Grave Intent (24 page)

“What’re their names?” the radio voice
asked.

Jay keyed the mike, held it out the window,
and signaled for Janet to talk.

“The blonde is El--Ellie,” Janet said, her
voice catching. She swallowed hard, forcing back a sob. “And the
dark-haired one’s Heather. The man’s name is Rodney Theriot.
Please, p-please hurry.” She nodded to Jay, indicating she was
done.

The policeman patted her shoulder. “Don’t
worry, ma’am. Dave’s been a fireman for a long time. He knows what
he’s doing up there.”

“That’s right,” Jay said. He leaned out of
the window and pointed up with a thumb. “If anybody can bring them
down safe, Dave can.”

Trembling and only slightly reassured, Janet
said, “Thank y-you.”

A loud whirring sound from overhead made the
three of them look up.

Dave was on the move again.

Thunder rumbled from the west as the fireman
rose higher and higher. Soon the bucket came to rest just below the
occupied Ferris wheel seat. After a moment, it inched forward, then
stopped. A second later it lifted higher, extended a bit farther,
then stopped again.

From where she stood, Janet saw Rodney signal
the fireman. The whirring sound returned, and the bucket moved
closer.

Closer still.

Janet held her breath.

A sharp clang of metal suddenly rang out, and
both the bucket and Ferris wheel seat bounced slightly.

Janet’s heart pounded.

The crowd gasped.

Ellie stirred.

The fireman became a blur of activity,
leaning, straightening, shifting his body first one way then
another. All the while his hands manipulated a harness. More metal
clanged.

Ellie lifted her head.

Without thinking, Janet grabbed the back of
the policeman’s shirt and hung on. He glanced back at her only
briefly.

They watched as the fireman reached out,
slowly, carefully. And from the great distance above, Ellie began
to scream. The sound was hoarse and deep, almost baritone in pitch,
and it resonated over the crowd. Ellie raised the glass horse in
one fist, then pinwheeled her arms as though to purposely set the
Ferris wheel seat in motion. The seat swung backward, then forward,
banging hard against the rescue bucket. In that instant, Rodney
doubled over, his hand stripping free from Ellie’s shirt. The
fireman stumbled back in the rescue bucket, and Heather wailed at
the top of her lungs.

“Stop!” Janet screamed. “Ellie, stop!” She
couldn’t believe the little girl flailing above her was Ellie. Not
her sweet, gentle daughter. This child seemed possessed, determined
to tumble from that amusement ride come hell or be damned.

Ellie’s arms swung wider, and she slipped
farther past the lock bar.

Cries and shouts of fear rolled from the
crowd in waves.

Janet’s tongue locked to the roof of her
mouth as she saw Rodney latch onto Ellie’s left foot.
Sweet
Jesus! Please, God!

The rescue bucket moved slightly left.

Ellie appeared to double her efforts,
swinging her arms harder.

The seat swayed.

The rescue bucket bounced.

Ellie’s foot slipped loose of Rodney’s grasp,
and he let out a wail of anguish so loud it silenced the crowd.

Frozen in terror, Janet could only whimper as
everything above her transformed into a series of still photos.

Ellie’s feet over the lock bar.

Rodney’s horror-stricken face.

Ellie in midair.

Glass horse refracting light.

Hands from the crowd, lifted as though
preparing to catch.

Ellie in the arms of a fireman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hypnotized.

Dreaming.

The words dangled in Michael’s mind like
floaters—dead, waterlogged explanations for why he couldn’t move or
speak. His heart beat so fiercely in his chest it felt ready to
burst through. What he saw made no sense. The woman outside his
window resembled Anna Stevenson right down to her long widow’s
peak. Yet he could almost see
through
her. How could that
be? And her eyes—what was with those dark eyes? They seemed to
plead with an urgency meant only to petition deity.

He wanted to shout, “I don’t understand!” but
nothing would come out of his mouth. He watched her, hearing the
words she’d spoken to him over the phone again and again in his
head.

“
. . . cannot hold them from her much
longer. . . . must be returned . . . one sun passed its mark . .
.second not long . . . little time . . . both will be lost . . .
your child to death.”

Anna’s words had been too similar to those of
the vanishing old man for her not to be referring to the gold coin.
But what did that have to do with Ellie? Why would anyone want to
harm his daughter? Ellie had nothing to do with the coin. She
hadn’t been anywhere near the casket when Wilson stole it. And what
had all the psychic mumbo jumbo been about when Anna told him that
Ellie had called to him from her mind? He
had
heard his
daughter’s voice. The fear in it had been so real he could have
touched it.

More bewildered than ever, Michael watched
Anna lean over and place Ellie’s barrette on the outside sill. Her
fingers lingered around the hair clasp for a moment, and when she
finally released it, something released in Michael as well. A surge
of adrenaline shot through him with such force, it nearly knocked
him over. He rushed to the window, but Anna turned away before he
reached it. She beckoned for him to follow.

With no thought about how or why, Michael
raced out of his office and through the funeral home. He slalomed
past mourners, an alarmed Sally, and paid little attention to the
deluge that soaked him as soon as he burst through the front
doors.

Michael ran around the front of the building
and down its side, the sound of his sloshing, pounding feet
punctuating the grim litany in his head. “ . . .
your child to
death
.” Even before he reached the office window, he saw that
Anna was no longer there.

He slid to a stop and scanned the length of
the property, the adjoining lot, but only spotted an old
crop-tailed mutt trotting through the downpour.
Impossible
,
he thought.
She couldn’t have disappeared that fast.
He
thought of the old man and how quickly he had vanished from the
funeral home.

Roughly swiping water off his face, Michael
surveyed the property again. Same as before. One dog, zero Anna.
Nothing made sense. As desperate as Anna had seemed for his help,
why would she leave now? Why was Ellie being dragged into this?

He hurried over to the window ledge and found
the yellow barrette lying in the same spot Anna had left it.
Michael picked it up and ran a finger over the plastic wings. A
million more questions ran through his mind, but the one taking
precedent—was Ellie safe? He had to find out for himself.

“Lord, he done lost his mind!” a voice
suddenly bellowed behind him.

Michael shot a quick glance over his shoulder
and saw Agnes Crowder coming toward him under the protection of an
umbrella. The lower half of her orange flowered muumuu clung to her
thighs and knees in soggy ripples. He ran over to meet her.

“Why in the good Lord’s heaven are you
standin’ out here?” she asked, thrusting out the umbrella so it
covered most of his head. “Even a duck got sense enough to get
outta this—”

“Agnes, listen. Something’s come up, and I
need to leave for Carlton right away. Let Sally know. Tell her I’ll
have my cell phone with me if she needs anything.”

“But—”

He gave an agitated shake of his head. “Just
listen. Sally has the number to the cabin. Tell her to call there
and to keep calling until she gets through to Janet. I’ll keep
trying from my cell. Tell Sally if she gets through, to tell Janet
to take the girls to the Theriots’ and for all of them stay put
until I get there.” He started to duck out from under the umbrella,
and Agnes grabbed his arm.

“Now hold up one panty twisting minute. You
gotta tell me what’s going on—”

“There’s no time,” he said, pulling out of
her grasp. “Just tell Sally, please.”
“But what—”

“Later,” he said, already turning away. “I’ll
explain later.” Before she could ask anything more, Michael took
off for home.

He heard Agnes shout after him, but the drum
of rain garbled her words. He didn’t turn back. There was nothing
he could explain to her now. He was operating on confusion, gut
instinct, and augmenting fear. How could anyone give logic to that?
Maybe he was tipping over into paranoia by wanting Janet to take
the girls to the Theriots’, but he didn’t care. Better paranoia
than regret.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and gusts of
wind turned raindrops into needles. They drove into his face, his
neck, his hands. Michael’s drenched suit hung on his body like
elephant skin, the weight of it threatening to slow him down. He
clutched Ellie’s barrette tightly and pushed on.

When Michael finally pushed through his
kitchen door, he stuck Ellie’s barrette between his teeth and began
stripping off his clothes. His jacket landed on the counter near
the coffeepot, his tie over a chair. The buttons on his white shirt
wouldn’t cooperate with shriveled fingertips, so he ripped the
shirt open, and buttons flew across the hallway.

By the time he made it into the bathroom, he
wore only soaked skivvies. Those were soon slipped off and
discarded in the hamper. Naked and shivering now, he grabbed a
towel, then took the barrette from his mouth and placed it on the
vanity. He stared at it for a moment, remembering how Ellie would
fidget with it in her hair while she watched cartoons.

Michael quickly looked away and scrubbed
himself vigorously with the towel. He concentrated on what
alternate routes he might take into Carlton, anything that would
get him there faster.

Interstate 10 to 49, maybe 71 if
—

“Shit!” Michael said, suddenly remembering
that Richard Mason had his car. He dumped the towel into the hamper
and hurried into the living room, where he peeked past the curtains
of the nearest window. Five cars sat in the funeral home parking
lot. None were his. He’d either have to wait until Mason returned
with his car or take the hearse, which was stored in the garage out
back.

“Fuck.” Michael dropped the curtain back into
place, and just as he turned away from the window, he thought of
Wilson’s Cadillac. The ’87 was a dinosaur, huge and black with
cropped fender wings, but at least it ran. And the keys to it were
still in his pocket.

Michael ran out of the living room and into
the hall, tracking the trail of clothes he’d shed. He found his
pants, rummaged through the soaked pockets, and pulled out the
keys. Relieved that he had transportation, he took off for the
bedroom and dry clothes.

Moments later, in a T-shirt, light jacket,
and one leg in a pair of jeans, Michael hobbled into the kitchen
and took his cell phone off its charger. He checked the battery bar
on the screen to make sure it was at full strength while he
finished putting on his pants. Then he called the cabin.

The steady
bomp, bomp, bomp
of an out
of order signal made him want to pitch the phone through the
window. Clenching his teeth, he pocketed the phone in his jacket,
then reached for the cordless phone near the toaster. He dialed
while heading to his bedroom for a pair of sneakers.

“This is the Theriot residence, but we ain’t
home,” Rodney Theriot’s voice said. “When you hear the beep, leave
your number. Talk slow, though ‘cause I don’t write too fast.”
Beeeep.

“Rodney, this is Michael. I’m looking for
Janet and the girls. They’re supposed to be at the cabin, but I
haven’t been able to get in touch with them. Call me on my cell
phone when you get this message.” Michael recited his cell number
slowly, then hung up. He slipped on his shoes, and dialed another
number.

A woman picked up after the first ring.
“Brusley P.D.”

“Shirley, this is Michael Savoy. I—”

“Hey, Mike! Man, I haven’t heard from you in
ages. Heard ya’ll had a big yeehaw over there yesterday. Kinda
surprised ya’ll didn’t—”

Shirley Woods was a robust blonde in her
mid-forties who worked as a dispatcher for the local police
department. He’d known her for years and knew one of her favorite
pastimes was talking and the only way to stop her was cutting
in.

“Shirley, I need your help,” he blurted.

“Sure,” she chirped. “Whatcha got? Need an
escort to Saint Berchman’s across town?”

“No, no. I don’t need a police escort. I need
to see if you can get hold of the Grant parish sheriff’s department
for me. Ask them to send a car out to the old Savoy place off
Highway 1226 in Carlton. They know the place.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice taking on a
business edge. “Something going on over there?” Knowing there was
no way for him to explain the events that led up to this moment and
still sound sane, Michael simply said, “I’m not sure. Janet and
Ellie left for the cabin yesterday, and I’ve been trying to reach
them ever since. The phone’s probably out because I keep getting
out of order signals or circuit recordings. But just to be on the
safe side, I’d like someone to go out there and check them out. I’m
going to be heading to Carlton in a minute, but—”

“No problem,” she said briskly. “Can you hold
for two seconds? I’ll try to reach them right now.”

“Yes, okay—thanks.”

“Just hang tight,” she said, then the phone
went silent.

Michael began to pace.

An old man. Threats. Massive dog prints.

Anna. Warnings. Barrette.

A missing gold coin.

A missing Wilson.

Ellie.

He circled the bedroom twice more, then went
back into the bathroom for Ellie’s barrette. For whatever reason,
he needed to hold it again, a symbolic lifeline to his
daughter.