David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

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.