Beyond the Grave

by Judy Clemens

  “Dottie could have said no.”

  “To her only friend? Not such an easy thing.”

  If you were a wimp with no moral foundation. “So what happened? Why did Marianne disappear?”

  “They struck a deal there in the graveyard, before coming back to town. There, in view of the farmhouse where it had all happened. Where our daughter lay in her grave.” His lips trembled, and his face crumpled before he regained control. “Marianne said she would leave if Dottie agreed to stay quiet about what happened. At least that way Dottie could live her life, even if Marianne couldn’t live hers. That would be punishment for her. To be away from her family, to never be in touch with them again. Dottie didn’t want to do it, but Marianne wouldn’t hear any other way.”

  Was that what Death had felt that night at the cemetery? This dark conspiracy to pervert justice? Was the evil of their decision still hovering over that place?

  “So instead of telling the truth and accepting their own disgrace, they punished Marianne’s family.” Casey couldn’t stop the judgment from leaking into her voice. “Let them think Marianne had simply abandoned them. Kept Nell from knowing what happened to her grandmother.”

  Vern stood up, his eyes sparking. “Who are you to judge? Those women made Dottie’s life a living—” He choked on the word. “—a living hell. They blamed Dottie for our daughter’s death! Having to go through with the birth almost killed her, physically and emotionally, and all the others did was make it worse. Are those the people you’re so worried about?”

  How did she answer that? Of course it was horrible, how they’d treated her. But that didn’t make it okay to be horrible back, and cause one of them to die. Where the hell was Death when she needed help? Death was always running off these days.

  Casey looked at the sorrow and anger and fear in Vern’s eyes. Fear? That she was going to tell someone? That she would go to the cops?

  A valid fear.

  Vern was waiting for her answer.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  The doorbell rang.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Just as the last time Casey answered the door, Nell stood on the stoop. Tonight she wore a jacket over plaid pajamas tucked into her cowgirl boots.

  “Nell? I thought you went home.”

  “I came back. Mom’s working and Dad’s gone on a business trip. I have to stay with Grandpa, and he takes me to school.”

  Casey looked out at the street, but Nell was alone. “Where is he? And why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Grandpa’s sick. I thought maybe you could help.”

  So she came here, the place Death had visited that very night, where something evil hovered. The girl had no way of knowing that. She had simply come to find a friend.

  Casey glanced at Vern, who had given up waiting for Casey’s apology, or explanation, and dropped back onto the puffy chair, head in his hands.

  Casey stepped outside and shut the door behind her. “What’s wrong with your grandpa? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “He’s throwing up. Says his stomach hurts and…” She leaned closer. “It’s coming out the other end, too.”

  Yuck. “Something he ate?”

  “He thinks so. He’s all dizzy and his stomach is making these weird rumbling sounds. And he’s hot, too. All sweaty.”

  Yup. Sounded like food poisoning.

  “How can I help? From what I know, you pretty much just have to get through it.”

  “Yeah. He said that, too, but he feels so bad.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Can we get him something from the store? My mom cleaned all the stuff out of his medicine cabinet because she said it was too old, and he doesn’t have anything.”

  Could Casey leave Vern? Actually, it might be good. Give them some space. Let them both cool off. “Let me grab the keys.”

  The living room was empty, and there was no sign of Vern. Probably for the best.

  The store’s security lights cast an eerie glow over the parking lot, the grill and rusty car silhouetted against the front wall. Casey unlocked the door, disarmed the alarm, and turned on the lights.

  “Come on. First aid, this way.”

  But she didn’t have to tell the girl. Nell strode straight to the aisle where the medicines sat in paltry rows.

  “How about this?” Casey held out a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. The expiration date was a couple months in the future. It should still be good.

  “He says that stuff makes him throw up more.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. Maybe this?” She offered a box of Imodium, which cost three times what you would pay at a big store, and had a fine layer of dust on the top.

  “I guess. Does it work?”

  “It’s worth a try.” But nothing much worked for food poisoning except getting it all out.

  Gross.

  Casey studied the rest of the meds. “I’m not sure what else to suggest, unless you want to go with Sprite and crackers and chicken soup.”

  “That’s what Mom always gives me.”

  “Mine, too. Although sometimes she gave me Coke because—”

  The overhead lights flickered off, and the security lights snapped on.

  Nell jumped next to Casey and grabbed her arm. Casey stood very still. What was happening?

  Death appeared at the end of the aisle, all wild hair and long coat, like the professor from Back to the Future. “Get out of here. Go!”

  Nell blinked. “Who are you?”

  No time for Death to say, “I told you so.”

  Casey grabbed Nell and ran toward the front, but Vern filled the doorway. In his hands he held a rifle. Casey recognized it from the hunting photo posted above the cashier’s window. Instead of using it for animals, however, it was now pointed at her.

  And Nell.

  Casey shoved Nell behind her. “Vern, what are you doing?”

  “He’s got more of a story to tell,” Death said. “But he thinks you already know it.”

  Casey held out her hands. “You don’t want to do this.”

  Vern’s eyes were glassy. “She did it for us. We did it for us.”

  He steadied the rifle. Casey tackled Nell and dove as the gun fired. Chips and pretzels went flying, salty shrapnel of crumbs.

  “Get up!” Casey yelled. “Up! Up!” Casey pulled Nell to her feet and pushed her ahead toward the deli, aiming for the door opened to the parking lot.

  The gun boomed and drinks on the shelves to their left exploded, showering them with pop and lemonade and plastic.

  Casey shoved Nell to the right, down the carbs aisle, toward the back door.

  Vern roared and shot again, sending flour and day-old donuts pelting against Casey’s back as she crouched over Nell, protecting her. Clacking sounds echoed and, too late, Casey realized Vern had reloaded the gun.

  “Nell!” Death gestured from the right. “Come with me.”

  A bullet whizzed past, embedding itself in the far wall, above the canned soup and chicken broth.

  Casey shoved Nell toward Death, away from the last possible exit, trusting her to listen and go where Death led.

  Nell hesitated, but a glance behind Casey sent her running. Casey ducked and rolled to the left, hoping to take Vern’s attention from Nell. She jumped up and ran several aisles down, hiding behind the almost-expired cereal.

  “We had to do it!” Vern called.

  “You already said that. You sent Marianne away to save yourselves.” Casey ran on her toes, circling behind Vern. She peered around a stack of newspapers and viewed Vern’s back as he stalked toward the end of the aisle. When he reached the far side, he spun, catching a glimpse of her. He swung the rifle toward her.

  “Don’t!” Casey yelled.

  Vern’s hands trembled, and Casey was afraid he would shoot her by accident.

&n
bsp; “I won’t tell anyone.” Casey figured God would forgive her for lying in this instance. Because she sure as hell was going to tell someone the moment she had a chance. She should have done it earlier, as soon as she left the house.

  Tears ran down Vern’s face. “Dottie didn’t mean to do it. She couldn’t have.”

  Wait. What? “I thought Marianne planned the whole thing.”

  “Change of subject.” Death was back, hunkered beside Casey, hiding behind the shelving as if a bullet wouldn’t go straight through those Reaper clothes, which, truth be told, were looking a bit ragged.

  “Where’s Nell?”

  “Walk-in freezer. I figured bullets couldn’t get to her there.”

  “Good.” The girl would be cold, but not dead.

  “Who are you talking to?” Vern demanded.

  “No one.” She held up her hands. “Vern, what are you telling me? What did Dottie do?”

  He sobbed once. Again. “She got rid of Marianne. She made her disappear.”

  Casey stared. “What?”

  “It’s true.” Death’s countenance was grim. “Dottie told me.”

  “They were running away,” Vern said. “From the party. They were scared, Dottie was angry.” He swiped at his nose with his left sleeve. “They got to the cemetery. Dottie reached the car before she realized Marianne wasn’t with her. She went back. Marianne…” He hiccupped. “She tripped in the dark and hit her head on a gravestone. Dottie tried to wake her up.”

  Casey realized with growing horror where this story was going. She looked at Death, who nodded. “Remember the bad feeling I got when we were out there? I knew something was wrong.”

  “What did she do?”

  Tears dripped from Vern’s chin. “She didn’t mean to.”

  “She did,” Death said.

  “She killed her?”

  “No!” Vern waved the rifle. “She got in the car and drove home. She told me Marianne hit her head. I wanted to call the ambulance, but she said no, we needed to go back. Get her. Take care of it.”

  “So, yes,” Death said, “she killed her.”

  Casey spoke in a whisper. “How could you not know?”

  “There’s no grave for her out there,” Death answered. “No marked one, I mean. And I hadn’t come that particular Halloween night to gather her or the other woman. One of my yamadutas had taken care of it.”

  “Flimsy excuse.”

  “It was Halloween. Crazy things were happening all over the world. How was I to know some little Idaho town would be important someday? I can’t remember every person who’s ever died. There have been billions.”

  “How could I not know?” Vern brought himself back into the conversation, assuming Casey’s question had been for him. He shifted his stance, and Casey warily watched his finger on the trigger. “I couldn’t know. I didn’t. She wouldn’t do such a thing, not my Dottie.” He sniffed, an ugly, nauseating snort. “She hid Marianne’s camera in the garage, and got some other supplies. We drove back to the cemetery. She was quiet the whole way, wouldn’t tell me what had happened. Wouldn’t say anything about the party.”

  “She told me they hadn’t been invited,” Casey said. “Did you know they were going anyway?”

  “She told me they were going to the church, to hand out candy and popcorn.”

  Casey couldn’t believe it. Dottie had lied to Vern?

  “So you got to the graveyard…”

  He squeezed the gun and Casey stepped left, behind the shelving where she could still see him. Her legs knocked something, tripping her, and she felt around to find the box of Halloween decorations she had been working on earlier that day. Her fingers fell on the cold metal of the scissors, and she gripped it, point out. Ready.

  “Marianne wasn’t breathing. I told Dottie we needed to take her to the hospital. Dottie said no, because we would have to tell everyone she and Marianne threatened all those women. Had killed Amelia. Bill’s wife. Gracie’s mother.”

  The barrel of the rifle dropped as Vern’s shoulders sagged. His eyes closed.

  “She was so tired of getting blamed for everything. My father’s heart attack, our baby’s death. Ruining this town by marrying me. She just...she couldn’t take being blamed for the Halloween party, too.”

  Casey took three steps forward to disarm him, but his eyes snapped open and he swung the rifle up. Casey grabbed the barrel with her left hand and tried to wrench it from his hands. He was bigger and stronger—and crazed—and held on. Casey hooked her foot around his leg, but with the size difference, she couldn’t get the balance she needed to have any effect. Casey let go of the barrel and swung herself onto his back, looping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, squeezing as tightly as she could. She clutched the scissors with her right hand but didn’t want to stab him if she could cut off his air supply long enough…

  He scrabbled at her arms, clawing with his fingernails, stumbling across the aisle, swinging her, trying to knock her off.

  Casey squeezed harder. She wished she could go for his eyes, his nose, but needed both arms to have any effect on a man his size.

  He lumbered sideways into the cookies, knocking the shelving so hard it fell over. Casey cried out at the impact, and her arms loosened. Vern swung her again, this time at the opposite side of the aisle. The impact sent rolls and day-old bread tumbling to the floor, along with Casey. Vern brought up the rifle, pointing it at her as she sprawled on the floor.

  Casey held up her hands. “Please.”

  Instead of shooting, Vern grabbed the barrel of the gun and swung it. Casey held up her arm to block it, and heard her bone snap as it hit.

  She screamed. Death swirled around Vern in a cold funnel cloud. Vern drew up, shivering, looking toward the ceiling as if the air conditioner had suddenly come on full blast.

  Casey jumped up and staggered away, holding her arm to her chest. She contemplated the back exit, but couldn’t leave Nell in the freezer. What if Vern came after Casey and got her? Who would save Nell? With her right arm, she reached for her phone to dial 911. Whistler or Austin could be there within minutes.

  She rested her broken arm on a shelf along with the scissors, while she tried to pull her phone from her left back pocket. “Vern? Vern? What happened next?” If she could keep him talking she could distract him until she made the call and the cops got there.

  He didn’t speak. Casey strained to hear any sound that would tell her what he was doing. Footsteps. Sniffs. Both came toward her.

  “I could see the lights at the farm. Red and blue, flashing. The cops and ambulance were there. It would have been so easy to call them…”

  “But Dottie refused?” Ah, finally, the phone slid out. She dialed 911.

  “She said we couldn’t. The town already hated us. Well, her.” His lips trembled.

  “So what did you do?”

  The dispatcher’s voice came over the phone. “What is your emergency?”

  “Vern’s. Come quickly.”

  Vern let out a sob. “Dottie brought a shovel. There was a grave that was used a month or two earlier.” His eyelids fluttered, like he was having a seizure. “We put Marianne in the hole. Covered her up. Left her there. We drove home with our lights off so no one from the farm would see us.”

  “I have your position,” the dispatcher said. “What is your emergency?”

  Casey heard his footsteps coming her way from the right. She got up to run, but a wave of nausea and dizziness hit her so hard she dropped back to the floor. She shifted to the left and hid in the shadow of a stack of baked beans. The shelving behind her tilted, knocked off its level stance by one of Vern’s earlier shots. Vern came into view at the end of the aisle, a dark blotch lit from the back by a security light.

  “Stay on the line,” the dispatcher said.

  “What is that?” Ve
rn said. “Who’s talking?”

  Casey hung up on the dispatcher and slid her phone back in her pocket. She picked up the scissors and held it, point out. The cops had her location. She had to hope they got there quickly. Until then, she had to stop him from firing. She watched his hands. “So Marianne did disappear. But not with another man.”

  “They disappeared her.” Death stood beside Vern in a police uniform. “Stuck her in the ground when—”

  “—she wasn’t even dead,” Casey said.

  Vern wailed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The rifle fell alongside his leg.

  What could Casey say to keep him from raising the gun again? It’s okay? It will be all right? You did what you had to do?

  No.

  Watching the end of the rifle’s barrel, she got to her knees, keeping out of its target zone. Nell was still in the freezer, getting colder by the second, but Casey couldn’t let her out until the threat of a bullet was gone. All she had to do was wait it out until the cops got there.

  But were these young cops trained for this? Would Vern turn the gun on them?

  Casey crawled from the shadow and grabbed onto the opposite shelving with her good hand, pulling herself to her feet. She spoke as gently as she could. As quietly as possible for him to still hear her. “Vern, Give me the gun. Please.”

  He kept crying. “I can’t let you tell anyone. She was a good person. If they’d just given her a chance.”

  “Marianne gave her a chance.”

  “No. Marianne took away any chance she had to survive in this town.”

  “By being her friend?”

  “If it hadn’t been for her, the others would have come around. They would have.”