic and anger he knew Higgins was feeling, he leaned back in his chair, slid his hand into his pants pocket, and withdrew his key chain. He selected a small, flat key, then unlocked and pulled open the top middle drawer of his desk.
Reaching inside, he found the small wooden box at the back of the drawer. The box was covered with tiny carved figures. Only close examination would reveal that the figures were something straight out of a vision of Dante’s Inferno or a Bosch painting. Dozens of nude men and women were tangled up in grotesque postures that suggested either bizarre sexual positions or contortions of extreme physical agony. Ecstasy or suffering, they’re always in the eye of the beholder.
The trembling in his hands intensified as Rodgers fumbled for another, smaller key on his key ring to unlock the little hasp lock on the box. The box contained a single vial half-filled with a dark liquid. The bottle was capped with the rubber end of an eye dropper. Rodgers leaned back in his chair and, for the first time since Winfield and Dale had left, breathed evenly and deeply. Holding the bottle up to the light and giving it a quick shake, he inspected the thick liquid, so darkly purple it actually looked black. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch into something close to a smile as, first, he loosened the cap and then gave the rubber bulb a couple of firm squeezes to fill the dropper completely with liquid. After removing the dropper, he leaned his head way back and brought it over his left eye. He had done this so many times, now, he didn’t need to hold his eye open. He stared blankly at the ceiling as he brought the dropper closer until it was just above his eye. Then, with a sudden tensing of his fingers, he squeezed the bulb.
The liquid spurted out in a thick glob that landed in the center of Rodgers’ pupil. For an instant, a chill like the stab of a metallic sliver jabbed his eye. Nerve impulses shot along his optic nerve and were interpreted by his brain as “vision.” Fiery-edged shapes shot across his retina, but then, as a deep warmth spread out, gradually embracing the whole of his eye, the visual impulses faded, leaving only dim, glowing afterimages.
As always, Rodgers became intensely aware of the roundness of his eye as the liquid generated heat that flowed into veins and capillaries. He was still leaning back, still staring up at the ceiling of his office, as he anticipated what would come next. His pupil, he knew, was now dilated wide enough to receive light. Quickly, he screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it down on his desk top. No sense spilling it by mistake, he thought as his anticipation spiraled upward.
Then it happened. The textured ceiling tiles began to sparkle like fresh-fallen snow seen in the glare of direct sunlight. Winking points of light exploded into watery concentric circles as the drug entered his system. The warmth that had embraced his left eye now spread out long, dark fingers that reached out and massaged every convoluted fold of his brain, the fingers pulsed with warm, dark strength as they reached deep inside his brain.
“Eyes! The windows of the soul,” Rodgers said, his voice a papery rattle in his throat. A low laughter rumbled in his chest as the light patterns on the ceilings intensified, exploding into shimmering rainbow sprays. On the edge of his awareness, he heard distant and muffled voices.
What he saw and heard, Rodgers knew was merely the electrical impulses traveling along his optic nerve to his brain. But there was more. What was really happening was that the liquid, shot into one eye, gave him a special kind of vision. It was a vision that allowed him actually to see and hear things from other worlds and other dimensions.
In the years since he had first discovered this liquid and its variations, he had tried many experiments, some successful, some not. At least the unsuccessful ones hadn’t been done on himself! One of the simplest experiments compared the vision of each eye, once immediately after he had “taken a squirt” (as he called it) and then after the drug had lost its intense effects. The physical discoloration of the left pupil didn’t surprise him in the least, and he learned to accept it as the price he paid for his “visions.”
Obviously the dilated pupil made it very difficult to be in direct sunlight without sunglasses. That was why he preferred to have the funeral home so dimly lit all of the time. Looking directly at merely a candle flame could be painful, but after years of practice, he had gotten used to hiding the pain sudden, direct light caused his left eye.
And there was the reverse side of things that made it all worthwhile. The pupil of the left eye was permanently open, but so, also, was his night vision vastly improved. As a matter of fact, Rodgers suspected the changes had occurred so slowly over so many years he didn’t
really appreciate how good his night vision was. When he thought about it, he believed he could see at night almost as well as any cat or owl.
In a real sense the drug opened up a new world to him. He could see in two different worlds, and that was the basis of all his other experiments with this liquid. Years ago, when he first encountered the liquid as a Harvard graduate student studying botany in Haiti, he had suspected the potential for this liquid: taken in proper dosages, it could open up whole new dimensions of awareness.
As the drug coarsed through his system, he chuckled again, loudly, not caring now if Maggie Sprague or anyone heard him. Christ! he thought, his mind suddenly feeling like a honed razor, Maggie was such a tight-assed bitch! What she needed was a squirt of this!
“Right up the old cooze!” he said aloud, and his laughter got even louder as colors and lights pinwheeled through his brain. The voices he heard grew louder and louder, until he could understand what they were saying in their low, sing-song chant. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening and watching while the liquid carried him far, far away…
IV
“It stinks,” Winfield said, sitting back from the table and sipping on his beer. “It stinks to high heaven.”
Winfield off-duty, Dale thought, looked exactly like Winfield on-duty. Only the uniform had changed. He still kept his thoughts and feelings locked tightly inside him. Dale had his own lingering doubts because of what had occurred at the funeral home, but he realized Winfield wouldn’t take him fully into his confidence until he trusted him. Until that time, Dale would have to trust what Winfield said and take it as the truth.
Kellerman’s on an early Sunday evening was practically deserted. Five regulars, who had all greeted Winfield by his first name, were gathered around the pool table at the back of the restaurant exchanging shots. An Emmylou Harris tear-jerker drifted from the jukebox, whose only concessions to rock were a few Beatles oldies and the latest from Bruce Springsteen. If you favored country-western or Fifties rock, it was a gold mine.
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