He detoured down a back stairway, avoiding the elevator and any further unpleasant encounters.
He’d stick it out awhile longer. But he had to admit that his patient load was dwindling. The older patients he had inherited from his father were dying out, and their children tended to join HMOs. You could hardly blame them. They heard the ads on the radio and television and they signed up. He had made a pact with his cat, Sal: He would practice solo until he could no longer afford cat food. Then, and only then, would he sell out. Being an independent sort herself, she didn’t object.
As he made his way toward the men’s room, he thanked God for his other little business, his sideline. If it weren’t for his private investigating, he wasn’t sure he could keep his sanity—or his solvency. He didn’t need a big brick building, a lot of shiny equipment, or a team to keep his clients happy. There were few forms to fill out, no client review boards, no government inquiries. It was a one-on-one relationship. And the only people he had to answer to were his clients—and himself.
While washing his hands, he inadvertently glanced in the mirror, something he usually tried to avoid. God, what a face. What did Jennifer see in him? He had none of the attributes women usually go for. He wasn’t tall or dark, and he certainly wasn’t handsome. In one of their more intimate moments, she had murmured something about his “deep brown eyes.” He had immediately thought of a cow. Another time she had spoken about his hands. “You should have been a surgeon,” she said, tracing his fingers with one of her own.
“Have you ever seen a surgeon’s hands?” he asked.
She looked at him.
“They’re almost always short, thick, and muscular.”
“Hmm.” She had looked back at his hand. “Then I wouldn’t want them to touch me.”
“If you needed an operation, you would.”
She laughed. “Then I’d be asleep and wouldn’t care.” “Fenimore!”
He turned. The tall young man at the next sink was looking quizzically at him. “I spoke to you three times.”
“Sorry, Larry.”
“What do you think about that case in 340? Mr. Liska. The boys want to do an angioplasty of course, but he’s eighty-six. Don’t you think we could handle him medically?”
Larry Freeman was Fenimore’s favorite resident, one of the few who actually put the patient’s welfare before the almighty dollar. “I agree. His coronaries aren’t that bad, and his heart is working well.” Fenimore rubbed some soap vigorously into his hands.
“It won’t be easy.” Larry frowned.
“No, but they haven’t scheduled the procedure yet, and if we stick together …”
Larry grinned. “You’re on.”
Fenimore tossed the crumpled towel in the basket and followed him out. As he pushed through the back door of the hospital, he was already planning his strategy for treating Liska with a conservative, noninvasive approach. Running into Larry was a breath of fresh air. There are a few of us left, he thought. And Larry was young. That was a good sign. As he strode toward the doctors’ parking lot, he began to whistle.
CHAPTER 5
SAME EVENING, 8:00 P.M.
Horatio had no trouble finding Fenimore’s old town house, the one that served as both his office and home. A yellowed sign rested in the front window. ANDREW B. FENIMORE, M.D., it read, and underneath, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. A relic from when Fenimore’s father had practiced there. There had been no reason to change it—the name was the same. Mounting the three marble steps in a bound, the boy leaned on the bell. The doctor had been waiting.
Together they set off—Fenimore with the spade, Horatio with the sack. Side by side this time. As they walked, Fenimore couldn’t resist giving the boy a history lesson.
“Long ago, all this,” his hand swept over the city street, “was nothing but forest, populated by a few Indians.”
Horatio tried to imagine a dark and silent forest in place of the neon glare and traffic din.
“They lived and hunted happily here before the European settlers came. Then everything changed. The settlers had strange ways. Instead of sharing the land, they fenced it off into small parcels and protected it with guns.” He glanced at the boy to see if he was listening.
Horatio, eyes front, gave no clue. But he seemed more relaxed, less wary. Maybe he had decided that an old codger (anyone over thirty was old to a teenager) who gave long-winded lectures on American history must be harmless.
“They cut down the trees and built houses, stores, and churches,” Fenimore went on, “and turned the forest footpaths into roads for carts and wagons. A few settlers treated the Native Americans fairly. Paid with goods for the land they took, instead of just stealing it. The most famous, of course, was William Penn.”
“That dude on top of City Hall?”
Fenimore nodded. “He was an honest man and made a treaty with the Indians that stipulated—”
“Huh?”
“He saw to it that certain Indian burial grounds remained sacred and no one was allowed to build on them, like this one we’re headed for now.” They paused at Broad Street for the light. “Somehow, through all the growth and change in this huge city, that little plot has remained intact.” They crossed and came to the alley. Fenimore started to turn in, but Horatio hung back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are there … Indians buried there now?”
“Yes, but they’re nothing but dust.”
“But their ghosts … ?”
“Don’t worry.” The doctor smiled and shook the spade. “I’ll take care of them.”
The site seemed smaller at night. Damn. He’d forgotten his flashlight. He glanced up to remind himself there was sky overhead. A few pinpricks of stars convinced him they weren’t sealed in a tomb. When he first touched the ground with the shovel, it made a rasping sound. They both jumped.
It was no easy job to dig where the earth had been trampled for a couple of generations. Without any real hope, Fenimore felt around blindly with his shovel for a softer spot. Unexpectedly, he found one. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realized that the softer area was where the van had been parked that afternoon. The van was gone now, and the space where it had been was dug up. Strange. He felt the boy watching him and began to dig. Within a few minutes he had made a nice cavity, just about the right size for a cat. One more shovelful. As he dug, his shovel bounced a little, as if hitting something resilient. He reached down, probing, and snatched his hand back. He had felt something remarkably like a clavicle.
The boy moved closer. “Is it ready?”
“Not quite.” Fenimore pulled the shovel out, moved a few feet to the left, still keeping to the soft patch, and began to dig again.
“Hey! What was wrong with that one?”
“I hit a rock,” Fenimore lied, digging feverishly. When he finally had a new hole the same size as the old one, he reached for the sack.
“Let me.” Horatio gently lowered the sack into the hole.
“Here.” Fenimore handed him the spade.
Carefully, the boy shoveled the loose dirt over it. When the hole was filled, Fenimore said, “Do you want to say anything?”
Horatio shook his head.
“What was his name?”
“Danny.”
Horatio’s mother, obviously, had not had a hand in that one. “Good name. My best friend’s name is Dan.” He refrained from mentioning that his friend was a cop. Fenimore was finding it hard to concentrate on the funeral ceremony. His mind kept leaping back to that first hole. He had a strong desire to recite “The Jelico Cat” by Eliot, but thought better of it. Instead, he fell back on the old litany, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen.”
The boy crossed himself.
Fenimore steered him through the alley, back to the street. “I’ve got a cat,” he said. “Her name’s Sal. She’s due for a litter in a month. Stop by and I’ll save one for you.”
Horatio nodded and took off. Relieved of the encumbrance of the
sack, he loped easily down the street.
Fenimore waited until the boy was out of sight before he headed for the nearest phone booth.
“Dan?”
“Yeah, Doc.”
“Can you get over to Walnut and Watts, right away?”
“What?”
“Yes. Watts. That alley behind Fidelity Bank.”
“Watts up?”
“Funny. This is serious.”
“But the Phillies are beating the Braves. That’s serious.”
Fenimore could picture Rafferty’s big frame hunched over his desk, peering intently at the little black-and-white TV set, the only one the department allowed.
“Sorry, Dan. And bring a powerful flashlight.” He hung up on his friend’s groan.
Fenimore went back to the burial ground to wait. The street sounds were muted and far away. A man came out the rear door of the hotel, dumped some trash in a can with a clatter, and went back inside. It was even quieter after he had gone. Fenimore wished he had his pipe. The red glow of a pipe, or even a cigarette, was a comfort in the dark. As he raised his eyes, the band of lighted windows on an upper floor of the bank turned black. He jingled his keys in his pocket, a faintly cheering sound. He was itching to investigate that first hole again. But he had no flashlight and only a crude spade. Besides, police procedure was very strict about that. Where was his spade, anyway? He glanced around. He was sure he’d left it leaning against the bank wall when he’d ushered Horatio out. It wasn’t there now. That call to Rafferty had taken only a few minutes. Could someone have nipped in and swiped it while he was gone? He turned to scan the rest of the enclosure and caught the full force of the spade on his left temple.
“Fenimore … Fenimore …”
Someone shaking his shoulder. A bright light in his eyes. A searing pain in his head. He shut his eyes.
“Wake up. It’s me, Dan.”
Moan.
“What happened?”
“Take that damned light away.”
It went away. He tried to raise himself to a sitting position. Another moan.
“Easy. Someone’s given you a whack on the head.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis.” Fenimore gingerly felt his left temple. His fingers came away wet.
“Don’t touch it. What the hell were you doing here, anyway?” Rafferty glanced around. “Planning a Halloween party?” Suddenly an idea struck him. “How the hell did you manage to call me before you got mugged?”
“Neat trick, eh?” Fenimore attempted a grin, but it turned into a wince. He felt in his back pocket. His wallet was still there, crammed with the bills he’d withdrawn that morning from the ATM machine. He showed it to Rafferty.
Rafferty was crouching in front of Fenimore, who was slouched down against the bank wall. “Start at the beginning,” he said.
Between jabs of pain, Fenimore slowly recounted the story of the boy, his cat, and the grave. When he had finished, Rafferty stood up and went over to the patch of ground that Fenimore pointed out to him. He knelt, and, as Fenimore had done before him, prodded in the soft dirt. And, like Fenimore, he snatched back his hand.
CHAPTER 6
SAME EVENING, 9:30 P.M.
“Did you say this was an Indian burial ground?” Rafferty was slouched against the bank wall next to Fenimore, waiting for his homicide squad to arrive. He had put the order through on his radio a few minutes earlier.
“That’s right,” Fenimore said.
The policeman had offered to call a squad car to take Fenimore to the hospital, but Fenimore had refused. After suffering this much, he was damned if he was going to miss all the fun.
“I feel their spirits watching me right now,” Rafferty said.
“Whose?”
“The Indians’.” He stirred anxiously, glancing around. “I wish I had a pint.”
“How did somebody who’s afraid of ghosts get to be a top cop in Philadelphia?”
“Ghosts aren’t Philadelphia’s problem.”
“Shall I sing?” Fenimore was beginning to feel better.
“Please don’t.”
That was all the encouragement he needed. He began to croon, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
“Can it. Why did you have to go and dig up a corpse two days before Halloween? Tomorrow’s Mischief Night. We have to work extra shifts, and the department’s overworked as it is.”
“That’s why you had time to watch the Phillies?”
“Can it.”
“You’re getting repetitive.”
“Can—” Rafferty got to his feet and began pacing the perimeter of the small space, careful to avoid the hole and its occupant. The limited exercise seemed to give him no relief He disappeared down the alley to look for his reinforcements.
As soon as he left, Fenimore’s head began to throb again. After what seemed a long time, he heard heavy footsteps in the alley, and Rafferty reappeared with his personal army in tow: two police officers, a detective, the medical examiner, and a photographer. From then on business was brisk. Fenimore, feeling uncharacteristically useless, remained against the bank wall.
“Hey, Fenimore, look at this!”
Fenimore leaped to his feet and nearly fainted. The pain surged through his head, almost blinding him. A combination of curiosity and sheer willpower carried him the few steps to look into what had now become a large hole.
There was nothing unusual about the woman’s appearance. Eyes closed, tawny skin, black hair. She was simply dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. And there were no visible marks on her face, arms, hands, or feet. It was obvious she had been buried recently, within the past two or three hours. There was no evidence of decomposition or decay, and the medical examiner had assured them that rigor mortis was just beginning to set in. It was her posture that was unusual. Instead of lying flat, in the accepted burial position, her body was flexed, knees tucked under her chin, arms crossed over her chest.
Fenimore whistled. “And look how she’s facing.”
Rafferty stared at him.
Fenimore returned his stare. “It’s traditional, among the Lenni-Lenape Indians, to bury their dead in a flexed position, turned toward the east.
CHAPTER 7
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 30
Fenimore lay on the sofa, pressing an ice pack to the side of his head. The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching it. He never watched it, unless he was too sick to read or in too much pain to sleep and needed an excuse to do absolutely nothing without appearing to be brooding.
Sal lay curled at his side, her head turned pointedly away from the screen. She shared his opinion of TV. Every now and then an image on the screen would catch Fenimore’s attention—an obnoxious news anchor, an idiotic commercial, or a pretty girl, oops, attractive female person. The first might extract an oath; the second, a snort; the third, a grin. That was the extent of his reaction to the media. Today he felt too terrible to react at all.
Fenimore lay perfectly still in order not to jar his head while he stroked Sal. Most of the time he kept his mind a perfect blank, but every now and then the events of the previous night intruded. Questions rose up. Who hit him? Why? He would stop stroking Sal to ponder these questions until she registered her annoyance with an abrupt “Meow!” Then he would resume stroking.
Was the person who had assaulted him the same person who had buried the body? Or an accomplice? How did this person know he had discovered the body? He had been so careful not to let on to the boy. Had the person been lurking nearby when he and Horatio had been engaged in their funeral rites—an uncomfortable thought—and bashed Fenimore on the off chance that he had discovered the body?
“Meow!”
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
Had the person meant to do more than injure him and been interrupted? Sal reacted to his too-vigorous stroking by leaping off the sofa.
The phone. He reached for it.
“Andrew?”
Jennifer.
“Dan just called to say you need
ed cheering up. Is something wrong?”
Blast him. “Not a thing. Can’t imagine what … he ran into me at the wrong time … right after a department meeting. You know how they always funk me up. What are you doing today?”
“Oh, Dad has me inventorying some books that came in Friday from an estate on the Main Line.”
“Can they read out there?”
“Snob. Actually, these books belonged to a judge, and they’re quite dog-eared.”
“Not the usual mint condition, chosen because the binding matched the drapes?”
“No, seriously, he even has an impressive collection of mysteries. Mostly trial stuff, but there are a couple of early Chandlers.”
“Hey, could you save me those? I’d like to take a look at them.”
“I have a better idea. I’ll bring them over.”
“Uh, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Billing time … end of the month.”
“I thought Mrs. Doyle took care of all that.”
“Usually, but she was on vacation this month. Things pile up.”
“I see.” She sounded hurt. “I’ll let you go then.”
“Maybe you could invite me for dinner some night, and your dad could fill me in on the Lenni-Lenape Indians.”
“Why?”
“They’re a subject of interest to me right now.”
“We have a shelf of books about them.”
“Great. I’ll be over soon.”
“Shall I serve venison and wild rice garnished with—”
“Poison ivy?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Lots of things.” On this enigmatic note, she hung up.
Fenimore examined his motives. Why had he put Jennifer off? Had he really not wanted her to come? Or did he fear being comforted? Did he secretly yearn to be fed bouillon and read to and generally have his hand held? In short, was he getting soft? If that was the case, he was in the wrong business. Instead of an income supplement, his little sideline might quickly turn into a health hazard. Not that brawn was a weapon he often relied on in his investigations. He didn’t have any. His method was to match wits with his adversaries. But even matching wits required a certain amount of independence and self-reliance. That’s why he had put Jennifer off.
The Doctor Digs a Grave Page 2