He blinked, shook his head, leaped away from me, and padded in circles among the tombstones, busily sniffing the grass and the fallen oak leaves, pretending to be just a dog again.
Maybe it wasn’t Orson who had spooked me. Maybe I had spooked myself. Maybe his lustrous eyes had been mirrors in which I’d seen my own eyes; and in the reflections of my eyes, perhaps I had seen truths in my own heart that I was unwilling to look upon directly.
“That would be the Halloway interpretation,” I said.
With sudden excitement, Orson pawed through a drift of fragrant leaves still damp from an afternoon watering by the sprinkler system, burrowed his snout among them as though engaged in a truffle hunt, chuffed, and beat the ground with his tail.
“You confound me,” I told him.
My mouth still tasted like the bottom of an ashtray, but I was no longer hacking up the phlegm of Satan. I should be able to steer to Bobby’s place now.
Before fetching my bike, I rose onto my knees and turned to face the headstone against which I had been leaning. “How’re things with you, Noah? Still resting in peace?”
I didn’t have to use the penlight to read the engraving on the stone. I’d read it a thousand times before, and I’d spent hours pondering the name and the dates under it.
NOAH JOSEPH JAMES
June 5, 1888-July 2, 1984
Noah Joseph James, the man with three first names. It’s not your name that amazes me; it’s your singular longevity.
Ninety-six years of life.
Ninety-six springs, summers, autumns, winters.
Against daunting odds, I have thus far lived twenty-eight years. If Lady Fortune comes to me with both hands full, I might make thirty-eight. If the physicians prove to be bad prognosticators, if the laws of probability are suspended, if fate takes a holiday, perhaps I’ll live to be forty-eight. Then I would have enjoyed one half the span of life granted to Noah Joseph James.
I don’t know who he was, what he did with the better part of a century here on earth, whether he had one wife with whom to share his days or outlived three, whether the children whom he fathered became priests or serial killers, and I don’t want to know. I’ve fantasized a rich and wondrous life for this man. I believe him to have been well traveled, to have been to Borneo and Brazil, to Mobile Bay during Jubilee and to New Orleans during Mardi Gras, to the sun-washed isles of Greece and to the secret land of Shangri-la high in the fastness of Tibet. I believe that he loved truly and was deeply loved in return, that he was a warrior and a poet, an adventurer and a scholar, a musician and an artist and a sailor who sailed all the seven seas, who boldly cast off what limitations — if any — were placed upon him. As long as he remains only a name to me and is otherwise a mystery, he can be whatever I want him to be, and I can vicariously experience his long, long life in the sun.
Softly I said, “Hey, Noah, I’ll bet when you died back there in 1984, undertakers didn’t carry guns.”
I rose to my feet and stepped to the adjacent tombstone, where my bicycle was propped under the guardian gaze of the granite angel.
Orson let out a low growl. Abruptly he was tense, alert. His head was raised high, ears pricked. Although the light was poor, his tail seemed to be tucked between his legs.
I followed the direction of his coaly gaze and saw a tall, stoop-shouldered man stalking among the tombstones. Even in the softening shadows, he was a collection of angles and sharp edges, like a skeleton in a black suit, as if one of Noah’s neighbors had climbed out of his casket to go visiting.
The man stopped in the very row of graves in which Orson and I stood, and he consulted a curious object in his left hand. It appeared to be the size of a cellular telephone, with an illuminated display screen.
He tapped on the instrument’s keypad. The eerie music of electronic notes carried briefly through the cemetery, but these were different from telephone tones.
Just as a scarf of cloud blew off the moon, the stranger brought the sour-apple-green screen closer to his face for a better look at whatever data it provided, and those two soft lights revealed enough for me to make an identification. I couldn’t see the red of his hair or his russet eyes, but even in profile the whippet-lean face and thin lips were chillingly familiar: Jesse Pinn, assistant mortician.
He was not aware of Orson and me, though we stood only thirty or forty feet to his left.
We played at being granite. Orson wasn’t growling anymore, even though the soughing of the breeze through the oaks would easily have masked his grumble.
Pinn raised his face from the hand-held device, glanced to his right, at St. Bernadette’s, and then consulted the screen again. Finally he headed toward the church.
He remained unaware of us, although we were little more than thirty feet from him.
I looked at Orson.
He looked at me.
Squirrels forgotten, we followed Pinn.
17
The mortician hurried to the back of the church, never glancing over his shoulder. He descended a broad set of stone stairs that led to a basement door.
I followed closely to keep him in sight. Halting only ten feet from the head of the stairs and at an angle to them, I peered down at him.
If he turned and looked up, he would see me before I could move out of sight, but I was not overly concerned. He seemed so involved in the task at hand that the summons of celestial trumpets and the racket of the dead rising from their graves might not have drawn his attention.
He studied the mysterious device in his hand, switched it off, and tucked it into an inside coat pocket. From another pocket he extracted a second instrument, but the light was too poor to allow me to see what he held; unlike the first item, this one incorporated no luminous parts.
Even above the susurration of wind and oak leaves, I heard a series of clicks and rasping noises. These were followed by a hard snap, another snap, and then a third.
On the fourth snap, I thought I recognized the distinctive sound. A Lockaid lock-release gun. The device had a thin pick that you slipped into the key channel, under the pin tumblers. When you pulled the trigger, a flat steel spring jumped upward and lodged some of the pins at the sheer line.
A few years ago, Manuel Ramirez gave me a Lockaid demonstration. Lock-release guns were sold only to law-enforcement agencies, and the possession of one by a civilian was illegal.
Although Jesse Pinn could hang a consoling expression on his mug as convincingly as could Sandy Kirk, he incinerated murder victims in a crematorium furnace to assist in the cover-up of capital crimes, so he was not likely to be fazed by laws restricting Lockaid ownership. Maybe he had limits. Maybe, for instance, he wouldn’t push a nun off a cliff for no reason whatsoever. Nevertheless, recalling Pinn’s sharp face and the stiletto flicker of his red-brown eyes as he had approached the crematorium window earlier this evening, I wouldn’t have put money on the nun at any odds.
The undertaker needed to fire the lock-release gun five times to clear all the pins and disengage the dead bolt. After cautiously trying the door, he returned the Lockaid to his pocket.
When he pushed the door inward, the windowless basement proved to be lighted. Silhouetted, he stood listening on the threshold for perhaps half a minute, his bony shoulders canted to the left and his half-hung head cocked to the right, wind-spiked hair bristling like straw; abruptly he jerked himself into a better posture, like a suddenly animated scarecrow pulling loose of its supporting cross, and he went inside, pushing the door only half
