Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (74 page)

He cranked the engine and headed for home. Rather than pick
up the Interstate, he turned onto US-76, heading south. The miles passed, as
dark as his thoughts. Washington bugged him. More than her self-absorption, her
complete disregard for her father—for all authority—annoyed the hell out of him.
He saw the same lousy attitude in ninety percent of the kids he arrested.

Maybe that was why he had a hard time believing her protests
of innocence.

He left the highway at the outskirts of town and wound
through back roads. At the cemetery, a light where it shouldn’t be caught his
eye.

“Goddam taggers.”

He grabbed his cell and called it in. “We got lights at the
cemetery.”

Dispatch notified the sector car.

Slowly, Robbins drove the length of the graveyard. His
conscience battled his fatigue. He could keep going, be home and in bed in less
than fifteen minutes. The taggers were Jordan’s problem.

Jordan’s and the patrol officer’s.

Jordan’s, the patrol officer’s and the whole damn
community’s.

If the sector car was clear—not already working an
incident—it would still take the officer five or ten minutes to arrive. The
kids would see the blue lights and scatter like a bunch of cockroaches.

He jerked his car to the side of the road. “I can step on at
least one of them,” he muttered.

The car door closed with a quiet
click
, but Robbins
knew how sound carried out in the country. He grabbed his flashlight, scrambled
over the fence, not as agile as when he was Rocket Robbins, and headed across
the lawn.

A quarter moon rode low on the horizon, offering more
illumination than the security lanterns near the admin building. Eyes adjusted
to the darkness, he moved toward the spot of light. The headstones cast
irregular shadows. He dodged in and out of the dark spaces, sticking to the
grass to muffle his steps. He wished there were a few more trees to cover his
approach, but trees would give the kids cover when they ran.

Thwunk.

Thwunk.

Robbins stopped and cocked his head. Hearing sharpened along
with his night vision, he listened to the rhythmic sound.

Clouds scudded across the moon. Damn, it’s dark out here, he
thought as he waited. Ghosts and zombies weren’t on his suspect list as the
noise-producers. He’d pulled too many drunks and horny teenagers out of the
cemetery to be spooked, but he couldn’t place the noise.

The sound stopped.

Robbins crept closer and maneuvered around a large headstone
for a clearer view. The lantern glow revealed a back-lit figure—a man standing
in a hole.

What the hell?

The man bent low, working a shovel.

Thwunk
. The shovel hit something hard and then
scraped with a grating sound.

Goddammit. Punks were digging up a grave. From the pile of
dirt, the guy had been working at it for a while. Robbins unsnapped the cover
of his service weapon and stepped forward.

The man thrust the shovel into the pile of dirt. He placed
his hands on the lip of the grave and effortlessly vaulted from the hole.
Dusting his hands, he turned toward the light. “Where are they?”

Robbins froze. Holy shit. It’s Hayes. He’d found Hayes.

With the next heartbeat, he eased back into the shadow of
the headstone. He probed the darkness around the desecrated grave site. He
suspected—make that hoped—Beason was nearby and still among the living.

“I told you. They’re buried with Akeem,” another voice said
from the shadows.

An old man’s voice. Beason?

Robbins moved away from the opened grave and hit a speed
dial on his cell.

“Detective Jordan.”

He cupped his hand around his mouth and the cellphone
speaker. “Hayes and Beason are at Akeem Beason’s grave at the cemetery. Get
everybody.”

He glanced at the men beside the gaping hole, hoping their
continued argument covered his quiet words. “Now.”

He closed the cell and eased toward the men. Backup—either
Jordan or the sector car—would arrive soon. He watched Hayes pace between the
grave and a spot in the shadows behind the stone.

Was Beason part of this theft after all? A pang of
disappoint arrowed through Robbins’ thick layer of cynicism. He’d hoped the old
guy was different.

“I’m down to the box,” Hayes said. “There ain’t no bag in
that pile of dirt. Where are they?”

“In the casket.”

Hayes strode into the shadows, jerked Beason to his feet and
dragged him to the open grave. Beason’s arms canted at an awkward angle, his
bound wrists lifted high. Hayes clutched the old man’s upper arm and shook him
the way a dog shook a rabbit. “What did you do with them?”

“They’re in the casket, I told you.”

“You told me lots of shit. Most of it’s been bullshit.”

The first blow crumpled the old man. Hayes reached for the
shovel. Before it reached the top of its arc, Robbins lunged forward, weapon
drawn. “Drop it, Hayes.”

Hayes jerked like he’d been shot. He pivoted, his face a
mask of anger. “Who’s that?”

“Police. Put the shovel down.”

Hayes’ hands flexed on the handle. The lantern cast shadows
that twisted over his arms as he tightened the muscles.

Robbins stayed still, letting Hayes wrestle with the
decision. If he moved any closer, Hayes would react defensively. The downward
stroke of his shovel would crush whichever of Beason’s bones it landed on.

Sirens wailed in the distance, coming fast. Hayes flicked a
glance toward the admin building. In his peripheral vision, Robbins saw one set
of spinning lights at the entrance to the parking lot. From the noise, at least
two more units were in-bound.

When he said everybody, Jordan apparently took it literally.

“Stay over there.”

Hayes words narrowed Robbins’ focus. Watch his eyes. Watch
his hands. If Hayes planned to make a run—or a stand—this was the moment. “Put
the shovel down.”

Another tense pause, while Hayes debated.

“You haven’t hurt anyone. Don’t start now.”

His choice made, Hayes stepped across Beason’s sprawled
form. Bending down, he laid the shovel on the dirt hill.

Robbins drew a deep breath. “Step away from Beason.”

When Hayes straightened, instead of retreating, he held
Beason by the arm. The old man scrambled to his feet. He stumbled and would’ve
fallen if Hayes hadn’t wrapped an arm across his chest.

“Let him go.”

Hayes jerked Beason in front of him, using his hostage as a
shield. His other hand reached behind him and pulled a pistol from his
waistband. The barrel ground into Beason’s temple. The old man winced, but held
steady.

In seconds Robbins had his weapon trained on Hayes. “You
don’t want to do this. Guns don’t solve anything.”

“You ain’t giving me any choice. Back off and the old guy
lives.”

Robbins eyed down the barrel, but he had no shot. Beason may
be old and frail but he was tall enough to cover Hayes’ vital spots. “You
haven’t done anything yet except drag an old man all over the state. Don’t make
it worse.”

“I ain’t going back to prison.”

Stall. Give the officers time to get into position. “Let him
go, Tyrell. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

“He ruined my life. What’s left of it.”

Hayes ruined his own life as far as Robbins was concerned.
He heard rustling and footsteps behind him, officers moving into support
positions. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to get past this.”

“How? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I got no
family. No friends left. Nobody’s gonna hire me with my felony record. Those
seals are my way out.”

“That isn’t the way to do it.” He inched forward. Still no
shot. If he fired, he might miss—or hit Beason.

And if he fired, so would Hayes. Hayes wouldn’t miss.

“Get back.” Hayes’ tight voice betrayed him. “I’ll kill him.
I’ll kill you, too.”

Robbins could’ve sworn he saw tears on the guy’s cheeks.
“Put the gun down, Tyrell.”

How could he appeal to the guy? No friends, no family – none
that claimed him anyway.

“You put your gun down.” Hayes jerked his chin toward the
darkness behind Robbins. “Tell those guys back there to leave.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Tyrell.” If he could edge
forward, a little more to the side… that shot might be makeable. He couldn’t
count on the officers around him having a better angle.

“Come on, Tyrell. Put the gun down.”

Hayes had to know after tonight he would go to prison for a
long, long time. Either prison or he’d die. Right here.

Hayes lifted the gun from Beason’s temple. Inches, but a
start.

Beason raised his hands, tucked them under his chin. Robbins
wasn’t sure if the old guy was praying, but he kept his focus on Hayes. “Take
your finger off the trigger and move your hand to the side.”

Hayes hesitated and in that moment Robbins knew.

Don’t let it be suicide by cop. “Don’t do it.”

Hayes jerked the gun away from Beason’s head.

Robbins dove forward, pistol trained on Hayes’ forehead. He
caught a flash of movement, Beason’s hands reaching upward. Hayes’ pistol rose,
turned.

A rifle fired behind Robbins. In the same moment, Hayes’
pistol went off, the explosion ripping through the SWAT sniper’s sharp report.

Hayes slumped to the ground. Beason fell with him, landed
spread-eagled across his body.

Robbins sprinted forward. He lifted the old man and pulled
him aside. Beason was breathing heavily. Fear. Adrenaline.

Officers swarmed the grave. One checked Hayes for a pulse as
another moved the pistol away from his hand. Robbins glanced at the body. One
bullet hole entered Hayes’ forehead. Another wound shattered his jaw. There
would be a larger wound at the back of his skull and blood and gray matter
sprayed over the dirt and graves beyond them.

“Damn,” Beason said.

Robbins looked over at him. Blowback dampened Beason’s face
and shirt. Robbins had halfway expected him to start shaking, but Beason was a
tough old guy.

Beason was studying Hayes’ body, an expression of regret on
his face. “What a waste.”

He wondered if the guy meant a waste to kill him or that
Hayes was a waste of space.

“This is my fault. I killed him,” Beason said.

“This is Hayes’ doing. He brought all of this on himself.”
Robbins shook his head. “He wanted to shoot himself, or for us to shoot him.
When the rifle bullet hit him, his hand clenched. That’s what made the gun go
off.”

“No.”

Robbins wasn’t sure whether he heard regret or dark
satisfaction in Beason’s word. There’d be time to talk about it later. Time to
sort out what happened.

Time for a social worker—or Miz Rose—to help Beason move
past it.

Beason stood silent for another long moment, then cocked his
head and said, “Could you untie me now?”

Robbins holstered his weapon, only then aware he still held
it, and worked the rope.

“I was starting to wonder when y’all were going to get
here,” Beason said when his hands were free. With gnarled fingers, he chafed
his bony wrists. “I kept running around the countryside, waiting for y’all to
catch up.”

Robbins stifled a laugh at the old man’s audacity. “Yeah,
well. We do the best we can. Your daughter’s okay by the way. Pissed, but not
hurt.”

“That girl stays pissed off.” Beason shook his head. “Glad
you found her.”

“Me, too. Didn’t know what to make of her story.”

“I imagine she had a doozy for you. When Tyrell told me he
knew where to find Gloria if I didn’t cooperate, I wasn’t sure whether to
believe him. Could of knocked me over with a feather when he dragged her into
that motel room.” Beason glanced over, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “He
might of gotten more than he asked for. Girl has a mouth on her. Not sure where
she got that from.”

“A couple of times, I thought about stuffing the gag back
in, but we hoped she knew where y’all went.”

“Well, you found us.” A smile played around the old man’s
face. “Please tell me you found my Caddy.”

“About a mile from her house. It’s still in one piece.”

“That’s two things that worked out just fine.” Sadness and
regret invaded Beason’s voice.

Two things.

But not three.

They both looked back at the sprawled body. For a minute
they watched the organized chaos of officers controlling the crime scene.
Finally, Robbins took Beason’s arm and guided him toward one of the patrol
cars. “So where are these seals Hayes wanted so badly?”

Beason patted a gravestone as they pass it, then turned his
head and looked Robbins in the eye. “I haven’t got a clue.”

I didn’t kill my wife.

My daughter still thinks I did.

And I can’t look Gloria in the face and say I never
considered it.

But not for the reasons she believes.

More than once, I thought about taking Delores’ life, late
at night when she finally fell asleep. An exhausted, fitful sleep that gave her
no rest.

I rose and stood in front of Delores’ grave. The cemetery
people had done a fine job, replacing the soil and laying fresh sod. My
flowers, the daisies she loved, stood out, a bright white against the new green
grass.

Now she could rest. Rest without suffering.

I repositioned the flowers, propped them against the
headstone.

Suffering is supposed to make us stronger. More aware of
life. More appreciative of it.

I couldn’t see any of that in Delores’ life. Not there at
the end.

I asked God for direction. Read the Bible. Prayed about it.

Job’s suffering seemed pointless, but the Lord asked Job who
he was to question the mind and plan of God.

Who was I to question it?

So while I thought and read my Bible and did the best I knew
how, my wife suffered.