Brush With Death (27 page)

“
Hold on.
” I heard more murmuring and the caller returned. “
We tapped your phone.
”

“I'll use another phone.”

More shuffling sounds, and a different voice came on the line. This one whispered, “
If you call the cops, don't expect to see your friend in the same light again. It's a shame: she's a real pretty girl.
”

My heart raced. Unlike the other clown, this guy sounded like he meant business. “Okay, okay. I won't call the cops. But we have to do this in person. When you release Mary, I'll tell you where the box is. Not before.”

More muffled discussion, and the first voice came back.

“I'm in Hayward. I need more time.”

“Maybe half an hour.”

It sounded as though the phone was wrenched away. The whisperer got back on. “
Get your ass over to Bayview Cemetery, now, before we're forced to get really ugly. I mean, make her ugly.
”

He hung up.

I ran.

Chapter 14

—Dame Barbara Hepworth (1903-1975), British sculptor

I often paint late at night. The peace and quiet are soothing, and one may more readily hear the gendarmes approaching.
—Georges LeFleur

I was picking my way across the sleeping forms littering the living room floor when a hand grabbed my ankle. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming, and looked down into the smiling face of cousin Catiz.

“Where's Pete?” I whispered.

“He is next door, at our uncle's house,” Catiz said. “But I am here.”

I hesitated. The men on the phone had not sounded like pros, though I supposed I was not the best judge of criminal expertise. Besides, Michael had once told me that amateurs could be more dangerous than seasoned professionals. Should I bring someone along to help rescue Mary? Someone, say, like a big, strapping Bosnian?

“Catiz, I was wondering . . .” I stopped, recalling how, not so long ago, Pete had been injured trying to help me. I'd vowed then never to endanger my friends again. Not intentionally, anyway. “Would you tell Pete that I had to run? Thank everyone for me?”

“Of course,” he said, crawling out of his improvised bedroll. “Do you need help?”

“No, thanks,” I said, appreciating his gallantry and muscled chest. “It's just girl stuff.”

He nodded, kissed my hand, and watched as I hurried out to the truck. I swore as I realized that it had started drizzling again. Just perfect for racing to a crypt in the middle of the night.

As I drove, I pondered acting like a sane citizen and calling the police. But I couldn't help thinking that a bunch of squad cars, sirens blaring, bearing down upon the cemetery in the middle of the night would worsen our cause. The voices on the phone seemed to be after Louis' box, and I was ready to hand it over. Perhaps it was just that simple. Transforming a straightforward exchange into a hostage situation made my already
loza
-challenged stomach clench. I couldn't let anything happen to Mary.

Ignoring the speed limit and the rain, I made it to the cemetery in less than fifteen minutes. The gates were shut, so I parked at the curb and unlocked the pedestrian access gate. Now what?

“
Keep walking,
” a short man in a goblin mask whispered as he materialized at my side and grabbed my arm. I jumped, swallowed hard, and remained silent. The man searched my bag, confiscated Mary's cell phone, and shoved something hard into my right side. I couldn't tell if it was a gun, a finger, or a toilet bowl brush, but figured it was best to assume the worst.

A second, taller masked man materialized at my left as we hurried along the curved access road. I shivered as we skirted the pond where Louis Spencer had drowned, so many years ago. In the distance I glimpsed his crypt. We headed up and over the hill, passing one of the cemetery's older sections. I wasn't familiar with this area, but in the misty, silvery light of the graveyard I spied a marker inscribed with the name Frederic Olmos Blood. How appropriate.

I tripped on a tree root, splashed in a puddle, and the taller ghoul steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “
Step carefully,
” he whispered, his voice low and surprisingly polite.

“
Shut up,
” whispered the other one.

Eucalyptus trees rustled in the wind, and wet grass clung to our shoes. The three of us were soaked by the time we halted in front of an old square crypt made of gray stone blocks streaked with black moss. The stones were crumbling from years of neglect, and the dank air of the crypt was redolent with mold and decay. The iron door had a small barred opening, as if the crypt's inhabitants needed a peephole to check out visitors, and a shiny new padlock winked in the moonlight.

“Mare?” I called through the bars.

“Annie?”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm
locked
in a
crypt
!”

“She's fine,” whispered the short man. “And you will be too, if you tell us where the box is. Otherwise I'll just leave you two in there indefinitely, bound so you can't call for help.”

“Annie!” Mary cried. “I'm totally freaking out here!”

“Maybe I'll go ahead and shoot you before I leave you,” added the ghoul with a laugh. “The rats would like that.”

“It's in the columbarium,” I said in a rush. I drew the line at bullet holes and rats. “In the Chapel of the Beatitudes. Now let her out.”

“
Where
in the chapel?” He shoved the gun under my chin.

“Near the ceiling, in the crown molding. There's an inconsistency in the light. You'll see when you get there.”

“Very good. Did you open it?”

“Are you kidding? I don't need a curse from beyond the grave,” I said. “Haven't you heard what happened to the folks who opened King Tut's tomb?”

“Hey, I saw that show—” the tall ghoul whispered.

“Shut up, idiot!” the shorter goblin hissed. “You'd better be telling the truth, lady. For your sake, and for hers.”

He opened the heavy Master Lock, shoved me hard, and I stumbled into the crypt, knocking over Mary. Before we could scramble to our feet the iron door clanged shut and the padlock was snapped and locked. I shook the door anyway, watching through the peephole as the masked ghouls disappeared over the hill.

Trapped in a crypt. I tried to decide if this was better than being locked in a toilet and figured it was a draw.

“Annie?” Mary said in a thready voice from the shadows.

“I don't suppose you brought my cell phone?”

“They took it.”

“A flashlight? Tools, maybe?
Some
way to get us out of this hellhole?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“You didn't bring
anything
? Some heroine you are.”

“Listen, Mare, it's nearly three in the morning! I wasn't thinking very clearly.” Considering I'd been drinking unidentifiable liquids with Uncle Sidran all evening, it was amazing I'd been coherent enough to answer the phone.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I realized my assistant'shands were bound behind her. “Turn around and let me untie you.”

“Did you at least tell anyone where you were going?” Mary asked over her shoulder.

“They warned me not to,” I protested, struggling with the thick rope and trying not to dwell on the obvious: I should have left word with someone as to my destination. I wondered how much I could blame on the fuzzy aftereffects of
loza.

“Shit, Annie! You of all people should be carrying a damned gun by now!”

“So says Ms. Gun Control. If I'd brought a gun—some-thing I don't want and can't afford—they would have just taken that, too. Maybe even used it against us. And need I point out that if
you
hadn't insisted on spending the night in a cemetery, none of this would be happening?”

“It's not my fault!”

“I didn't say—wait a minute. Where's Evangeline?”

“Cops busted her for trespassing a couple of hours ago. I hid behind some trees so I could bail her out. But after the cops left those masked creeps blindsided me. What's taking you so long?”

“Hold still, this rope's putting up a fight.” Whoever tied her up must have been a sailor or an Eagle Scout or a psychopath, because he sure knew what he was doing.

I finally managed to pry the stiff binding off her wrists. As Mary rubbed her skin, I searched for a way out, cringing as my fingertips encountered dust and cobwebs and the dried-out husks of things I didn't want to think about.

“You drove your old truck here, didn't you?” Mary asked, sounding tired.

“No, I brought the Porsche. It seemed like a special occasion.”

Mary snorted.

“Of course I drove the truck. Why?”

“Because if you had a nice, normal car, you could point your thingy at it and set off the car alarm. You know, attract someone's attention.”

“My truck doesn't even have power windows,” I said. A spider—or something with a disturbing number of ticklish legs—darted across the back of my hand and I did the Icky Bug Dance, stomping my feet and shaking my hands.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked.

“Spider. I think.”

“Ha. Just be glad it's not a cockroach. You should've seen the one I found yesterday in my apartment. It must've been six inches long—”

“Mary, swear to God, if you say one more word I'm going to choke you.” I hated cockroaches with a passion bordering on insanity.

“Figures,” she muttered.

“That's enough!” I snapped, impatient with her uncharacteristic whining. “I came here in the middle of the night to rescue you. A little gratitude would be appreciated. Now help me find a way out of here.”

“I already looked,” she grumbled. “There isn't one.”

I kept searching—there wasn't anything else to do—and for a few minutes all was silent.

“I am
so
creeped out right now,” Mary said.

“I know, Mare. But two's company, right?”

I thought she nodded, but it was hard to tell in the shadowy crypt. The three small windows were covered with iron bars, so even if we managed to break the glass without slicing our wrists open and inadvertently committing suicide, the bars would prevent our escape. The crypt's floor, ceiling, and walls were cold, hard stone. I tried not to think about the bodies that inhabited the six sepulchers lining the walls.

After several more minutes of fruitless searching I gave up and sat, wet and shivering, on the grimy floor next to Mary.
Think, Annie, think.
No cell phone, no one knew where we were, no nothing. On the plus side, we weren't in any immediate danger and the ghouls had seemed more intent upon retrieving the hidden box than hurting us.

“Hey, it's not so bad,” I said, draping an arm around her. She leaned against my soggy shoulder. “It'll be morning in a few hours. And at least we're out of the rain. All we have to do is keep our spirits up—so to speak—until the gardeners show up. They come to work early, right?”

Mary didn't say anything.

“Mare?”

“The thing is . . .”

“What?”

“I sort of took the box. Temporarily.”

“You
what
?” I dropped my arm and glared at her.

“I was going to put it back!”

“Mary, that's not the point! Why did you do something like that?”

“I couldn't stand the suspense. I
had
to know what was in it.”

“You realize this means those ghouls will be back?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“I switched it with another box. You know, in case you checked to see if it was still there. It kind of depends on whether or not the ghouls open it, and figure it out.”

“What did you put in the box?”

No response.

“Mare?”

“Mr. DeFazio.”

“Mr. De—you mean his ashes?”

She nodded.

I covered my head with my arms and curled into the fetal position, icky things be damned.

“I mean, it's not like he's gonna care, right? Guy's dead, right?”

“Where's the original box?”

“Evangeline and I buried it. That's how come we got caught by the cops.”

“Why would you bury it?”

“Just till tomorrow. I was gonna ask Dante to come back for it. I couldn't get back in the columbarium 'cause the staff locked up when they left, and then Evangeline was freaking out, said I couldn't carry it on the motorcycle with us. Besides, the new guitar player at my apartment keeps going through my things. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Just because I borrowed some of his indigo eye makeup—”

“Where did you bury the box, Mare?” I asked, trying to keep her on track.

“Under the redwood trees.”

“In Potter's Field?”

“Annie! I wouldn't desecrate a grave.”

“You desecrated a niche!”

“I didn't think of that. That's kind of creepy, isn't it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“But we buried the box under the trees, where there are no graves.”

“Yes there are, they just aren't marked. That's Potter's Field.”