Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  "Probably too much chicken," Janet said, smoothing Ellie's hair. She turned to Sylvia, who was already heading for the medicine cabinet near the pantry. "Do you have any Pepto?"

  "Right here." Sylvia pulled a bottle from the cabinet, then shook it vigorously while she searched for a spoon. "Hope she hasn’t caught that stomach virus that’s been going around lately. Rodney had it a couple of weeks ago."

  Janet took the bottle, measured out a teaspoonful of the pink medicine, then fed it to Ellie. "I’m sure it’s just a little indigestion.”

  Sylvia recapped the bottle and placed it on the counter. “Why don’t you go on and bring the girls back to the cabin? Munchkin looks whipped and so do you.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Janet said. “I think a good night’s rest will do us all some good.”

  “There you go.” Sylvia hunkered down beside Ellie. “You’ve got a busy day tomorrow, munchkin, so you need to go and take care of that tummy.” She held out her arms. “How about giving old Sylvia a hug bye?”

  Ellie wrapped her arms around Janet’s right leg.

  Puzzled, Janet stroked her daughter's back. This wasn’t like Ellie, even on a really bad day. She’d always adored the Theriots. “Aren’t you going to give Sylvia a little hug?” she asked.

  Ellie hid her face farther behind her mother’s leg, and Janet gave Sylvia an apologetic shrug. “She’s tired, and with her stomach—”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Sylvia put her hands on her knees and grunted her way upright again. “Go on and get that baby to bed. How ‘bout I send Rodney out there with you—you know,” she tossed a quick look over her shoulder as though referring to a secret hidden in the cupboard behind her, “just to check things out.”

  “No need,” Janet said. “We’ll be fine.” The truth was she would’ve loved for someone to “check things out” at the cabin. But Rodney was getting old, and she worried that he might trip over something in the dark and get hurt. She’d simply make a run through the house before the girls went inside. The plan sounded a bit paranoid to her, especially since she’d already convinced herself, or thought she had, that the man she’d seen in the window had been an illusion created by the sun. But better safe than sorry.

  There’s no one in the house. There’s no one in the house. There’s no one in the house.

  Janet continued to chant the mantra to herself as she loaded the girls into the van, then left the Theriots.

  The ride back to the cabin seemed longer than usual. The night wrapped around the van clear and warm, and a moon, slivered to a quarter of its size, strained to illuminate the sky. As Janet turned onto the dark side road that led to the cabin, the van’s headlights gathered shadows to the edge of the forest. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears.

  “Mama?” Ellie said quietly.

  “Hm?” Janet pulled up to the house and parked. She scolded herself for not leaving on an outside light.

  “Is there such a thing as a bogeyman?” Ellie asked.

  Janet turned around in her seat, frowning. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  Ellie threw a worried glance at Heather, then looked back at her mother. “Nowheres.”

  “Heather?” Janet eyed her niece.

  “Tommy Marks says they got bogeymans when it’s real dark, Aunt Janet,” Heather proclaimed. Her eyes darted nervously at the window. “And . . .it’s real dark.”

  “Who’s Tommy Marks?”

  “A boy that lives by my house. He knows everything. He’s eight.”

  “And what does he say a bogeyman is supposed to look like?” Janet asked.

  Heather drew in a deep breath. “Like a monster. All ugly and stuff with big teeth.”

  “I see. Well, I’m afraid Tommy doesn’t know much because there’s no such thing as a bogeyman. That’s just an old, ugly fairy tale.” Janet pulled the keys out of the ignition.

  “Promise?” Ellie asked.

  Janet nodded. “Tell you what. Both of you close your eyes.”

  The girls shut their eyes simultaneously.

  “What do you see?” Janet asked.

  “Dark,” Heather said.

  “Is it really dark?”

  “Yep,” Ellie answered. “Really, really dark.”

  “Any bogeymen in there?”

  Heather giggled. “No.”

  “Nope,” Ellie confirmed.

  “Okay, open your eyes,” Janet said.

  Two sets of eyes popped open.

  “Nighttime is the same kind of dark, only you see it with your eyes open,” Janet said. “And just like there were no bogeymen in the dark behind your eyes, there are none now. Understand?”

  “See, I told you,” Ellie said to Heather. “There’s no such a thing.”

  Heather looked past her to study the window as though debating what to believe.

  “That’s right, honey. No such thing.” Janet opened the van door, and white hazy light washed over them from the interior bulb. “Now you two stay in here for a minute, and I’ll go inside and turn on some lights. I don’t want you tripping over each other out there.”

  “Lock the door, okay, Aunt Janet?”

  Janet got out of the van and smiled back at Heather. “I’d already planned to.” She lowered her window a couple of inches, pressed the auto lock, and closed the door.

  While she walked toward the house, Janet heard the girls squabbling and, for once, appreciated the noise.

  “Scaredy-cat.”

  “Am not!”

  “Am too.”

  “Am not—”

  There’s no one in the house. No one in the house. Janet opened the front door and flipped on the first light switch she came to. The dining room and kitchen were just as she’d left them, a box of cleaning supplies on the table and folded paper bags on the counter.

  Her footsteps sounded thunderous as she rounded the corner to the family room and searched behind chairs and the couch. She took the stairs two at a time, looking over her shoulder as she went.

  At the top of the stairs, Janet took a right and headed for Ellie’s room. Once there, she cautiously snaked a hand around the doorjamb and felt for the light switch. She thought about the man in the window, and her stomach fluttered.

  There’s no one in the house.

  Her fingers bumped against the switch, and she blinked against the sudden glare.

  Twin beds with Scooby Doo comforters, a dresser, toy chest, and Barbie vanity. All was as it should be. She looked under the beds and in the closet. Nothing unusual.

  Janet began to breathe easier as she went through the bathroom and master bedroom and found everything in its place. Relief sent her bounding down the stairs to collect the girls from the van.

  Twenty minutes later, Ellie and Heather were in the tub making snowman faces with bubbles, and Janet was trying to decide whether to have a glass of Pinot Noir or cup of warm milk.

  “Don’t take too long now. It's late, and I want the two of you in bed. We have a big day tomorrow,” Janet said, grateful that all evidence of their bogeyman fears had vanished. Hers felt abated as well. She patted a pile of clothes on the bathroom vanity. “Pajamas are right here.”

  “Okay,” Ellie said, constructing a pyramid of suds on top of Heather’s head.

  Janet pulled two towels out from the linen closet and placed them near the clothes. “Stomach better?”

  “Yeah,” Ellie said. She reviewed her sculpture. “Just feels a little squishy.”

  Janet stood in the doorway and studied Ellie's face. She didn’t look sick. Dark shadows looped beneath her eyes, but that always happened when she grew tired.

  “All right, you guys,” Janet said. “I’ll be up later to tuck you in.”

  She left the girls giggling and slapping water at each another and headed for the stairs. Each step seemed to emphasize the weight of the day in her legs.

  Pinot Noir, definitely.

  Once in the kitchen, Janet retrieved a drinking glass from the cupboard and went to t
he fridge for the Kendall Jackson Michael kept on the bottom shelf. She poured three fingers’ depth into the glass, then went into the family room.

  After turning on the television set, she muted the volume and watched the fuzzy image on the screen. A weatherman pointed to a graph, which showed the high and low temperature forecasts for the next three days; hot, humid, and more of the same. With a groan, Janet walked over to the couch, sat, and stretched her legs out in front of her.

  She rested her head against the back cushion and let her eyes cruise about the room. Across from the television, in the opposite corner of the room, sat Michael’s grandfather’s favorite chair. The burgundy leather recliner had dark stains on the headrest, a testament to years of excessive hair oil. No one sat in it anymore, but Michael insisted that it not be moved.

  Recessed between the television and recliner was a fireplace that, to Janet’s knowledge, had never been used. Not a smudge of soot or grime marred any part of the hearth. Plastic ivies lined the mantel, which bordered the lower edge of a huge picture; a ship mastering a storm’s fury at sea.

  Janet sipped from her glass, reached for the telephone on the end table near the sofa, and dialed her home number. She needed to hear Michael’s voice.

  A series of clicks preempted the line connection, and it took a moment before it began to ring. She rested the receiver against her shoulder and took another sip of wine.

  Five . . .six . . . seven . . . Michael almost always picked up on the second ring. Janet glanced at her watch. Nearly ten. Surely he wouldn’t still be at the funeral home.

  She hung up and tried the number again. An unusually cool breeze brushed across Janet's arms while she listened to the persistent ringing. With a shiver, she looked up at the ceiling and spotted an air conditioner vent directly above her. Thinking one of the girls had turned down the thermostat, she made a mental note to turn it back up before going to bed.

  When there was no answer after the tenth ring, Janet hung up again and dialed the number for the funeral home.

  A thud echoed from upstairs.

  “Into bed, girls,” she called out, and a patter of footsteps raced overhead.

  Taking a large gulp of wine, Janet listened to the third ring, then the fourth, a fifth. She was about to hang up, when the ringing stopped. She heard silence instead of the customary, ‘Savoy Funeral Home,’ greeting from the answering service.

  “Hello?”

  No one replied.

  “Michael?”

  From what sounded like an ocean’s distance away, Janet heard a tinkling sound, like bells or chimes from a music box.

  “Hello?”

  The sound grew louder and took on more definition. A melody. One that sounded familiar, but Janet couldn’t quite make it out.

  Suddenly a loud squawk filled her ear, and she jerked the phone away. Even with the receiver at a distance, she heard the squawk turn into a hiss, like the sound of pork chops frying in a skillet.

  “Ancient piece of crap.” Janet dropped the receiver onto its cradle. Evidently the phone company had decided now was a good time for a hiatus. She placed her glass on the end table, got up from the couch, and headed for the stairs, eager to get out of her jeans and into something more comfortable. She would try calling Michael later, when the lines cleared up. If the lines cleared up.

  Going into the bathroom first, Janet inspected the pile of water soaked towels and clothes on the floor and tossed what was fairly dry into the hamper. The rest she wrung out and hung on towel rods. With that done, she went across the hall to Ellie’s room.

  A ribbon of light glowed from beneath the bedroom door. Janet opened it slowly and peeked inside, surprised to see her daughter in bed, covered up to the neck, and already asleep. Heather sat ramrod straight in the other bed, chewing her thumb.

  “What’s the matter, honey? Not tired?” Janet asked, entering the room. She picked up a shorthaired doll from the floor and placed it on the dresser.

  “I can’t sleep,” Heather said. She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Janet walked over to the edge of the bed and sat. “You’re not still afraid of what we talked about in the van, are you?” She didn’t want to say the word bogeyman for fear it would upset the girl.

  Heather shook her head vigorously. “No.” She pointed to Ellie. “I can’t sleep ‘cause she won’t stop.”

  Janet glanced over at her daughter. “Won’t stop what?”

  “Humming.”

  “Humming?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Janet smiled, held out her arms, and Heather scrambled into them. “She’s asleep, honey. She’s not . . .”

  A low, eerie hum sounded from the next bed, and Janet’s arms tightened reflexively around Heather’s back.

  “I told you,” Heather whispered.

  They looked over at Ellie, whose eyes remained closed, her chest moving slow and steady with the rhythm of sleep. Her lips, however, were pressed tightly together, and from them came the same melody Janet had heard over the phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Where’d the sonofabitch go?” Wilson asked, turning in circles like a pup trying to get sight of its tail.

  “I—I don’t know.” Michael placed the side of his shoe alongside one of the prints. It was nearly twice the width of his foot. “But get a load of this.”

  Wilson let out an exasperated huff. “What? He piss on the floor?” He went over to Michael and examined the indicated section of carpet. “Damn!”

  “Yeah.”

  “No way that old man could’ve left those. He was too puny.”

  “I know.”

  Michael and Wilson stared at each other quizzically, then Wilson quickly slid a shoe across the carpet, erasing the depression.

  “Screw it,” Wilson said. “The bigger deal is where’d the bastard go? He didn’t go past us, so what’d he do? Go through the wall?”

  Michael shoved a hand through his hair. His father was right. Without windows or doors near the corner of the hall, there was no immediate escape route. Michael thought about the black shadow he’d chased earlier, the one that resembled the flap of a coattail— similar to the coattails on the mourning suit worn by the old man. Although Michael was positive he hadn’t seen the man during the Stevenson service, he had to wonder—had he been at the service, then stayed behind when it concluded? Had he been hiding in the funeral home all this time? That might provide a reasonable explanation for how he got in, but it didn’t answer squat about how he got out. From the way Michael figured it, he’d only turned away from the old man for a few seconds. How could anyone that old, who appeared to have difficulty even walking, disappear that fast?

  “He’s got to be somewhere in the building,” Michael said. “I’ll take a look in the lobby. You check out the back rooms. Maybe he did go past us, and we didn’t notice.”

  “I’m old, son, not senile. We’d have had to been blindfolded to miss him.”

  “It won’t hurt to check,” Michael said, already heading for the reception area.

  “Hey!” Wilson called after him.

  Michael stopped short and looked back. His father had his bottom lip pinched thoughtfully between two fingers.

  “What?”

  “Well—suppose he is back there,” Wilson said. “I mean, not that I’m scared or anything. The guy’s so old and feeble looking, I could probably knock him over with a broken knuckle, but—I mean—he was big on the threats. Suppose he’s got some goon back there—you know—an ambush or something—waiting to get me by myself?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Yeah, but just suppose . . .”

  Michael shook his head in frustration. “If you’re going to be a wuss about it, then come on. We’ll go through the building together.”

  “I’m not a wuss,” Wilson said, hustling to his son’s side with a scowl. “I’m being cautious is all. Nothing wrong with a man being cautious.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. Jesus, I swear, Dad,
you get yourself into more shit . . .”

  Wilson shrugged as they made their way down the corridor. “What can I say? A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Just my way’s a little different sometimes.”

  “Most times.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  Thirty minutes later, after Michael and Wilson had completed a second search of the building, they’d still found no sign of the old man. They settled into the lobby, where Wilson flopped down on one of the couches.

  “Okay, so he’s not here,” Wilson said. “And I really don’t care anymore where the old bastard went. The way I figure it, he’s gone, doesn’t matter how or where. Less I gotta deal with. What say we call out for some dinner?”

  “You can’t just drop this,” Michael said. “He might not be here, and God only knows how he got out, but that doesn’t change the fact that you took that gold piece. If the old man knows you have it, then I’d bet the other Stevensons know about it, too. We need to get the coin back to them. You need to give it back to them.”

  Wilson ran a fingernail across the arm of the sofa. “I can’t.”

  Michael felt his blood pressure rocket toward the danger zone. What had all that redeemable father crap been about earlier in the embalming room? Probably another bullshit session. Once again, his father was proving you could throw paint on a zebra, but underneath, the stripes remained.

  “Goddammit, Dad, we’re probably talking major lawsuit because of what you did. The Stevensons could wind up with the whole damn funeral home by the time they’re through with us. Even if—”

  “Then I’ll countersue them for harassment. You heard that man. He said he’d kill me.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “A technicality. He said I’d die, same thing.”

  “And whose side do you think a judge would take? Yours, claiming a ninety-something-year-old man threatened your life? Or that old man’s, after he tells the judge you stole from his granddaughter’s coffin? Which case do you think they’ll investigate first?”

  Wilson looked down.

  “For heaven’s sake, just give it back.”

  “I already told you, I can’t.”