“Grif? Kara?” Kate called, loosening her scarf.
The room was a study in formality—replete with doilies covering the backs of Victorian furniture; elegant coffee and end tables matched the settee and wingback side chairs. A fireplace dominated the room; its mantle held a large pewter urn bracketed by silver framed photos of family members.
“This house used to be the actual funeral parlor, as they called it. That was a long time ago—turn of the century,” she said. “They built the place next door—well, actually the basement is all that’s left of that one. A fire wiped it out a few years ago. Your buddy Krall can probably tell you all you want to know about it. He seems to be the town historian these days.”
“He actually mentioned a bizarre tornado too.”
“Oh right. That was way before my time,” she said, calling for them again. She waited a moment, sighed, and put her scarf back around her neck. “I’m sorry. They must be next door. He knows I don’t want her over there.”
“You mean at the—”
“Yes. I know there are emergencies sometimes, especially in his line of work, but I just don’t like her over there in that atmosphere. She doesn’t need to see corpses and crying families and all that stuff.”
They walked through the spacious living room, past the staircase, to the kitchen. It was actually very modern when compared to the rest of the house. A stainless steel Subzero fridge, Blodgett oven and range, and a freestanding butcher block, complete with a set of expensive knives dominated the kitchen. The spotless countertops sported a matching blender and coffee grinder, with coffee and sugar canisters.
“Sometimes we help families prepare their reception meals after the funeral,” Kate said, noticing Pilate’s expression of interest in the kitchen. “Grif has a small reception hall over there. Lots of families use it and have food.”
“I see.”
They exited the back door to cross the thirty feet between the house and mortuary. Pilate saw a small icicle-draped playground for kids in the back, paint peeling off the bars, a birdbath with Saint Francis, and a massive stack of firewood. A chimney rose from the rear of the building.
“Oh, how nice. There’s a fireplace in there too.”
Kate snorted. “No, John. That’s part of the crematorium.”
“Oh.” God. Could I have said anything dumber?
They entered through the very commercial-looking glass door of the mortuary. The mortuary “living room” consulting/waiting area was a pale, cheaper copy of the ancient one he’d just left in the Victorian house. A small office with Grif’s name on the door was situated to the side.
“Not in his office. Could you wait here? I’ll go see if I can find them,” Kate said walking through a door marked “Private.”
Two large paintings hung above a sofa in the living room. One was actually a photo of a handsome man in his twenties, wearing a navy-blue suit and elegant tie. A small brass plaque mounted on the frame read “Richard David Nathaniel 1974-2000.” Rick. Kate had walked past the picture as if she had not seen it; a skill she’d no doubt worked hard to master.
Next to Rick’s photo hung an older portrait of a distinguished-looking thin man in his fifties, wearing a pleasant, yet somber expression and black suit to match. Pilate noted the small brass plaque: “Martin Alexander Nathaniel 1917-1963.”
A stack of brochures about prepaid funerals and some religious tracts lay untouched on the end table. One tract read, “Your Choice: Heaven or Hell!“ and it featured an unintentionally comical drawing of Satan on the cover.
Pilate observed quickly that past Grif’s office were a large casket showroom and four mourning rooms, all with the lights off. “Death takes a holiday,” he said under his breath. Then he took in the room, thinking about the Nathaniel family. They had played a minor role in the Bernard tragedy all those years ago. Martin Nathaniel had been funeral director for all three of the men, and the man known as “Grief” had been apprentice. Pilate found it strange that Martin Nathaniel’s car had plunged over the bridge into the Missouri mere weeks after the Bernard murder-suicide. It was an unusual coincidence in that winter of loss for both the college and the nation.
Arms folded, he continued to walk around the anteroom, taking it all in, when his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a young girl.
Kara was all talk and smiles until she came out of the private door with her mother.
Pilate sank to one knee. “Hi, Kara. I’m John.”
“This is Mr. Pilate,” Kate said, correcting him.
“The man with the ticket!“ Kara said. “Do you have an airplane?”
Pilate smiled. “No, I’m afraid not. They just call me that. I teach school with your mother at the college.”
Kara seemed disappointed. She wanted to fly.
A lanky man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a cardigan, corduroy pants, and a tie appeared in the doorway behind Kate and Kara. He slid an expensive fountain pen into his shirt pocket and smiled at Pilate.
Pilate rose to his feet.
“Hi. Grif Nathaniel,” the man said.
Pilate recoiled mentally at meeting a storied bit player from the Bernard murders in the flesh. Nevertheless, he instinctively extended his hand. “John Pilate,” he said, as the man shook it. “I teach at Cross.”
“So Kate told me,” he said. “Nice to see her taking a little time for fun.” Nathaniel had a kindly manner that was betrayed slightly by the apparent sadness lurking behind his eyes.
Perhaps that’s why they call him “Grief,” Pilate thought.
“Grif, we are merely co-workers,” she emphasized, cutting
her eyes to Kara. “We were at a meeting.”
Grif smirked. “Well, I hope it was a fun one nonetheless.”
“We have to go. Say bye-bye to Grandpa.” The mother
dutifully nudged her daughter toward Grif for an embrace. “See ya, sweet girl,” Grif said.
“Bye, Grandpa,” she said, pulling the hood of her coat over her head.
“Goodnight, sir. Nice to meet you,” Pilate said with another look into the mortician’s sad eyes.
Grif nodded. “Likewise.” He hugged Kate for a moment. “Bye,” he offered as the trio headed back out into the cold.
Pilate started the car and blasted the heater as high as it would go.
Grif waved from the door, and Kara waved back, as did Kate, albeit in a cursory way. “Nice man,” Pilate said. Kate nodded.
“We were in Grandpa’s lab!” Kara said with glee.
“I know, honey,” Kate said. “Grandpa had some stuff he needed from downstairs,” she said to Pilate, clearly irritated that Grif had taken the child into the embalming area.
“I see,” he said, stopping for a moment as a long black Cadillac hearse eased past them and nosed into a covered portico on the side of the mortuary.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” Kate said. “A new intake from the nursing home. Grif said it’s Grace Hamilton. She was Dean Kennedy’s secretary back when that crazy professor shot him.”
Pilate glanced at Kara in the rearview mirror. “I see.
Interesting.”
They drove quietly; Kara had already dozed off in the back seat. “Thanks for doing this,” Kate said. “We’re just over this hill and down two blocks.”
Pilate drove carefully, hyper alert to the black ice that tended to appear in sinister patches on overpasses.
“So, I noticed the picture of—” Kate cut him a look.
“Martin,” Pilate finished, catching her drift.
“Oh,” she said. “I never knew him. He died way back in the sixties.”
“Grif’s father?” Pilate said, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. From what Rick told me, he was a real town father-member of Rotary-chamber of commerce type. A good guy,” she said. “Did he start the mortuary?”
“What are you, a cop?” she said, smiling through her put-on exasperation.
“Sorry. Just making convers
ation,” he said.
“Next street.”
“Okay.”
“Well, to answer your interrogation, Officer, Martin’s grandfather started it a long time ago—right around the time families stopped caring for their own dead, after the Civil War. You know, when it became uncivilized to have Grandma’s corpse propped up in your front room for the days before burial.”
“He died kind of young, didn’t he?” Pilate said.
“A lot of men seem to in that family,” she said.
Realizing what a damn fool insensitive thing he’d just said to Rick Nathaniel’s widow, Pilate blurted “Oh, Kate, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I am so sorry.”
She looked out the window, pointing to a nice brick house with a large front yard. “This is it.”
Pilate felt like a first-class ass. His ears reddened in embarrassment.
Kate pulled the sleeping Kara from the back seat. “It’s okay, John,” she said. Hoisting Kara to her chest, she looked Pilate in the eye. “And I’m okay too.”
“Thanks for going to dinner,” he said sheepishly.
“Sure. See you at school,” she closed the car door and carried Kara up to the house.
“Stupid,” John said aloud, punching the steering wheel.
Ollie Olafson was a large, powerfully built man with a thick Cro- Magnon brow that made sunglasses unnecessary even on the brightest of days. He guided his bulky frame into his late-model sport utility vehicle. He flicked on the radio, jammed a stubby cigar in his mouth, and steered the gas hog off the town’s main street into a dark alley.
The longtime mayor of Cross Township, a job practically handed down to him from his late father, turned over the day’s events in his mind: meetings with the developer and several phone calls from one town elder who demanded to know, “What are you gonna do about that asshole Lindstrom?” Ollie had assured them both that all the plans would go through just fine, as long as there were no “hiccups” at the last minute to queer the deal. He promised he would personally see to it that any case of the hiccups would be promptly cured. That’s why I’m out driving the fucking back roads at eleven o’clock on a ball-chilling night like this.
After three blocks, he ran out of alley and onto a tree-lined gravel road that led to the hilltop location of Monticello Hill cemetery. The ancient cemetery commanded a view of Cross Township proper and Cross College during the day; this time of night, though, all he saw were the flicker of lights in homes and the firmament of twinkling stars overhead.
He pulled past the monuments of the cemetery. Some were standard obelisks; more than a few were poured cement in the form of trees with intricate vines, bark, and epitaphs. Beyond them lay the simple marble markers of the World War I and II dead, the ones killed in action and those veterans who’d been lucky enough to come home and live out their natural lives on American soil. His father’s grave lay among them.
A few stray spires marked the resting places of a wealthy scion or favorite son of Cross, breaking up the monotony of stones until the rows stopped at a line of trees and a partially obscured path. Olafson stopped his SUV there; the vehicle was too wide to go any further.
The glow of his cigar preceded him as he trekked into a glen bathed in moonlight. He tripped twice on flat markers that had fallen over from long-dead border war and Civil War soldiers. They had nearly been forgotten until the cemetery board decided to make the area a protected place as they made application to the National Registry for the entire cemetery. Over his shoulder he saw the grim outlines of the Nathaniel family crypts, which had stood there since just after the Civil War.
“Dad?” Ollie heard his son’s voice from the trees. “That you?”
“Yeah. Come on out,” he said, exhaling Cohiba smoke.
Craig came out from behind a gargantuan oak large enough to conceal his bulk, his exhaled breath visible in the night air. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey. You make the call?” he said.
“Yup. Steve called in the accident. It should keep the sheriff tied up for a while, just in case.”
“Well, you make damn sure that Steve keeps his fuckin’ mouth shut. Tell him to stay off that hillbilly heroin so he doesn’t go blabbin’ off. You ready?”
The younger Olafson held a crow bar aloft in reply, the cold steel outlined in the moonlight.
“Let’s do it,” Ollie said. “Come on.”
The hulking pair walked carefully through the garden of stone until they reached the crypts. Using a penlight, Ollie searched the names on the doors of each of the five crypts. The flashlight quit a couple of times, and Ollie shook it. “Piece of shit,” he muttered. He struck it a couple times against his hand until the light returned. Ollie shined the light on the front of the crypt. “Nope,” he said each time after looking at the names of the dead adorning the first three. “Yep,” he said on the fourth.
Ollie stepped back. Craig lurched forward into the halo of the penlight and jammed the crowbar into the crypt door. The wood was rotted at the hinges and gave way with a sickening crunch.
“Don’t know my own strength,” the younger man said with a snort.
“You never did,” his father said, brushing past him into the darkness of the crypt. “Let’s hurry, Craig.”
The son shuddered, following his father into the house of the dead.
Pilate drove back to his apartment, trying to shake his feeling of stupidity. His selfish curiosity about a long-ago murder had hurt the feelings of a beautiful woman he really liked. Bringing up the untimely death of her husband was not an aphrodisiac.
Keyed up and unwilling to settle into his boring digs, Pilate steered away from the college, past his apartment toward downtown. Passing the scene of his bruised pride and jaw, heeding the warning from Krall about “another strike against him,” Pilate rolled his eyes and kept driving.
Spurred on by his visit to the mortuary and too energized to sleep, Pilate decided a trip to the hilltop cemetery might be a good chance to have a much-needed smoke, and he was sure it would offer an even better view of the stars than his breezeway.
He turned on the car radio and began singing along to “Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in My Hands.” As he crooned along with the lyrics, he replayed the night’s conversations with Kate to the point of his stupid remark, then cursed himself.
Driving slowly, he followed the green signs that pointed to the gravel road leading up to Monticello Hill. Not used to the unlit steep gravel road, Pilate felt even more stupid with every shimmy of his car on the gravel.
As he rounded a bend, the cemetery gates came into view about a quarter-mile away. Relieved, he sped up. Soon he could stop, look up at the stars, and get his nicotine fix.
A quick glance in his rearview mirror produced Simon’s porcelain face. Sitting in the back seat, quiet for once, with his black pupils focused on the road ahead. He had a strange look on his face.
Is that…fear?
“Oh, would you please just go to hell?” Pilate said to his back seat stalker.
Simon merely sat there, his eyes widening. Then, as if prompted by some unseen force, he said, “Look out, John,” sounding detached.
An engine roar startled Pilate. He looked back toward the road and saw the high beams of a truck or SUV barreling down the gravel road, coming straight at him. Pilate jerked the wheel to the right, knowing the gravel road was by no means wide enough for his car and the big truck. He fishtailed, the Grand Am’s rear end narrowly missing the truck as it sped past him. Momentum took over as Pilate fought to keep his car on the road. “Sh-i-t!“ he wailed, stretching the four-letter word into three distinct syllables.
He felt the knuckles of both hands pop as he gripped the wheel. As he overcorrected, the car slid off the gravel road and rolled down the embankment about 100 feet, mowing down helpless, leafless saplings, small trees, and brush.
“I’ve been downhearted, baby…” was the last refrain Pilate heard before he cracked into a defiant oak tree and sank into b
lackness.
CHAPTER NINE
Pilate sat in a dark room, devoid of windows and doors. His head hurt. Music played—some kind of trance track he associated with dancing and watching kids do ecstasy.
“I told you to watch out, John.”
“Shit,” Pilate said, slowly turning his head upward to face Simon.
“Well, I have good news and bad news.” His lighter clicked, and the smell of his cigarettes seemed more potent. “The good news is that you are still very much alive.”
“I remember a…being in a car wreck.”
“Yes, John. Very good,” he said in that fucking singsong aristocrat accent.
“What do you want?”
Simon pulled up a chair in front of Pilate’s—a chair that had not existed the second before. He straddled it, sitting backward, resting his alabaster chin on the back. “Only to keep you company until you regain consciousness.” Smoke crept from his nostrils.
“You’re too kind,” Pilate said. “I think I’ll wake up now. Good seeing you.” Pilate shut his eyes in the dark room for a three-count. When he opened his eyes, Simon was gone, but Pilate was still in the room. His head hurt worse. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Pilate said aloud to the empty room.
There was no answer.
Pilate closed his lids again. “I said, you think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Through his eyelids he saw a bright light.
“Well, I’m sure as shit smarter than you,” Sheriff Scovill said, leaning over Pilate, shining a penlight in his eyes as he lay in the back of the sheriff’s truck.
Pilate blinked twice.
“And I damn well know I’m a better driver.”
“Oh…hi,” Pilate said. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”
Scovill clicked his tongue. “Uh-huh.”
Pilate sat up. “Some guy blew me into the ditch.”
“What? You got blown by some guy in the ditch?” Scovill teased, sniffing Pilate’s breath.
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