by Sue Grafton
“What are you going to tell him if he calls?” I asked.
“Don’t know. I’ll tell him something. I’d like to get him and Laura over here first thing tomorrow morning so I can see she’s okay. In the meantime, let’s get you settled. You look beat.”
He found a couple of blankets and a pillow in the top of his mother’s closet. “You better make a potty stop first. There isn’t a bathroom up there.”
I spent a few minutes in the bathroom and then followed Ray up. As it turned out, there wasn’t much of anything else up there, either: a single bed with a wood frame and a sagging spring, a bed table with one short leg, and a lamp with a forty-watt bulb and a yellowing shade. I worried briefly about bugs and then realized it was too cold up here for anything to survive.
“You got everything you need?”
“This is fine,” I said.
I sat gingerly on the bed while he clumped downstairs again. I couldn’t sit up straight because the eaves of the house slanted so sharply above the bed. It was bitterly cold, and the room smelled of soot. As a form of insulation, someone had layered sheets of newspaper between the mattress and the springs, and I could hear them crackle every time I moved. I lifted one corner of the mattress and did a quick check of the date: August 5, 1962.
I slept in my clothes, wrapping myself in as many layers of blanket as I could manage. By curling myself into a fetal position, I conserved whatever body heat I had left. I turned out the lamp, though I was reluctant to surrender the meager warmth thrown off by the bulb. The pillow was flat and felt faintly damp. For some time, I was aware of light coming up the stairwell. I could hear noises – Ray pacing, a chair scraping back, an occasional fragment of laughter from the TV set. I’m not sure how I managed to fall asleep under the circumstances, but I must have. I woke once and turned the light on to check my watch: 2:00 a.m., and the lights downstairs were still on. I couldn’t hear the television set, but the nighttime quiet was broken by occasional unidentifiable sounds. I wakened some time later to find the house dark and completely quiet. I was acutely aware of my bladder, but there was nothing for it except mind control.
I really don’t know which is worse when you sleep in someone else’s house – being cold with no access to additional blankets or having to pee with no access to the indoor plumbing. I suppose I could have tiptoed downstairs on both counts, but I was afraid Helen would think I was a burglar and Ray would think I was coming on to him, trying to creep into his bed.
I woke again at first light and lay there, feeling miserable. I closed my eyes for a while. The minute I heard someone stirring, I rolled out of bed and made a beeline for the stairs. Ray and his mother were both up. I made a detour to the bathroom, where, among other things, I brushed my teeth.
When I returned to the kitchen, Ray was reading the morning paper. He hadn’t had a chance to shave, and his chin was prickly with white stubble and probably felt as rough as a sidewalk. I was so accustomed to his various facial bruises, I hardly noticed them. He’d covered his habitual white T-shirt with a denim workshirt that he wore loose. Despite his age he was in good shape, the definition in his upper body probably the result of hours lifting weights in prison.
“Have we heard from Gilbert?”
He shook his head.
I sat down at the kitchen table, which Helen had set at some point the night before. Ray passed me a section of the Courier-Journal One more day together and we’d have our routines down pat, like an old married couple living with his mother. Helen, for her part, limped around the kitchen, using the bat as a cane.
“Is your foot bothering you?” I asked.
“My hip. I got a bruise goes from here to here,” she said with satisfaction.
“Let me know if I can help.”
Coffee was soon perking, and Helen began to busy herself frying sausage. This time she outdid herself, fixing each of us a dish she called a one-eyed jack, in which an egg is fried in a hole cut in the middle of a piece of fried bread. Ray put ketchup on his, but I didn’t have the nerve.
After breakfast I hit the phone, making a quick call to the five cemeteries we’d put on our list. Each time I claimed I was an amateur genealogist, tracking my family history in the area. Not that anybody cared. All were nondenominational facilities with burial plots available for purchase. On the fourth call, the woman in the sales office checked her records and found a Pelissaro. I got directions to the place and then tried the last cemetery on the off chance a second Pelissaro was buried in the area. There was only the one.
Ray and I exchanged a look. He said, “I hope you’re right about this.”
“Look at it this way. What else do we have?”
“Yeah.”
I excused myself and headed for the shower. The phone rang while I was in the process of rinsing my hair. I could hear it through the wall, a shrill counterpoint to the drumming of the water, the last of the shampoo bubbles streaming down my frame. In the bedroom, Ray answered the phone and his voice rumbled briefly. I cut my routine short, turned the water off, dried myself, and threw my clothes on. At least I had no problems deciding what to wear. By the time I reached the kitchen, Ray was in motion, putting together an assortment of tools, some of which he brought in from a small shed in the backyard. He’d found a couple of shovels, a length of rope, a pair of tin snips, pliers, a bolt cutter, a hammer, a hasp, an ancient-looking hand drill, and two wrenches. “Gilbert’s on his way over with Laura. I don’t know what we’re up against. We may have to dig up a coffin, so I thought we’d better be prepared.” The Colt was sitting on the tin pull-out counter of the Eastlake. Ray picked it up in passing and tucked it in the waistband of his pants again. “What’s that for?”
“He’s not going to catch me off guard again.” I wanted to protest, but I could see his point. My anxiety was rising. My chest felt tight and something in my stomach seemed to squeeze and release, sending little ripples of fear up and down my frame. I teetered precariously between the urge to flee and an inordinate curiosity about what would happen next. What was I thinking? That I could affect the end result? Perhaps. Mostly, having come this far, I had to see it through.
Chapter 20
*
Gilbert and Laura arrived within the hour with the canvas duffel in tow, probably packed with the eight thousand dollars in cash. Gilbert was wearing his Stetson again, perhaps hoping to enhance his tough-guy image now that he’d been bested by an eighty-five-year-old blind woman. Laura was clearly exhausted. Her skin looked bleached, residual bruises casting pale green-and-yellow shadows along her jaw. Against the pallor of her complexion, her dark auburn hair seemed harsh and artificial, too stark a contrast to the drained look of her cheeks. I could see now that her eyes were the same hazel as Ray’s, the dimple in her chin a match for his. Her clothes looked slept in. She was back in the outfit I’d first seen her wearing: oversize pale blue denim dress with short sleeves, a long-sleeved white T-shirt worn under it, red-and-white-striped tights, and high-topped red tennis shoes. The belly harness was gone and the effect was odd, as if she’d suddenly dropped weight in the wake of some devastating illness. Gilbert seemed tense. His face was still pock-marked with spots where Helen’s birdshot had nicked him, and he wore a piece of adhesive tape across his earlobe. Aside from the evidence of first aid, his blue jeans looked pressed, his boots polished. He wore a clean white western-cut shirt with a leather vest and a bolo tie. The outfit was an affectation, as I guessed he’d been west of the Mississippi only once and that not much more than a week ago. At the sight of her grandmother, Laura started to cross the room, but Gilbert snapped his fingers and, like a dog, she heeled. He put his left hand on the back of her neck and murmured something in her ear. Laura looked miserable but offered no resistance. Gilbert’s attention was diverted by the sight of his gun in the waistband of Ray’s pants. “Hey, Ray. You want to give that back?”
“I want the keys first,” Ray said.
“Let’s don’t get into any bullshit argumen
t,” Gilbert said.
His right hand came up to Laura’s throat, and with a flick, the blade jutted out of the knife he’d palmed. The point pierced her skin, and the gasp she emitted was filled with surprise and pain. “Daddy?”
Ray saw the trickle of blood and the absolute stillness with which she stood. He glanced down at his waistband where the Colt was tucked. He took the gun out and held it toward Gilbert, butt first. “Here. Take the fuckin’ thing. Get the blade off her neck.”
Gilbert studied him, easing the point back almost imperceptibly. Laura didn’t move. I could see the blood begin to saturate the neck of her T-shirt. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Ray motioned impatiently. “Come on, take the gun. Just get the knife away from her throat.”
Gilbert pressed a button on the knife handle, retracting the blade. Laura put her hand against the wound and looked at her bloody fingertips. She moved to a kitchen chair and sat down, her face drained of any remaining color. Gilbert switched the knife to his left hand and reached over to take the gun with his right. He checked the magazine, which was fully loaded, and then tucked the gun in his waistband, hammer cocked and safety on. He seemed to relax once the gun was back in his possession. “We gotta trust each other, right? Soon as I have my share of the money, she goes with you and we’re done.”
“That’s the deal,” Ray said. It was clear he was fuming, a response not lost on Gilbert.
“Bygones be bygones. We can shake on it,” Gilbert said. He held his hand out.
Ray looked at it briefly, and then the two shook hands. “Let’s get on with this, and no funny business.”
Gilbert’s smile was bland. “I don’t need funny business as long as I have her.”
Laura had watched the exchange with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “What are you doing? Why’d you give him the gun?” she said to Ray. “You really think he’ll keep his word?”
Gilbert’s expression never changed. “Stay out of this, babe.”
Her tone was tinged with outrage, her eyes filled with betrayal. “He’s not going to split the money. Are you crazy? Just tell him where it is and let’s get out of here before he kills me.”
“Hey!” Ray said. “This is business, okay? I spent forty years in the joint for this money, and I’m not backing off because you got problems with the guy. Where were you all these years? I know where I was. Where were you? You come along expecting me to bail you out. Well, I’m bailing, okay? So why don’t you back off and let me do it my way.”
“Daddy, help me. You have to help.”
“I am. I’m buying your life, and it don’t come cheap. My deal is with him, so butt out of this.”
Laura’s face took on a stony cast and she stared down at the ground, her jaw set. Gilbert seemed to enjoy the fact that she’d been rebuffed. He moved as if to touch her, but she batted his hand away. Gilbert smiled to himself and sent a wink in my direction. I didn’t trust any of them, and it was making my stomach hurt.
I looked on while Ray laid out the game plan, filling Gilbert in on the calls we’d made and the reasoning behind them. I noticed he’d left out a few pertinent facts, like the name of the cemetery and the name on the monument. “We haven’t found the money yet, but we’re getting close. You expect to benefit, you might as well pitch in here and help,” Ray said, his eyes dead with loathing. A chilly smile passed between them, full of promises. I looked from one to the other, hoping fervently I wouldn’t be around if the two of them ever got into a pissing contest.
Ray said, “I assume you got the keys with you.”
Gilbert pulled them from his pocket, displayed them briefly, hooked together on a ring, and then tucked them away again.
Without another word, Ray began to gather up some of the equipment he’d assembled: the rope, the two shovels, the bolt cutters. “Everybody grab something and let’s go,” he said. “We can stick all this stuff in the trunk.”
Gilbert picked up the hand drill, taking his time about it so it wouldn’t look like he was obeying orders. “One more thing. I want the old lady with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, bub,” Helen snapped. She sat down in her chair and leaned stubbornly on her bat.
Ray paused. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“We leave anyone behind, how do I know they aren’t dialing the old 911?” Gilbert said to Ray, ignoring the old woman.
Ray said, “Come on. She wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, yes I would,” she said promptly.
Gilbert stared at Ray. “You see that? Old woman’s crazy as a bed bug. She goes, too, or it’s all off.”
“What are you talking about? That’s bullshit. You gonna forfeit the dough?”
Gilbert smiled, still gripping Laura’s neck. He gave her head a shake. “I don’t have to forfeit anything. You’re the one going to lose.”
Ray closed his eyes and then opened them. “Jesus. Get your coat, Ma. You’re coming with us. I’m sorry to have to do this.”
Helen’s gaze moved vaguely from Gilbert to Ray. “It’s all right, son. I’ll go if you insist.”
Since Gilbert didn’t trust any of us, we took one car. Gilbert, Helen, and Laura sat together in the backseat, the old woman holding hands with her granddaughter. Helen still had her bat, which Gilbert took note of. Sensing his gaze, Helen shook the bat in his direction. “I’m not done with you, mama,” Gilbert murmured.
Ray drove while I navigated from the front seat, tracing the route on the open map. He headed east on Portland Avenue, cutting back onto Market Street and from there under the bridge and up onto 71 heading north. The day was breezy, faintly warmer than it had been. The sky was a wide expanse of robin’s egg blue, clouding up along the horizon. I was hoping Ray would violate some minor traffic law and get us stopped by the highway patrol, but he kept the speedometer exactly at the limit, giving hand signals I hadn’t seen anyone use for years.
About a mile beyond the Watterson Expressway, he moved onto the Gene Snyder Freeway and took the first off-ramp. We exited onto 22, which we followed for some distance. The route we took was probably once a little-used dirt road, many miles out in the country. I pictured merchants and farmers in a countywide radius, traveling hours by wagon to reach the wooded area where their dead would be laid to rest. The Twelve Fountains Memorial Park was located several miles across the line into Oldham County, surrounded by limestone walls, occupying land that had once been part of a five-hundred-acre tract of woods and tangled undergrowth. Over the years, the hilly countryside had been tamed and manicured.
At the entrance, iron gates stood open, flanked by fieldstone gateposts that must have been fifteen feet tall. The road split left and right, circling an arrangement of three large stone fountains, shooting staggered columns and sprays of water into the icy November air. A discreet sign directed us to the right, where a small stone building was tucked against a backdrop of cypress and weeping willows. Ray pulled onto the gravel parking pad. I could see the woman in the office peering out at us.
Gilbert took Helen into the office with him. Laura’s face was still so visibly bruised as to generate attention he didn’t want. His own face was still peppered with tiny cuts, but nobody’d have the nerve to ask what happened.
While the two of them were gone, Laura caught Ray’s eye in the rearview mirror. “What about her?” she said, indicating me.
“What about her?” Ray said, annoyed.
“Gilbert’s worried about Grammy calling the cops. What makes you think she won’t?”
I turned around in the seat to face her. “I’m not calling anyone. I’m just trying to get home,” I said.
Laura ignored me. “You think she’s going to sit by and watch us walk away with the money?”
“We haven’t even found it yet,” Ray said.
“But when we do, then what?”
Ray’s expression was despairing. “Jesus, Laura. What do you want from me?”
“She’s going to be trouble.”
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“I am not!”
Laura looked away from me and out the window, her mouth set. Gilbert and Helen were returning to the car. He ushered her unceremoniously into the backseat again and then got in on his side. Helen muttered something scathing and Ray said, “Ma, be careful.” She reached forward and touched Ray’s shoulder with affection.
Gilbert got in the car, slamming his door shut, handing me the pamphlet he carried with him. Since I’d called in advance, the woman in the sales office had provided us with a brochure detailing the charter and development of the memorial park. The pamphlet opened up to show a map of the cemetery with points of interest marked with an X. She’d also supplied a folded sheet of paper that showed a detailed plot map of the particular section we’d be visiting. The Pelissaro gravesite she’d circled in red.
I looked back at Gilbert. “You know, this may not lead to anything,” I said.
“I hope you have a backup plan, in that case.”
My backup plan was to run away real fast.
Ray fired up the engine again. I showed him the route, which the woman had marked in ballpoint pen. The cemetery was laid out in a series of interconnecting circles that from the air would have resembled the wedding ring design on a patchwork quilt. Roads encompassed each section, curving into one another like a succession of roundabouts. We took the first winding road to the left as far as the Three Maidens fountain. At the fork, we veered left, moving up past the lake, and then to the right and around to the old section of the park. The cemetery had been named for its twelve fountains, which loomed unexpectedly, wanton displays of water spewing skyward. In California, the waste of water would be subject to citation, especially in the drought years, which seemed to outnumber the rainy ones.
We passed the Soldier’s Field, where the military dead were buried, their uniform white markers as neatly lined up as a newly planted orchard. The perspective shifted with us, the vanishing point sweeping across the rows of white crosses like the beam from a lighthouse. In the older sections of the cemetery, into which we drove, the mausoleums were impressive: limestone-and-granite structures complete with sloping cornices and Ionic pilasters. The larger sarcophagi were adorned with kneeling children, their heads bowed, stone lambs, urns, stone draperies, and Corinthian columns. There were pyramids, spires, and slender women in contemplative postures, cast-bronze dogs, arches, pillars, sculpted busts of stern-looking gents, and elaborate stone vases, all interspersed with inlaid granite tablets and simple headstones of more modest dimensions. We passed grave after grave, stretching away as far as the eye could see. The headstones represented so many family relationships, the endings to so many stories. The very air felt dark and the ground was saturated with sorrow. Every stone seemed to say, This is a life that mattered, this marks the passing of someone we loved and will miss deeply and forever. Even the mourners were dead now and the mourners who mourned them.