“Don’t get all pissy. I was just wondering.”
“Maybe you should wonder about something else. Like what he’s going to say when he sees this one.”
Eddie took a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “Won’t be happy.”
“Nope.”
“And I bet we don’t get two-fifty for it,” Eddie said.
A pulse of light flashed over the tree. Then another. Eddie glanced over his shoulder. A pair of headlight beams bounced across the crest of the hillock and wound down toward them.
“Here he comes,” Eddie said.
They climbed out as a brand new 1954 Chevy Bel Air jerked to a stop behind the Ford. Cream colored with a dark green top, white wall tires. Classy. The kind that told the world the driver had a wad of cash in his pocket.
Antoine Briscoe stepped out. Tall, lanky, black pants, white shirt, long black duster, what he always wore. “What you got for me?” His voice deep, smooth, almost lazy. A twinge of annoyance buried in there. Like he had better things to do. Or maybe didn’t care too much for Eddie and Floyd. Which was true. Hell, a rickety, old, blind coon dog could see that.
Eddie popped the trunk. Antoine reached inside and pulled back the canvas. He tugged a flashlight from his duster’s pocket, flicked it on, and aimed it inside. He shook his head, his long dark hair swaying just above his shoulders. “This ain’t fresh.”
“It’s the best we could come up with,” Eddie said.
Antoine flapped the covering back in place. “Won’t do.” He looked from Eddie to Floyd. “Won’t do at all.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Eddie said.
Antoine smiled. Not friendly, more a grimace. “And who might that be?”
“You know we don’t know,” Floyd said.
“And you never will.” He nodded toward the trunk. “A hundred bucks.”
Eddie twisted his neck, trying to work out a gathering crick. “Our agreement was two-fifty.”
“Our agreement was for fresh product. Not this shit.”
Eddie saw Floyd’s jaw flex. Knew the sign. His cousin had a temper and when it started to rise, his jaw muscles would pump up. Get all big like a squirrel with a mess of hickory nuts stuffed in its cheeks. He laid a hand on Floyd’s arm. “That’ll do.”
Antoine smiled. “Thought it might.” He reached in his pants’ pocket and pulled out a thick fold of bills, gripped by a silver clip. He tugged them free, peeled off a pair of fifties, and handed them over. He returned the clipped money to his pocket and walked to the rear of the Chevy, his duster flapping with each step.
He opened the trunk. And waited. Offering no help. As if it was beneath him. Or, as Eddie suspected, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.
The cousins awkwardly transported the bundle from one trunk to the other and folded it inside.
“There you go,” Floyd said.
“Can I ask you something?” Eddie said.
Antoine offered a smirk. “You can ask.”
“What’s he do with them?”
“Don’t see that that’s any of your concern.” He took a step forward, looking down on the cousins. “Who he is and what he does is not for you to know.” He closed the trunk with a sharp click. “When can we expect another one?”
“When we get the opportunity,” Eddie said. “Ain’t like they grow on trees.”
Antoine stared at him. “Make it soon. Demand is up and we’re running low.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe expand your search area.”
“We’ll look into that,” Floyd said.
“Do. Otherwise we’ll have to find another source.” Antoine walked to the driver’s side door, pulled it open. “And make it fresh.” He climbed in, cranked the engine, wheeled a U-turn, and drove away. A faintly visible dust trail blurred his taillights as he disappeared over the hill.
“I don’t like him,” Floyd said.
“He don’t seem to like us much neither.”
* * *
“What the heck does ‘messed with’ mean?” Sheriff Amos Dugan asked Travis Sutton, his best officer. Dugan glanced at the bedside clock. Five a.m.
Amos Dugan was the sheriff of Lee County. A pretty easy job most days since his jurisdiction was small, consisting of assorted farms and two small towns; Pine Creek, the county seat where his office was located, and Pine Valley, eight miles east over a few wrinkles in the farmland. That was it. Unless you wanted to count Harper’s Crossroads, which he didn’t. Not as a bona fide town. Only sixteen folks lived over there on old man Harper’s land. Each resident a direct descendant. Except for the two boys who’d married Harper’s daughters and gave him a passel of grandkids.
But, this day wasn’t kicking off all that well. Not just Travis’s call but last night’s dinner over at Clay’s Diner. It had seemed greasier than usual and he’d eaten too much, and too fast, his stomach now complaining. Had most of the night, making his sleep fitful at best.
Travis laid it out. “Just that. Someone messed with a grave over at the cemetery. Carl called me this morning. Maybe an hour ago. You know how he’s always up before dawn and hankering to get to work. Anyway, he got over to the cemetery right early, even for him, and found someone had been digging around at Wilbert Fleming’s grave. I drove over and had a look-see.”
“And?”
“Sure enough. Looked like the soil had been disturbed.”
“Of course it was disturbed. He was just buried yesterday.”
“Yeah, but Carl said it’d been messed with.”
“There you go again. Did someone just root around or did they dig up Wilbert? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, nothing like that. Didn’t seem so anyway. Just looked like the dirt mound wasn’t like it should be.”
“According to who?”
“Carl. He should know. He’s the one what dug the grave after all.”
“Maybe dogs or something like that?” Dugan asked.
“I suspect it coulda been but it didn’t really look that way. Carl wondered if he should dig it up and see if Wilbert’s missing.”
Dugan considered that but didn’t much like the idea. “I’d have to get a warrant. Or Martha’s permission.” He sighed. “And I damn sure don’t want to go over there this time of day and ask her if we can dig her husband up because someone might’ve stolen him.” He stifled a yawn. “Why would someone do that in the first place?”
“Beats me.”
“I’d bet on dogs,” Dugan said. “Or maybe those feral pigs that’ve been roaming around causing mischief lately.”
“What should I tell Carl?” Travis asked.
“Tell him not right now. But that I’m thinking on it.”
* * *
Eddie was of the opinion that luck had always followed him. Floyd, too, for that matter. But mostly him. Hooking up with Antoine, and his mysterious boss, was an example. Easy money. But right now, he couldn’t come up with a plan. The local newspaper obituaries offered no leads. Maybe they’d have to spread out a little bit. Check out a couple of the neighboring counties.
It was two days after their last meeting with Antoine and he and Floyd sat on stools at McGill’s, their favorite bar. The clock had just rolled past midnight. The crowd had thinned a bit, but since it was Friday, or in actual fact Saturday now, still plenty of folks hanging around—some shooting pool, others simply drinking and swapping lies.
Then it happened. That stroke of luck that always seemed to come at the right time. From two guys a few stools down. He thought maybe he’d seen them there before, but couldn’t be sure. What caught his ear was one of them saying, “You going to Jerry’s visitation this afternoon?”
Eddie nudged Floyd. Nodded toward the men.
One was older, maybe fifty, heavy, and wore a blue work shirt; the other younger, skinnier, gray shirt, the one that asked the question.
Blue shirt: “Yeah. Four o’clock? Right?”
Gray shirt: “Yep. Over at Grace Funeral Home. Gloria and me’l
l be there.”
Blue shirt: “What time’s the funeral Sunday?”
Gray shirt: “Noon. Over at Pine Valley Cemetery.”
Blue shirt: “Closed casket, I assume.”
Gray shirt, nodding: “I hear his truck hit a tree. Tore his head all to hell.”
Blue shirt: “Well, at least it was quick. That’s a blessing.”
Gray shirt: “He was only twenty-eight.”
Blue shirt: “A pure-dee tragedy’s what it is. He was a fine boy.”
“Pardon,” Eddie said, looking past his cousin. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you was saying.” Blue shirt looked at him. “He was only twenty-eight?”
“Sure was.”
“What was his name?” Eddie asked.
Blue shirt hesitated, and then said, “Jerry Crabtree.”
“From Pine Valley?”
“Yep. Why?”
“He a baseball player?” Eddie asked. “In high school?”
“Sure was. A good one.”
Eddie nodded toward Floyd. “We played against him.”
“You did?”
“He was a couple of years ahead of us but we remember him. First base. Could really hit.”
“That’s him.” Gray shirt jumping in. “It’s the rain what did it. I hear tell he lost control of his truck.”
“That’s awful,” Eddie said, shaking his head, doing his best to sound concerned. “Maybe we’ll come to the funeral.”
Blue shirt nodded. “I suspect his family would like that.”
* * *
“What the hell was that all about?” Floyd asked.
They had paid the bill and were now walking down the street toward their car.
“I got me an idea,” Eddie said.
“What might that be?”
Eddie climbed behind the wheel and waited for Floyd to get in. “Better than all that digging.”
“What on God’s green earth are you jabbering about?”
Eddie pulled from the curb. “Let me noodle on it for a minute.”
* * *
It was just over twenty-four hours later when they drove into Pine Valley.
The last couple hours had been busy. First a stop by McGill’s for a beer and a chat with Wayne, the bartender. The only way they had to reach Antoine. Eddie motioned Wayne over. Eddie leaned on the bar, looked around, made sure no one was listening. “Need to get a message to Antoine.”
“About what?”
“Tell him we got something for him. We’ll meet him around two a.m. Usual place.”
Wayne nodded, cracked open a couple of long-necks and slid them toward the cousins. “On the house. Be back in a minute.”
Wayne disappeared down the hallway, toward his office.
“This better work,” Floyd said. “If we bring Antoine out in the middle of the night and we ain’t got nothing, he’s gonna be pissed.”
“It’ll work.”
Wayne returned. “All set.”
Next stop, Pine Valley. Eight miles east along a winding, two-lane, asphalt county road. They saw only two cars, both zipping by the other way. Before heading into town, Eddie guided the car off onto a dirt road and then across a field where he parked near a stand of pines.
Eddie stepped out. “This’ll work.”
Floyd removed a pair of saws from the backseat and they went at it. Took half an hour to take the tree down and cut the trunk into five pieces, each about thirty pounds, figuring the sections all told weighed about as much as old Jerry. Close enough. They lugged them to the trunk and lifted them inside.
“Let’s get this done,” Floyd said.
Pine Valley wasn’t much of a town and this time of night the streets were dark and deserted, only a couple of the bars showing any signs of life. Along the road that marked the north edge of the business district, if you could call it that, sat Grace Funeral Home. A wooded lot that backed up to a wad of trees, its front lawn and driveway sloping down toward the road. To the left of the low brick building sprawled the cemetery, dotted with a few trees and sprinkled with white headstones that seemed almost ghostly in the dark. They drove by, giving it the once-over before circling back. No lights on inside, no cars in the lot. Eddie switched off the headlamps, scooted up the drive, and whipped around behind the structure.
Getting in was easy. Floyd used a screwdriver to lever open the lock. In less than half a minute, they stepped inside, the odor of formaldehyde and death greeting them.
Eddie hated funeral homes. Never been in one, unless there was a visitation in progress. Those were all lit up and filled with people. Not like now where it was dark and spooky. The stillness was smothering, the echoes of their footsteps on the concrete floor unnerving.
“This place is creepy,” Floyd said.
“That it is,” Eddie said. “Let’s get at it and get the hell out of here.”
They found the cold storage area behind a metal door that grated and squeaked as they slid it open. Inside, the chilled air held a nauseating stench.
“Jesus,” Floyd said. “How does anyone do this for a living?”
Inside were two caskets, each supported by a metal stand. One open and empty, the other closed. It was pewter colored and the lid heavy. Floyd directed his flashlight beam inside.
A corpse. Covered with a white cloth. Eddie peeled it back. They jumped in unison. Jerry Crabtree’s body was wrapped in similar cloth, his exposed face a brownish, reddish mass of flesh.
Eddie felt his stomach lurch. He struggled not to vomit. “Good lord.” He stepped back. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” Floyd said. “Think of it as two hundred and fifty bucks.”
Eddie took a couple of deep breaths, settling things. He nodded.
Twenty minutes later they had removed the body, placed the five tree sections inside, closed the casket all nice and tight, and ferried Jerry’s corpse to the trunk.
“What if they take a peek inside before the funeral?” Floyd asked.
“Don’t see why they would.”
“But if they do? What then?”
“No way they can connect this to us,” Eddie said.
“We better hope not.”
Eddie got in the car and sat behind the wheel. Sweat frosted his face and his stomach continued its protest.
“You okay?” Floyd asked as he climbed in the passenger seat.
“Mostly.”
* * *
“Let’s see what you got,” Antoine said.
They stood near the Ford’s trunk beneath the tree where they always made such exchanges. Eddie popped open the lid. Antoine peeled back the dingy canvas covering the corpse. He gave a start.
“What is this?” Antoine asked. “What the hell’d you do?”
“We didn’t do nothing,” Floyd said.
“He hit a tree,” Eddie added. “All we did was snatch him from the funeral home.”
Antoine looked at them. “You did what?”
“We figured it was better than digging him up tomorrow night,” Eddie said. “And he’s a day fresher.”
Antoine shook his head. “Don’t you think they’ll miss him? At the funeral?”
Eddie explained the closed casket service, the logs they had slipped inside. He closed with, “Clean and simple.”
Antoine smiled. Sort of. “That’s actually pretty clever.” He looked back at the corpse. “Not sure he can use this though.”
“Sure he can. The rest of him’s fine. Only twenty-eight and just forty-eight hours dead.”
Antoine hesitated, and then said, “Okay, get it moved.”
Again, he stood back and let Floyd and Eddie do the work. Once the transfer was completed, Antoine handed them the two-fifty, climbed in his car, and drove away.
Eddie followed him down the drive to the road. When Antoine turned right toward Pine Creek, Eddie went left. In the rearview mirror, he watched until Antoine’s taillights disappeared around a curve, then swung onto the gravel shoulder and pulled a quick U-turn
.
“What’re you doing?” Floyd asked.
“I want to know where he’s going. Who he’s delivering the body to.”
“You think that’s wise? He might see us.”
“Not if we’re careful.”
Eddie raced back up the county highway, until he saw Antoine’s taillights disappear over a rise in the road. He flicked off the headlamps.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Floyd said. “And don’t run into nothing.”
Tailing Antoine was a snap. His was the only car on the road and once in town they could easily stay a couple of blocks back and follow his every turn. Just south of downtown, he climbed a steep drive to a massive antebellum home that possessed views over the town and the entire valley.
Eddie pulled to the side of the road. “What the hell?”
“Ain’t that Dr. Bell’s house?” Floyd asked.
“Sure is.”
Eddie watched Antoine’s car slide around the side of the mansion and toward the large white barn behind. The car came to a stop and the taillights went dark.
“What on earth does Dr. Bell need with a corpse?” Floyd asked.
Eddie thought about that but couldn’t come up with a reasonable idea. “Let’s go grab a beer and think on it.”
* * *
“I ain’t sure this is a good idea,” Floyd said.
“Me neither,” Eddie said. “But we got to know what’s what.”
“We do?”
“Ain’t you curious?”
“Course I am. But I don’t want to get caught neither.”
“It’s three in the morning. Ain’t nobody up and about.” Eddie motioned toward the mansion. “Not a light nowhere.”
Over a few beers at Floyd’s place they had decided that a look inside Dr. Bell’s barn was in order. Took Eddie a while to convince Floyd but finally he gave in. He always did. They parked in McGill’s lot, walked the two blocks to the edge of town, crossed the county road, and eased into the trees a couple of hundred yards from the Bell Mansion. They worked their way to the back side of the property, hopped the fence, and now stood near the barn’s corner, the rear of the mansion in full view. Bell’s Caddy sat near the back door.
“Now what?” Floyd asked.
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 24