And condemned himself a million times over for it.
Because she buried all memories of any woman he’d ever been with, stared at, longed for, or dreamed of. She was the first woman he’d ever seen who possessed true beauty—time’s gift of perfect humility.
Why had he never known enough to see this before?
Passion, grace, and fire, here at the scene of a sexist jerk’s undoing.
Sometimes the heart is captured and its wings are bound.
Sometimes a fantasy comes true before you’ve even had it.
Sometimes you see the soul and just fall in love and can’t do a damn thing about it.
She gathered up her things, toweled her face, and headed toward the showers. As she walked toward Robert, her gaze was fixed solidly on him.
Don’t say anything, he prayed. If you speak to me, I’m in deep.
“Hi,” she said. The peal of bells, that word.
“Hello,” said Robert, feeling school-boy tongue-tied. Okay, keep going and don’t tell me your name; if you tell me your name I’m going to silently add “Londrigan” to it just to see how it sounds.
She held out a hand. “My name’s Denise.”
“Robert,” he replied, taking hold of her hand and feeling about a billion volts of electricity shoot up his arm. I can still make a clean getaway if you don’t smile. Please don’t smile. If you smile, I am good and truly done for.
She released his hand, stood back, said, “It was nice meeting you, Robert,” and walked away.
Robert released a breath, his shoulders slumping, and let his head drop.
That was close.
He picked up his microphone and wound the cord around it, checked his notes one more time, then turned to follow the camera operator outside.
Denise was standing in the doorway.
He froze in his tracks.
And she smiled at him.
Cue the Dragnet theme here, and say hello to love’s discovery.
Chapter 4
The snow had begun falling again, lightly, but seemed heavier because of the sharp, steady wind from the east. The cemetery looked almost pristine, a newly completed ice sculpture.
The mourners clustered near the head of the grave, their backs to the wind. Looking at them with their hair and coats flowing forward, Robert couldn’t shake the feeling that all of them were fighting against some force, unseen and unknown, that was trying to suck them into the ground. He walked around the grave and the eight or nine floral arrangements positioned at the head, noticing as she did that someone had thought to send irises—Denise’s favorite flower. He took a place next to Lynn who, like most, had her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets and was staring at the ground—not into the open grave, mind you, but somewhere just to the right where a bit of soil could still be seen through the snow. A few people, MacIntyre included, folded their arms across their chests and watched the sour sky, blinking against the new snowflakes that fluttered down and clung stubbornly to their eyelashes. Everyone stood in postures that seemed more distracted than grieving. Robert looked around at all the faces, all of their friends, none of whom would meet his gaze. Had they already wrung dry their grief? God. He felt as if he’d stepped into the fifth reel of some impenetrably enigmatic foreign art film, one of those profoundly ponderous black-and-white meditation pieces where no one speaks for minutes on end and then, just when your patience was stretched to the max, some minor character no one has given a second thought to steps into camera range and starts paraphrasing Camus or Borges while the trees melt behind them: A head-on collision between Cocteau and Dali. Even the minister looked surreal, his face something hastily painted on a matryoshka doll, his pear-shaped body standing at the head of the grave with a Bible clutched in one shaking blue-cold hand, squinting as he read the passage committing Denise’s mortal remains to the earth. Completing the requisite benediction, he signaled the men from the funeral home to lower the coffin into the ground. It hissed hydraulically into the cold, dark, open maw of the grave. Robert had to fight the urge to turn away. He didn’t want it to end like this, not with distracted matryoshka mourners and surreal Cocteau prayers and sour snow on an ice-knife wind. Even his own hand looked like some fuzzy image on a movie screen as it scooped up the symbolic handful of frozen death-dirt and tossed it down onto the lid of the coffin. The pear-shaped minister stalked over, misting some words of comfort, then grimly wobbled away. Most of the mourners stopped to say something. Robert nodded slightly and returned their embraces or handshakes as he tried to smile and thanked them, catching a peripheral glance of a sad-eyed MacIntyre offering him a terse two-finger wave before heading on, and then, quite suddenly, Robert found himself standing alone at the head of the grave.
A few feet away, dusted with snow, sat the mound of earth that would be shoveled in on top of the coffin. The handle of a shovel protruded from the side of the mound. Robert jammed his hands into his coat pockets to make sure he’d brought along the workman’s gloves.
Part of the arrangement with the funeral home and cemetery management (one that had cost him a lot of time and energy arguing with people, not to mention a hefty chunk of cash) was that Robert himself would fill her grave with dirt. He didn’t want any overweight, foul-tempered, cigar-chomping union droid on a noisy earth-mover to seal Denise’s remains into the bowels of the planet. Only he would do that, and screw the physical pain that would result; it seemed the last decent thing he could do for her.
He heard approaching footsteps that sounded too heavy to be either Lynn or Danny. He didn’t bother turning around.
A few moments later, Bill Emerson joined him at the grave.
“Hello, Mr. Lond—uh, Robert.”
“Detective,” Robert said. Then: “I mean, Bill.”
“Sure was a lovely service, I thought.”
“Were you at the funeral home?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t see you.”
Emerson shrugged. “I can blend into the woodwork pretty well. It’s a gift I try to use for the forces of good.”
Robert grinned. “I appreciate your coming.”
“It’s not a completely altruistic gesture. I had this notion that maybe Mr. Mask was going to show up at the funeral and find a way to make himself known to you. But I didn’t see anyone who set off my yo-yo alarm—and my yo-yo alarm hasn’t failed me yet.” He looked at the grave and coughed. “It’s just such a terrible thing, you know? I don’t know how you’re able to deal with it. I mean...God. Damn. It.”
Robert said nothing.
Emerson pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open to a marked page. “Okay, besides paying my respects and offering such overwhelming comfort to you, I found out something I thought you might be interested in.”
“Oh?” Robert turned away from the grave.
“Yeah. You remember telling me that the guy who assaulted you said something about a lame kid who couldn’t dance and missed his playmates?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a line from a poem. Robert Browning’s ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.’” He quoted the passage. “And what he said to you earlier that night in the park? ‘So, Willy, let you and me be wipers of scores out with all men’...that’s from the poem, too. You said he kept calling you Willy, right?”
“Right.”
“As far as I can interpret it—scholar of English Literature that I am—the narrator of the poem is telling the story to some guy named Willy. I was left with the impression that the narrator is the little lame boy who’s telling the story as an adult. But then I also thought that Plan 9 from Outer Space wasn’t as bad as everyone said it was. I guess I’m trying to find out if that particular poem has any special meaning for you.”
Robert felt suddenly chilled to his marrow. “Oh, God....”
“What is it?”
He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I don’t know why I couldn’t remember this before, but....” He snarled a soft, derisive laugh.
“It was Denise’s favorite poem.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. Doesn’t that stink on ice? All the little details about the things she loved that I could never bother myself to remember, and now I have instant recall.”
Emerson said nothing for a moment, then—after consulting his notes—asked: “How many people besides yourself might have known that was her favorite poem?”
“I have no idea.” A pause, then: “You think it’s someone who knows us?”
“It’d explain his knowing the poem was her favorite. My guess is he figured you’d remember that, eventually.”
“Why?”
Emerson shrugged. “Only he can answer that one. I could spit out a half-dozen theories but odds are they’d only upset you and probably turn out to be wrong, anyway.” Emerson replaced the notebook in his pocket. “I’ve intruded long enough. I’ll call you in a couple of days, just to update on any progress and—oh, damn, almost forgot: I got a plateful of homemade brownies that my wife made. She wanted me to give them to you with our sympathies. You want ‘em?”
Robert—still slightly reeling—blinked a couple of times. “Uh...yes, yes, thank you very much. See that couple over there by the Toyota? That’s my sister Lynn and her husband. If you’d give them to her, she’ll put them in her car and take them to her house. Please tell your wife I said thanks a million.”
“You haven’t tasted them yet,” said Emerson, shoving his hands into his pockets and starting to walk away. “I’m just kidding—I had one on the way over here...hope you don’t mind. They’re yummy as all get-out.”
“Bill?”
“Yes?”
“I think whoever took my daughter’s body is following me. I think they might have broken into my sister’s house sometime yesterday.”
Emerson became all business. “Did you see something? Hear something? Was anything taken or any threatening notes left?”
“No, nothing like that,” lied Robert. “I thought, maybe I saw someone hanging around the house last night—I stayed at their place. I just...I have this feeling that he’s following me, y’know?”
“I’d have to agree with that.”
“And I think he followed me to my sister’s last night. I don’t know if he’s going to try and hurt them or not—”
Emerson shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s just trying to rattle you, and what better way to do it than make you think he’s after your sister and her family? Don’t worry, I won’t dismiss anything. I’ll make sure a cruiser does several extra drive-bys over the next few nights. If I can do anything more, I will. In the meantime...does your brother-in-law own a gun?”
“Yeah, a Bulldog .44. I had a chance to talk with him a little before the funeral. He keeps it in a drawer in the bedside table. Has a trigger-lock. He wears the key around his neck, next to his St. Christopher medal.”
Emerson looked over at Danny and Lynn. “I’ll have a word with him, reassure him that I don’t think they’ve got anything to worry about. It’s you the guy’s interested in.”
“I’d appreciate anything you could do to make him feel better. By the way, my sister doesn’t know. I’d like to keep it that way. If anyone tells her, I think it ought to be her husband.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Before Robert had a chance to register his being alone at the grave again, Lynn was by his side.
“A detective bearing brownies. Now I’ve seen everything.”
“He’s one of the good guys, Lynn.”
“I figured. He’s got such a...I don’t know...kind way about him.”
Robert looked over his shoulder and saw Emerson talking with Danny. The detective seemed to be going on about how yummy his wife’s brownies were. Danny finally surrendered and tried one. From the look on his face, they were yummy as all get-out. Then Emerson’s face became serious and Danny was all attention.
“So what’s next, Bobby?”
“I don’t know.” He faced her. “You don’t think is morbid, do you? I mean, my insisting on burying her?”
“No,” whispered Lynn, her eyes growing wide with respect. “I think it’s an incredibly loving thing to do. Don’t ask me to explain it, but it seems like it should...secure your place by her side, you know? You were together in life, always there for each other, and now you’re going to do this one last thing for her so she’ll know that, when your time comes, you want to be by her side forever.” She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I think this will make her very happy and proud.”
Robert squeezed her hand, then kissed her cheek. “Do you have any idea what Denise’s favorite poem was?”
“Sure. ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin.’ Why?”
“No reason.” He felt deeply, totally ashamed. “Listen, would you mind if I took a little walk? I need a few minutes to myself to get ready for this.” He glanced at the mound of soil. “I can’t start just yet.”
“Danny and I will wait in the car. Take as long as you need—and don’t forget that Danny brought a shovel along. If it gets too much for you, he’ll help.”
“Danny is sometimes too nice for his own good.”
Lynn smiled. “Please don’t tell him that.”
Robert grinned but it felt phony. “I won’t be long.” He started up a nearby hill.
After stumbling down the other side of the hill and walking across an ice- and snow-sheened path, he came to a small incline that led him to a plat filled with statues: cherubs, squatting gargoyles that guarded the entrances of family crypts, marble animals at rest, and one piece in particular that commanded his attention—a stone angel standing at the less-accessible north entrance. He wiped a few stray tears from his eyes and looked into the angel’s face. If ever a sculptor had captured an expression of grief so purely, he’d not seen it. In its face was everything from anguish and rage to acceptance and peace. He saw in that face the way all mourners were meant to be: diminished, yes; broken-hearted and scared, certainly; but if you looked at the face long enough you saw a certain, enviable tranquility hinting at actualization, a look suggesting that all the conflicting emotions associated with death eventually coalesced to warm a sorrowing heart with the knowledge that, though it seemed to take forever, life was over in a second but that was all right, because there would be someone waiting for you at the end to make Act IV a little easier. Though Robert had often laughed at that sort of psychobabbling sentimentality, he found himself hoping some of it might be true.
He turned from the statue and wiped his eyes, then stood watching his breath mist into the cold air.
A moment later he saw her coming down the hill toward him.
He ground his teeth and bit back on his anger, telling himself that Lynn had only followed him out of concern and he shouldn’t be too unpleasant with her—
—except that, as she grew closer, he saw it wasn’t Lynn.
He couldn’t recall seeing this woman among the mourners either here or at the funeral home, but something about her seemed familiar.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, leaving a perfect trail of footprints in the snow behind her, she paused, looking around, and smiled when she spotted him. Recognition blossomed over her face as she came toward him with a determined and—considering the snow and ice—surprisingly steady stride. She wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a dark veil that was, at the moment, lowered. Coat, skirt, shoes, gloves—everything she wore was black, reminding Robert of some movie star from the 40s or 50s, dressed this way so she wouldn’t be recognized in public. It was almost comical.
She removed something from her pocket that looked like a sheet of paper, and Robert had the most absurd thought: She wants an autograph.
Though he’d had his share of awkward run-ins with fans, Robert prided himself at being adept at handling these situations. Denise, despite her irritation at her and Robert’s being interrupted whenever they went out to dinner or a movie or just shopping on the weekend, always complimented him
on how tactful and courteous he was with them. He graciously had accepted her praise but never told her about those times when women (and, in a couple of cases, younger men) would slip him a motel room key or croon promises of sweaty, grunting, screaming ecstasy were he to “clear a few hours” to spend in their company.
If this woman coming toward him turned out to be a fan seeking an autograph, Robert thought it very likely he’d knock her teeth down her throat. How dare she or anyone invade his privacy at a time like this.
She was only a few yards away.
He couldn’t shake the notion that he knew her from somewhere. Maybe she was one of the new interns at the station.
There was anger in the way she moved toward him, and Robert suddenly found himself thinking of John Lennon outside the Dakota in New York and poor, young Rebecca Shaeffer answering her door, how both of them had looked into the face of their assassin before the bullets turned them into a police statistic—
—the woman’s hand snapped up toward his face and the sharp gleam of light off blue steel momentarily blinded him as he heard the unmistakable click! of a hammer being cocked—
—and before the first round split his skull he remembered a snippet from a Wall of Voodoo song, something about how the singer had wept when Lennon died yet envied his assailant when he visited the shrine—
—but when he looked again he saw that the gleam came from a silver cigarette lighter she held in her hand, and the click had been the sound it made as she struck up the flame.
Robert had unconsciously taken out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. When had he bought a fresh pack? And why? He’d promised Denise he was going to quit.
He leaned toward the flame and lighted his smoke. “Thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking...didn’t bring a lighter or even any matches with me.”
She folded back her veil and removed her sunglasses, then her hat.
Robert was so shocked to see her again that he let the cigarette drop from his lips into the snow where it sputtered, hissed, and died. “Amy?”
In Silent Graves Page 13