A Welcome Grave

I was quiet. She shook her head and blinked at tears that were rising again. She kept them in this time, though. After a minute, she turned back to me.

“I want to know what happened to this family, Lincoln. I’ve got to know what happened to this family.”

“I’m not the guy to help you. Never was. Why the hell did you call me, anyhow?”

“The police told me they’d talked to you, and I . . .” She let her words trail off, staring thoughtfully at nothing. Then she looked back up at me. “Remember those qualities I was telling you about? The confidence, the independence, the—”

“The things that drove you away.”

She seemed to wince at that, but still she nodded. “Yes. Well, even if they made you seem distanced, they bred faith in you, Lincoln. They bred trust. I’m sorry, but that never went away.” She looked at me sadly. “Doesn’t that make any sense to you?”

“As much sense as any of the rest of this.”

“Do you understand that I need to know what happened to this family?”

“Yes. And I wish you luck with it. But I’m not going to help. I can’t. I never should have let myself get involved with this in the first place, and I spent a good portion of the drive home today swearing at myself for making that mistake.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “I’m sorry that’s how you feel. I’m sorry for getting you involved.”

I stood up. “You need to call the police and give them the straight story.”

She followed me to the door. “I’ll send a check. For the amount we agreed upon earlier.”

I shook my head. “You’ll get a bill with my normal fees. Pay that, and we’re done.”

She stood in the entryway as I pulled the big door open and stepped out. The sun was completely gone now, and I was greeted by chill, dark air. I turned back to her, now nothing more than a silhouette framed by the light over the entryway.

“Good luck, Karen,” I said, and then I walked back to my truck and drove away.

9

I made it only to the end of that long, winding driveway before a pair of spotlights lit up the darkness, blinding me with harsh beams. I winced and slowed, shielding my eyes with my forearm. When I brought the truck to a stop, the spotlights went off, and then someone’s knuckles rapped on my window.

After a hard blink that sent white squares floating through my field of vision, I lowered the window, and after one more blink I was staring into the face of Hal Targent.

“Mr. Perry, how are you?”

“Tired, and going home. You want to clear those cars out of my way?”

“No, I want you to clear yourself out of your truck.”

I looked away from him and leaned back in my seat, frustration building through me and threatening to spill over. I wasn’t ready to deal with more of this. Not another cop sweating me over things I had nothing to do with. Not tonight.

“Get out of the truck, Mr. Perry.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” He leaned in the window, and I could smell cigarettes on his breath.

“There’s no reason for me to get out of the truck, Targent. What the hell do you want?”

“Just want to talk. Easier to do that if you get out here with us.”

“I’m going home.”

He hooked his forearms over the door, leaning his entire upper body in through the window, into my space. I felt my hands go tight on the steering wheel, but I kept my eyes straight ahead, out the dark windshield. My vision had cleared enough to show me the two cruisers parked side by side in the driveway, blocking my exit. They couldn’t have followed me here, not when I was coming in straight from Indiana. That meant they were either watching Karen’s house or they’d happened to stop by, conveniently found my truck in the drive, and waited to ambush me on the way out.

“Last I heard you were in a jail in Indiana,” Targent said. “Came back and went right to see the widow, huh?”

“I was working for her.”

“So I hear. So I hear. Pretty funny, you working with her just a few days after you told us what a bitch she was, said you hadn’t seen her in years.”

“I hadn’t seen her in years. And I didn’t call her a bitch.”

Targent nodded absently. “Sure, sure. I spent a while on the phone today with a detective from Indiana, name of Brewer. Said he enjoyed some conversation with you.”

“He’s a lovely man.”

“That was my take, as well. Has some funny ideas, though.” Targent’s face was almost touching my own, lit with a green glow from the dashboard lights.

“Yeah, he does,” I said. The truck was in park but still running, and I stared at the gearshift and thought about dropping it into drive and hammering the accelerator, seeing if I could clip Targent’s toes before he got out of the way.

“Man proposed a theory to me that was damn near wild,” Targent said. “I mean, this is some made-for-TV- movie shit. He has two stars in it, a couple of old loves who reunite, secretly. Has things between them heating up again, and then they get this crazy idea to kill the woman’s husband. Why? Well, he’s in the way, of course, but there’s more than that. Turns out the poor bastard’s filthy rich, and the leading male character—in this Indiana guy’s version, I think you get the starring role—he’s had a hard-on for the husband for a while. Assaulted him once before, in fact. So, the couple, they take the husband off the playing field, right? But, shit, that’s only good for half the money. Other half goes to his prick kid, who was never even around. Don’t seem right. But what if the kid turns up dead himself? Be damn convenient. Now, here’s where the plot starts to slip away, in my opinion. Here’s where it goes from feature film to the made-for-TV shit. The man and woman try to fake the son’s suicide. A suicide, even though there’s no apparent motive for him to do it, and even though he’s standing to inherit millions. Then—and this is where the Hollywood directors would really get pissed, because the story’s losing all credibility—the only witness to the suicide is the same guy who’s a suspect in the husband’s murder.”

Targent chuckled and shook his head. “I mean, is that not ridiculous? A suspect in the murder, the rich widow’s old love, he just happens to be the only witness to the kid’s suicide? That’s reaching for it, don’t you think?”

“Get the hell away from my truck,” I said, and I dropped the gearshift out of park and into drive.

“Now, slow down, Perry. I was just explaining the Indiana guy’s theory. It’s not my own.”

“Away from the truck.”

“No need to hurry. I’m afraid your driveway’s blocked.”

I took my foot off the brake and got the truck rolling slowly. Targent walked with it, his hand still on the door. Then I moved my foot to the gas pedal, and Targent stepped away from the window before I started dragging him. The cruisers were parked about forty feet in front of me. I cut the wheel left and pulled off the drive and onto the lawn. There were some ornamental bushes blocking me from open grass. I drove right over them. There’s a reason I have a Silverado instead of a Toyota Prius, and it’s found in moments like this. Clear of the fancy bushes, I cut the wheel back to the right and hit the gas again, felt the tires tearing up the wet grass as I drove around the cruisers, over another set of bushes, and then popped back onto the driveway.

“She’s got money and gardeners,” I said aloud. No need to feel bad about a little lawn damage. Then I was pulling out of the driveway and back onto the street. An engine roared to life behind me, but nobody turned on the flashers, and I thought that was probably a damn good thing—one night in jail per week is plenty.

“What have I told you about mulch?” Joe said. “You can’t just throw it down in clumps and knock it around