Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

“¿Qué?”

  The other man bent down and retrieved a fistful of earth. He cleaned something in his fingertips and held it to the light. A round piece of metal, perhaps a coin, caught the light, and both men smiled. The find renewed their enthusiasm.

  The tattooed one said, “Dig. Dig. Hay más.”

  I found my footing in the loose dirt and stone and moved closer to the pit. “What do you have? Who are you?”

  The tattooed man jolted upright and spun around, holding the lantern in front of him shining it toward the top of the pit.

  When the light touched me, it snapped dark and Hercule barked behind me. I turned to find him creeping down the stairs. When I looked back at the pit, it was gone. My front door was in its rightful place. The oak landing was beneath my feet. There was no pit—no men digging in the night. Their discovery was gone, too.

  Perhaps my sanity followed it.

  Hercule stood halfway down the stairs, uneasy and unsteady. He looked around and raised his nose to smell the air. He moaned

  in a low, worrisome tone and looked up at me.

  “Hell no, boy—no clue.”

  six

  Back in my den, the images confused me, and yet I was not afraid or unnerved. Had my home turned into a nighttime treasure hunt when I was among the living, I would have checked into a hospital or a nearby bar. Now, however, the vignette was no stranger to me than having no reflection in the hall mirror. Dying was far more complicated than I imagined.

  Angel was one of the many complications. She was at the top of my list. I had to find her. I had to know she was all right. My eyes fell back onto her garter belt and an empty feeling of remorse consumed me. The ache built and her memory drove nails into my heart. In a slow, churning boil, desperate feelings rose inside. I had to find her. I had to go to her.

  But where?

  Ernie Stuart, of course—Bear said as much. Ernie was her university superior, her dearest friend, and lifelong mentor—a role he’d assumed when she was still a child. He was never far away. He’d be close now.

  The garter belt had triggered a cascade of emotions. Perhaps it would again. I touched it again, closing my eyes, trying to find her—to see her, reach her, touch her. I felt dizzy like a child twirling with outstretched arms, spinning in a playground game. I twirled, too, until the smoky scent of a fire reached me. I opened my eyes and let the lightheadedness subside. Familiar surroundings greeted me. I was standing in a large room with a grand fireplace and high crown-molding ceilings. An expensive Persian rug covered part of the hardwood floors. Shelves of books lined the room, and Civil War antiques were displayed everywhere.

  Professor Ernie Stuart’s living room.

  Ernie lived on a twenty-acre, nineteenth-century farm on the northwest corner of the county. His farmhouse was miles from the nearest neighbor and he preferred it that way. He was reclusive and always had been. Acres of rolling fields shielded him from whatever he loathed—and his demeanor suggested that was most things. Angel was not among them.

  She was curled up on the couch. An empty brandy snifter rested on a nearby end table as she dozed on a billowy pillow. Her face was a mixture of anguish and alcohol. There was a large, purring gray tomcat on her lap and her hand rested on his back, unconsciously petting.

  Boy, Hercule wasn’t going to like that. He hated cats, Ernie’s the most. Truth be told, Hercule hated Ernie more, but the cat suffered his wrath.

  “Dear? Angela?” Ernie was standing near the fireplace sipping a drink. He was a distinguished, striking man in his sixties—tall and strong. He had wide shoulders and an athletic build. His face sported a “professor’s goatee” and immaculate silver hair. He presented a thoughtful, analytical demeanor born from two doctorates and a university professorship.

  “Huh?” Angel stirred and sat upright, rubbed her eyes, and turned her attention to the tomcat. “I’m sorry, Ernie. I dozed off. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that you must get some rest. It’s been a long and trying day.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right. But I have so much to contend with. First …”

  “No first.” Ernie set his drink on the mantel and folded his arms like a parent about to discipline. “You get rest. Everything else will wait until tomorrow. I’ll take care of everything—well, André and I, of course.”

  “Thank you, Ernie. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

  Ernie was always near in difficult times. During her childhood, he was a close family friend. When tragedy took her parents, he assumed the role of uncle and never ventured far. He helped mentor her through her doctorate and secured her professorship at the university. Since then, he’s been a fixture in our home for holidays and summer barbecues. Her choice, not mine. But, since she made three times my cop salary, Old Ernie could hang around whenever he wanted. Ernie was a mixture of doting uncle, persnickety mentor, and pain-in-the-ass houseguest.

  Thankfully, he was nearby now.

  “Angel,” I said. “Are you all right?” I slid onto the couch beside her and sent the tomcat bristling from the room with hisses and growls.

  Did I do that? “Angel, it’s me. Can you hear me? I’m all right—I’m okay.”

  She looked after the cat before turning toward me. I thought she was going to reach out and touch my face, but she dropped her chin and cried instead.

  “Angel, I’m okay.”

  “I hope so,” she said, and the words startled both of us. “Tuck?”

  “No, Angela.” Ernie crossed the room and sat down between us. “No, dear. He’s gone—I’m so sorry.”

  Angel blinked, rubbed her eyes, and scanned the room. Her face paled and she leaned back onto the pillow. “No—yes, of course. But for a moment, I swear I heard him.”

  “No, I’m here.” I slid off the couch and stood, looking down at her. “Listen for me.”

  She looked at Ernie and smiled a faint, embarrassed smile. “You’re right. He’s gone.”

  “No, Angel. Focus on my voice. Listen for me. I had a dream … a vision.”

  She cocked her head and closed her eyes. Her eyebrows rose and she bit her lower lip as she did when concentrating.

  Was it working?

  “Angel, listen. There were two men digging in our house—but it wasn’t our house. They found something important. One of them had a cross tattoo. It must have something to do with my murder … that’s why I saw it …” Even dead, I tended to ramble.

  “Tattoo?” She sat upright. “A tattooed man? Digging?”

  Ernie suddenly stood and returned to the mantel, draining his drink. He stole a glance at her and retrieved the crystal decanter, pouring a healthy refill.

  “Angela, you’re dreaming—confused—grieving.”

  “What tattooed man?” A voice said from the doorway. André Cartier—officially, Uncle André Cartier—walked into the living room with a tray of sandwiches. “Someone was digging? Where and for what?”

  “She has to get to bed, André. Leave the dream alone.”

  “Dreams are funny things—manifestations of our subconscious. Especially at a time like this.” Dr. André Cartier was a professor of history and anthropology and a senior director at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington D.C. His accolades were long, but he coveted no greater role than as the former guardian of his sister’s only child. “Besides, she has to eat first. We all do.”

  Ernie lifted his glass. “I’ll drink, thank you.”

  André and Ernie could easily be brothers. André had distinguished gray temples and a presence of confidence and intellect. He shared Ernie’s athletic build and ageless appearance. André, however, wore round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on his nose, preferred to be clean-shaven, and had ten or fifteen pounds on Ernie.

  Ernie was an uncle by choice, André by birthright. Both shared Angel’s devotion.

  “I d
idn’t dream, André.” Angel stood and folded her arms as though unsure of what to do next. “I heard Tuck. He was talking to me. He saw a tattooed man digging. It had to be a dream. Right?”

  “See, André, a digging tattooed man. This is nonsense …”

  “Nonsense?” André threw Angel a wink that drew a smile. “How would you know about digging, Ernie? In all these years, I’ve never seen your hands dirty.”

  “I’m a history professor, not a laborer.”

  “And a snob.” André let a thin smile dull the jab.

  “And you? You are a typical Washington bureaucrat.”

  “Perhaps.” André laughed. “But I’ve done more historical excavations this year than you have in your life.”

  “Oh, you have?”

  André threw his chin. “With more hours in the field than you have in the classroom.”

  Did I mention they were competitive?

  Ernie dismissed him with a huff and returned to his brandy. The glass stopped halfway to his lips when André spoke again.

  “You don’t suppose this tattooed man has anything to do with Kelly’s Dig?”

  Angel sat upright. “Kelly’s Dig? Why would that involve Tuck?”

  “Oh come now,” Ernie said, snorting. “I don’t see a connection. After all, it’s just a dream.”

  André said, “Dreams are funny things—but yes, enough said.”

  Ernie agreed with a nod and took a long pull on his brandy.

  “Kelly’s Dig,” Angel mused, curling her legs beneath her. “I want to get working there immediately. It’ll be good for me.”

  “Now, Angela,” Ernie said. “I think work should wait a few weeks. I’ve arranged …”

  “No. I need to work. It’ll keep my mind off … Tuck. Kelly’s Dig is not the day to day at the university. That’ll help.”

  André caught Ernie’s eye and nodded. “I agree with Ernie. The university has already given you ample bereavement time. I can handle the dig. You don’t need distractions. You need to grieve.”

  “Distractions?” Ernie sprang to the middle of the living room and thrust an angry finger into André’s chest. “Distractions? Kelly’s Dig is the key to the county’s historical future.”

  “Please, Ernie,” Andre whispered. “Not now. Think of Angel.”

  “If Tyler Byrd gets his way, he’ll pave over our entire legacy. You Washington bureaucrats only understand money.”

  “Now hold on.” André met him nose to nose. “I work for the court, too, Ernie. And my Washington credentials are why.”

  “Ernie,” Angel said, “you know very well he’s the expert we need. Shame on you.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” Ernie patted the air in surrender. “Of course it’s your Smithsonian credentials. Kelly’s Dig frustrates me. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure it does,” André said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. It’s just not the time to be discussing Civil War cemeteries and nineteenth-century skeletons.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ernie looked at Angel and his eyes softened. “No, of course not. Forgive me.”

  “It’s all right.” Angel forced a smile. “But, Ernie, the time off from the university will be good for me to work on Kelly’s Dig. You understand—a new project and all. I’m not ready to face all the faculty and students yet.”

  André said, “We can talk about this in the morning—all of us. Why don’t you run up to bed, Angela?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Do you need anything?” Ernie asked.

  Angel tried to smile but failed miserably. “Bear is taking care of Hercule. He said they’re done with the house—the crime scene people I mean.”

  “Shall I bring Hercule here?” Ernie asked. “Would you feel better?”

  “No, he’s fine—recuperating. Bear’s looking after the house.”

  “All right, dear.” Ernie hesitated before holding up his hand. “There is one small thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “About Kelly’s Dig.” Ernie moved close and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I called the local medical examiner’s office about their final report on the skeletal remains. They sent it and some artifacts they unearthed to you. I was unaware that the artifacts existed. I’d like to see them.”

  “No, I don’t have anything,” Angel said. “Where did the M.E. send it?”

  “Where?”

  “To my home or office?”

  He shrugged. “I assumed your home. We agreed you wouldn’t involve the university.”

  “Well, yes we did. But the court sends papers to me there.”

  “I see.” Ernie nodded. “You think it’s at the university then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  André said, “I’ll get it for you, Angela. I can swing by your office tomorrow. I’ll have Carmen find it.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Ernie waved his hand and gave Angel a squeeze. “I’m in the same building. I’ll speak with Carmen in the morning. She’ll be calling about you anyway.”

  André shrugged. “Fine, I’ll be at Kelly’s Dig then. I’d like a copy as well, Ernie.”

  “Certainly.”

  André stepped between them and gave her a long, comforting embrace. Ernie huffed and retreated to the mantel again. André said, “Now, get some sleep. No more skeletons, Kelly’s Dig, or tattooed men.”

  “Good night to both of you.”

  “Dear,” Ernie said in a soft voice. “I hope you know that I was very fond of Oliver.”

  I hated that name. It reminded me of that sniveling little vagabond from Oliver Twist. I am more a Raymond Chandler or Mickey Spillane kind of guy. I lost the name “Oliver” in the first grade after my third playground fistfight.

  “Tuck,” Angel said. “He hated being called Oliver.”

  Ernie grinned. “I know.”

  seven

  I sat all night with Angel trying to talk to her, to reach her, anything. Sometime after three in the morning, her tears succumbed to exhaustion and she fell asleep. I don’t know if I’d reached her, but I wouldn’t stop trying until I did.

  The next morning, I left her sleeping and went for a walk.

  Strolling down Ernie’s half-mile gravel road, I stepped through the looking glass back into my den. Hercule was nowhere around so I assumed he was up on our bed basking on my pillow. That was his preferred place whenever I worked late at night.

  A disheveled blanket and pillow lay on the couch and I found Bear sipping coffee in the kitchen. He checked his voicemail and the sheriff’s dispatch, then he poured more coffee. He penned out a note to Angel telling her Hercule was okay and that Captain Sutter had released the house back to her. She could come home. Crime scenes take time, but when a cop is killed, things move faster. It also helps to have ten extra cops working the scene and being a priority at the crime lab.

  For the third time in two days, Bear startled me.

  On my front porch, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his key ring. With a key I never knew existed, he locked my front door. Then he walked to his cruiser outside the front gate and drove away.

  When did Bear Braddock get my front door key?

  I felt the dizziness churn in my head again. Before I realized it, I was sucked from the house onto the spook-express. I’m not sure what happens when I’m pulled from here and sent to there—wherever “there” ends up being. I seemed to go into time-out. Sort of like when kids are bad. It was “time-out” and off to their rooms. For me, it was an empty, dark place where I was very, very alone. This time, however, it was momentary, and when the light surrounded me again, I was standing next to Bear’s cruiser.

  He was nowhere around.

  I recognized the parking lot of the Shenandoah View Fairways golf club. It was ten in the morning and a chilly fall day. There were about f
ive cars in the lot. Since Bear didn’t play golf, he was up to something.

  What?

  I found him standing beneath a rain shelter along some trees three fairways away. He was arguing with a large man beside him. The man seemed familiar but I couldn’t place him. His face was round and puffy and he was built more for sumo wrestling than golf. He had powerful, burly arms, and his bulky body was stuffed into golf slacks and a sweater—his girth exceeding his belt in the front. His features were tinted with a dark, Mediterranean complexion. His hair was black and his eyes shadowed by a thick, perpetual eyebrow. He reminded me of an old movie thug collecting overdue debts. Mr. Sumo—for lack of a better name—was part wrestler, part bagman.

  Bear jabbed a finger at Mr. Sumo. “I told you to drop that. I don’t want to hear that shit again.”

  “Sure, sure, Bear,” Mr. Sumo said. “Whatever you say. But, listen, I’m just saying what’s on the street.”

  “Forget rumors. I want your boss. I want him now.”

  Mr. Sumo threw up his hands. “Fagget it. You know the rules. I don’t give him up like that.”

  “I want him. I need something to take the edge off. Funerals make me grouchy and I got a big one coming.”

  “He’s clean on that. I swear.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “No, listen. The Man ain’t gonna whack no cop. Especially one snoopin’ around him already. You nuts?”

  “Did I mention Tuck? I’m talking about the other one.”

  “Him? No way, man.” Mr. Sumo looked around the fairway. “The Man’s worried you cops are thinkin’ that. He’s clean. Clean on both. He’s retired, for Christ’s sake.”

  Bear laughed. “Bullshit. Guys like him never retire.”

  “Listen, please.” Mr. Sumo pointed a finger at him and squinted. “You gotta be careful. The Man ain’t playin’ around, Bear. He’s retired, but he ain’t dead.”

  “Meaning?”

  I stood there, listening and watching. Frustration set in—who was this guy? His face was a nagging, deliberate memory trying to form in my head. It was there just out of reach. The conversation wasn’t helping either. Faces and questions with no names. Another murder—the other murder? Damn, damn, damn.