Dead Voices

by Rick Hautala

  Glancing at his wristwatch, he said, “I see we’re just about out of time, but I think we’ve made quite a bit of progress for one day.” He sighed and shook his head. “You certainly know how to end a session on a powerful note.”

  Elizabeth shrugged, wanting to say more but not knowing what. She carefully rolled her sleeves back down to her wrists.

  Picking up his now ice-cold tea, Graydon stood up and walked over to the sink, where he dumped it. After rinsing the cup and placing it upside down in the drainer, he went over to his desk and glanced at the calendar.

  “If it’s convenient for you, this time next week would be fine for our next session,” Graydon said without looking up.

  “Sure,” Elizabeth said, her voice strained. She wondered how shaken up he was by the revelation that she had attempted suicide. “This time next week it is.”

  Graydon penciled in the time and then, coming around the desk, took her jacket from the coatrack by the door and helped her on with it.

  “I’ll see you then,” Graydon said, as he opened the office door and nodded his farewell.

  Elizabeth started down the flight of stairs to the driveway. Once she was at the car, she hesitated for a moment before getting in and driving off. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that the session had ended too abruptly, that there was still some unfinished business between her and Graydon. It was almost as if he had had something more to say to her-something urgent-but had been shaken by her revelation and had either forgotten or thought better of it. Looking back up at the office door, she fully expected to see Graydon standing on the platform, looking down at her. It surprised her to see the office door shut, and Graydon gone. Feeling suddenly very fragile and alone, she got into the car, started it up, and drove away. But all the way home, she couldn’t stop wondering if maybe seeing Dr. Roland Graydon wasn’t the best thing for her right now ... maybe Graydon wasn’t the therapist for her.

  One thing for sure-she certainly had a lot to think about.

  2.

  Frank was staring straight ahead at the winding stretch of Beech Ridge Road, busily chewing the inside of his cheek as he drove the cruiser back to town. It was almost five in the morning, and they had just finished responding to a resident’s complaint of someone racing a car up and down the road, squealing their tires on every turn. The joyriders were gone by the time the two officers had arrived. Frank was so preoccupied that he barely heard his partner’s question.

  “So what the hell are you interested in this-this Grayson guy for, anyway?” Norton asked. “Did he do something?”

  The steering wheel played loosely in Frank’s hands as the road unscrolled in front of his headlights. He was tired as hell, and his mind was churning with thoughts ... and memories.

  “Well-? What’d he do?” Norton asked.

  “Huh? ... Who?”

  “This Grayson guy you’ve been askin’ about,” Norton said. “What the fuck’s got you interested in him?”

  “What-do you know him?”

  Norton shook his head. “Naw-I don’t know no fuckin’ Grayson.”

  “His name’s Graydon ... Roland Graydon,” Frank said. “He’s a psychiatrist in South Portland.”

  “Whatever,” Norton said. “Why’re you checking up on him?”

  “No special reason,” Frank replied, still distracted.

  As he slowed and signaled for the left tum onto Fork Road, Norton gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Just can’t keep away from it, huh?”

  For an instant, Frank thought his partner had guessed his intention to drive past Elizabeth’s family home, but then Norton shook his head and added, “God, I’m never gonna forget that night! How ‘bout you?”

  Frank realized Norton was talking about the incident in the Oak Grove Cemetery a few nights ago, so he decided not to correct his mistake. As the cruiser approached the Payne house, Frank didn’t even slow down, ‘but shifted his gaze up to the house and was surprised to see a light on downstairs, glowing pale yellow in the predawn grayness.

  Who would be up at this hour? he wondered.

  They drove down Mitchell Hill Road and, for Norton’s sake, Frank slowed in front of the Oak Grove Cemetery near the intersection with Brook Road. Norton kept going on about what they had found out there that night, but Frank barely noticed his partner’s words. His mind was mulling over what he intended to do before heading home for some well-deserved rest.

  Before his shift, he had started running his unofficial check on Roland Graydon. So far, at least, other than the basics-that Graydon was a psychiatrist, unmarried, who lived and practiced in South Portland-he had come up dry. There was no record of him ever being arrested, except for a speeding ticket a little over three years ago. As far as the state was concerned, Graydon was clean as a whistle.

  Still, Frank didn’t like the feeling he had about all of this. He knew his suspicions about Graydon were probably entirely based on some twisted kind of jealousy he felt simply because, in the heat of his argument with Elizabeth, she had mentioned Graydon’s name. But it was significant, he thought, that of all the names Elizabeth could have mentioned, she had chosen Graydon’s. Short of asking her directly why this particular name would come to her first, he was just curious to see if he could find any connection that might prove important.

  “Yeah,” Norton said, “that sure was the weirdest thing I’ve ever run into. And now that Fraser’s gone missing, I’d say we can-”

  “What?” Frank shouted. He was coming up on the stop sign where the road joined Old County Road. When the cruiser slid to a stop, he turned and faced Norton. “What was that about Fraser?”

  “Oh, yeah:-that’s right,” Norton said, snapping his fingers once. “You were off playing with the computer, looking up that Grayson guy during the briefing. I mentioned it to you earlier tonight, but you’re so fucking out in the zone, you probably didn’t hear me. Yeah-Fraser’s wife reported that he never came home yesterday. Something about a phone call he got, and then he took off sometime after supper. From what Betty says, Barney and his wife don’t have all that hot a relationship, but whatever-he hasn’t shown in twenty-four hours, so I guess they’re calling him officially missing.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Frank whispered. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  The cruiser idled at the stop sign, Glancing into his rearview mirror, Frank saw the brightening morning light glancing off the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence and the rows of shadow-cast tombstones, Everything was bathed in a thin wash of gray light,

  “What did Harris have to say about it? Does he think Fraser might have had something to do with what happened out there?” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cemetery.

  Norton snapped his gum in his mouth and shrugged. “Beats the shit outta me,” he said. Then, pointing in the direction of downtown, he added, “You gonna head back to the station? Or are we gonna sit here and admire the dawn? I can hear those Dunkin’ Donuts callin’ my name.”

  “Yeah-sure,” Frank said as he pulled out into the road, driving straight into the rising sun.

  He was feeling stunned, almost dazed, Until now, he hadn’t even suspected any connection between what had happened in the cemetery and Roland Graydon; but now, just because the two along with Barney Fraser had been mentioned so close together, Frank started wondering if there might not be some connection, however tenuous. If his background check on Graydon turned up anything suspicious, or even mildly interesting, he’d be sure to pass it on to the investigating detectives.

  3.

  Much later that day, Elizabeth drove out to Oak Grove Cemetery. She sat in her car in front of the gate, the engine running as slanting sunlight streamed in through the windshield and warmed her face. It did little to drive away the chills that raced like tiny claws up and down her arms and neck. Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw that she still had almost an hour before she had to be back at Hardy’s Hardware to finish her afternoon shift.

  OAK GROVE CEMETERY


  The black slashes of the letters stood out vividly against the washed-out blue of the sky. Simply mouthing the words made Elizabeth’s stomach chum with acid. Her pulse was racing.

  Straight ahead, the rutted dirt road rolled up over the hill and disappeared from sight. On both sides of the car, she could see silent row after silent row of tombstones, the names and inscriptions casting long shadows. She was grateful that, at least from where she was parked, she couldn’t see all the way up to the crest of the hill where Caroline’s gravestone stood. She didn’t need to see it. The name and dates etched in the pink marble were neon-bright in her memory.

  Why had she even bothered to come out here? she wondered. She knew damned well that she didn’t have the courage to go up there. Not yet, anyway. Since coming home, she had driven past the cemetery a couple of times every day, but speeding by in a car was one thing; even considering going up there to visit the family plot was quite another!

  Muttering a mild curse at her mother for even suggesting that she should go by the grave and pay her respects-the third thing Rebecca had told her she had to do Elizabeth looked up at the sun-washed crest. The thick tombstones cast long shadows over the spring-fresh grass, chilling her as she struggled to resolve the conflict that was raging within her. She knew she should be bold and just drive right up there, get out of the car, and go to Caroline’s grave. She should visit her daughter’s grave! But she couldn’t bring herself to do it!

  What am I so afraid of?

  What could possibly happen?

  Is it just my own guilt and grief that are keeping me from visiting Caroline?

  Or is there more? Something my dreams and fears are only hinting at?

  She considered driving into town first to buy some flowers to put on the grave. Maybe she should also get some for her recently reburied uncle ...

  Who had committed suicide! she thought, unable to repress a shiver. She realized she was rubbing the scar tissue on the inside of her left wrist with the flat of her hand and quickly stopped it.

  If only her mother hadn’t mentioned it-this morning, of all times!!-at breakfast, she thought bitterly. She figured she probably could have gone right on pretending that the grave wasn’t even up there. As long as she couldn’t see it, then it wasn’t a real threat! She could have kept telling herself she didn’t feel those jolting little twinges every time she drove by the cemetery. Actually, she had started taking the long way around to get home, just to avoid going past this cold, black gate. She knew it was what Doctor Gavreau and Doctor Graydon would call “avoidance,” but maybe avoidance wasn’t quite as bad if you were aware you were doing it.

  “Then again, maybe not,” she whispered.

  A car came around the curve of Brook Road, heading toward town. The driver slowed down and gawked at her, no doubt having heard about what had happened out here a few nights ago and wondering if she had anything to do with it. Elizabeth turned and smiled as she waved to assure whoever it was that everything was all right. She wasn’t a grave robber, casing the place to disinter some more corpses. As she watched the car pull up to the stop sign, she jumped with surprise when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw sudden motion. Something loomed up close beside her by the side window. After the initial flood of panic, she saw that it was her own reflection in the sideview mirror. Heaving a sigh of disgust, she swatted the mirror out of her way.

  “So, Elizabeth old girl,” she said. “Can you do it? Do you dare do it?” She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, took a deep breath, and focused again up the road to the crest of the hill. The palms of her hands began to ache. She could almost imagine that her hands were frozen there, locked in place; she wouldn’t be able to let go and get out of the car even if she wanted to. As she stared up the road, her heart gave a cold flip when she !taw a car come up over the crest of the hill, heading out of the cemetery toward her.

  Oh, shit! Am I blocking the road for a funeral procession or something?

  It was just a single car, but the cold fear inside her got worse when she recognized whose car it was!

  “Oh, Jesus-Oh, Christ!” she muttered as a blade of bright pain slipped up under her ribs. “Doug ... you Goddamned bastard!”

  Fumbling to shift the car into reverse to get out of his way, she jerked the steering wheel too hard to the right. The car lurched sharply, then spun around, ending up in the shallow gully beside the dirt road. She whimpered softly as she jabbed the shift into drive, jolted the car forward a few feet, then snapped it into reverse again and stepped down hard on the gas. The tires whined loudly and almost caught hold, but she knew when the car suddenly sagged to the right that she had buried the wheels in the soft ground.

  While she was doing all of this, she glanced up and saw to her horror that Doug had parked his car, gotten out, and started walking slowly down the slope toward her. He had his hands shoved inside his pants pockets and looked for all the world like a casual, happy-go-lucky guy out for a pleasant springtime walk. Elizabeth wondered if he had recognized her car yet and was enjoying her dilemma.

  “Well, well, well,” Doug said, smiling as he leaned down into the open car window. The scarred left side of his face twitched and twisted into a pained-looking grimace. His left eye looked oddly bigger than the right one, staring at her unblinkingly from the folds of ruined flesh.

  The slanting sunlight cast deep shadows into the sickly brown wrinkles on the left side of his face. A soft wash of shadow made his drooping left eye look dark and penetrating even as his right eye sparkled with merciless glee. Placing both hands on the car door, he pushed against it as if he meant to roll the car over.

  “History does have a way of repeating itself,” he said with a laugh. His breath washed over her like a chilled autumn breeze.

  “You’re the history teacher,” she replied softly. “You’d know better than I do.”

  Glancing in both directions over his shoulders, Doug said, “I don’t see any oncoming snow plows. Do you think I can trust you to steer straight while I push you out?”

  “Go to fucking hell!” Elizabeth snarled, surprising herself. It took all of her will power not to reach out the window and slap him across the face.

  The right side of Doug’s smile twisted upward even further, giving him a horrifying look. Then, in an instant, his mouth hardened into a taut line and he said, “I’m already in fucking hell, Elizabeth. You should know. You put me there!”

  “Just leave me the Christ alone, will you? You bastard!” she snarled as she tried again to slam the shift into drive. Instead, she got it into park. When she stepped down hard on the gas, the engine whined loudly. Sputtering with anger, she threw the shift back into reverse and hit the gas again, but only succeeded in burying the wheels deeper into the mud.

  Doug’s laughter cut her deeply, but she stared straight ahead, avoiding his gaze. Tension crackled like summer heat lightning in the air around them. Finally, unable to take it any longer, she turned and looked squarely at him, something she had found difficult to do ever since the accident.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?” she asked, in a heated flush of anger. “I thought you had a job!”

  “In case you don’t remember,” Doug said in an irritatingly slow and measured tone, “I have a daughter who’s buried out here. I drove over from Laconia to put some flowers on her grave, if that’s all right with you.” He leaned in close to her. “And by the way, I didn’t notice any fresh flowers from her mother out there!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?” Elizabeth asked him.

  Before Doug could answer, a thought struck Elizabeth with numbing intensity: what if he had followed her to Bristol Mills the night she left him? What if he had been in the area the whole time? No, she told herself; that was impossible. Her mother had said she had talked to him twice on the phone since that night. But Laconia wasn’t all that far away from Bristol Mills. What if Doug had been coming out here all along? What if he had something to do with
what had happened to Uncle Jonathan’s grave?

  “How-uh-long have you been around town, anyway?” Elizabeth asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

  “I drove out just this morning, if that’s any of your business,” Doug said sharply. “What the hell’s it to you?”

  “Goddamn you!” Elizabeth said. Her rage and frustration were turning into tears, but the last thing she wanted was for him to see her crying. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she looked away and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why don’t you just leave? There’s enough room so you can get around me,” she said.

  “Elizabeth ... “ Doug said, his voice suddenly soft and soothing. Reaching in through her open window, he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. Elizabeth’s first panicked thought was that he would suddenly clamp his hand around her neck and start to squeeze the life out of her. Holding her breath, she waif ed, but Doug did no more than touch her lightly, caressingly, as he spoke.

  “I’m ... sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice going low and gravelly. “I ... I shouldn’t have said that.”

  There was a long silence that Elizabeth finally broke when she said, “There are a lot of things you and I shouldn’t have said to each other. Too much. But it’s too late for that now.”

  Just as much as she didn’t want him taking out his anger and frustration on her, she also didn’t want even to hint that she desired a reconciliation-no matter what her mother or anyone else said! Too many things had been said, and there were too many scars that were worse and deeper than the ones that had ruined his once handsome face or the ones that laced the insides of her wrists. Scars too deep and calloused to heal.