Shuttered Sky

Drew ran up the hill, keeping to the grass at the edge of the narrow cemetery aisles to silence his footfalls, until he could clearly see the double mound of grave tailings, between which Martin Briscoe’s head bobbed as he dug, grunting with each thrust of the shovel. Ten feet away, Drew pulled the gun from his jacket pocket, and didn’t speak until it was trained on Briscoe’s psoriatic head.

“Not exactly walking the dog, are you Mr. Briscoe?”

Briscoe gasped and stumbled, his feet bo-jangling a soft shoe on the casket until he regained his balance. Out of breath from digging, he said nothing, he just wheezed as he stared down the barrel of the pistol.

“I’m not sure Michael would appreciate you dancing on his grave,” Drew said.

“You’ll get out of here, if you know what’s good for you,” Briscoe said, then returned to digging, as if the gun meant nothing to him.

Drew took a few steps closer, never dropping his guard. Although the grave was dark, his eyes had adjusted to the light of the gibbous moon. Briscoe had unearthed the dark oak dome of the casket, and was working his way down to the latch.

“There aren’t many things that would get me to kill someone,” Drew said, “but robbing my best friend’s grave definitely makes the A list.”

Briscoe rested again, sweat showering from his forehead, his breath coming in rapid gusts. Good, thought Drew. Let the bastard have a heart attack and get this over with.

“You can’t kill me,” Briscoe said with such dismissal in his voice, it made Drew grip his pistol even harder. “I’m here on higher business than you could ever imagine, so get your queer ass out of here now, before you become a permanent resident of this cemetery.”

“You have to the count of three to drop the shovel, and climb out,” Drew said, but Briscoe completely ignored him.

“One . . .”

The shovel threw a splatter of dirt on his running shoes.

“Two . . .”

This was a poker game, Drew knew, from which he could not fold—and he realized with great alarm that he would be forced to show his cards.

“Three.”

He did not fire. Briscoe hesitated for a moment, to see exactly how Drew’s hand played out. And then Briscoe grinned.

“That’s a starter pistol isn’t it?”

Drew screamed in rage. If it had been a real gun, he would have used it, then used the man’s own shovel to bury him. Drew leapt into the grave, dropping the starter pistol, and prepared to tear the man apart with his bare hands if he had to. The grave was an uneven, constricting space, and there was little chance to dodge the punches Drew threw. Drew connected a powerful punch to Briscoe’s gut, then to his chin, then to his gut again, until they both lost their balance and they fell to wrestling on top of Michael’s coffin.

Drew slipped on the curved varnished dome of the coffin lid, giv­ing Briscoe the upper hand, and Briscoe pressed Drew against the earthen wall of the grave. Drew reeled at the smell of his rancid breath.

“Twice the fun,” said Briscoe. “I get to kill you, and destroy Mi­chael’s remains all in one day!” That motivated Drew to hurl him off, and swing a punch so strong it would have shattered Briscoe’s jaw if it had connected, but Briscoe pulled back at the last instant, the punch only grazed his chin, and the momentum torqued Drew too far around. His feet flew out from under him, and he came down hard, jarring loose a mudslide that covered his legs.

Briscoe stood above him and grabbed the shovel.

“The news article said you broke a collar bone last year. Fifty percent chance I break the same one.” He plunged the shovel down, and Drew raised his arm to block the blow. The shovel cut a deep gash in his forearm. He screamed as Briscoe drew the spade out. “I wonder how many blows it would take to slice off your head.”

As Briscoe raised the shovel, Drew freed one of his legs from the mud, and prayed that all of his running had left his muscles strong enough to do the job. He kicked out his leg, catching Briscoe’s ankles, and it knocked Briscoe down to his knees—but he didn’t let go of the shovel. Scrambling, Drew found the starter pistol in the dirt beside him. Briscoe pulled the shovel back, ready to swing it like a scythe, so Drew lunged up, jammed the starter pistol into Briscoe’s right eye, and pulled the trigger.

The blast, muffled by the flesh of Briscoe’s eye socket, sounded like little more than the crack of a child’s cap gun.

Briscoe screamed, and the shovel fell from his hands. Although it was too dark to see whether his eye was covered with blood or dirt, Drew could smell the singed flesh. There was no telling how much damage the starter blank had caused, but it was enough to rob Briscoe of his “higher purpose,” and send him scrambling out of the grave. He ran down the hill, wailing in agony, leaving behind his shovel and a backpack.

By the time Drew had pulled himself out from under the mud, Briscoe was scaling the cemetery fence. There was no chance of catch­ing him, and even if he did, Drew’s arm was hurting far too much to be able to apprehend Briscoe.

Drew heard a window slide open somewhere up above in the upscale neighborhood of Spyglass Hill, and a man poked his head out like a cuckoo clock, a minute too slow. “Get out of here you hood­lums, before I call the cops!” Then the cuckoo popped back into his hole, and the window slid shut.

Sitting back down in the grave, Drew took off his jacket and pressed it against his bleeding arm, until the sharp pain resolved into a slow, throbbing ache. Then, with his good hand, he began to brush the dirt off the coffin lid. Whatever Briscoe’s particular brand of lunacy, he would not be easily discouraged—and who knew how many more lunatics were out there with similar intent. Drew had to keep faith that Dillon, wherever he was, would show his face again, and call Michael back to the living. But that couldn’t happen if Michael’s body fell victim to vandals. It had to be protected. So Drew dug out enough of the coffin to free the hinges, and took a good long moment to prepare himself.

“Man, Michael—the things I do for you . . .” Then he closed his eyes and heaved open the lid.

10. Turning Tricks

Some time after midnight, Winston stood in a plush Bel Air bedroom. The aging actress watched him from across the room apprehensively.

“Is there anything special I should do?” she asked.

“No,” said Winston, flatly. “Just take off the leg.”

The woman sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled up the hem of her dress, and unstrapped her prosthesis. She gave Winston a reticent glance, then placed the leg on the bed.

“Okay,” said Winston. “Now close your eyes, and relax.”

She closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Winston ap­proached and knelt before her, lifting her dress a bit higher, until he could get a full view of the stump of her left leg. His proximity to it was already bringing forth change, the scars beginning to stretch.

“It tingles,” the actress said.

Winston traced the line of scars with his fingertip, then began to massage the leg with both hands.

Winston hated that he had to do this. Not only did it expose his identity, but it demeaned him as well. If he had to use his talent, it should have been administered for free, but with no money left, he had little choice than to treat it as a commodity. Michael had done it when he was alive, Winston figured, so why couldn’t he?

For the past few weeks, Winston had been vamping. Every hour of every day since swimming from Lourdes’s ship had been an anxious, directionless stall. It was too dangerous to go home, and if he stayed in any one place for long, the conspicuous growth around him brought too much suspicion. So he wandered, watching the money dwindle, knowing he’d have to start turning these little tricks to get by.

Winston’s beeper went off and he flinched, not expecting it.

“Your next customer?” the actress asked.