Dead By Dusk (19 page)

As they walked the distance, uphill, she glanced at her watch, hoping she hadn't made them so late that the wake would be over, but they still had a few minutes.

When they arrived, she felt the massive difference of emotions between being at the resort, and coming here, where the real heart of the community lay.

The funeral home was crowded. She saw a lot of the local people she had noticed in the café sipping espresso, having dinner, or just coming in to be social. Both of the police officers were there.

And Maria's mother.

She was on her knees before the coffin.

To Stephanie's amazement, the coffin was open. And to her greater amazement, the girl looked beautiful. Absolutely stunning. There were no marks on her flesh. Her face was reposed; it almost looked as if a gentle smile teased her lips.

“They must have the world's best morticians here,” Grant murmured lightly.

As they stood back respectfully, Maria's mother began to cry. She touched her daughter's face, and a keening wail came from her lips.

The policeman, Merc, went to her, drawing her away from the coffin.

“Let's say a little prayer,” Grant murmured.

They walked forward together and went to their knees on the little pew in front of the girl. They bowed their heads, closed their eyes.

Stephanie knew she should be asking God to welcome the soul of the deceased. She opened her eyes. A gasp formed in her throat.

Maria was looking at her.

Stephanie blinked.

The girl was as she had been, eyes closed. They were sewn closed, of course. She was dead, embalmed.

Grant nudged her. He hadn't seen what Stephanie had seen. Or imagined, she told herself ruefully. It had to have been a trick of her mind because Maria looked so very beautiful, and not at all dead.

They rose, walking to the side of the coffin. Grant nodded to people in acknowledgement, and she thought they must be scientists or other volunteers from the dig.

Carlo Ponti was there. He walked over and shook Grant's hand, and kissed Stephanie on the cheek. “It was good of you to come,” he said.

They didn't get a chance to reply.

Maria's mother let out a terrible wail, a cry of anguish that brought agony to every heart there.

But then, she broke free from Merc and went running to the coffin. Her purse fell as she drew something from it.

It was a huge knife.

Before anyone could stop her, she pulled her daughter's hair, drawing her head up.

And she proceeded to saw away at Maria's neck, madly attempting to sever the head from the shoulders.

Stephanie had never seen anything more horrible in her life.

Lucretia Britto didn't just slice at her daughter's throat; she hacked at it viciously.

Neither had Stephanie ever imagined what it took to remove a head from a body. The fevered energy and effort the woman displayed was insane. And at first, everyone there was apparently so shocked that they didn't move. There they were in the funeral home, soft, soothing music playing, and everyone just staring as the woman worked with maniacal verve to cut off her daughter's head.

At last, three men raced to the coffin.

By then, sweat had popped out all over Lucretia's face, and the oddest thing was that she was covered in blood. Stephanie didn't know a great deal about embalming, but she had always believed that the blood was removed from the veins and fluid put in.

What spouted from Maria Britto was definitely blood. That, or the town used the most macabre crimson embalming fluid known to man.

Everyone had been silent, staring, stupefied; then it seemed that everyone in the place was talking. Lucretia, dripping red, was hysterical, screaming as the men drew her away. The priest rushed up to the coffin, praying, tossing holy water upon the now nearly decapitated deceased, and the men in attendance all seemed to be fighting with one another.

The priest called out sharply; he walked to the two men trying to restrain Lucretia, and spoke very gently. She slumped suddenly into the arms of those who held her. Then, she began to sob softly.

Stephanie felt that she was at a total loss. She felt terribly awkward as well, as if she had intervened in something extremely personal, another person's terrible grief. She knew sorrow for the girl, and a tremendous sympathy for the woman maddened by her pain, yet there was nothing she could do.

Apparently, Grant was feeling the same.

He touched her arm gently. They didn't need to speak. They turned, and as the chaos continued around them, they slipped down the aisle to exit the viewing room. At the back of the room, they saw Carlo, watching, listening, shaking his head.

“Most unusual,” he muttered.

“We feel we're in the way, like intruders,” Grant said to him.

Carlo nodded. “Yes, even I feel this way. When a mother loses a daughter . . . she is beside herself, superstitious, and there is anger between the doctors, the mortician, and the police—she was not embalmed properly, which is against the law, and yet, their concern was for Lucretia, the living, and no one imagined that she might do such a bizarre thing . . . yet how unusual.”

Stephanie wondered to just what Carlo referred since the entire scene had been, and still was, unusual to say the least.

“The blood
spurted
,” he said. “No heart to pump it, and it spurted. This entire situation just becomes more and more tragic.” He gave them a sad smile. “It was very good of you to come. Please think of us as people who love too deeply, not as lunatics.”

“Carlo! Please, we've seen the anguish,” Grant said softly. “Good night.”

“
Sì, sì. Buonasera,
” Carlo murmured. “Tomorrow, then, Grant.”

“Yes, of course.”

Carlo smiled at Stephanie. “Miss Cahill, you should come out with Grant. Despite all this, there is a deep historical significance to the area.”

“I'd like to come out and see the site,” Stephanie said.

He nodded.

The voices near the coffin were rising shrilly once again.

“Excuse me, perhaps I can help with a calm voice of reason. Though I believe Dr. Antinella is going to help Lucretia most . . . I see that he is preparing a sedative for the woman.”

“Yes, yes, please go,” Grant murmured.

He took Stephanie's hand, and they walked out.

His grip was strong, supportive. “You're still shaking,” he told Stephanie, once they were out into the night air. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know. I'm still dumbfounded,” she admitted.

“I could tell some of what was going on, even before Carlo explained,” he murmured.

Stephanie gazed at him. He shrugged. “I'm beginning to understand a great deal of Italian. And then, of course, there is the obvious. I think that the doctor, the coroner, and the mortician determined that they wouldn't slice Maria up any worse than . . . than she was. Apparently, they knew from certain signs on the body that death had been caused by animals, and so . . . why cause Lucretia more grief when they felt they could prepare her properly for her burial? There's a deep tradition here, you know. Laws about the disposal of the dead belong to larger, more tightly packed societies. They don't worry about the water being tainted, or some of the other problems that ensued in other places from burials in which the bodies weren't properly prepared or retained. So . . . anyway, the police are furious about that. And Lucretia . . . she's insisting to everyone that her daughter was the victim of demons, or some otherworldly creature, and that the only way she will lie at peace is if her head is severed.”

Stephanie shivered. “She did look . . . alive,” she murmured. A memory of the trick of light that had caused the girl's eyes to appear open filled her mind. Uncanny. Weird. Terrifying.

The night was balmy, but the air suddenly seemed cold. There was a mild breeze, but it seemed to be whistling. She realized that she was afraid. Very afraid. And she should have felt some sense of security with Grant at her side, and yet...

It too often seemed that he was part of the bizarre events occurring and the frightening dreams and suspicions that teased at her reason and logic!

Yet he held her hand, firmly. His size alone seemed imposing in the night.

“She was dead,” Grant said. He exhaled on a sigh. “Believe me. I'm the one who found her. She was dead. What I can't believe is how whole they made her appear. When I first found her, her limbs . . . her throat . . . well, they'll bury her, and she'll be at peace.”

“I wonder if I'll ever erase that picture from my mind's eye,” Stephanie said.

He released her hand, slipping his arm around her. She was still shaking, she realized.

“Let's get back to your cottage,” he murmured.

She noted that he was watching the night sky. It could be as strange as everything else around them, with a touch of the moon and stars one minute, and a darkness that was disturbingly complete the next. As if a huge swath of black cloth was tossed up to cover the heavens.

Like a shadow in the darkness. An ebony beyond black.

She quickened her footsteps, matching the natural long stride he had previously slowed for her sake.

When they reached the cottage, she still felt as if she was in shock. Cold, numb, and scared on a level she didn't even understand.

“Is this place stocked with brandy?” Grant asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let's drink the bottle.”

Stephanie realized that Grant was shaken, too.

Every human being, male or female, macho or squeamish, who had witnessed the scene in the funeral home had to have been shaken.

“A bottle of brandy sounds very good,” she said.

 

 

Drew had definitely had a few drinks. No, he corrected himself, making his way to his cottage—he'd definitely had
more
than a few drinks. But what a great night. The show going so well, and then the time in the bar with servicemen complimenting them all, servicewomen flirting with him, and the wives, sisters—
whatevers!
—of others telling him what a fine natural comedian he was, and that it was the best little excursion they'd had in all the time they'd been stationed abroad, traveling whenever they could.

He was probably going to have one hell of a headache in the morning. People had been buying him drinks—all kinds of drinks. Through the course of the evening he'd had beer, wine, shots, and mixed drinks.

Big mistake, but . . .

Aspirin. Aspirin now . . . and maybe he should chew on some bread. Someone had told him once that bread soaked up alcohol, and that aspirin before going to bed definitely helped defeat the morning hangover.

What the hell. Whether any of it was true or not, he might as well try.

In his kitchen, he popped the aspirin, and found that he was thirsty, so he drank two glasses of water. Did that help dilute the alcohol—or did it just make it slosh around more?

He really had no clue.

The sharp knocking at his door made him jump.

Who the hell . . . ?

He walked back to the door. He may not have been in great shape, but he had just seen to it that Suzette had gotten back to her place safely. She wouldn't have left and come back for any reason—would she?

Well, there had been a few women in the bar to whom he had just happened to casually mention his cabin number . . .

Great. He might just get lucky. And if he did, he'd probably pass out before he was able to pass in to anything!

Looking through the peephole, he was astonished to see Gema standing on his doorstep.

He threw open the door.

“You!” He wasn't drunk enough not to feel a rise of anger. “What are you doing here now, Gema? The show went up without you—as you certainly must have seen. And it went up well.”

She arched a brow and just smiled. “Don't get in a huff, Drew. The show was wonderful. I just came to tell you. And don't worry—I'm not trying to get my job back, I'm just passing through for the night. Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“No! You screwed us all, and we came out all right in spite of it!”

He slammed the door in her face.

Should he have done that? He didn't know. He wasn't going to have to wait for the morning; his head was pounding already.

“Drew, come on, please . . . I just need to talk to you for a few minutes. I'll make it worth your while!” she teased.

He turned, leaning against the door.

He toyed with the idea of opening it. She'd treated him like dog poop before. Neither he nor Doug had seemed to be the least interesting as human beings to her at all.

And still . . .

Gema was stacked. Had she paid for the boobs? If so, she'd gotten her money's worth.

“Drew . . . ?” Her voice was coercive.

Yes, tempting.

But he was sliding against the door. His knees were just giving.

“You ass! I'll fuck you like you've never been fucked before!” she said.

Too late.

His keister hit the floor, and his head fell forward toward his knees. He was passing out.

Too bad.

It would have been nice to see just what she had intended. It wasn't like he got an offer like that every day of his life.

That was his last thought . . . then the swimming in his brain went still.

And dark.

 

 

They did consume most of the brandy.

They had done so sitting on the sofa downstairs. And they hadn't talked a lot. They'd mention something about the show, and then something about the wake. And then Stephanie would shiver again, and they'd fall silent. Then they'd mention something about the show . . .

And something about the wake.

And drink more brandy.

Stephanie had gone from sitting beside him to resting her head on his shoulder. And now, she was lying on his lap, and as he gently moved his fingers over her forehead, smoothing dark strands of her hair from it, he saw that she had fallen asleep. Thank God. He needed sleep, too. He needed time to try to forget.

He waited, just watching her, as she breathed in and out. For a moment, the love he felt for her was so fierce that he shivered, and shivered with a fear that made no sense.

It was this place.

No, it had started before they had come to this place. They hadn't even come together. And yet . . .

He had been drawn here.

And despite Reggie, maybe Stephanie had been drawn as well.

Whatever was happening had torn them apart.

He gritted his teeth. He had to make whatever was happening put them back together again.

She shuddered slightly in her sleep, then a sigh escaped her and she settled against his lap again. He waited a few minutes, then rose carefully, balancing her weight. He brought her upstairs to the bedroom and slipped her shoes off, leaving her in her clothes. Settling her head on her pillow, he drew the covers to her shoulders, then slid off his own shoes and crawled in next to her.

Once again, he just watched as she breathed.

And the sense that he had to protect her, above all else, against all odds, swept over him.

And with it, suddenly, an anger.

Whatever the hell it was, he damned sure was going to beat it.

He lay awake a long time, and realized that he was waiting for the light. That night, he intended to wait out the darkness.

At one point, he rose restlessly, walked to the sliding glass windows, and looked out at the night. The heavens seemed shaded again, as if the moon and stars were blocked by a giant, sweeping cloak that enwrapped the area.

He gripped the balcony railing. He could hear the breeze. It seemed that there were whispers in it. Voices that called to him.

He closed his eyes, on the one hand telling himself that he was being absurd, and on the other hand . . . listening. He sat on the balcony, leaned against the glass, feeling the air, smelling the salt from the water.

Again, his eyes closed. As if it were a physical presence as solid as the arms of a woman, the air seemed to enwrap him . . .

 

 

Doug was already lying down when he heard the rapping sound. Groggy, he listened for several minutes before he realized that the tapping was coming from the sliding glass doors just feet away from his bed.

He buried his head back into his pillow, exhausted. It had been one hell of a night, and the mingling with others after the show had been a definite boon to his ego. They might be working a new, small club in Southern Italy, but for a stage performer, there was little so sweet as being received with such tremendous enthusiasm.