Past Dying (The Alan Graham Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

“Then get religion.”

  I caught Libby’s eye and she was smiling in a way I hadn’t seen since Sam had had his attack.

  “Now calm down,” she said, smoothing his sheet. “You don’t want to get too excited.”

  “Hell, excitement’s what I need. Send in a couple of dozen Mexican soldiers and give me a Bowie knife.”

  “I’ll come back later,” I promised him. “You take care.”

  “Don’t forget my Dant.”

  Pepper would be in class all morning, so I went back to the Louisiana Room at Hill Memorial Library on the university campus and read about the Bowie brothers. I was hunting for references to silver mines, treasure, or anything that might have suggested a silver salting scheme in Cane River Parish, but I had no luck. When I couldn’t justify my absence any longer, I went to the office and stoically endured Marilyn’s latest lament.

  “We can’t go on like this, Alan,” she declared, a five-foot-tall dynamo scowling up at me.

  “Are you telling me our marriage is over?”

  “Don’t be flippant. This is serious. Unless Clarence at the bank ups our credit line …”

  “What about the check we got the other day?”

  “We had to pay bills. They were threatening to shut off the lights.”

  “There should be a payment from DOTD any day,” I said. “They’re just slow.”

  “They haven’t ever paid the retainage from the last project. We can’t survive getting paid only ninety percent of what we’re owed.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She spun on her heel and left. It was a routine we were both used to, but she was right: We couldn’t survive without money. So far we’d been lucky, but counting on luck wasn’t conducive to business longevity.

  I read over a draft report we’d done for a pipeline company, signed some checks, and left for evening visiting hours, which began at five P.M. Sam informed me the ugly nurse was back. Libby told me they had an angiogram scheduled for tomorrow morning and that it would determine whether Sam would need open heart surgery. I reassured her that open heart surgery was almost routine these days and tried to make myself feel nonchalant about it. Sam was elderly but he was strong. If he’d made it this far, surgery would be a snap.

  When I got home there was a message from Jeff on my machine.

  I returned his call and got him on his direct line.

  “I didn’t know you were going home,” he accused.

  “Yeah, well, some things came up.”

  “What’s the matter, Alan? Are you upset or something?”

  “There wasn’t any accident on Highway 20 Sunday night.”

  There was a long silence.

  “No. I lied. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s kinda personal.”

  “So is my going up there and risking my ass for you.”

  “Look, it was a woman, okay? I just didn’t want word to spread all over creation.”

  “Why? You’re old enough.”

  “Yeah, well, there are some negatives associated with the situation. I’ve got to work through it all. Trust me, Alan.”

  “Damn it, Jeff, if this is something—”

  “Please …”

  “Do you know Carline Flynn?”

  “Ross Flynn’s daughter? Sure. I told you, she was getting it on with Jacko and …” Another silence. “Hey, you don’t think …”

  “I’ve heard it said,” I told him.

  “Well, it’s a lie. I haven’t seen the girl for three months— since right before Jacko went missing. Hell, she’s seventeen years old. Who told you this?”

  “I don’t want any trouble for my source.”

  “Jesus, Alan, what are you, a priest? Okay, no trouble: Now who.”

  I told him.

  “I might have known. She was jealous as hell. Look, Carline ran off from school to come see Jacko and I caught up with her and called her daddy. I kept her in the Ramada in Natchez until he could come take her back to school.”

  “Across a state line? Natchez is in Mississippi.”

  “It was what was best for the girl.”

  I breathed relief. I wanted to believe him and it made sense.

  “Well, I can’t get back for the time being,” I told him and explained about Sam and his angiogram. “I’ve got to stick around here tomorrow.”

  “I understand. But Alan …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just get back when you can.”

  I was at the hospital the next morning and stayed through Sam’s angiogram long enough to hear there was ninety-five percent blockage of the arteries. I headed back to the CCU. Sam still wasn’t back from the operating room, but Libby was in the hallway with a slightly plump, white-coated doctor.

  “Sam has to have a bypass,” she said. “Dr. Gomez says it’s the only way to keep him from having another attack.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Gomez said. “I’ve already called the surgeon.”

  “And it’ll take care of the problem?” I asked.

  Gomez shrugged. “A man his age, weight, I’d say the odds are about seventy-five percent the procedure will be a success.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “The average is ten years. No guarantees.”

  Libby bit her lip. “Sam told me already if the angiogram showed blockage he wouldn’t go for an operation.”

  “He has to,” I said.

  “You know Sam.”

  And I did. He was stubborn.

  “When will he be back?” I asked.

  “Inside the hour,” the cardiologist said.

  I turned to Libby. “I’ll come back and see him then.”

  I called Pepper at the university and told her about Sam, then went to my office. In the early afternoon I went back to the hospital. This time Sam was lying propped up in bed while Libby stood beside him.

  “These quacks want to cut me open,” he said when he saw me.

  “Then you better let ’em,” I said, taking a chair.

  “Not a chance. I know that surgeon, damn it. He was in my introductory physical anthropology class. He didn’t know a cranium from a clavicle.”

  “Maybe he’s learned something since.”

  “I’d rather just lie here and let nature take its course. Old men aren’t supposed to live forever, anyway.”

  “No.”

  He looked from Libby to me and mouthed the words I’d never expected to hear: “I’m scared.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Alan, I can’t stand the idea of them putting that mask over my face. Even if they give me a shot first, what if …”

  “I don’t know, Sam. It would scare me, too.”

  “Libby says the kids are coming in tomorrow.” They had a son and daughter living in far-flung parts of the country.

  “I feel like a damn turkey, all plucked and ready.”

  “You’ll be better after the operation.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  I got up. “It’s your decision, but we’d like to have you around for a while yet.”

  There was a long silence.

  “You really think I ought to have this thing?”

  “I do.”

  He turned his head to look over at Libby. “Then just this once,” he said.

  She squeezed his hand and gave me a smile.

  “I’ll be here,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  If I’d known then what was about to happen I’d never have made such a promise.

  SEVENTEEN

  I’d just come in at nine-thirty, after my evening visit with Sam, and Pepper was working at the computer she’d set up on a table next to mine, in the study. When the phone rang, my skin went cold, because, even though Sam had looked good when I’d seen him twenty minutes ago, you never could tell.

  But it wasn’t Libby calling about Sam. Instead, it was a man’s voice, breathless.r />
  “Dr. Graham?”

  Where had I heard that voice before?

  “This is Clovis Hightower, from Port Gibson. You and the lady came to see me the other day.”

  “I remember. How did you get my home number?”

  “It’s listed. And I’m very glad it is. We need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You don’t understand, Dr. Graham. There’s something I need to discuss with you. I … I need your help. We need to meet.”

  “There’s no way, Mr. Hightower. It’ll have to be over the phone.”

  “Dr. Graham, please … I don’t know anyone else. This is urgent. I have to see you tonight.”

  “I said I can’t.”

  “Then first thing tomorrow morning. Please …”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about a crime. A terrible crime. It’s all gone too far. This has to stop before—”

  “Before what?”

  “Before something else happens.”

  “Why don’t you call the sheriff?”

  “No.” The word emerged as a hiss. “Things have to be … arranged. I need someone who isn’t part of the official apparatus.”

  “What crime are you talking about, Mr. Hightower?”

  “Don’t play games, Dr. Graham. You know. First there was the old man, then the other one, and if this isn’t settled …”

  “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

  “A trick? My God, man, do you think I’d risk calling like this if I wasn’t serious? I’m afraid, for God’s sake. Things are out of hand.” There was no mistaking the hysteria in his voice.

  “Does this have to do with the piece of the Spanish coin we showed you?” I asked.

  “Yes. No. I mean, the coin isn’t relevant. It’s … Listen, I’ll explain it all, but I can’t talk anymore. Meet me tomorrow at the River Oaks Motel. Natchez. As early as you can get there. I’m in room 211.”

  I tried to think: Sam’s operation was scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. There was no way I could be both places.

  “If you don’t come,” the man on the other end warned, “it will be on your head. And another thing: This is between you and me. Don’t tell Scully. I don’t trust him.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  I lowered the receiver from my ear and turned to Pepper.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Who was that?”

  I told her. “He wants me to meet him in Natchez tomorrow morning.”

  “But what about Sam?”

  “I don’t know. He says if I don’t come, he’ll run.” Pepper frowned. “But what can Hightower know? Unless …”

  “Right: unless he’s in this up to his eyeballs.”

  “Then call Jeff. Get his help.”

  “That’s what I thought at first but I’m not sure that’s the best thing to do.” I explained about Jeff’s lie. “He says he and Carline aren’t involved but there was something about his explanation, an evasiveness. And Hightower said specifically he didn’t want Scully involved.”

  “Alan, you don’t think Jeff is in this?”

  “Two days ago I’d have said it was crazy. Now …”

  She faced me, blue eyes earnest. “So what do you plan to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. I can tell.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ll agonize about it and have bad dreams but in the end you’ll go. You’ll tell yourself that being here isn’t going to affect Sam, that I can stay and fill in for you, and that I can make apologies, and that you can’t take the chance High-tower knows something important. And in the end you’ll go and worry about Sam all the way.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Of course. If it seems like my idea it’ll be easier for you.”

  I stared at her. “You’re something.”

  “Yeah.”

  And she was right: I did have bad dreams, with Sam lying on a sacrificial stone slab while an Aztec priest in a white lab coat cut open his chest with an obsidian blade. I was trying to protest that it wasn’t supposed to be done that way, but Sam, alert and seemingly unaffected, was telling me to be quiet, that he was the only man alive to have a chance to witness the ancient sacrificial ritual.

  The memory of the dream dogged me all the way up to Natchez. Sam would be all right: They did a dozen bypasses a week in that hospital. It wasn’t the experimental procedure of thirty years ago. Today it was routine. You just put the patient out, stopped his heart, and … I kept seeing the Aztec priest, holding the pulsing organ up to the sun god. I realized for the first time what my waking grogginess had blocked out: The sun priest had my face.

  The River Oaks was one of a couple of motels on the south side of Natchez, just across Catherine Creek, as you came in on the four-lane. Once it had been a first-class establishment, but the advent of gambling and lodging closer to the river had sent it into decline. Still, it was a decent enough-looking place, two stories of faded green cinder block with half the parking lot empty.

  I had no idea what kind of vehicle Hightower was driving or whether he’d registered under his own name, but he said he’d be in room 211. I parked by the waterless swimming pool and climbed stairs with flaking concrete risers. At the top, a black woman in a white maid’s uniform was stuffing sheets into a hamper on wheels. The room to 209 was open and I figured she’d be at 211 in six or seven minutes. Unless she was bypassing the rooms that were still occupied; nine was a little early to roust out guests.

  I knocked on 211 and waited. No answer. I knocked again.

  The curtains were drawn and I couldn’t tell if there was a light on inside.

  “Mr. Hightower, it’s Alan Graham.”

  No answer.

  I turned to the cleaning woman.

  “Do you know if anyone is still registered for 211?”

  The woman gave a massive shrug. “I ain’t seen nobody. He may be asleep.”

  “Could you open the door just enough for me to see if there’s anybody inside?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I tell you what: You’re headed this way anyhow. I’ll stand back. Just open the door like you’re going to clean the room and tell me if the room’s occupied, how’s that?”

  She gave me a patronizing smile, sighed, and walked over to the door.

  “Housekeeping,” she called and inserted her key.

  No answer, and she twisted the key and then pushed the door open.

  “Anybody inside?”

  She took a step inside and then stopped. I thought she was letting her eyes adjust to the dimness but then I heard her gasp and she said, “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “What is it?”

  But she wouldn’t move, just stood there, rooted, repeating “Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus.”

  I gently pushed the door the rest of the way open and looked over her shoulder.

  At first the room just seemed in need of a cleaning, with sheets pulled down to the rug and a valise open in the middle of the floor. But then, as my eyes took in the details, I saw the red streaks on the wall, the broken mirror, the shoe on the bureau, and, hanging over the bed with his mouth open, the half-naked body of a man I knew must be Clovis Hightower.

  The maid was trembling now, too weak to walk away, and I started away, my gorge rising, then forced myself to turn back for a last, quick look at the scene before the police came and it was changed forever.

  There was blood everywhere, and it was hard to tell whether the murdered man, whose head touched the floor with his upside-down face staring at us, was wearing a red undershirt or whether it was his bare torso that was painted with his blood. I glanced down and saw red tracks on the carpet, heading for the door, but they ended where we were standing. The killer must have removed his shoes.

  All of a sudden I realized I was shaking and at about the time I reached for the rail behind me to steady myself, the maid let out a
long, loud wail.

  I sat down on the first step of the stairway to wait for the police.

  The first cops were a Laurel and Hardy pair in uniform who asked me why I was there, what business I had with the murdered man, and took my driver’s license as if to ensure that I didn’t bolt. When I told them I was looking into a situation for the sheriff of Cane River Parish, they seemed unimpressed, and then I showed them the credentials Jeff had given me.

  “He’s a deputy,” Hardy said to the thin one, and they both looked disgusted. I could understand their response because I didn’t feel very official at that point.

  They left me alone and were quickly replaced by two detectives. One, a sad-looking man with the face of a bloodhound, examined my identification card and the shiny badge Jeff had forced on me that day between Ferriday and Vidalia, and handed them back.

  “Why didn’t you check in with us first?” he asked. “You’re not even in the right state.”

  “I didn’t know there was going to be a crime,” I said and repeated the story of Hightower’s call last night.

  One of the uniforms said, “You know how these country sheriffs are, Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant ignored him. “You didn’t go inside the room.”

  “No.”

  He nodded, and the cell phone in his pocket rang. He listened, said a few words, and then disconnected.

  “Your sheriff’s in the area. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

  I started to say something but kept my mouth shut. Jeff was in the area: Why? He was as far outside his jurisdiction as I was. It didn’t make any sense unless …

  A few minutes later I saw his Bronco swing into the parking lot below and he got out and started up the steps. The sad lieutenant met him halfway down and they shook hands and exchanged some words. Then Jeff, followed by the policeman, came over to where I was leaning against the wall.

  “Rough one, eh, hoss?”

  “Rough,” I said.

  He put a hand on my shoulder and went down the walkway and peered inside the room. Then he came back to where the rest of us stood.

  “I’ll have my deputy here give you a statement and any other cooperation you need,” he said. “It looks like this ties in with something we’re working on in Lordsport. I hope we can share notes.” There were mumbles of assent. “Might be a good idea to search the victim’s place of business. From what you say, he may be in the stolen antiques business.” More mumbles of assent.