Charlaine Harris - Dead Over Heels

As though my furious parking method hadn’t made any noise, I got out quietly and shut the door with great care. My car had entered the ditch a little above the southeast corner of the rectangular cemetery tract. The main gate was in the middle of the long east side, the two auxiliary gates were on the west, opening out onto a rutted dirt track that ran along outside the length of the fence to tie back into the county road forming the eastern boundary of the property.

From this corner, the trees obscured my view, but I could catch a glimpse of gleaming white up close to the north part of the cemetery where Jack had been buried; Martin’s Mercedes.

I shivered all over. I forced my brain to work, to plan.

The main gate on the east was too exposed, visible from most places in the cemetery. So I crept along the fence, through the high weeds, and tried not to let the thought of snakes cross my mind. Since church and funeral going had been the designated occasions when I’d dressed that morning, my clothes and shoes were hardly helpful in ditch-slogging or cemetery crawling. The rayon of the beige skirt caught on everything I passed, the low heels of the pumps sank into the wet earth, and my loose hair was collecting a fine assortment of seeds and burrs.

I reached the track at the southwest corner and followed it, ducking low while trying to run, one of the most difficult things I’d ever attempted.

Every three yards or so I’d stop to look and listen; I heard nothing, saw nothing, cursed the trees and bushes I’d thought so beautiful this morning.

I got to the first rear gate.

It was fairly exposed, though if Martin and Paul were still close to Jack’s grave, there were several tall plantings and grave markers between them and me. But I dropped to my stomach and crawled. I reached a good vantage point behind one of the few raised vaults in Lawrenceton, and peered from behind it.

My heart sank. Paul’s car was indeed still parked parallel to the west fence; I could see only the back of the tent left over Jack’s grave, but I could tell the hearse and the funeral home employees were gone.

I sidled up closer, hugging the granite of the vault. I confirmed what I already suspected-there were no other cars. Paul and Martin, alone here.

And me.

Then I saw them. Martin’s left side was toward me, his back against the thick trunk of a live oak, and he was looking several degrees whiter than he had when I’d left. His face was set in lines I’d seen only once before. This was how he must’ve looked in the war, I thought fleetingly.

Paul was standing with his right side to me, his back to his car, and he had a gun in his hand. He was talking to Martin; though I couldn’t hear him, I could see his mouth moving, and I saw from the way Martin had his head cocked that he was listening.

No weapon. I had no weapon.

I couldn’t run and tackle him; there wasn’t enough cover between the vault and where he was standing.

Would he shoot me?

Maybe not; maybe. He was supposed to love me, after all. But what if he did shoot, and his shooting me didn’t give Martin enough time to grab him? Neither of us would be saved.

I had to hurt Paul.

And by God, I wanted to.

But I hadn’t anything except my hands, and I didn’t think they’d do enough damage to stop him long enough.

What if the knife was still in his car? The thought burst on me like a beautiful firework.

After a moment I realized it was a stupid idea, but it was all I had. As I began my approach to his car, slightly to the rear of Paul’s peripheral vision, I realized just how dumb it was. But I considered for a second: he’d had to leave it there during the investigation at the community center. He’d had to leave it in there this morning, when he’d been at the police station, presumably; and he’d had to leave it in there for the funeral, because he couldn’t withdraw it during the service or later at the cemetery. So our whole salvation depended on whether or not Paul Allison had been too exhausted the night before to withdraw the knife and clean its hiding place.

He’d parked facing south on the little drive, so I had to creep up the passenger side, and pray the door was unlocked. I was afraid to look toward Paul and Martin, afraid that I would see Martin get shot, afraid that if my eyes met Martin’s his face would change and Paul would turn to see me. I could hear Paul’s voice ranting on and on and I made my way closer, but I shut out what he was saying.

Finally, I had used all the available cover, including Early Lawrence’s angel. I had come to a point where I was blocked by graves or trees, and I had to cross the track that made a large figure eight within the cemetery, about at the cross-loop. I took off my shoes so they wouldn’t crunch on the gravel, and tried to think light so my feet wouldn’t make noise. I risked a glance; I had worked my way so close that I was nearly behind Paul now. Martin’s eyes were focused on Paul. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or not.

I had to chance it. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the open. I took one step across the gravel, then another, then I could regain the soft grass and walk quickly to the passenger side of the car.

I looked down at the door. I was so desperate that for a minute, my eyes refused to focus.

The door was unlocked.

Praise God, I thought: I gripped the handle. I had to look again now, and I fixed my gaze on Paul’s back, trying not to see Martin over his shoulder. It helped that Paul was the taller of the two by a couple of inches. I did not want to see Martin’s face, see the knowledge of my presence reflected in it. I willed Martin not to know I was here. And I pressed in the release button with my thumb.

It sounded like an explosion to me, but I knew the sound was small. I stopped breathing, the car door barely open, waiting to see if Paul would turn my way.

He didn’t. He kept on talking. I inhaled deliberately. I was light-headed with relief and oxygen deprivation.

Gently, gently, I pulled open the door. So slowly my thumb cramped, I eased it off the release knob. I unclenched my fingers from the handle. I wiggled them for a second or two, trying to restore circulation.

I crouched again, my sore knees protesting at a barely discernible level. The scabs had come off eons ago in the ditch; I could add blood to the list of items staining my skirt.

But I hadn’t made that tiny stain on the blue cloth of the car seat. You’d only see it if you were thinking about blood.

Maybe he’d had it covered with the little notepad that was almost on top of it now; maybe he’d jostled the pad when he’d gotten out of the car.

I looked at the police radio longingly; but I had not the slightest idea how to operate it, and I was scared to death someone would radio Paul while I was crouched here beside the car. I looked over the front seat quickly. If the knife was here, it would have to be around this small area.

The quickest and easiest place to hide the knife would have been to slip it in the crack in the seat.

I slid my hand down into the crack, where I could see the tiny stain. I felt stickiness. I felt a hard shape.

The knife was still there.

My fingers examined it with caution; I didn’t want to grab the blade. I gripped it and pulled it out. There was old, dark blood staining my fingers; the stickiness I’d felt. I stared at the knife, wishing I had time to be squeamish. There was dried blood on the little blade and on the hilt. Paul had driven it into Arthur as hard as he could.

It was just a little brown pocketknife, with handy attachments.

Unfortunately, the only one of use to me was the blade.

I stood. I had the knife gripped so the blade pointed upward; all the fictional crime I’d read told me that was the way to use it. I should try to come in under his ribs, I recalled.