Road trips at my age don't involve a convertible with the top rolled down, a cooler of beer on the backseat, a handsome guy behind the wheel, the open road before us. Nope, even an overnight getaway means careful packing (mustn't forget the prescription medications) and the assignment of responsibility while I'm gone. (Who is going to feed the animals? Make sure the garbage gets taken out Tuesday night. Be there when the guy comes to repair the disposal, etc.) Which is not to say that taking off for a couple of days with a friend, thus leaving the responsibilities behind, isn't pretty darned exciting.
There is a reason, of course, that I'm going to tell you about my most recent escape. I went to Portland for two days with a friend who is also a writer, and on the way we plotted two stories, one for her and one for me. Mine was the short story in this volume. I write 330-page books. Not short stories.
The atmosphere for plotting was right, because, while ostensibly we were taking the trip to see her daughter, in reality we were on our way to Powell's Books, the grandmother of all bookstores, the city block of room upon room upon room of used and new books mingled under subjects. Researching police procedures? Here's a nice long aisle of shelved books reaching toward the ceiling. Inuit art? Adoption? South American history? Get a bunch of writers in there, and they scatter with incoherent cries of delight. Just try to round them up.
But I live a five-hour drive from Portland, and there we were, Pat and I, with nothing else to do but talk. She's been writing Western historical romance for Kensington, but was plotting a paranormal romance (since sold to Pocket Books). I was faced with the appalling necessity of writing something under twenty pages long. All I knew was that I wanted it to link to the rest of the books in the PATTON'S DAUGHTERS miniseries. For some reason, I kept remembering the recurring thought Meg, Renee and Abby had that "Dad would be turning over in his grave" or was "resting uneasy in his grave."
If we took the words literally…What if the ground was disturbed, and his grave was found to be empty? Given what a hideous man he was and how frightened of him his daughters were, the idea gave me goose bumps. But…why would somebody want his remains (not a pretty sight after fifteen years or so)? What if he was there, but was missing a body part? Say, a finger. Yeah, but darn it, why? Honestly, digging the guy up didn't make sense. Defiling his gravestone, for someone who'd hated him…that was logical if twisted. But actually digging him up and opening the coffin—well, that made sense only if someone wanted something buried with him. And it would be a heck of a lot of work, especially given that you'd have to do it in the middle of the night, so you'd have to be majorly motivated.
Pat and I were on a roll. Tacoma passed, Olympia, Mount Saint Helens on our left. We paused at a used bookstore in Chehalis (we're like quilters who know every quilt shop in the state; we know our bookstores), then continued on. By the time we started over the Columbia River, Portland's skyline ahead, we had the story nailed down. The good part was we still had something to do on the way home! Her story!
The perils of road-trip plotting? Well, you know how you get great ideas in the middle of the night, only they don't seem so great in the cold light of day? Sometimes it works like that. Worse yet, another writer friend and I once went to a conference in Eugene, Oregon (another couple of hours down the road). We were pretty tired on the way home, but we were going to plot two books. Ideas flowed. We started getting excited. We came up with the best plots ever! Trouble was, neither of us wrote them down (she was driving, I get carsick if I read or write while moving). We both returned to the books we were working on. A couple of weeks later, I couldn't remember the story we plotted for me. I called her. She didn't remember mine—or hers! We both still wonder whether those weren't our breakout books, our chance to crack the New York Times Bestseller List—or really lousy ideas.
But the short story actually got written, and it might not have if Pat and I hadn't craved a visit to Powell's Books.
ROLLING OVER IN HIS GRAVE
by Janice Kay Johnson
RENEE PATTON absentmindedly dumped the dregs of coffee from her mug into the sink. She was speaking to the Kiwanis Club today and hadn't planned a talk. Not that she hadn't given a couple hundred of these speeches since she'd become Elk Springs police chief. If she could find her notes from the last time…
The phone rang.
She answered. "Renee speaking."
"Chief, this is George Hillyard out at Mountain Rest Cemetery."
Rotary Club, if she remembered right.
"I hate to bother you at home," he continued, "but I thought you'd like to be informed. I just got a report of a grave being disturbed out in the area where your dad is buried."
"His grave?" Goose bumps rose on her arms. Lord help them all. Somehow she'd always known that Chief Ed Patton wouldn't rest in peace.
"We don't know yet. An attendant reports dirty footprints. I'm heading over myself…"
She grabbed her car keys. "I'll meet you there."
"I can call when I know more…"
Renee had already hung up the phone and was going out the door, the Kiwanis Club forgotten.
She didn't make a habit of visiting her father's grave. She'd hated and feared him in life and often marveled at the fact that, even so, she'd walked in his footsteps, becoming police chief just as he'd been. But she knew right where he lay. She remembered all too well standing at graveside fifteen years ago with her youngest sister, Abby, as the coffin was lowered into the gaping hole. Aware of sympathetic glances, she'd kept her gaze lowered and hidden the relief that had dawned in her breast.
After winding into the cemetery, she parked behind a blue sedan and a worker's pickup, then walked across the springy grass to join Hillyard in his dark suit standing with two cemetery workers, all staring down at the fresh dirt sprinkled on the smooth grass around her father's grave. Clearly, someone had heaped dirt beside the grave. Dirt that had since disappeared.
Without a word, Renee crouched to tug at the grass. Her second yank brought results. The sod peeled off like a bandage from a wound.
Behind her, George Hillyard said a heartfelt, "Damn." Followed by, "I'm sorry, Renee, but we're going to have to dig him up."
"Oh, yeah," she agreed.
She called her sisters, Abby now an arson investigator, Meg a lieutenant in the sheriff's department. Both joined her to watch as workers dug.
Renee kept casting uneasy glances at the dirty trail that led away from the grave. It petered out as it went, not quite reaching the paved road that wound through the cemetery. She told herself the grass had cleaned the soles of the grave robber's shoes. That was the only reason the trail seemed to vanish in midstride.
But finally she said, "Is it just me wondering if he finally pushed his way out of there?"
They both made strangled admissions that the thought had, unpleasantly enough, crossed their minds.
With a clang, a shovel hit a solid surface. More carefully, workers cleared the mahogany lid of the coffin. Finally, one crouched in the hole and pried up the lid.
"Well," George said at last, "thank our dear Lord no one took his body."
Mostly mummified, Ed Patton lay where they'd put him, head on the satin pillow, his uniform having aged better than he had. It was Renee, staring into the hole, who said, "His badge. We buried him with it."
A small tear in the fabric of his jacket gave away the haste with which the badge had been ripped off.
"Why would anyone want it?" Abby asked. She neither expected nor got an answer.
"Now what do we do?" the cemetery director asked.
"Fingerprint the coffin," Renee said.
Eyes narrowed, Meg was studying the shining face of the granite marker. "Do the gravestone, too."
Surprised, Renee shrugged and pulled out her cell phone. "Pete," she said into it, "I need a fingerprint tech."
Meg and Abby left. Only Renee remained, in a vigil that felt symbolic. She'd been the one who'd lived with him until his death, the one who'd maintained the fa
mily home long after his death without daring to move a thing for fear his ghost would lash out at her.
The fingerprint technician arrived and dusted the coffin lid with powder. Shaking his head, he said, "I'm finding prints, but I don't think they're fresh. I'm betting your grave robber wore gloves."
Who'd want to open a coffin with their bare hands? "Do the headstone."
"Lookee, lookee," he said a minute later. Right over the engraved letters that said Police Chief, a set of four prints showed clear as day. Just below the letters was the thumbprint, as if someone had rested a hand on the stone in reverence.
"Might not be our robber," Renee said.
"Might be, though," the fingerprint tech added.
She nodded and said to the two cemetery workers still standing by, "Bury him."
She watched while they obeyed, wanting to be sure plenty of heavy dark earth weighted down the coffin lid. They stretched the sod back over the grave and brushed the grass with brooms until the dirt was diffused, the ground appearing undisturbed.
Then and only then did she leave, just in time for her speaking engagement.
* * *
THE FAMILY CONFERENCE that night included the three sisters, their husbands and Will, Meg's oldest boy who was now an assistant district attorney for Butte County.
Who and why was the topic.
"Somebody who hated his guts," was an oft-expressed opinion.
"Since that's one hell of a long list," Abby said, "we may have trouble narrowing it down further."
"On the up side, a goodly number of people who hated him will have been fingerprinted," Meg pointed out.
Renee hardly needed to say, "But not necessarily their descendents." After all, the grown son of parents who'd died horribly thanks to Chief Ed Patton's barbaric style of policing had already targeted their family once.
Will interrupted. "But why would someone who hated him dig him up just to steal his badge? Desecrating the grave, sure. Scattering his bones, smashing the headstone, that makes sense. Stealing the badge and then closing the grave up so neatly, that doesn't make sense."
Ben Shea, Abby's husband and a Butte County sheriff's department detective, agreed. "What about one of the old-timers who worshipped him and thinks law enforcement in this town will never be the same? Can't you see one of those potbellied bastards polishing that badge and displaying it on an altar to the good ol' days?"
"Could be a kid," Will suggested. "On a dare."
Meg had been rubbing her collarbone, right where Ed Patton had once broken it. She'd confessed that it sometimes ached.
"I say we publicize this. Get the paper to highlight Chief Patton's sins. We can mention that we have leads and believe we will shortly be making an arrest."
"Scare the crap out of him." Renee nodded. "I like it."
"If it's a kid, he'll open his big mouth to someone," Renee's husband said.
"I always enjoy an opportunity to remind people what a son of a bitch he was," Abby agreed.
"Why don't we offer him the opportunity to return the badge without consequences?" Will suggested.
"Good idea." Renee looked around the table to see if other comments were forthcoming. When none were, she said, "Meantime, we'll be running those fingerprints."
* * *
MICK SARICH spread his schoolbooks out at the kitchen table after the dinner dishes had been cleared. He waited until the two other kids went upstairs and he heard the television come on in the living room where his foster mother had gone to spend her evening like she always did before he snatched up the newspaper to see if anything had appeared yet.
When he saw the cover story, his heart raced: Police Chief Ed Patton's Grave Desecrated
He hadn't desecrated anything!
Except there was that unpleasant moment when he'd seen the corpse and torn the badge off in his haste to be done and safely home.
He kept reading, the hamburger casserole he'd eaten for dinner turning to cement in his stomach.
Elk Springs police chief Renee Patton reports that investigators are vigorously pursuing several leads and expect the carelessness of the offender to bring about a quick arrest.
Carelessness? What were they talking about? He'd worn gloves, and since it had been three in the morning when he'd started digging, he knew damn well no one had been around to see him. He'd washed the tools and put them back in the garage so his foster mother wouldn't notice they'd been used.
Just below the lead article was a second one, about Ed Patton's years as chief of police. Some of his apprehension fading, Mick started to read.
But he hadn't gotten far when his stomach began to knot again. This couldn't be true. None of it. Ed Patton had been awesome. He was like Batman, knocking heads together. A hero. All of this was just crap. Lies.
He shoved his chair back and called, "I have to go to the library," and went to the garage for his mountain bike. Not really his, of course, any more than the bedroom or the clothes the state bought for him were his. But his to use. Borrowed, was how he thought of them.
He peddled furiously along quiet, neighborhood streets, crossing the Deschutes River. At the public library, he left his bike in the rack without even bothering to chain it. Inside, he had to wait fifteen minutes before some fat old guy got up from the microfiche machine and he could claim it.
He started way back, before Ed Patton become police chief. His name kept cropping up in the newspaper. Mostly he was named as the arresting officer. Then Mick came to a front-page story about a teenage boy being shot to death by a police officer. The boy had been breaking into a store, but he'd run when Officer Patton had confronted him. The article said he'd swung around with something in his hand, and the officer had thought he had a gun.
Mick scrolled to the next day's edition, where Ed Patton was named for the first time. A neighbor who'd stepped out on her porch claimed the boy never had turned around and didn't have anything in his hand. She said the police officer had shot him in the back.
Crouching over the microfiche reader, Mick found a follow-up article dated two weeks later. Officer Patton had been cleared. He said one thing, the witness another, but they'd had no reason to doubt that Officer Patton was telling the truth about what he'd thought he saw. The incident was a tragedy, etc.
In an issue dated three months later, Ed Patton made the front page again. A man had shot his wife and kid when the police officer responding to a neighbor's call kicked in the door instead of trying to negotiate. The guy's sister was enraged, saying her brother had been really depressed but he never would have hurt anyone if somebody had just given him an out. Once again, Ed Patton was cleared.
A sick feeling was growing in Mick's stomach. He kept reading, kept finding stories about Ed Patton when he became sergeant, then finally police chief. There were always allegations of brutality, but he kept rising in the ranks. He was "tough on crime," editorials claimed.
Mick had really, really wanted that badge as sort of a symbol. He was going to grow up to be like Ed Patton.
But now…now he didn't want to be anything like him. He didn't want the badge. He wished he'd never thought of this incredibly dumb idea.
Mick turned off the microfiche reader and went to the bathroom. Grateful he had it to himself, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and puked. They were going to find him. He knew they were. He'd be arrested and handcuffed and humiliated, and he didn't know how he'd ever been so stupid.
Peddling home, he felt like he had a fever. Chills washed over him. Maybe not like a fever. Maybe like a ghost was near. A ghost who was really pissed because Mick Sarich had dug up his grave and stolen something from him.
I'll get rid of the badge, he thought. He could throw it in the river.
But what if somebody saw him throw something from the bridge, and they dredged, and…
A Dumpster. There were bunches of them in the alley that ran behind the main street with all its shops. Nobody would look in those. Or one of the neighbors' garbage can
s.
…vigorously pursuing several leads…the carelessness of the offender…a quick arrest…
He turned into the driveway, then felt terror close his throat when the dark shape of a man materialized between his house and the neighbor's. Mick fell off his bike and left it lying there, racing for the front door. Inside, he was panting when he locked it and turned out the porch light.
Back pressed to the door, he stood there for a minute. Two minutes. Nothing. No footsteps on the porch, no firm knock on the door. No "Open in the name of the law."
The shape had been nothing but a shrub. He knew there was a bush right there between the houses. Getting freaked out like this was so dumb.
But he didn't go back out to put his bike away. Instead, he called, "I'm home," and took the newspaper again from the recycling bin where he'd returned it. What had they said about returning the badge?
* * *
"HE'LL MAIL IT," Abby grumbled.
Renee shook her head. "I wouldn't. Not if I was scared. I'd worry about fingerprints and my handwriting and the postmistress remembering who mailed that package."
The moon was barely a sliver, casting little light. The cemetery was pitch dark. Abby bumped into a stone and muttered something.
"He'll throw it away."
They were speaking in whispers now.
"It depends who he is." Renee had thought a lot about this. "He worked really hard to get that badge. He might have never seen a corpse before. Part of him might feel bad about what he did. No." She shook her head, even though Abby couldn't see her. "I think he'll return it. And if I were him, this is what I'd do. Sneak back and leave it on the gravestone."
"Maybe we should just let him."
"Don't you want to know who stole it and why?"
"Crap," her sister growled. "Of course I do. I'm here, aren't I? Unlike our beloved big sister."
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