Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  “Wait.” Bernhardt raised a hand. “Let’s go back to the graveyard. You know how to get there, I assume.”

  She frowned. “Well, of course I do. I just told you how to get there, didn’t I?” She spoke primly, with feeling. It was the first time since they’d left San Francisco that she’d spoken decisively.

  “The graveyard—are there trees around it?”

  She hesitated, then spoke tentatively: “A few, but not many.”

  “How long ago did your mother die?”

  “It was six years ago.”

  Bernhardt nodded, then said, “You have directions—instructions—on how to locate the jewels.”

  “Yes …”

  “Are the instructions clear?”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “There must be measurements. You know—a hundred feet due north of a certain tree, something like that.”

  “Well …” She nodded. “Yes, there’re directions. They aren’t very complicated. Once we get to the cemetery, it should take just a few minutes to dig it up.”

  “And you’re satisfied that the instructions are perfectly clear, perfectly understandable.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is there a fence around the cemetery?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s an iron fence. Very old, all rusted. The delta, you know—it’s very damp.”

  “Is there a gate?”

  “Yes, there’s a gate.”

  “Locked?”

  She shook her head. “No. At least, not that I remember.”

  “How long has it been since you were here, Louise?” He asked the question sternly, as if he were prosecuting her.

  “It’s been years. Two years, at least. But Tony Bacardo was here just yesterday.”

  He nodded, held out his hand for the walkie-talkie. He pressed the “transmit” key, heard Tate’s acknowledgment, relayed Louise Rabb’s information. As the two men spoke, a sign materialized beside the road: ISLETON, 10 MILES, POP. 6,040, ELEV. 12 FEET.

  “Another twenty miles,” Bernhardt said, speaking to Tate. “Any sign we’re being followed?”

  “Who’s to say? There’re three or four cars strung out back there. But they’re just headlights in the mirror.”

  “In Isleton, in town, let’s pull over and stop, talk about this.”

  “Right. You pull over. I’ll drive past you, then walk back, get into your car. In back.”

  “Good.”

  10:20 P.M., PDT

  “IT SOUNDS TO ME,” Tate said, “like the two of you should park not too close to the gate of the cemetery. Hopefully, you should get your car out of sight. I should also park out of sight, but in a different direction, not close to your car. You should take the shovel, the two of you, and go into the cemetery, and dig up the loot—while I keep out of sight.”

  They sat in Bernhardt’s station wagon. Staring straight ahead, acutely alert, Bernhardt sat behind the steering wheel. Half turned in the seat, Louise was looking back at Tate, who sat in the rear seat. Behind Tate, the shovel angled over the seat. Bernhardt’s canvas equipment bag was in the baggage compartment behind the rear seat. Like Bernhardt, Tate was scanning the cars that passed and the few pedestrians abroad in Isleton on a humid Sunday night in April. The Honda was parked in the center of town, on the north side of the square. Bernhardt looked at Louise, whose attention was still sharp-focused on C. B. Tate. Was she reassured by the big, burly black man? Or was she frightened? Did she distrust Tate because he was black? Did she, therefore, fear that Tate would kill them and take the treasure? As if she sensed Bernhardt’s unspoken questions, Louise now looked at him directly, fully. The message in her eyes was abject confusion compounded by fear and longing and, yes, suspicion.

  To explore, probe the open sore, Bernhardt asked quietly, “What d’you think, Louise? How’s that sound to you?”

  “I wish Tony was here,” she blurted. “Him and his people, with their guns. I wish they were here.”

  “I do, too,” Bernhardt confessed. “But they aren’t. And if we’re going to do this, we do it tonight. Now. Right now.”

  Bitterly, unpredictably, she snorted, a harsh, rough exclamation. “We’ve got to do it. It’s all over with me if I don’t get those jewels. You know that.” She spoke as if she were challenging him.

  “Okay, then.” He twisted behind the steering wheel to look squarely at Tate. “Okay, let’s do it. You want to take the sawed-off in your car?”

  “It’s whatever you say, Alan. It’s your show.” Inscrutably half smiling, Tate spoke so softly that his voice could have been a caress. Bernhardt recognized the mannerism. When violence beckoned, Tate grew still, focused inward.

  “Take the sawed-off,” Bernhardt said. He watched Tate rummage in the canvas bag, come up with the shotgun, broken down into three pieces. Deftly, Tate assembled the gun, loaded it, slipped a handful of extra shells in the pocket of his jacket. Seeing Louise’s eyes grow large as she watched, Tate smiled reassuringly, patted the sawed-off affectionately. “This,” he said, “is big medicine. With one of these, nobody bothers you.”

  She said nothing, gave no sign that she’d heard. Unconcerned, Tate opened the rear door, got out, slipped the sawed-off up inside his jacket, concealed.

  “See you at the cemetery.” Tate waved once, then moved down the sidewalk to his Ford, parked a block away.

  11:10 P.M., PDT

  “THEY’RE MOVING,” CHIN SAID. “Let’s go. Slowly.”

  Fabrese started the Buick’s engine, put the car in gear.

  “Not too fast,” Chin said as he studied the scanner. They were passing a lopsided sign that advertised motel rooms with phones and TVs. The scanner’s digital readout showed Bernhardt’s car at 347 degrees, traveling almost due north. Ahead, Chin saw Isleton materializing: a random collection of buildings surrounding a nondescript town square. Except for the lights of the town, there was only darkness.

  “You’d better slow down,” Chin said. “We’ve got to find a road out of town that runs north.”

  “It can’t be too much farther now. Christ, there’s nothing out here.”

  “Which means,” Chin said, “that we must be especially careful. If we’re only three cars on a deserted road, we’re vulnerable.” They were approaching the Isleton town square now. The streets were almost deserted; in the whole downtown district, there were only two traffic lights. “There.” Chin pointed to an intersection ahead. “That must be it.”

  “Fowler’s Landing? That road?”

  “Yes.”

  As they made the turn, Chin saw one of the scanner’s five indicator lights blink off, leaving only two still lit. “Speed up a little.” He glanced at the speedometer. “They’re probably doing fifty-five or sixty.”

  As Fabrese increased their speed, the lights of Isleton quickly faded behind, leaving a darkness that surrounded them on all sides. Using a small flashlight to scan the map opened across his legs, Chin verified that they were traveling a road that followed a levee built along the western bank of the estuary that bordered Isleton, the largest town on the San Joaquin delta. Fowler’s Landing, the next town, didn’t show on the map.

  The spike mike tapped into Louise Rabb’s living room had recorded a reference to Fowler’s Landing. But then the two women had gone into another room, probably the kitchen. At that distance their voices had been unintelligible. Later, though, there’d been talk of a grave.

  “Christ, it’s dark out here.” Fabrese’s expression was uneasy as he stared resentfully out into the darkness. Except for the two cars far ahead, pinpoints of red taillights, the road was deserted. “This is the goddam middle of nowhere.”

  “Perhaps you have lived too long in New York.” As Chin said it he glanced at the scanner, then at his compass. Yes, the two headings corresponded: 330 degrees. And, yes, Bernhardt and Tate were holding a steady sixty, about a mile and a half ahead.

  “I have a feeling,” Chin said, “that they’re going to Fowler’s Landing.”
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br />   “Well, then,” Fabrese said, his voice heavily sarcastic, “Don’t you think maybe we should make some plans, figure out how we’re going to handle this? For instance, that M-Sixteen. Don’t you think we should pull over and get it out of the trunk? The way I see it, that M-Sixteen might be all the edge we have. But it sure as shit won’t help locked up.”

  “You’re right, of course. But you should consider that, if we have it here, in the passenger’s compartment, and we’re stopped by the police, we would have to kill them.”

  Fabrese took his eyes off the road, looked at the other man. Chin allowed himself a small smile. The message: yes, Chin would do it—kill a policeman, no questions asked. Suddenly Fabrese felt himself go hollow at his center. How had it happened that he was driving down this dark, deserted two-lane road, heading for a tiny town he’d never heard of, taking orders from a Chinaman he hadn’t even known a week ago? All he’d had was a name and a city: Brian Chin, available for hire, an independent operator with an organization that ticked like a watch.

  Strange bedfellows, someone had once written.

  Dead bedfellows?

  Now Chin was nodding. Saying quietly: “All right. Pull over.”

  As Fabrese braked the car to a stop, Chin reached across, took the keys from the ignition, swung the passenger door open. There was a thump as the trunk lid came up, another thump as the lid slammed down. Carrying the compact rifle, Chin reappeared beside the car and got back in. He handed over the keys, glanced at the scanner as the Buick’s engine came to life. Only one of the five distance calibration lights shone.

  “Hurry,” Chin urged. “We’re losing them. Floorboard it.”

  As the car surged forward, screaming through the gears at full throttle, tires shrieking, rear end fishtailing, Chin braced himself as he turned the rifle upside down, checked the magazine. Yes, the tab showed twenty cartridges, a full load. He drew back the bolt, let it slam forward, set the safety, and tested it. The rifle was ready to fire. He propped it on the floor, with the barrel between his thigh and the door panel. The car was rocking precariously as it gathered speed: eighty-five, and still accelerating. The scanner still showed only one light; the heading was still constant. Ahead, the road was completely dark, with no winking taillights.

  “That’s fast enough for this road,” Chin said. “Back off.”

  “What’s the scanner say?”

  “It says back off, dammit.”

  Fabrese glanced at the speedometer; the needle touched ninety. He eased off, gripped the wheel more firmly. Asking: “So what is the goddam plan? I say we should wait until they start digging, then hit them.”

  “Are you willing to kill them?” Chin asked the question quietly, frowning slightly as he spoke, as if he were puzzled. “All three of them? Is it worth that much to you?”

  “For half a million, I’m ready to kill them.” But as he said it, Fabrese felt conviction dissolve, fall away. Only the emptiness was left, most certainly revealed in his face, himself betraying himself, his own worst enemy. It had always been like this, the prisoner of his own fear, a nameless desperation that numbed the senses, left him helpless.

  Never had he killed anyone. Never.

  On the scanner, the second light came on. Then, quickly, a third.

  “Slow down,” Chin ordered sharply. “Fifty. Forty-five. Now.”

  As Fabrese stepped on the brake, Chin spoke calmly, concisely: “If we can, we will do as you say. But we must be careful. The woman, surely, will be present, wherever it is that they dig. And one of the men, too. But the other man will probably be the lookout. So we must be very careful. Very deliberate.” As he spoke, Chin saw the lights of a town materializing ahead. Just as, a half hour ago, Isleton had materialized on the eastern horizon.

  Fowler’s Landing.

  Certainly, Fowler’s Landing was just ahead.

  There were four taillights ahead now. And a shift in heading. Bernhardt was slowing for the tiny town, and now turning thirty degrees to the north, away from the levee road.

  “Slow down to about twenty,” Chin said. “We’re close now. Very close.”

  11:40 P.M., PDT

  EXCEPT FOR ONE TAVERN that had attracted a small cluster of cars and pickups, the single main street of Fowler’s Landing was deserted. Downshifting, Bernhardt spoke into the walkie-talkie: “We’re in town. Where’re you?”

  “Maybe a mile behind you,” Tate answered.

  “Any lights in your mirror?”

  “There was one pair until a few minutes ago. Then they either doused their lights or else turned off. Jesus, this place is empty. I never been in a place like this.”

  Bernhardt smiled, a surprise to himself. “What’s the matter, C.B.? Afraid of the dark?”

  “Man, maybe that’s it. Seems like I want to feel the pavement, see a few streetlights, even if they’re busted out.”

  “Well, just think about—”

  “There,” Louise interrupted, pointing to a narrow road that led off into the night. Repeating urgently: “There, that’s the road to the cemetery.”

  “How far on that road?”

  “Two miles,” she answered. “Maybe three.” Her voice was hushed. In the dim light, her eyes were awed. Bernhardt saw her swallow once—twice. Watching her, he felt the sudden emptiness of fear.

  He turned onto the road, stopped, switched off his lights. Leaving the engine running, he keyed the walkie-talkie again. Saying: “We’re on the last leg, C.B. When you get into town, you’ll see a tavern on your right. It’s the only place that’s open, as far as I can see. Drive two streets past the tavern, then turn right. You’ll see me, parked. When we see each other, I’ll move out. Louise says the road is gravel once we get away from town. I’m going to use my parking lights.”

  “How far should I stay back?”

  “Maybe two hundred yards, something like that.”

  “Right.”

  “How’re your butterflies behaving?”

  “No comment.”

  There was a short silence. Then, still staring straight ahead, Louise said, “You’re friends, the two of you. Aren’t you?” In her voice, Bernhardt could clearly hear a kind of puzzlement. In her forty years, had she known many blacks? Any blacks?

  “That’s right,” he said, “we’re friends.”

  “Is he a private investigator, too?”

  “No. He’s a bounty hunter. A very successful bounty hunter.”

  She frowned. “What’s that mean—bounty hunter?”

  “If someone is arrested, the judge sets bail. If the bad guy can put up ten percent, a bailbondsman posts the rest of it with the court. If the bad guy jumps bail, the court issues a warrant, and the bailbondsman pays C.B. to go find the bad guy and bring him back.”

  She nodded, then said, “The woman—Paula. She works for you.”

  Bernhardt considered, decided to say, “She works for me part-time. Otherwise—” He hesitated. “Otherwise, we’re friends. Good friends.”

  “She seems very nice. Pretty, too. Very pretty.”

  “When she got out of college, she tried acting, down in Hollywood. She was off to a good start. But then she made the mistake of marrying a scriptwriter.” Ruefully, he smiled. “Don’t let Angela marry a scriptwriter. She—”

  In the mirror, he saw headlights, quickly replaced by parking lights. Tate had found the turnoff. Bernhardt spoke into the walkie-talkie: “Okay, here I go. Let’s see how the parking lights work on this road.” He put the Honda in gear, moved out. The graveled road was narrow and uneven, but there was enough moonlight to avoid the worst of the potholes. Ahead, in the direction of the levee, Bernhardt saw a low-lying whiteness.

  “Fog,” Louise said.

  “Do you think it’ll come in over the cemetery?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been here at night.”

  Now they were passing a cluster of buildings on the right: apparently a house surrounded by several one-story warehouses.

  “That’s a c
atfish farm,” Louise said. “As far as I know, except for stores that sell bait and tackle to weekend fishermen, that’s the only business around here that amounts to anything.”

  “How much farther?”

  “I think we’re about halfway.”

  Bernhardt relayed the information to Tate, adding, “There’s fog ahead, it looks like. It’s coming from the water—the estuary.”

  “I see it,” Tate answered.

  “Anything behind you?”

  “Nothing.” Then: “Maybe the fog’s a plus.”

  “Maybe,” Bernhardt answered.

  “How much farther?”

  “Less than a mile.” Bernhardt looked at Louise for confirmation.

  She nodded, licked her lips, nodded again. She raised her hand to point ahead. “There. It’s right up there, across the road from that little grove of trees.”

  “This road—does it continue on, beyond the cemetery?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve only been here twice since the funeral.” She considered, then spoke defensively: “See, I haven’t had a car since my mother died.”

  “The checks from your father quit coming. Is that it?”

  “They came, but not so often. And not so big. My father didn’t like my choice of husbands. And he didn’t like Walter, either. Walter Draper, the guy I was living with in San Francisco.”

  “So he cut back on your checks.”

  She made no reply.

  “Do you have any idea how deep the stuff’s buried?”

  “No.”

  “Bacardo came up here yesterday to look things over. Could he guess how hard it’d be to dig it up?”

  “He didn’t think it’d take long. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “I keep wondering,” Bernhardt said, “whether he could’ve gotten the treasure when he came up here. I keep wondering whether he’s made Cella a present of it, to show his loyalty.” Without waiting for a response, Bernhardt went to the walkie-talkie again: “C.B.”

  “Right here.”

  “There’s a little grove of trees up ahead, right across from the entrance to the cemetery. If possible, I’ll park in there, out of sight. The road probably goes on. See if you can find a place beyond the cemetery to park so you’re concealed. Then take the guns and walk back to me. I’ll wait at my car for you. If everything looks all right, Louise and I’ll go into the cemetery. You can stay near my car, out of sight.”