Grave Situation (42 page)

Herb could see the sense of
betrayal that had spurred this venomous anger in Slick. How many
times, he wondered, had he stared into this same face and
questioned this man’s unlawful behavior? The shoplifting. The
robberies. The drug dealing. All of it committed as if it were
second nature.

“There’s no reason for my
behavior.” His voice fell off. “I never meant for any of this to
happen. I’m not the man you thought I was.”

Slick frowned. “You should’ve
gotten the fuck out of Acresville years ago and away from that
farm.”

“I know that.”

“Two people are dead because of
you. And now I’m involved. There’s no way I’m going to jail for
this. I was part of a lucrative little business here. Now, you’ve
fucked everything up. I should’ve never tried to help you
out.”

In spite of himself, Herb smiled.
“I guess I should’ve thanked you for such a great job
offer.”

Slick paused a moment. When he
spoke again, his voice took on a bitter calm. “You’ve become a
liability to us, pal.”

Those words stopped Herb. Quiet, he
watched the comprehension of Slick’s own exposure and subsequent
prosecution begin to overpower him. He saw something change in his
eyes. They became cold, calculating.

“Sorry, but I have to fix this
problem now.”

Jaw clenched, Slick took one step
backward, then another. As he withdrew his hand from the pocket,
Herb froze at the sight of a black pistol.

“What are you doing, man?” Despite
his best efforts, he detected the tremor in his own voice. “You
going to shoot me now?”

Eyes moist, Slick
raised the gun.
“Yes.
”

Instinctively, Herb put up his
hands. The reality of a loaded weapon aimed at his chest jolted
him. He could feel his pulse racing. A bead of sweat rolled down
the side of his face.

Around him, the world went still
and silent. What he saw was an intense and painful image from his
past—a frightened little boy lying face down in the grass of his
backyard, his breath coming in harsh gasps. At any moment, the boy
expected to feel the hard jab of his father’s rifle barrel against
his head.

Now, years later, the man that boy
had become, wondered once more what it would be like to be
shot.

A sudden click pulled Herb from his
reverie. Focusing again on the man before him, he realized Slick
had cocked the pistol’s hammer.

“So this is how’s it going to
end,” he muttered. “At the hands of my only friend.”

Anguish began to fill Slick’s face.
“Sorry, but I’m not going down for this. My mistake was ever
offering you that job.”

“No. It was my mistake for ever
accepting it.”

Watching the gun, Herb saw it begin
to tremble. Six feet, he estimated, separated the two men. He tried
to summon the courage to make a lunge for the pistol. Could he
manage to reach it before it went off?

He unlocked his knees, inched one
foot forward.

“You know, Slick,” he said softly.
“When you left that night, I could’ve easily phoned the police and
told them what you were doing. But I didn’t. You must’ve had some
trust in me then.”

“I did. But like you said, you’re
not the man I thought you were.”

In the tense silence, Herb reined
in his thoughts. He looked past the gun now to the man holding
it.

“Do you really want my death on
your conscience?” he asked.

He saw that his question seemed to
give Slick pause. Briefly, the purpose left his friend’s eyes,
replaced by the hesitance of someone facing doubts. Herb wondered
if he was seeing the first chink. He decided to take it a step
further.

“Have you given any thought to
your parents?” he asked. “My God, man. What if they find out what
you’re involved in? And to top it off, you would’ve been
responsible for killing your best friend.”

Slick’s face contorted. “Don’t
bring them up. Not ever.”

“Why not? Odds are you’ll
eventually get caught. That’s the one thing you’ve always done
well.

“Imagine the unwarranted attention
your parents are going to suffer through. The shame, the
embarrassment they’re going to feel. You know what Acresville’s
like. The idiots here will ostracize them. Look what they did to
me.

“I know your parents well. They’re
good people. Hard working. Loved you even with your many follies.
They don’t deserve what all this will bring them.”

Blinking back tears, Slick’s throat
moved in one convulsive swallow. At this, Herb realized he had
tapped into a well of emotion he never knew existed in this
man.

Slick lowered the pistol. “They are
ashamed of me,” he choked, tone barely audible. “They never say
anything. They never have. But I can see it in their eyes. The way
they look at me. I was always the black sheep.”

When Herb saw Slick’s eyes move
away from him, he lunged forward, shifting his body to the outside
of the gun hand. Slick tensed, but before he realized what was
happening, Herb had clutched his wrist with one hand and delivered
a powerful strike with his other on top of the gun, tearing it from
his grip.

As the pistol clattered to the
gravel, Herb punched Slick across the jaw, knocking him to the
road. Then, with a deliberate calm, he reached around his back and
pulled out his revolver.

He stepped toward Slick, gun aimed
at him. “Does the man you’re working for know who I am?”

Slick stared up at him, his face
filled with worry and surprise. Blood trickled from his lips. “What
the fuck?”

Herb jerked the revolver. “Answer
me.”

“He doesn’t know who you are. I
never told him your name.”

“How many more are
there?”

Eyes watchful, Slick said
nothing.

“Tell me.” Herb’s shout echoed in
the trees.

“Just the two of us,” Slick said
at last. “He gives me the cemetery’s name, the person’s name and a
list of the body parts needed.”

“Who is he?”

“Why?” Slick gave a nervous laugh.
“You going to kill him too?”

“Don’t play with me.”

Slick raised his chin. “You go to
hell, pal.”

Herb smiled coldly. “You
first.”

He winced as he squeezed the
trigger. Almost stunned, he watched a hole appear in Slick’s
forehead, and then an explosion out the back that sprayed the
ground with blood, bone and brain matter. His body twitched and
then was still.

Heart pounding, Herb knelt beside
Slick. His eyes were still open, lifeless. Blood spread beneath his
head in an expanding pool. Nausea filled Herb’s stomach; sadness
filled his heart.

Goddamn you for making me do
this.

He patted Slick’s jacket for the
shape of his cell. There it was, in the inside pocket. He brought
it out and removed the battery pack.

Suddenly, he remembered the tire
marks he had seen on the road. Someone could come along at any
time. He hurried to his truck, climbed inside and tossed the pieces
of Slick’s cell onto the seat. Fumbling, he missed the ignition
with the key. Only after fighting the tremor in his hand, did he
manage to insert the key.

The engine sparked to life. He
drove away, hands tight on the wheel. As he emerged from the trees,
he stopped at the edge the highway. In the rear-view mirror, he
could no longer see Slick’s car.

He wondered how long it would be
until someone found the body. What evidence had Slick left around
for the police to find?

Herb could feel himself shaking
with anger. How the hell could Slick stick a gun in his
face?

Checking the roadway, he saw one
car heading in the opposite direction. All clear the other way.
Foot off the pedal, he idled onto the road. When he reached the
southbound lane he stepped on the gas.

He scarcely remembered the drive
home. Cars and trucks went by half-noticed; the hitchhiker at the
side of the road, lifting a thumb at everything that passed became
a mere fragment on his consciousness.

Herb parked in his yard and shut
off the engine. He stayed there for minutes, unable to move.
Through the windshield, he gazed out at the empty pastures, the
grass swaying under the gentle push of a wind.

Absently, he looked over the barn,
the milk room, the silo, the machinery storage building and finally
settled on the feedlot.

Empty
, he thought,
wincing
. Empty and dead. Like
me.

Herb tried hard not to tear up but
found it difficult. The last month of his life replayed in his
mind, like watching a movie he already seen a thousand
times.

Stepping from the truck, his legs
were weak. He walked into the kitchen and went straight to the
refrigerator. He brought out a chilled bottle of beer, twisted off
the cap and took a quick swallow.

At the table, he pulled out a chair
and sat down. Today seemed surreal, an ugly nightmare in which he
wouldn’t wake from. The grief he felt was so overwhelming, so
powerful, that perhaps death would be its only remedy.

He suddenly felt sick. He shot for
the staircase in the living room, taking the steps two at a time.
Down the hallway, he reeled to the bathroom. He just gripped the
porcelain rim of the toilet when he began to throw up.

He sat on the floor, back pressed
against the bathtub. His stomach hurt. The vomit tasted sour in his
mouth.

Slowly, he got to his feet and
stumbled to the sink. His hand shook as he tried to turn the
faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, rinsed out his mouth.
Lifting his head, he stared at himself in the mirror. This man,
this stranger could not possibly be him—pale, weak,
pathetic.

Slick’s
astonished voice came to him.
“What the
fuck happened to you, pal?
”

Herb flinched.

He realized that he was alone now.
Not a friend left in the world. Surrounded by enemies.

He sank to his knees and
wept.

44

Acresville, May 23

4:35 p.m.

The dead man lay sprawled on his
back with his head tilted to one side. His eyes were open, the
corneas already clouded over. As Doctor Fitzgerald examined him for
signs of trauma, Allan stooped to one knee for a closer
look.

There was a single entry wound just
above the victim’s right eye. The fact that there was no burning or
soiling around the wound suggested that the distance between the
gun and the victim had been at least three feet. The tear-shaped
laceration in the skin also made Allan believe the gunshot had come
at a downward angle.

Was the victim kneeling when
shot?

He took notice of the man’s swollen
lower lip, the caked blood on the chin and the two oval bruises
around the mouth.

Punched?

The blood pool beneath the victim’s
head, Allan saw, looked dry and had already separated from the
serum.

“How long has he been dead?” he
asked Fitzgerald.

“Not sure. Three to seven hours,
maybe.”

Allan checked his watch,
calculating the time. That would put the murder between nine and
one.

His gaze focused on the position
and condition of the victim’s clothing. There were no rips or tears
in the leather jacket or the black T-shirt underneath. No stains of
any kind. The same with the faded jeans the dead man had
on.

Allan considered the black pistol
on the gravel by the victim’s feet. A Glock, he
recognized.

Is that the murder weapon or the
victim’s own?

He guessed he wouldn’t find the
serial number in the gun registry. Black market, most likely. One
of the many such weapons that had found their way onto Canadian
streets from abroad. He searched the ground for a spent casing, but
came up empty. Did the killer pick it up or was another weapon used
in the murder?

He glanced over his shoulder at the
black Honda Civic with the driver’s door flung open. It was obvious
the dead man had come here to meet someone. The location was far
enough off the main road so not to be seen by passersby and the
road itself wasn’t in any shape—too bumpy a ride—for regular street
vehicles. A truck maybe or even an all-terrain vehicle, but not a
low-riding Civic.

Allan stood up, giving a thorough
look around. Other than the body and the gun there didn’t seem to
be any other evidence. He gazed up at the vault of sky, rimmed by
white smears that were thin as smoke. In a few hours the woods up
here would be pitch black.

He hoped James Bentley would finish
by then. Artificial light from portable arc lamps wasn’t comparable
to natural daylight when searching a crime scene for
evidence.

Allan took out his spiral and
recorded the particulars:

Time of arrival: 4:35
p.m.