Prayer for the Dead (32 page)

Which made Reynolds feel a bit dishonest about what he had to do next, but then Becker wasn’t really even a member of the Bureau now. just some sort of quasi for-the-case temporary agent, and Hatcher was still the man who made out the performance evaluations. Reynolds glanced at his watch and started walking briskly down the hill toward Becker’s car. It had taken Becker three minutes to walk from his car to Nate Cohen’s grave, which meant that Reynolds had at least that much time and probably considerably more, judging by Becker’s leisurely demeanor.

The beeper attached itself by magnet so all Reynolds had to do was make sure the device was turned on, then kneel beside Becker’s car as if he were tying his shoelace in case any of the locals were watching, slap the device under the inside of the frame of the wheel housing, straighten up, and walk back to his own car atop the hill. The entire procedure took one minute and forty-five seconds.

Becker was still at the grave, praying or meditating or thinking, whatever. He was a strange man, Reynolds thought. Good enough company, a regular guy most of the time, but moody. And his thought processes never seemed to be the same as everyone else’s. Not weird, exactly, but as if he jumped steps in logic. Maybe his mind was just faster, Reynolds thought. Or it was always working on things from an angle instead of straight on. Whatever it was, if even half the stories they told about him were true, Becker would be the last man on earth Reynolds would want to have chasing
him.

Reynolds radioed to the communications van and confirmed that the beeper’s signal was being received loud and clear, then settled back to work on the day’s crossword puzzle. He wished he had the Sunday
Times
puzzle; local papers published things for beginners. Reynolds did them in minutes, contemptuously using a pen and never once having to resort to the crossword dictionary in the glove compartment.

When he checked again, Becker was still there. What the hell was he doing, grieving or something? Nate Cohen wasn’t
his
grandfather, was he?

Becker lifted the piece of gravel from atop Cohen’s headstone and tossed it in his palm. Dyce had been to visit, he was certain of that. There was no way to know just when, but Becker didn’t need evidence. It was recently, since he’d been in Waverly, sometime within the last two weeks.

A spider lowered itself from the plastic flowers in the funerary urn, laying down the second strand of a brand new web. Becker lifted the flowers and saw the empty space in the bottom of the urn where something had once sat amid a circle of moss and dirt.

Raised letters on the bottom of the receptacle had left slight impressions in the dust. Glass bottles were stamped on the base with the manufacturer’s name; the size of the circle would yield the volume of the container. Becker would leave the details for the technicians; they were no longer vital to him. He replaced the flowers and looked up for the first time since finding the grave. The sky was dark and lowering and ever more massive banks of gray clouds were piling up and roiling overhead. It was thunderstorm weather; the electricity in the air could almost be smelled. Whether the storm broke or not, it would be very dark tonight.

Becker glanced up the hill toward the car parked at the top, facing the graveyard. It had been there when Becker arrived and sat there still. He could make out a figure sitting behind the window Hatcher’s idea of inconspicuous, he thought. Not that it mattered now; they had already missed their shot at Dyce in the cemetery.

He had started to leave the cemetery before he realized he still carried Dyce’s marker in his hand. He returned to the grave and replaced the gravel gently atop Nate Cohen’s grave, then picked up another stone from the walk and placed it next to the first. One for himself.

Reynolds saw Becker’s car make a U-tum and head up the hill. For a second he thought of ducking below the seat, but realized it was already too late. Becker pulled up alongside Reynolds and the agent leaned across the seat and rolled down the passenger window.

“How’s it going?” asked Reynolds. “You get some communing done down there?”

“You might want to get some of the snails to look inside the urn at Cohen’s grave,” Becker said.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Where do I find Hatcher?”

“Does he know you’re in town?”

“Only if your radio works,” said Becker. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

Hatcher preferred to brief Becker while sitting in his car so that the other agents would not overhear the insubordination in Becker’s tone—or the promises Hatcher would have to make. At times like this he wished he smoked so he would have something to cover the nervousness of his hands.

“We searched the house and barn thoroughly,” said Hatcher. “We went into the root cellar, we checked the well house. I’m not saying he’s not lying in the cornfield somewhere, but he’s nowhere in the house or the outbuildings, unless he’s a spider hanging in a corner. There’s enough cobwebs around to …”

“Did you look everywhere?” Becker asked. His tone was flat, almost bored.

“I just said…”

“Did you look in the chimney?”

“The chimney? Did we look in the chimney?… I’d have to ask. Someone probably … The chimney, Becker? Come on.”

“You told me it was a stone house over a hundred years old. It must have a big chimney. Where else didn’t you look?”

“We looked everywhere… except maybe the chimney.”

“In the basement? You checked the foundation there; there aren’t any hidden rooms?”

“We checked. I know you don’t mean to sound insulting, but…”

“The attic?”

“There isn’t an attic, just a few rafters with some boards that didn’t burn completely—you don’t understand, the place looks like it was bombed.”

“So you checked the attic or you didn’t?”

“It’s thirty feet in the air, there is no second floor at all, there is no stairway leading up. There is no attic. What makes you so sure he’s at the farm?”

“I’m not sure, I’m just making sure you checked. He’s still around here, I feel certain of that. The farm is the logical place for him to go. He knows it, he knows where to hide.”

“We saw no sign of him. None. He’s not there.”

“Unless he’s in the chimney.”

“Or maybe he buried himself underground and is breathing through a straw.”

Becker shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

“We’ve already started the house to house; it should take two more days…” Becker was no longer listening. He thinks he knows better than I do, Hatcher thought angrily. He’s convinced I’ve made some mistake but he’s not going to tell me. He’s just going to do things by himself. As usual.

“Can you get a chopper in here in the morning?” Becker asked, gazing straight ahead.

“Do you know how expensive that is?”

“No. How expensive is it?”

“What do you need it for?”

“Where did he put the cars? He’s ditched two of them, his and Tee’s.”

“If he has Tee,” Hatcher said. “We don’t know …”

“There are acres and acres of corn around here; you’ll never find the cars from the ground unless you stumble over them.”

“I’ll see if we can afford a chopper.”

“And I want to be left alone, you understand that.”

“This is my operation,” said Hatcher.

“I won’t interfere with your operation. Don’t you get in the way of mine.”

Hatcher noticed Becker’s clothes for the first time. He was wearing black chinos and a navy blue turtle-neck. The sweater would be black by night, too, and the long neck would roll up to cover most of Becker’s face. Hatcher remembered seeing it the day Becker went after the assassin, Bahoud, in New York. It was his killing outfit.

Hatcher crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

“Have it your way, since you will anyway. I won’t interfere.”

Becker turned to face Hatcher. Hatcher felt he was uncomfortably close in the little car.

“You nearly killed me once,” Becker said.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Hatcher said. “Some of the agents got overzealous …”

“Not again.”

“There was a full report on the Bahoud thing, I was cleared …”

“Not again,” Becker repeated. He turned away from Hatcher and started the engine. Dismissed, Hatcher got out of the car.

Becker drove down the county road and caught sight of the farmhouse from atop the hill. He could make out the general layout of the place before the road flattened and he lost sight of it over the corn. Driving at a normal speed, he took the approach road, his eyes taking in every detail as he drove past the Cohen farm and off into the distance. He had not seen much but it would be enough to orient himself when he returned by night.

Thunder rumbled ominously in the west. The cloud cover was now so thick that it was already prematurely dark, as if dusk had come two hours early. Whatever he was going to have to do, Becker reflected that he would have a good night to do it.

Tee woke from what had seemed an endless dream in which a beautiful woman had tied him to the bed and left him, subdued but eager for what was to follow. When she returned he arched to meet her, but she smiled at him with fangs and walked to the bed on six stalklike legs. His eyes fluttered open to see Dyce leaning over him.

“You’re doing fine,” Dyce said in a voice so soft Tee could scarcely hear it above the rush of wind outside.

Dyce’s bearded face vanished for a moment, although Tee made out his form as a darker shape against a dark background. The lightning flashed again and Tee suddenly saw everything in a second, as if in a photograph.

He was lying down, close under a roof in an attic of a house that looked as if it had not survived an air attack. There were gaping holes in the roof, and rafters without crossboards gave way to emptiness below. Dyce was sitting astraddle a rafter, legs dangling into space, and just behind him, several feet away over the void, was a small island of intact flooring just large enough for a man in the fetal position to lie on. On the island was a brown grocery bag, a bottle of spring water, a small container that looked familiar but which Tee could not immediately identify, and a gallon jug.

What held Tee in the air he could not tell, nor could he be sure what Dyce was doing to his arm.

Tee tried to speak but couldn’t, but felt no surprise. He had known somehow on waking that he could not speak and could not move. It didn’t bother him too much; he was more curious than frightened.

Lightning flashed again and Tee could see Dyce massaging his upper arm with his thumb, although he could feel nothing. A dark liquid dripped from a needle in Tee’s arm into an empty spring water bottle.

“We have to speed things up with you,” Dyce said, as if sensing Tee’s curiosity. “I’m sorry to rush things, but we probably don’t have much time. We’ll both just have to do the best we can in the situation.”

Tee realized then that it was Tee’s own blood that Dyce was massaging from Tee’s arm and into the water bottle. The bottle was nearly full and Tee had no idea if it was the first. He felt his heart lurch violently in his chest and for the first time felt the panic of fear.

Dyce kept droning on in his soft, patient voice.

“You’re not really right, of course. I mean, you just don’t really look right. That’s not your fault, of course. It’s nobody’s fault. You’re here—and I can’t tell you how hard it was to get you up the ladder—I nearly gave up, but I couldn’t leave you in the cornfield, you can understand that. And you’re here now, that’s the important thing, and I can’t very well get anyone else under the circumstances, but that young Nordholm was perfect, just perfect. Your friends took him away from me. You can blame them for that.”

Dyce scuttled back across the rafter with surprising agility and put the full bottle of blood on the island. He returned with a fresh, empty bottle and began to massage Tee’s arm once more, pressing his thumb into the vein and sliding it down to the needle.

Tee’s heart lurched again and his eyes widened; he was certain it was about to give out. Dyce stopped and placed his ear on Tee’s chest. His hair bushed against Tee’s chin.

“You’ll be all right, I think,” Dyce said. “That happens sometimes when it goes too fast; that’s why I like to take it slowly. We’ll just stop right here. Now listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

Tee stared at Dyce. His features had become clearer as Tee’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dyce put his hand lightly over Tee’s nose.

“If you’re listening, just hold your breath for a count of six … Good, all right, you can breathe normally now. Now listen very carefully. I would normally give you another shot now to keep you quiet, but considering your heart and everything, I think I’d better not, so you’ll just have to cooperate. All right? What you must do is lie very, very still. Even if you feel some sensation coming back to your arms and legs, you must not move a muscle. If you do, first of all you’ll fall and hurt yourself—it’s a very long way down—but also you’ll destroy the illusion and then we’ll just have to start over. Do you understand? Hold your breath if you understand … Good. Keep your breathing as light as you possibly can. I don’t want to see your chest heaving up and down; that makes everything silly. And your eyes have to stay closed the whole time. All right? Now that you’re conscious you’ll be tempted to want to see, but you must avoid that, all right? Hold your breath if you understand … Very good.”

Lightning flashed and thunder followed it so quickly from so nearby that the house seemed to shake. Tee saw the ladder tucked into the space where the roof met the walls. If I could move at all, he thought desperately, if I could nudge the ladder with my foot so it would fall, do something, anything. But he felt so weak and tired, horribly tired.

“It will take me a minute or two to get ready,” Dyce said, propelling himself across the rafter with his hands. “You can keep your eyes open until I tell you.”

Straining his eyes to the side, Tee could see Dyce on his midair island begin to undress.

Becker turned off his headlights before he was halfway up to the crest of the county road. He drove in darkness, his eyes fixed not on the road invisible in front of him, but on the silhouette of the farmhouse that stood against the dark sky.