IN THE DARK, page 13
The ground jolted her, but not badly. She rolled with the impact and got to her feet. She came up with the back of her shirt wet and clinging, but the dew didn’t soak through her jeans.
She looked at the fence and smiled.
Got over that hurdle without a scratch. I’m getting good at this stuff.
She hurried back to the fence and picked up the flashlight. Keeping it dark, she turned toward the cemetery.
Now, to find the envelope.
“Babe,” she whispered. “Gotta find Babe.”
She wondered if Babe might refer to a monument—maybe a statue depicting an infant.
Might be a cupid, she thought.
Cupid? In a graveyard?
Who knows? It’s possible.
She decided to keep her eyes open for statues of babies, but to concentrate on checking the names on headstones.
She hurried to the nearest grave. After a quick look around to make sure she was still alone, she shone her flashlight on the marble slab.
No Babe buried under this one.
Nor the next, nor the one after that.
This can’t be right, she thought as she aimed her light at another tombstone. There must be more to the clue, or this is the wrong paradise, or something. Mog wouldn’t make me go around and check every grave here. Doesn’t make sense. It could take all night.
She kept at it, though.
This had to be the right paradise.
It won’t take all night, she told herself. I’ll just go row by row, take it one step at a time. Should be able to cover the whole place in a couple of hours.
She walked quickly from grave to grave, stopped in front of each, aimed her flashlight at every headstone, pushed the button to send a beam of light through the darkness, read the name of the deceased, killed the light and hurried on.
The grass was long and wet.
The beautiful, uncut hair of graves. Whitman? Had to be Whitman, Leaves of Grass.
The dew on the grass soaked through her shoes and socks.
The wet hair of graves.
She thought of the bodies underneath the ground. Bodies in coffins—some of the coffins maybe so old they’d fallen apart, some of the bodies nothing but bones, others in various stages of rot, some almost fresh—all around her. Nothing between her and them except a bit of dirt.
I’m walking on them.
Stepping on their faces, or maybe on their chests or bellies or…
Cut it out, she told herself.
And she wondered if they knew she was here.
They can’t know.
She wondered if they could feel her footsteps.
Don’t be ridiculous.
She wondered if they were lying there, motionless, listening to her approach, feeling her weight as she stepped on them, growling softly in the silence of their graves, hating her for walking on them and maybe hating her for being alive, maybe dreaming deadman dreams of dragging her down into the earth with them.
They’re dead. They don’t dream shit.
And maybe Jane would believe that, be certain of it, have total faith in it on a sunny afternoon, especially if she were with some good friends.
But this was the middle of the night in a graveyard, and she was alone, and she could feel them.
Feel them hating her, wanting her.
She knew it was ridiculous. The bodies beneath her feet were completely unaware of her presence. And they were mostly—probably—the bodies of nice, decent people. Friendly folks who’d left loved ones behind.
Not fiends.
So how come they feel like fiends?
Like fiends and trolls who can’t wait to get their hands on me?
If I don’t stop this, she thought, I’m going to scream and run and that’ll be the end of Mog and his game.
She stopped in front of a grave, shivered, plucked the damp back of her shirt away from her skin, and shone her flashlight on the stone marker. This one, a thin slab, stood at a tilt in the tall grass. It was so old and weathered that the inscription had been worn down. Only shallow valleys remained of the words and dates that had once been chiseled deep.
With a marker like this, she thought, must be nothing at all left of the body.
The chances of this being Babe…
The chances will be excellent if it’s the only headstone I can’t read. It’ll be sure to be the one if I skip it. That’s how things work.
So she sank to a crouch in front of the tilted slab.
Holding the flashlight in her right hand, she reached out to the headstone with her left. She traced the first letter with her fingertip.
Might be a B. But more like a P.
Am I squatting right over his face? she wondered. What if he’s not really six feet down? What if he’s only a couple of inches under the dirt and…
The tombstone fell, knocking her hand away, pounding her left knee. She yelped with alarm and pain. As she fell backward, the stone whumped the ground.
Missed my toe.
She landed on her back.
Right on top of him!
Sprawled on her back, arms out, legs spread, she wanted to clutch her hurting knee. But she thought, This is when he gets me. Reaches up right out of the ground and grabs me… bites…
She flipped over, rolled, and scurried to her feet. After limping a few steps backward, she whirled around to make sure nobody was coming. The whirl saved her from colliding with the corner of a vault. Halting herself, she turned and gazed at the fallen headstone.
It was barely visible in the tall grass.
No cadaver was rising in front of it.
What did you expect?
Bending over, Jane rubbed her knee. It didn’t hurt much, now. She supposed it would be black and blue tomorrow.
I shouldn’t have touched that tombstone, she thought. Not the way it was leaning like that.
She wondered if she should set it back up.
I’ve got to, she thought. I’m the one who knocked it over.
Would’ve fallen down, anyway.
Sure, but it was me who made it fall tonight.
She muttered, “Shit.”
She hurried to the stone, stepped behind it, crouched and leaned forward and grabbed it near the top with both hands. It felt cool and damp—a little bit slimy. Shifting her weight backward, she raised it. The slab was heavy, but manageable. She settled its base into the trench of loose soil from which it had been uprooted. When it was standing upright, she tested it by relaxing her hold. Each time she started to release it, the slab began to tip.
“Great,” she muttered.
What am I supposed to do, stay here forever?
Forever, or until morning—whichever comes first.
Being careful not to let it fall, she turned around. She sat down hard on top of the slab. It made soft noises in the soil. She raised herself and sat down again. Five times, she stood and sat, using her body to pound the slab deeper.
That seemed to be enough.
The tombstone remained upright as she made her way around it, stomping the earth to pack it firm.
She stepped back.
A job well done, she thought.
She rubbed her rump.
And she realized that she was probably standing directly on top of the buried corpse, but it didn’t bother her. This grave, at least, no longer contained a fiend. In this one was the body of someone who’d needed help with a bad tombstone. He, she, whatever—almost felt like a friend.
Jane was a little winded, but her jitters were gone. She took a deep breath.
She turned around slowly, scanning the moonlit graveyard.
Though she was aware of having wandered quite far from the tree where she’d entered the cemetery, she was surprised to discover that the parking lot and fence were no longer in sight. She must’ve roamed quite a distance while studying the names on the tombstones.
Off to her left, through the trees, she could see a small part of the roof of the old, abandoned house by the edge of the graveyard.
Which meant that the parking lot and the front gate should be behind her. She turned around, and found herself looking at the slope of a low hillside.
What should I do? she wondered. Keep searching? Head back?
From the sweet, moist smell of the air, the night seemed very late.
She shone her light on her wristwatch.
Ten after two.
“Jeez,” she muttered.
She didn’t need to be at the library until noon, though. She could sleep as late as eleven, if she had to.
Keep at it, she told herself. Babe’s bound to be here someplace. Just a matter of being persistent.
She stepped to the next tombstone and shone her flashlight on it.
Somewhere not very far away, a car horn beeped.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From the top of the rise, Jane could see a pickup truck at a far corner of the cemetery’s parking lot. It stood motionless and dark under the moonlight.
It hadn’t been there before.
Jane shifted her gaze to the main gates. They were too far away and too dark; she couldn’t see whether they were open or shut.
She started moving, keeping low, staying in shadows, ducking behind trees and tombstones, taking her time but steadily closing in on the pickup. Now and again, she halted and gazed at it.
Had it been there before? She was sure she hadn’t noticed it. The way the small truck was tucked away in a corner, though, she might’ve simply failed to spot it.
It looked like one of those tiny little Japanese pickups, the kind that city people bought when they liked the rugged, man-of-the-earth image of driving a pickup truck, but had no real use for one.
It was the only vehicle in sight.
It’s gotta be the one that honked.
Horns don’t honk by themselves, she thought. Not usually. Which means somebody must’ve beeped it.
But why? Just for the hell of it? Honk in the graveyard, see if you can wake the dead?
Or was it meant to be a signal?
A signal for who?
Maybe somebody else has been here all along.
Or maybe it was meant for me.
Maybe Mog got tired of all my fooling around, looking for the envelope in all the wrong places, and he beeped to call me in.
I’ll find out soon enough. Maybe.
Stopping, Jane peered around a tree trunk. Moonlight gleamed on the windshield of the pickup truck. She couldn’t see into the cab.
Somebody has to be in there. Or nearby. The truck didn’t get here by itself. It didn’t honk by itself.
But she couldn’t see inside, not even after sneaking almost to the edge of the parking lot and peering at the windshield from behind a bush no more than fifteen feet away. The moonlight still plated its glass with silver.
I can’t see in, but he can see out.
Charming.
At least there can’t be a whole gang inside, she told herself. No more than two people could fit in the cab. Two fairly small people.
She was tempted to stand up in plain sight and walk straight to the truck and get it over with.
That’d be a real smart move.
But what if I go in really low? she wondered.
If she squirmed on her belly, the driver’s view of her would be obstructed by the hood.
Not at first.
For the first several feet, she would be in plain sight. If the driver happened to be looking in the right direction, he would probably spot her.
Once she’d made it closer to the pickup, though, she would be hidden.
Worth a try, she thought.
So she lowered herself flat onto the grass behind the bush. Dew soaked through the front of her shirt. Head up, she squirmed around the side of the bush and writhed her way toward the pickup. Dew made it through the front of her jeans. A few tips of grass tickled the bare skin of her chin and throat.
Her heart thudded.
She listened for the sound of a door opening.
If the door opens or the engine starts…
Then she was on the asphalt. It felt warm under her body, but hard. Bits of gravel scraped at her ribs and belly and forearms through the thin cloth of her shirt. The bra helped a little. The jeans gave her very good protection.
She remembered the denim jacket that Babe had been wearing. If she had a jacket like that…
BABE!
The front license plate of the pickup truck, level with her eyes, read BABE 13.
Tomorrow, when churchyards yawn, see the Babe.
YES!
She quit belly-crawling and studied the front of the pickup: its tires, bumper, grill, headlights. No sign of the envelope.
It had to be nearby, though.
It had to be somewhere on the pickup, or inside it.
Maybe under it.
The space beneath the pickup looked slim.
I won’t go searching under there, she told herself, except as a last resort.
She squirmed toward the license plate, stopped just in front of the bumper, and pushed herself up. On hands and knees, she was almost high enough to peer over the hood. But she kept her head down and crawled to the left. Past the corner of the bumper. Past the tire. At the passenger door, she turned toward the pickup. Still on her knees, she reached up to the door. Hand braced against it, she raised herself.
She moved very slowly. Inched her head higher, higher.
No matter what you see in there, she warned herself, don’t make a sound.
Just get ready to run like hell.
Though her eyes were still lower than the bottom of the window, she knew that the top of her head was exposed. Anyone watching the window was sure to see it. So she raised herself high enough to peer in.
And she could see straight through the cab and out the window beyond the driver’s side.
Nobody!
Now, if nobody’s hiding in back…
She stood up straight and looked past the rear of the cab. The pickup’s bed was large enough to conceal two people lying side by side. Short people, anyway. And someone could be lying there, cloaked by the heavy shadows.
Jane raised her flashlight and shone it in.
Nobody there.
The bed of the pickup truck was empty except for a single board: a two-by-four about five feet long. She wondered why anyone would drive around with nothing but one board. No tool box, or…
Doesn’t matter, she told herself. What matters is, nobody’s hiding in there.
The coast is clear.
She took a deep breath and blew out, puffing her cheeks. She rubbed the back of her neck.
She brushed bits of gravel off the damp front of her shirt and jeans, then began to wander around the pickup, sweeping it with the beam of her flashlight, looking for the envelope.
The vehicle was bright red, and appeared to be brand new. Its make was announced in raised, white-painted letters on the tailgate: TOYOTA. Its rear plate, like the one in front, read BABE 13.
At the driver’s door, Jane found a set of keys. One dangled from a ring while the other was stuck into the door’s lock.
Fine, she thought. I can get in. But where’s the envelope?
Inside. That’s why he left me the keys.
Jane pinched the door key between her thumb and forefinger, turned it, saw the lock button pop up, and yelped and leaped back as a growling, snapping dog sprang out at her face.
Its muzzle slammed against the driver’s window.
It hit with such force that it rocked the pickup.
“Jeez!” Jane gasped.
The dog rebounded off the window, then attacked again, pounding the glass, shoving at it, snarling, trying to bite it.
Six feet away, Jane aimed her flashlight at the dog.
It looked a lot like a German shepherd, but its muzzle seemed too broad, too stubby.
A Rottweiler? That’s what it is.
Its fur was black, its teeth huge and white, its tongue pink. One eye, apparently blind, was the color of phlegm.
It lunged at the driver’s window, wild and drooling, as if nothing else mattered but getting Jane.
She supposed it must’ve been down on the front seat, probably asleep, until she’d twisted the key. The sound of the door unlocking must’ve awakened it.
If the dog had delayed its attack for half a second longer, she would’ve had the door wide open.
What’s Mog doing, trying to kill me?
Booby-trapped the car with fucking Cujo!
Just my luck, she thought, the envelope’s probably in there with the monster.
As she thought that, she spotted a rectangle above the steering wheel. On the windshield?
Please let it be on the outside! Please!
She hurried to the side of the pickup, leaned over its hood, shone her flashlight at the windshield and stared at the rectangle.
It seemed to be flush against the glass.
Through the glass, her named showed.
That’s it!
Moving closer, she saw that the envelope was taped to the inside of the windshield. Just to make sure her eyes weren’t betraying her, she ran her fingertips down the glass. Cool and slick.
“Terrific,” she muttered.
And her heart gave a kick as the dog hurled itself at her. The steering wheel stood in its way, but it shoved its head through the ring and barked and snapped.
The envelope was just beyond its teeth.
Jane stepped back, wanting some distance between herself and the dog. Then she stopped, gazed at the envelope, and wondered how to lay her hands on it.
Smash the windshield right where the thing’s taped to it, she thought, and maybe I can grab it without getting myself chewed up.
She had never broken a car window, however, so she couldn’t be sure how the glass might behave.
Obviously, it would break inward.
Which would obviously push the envelope closer to the dog. Not good. Worse, maybe the glass would crumble and drop the envelope to the pickup’s floor. And worst of all, what if the glass really came apart when she broke it? Instead of making a hole the size of her hand, she might demolish it.
Making a way for the dog to get out and nail her.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Thanks anyway.”
Anyway, she told herself, it isn’t my car. It’s probably stolen, or something. God only knows how much it’d cost the owner to have his windshield replaced.
