Grave Intent

by Deborah LeBlanc

  High above her head, Ellie lay flopped over the lock bar of the Ferris wheel seat as though she had fainted. Rodney still had her shirt clutched in a fist and one hand over his heart, his mouth agape. Heather sat on the left side of the seat nearly hidden by Rodney’s bulk. She had both hands over her eyes. The three of them seemed frozen in time, an off-colored, Norman Rockwell portrait.

  “Wind’s too high, lady,” the ride operator said. “They can’t hear ya.” She puffed rapidly on a long, thin cigar and looked up at the sky. “Looks like it’s gonna get worser, too. Rain, hail probably.”

  “Christ, then why are you just standing here?” Janet cried. “Do something!”

  “Already did.” She held up a walkie-talkie. “Got a roadie to call the cops. Should behere any minute.”

  Janet wrung her hands and paced a short horizontal path, never losing sight of her daughter or Rodney. “We have to do something now, though. Look at him, I don’t know how much longer he can hold her.”

  The operator gave her a sympathetic look. “I know you’re worried, lady. Hell, I’d be, too, if that was my kid up there. But there’s nothing we can do right now. That little girl ain’t shored up enough for me to touch those levers. We could lose her. The wheel ain’t smooth. It jerks when it gets to movin’, and when that happens the seats start to swingin’. Too big a chance to take.”

  The crowd swelling around Janet jostled her closer to the big woman. “So that’s it? We wait? You’re not going to try anything else?”

  The operator squinted up at the Ferris wheel. “If you got another idea on how to get them down before the cops get here, share it, ‘cause I ain’t got the foggiest.”

  Janet felt fresh tears sting her eyes. She bit her lip and paced faster, working through a scrabble board of thoughts. Rope—hail—net—rain—climber—help.

  Sirens began to wail nearby, and Janet stood on tiptoe to peer over the crowd. Red and blue flashing lights. Heaven had red and blue flashing lights.

  “They’re here, lady,” the operator said. “Help’s here.”

  As the sirens grew louder, the crowd seemed to immediately double in size, pushing Janet farther away from the Ferris wheel. A few people stared at her openly. Others she caught peripherally, bare glimpses of faces. Excited faces, scared ones, some that held sympathetic tears, a few that looked enthralled, like they were watching an action flick on television. Voices babbled incessantly from every direction.

  “. . . that poor man can’t possibly—”

  “My aunt had a heart attack once on a—”

  “She could . . .split her head wide—”

  “ . . . the mama . . . should have been watching.”

  Janet wanted to scream for every one of them to shut up.

  Please, God, she prayed silently. Please don’t let my baby die.

  “Merciful Mary, no!” a woman wailed. The sound of it, familiar and bordering on hysteria, forced Janet to turn around. It was Sylvia Theriot, her horrified face only inches away. “Oh, Janet—Jesus, oh, Mary, Rodney!” Sylvia cried. “My poor Rodney! Those poor, poor babies!”

  Janet reached for the woman’s flailing hands but was jostled aside before she could grab hold of her.

  “Out of the way,” a tall, tub-waisted policeman demanded. He had a nightstick in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. “Move back. Everybody move!”

  Suddenly crushed between a toothless bald guy and a woman wearing too much perfume, Janet was forced farther back. “No, wait!” Janet yelled. “I’m the girl’s mother!” She looked frantically about for the ride operator for help, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Sylvia.

  The bald guy clamped a hand onto Janet’s shoulder. “Hang on, lady,” he shouted over the sirens, and crowd, and revving engines. “I’ll get you back through, but they gotta get the cherry picker in first.” He pointed over the wall of heads to a large, orange utility truck rumbling by. In its bed sat a wide metal bucket, and inside the bucket stood a red-faced man dressed in fireman garb.

  The crowd cheered as the truck rolled up to the Ferris wheel. In a matter of minutes, the bucket and fireman rose into the air.

  “Come on,” the bald guy said, taking hold of Janet’s right forearm. With his free hand held out like a battering ram, he charged through the throng, pulling her along.

  They no sooner hit a clearing when the same tubby policeman barred their way.“Stay back,” he demanded.

  “She’s the—” the bald guy said.

  “I said get back!” the policeman insisted.

  “No!” Janet said fiercely. She shook her arm free and pointed to the Ferris wheel with both hands. “That’s my little girl up there.”

  The policeman’s scowl melted instantly, and pity softened his eyes. “Come with me then,” he said, and led her to the utility truck.

  When they reached the driver’s door, the policeman rapped a knuckle against it. “Jay?” he called.

  “What?” A dark-skinned man with a harried expression stuck his head out the window. “Oh, hey, Bufford.”

  “Tell Dave I got the mama right here.”

  Jay’s eyes locked onto Janet while he pressed a radio mike to his lips. “Dave, hold on a second.”

  Crackling static echoed from the cab of the truck, then a voice said, “’S’up?”

  “The mama’s here,” Jay replied.

  More static, then, “Ten four. She belong to one or both?”

  Jay keyed the mike again. “Both what?”

  When the bodiless voice returned, it sounded aggravated. “There’re two little girls up here. Are they both hers?”

  Jay gave Janet a questioning look.

  Janet stepped back, looked up at the fireman peering down at her from the bucket overhead, and nodded. She didn’t want to waste time explaining the difference between daughter and niece.

  “Yeah, both hers,” JayJay confirmed.

  “What’re their names?” the radio voice asked.

  Jay keyed the mike, held it out the window, and signaled for Janet to talk.

  “The blonde is El--Ellie,” Janet said, her voice catching. She swallowed hard, forcing back a sob. “And the dark-haired one’s Heather. The man’s name is Rodney Theriot. Please, p-please hurry.” She nodded to Jay, indicating she was done.

  The policeman patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Dave’s been a fireman for a long time. He knows what he’s doing up there.”

  “That’s right,” Jay said. He leaned out of the window and pointed up with a thumb. “If anybody can bring them down safe, Dave can.”

  Trembling and only slightly reassured, Janet said, “Thank y-you.”

  A loud whirring sound from overhead made the three of them look up.

  Dave was on the move again.

  Thunder rumbled from the west as the fireman rose higher and higher. Soon the bucket came to rest just below the occupied Ferris wheel seat. After a moment, it inched forward, then stopped. A second later it lifted higher, extended a bit farther, then stopped again.

  From where she stood, Janet saw Rodney signal the fireman. The whirring sound returned, and the bucket moved closer.

  Closer still.

  Janet held her breath.

  A sharp clang of metal suddenly rang out, and both the bucket and Ferris wheel seat bounced slightly.

  Janet’s heart pounded.

  The crowd gasped.

  Ellie stirred.

  The fireman became a blur of activity, leaning, straightening, shifting his body first one way then another. All the while his hands manipulated a harness. More metal clanged.

  Ellie lifted her head.

  Without thinking, Janet grabbed the back of the policeman’s shirt and hung on. He glanced back at her only briefly.

  They watched as the fireman reached out, slowly, carefully. And from the great distance above, Ellie began to scream. The sound was hoarse and deep, almost baritone in pitch, and it resonated over the crowd. Ellie raised the glass horse in one fist, the
n pinwheeled her arms as though to purposely set the Ferris wheel seat in motion. The seat swung backward, then forward, banging hard against the rescue bucket. In that instant, Rodney doubled over, his hand stripping free from Ellie’s shirt. The fireman stumbled back in the rescue bucket, and Heather wailed at the top of her lungs.

  “Stop!” Janet screamed. “Ellie, stop!” She couldn’t believe the little girl flailing above her was Ellie. Not her sweet, gentle daughter. This child seemed possessed, determined to tumble from that amusement ride come hell or be damned.

  Ellie’s arms swung wider, and she slipped farther past the lock bar.

  Cries and shouts of fear rolled from the crowd in waves.

  Janet’s tongue locked to the roof of her mouth as she saw Rodney latch onto Ellie’s left foot. Sweet Jesus! Please, God!

  The rescue bucket moved slightly left.

  Ellie appeared to double her efforts, swinging her arms harder.

  The seat swayed.

  The rescue bucket bounced.

  Ellie’s foot slipped loose of Rodney’s grasp, and he let out a wail of anguish so loud it silenced the crowd.

  Frozen in terror, Janet could only whimper as everything above her transformed into a series of still photos.

  Ellie’s feet over the lock bar.

  Rodney’s horror-stricken face.

  Ellie in midair.

  Glass horse refracting light.

  Hands from the crowd, lifted as though preparing to catch.

  Ellie in the arms of a fireman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hypnotized.

  Dreaming.

  The words dangled in Michael’s mind like floaters—dead, waterlogged explanations for why he couldn’t move or speak. His heart beat so fiercely in his chest it felt ready to burst through. What he saw made no sense. The woman outside his window resembled Anna Stevenson right down to her long widow’s peak. Yet he could almost see through her. How could that be? And her eyes—what was with those dark eyes? They seemed to plead with an urgency meant only to petition deity.

  He wanted to shout, “I don’t understand!” but nothing would come out of his mouth. He watched her, hearing the words she’d spoken to him over the phone again and again in his head.

  “ . . . cannot hold them from her much longer. . . . must be returned . . . one sun passed its mark . . .second not long . . . little time . . . both will be lost . . . your child to death.”

  Anna’s words had been too similar to those of the vanishing old man for her not to be referring to the gold coin. But what did that have to do with Ellie? Why would anyone want to harm his daughter? Ellie had nothing to do with the coin. She hadn’t been anywhere near the casket when Wilson stole it. And what had all the psychic mumbo jumbo been about when Anna told him that Ellie had called to him from her mind? He had heard his daughter’s voice. The fear in it had been so real he could have touched it.

  More bewildered than ever, Michael watched Anna lean over and place Ellie’s barrette on the outside sill. Her fingers lingered around the hair clasp for a moment, and when she finally released it, something released in Michael as well. A surge of adrenaline shot through him with such force, it nearly knocked him over. He rushed to the window, but Anna turned away before he reached it. She beckoned for him to follow.

  With no thought about how or why, Michael raced out of his office and through the funeral home. He slalomed past mourners, an alarmed Sally, and paid little attention to the deluge that soaked him as soon as he burst through the front doors.

  Michael ran around the front of the building and down its side, the sound of his sloshing, pounding feet punctuating the grim litany in his head. “ . . . your child to death.” Even before he reached the office window, he saw that Anna was no longer there.

  He slid to a stop and scanned the length of the property, the adjoining lot, but only spotted an old crop-tailed mutt trotting through the downpour. Impossible, he thought. She couldn’t have disappeared that fast. He thought of the old man and how quickly he had vanished from the funeral home.

  Roughly swiping water off his face, Michael surveyed the property again. Same as before. One dog, zero Anna. Nothing made sense. As desperate as Anna had seemed for his help, why would she leave now? Why was Ellie being dragged into this?

  He hurried over to the window ledge and found the yellow barrette lying in the same spot Anna had left it. Michael picked it up and ran a finger over the plastic wings. A million more questions ran through his mind, but the one taking precedent—was Ellie safe? He had to find out for himself.

  “Lord, he done lost his mind!” a voice suddenly bellowed behind him.

  Michael shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Agnes Crowder coming toward him under the protection of an umbrella. The lower half of her orange flowered muumuu clung to her thighs and knees in soggy ripples. He ran over to meet her.

  “Why in the good Lord’s heaven are you standin’ out here?” she asked, thrusting out the umbrella so it covered most of his head. “Even a duck got sense enough to get outta this—”

  “Agnes, listen. Something’s come up, and I need to leave for Carlton right away. Let Sally know. Tell her I’ll have my cell phone with me if she needs anything.”

  “But—”

  He gave an agitated shake of his head. “Just listen. Sally has the number to the cabin. Tell her to call there and to keep calling until she gets through to Janet. I’ll keep trying from my cell. Tell Sally if she gets through, to tell Janet to take the girls to the Theriots’ and for all of them stay put until I get there.” He started to duck out from under the umbrella, and Agnes grabbed his arm.

  “Now hold up one panty twisting minute. You gotta tell me what’s going on—”

  “There’s no time,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Just tell Sally, please.”

  “But what—”

  “Later,” he said, already turning away. “I’ll explain later.” Before she could ask anything more, Michael took off for home.

  He heard Agnes shout after him, but the drum of rain garbled her words. He didn’t turn back. There was nothing he could explain to her now. He was operating on confusion, gut instinct, and augmenting fear. How could anyone give logic to that? Maybe he was tipping over into paranoia by wanting Janet to take the girls to the Theriots’, but he didn’t care. Better paranoia than regret.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, and gusts of wind turned raindrops into needles. They drove into his face, his neck, his hands. Michael’s drenched suit hung on his body like elephant skin, the weight of it threatening to slow him down. He clutched Ellie’s barrette tightly and pushed on.

  When Michael finally pushed through his kitchen door, he stuck Ellie’s barrette between his teeth and began stripping off his clothes. His jacket landed on the counter near the coffeepot, his tie over a chair. The buttons on his white shirt wouldn’t cooperate with shriveled fingertips, so he ripped the shirt open, and buttons flew across the hallway.

  By the time he made it into the bathroom, he wore only soaked skivvies. Those were soon slipped off and discarded in the hamper. Naked and shivering now, he grabbed a towel, then took the barrette from his mouth and placed it on the vanity. He stared at it for a moment, remembering how Ellie would fidget with it in her hair while she watched cartoons.

  Michael quickly looked away and scrubbed himself vigorously with the towel. He concentrated on what alternate routes he might take into Carlton, anything that would get him there faster.

  Interstate 10 to 49, maybe 71 if —

  “Shit!” Michael said, suddenly remembering that Richard Mason had his car. He dumped the towel into the hamper and hurried into the living room, where he peeked past the curtains of the nearest window. Five cars sat in the funeral home parking lot. None were his. He’d either have to wait until Mason returned with his car or take the hearse, which was stored in the garage out back.

  “Fuck.” Michael dropped the curtain back into place, and just as he turned aw
ay from the window, he thought of Wilson’s Cadillac. The ’87 was a dinosaur, huge and black with cropped fender wings, but at least it ran. And the keys to it were still in his pocket.

  Michael ran out of the living room and into the hall, tracking the trail of clothes he’d shed. He found his pants, rummaged through the soaked pockets, and pulled out the keys. Relieved that he had transportation, he took off for the bedroom and dry clothes.

  Moments later, in a T-shirt, light jacket, and one leg in a pair of jeans, Michael hobbled into the kitchen and took his cell phone off its charger. He checked the battery bar on the screen to make sure it was at full strength while he finished putting on his pants. Then he called the cabin.

  The steady bomp, bomp, bomp of an out of order signal made him want to pitch the phone through the window. Clenching his teeth, he pocketed the phone in his jacket, then reached for the cordless phone near the toaster. He dialed while heading to his bedroom for a pair of sneakers.

  “This is the Theriot residence, but we ain’t home,” Rodney Theriot’s voice said. “When you hear the beep, leave your number. Talk slow, though ‘cause I don’t write too fast.” Beeeep.

  “Rodney, this is Michael. I’m looking for Janet and the girls. They’re supposed to be at the cabin, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with them. Call me on my cell phone when you get this message.” Michael recited his cell number slowly, then hung up. He slipped on his shoes, and dialed another number.

  A woman picked up after the first ring. “Brusley P.D.”

  “Shirley, this is Michael Savoy. I—”

  “Hey, Mike! Man, I haven’t heard from you in ages. Heard ya’ll had a big yeehaw over there yesterday. Kinda surprised ya’ll didn’t—”

  Shirley Woods was a robust blonde in her mid-forties who worked as a dispatcher for the local police department. He’d known her for years and knew one of her favorite pastimes was talking and the only way to stop her was cutting in.

  “Shirley, I need your help,” he blurted.

  “Sure,” she chirped. “Whatcha got? Need an escort to Saint Berchman’s across town?”

  “No, no. I don’t need a police escort. I need to see if you can get hold of the Grant parish sheriff’s department for me. Ask them to send a car out to the old Savoy place off Highway 1226 in Carlton. They know the place.”