With arms and legs all tucked in, Jonathan shut the lid and looked himself over. Blood streaked his hands, chest and arms. It caked his fingernails. He could only imagine what his face looked like. It wouldn’t do. He wandered to the hippie’s tent, rummaged through his stuff, and found the bar of soap he knew had to be there somewhere. With the Ivory in one hand and his pistol in the other, partially concealed by a purloined towel that he’d draped over his forearm, he trudged through the tall grass all the way down to the river.
He kept the bath to only a few minutes. Part of him continued to worry about being caught in such a compromising condition, but all of him worried about God only knew how many microbes were invading his body from the waters of the Potomac.
Clean, dry, and redressed, he climbed behind the wheel of the Chrysler and dropped it into gear. When he’d put a couple of miles between himself and the crime scene, he slid his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed the button for the voice command. “Call Niles Decker,” he said.
The man he was looking for answered on the third ring. Jonathan told him what he wanted.
Decker sighed. “I’ll meet you at the office,” he said. “Drive straight to the back.”
“See you in thirty,” Jonathan said, and he closed the phone.
It only took him twenty-five.
The Decker family had been in the undertaking business for generations, building one of the most recognizable brands in the Northern Neck. Their sprawling edifice on the outskirts of Montross was an architectural icon. Tall, fat pillars in front suggested the north portico of the White House. Inside, the viewing rooms rivaled the world’s most opulent mansions with fabric wall coverings and ornate chandeliers. For members of a community of working-class farmers and fishermen, this was the one chance they had to live in the style of their dreams. It’s a shame they had to live it when they were dead.
Jonathan and Niles Decker had been classmates from first grade through high school. While they were never close, they were linked by the industry their fathers shared. Officially, Simon Gravenow-Jonathan’s father-made his fortune in the scrap recycling business. In fact, Jonathan still owned that business, and it still made more than enough money to support a very wealthy family. Jonathan had ceded direct control to Leonard King years ago, limiting his involvement to the occasional board of directors meeting, but he enjoyed the tie to real industry.
In his spare time, Simon Gravenow was a thief and a murderer, a key player in what the press had glibly labeled the Dixie Mafia. He bought and sold politicians at will as he kept the drug trade thriving. Those who got in his way were removed with extreme prejudice. Now Simon was a guest of Uncle Sam in one of his finest maximum-security prisons, where he was scheduled to spend the rest of his life.
Jonathan had made it a point to stay out of his father’s affairs-to know as little about that part of the family business as possible. That had always disappointed his father, and when Jonathan turned eighteen and legally changed his name from Gravenow to Grave, communications between them had pretty much shut down.
But some details had leaked through, and some had worked to Jonathan’s benefit. One was the connection with the Deckers.
Decker Funeral Home sat at the crest of a hill. Recognizing that the distasteful part of the dead-body business was conducted in the basement, they’d excavated the site to allow for a below-grade loading dock that allowed hearses-or in this case a Chrysler sedan-to pull through overhead garage doors and disgorge their cargo just steps away from the parlors where their guts and blood would be replaced with preservative chemicals.
Jonathan turned the vehicle around in the driveway and backed into the garage where Niles Decker was waiting for him. Even through high school, the guy had been a clotheshorse. Now that his business required a certain formality, he was never seen without an expensive suit. Today it was navy blue, with a crisp white shirt and a wildly patterned tie. Short and stocky, he didn’t fit the Ichabod Crane archetype of an undertaker, but his bloodline had evolved itself out of a sense of humor.
“Hello, Niles,” Jonathan said as he climbed out of his vehicle. The roll-up door was already on its way down.
“Good morning, Jon.” The Digger nickname was a product of Jonathan’s Army years, but even though most of the people he knew had taken it on, Niles’s sense of propriety would never allow it. He stood aside as Jonathan opened the trunk and displayed his cargo. “The plastic lining is a nice touch,” he said. “Good of you to be prepared.”
Jonathan didn’t bother to explain that the preparations were not his. It wasn’t the undertaker’s business, and he undoubtedly wouldn’t care.
“Dare I ask what these gentlemen did to deserve their fate?”
“They tried to shoot me,” Jonathan said.
“When will people learn?” Niles unbuttoned his suit coat and placed it on a hanger that dangled from a hook next to a closet near the door to the inside. From the closet itself he withdrew two rubberized long-sleeved aprons. He offered one to Jonathan. “Would you mind helping with the transfer?”
Jonathan took the apron and pulled the collar over his head. “Not at all.” He slipped his arms into the sleeves.
Niles next pulled open a cabinet that sat next to the closet, revealing a stack of disaster pouches-the civilized term for body bags. He removed two, then took a minute to spread them open just so on the concrete floor. Finally, the cabinet produced two pairs of rubber gloves, the kind you’d use to wash dishes in very hot water.
“Do we have names?” Niles asked as they hefted the one whose mangled head sprouted blond hair.
“Not yet,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t realize that would be important to you.”
Niles shot him a disapproving look. “Some of us are disturbed by the things we occasionally must do.”
Jonathan held the body’s head and shoulders, and as they closed to within inches of the floor, he let go, allowing the corpse to fall. “So long as you’re disturbed, Niles. That’s important. Just not disturbed enough to stop doing it.”
Niles found the zipper tab near the corpse’s feet, and he pulled it closed. “If I could, I would.”
Jonathan let it go and turned his attention to the second body. Again, he had the heavy half. Niles no more had the balls to stop disposing of bodies than Jonathan had an inclination to deal with the undertaker’s other illicit customers.
The mechanism of disposal could not have been simpler or more reliable. When dead people are on display in a funeral home, that thin mattress they lie on is suspended by nylon webbing, not unlike the webbing used in folding lawn furniture. By adjusting the height of the webbing, the mortician can position skinny corpses and fat corpses at just the right height relative to the edges of the casket. The dirty little secret that Niles Decker’s father had discovered and passed along to his son was that the void created by the webbing was the perfect place to stash an additional body. Inside a sealed body bag, there’d be no stink, and with all the bedding in place, the hitchhiking corpse would be invisible. As for the extra weight, everybody just wrote that off to a heavy casket.
Thanks to the Deckers, more than a few graves in Westmoreland County were double occupied.
“How long before these two are in the ground?” Jonathan asked.
“By tonight,” Niles said. “We have two events this afternoon, and I’ll see to it that they’re a part of it.”
“I appreciate that,” Jonathan said. He waited as Niles disappeared back into the building and returned with first one gurney and then another. He helped lift the bodies onto the carts. “You need more help than that?” he asked.
“I can take it from here,” Niles said.
Jonathan could see that the emotional burden of being a mob cleanup man was beginning to crush him. “Hey, Niles?”
The man turned.
“These are the guys who shot up Resurrection House yesterday.” It was close enough to the truth not to be a lie. If they weren’t the ones who did the shooting, then they were close associates. “Don’t shed any tears for them.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The food court in Pentagon City Mall was like every other food court in every city in the world. The same pizza, the same Chinese food, the same burgers. One thing that set it apart, Brandy thought, was its location on the
