Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

He opened the trunk. And waited. Offering no help. As if it was beneath him. Or, as Eddie suspected, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

The cousins awkwardly transported the bundle from one trunk to the other and folded it inside.

“There you go,” Floyd said.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie said.

Antoine offered a smirk. “You can ask.”

“What’s he do with them?”

“Don’t see that that’s any of your concern.” He took a step forward, looking down on the cousins. “Who he is and what he does is not for you to know.” He closed the trunk with a sharp click. “When can we expect another one?”

“When we get the opportunity,” Eddie said. “Ain’t like they grow on trees.”

Antoine stared at him. “Make it soon. Demand is up and we’re running low.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe expand your search area.”

“We’ll look into that,” Floyd said.

“Do. Otherwise we’ll have to find another source.” Antoine walked to the driver’s side door, pulled it open. “And make it fresh.” He climbed in, cranked the engine, wheeled a U-turn, and drove away. A faintly visible dust trail blurred his taillights as he disappeared over the hill.

“I don’t like him,” Floyd said.

“He don’t seem to like us much neither.”

“What the heck does ‘messed with’ mean?” Sheriff Amos Dugan asked Travis Sutton, his best officer. Dugan glanced at the bedside clock. Five a.m.

Amos Dugan was the sheriff of Lee County. A pretty easy job most days since his jurisdiction was small, consisting of assorted farms and two small towns; Pine Creek, the county seat where his office was located, and Pine Valley, eight miles east over a few wrinkles in the farmland. That was it. Unless you wanted to count Harper’s Crossroads, which he didn’t. Not as a bona fide town. Only sixteen folks lived over there on old man Harper’s land. Each resident a direct descendant. Except for the two boys who’d married Harper’s daughters and gave him a passel of grandkids.

But, this day wasn’t kicking off all that well. Not just Travis’s call but last night’s dinner over at Clay’s Diner. It had seemed greasier than usual and he’d eaten too much, and too fast, his stomach now complaining. Had most of the night, making his sleep fitful at best.

Travis laid it out. “Just that. Someone messed with a grave over at the cemetery. Carl called me this morning. Maybe an hour ago. You know how he’s always up before dawn and hankering to get to work. Anyway, he got over to the cemetery right early, even for him, and found someone had been digging around at Wilbert Fleming’s grave. I drove over and had a look-see.”

“And?”

“Sure enough. Looked like the soil had been disturbed.”

“Of course it was disturbed. He was just buried yesterday.”

“Yeah, but Carl said it’d been messed with.”

“There you go again. Did someone just root around or did they dig up Wilbert? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, nothing like that. Didn’t seem so anyway. Just looked like the dirt mound wasn’t like it should be.”

“According to who?”

“Carl. He should know. He’s the one what dug the grave after all.”

“Maybe dogs or something like that?” Dugan asked.

“I suspect it coulda been but it didn’t really look that way. Carl wondered if he should dig it up and see if Wilbert’s missing.”

Dugan considered that but didn’t much like the idea. “I’d have to get a warrant. Or Martha’s permission.” He sighed. “And I damn sure don’t want to go over there this time of day and ask her if we can dig her husband up because someone might’ve stolen him.” He stifled a yawn. “Why would someone do that in the first place?”

“Beats me.”

“I’d bet on dogs,” Dugan said. “Or maybe those feral pigs that’ve been roaming around causing mischief lately.”

“What should I tell Carl?” Travis asked.

“Tell him not right now. But that I’m thinking on it.”

Eddie was of the opinion that luck had always followed him. Floyd, too, for that matter. But mostly him. Hooking up with Antoine, and his mysterious boss, was an example. Easy money. But right now, he couldn’t come up with a plan. The local newspaper obituaries offered no leads. Maybe they’d have to spread out a little bit. Check out a couple of the neighboring counties.

It was two days after their last meeting with Antoine and he and Floyd sat on stools at McGill’s, their favorite bar. The clock had just rolled past midnight. The crowd had thinned a bit, but since it was Friday, or in actual fact Saturday now, still plenty of folks hanging around — some shooting pool, others simply drinking and swapping lies.

Then it happened. That stroke of luck that always seemed to come at the right time. From two guys a few stools down. He thought maybe he’d seen them there before, but couldn’t be sure. What caught his ear was one of them saying, “You going to Jerry’s visitation this afternoon?”

Eddie nudged Floyd. Nodded toward the men.

One was older, maybe fifty, heavy, and wore a blue work shirt; the other younger, skinnier, gray shirt, the one that asked the question.

Blue shirt: “Yeah. Four o’clock? Right?”

Gray shirt: “Yep. Over at Grace Funeral Home. Gloria and me’ll be there.”

Blue shirt: “What time’s the funeral Sunday?”

Gray shirt: “Noon. Over at Pine Valley Cemetery.”

Blue shirt: “Closed casket, I assume.”

Gray shirt, nodding: “I hear his truck hit a tree. Tore his head all to hell.”

Blue shirt: “Well, at least it was quick. That’s a blessing.”

Gray shirt: “He was only twenty-eight.”

Blue shirt: “A pure-dee tragedy’s what it is. He was a fine boy.”

“Pardon,” Eddie said, looking past his cousin. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you was saying.” Blue shirt looked at him. “He was only twenty-eight?”

“Sure was.”

“What was his name?” Eddie asked.

Blue shirt hesitated, and then said, “Jerry Crabtree.”

“From Pine Valley?”

“Yep. Why?”

“He a baseball player?” Eddie asked. “In high school?”

“Sure was. A good one.”

Eddie nodded toward Floyd. “We played against him.”

“You did?”

“He was a couple of years ahead of us but we remember him. First base. Could really hit.”

“That’s him.” Gray shirt jumping in. “It’s the rain what did it. I hear tell he lost control of his truck.”

“That’s awful,” Eddie said, shaking his head, doing his best to sound concerned. “Maybe we’ll come to the funeral.”

Blue shirt nodded. “I suspect his family would like that.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Floyd asked.

They had paid the bill and were now walking down the street toward their car.

“I got me an idea,” Eddie said.

“What might that be?”

Eddie climbed behind the wheel and waited for Floyd to get in. “Better than all that digging.”

“What on God’s green earth are you jabbering about?”

Eddie pulled from the curb. “Let me noodle on it for a minute.”

It was just over twenty-four hours later when they drove into Pine Valley.

The last couple hours had been busy. First a stop by McGill’s for a beer and a chat with Wayne, the bartender. The only way they had to reach Antoine. Eddie motioned Wayne over. Eddie leaned on the bar, looked around, made sure no one was listening. “Need to get a message to Antoine.”

“About what?”

“Tell him we got something for him. We’ll meet him around two a.m. Usual place.”

Wayne nodded, cracked open a couple of long-necks and slid them toward the cousins. “On the house. Be back in a minute.”