“Land is cheaper here,” Wesley remarked. “Also, we’re conservative here in the Bible Belt. In Sunday school they taught us that resurrection of the body would take place on Judgment Day, and by God it’s hard to agree to have your remains incinerated if there’s even a tiny chance you’d be missing out on a chance to come back.”
“Oh, Wesley, that makes no sense. Why, decomposition of human remains-”
“I didn’t say it made sense,” the sheriff retorted. “But I’ll bet you it accounts for the ninety-nine percent who want an old-fashioned burial.”
“It’s not environmentally sound,” said Clay with the conviction of the newly converted. “One guy-Clarence Calloway, over at Shady Pines in Reedsville-allows as how cremation is a pretty good idea, even though they don’t offer it. He says that in the United States, a person dies every fifteen seconds, making a grand total of fifty-seven hundred bodies a day to be disposed of. That’s a lot of land going into cemetery plots. And every new cemetery means less forest, less farmland, and less living space for those that
“That’s a pretty convincing argument,” Wesley conceded. “So how come he’s not offering this service if it’s such a good idea?”
“He can’t afford to,” said Clay. “First of all, like I said, there’s not so much profit margin in cremation as there is in regular burial, and secondly, in order to do it, you have to have a lot of expensive equipment. Now if there’s such a small demand for cremation in this area, you’d never recoup your investment.”
“Well, suppose Mr. Calloway’s funeral home does get that rare ecological patriot who doesn’t want to take up space in the ground. What do they do about him?”
“They farm it out,” said Clay, consulting his notes again. “I have it written down here. It seems that there is one place in this area that has a crematorium, and what few families request it are sent over there.”
Wesley picked up his pen. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who is it?”
“It’s called Elijah’s Chariot, Inc., and it’s over in Roan County.” Clay shook his head in bewilderment over the name. “You reckon they named the business that because of the association? Chariot of fire, I mean. Kind of a poetic term for cremation.”
“Could be,” said Wesley, “but if I remember my Sunday-school classes right, it means something a whole lot more interesting.”
“Want to go over and talk to them tomorrow?”
“I have to be in court tomorrow, but if I get out in time, I will. Before then, though, I want to know who’s in that urn.”
“Who’s going to tell you that?”
Wesley grinned. “An expert witness.”
Clarine Mason was on her second straight glass of Southern Comfort. No ice, for once; she wanted it neat. In case anyone should drop by she had put a dish of mints beside her chair. She wouldn’t want her neighbors to smell liquor on her breath. Clarine had fixed her hair in a French twist, and she’d put on her navy blue church dress-just in case. She had asked the sheriff not to tell anyone the news about Emmet, and he’d said he wouldn’t, but she got dressed up anyway. It occurred to her that she might like to talk about this strange new feeling of bereavement, but it was too embarrassing to be shared.
The first grief had been a clean wound. Five years ago, she had felt anger at Emmet for his foolishness-and the pain at losing him and her security and her identity as Mrs. Somebody, so important in a small community. But she had everyone’s sympathy, and no one could say it was her fault back then. She had
This time, though, there was a comic element to her dilemma that undermined her dignity as a widow. People would naturally be wondering what Emmet had been up to for five years. And now, instead of being a tragic widow, Clarine would be regarded as just another discarded middle-aged woman whose husband had gone off to greener pastures.
She stared up at the empty spot on the mantelpiece where Emmet’s picture had resided. It was strange that she should feel a new surge of grief, when in her mind Emmet had already been dead for five years. It was as if the phone call from California had brought her husband back to life for a few moments, only to let him die all over again.
And if she had been able to speak to him between one death and the other, what would she have said? That she missed him? That she wanted him back? Or would she have spent it in recriminations for his cruelty and his cowardice? Clarine took another swig of her drink, knowing the answer and not liking it.
She wondered if she would be expected to go to California now to clean up whatever mess Emmet had left in his five extra years of existence. Was there a young wife out there left with bills to pay? A new insurance policy to be contested? New possessions to be disposed of? Clarine decided that she didn’t care. The Emmet Mason whose wife she had been had died five years ago. What came after that would have to be someone else’s problem.
In a sliding metal tray in a Los Angeles morgue, the body of a man in late middle age lay in peaceful repose. The end had not been peaceful, and there had been a good deal of pain reflected in his heavy-featured face during the first moments of death, but that had been smoothed away now, and within the cold confines of the metal drawer, the body was flaccid and younger looking than it had been in some years.
There was some irony in this, because during the last years of his life the man had gone to some trouble to attain a more youthful appearance. He had exercised regularly in a somewhat ungainly manner, in baggy sweatpants that elicited smiles from his fellow joggers. He had tanned his body and dieted on wheat germ and yogurt-in an attempt to banish cholesterol and flab from his well-padded frame.
His efforts had not achieved the desired effect. He looked not younger, as he had imagined, but rather pathetic, like a man trying desperately to be what he wasn’t: young, good-looking, virile. No one at any distance, no matter how dim the light, had ever mistaken him for any of those things, during those last five years.
He did not look successful, because he wasn’t. He was a down-at-heels salesclerk who went to auditions on his days off and he lived in a shabby single room that cost more than he would have thought possible. The new life didn’t come to much. In the end, the only youth restorative for a man his age is the tonic of wealth and power. Lacking those qualities, he was invisible to the golden young women who jogged past him on the beach. He was as sexless as their fathers. He was faintly ridiculous.
It was this fear of a ridicule already felt that kept him where he was. Each time he lifted a telephone and got as far as the 404 area code of Georgia, a dread of the derision that would await him back home froze him into retreat. He never made the call to see if he could be forgiven, to ask to go home. Really, though, he didn’t want to go home. He only wanted them to respect him from a distance, after he had achieved his long-sought success.
He could only hope that someday one of the auditions would pay off and that an acting part-no matter how small-would establish his worth and the rightness of his decision. But it never happened. Instead, on one such quest of a ticket to Equity, he daydreamed too long on a boring stretch of freeway and found himself in the wrong lane for his exit. To pass it by would be unthinkable; it would cost him half an hour and make him late for the audition. So he swerved, trying to force his way into the relentless stream of traffic, but the engine on his Concord-an automotive version of himself-was not equal to the maneuver, and he found himself broadsided by a new and shiny Mercedes. His last thought as he crashed through the guardrail was that Sam Peckinpah had been right: you really
CHAPTER 9
IT WAS PELTING down rain. In the foyer of Old St. Andrews House Adam McIver looked out at the gray sky and hunched his Burberry tighter around him in preparation for the dash outside. He thought the sudden downpour might be his punishment for leaving work a bit early today, but he had a dinner party to go to that evening and he needed the extra time.
“Hello!” said a soft voice from behind him. “Not afraid of getting wet, are you?”
Adam turned around to see the Princess of Wales smiling up at him. He gave her a friendly nod, as he was
