Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

The rule of thumb with a crime scene was always go too big. Later you could shrink the scene if necessary, but you couldn’t make it bigger since evidence outside the original line might have been disturbed in the interim. Steve knotted the tape around the base of a tree. He made his way from the tree to a tombstone that had served as first base in last night’s game. He circled the tombstone with tape, blindfolding a couple of marble cherubs.

“Officer Austin?” It was Ernest Kellogg’s voice. “A moment, please? Have you forgotten the service that I mentioned?”

“No. I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Kellogg.”

“Well, in light of this morning’s events…this is difficult situation. Might we forego the tape until…oh, say nine-thirty or so?” Steve graced Kellogg with Chestney’s patented stupidest creature on earth glare. “This is a crime scene,” he said, echoing the sergeant’s words, and he continued on with the tape. Ran it to the marble Christ out in centerfield, did a little mummy-wrap job on the son of God. Snaked it around a simple cross that had been third base, drawing the tape taught. Tied off behind home plate-April’s grave.

Turned and saw Kellogg frozen between first and second-too much of a leadoff for any base runner. An easy pick-off play. It was stupid, daydreaming like that. Steve knew it. He wasn’t Walter Mitty. He had to concentrate. Take care of business.

Be careful.

Chestney called him over. Together they asked Kellogg a few more questions, but the undertaker didn’t have anything to add to his initial statement. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” was the general tone of his comments.

Chestney walked Steve back to his patrol car. He took a towel from the trunk and tossed it to Steve, and Steve started cleaning the mud from his boots and his uniform. “We’ll get someone out to do some plaster work on the tire tracks,” Chestney said. “That might give us something. The rest of it-well, who the hell knows.”

Steve nodded.

“What do you think?”

“Satanists.” The word popped out of Steve’ mouth like an answer in a word association test.

“Yeah.” Chestney shook his head. “Shit. You’re’ probably right.” He gave Steve a long, cool look which was interrupted when a white hearse turned slowly onto the snaking drive.

A line of cars followed suit. A short beat passed before Ernest Kellogg noticed the hearse. The two cops exchanged smirks as the undertaker ran toward it, yellow boots pumping like muddy pistons in some kid’s toy, black tie flying over his shoulder.

Chestney laughed. “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday.”

The hearse passed by. Steve’s gaze didn’t follow it. He was staring at a stand of eucalyptus trees a hundred yards away. A garden of granite and marble lay between him and the trees.

Something yellow darted from behind a tombstone on the edge of the cemetery and raced into the dark shadows that pooled beneath the eucalyptus trees.

Steve’s heart raced as if he himself were running. Chestney hadn’t noticed a thing. He eased into his car and started the engine. He said, “You mind doing the paper on this one, Steve?”

“No. Not at all.” Steve pointed at the grove of eucalyptus. “Maybe I’ll take a look around, though. Check for signs of satanic worship. See if I can turn up something a little more tangible than a hole in the ground.”

“Sure. We’ll cover your beat. You take your time and do it up right. You know that’s the way I like it.”

“Sure,” Steve said.

Steve climbed behind the wheel of his cruiser. So far, so good. He was still a little shaky, but as far as he was concerned the scene was clean. The tire tracks were a mystery, and they would probably remain as such.

Someone else had visited April’s grave. So what. Maybe just some kids on a joyride. Or maybe Doug Douglas had been there. Steve thought about it. Maybe Doug had seen him at the grave, followed him to the house.

Maybe not.

Steve started the engine and cruised past the funeral. The mourners were clustered around another hole in the green grass, this one lined with Astroturf that hid the naked soil from view. Steve passed a sea of gray faces inclined in grief. One face rode the gray wave, as white as cresting foam. Ernest Kellogg stood among the mourners in his big yellow boots, oblivious to everything but the embarrassment of having the law on his premises.

Steve was tempted to wave at the man. Shoot him the old thumbs up or something. But he didn’t. He eased past the Meditation Garden and the funeral service, and then he made a lazy cut to the left and followed a narrow dirt road to the stand of eucalyptus.

He parked and stepped out of the cruiser. A warm wind ruffled his hair and tumbled dry eucalyptus leaves, and the leaves were a hundred tiny kites rattling against a breeze that promised summer. The breeze came from behind, from the cemetery, and carried with it the harsh smell of incense. Steve didn’t need another look at the funeral to tell that it was a Catholic service. Instead, he glanced at the sun. Warm, and it was still early. It was going to be a hot one. Rare for April, but not unwelcome.

Okay. There’s the weather report. Satisfied now? Going to stop stalling for time? Going to take a few steps and find out if you’re seeing things?

The shadows pooled before him. Thick tree trunks leaned at odd angles, scabbed with loose hunks of bark that threatened to flake away at the slightest touch. The ground was matted with dead leaves the color of old bones.

Steve stepped into the grove. The leaves crackled under his heavy boots. The dry, minty smell of eucalyptus drew him forward, into the cool shadows. The smell was soothing, more appealing than the harsh odor of incense or the stink of water standing in a grave.

Okay, this is silly. This is just seriously insane, and I’m not going to open my mouth.

But he did. He couldn’t help it. “Homer,” he whispered, and he was instantly embarrassed.

He stood motionless for a couple seconds, not making a sound, hearing nothing but a faint whisper of Latin.

“Homer,” he called, and then he whistled. “C’mon, boy. Homer! You here, boy?”

The wind rose behind him. Scabs of bark tore loose and skittered across the ground. The sound masked a series of short, sharp noises.

A dog barking?

“Homer? C’mon, boy. Don’t be afraid. You remember me, dontcha, boy? April’s waiting for you, boy. C’mere, and I’ll take you to her.”

Leaves rattled in the shadows. Steve moved forward, kicking up dust motes that swirled in rare shards of sunlight.

“C’mon, Homer! C’mon, boy!”

He stopped again. Stood still. Listened.

A short, sharp sound. Yes. It was a dog’s bark.

And it had come from his left.

Steve turned and hurried down a narrow path. The trees grew close here, crowding him, and his shoulders ripped loose scabs of eucalyptus bark as he ran. Up ahead, he saw something moving in the shadows, speared now and then by a gauntlet of hard, sharp shafts of sunlight. Little stubby legs, like broken branches, pumped within a dust devil that swirled down the path. Sunlight glinted off an eye that was nothing more than a blot of yellow paint without an iris.

An eye that was looking back at him.

“Homer!” Steve hurried down the path. “C’mon, boy. It’s me!”

But the sticklegs were charging now, driven by a wind that pushed dry leaves in curtains that rose and fell, rose and fell, moving away in an awkward jog that belied the reality of their speed.

Steve tried to catch up. A fallen tree lay just ahead, blocking the path.

The tree would slow Homer’s progress…

Up ahead, a little startled yelp. Dead leaves rattled over a papery coat. Tumbling sticks scratched against the dead tree. Steve raced ahead, his gun belt jangling, his breath catching in his throat.