Mary Jane's Grave (22 page)

“We couldn’t believe it, but we found both a marriage and a birth certificate for Maryanne Hendrickson and her child. The marriage license was from 1936.” Her voice was full of pride, as if she’d just located Noah’s Ark.

“Well? What was her husband’s name?” I asked impatiently.

“His last name was Drake. Maryanne Hendrickson’s husband was Nathaniel Drake. They had a son in 1945. His name was Martin.”

I was stunned. Melissa Drake, who had been murdered almost twenty years ago, was a direct descendant of Mary Jane Hendrickson. Melissa’s father, Martin, was Maryanne’s son. How could this be? I wondered, before realizing I had wondered out loud.

“I’m sorry? Sergeant, did you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did, and thank you so much. Is there any way you could make me copies and fax them here?”

“Of course, I’ll have them there in five minutes.”

After hanging up the phone, I stood and began pacing anxiously in my office. None of this made any sense. Ceely Rose is the key? I felt like I was starting a thousand- piece jigsaw puzzle with no picture on the box to go by.

I grabbed the file off my desk and flipped through to the page of follow- ups. Martin Drake and his son, Nicholas, had left town after his wife committed suicide. I hadn’t put too much effort into tracking them down, but I certainly would now. I had a feeling they could answer a lot of my questions, including who the killer was.

I took every photograph I had relating to Mary Jane Hendrickson and Ceely Rose and laid them out on the floor in chronological order.

Ceely Rose was first when she murdered her family. Exactly one year to the day after that, Mary Jane Hendrickson died, her age being altered. Within twenty days after Mary Jane’s death, Ceely’s brother, Randall, and his friends James Mengert, Albert Tucker and Gerald Moffett died, all within five days of one another. Mary Jane’s daughter, Madeline, survived and had a daughter of her own, Maryanne. Maryanne married Nathaniel Drake and they had a son, Martin, who had a daughter, Melissa, who was ultimately murdered at her great- great-grandmother’s grave some ninety years later. I was right about the history having some connection to the murders, but that was all I had. What about Danielle Horton and Kari Sutter? And the dog? Where did they figure in?

“What am I missing?” I asked my empty office.

“I don’t know. You need me to look?” Naomi said from behind me. She looked at the collage of photos. “What are you doing with these?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Have a seat. I have to make a phone call first.” I called the Communications Center. “Find me a current address on Martin and Nicholas Drake, ASAP.”

I gave them all the information they would need for the search and hung up. Naomi looked confused.

“Melissa’s father and brother? What are you looking for them for?”

When I told her, she looked as shocked as I was. She reached over and picked up the Melissa Drake file.

“You were right, CeeCee. You were right all along about looking into the history of the grave. I’ve got to be honest with you, at first I thought you were pretty much wasting your time but now…” She pulled out the photograph of Melissa Drake. “Now it makes some sense, not a lot, but the connection is definitely there.” She looked at the photograph and set it down. “What do you think Martin and Nicholas Drake know? Why are you trying to find them?”

“I think they could tell me what this is all about, Naomi. I think they know everything about what’s happened at the grave, but they’re keeping their mouths shut for some unknown reason. It’s that reason I want to understand.” I took a deep breath. “I think they could tell me who the killer is.”

“If they’re alive. I mean, Martin Drake’s got to be in his early sixties and Nicholas…” I could see Naomi doing the math in her head. “Nicholas would be thirty-six, thirty-seven? Who knows? Maybe they committed suicide or died of cancer.”

“That’s a cheery, positive outlook.” I threw her a look of disgust. “I’m waiting for Communications to find them for me.”

My phone rang and I was surprised to hear the Communications Center on the other end. They were never known for speediness, so I was grateful. They gave me the information I had requested. Then I asked for something else.

“Find their driver’s license photos and fax them to my office, would you?”

Naomi was tapping her fingers on my desk impatiently. “Well?”

“They’re alive and well and in Ocala, Florida. Start packing.”

She put her hands up. “Whoa. Call Ocala first and let them confirm that they’re living at that address. And if we go, don’t even think about driving. I am not spending the next eighteen hours in a car.”

“That’s fine. You’ll just have to carry my drunken ass off the plane.” I picked up the phone and called the number Communications had given me for the Ocala Police Department.

They said it would be a couple of hours before they could get a car to the address. Naomi told me to let her know immediately when I heard from them. Then she returned to her office.

Too anxious and wired to sit around and wait, I decided to take a drive. I heard my fax machine turn on just as I started to leave. Seeing the driver’s license photographs I requested, I set my car keys down and looked at them. They had the same emerald green eyes that Melissa had. I put the photos with the others and headed out.

I drove around, gathering my thoughts and trying to put pieces together until I unknowingly found myself driving past the Pleasant Valley Cemetery. I quickly hit my brakes and turned into the small gravel clearing.

I got out of my car and walked back to the graves of Randall Rose and his friends. I looked at the dates again, reading them out loud.

I took a step back and looked at the four graves. There were no other graves in the row and these were almost hidden in the back of the cemetery.
Hidden?
It was as if they were being punished for doing something wrong, but what? Whatever it was, it was enough to banish them and separate them from their family’s final resting places.

“What did all of you do?” I asked boldly.

“Who are you?” said a deep, low voice from behind me.

I spun around, almost tripping over my own feet, to face a large man, who appeared to be in his late fifties. He wore blue jeans, a dirty Carhart jacket and a blue ball cap, and had almost a week’s worth of black and gray facial hair. He was as wide as he was tall—something about him reminded me of a bull—and he stared at me with dark, accusing eyes. I looked to the parking lot and saw the dual- wheel, megasize pickup truck he had driven. I hadn’t even heard him pull up.

“I said, who are you?” he asked again.

“Just a visitor.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Who are
you
?”

“A concerned citizen.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “You always in the habit of talking to hundred- year- old tombstones? What’s your business here, ma’am?”

I was getting a tad uncomfortable. I was in the middle of the Appalachian foothills with no cell phone signal and no police radio. No one even knew I was here. If this man really wanted to give me a hard time, I might be in a significant amount of trouble, especially since he looked angry.

I tried to appear unfazed. “Excuse me, sir, but you might want to tell me who
you
are before I start answering questions for you. This cemetery is a public place and I have every right to be here.”

His face furrowed as he took a step toward me. “You don’t have a right to—”

I switched gears, took out my badge and held it out for him to see. He just looked confused.

“Sergeant Gallagher with Richland Metro, sir, and it would be in your best interest to stop walking toward me.” I put my badge away and took a deep breath. “Now, since we’ve begun the
who- are- you
game, you can tell me who you are and why you’re so interested in what I’m doing. What is your name?”

“I’m Luke Mengert.” He nodded toward James Mengert’s grave. “My family is buried here, my great-grandfather James included, as you can very well see. The only time anyone comes here, outside of family, is to tear up the place. That’s why I was asking.” His face was still intense.

I was a little taken aback by his identity. He was obviously not threatened by me in the least, and he was clearly protective of the graves. Which led me to one conclusion: he might know something.

“Tell me, Mr. Mengert, what do you know about your great-grandfather’s death?” I pointed back at the grave. “And all the others, if you know.”

“James Mengert drowned.” He looked angry again. “As for the others, it’s the same story. Why are you asking?”

“I just think it’s odd that they all died five days apart, don’t you?”

I hit a nerve. I saw a flash of surprise come over his face, but it was just a flash. Then the anger came back, much worse.

“Why are you asking, Sergeant?”

“Mr. Mengert, I’m investigating several deaths that have occurred at the cemetery at the end of Tucker Road. You know, Mary Jane’s Grave?” I walked over to Randall Rose’s grave. “My investigation has led me to Randall Rose’s sister, Ceely, which ultimately led me here. These four men did something back then, and I believe it was something very bad. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

A sinister smirk came to Luke Mengert’s face. His stare sent a wave of chills through my body. I had to fend off the visible shudder that went with them.

“You seem like a smart woman, Sergeant. I hope you’re smart enough to know when to back off and leave things be, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I’m sorry, are you threatening me?” I asked stoically.

“I don’t need to threaten you. The fact is you may have already done yourself in.” He grew calmer, which only alarmed me more. “I’m going to leave now, and I suggest you take your bitch- ass and do the same. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but trouble, that is.”

Normally, if someone talked to me like that I’d have them in handcuffs within seconds. However, Luke Mengert would be able to snap my neck with two fingers and there was nothing I could do about it. With no backup, I knew it was in my best interest to heed his warning and leave. I made a mental note to deal with him later, no doubt about it.

“All right, Mr. Mengert, I’ll leave.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be in touch with you again. Count on it.”

I found myself holding my breath as I walked past him, expecting him to clobber me at any second. Overwhelmed with relief once I was safe inside my car, I had to suppress the urge to flip him the bird as I pulled out of the parking lot, where he stood watching me leave.

I drove away, passing Mengert Road no less, and turned into a long driveway about half a mile from the cemetery. The drive was cloaked in woods so it covered me well as I turned my car off and waited for Luke Mengert. I hoped he hadn’t gone the opposite direction.

It was fifteen minutes before Luke’s truck drove by. I quickly nosed my car to the edge of the driveway and looked down the road to see where he had gone.

I saw his brake lights at once and all of my nerves lit up like the Fourth of July. I was sure he had seen me and was turning around. However, he turned into the next driveway, which had a mailbox with
Mengert
painted on it. I let out a nervous giggle, then backed up again and got out of my car.

A medium-sized section of woods separated the driveway I was parked in from Luke’s house. I could only pray the home owner whose drive I was blocking didn’t come home and raise a stink about my car being there.

I made my way through the woods until I got a clear view of Luke Mengert’s property. He lived in a two-story brick home with a medium-sized barn behind it that bordered a fenced- in field with horses. I saw Luke’s truck parked already, but I didn’t see him. Seconds later the side door flew open with such force it slammed against the house with a loud
crack!

Luke Mengert was carrying something in his hands. It looked like a shoe box. He was on a mission. He headed directly into the barn, where he stayed for a few minutes, before coming back out, still holding the box. Now he had a small plastic bottle as well. He walked to the side of the barn and put the box down. He squirted the contents of the bottle—which I had now assumed to be lighter fluid—on the box, set it on fire and stood there while it turned to a pile of ashes.

I saw the distress on his face and the heaving of his chest as he stomped on the ash a few minutes later, then stood and looked down on it. I was dying to know what he had burned. My thoughts were short- lived. I noticed Luke was no longer looking down at the pile of ashes anymore. He was now staring directly at me. I knew damn well he couldn’t see into the woods, but a wave of horror went through me nonetheless.

“Oh, shit!” I muttered. I slowly started to back up. The last thing I needed was another confrontation with him.

I ran back to my car and drove away in the opposite direction. Nervously laughing to myself, I called the Communications Center and asked them to find me all information on Luke Mengert. I had memorized his license plate, so it would be much easier for them to find. Next, I tried to call Naomi to see if we’d heard back from the Ocala Police Department. I only got her voice mail. My last call was to Michael.

“I’m on my way home. Naomi hasn’t called, has she?”

“Hello to you too, baby,” he quipped. “My day was fine. How’s yours going?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so short.” I looked over at the road names so I could keep track of where I was. “It’s just that I’ve had quite an interesting day, and I can’t get hold of Naomi.”

“You can tell me about it when you get here. How long will you be?”

I slowed my car down to read the name of the road I was next to, then I hesitantly turned onto it.

“Actually, Michael, I might be a little later than I thought.”

Once I had turned onto Tucker Road, I headed to-ward Mary Jane’s Grave for what would be the very last time.

Earlier in the day, I had looked over the photographs taken of the grave and the abandoned house. Something about them kept gnawing at me, and I was determined to find out why. Luke Mengert was my motivation. He had some part, whether miniscule or large, in this.

It was near dusk as I made my way down the now too familiar tunnel of trees to the grave. The usual feelings of dread and apprehension came as soon as my tires rolled onto the gravel. Before I parked at the gate, I picked up my phone to try to call Naomi again. There was no signal, not that I was surprised. The incident of my car radio and headlights blaring to life came to mind. I noted that it was probably in my best interest not to write off spooks entirely, assuming my lack of belief might potentially piss them off, if they existed. Standing beside Mary Jane’s Grave, alone under a darkening sky, was not the place I wanted to be proven wrong.

Since I hadn’t planned on coming here, I didn’t have my heavy-duty flashlight with me, only a small penlight that might illuminate the stem of a leaf if I was lucky. As the sun went down, it became cold. I began shivering and breaking out in gooseflesh, which I hoped was from the cold, so I decided it would be best to grab my jacket out of the backseat. Once I was satisfied that I had all I needed, including my car keys, I started for the tree.

I had barely walked through the gate when I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the smell, a rancid, overwhelming smell of something being burned. It was a smell I was familiar with, the smell of a body, or bodies, being burned.

I had been on the scene of several fires where people had been trapped inside their homes and had burned to death. It was a distinct and indescribable smell.

I realized that I was surrounded by smoke. Where it had come from or why it was there I couldn’t determine since I couldn’t see. But as fast it came on me, the smoke was gone, dissipating upward toward the trees. It was only then that I became aware of the jackhammer that used to be my heart, pushing out of my chest. Despite the cold, I felt the sweat run down my face. My breath came in short puffs from my dry mouth. What should have been my cue to sprint to my car and leave turned out to be one more reason to go on.

As unnerved as I was, I walked forward, determined to find the answers and scratch the itch that had been bothering me. Suddenly the cemetery itself screamed out the sounds of a baby crying. I tried to pinpoint the source but it was coming from everywhere: the trees, the ground, the sky and the graves themselves.

I was beginning to lose my composure when a strange wind ripped through a small part of the cemetery, whirling leaves and sticks in an odd, circular pattern. With the sound of the baby still tearing at my ears, I forced myself to walk toward the wind. Once I took a step, it stopped. So did the crying. But it was replaced by the faint sound of a woman weeping. Standing no more than five feet from the pine tree, I blinked my eyes as I watched an old woman wearing a white dress appear at the base of the tree. She was the one weeping. For a split second I couldn’t move, or breathe for that matter. I was succumbing to the grip of sheer horror. It took every ounce of energy I had to break free from my frozen stance and try to walk to my car, the hair on my neck standing upright. I kept looking at the woman out of the corner of my eye as I passed, convinced she was going to run over and behead me or worse, but like the other phenomena, she faded away.

I had more than enough. My legs felt like pure rubber when I ran to my car. Having bona fide chest pains, I was certain this little horror show was going to throw me into cardiac arrest. I began fumbling around in my pockets for my car keys. I prayed out loud I hadn’t dropped them somewhere. That’s when I was hit in the back of the head with a small rock.

More rocks and sticks followed, pelting me all over. I was too busy covering my face to see where they were coming from. My terror was slowly being replaced with anger.

“Stop!” I screamed to the empty graveyard.

Shockingly enough, the rocks and sticks stopped coming. I stood there, looking out over the cemetery, and gasped for air while I wiped the sweat off my brow. Just then I heard a faint sound coming from the far side of the cemetery, just inside the woods. It was a short, quiet cough.

It took me only a split second to identify the sound and another split second to pull myself together and throw my fear out the window. I started a record-breaking sprint toward the woods and the sound. If I was right, more sounds would follow. As I neared the edge, I heard the running start. Not a deer, not a coyote or a rabbit, but a person running fast and hard. I noticed the small trail that ran alongside of me and decided to use it, knowing I would have better footing and a better chance of keeping up.

Only when my face hit the ground did I become aware that I had tripped. And only when I saw what I had tripped over did everything come together. It was a black wire, a wire that had clearly gone unnoticed when the officers checked the cemetary the night we used Danielle Horton as bait.

The person running had gained some distance when I fell, but that was okay. Once I saw the wire, I knew exactly where he was going. The
itch
I had all day came partly from the photograph of the abandoned house. Specifically, the thin, almost invisible wire that ran from the house to the outside door of the storm cellar several feet away from the tattered front porch.

The house was supposed to have been abandoned, and unmodernized. No electric lines, phone or cable had ever been connected. Looking at the wire in the photographs earlier had piqued my curiosity, but stumped me nonetheless. I hadn’t paid attention. Although my instincts were on, and something about the photograph had bothered me, I had failed to understand what it was. Now I understood completely.

Making my way uphill through the woods to the house, I was cautious. I no longer heard the person running and, for all I knew, he could be waiting behind a tree ready to clean my clock. When I finally came out into the large yard I had a clear view of the house, though it was almost completely dark.

I heard a loud rattling sound from behind the house and made my way around, much slower now, gun in hand and ready to fire. I was taking deep breaths as I rounded the corner. In back, I saw every window and door boarded up. I couldn’t figure out how the person—I guess it would be safe to say the killer—got inside. Maybe that wasn’t what I’d heard. Then something inside the house suddenly was knocked over. I kicked at the boards over the door until they gave way.

It was totally dark inside the house. My penlight provided minimal help. I tried to control my breathing as I let my eyes adjust. I thought the sound had come from the back left corner of the first floor, near the beginning of the stairwell.

I slowly sidestepped, and half stumbled, toward the corner. There was debris all over the floor, what I assumed to be boards, drywall and other parts of the disintegrating house, but it was too dark to see. The closer I got to the corner, the stronger the smell of decaying flesh got.

We weren’t missing any bodies, at least to my knowledge, so I was apprehensive at finding the source of the smell. But I found it when I accidentally walked into a small curtain that hung low from the ceiling. Except it wasn’t a curtain.

I reached up to push the cold, clammy, gel- like material away from my face and became even more startled when I grabbed a handful of hair instead, dog hair to be exact. I had walked into the skin of the dog we had found at the grave, and it was beyond rotten. I let out a slight yelp before my stomach began convulsing.

I impulsively turned toward the door, gagging and spitting, trying to control my heaving. I only wanted to get outside and into the fresh air as quickly as possible. A difficult feat since I had to blindly make my way through the field of items that covered the ground. I was almost to the door when I was hit from behind in the lower back with such force it knocked me down and sent my gun flying. For a brief moment, I thought my back was broken. Only when I was struck again, in the back of my legs, was I able to react.

I turned around to face my attacker. A large, dark figure stood before me, but I couldn’t see who he was. When I saw him begin to lift what looked like a long, thick tree branch, I reacted.

Among all the debris, my hand found a board. Not a deadly weapon, but it would be enough to stop the threat. I sat up, ignoring the screaming pain that tore through my back, and swung the board at the man’s knees. He let out a loud grunt and fell sideways onto the floor next to me. By then, I was doing my best to stand up over him. He was doing his best as well, trying to get back up. I made it first and swung the board again, harder, against the side of his head like I was trying for a home run. Groaning, the man fell backward and hit the floor with a loud
thud
.

I furiously looked around for my gun, which I found lodged between two pieces of paneling not far from where I had fallen. My penlight, still on, lay directly below the dog skin. I grabbed it and made my way back to the man, holding the light directly in his face. I almost fell back again in shock when I realized I was looking down at Martin Drake.

He was unconscious, but still breathing. I turned him over on his side, took my handcuffs off my belt and put them on him, sliding one of the cuffs through the belt loop on his jeans so it would be harder for him to move.

I stood up and winced at the searing pain that throbbed in my back and legs. I needed to call for help, but being able to do it was another story. I didn’t know if I was in any condition to hike back through the woods to my car. Right now, I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the front door. And there was something worse to worry about: Nicholas Drake. I assumed he was with his father, very close by. I wasn’t able to see much of Martin Drake, but I could see enough of him to know that he would never have been able to run through the woods as quickly, and with such maneuver-ability, as the man I had been chasing.

As I walked through the front door, I decided my first priority would be to get to my car and radio for help, then look for Nicholas later. Evidently, that just wasn’t meant to be.

As soon as I stepped out of the door, a shot rang out and flew past and missed my head by mere centimeters. The bullet hit the old, rotting door frame and exploded, sending wood fragments and small splinters flying all over me. Thankfully, I closed my eyes fast enough, but I had to brush the wood chips away from my eyelids before I could open my eyes to see where the shot had come from.

A tall figure stood by the entrance to the storm cellar. Strangely, he was still pointing his gun at me, but he didn’t fire it. I raised mine, taking slow steps toward him.

“Nicholas Drake! Police officer! Drop your weapon!”

We were in a standoff, a good, old- fashioned draw down. He was breathing hard, and the tip of his gun was bobbing up and down from the tremors in his hand.

“You killed my father!” he cried, his voice cracking.

“He’s not dead, Nicholas. Drop the gun!”

He remained defiant, raising his chin a bit, now gripping the gun with both hands to keep it still.

“You’re not gonna shoot me!”

“Maybe she won’t, but I will,” said a familiar voice from my right.

Taking my eyes off Nicholas for a brief moment, I saw Michael standing about ten feet away, his gun raised and ready.

“Drop the gun, Nicholas,” another calm, familiar voice commanded.

Coop and Naomi stood to my left, also with their weapons raised and pointed at Nicholas. I wasn’t in a position to ask any of them how they came to be here. I assumed I’d find out later. Right now, my attention was on Nicholas, who was surrounded with nowhere to go. Off in the distance, I heard the sounds of sirens. The cavalry was coming.

I was about to order Nicholas again to put down his gun, but knowing he was cornered with no way out, he quickly put the gun to his temple.

“Nicholas, don’t—” was all I could say before he pulled the trigger.