Dead Voices (27 page)

The strangling sound inside Henry’s chest got a bit louder. The man shook his head and clicked his tongue. “My, you are putting up quite a struggle, but it won’t do you any good. You see, you won’t be able to move until you do what I tell you you’re going to do. Do you understand?”

Tears were running freely down Henry’s cheeks, now, as much for Murf as for himself.

“You see, Henry,” the man said, waving the hand with the burning fingertips in front of Henry’s face, “this gives me power over weak minds such as yours.
Control!
All I want from you is a simple thing. I just want you to sit here and watch the clock. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? I think even someone as stone stupid as you will be able to remember that. And when it’s eleven-thirty, time for Johnny Carson, I want you to take a cigarette and light it. Easy enough? It doesn’t matter if you don’t smoke. You will ... oh, yes — you will
smoke
!” He laughed, deep and hollow.

The man moved back over to the stove and, holding the flaming hand well away, twisted all four burner knobs to ON. The kitchen instantly filled with the hissing sound of gas as it poured, unlit, through the gas line and into the kitchen.

The man wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Remember, now, Henry. Don’t disappoint me,” he said as he went quickly to the door. “Keep your eyes on the clock, and in fifteen minutes, sit back, relax ... light up and have a smoke. “

With that, the man, still carrying his five points of light, snapped on the overhead light in the kitchen and ducked out of the house, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him. Henry was left squinting in the suddenly bright kitchen as the sickening smell of gas got stronger and stronger.

As much as Henry tried to fight the icy grip that held his body captive, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the sweeping red second hand and the slow progression of the minute hand as it moved steadily downward. Sweat stood out like dew on his forehead and cheeks, and spidery lines of moisture ran from his armpits down his sides to his belt. But he couldn’t muster even the slightest movement of his muscles. His mind was raging, roaring, commanding himself to look away, not to watch the clock, and not to think about what he had been told to do! He knew he could resist. It was impossible that this man — whoever the fuck he was! — could have any kind of control over him. It was simply impossible!

But finally, Henry saw that the minute hand was pointing straight down. He felt a warm rush of release in his left hand. His entire arm tingled with burning pins and needles as he flexed the fingers. Totally against his will, he reached for the cigarette pack the man had left on the table, shook out a cigarette, and placed it in the comer of his mouth. His fingers were trembling violently as he grasped the cigarette lighter, put his thumb on the flint striker wheel, and snapped it once, hard.

Henry never heard the scratching sound the lighter made; it was lost in a single, mind-numbing roar, like a cannon going off inside his head. The kitchen and the entire house exploded as the gas-filled house ignited. The gasoline the man had sprinkled on the floor burst into flames, and burning wood, glass, and household items blasted outward. Henry was already dead by the time his body, clothes engulfed in flames, slammed into the kitchen wall. Within seconds, the house was a raging inferno.

NINE

Jonathan’s Hand

1.

Elizabeth’s parents woke up with the blast of the fire hom, and they along with several other people from the neighborhood joined together and watched as the firemen fought the flames. Henry’s old house went up fast, filling the night with loud, crackling sounds and hammering heat. By the time dawn approached, blending the eastern sky from black to sooty gray, the fire was pretty much out. The charred remains of Henry’s body were found in the smoldering ruins, and Elizabeth and Frank watched as the ambulance crew covered what was left of him, placed it on a stretcher and then in the vehicle, and drove away.

The firemen continued to spray water on the embers as investigators began to pick through the ashes. Onlookers were already saying how the fire must have been caused by a gas explosion to flatten the house as it had. Elizabeth and Frank also heard several people say that the fire seemed suspicious, since Henry Bishop would never have been so foolish as to blow himself up like that. Some people conjectured that Henry had been the one to discover the body of Barney Fraser, and wondered aloud if the two events were connected somehow. Elizabeth’s own suspicions deepened when Frank pointed out that Detective Harris had been on the scene throughout the night.

Around seven o’clock, exhausted from the events of the night, Frank drove Elizabeth home. She watched from the front porch as he drove away, strong in her determination never to date him again. With sunlight streaming in her window, she finally got to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. Other thoughts besides Henry’s horrible death plagued her, keeping sleep at arm’s length, and when she finally drifted off to sleep, it was thin and disturbed.

Elizabeth began having vivid, erotic dreams that replayed her and Frank’s lovemaking on the beach at Bristol Pond, but as they made love again in her sleep, a raging fire was consuming the forest all around Bristol Pond. The dream-night was filled with the thundering roar of flames that slashed like flashing blades against the starry sky, hammering heat making Elizabeth’s dream body feel as though her flesh were burning. Clearly, it was Frank she was making love to in her dreams, but at one point, the features of Frank’s face subtly melted into those of an older man — the rotting, gray-fleshed face of her Uncle Jonathan. She woke up screaming, her body slick with sweat.

For Frank, staying up all night hadn’t been as tough as it had been for Elizabeth; he was used to working all night and then going to sleep early in the morning. But today was different: after such a great time with Elizabeth, the spectre of Henry Bishop’s horrible death — the death of someone he knew and liked — affected him deeply. Worse, Frank couldn’t stop thinking about what he had overheard at the fire ... like the possibility of a connection between Henry’s death and his discovery of Fraser’s body. Unable to sleep, Frank considered calling Elizabeth, but was still tormented by the things he had said — and felt he
shouldn’t
have said — to her the night before. He had no regrets about what they had done. It was just that when he opened his mouth and tried to explain himself to her, he always seemed to get so flustered’ Their conversation in his car outside her house just before the town fire horn had sounded bothered him the most. He wanted to tell her now that he had never intended to use her for sex or to get information about her husband or for anything else; he wanted to tell her
everything
before what they had — and what he hoped they would have — slipped away ... forever.

He knew he had told Elizabeth a “little white lie” when he said he was off the case as soon as the detectives had arrived at the cemetery that night. Certainly, he couldn’t investigate it officially ... but because he was
unofficially
checking into the backgrounds of Douglas Myers as well as Roland Graydon, telling her he “wasn’t involved” was enough of a lie to make him feel a bit uncomfortable. He was angry at himself for even hinting to her that he was concerned for her safety, but the truth was, he was absolutely convinced that the person who had dug up and mutilated her uncle’s body had done this specifically to attack her.

Harris’s words rang in his memory: “
You should never ass-u-me anything
!”

That afternoon, Frank made a quick detour past Hardy’s Hardware, slowing down just enough so that he could see through the glass front door whether Elizabeth was at the cash register, but she wasn’t, so he drove on.

If Elizabeth
really
was in any kind of danger, he would warn her once he had some hard evidence, whether Detective Harris was willing to help or not!

2.

He took three steps back from his handiwork. The ritual had been performed according to the ancient custom. The illumination from the flames cast an eerie glow. By using the power of the relic, contact had been made. He would receive the information he desired. Oily smoke and mist resolved into a figure which began to speak ...

3.

The sun was low in the sky as Frank and Norton drove the cruiser out past what was left of Henry Bishop’s house. The area was blocked off, and the firemen and investigators were still sifting through the ashes for evidence of what had caused the fire. Like a finger pointing at the sky, the chimney stuck up through the ruins.

“So, did you get to slam some ham last night?” Norton asked.

Frank shifted his gaze to his partner, hoping his expression communicated his disgust.

Apparently Norton read it as confusion, because he added with a nudge and a wink, “You know — with Elizabeth Myers ... last night. Did you screw her?”

“I don’t see where that’s any of your Goddamned business,” Frank replied, barely able to control his anger. He stepped down hard on the accelerator and sped past the scene of the fire. “And anyway, how the fuck did you even know I took her out last night?”

Norton shrugged. “Someone — I forget who — mentioned they saw the two of you at the fire at Bishop’s house last night. Damn!” He looked over his shoulder as they pulled away and added, almost wistfully, “Wish I’d been here to see it go up.”

“
Who?
” Frank snarled, slamming on the brakes and making the car swing heavily to one side as the tires left twin, black strips on the asphalt. Trembling with rage, he turned and faced Norton. “Who
happened
to mention it?”

“I ... I can’t remember,” Norton stammered, once he realized this wasn’t a casual locker-room discussion. “It was — I dunno, either Ed or Chuck. One of ‘em said you were out there with her and you looked kinda ... kinda tight, you know?”

“I’ll tell you one thing, pardner,” Frank said, jabbing Norton in the chest with his pointed forefinger. “If you or
anyone
else thinks it’s their business to go talking about what I do or who I’m with off-duty, they’re gonna be bleeding-ass sorry. You think you can remember that?”

“Hey! Come on! Lighten up, will yah?” Norton sputtered. He forced a chuckle entirely devoid of humor. “I was just kidding, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You damned well better not!” Frank said. He popped the gear shift and stepped on the gas. The cruiser roared to life, leaving behind close to twenty feet of rubber on the road and a thin haze of bad-smelling blue smoke that rose up like ground fog. Frank nervously chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to imagine how great it would have felt to pound the living shit out of Norton right there on the spot!

Throughout the late afternoon and early evening, there was a marked absence of the usual bantering conversation between Frank and Norton as they cruised around town. They responded to several calls, all of them minor, and the hours passed by slowly until around eleven 0’ clock, when they drove past Oak Grove Cemetery for the fourth time that shift. Because of what had happened out there recently, they had been asked to keep a close eye on the place for anything that looked suspicious.

“What the fuck do you expect to see, anyway?” Norton asked when Frank slowed the cruiser down to about five miles per hour. The hours of no conversation beyond what was required while they worked had made Norton nervous. He sounded tired and irritated — or else scared, Frank thought, maybe from remembering the discovery they had made up there not so long ago.

Frank didn’t bother to look at him, and kept his eyes scanning the gently rising slope and the fringe of woods beyond. Soft moonlight gave the landscape a cold, white glow, as if it were skimmed with frosting. Since the night of that discovery. the cemetery gates had been locked, but Frank knew that wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined enough to cause trouble.

And exactly what kind of trouble
? he wondered.

“You know what they say about a criminal returning to the scene of the crime?” Frank said gruffly. “Well, I’m just betting whoever dug up that body a couple of weeks ago isn’t done yet. Not after all this shit with Henry and all. I’ll just bet some night he’s gonna come back here to do it again ... or something else. And when he does, I’m gonna nail his ass!”

Norton sniffed. “Yeah — sure.” He looked at his partner with irritation. “First of all, it was probably Barney Fraser who did it. And now that he’s dead as rat shit —”

“There were others involved,” Frank said softly.

“Yeah, sure,” Norton replied, shaking his head. “And anyone’d have to be a damned fool to come back here now.”

“I’d say he
has
to be a ‘damned fool’ — or worse — to do what he did,” Frank said.

“Yeah, well —”

Frank stopped the cruiser opposite the cemetery gates and stuck his head out the window. A warm breeze played through his hair as he looked up the rutted dirt road that ran over the crest to the grave site. He shivered as he wondered exactly what in the hell
had
been going on up there that night. Why would anyone —
how
could anyone — do something like that? It went way beyond the casual “Well, it takes all kinds to make up this world” response that cops usually resorted to when trying to explain some of the unusual things they encountered in their work. Whoever had dug up that body and cut off the dead man’s hand was sicko in the extreme! And if he was responsible for Barney Fraser’s murder and the fire at Henry Bishop’s house, it only made things worse!

“D’you see what I see?” Frank asked, catching a glimpse of ... something, up there on the hill. He purposely kept his voice low so that he wouldn’t betray the jolt of surprise he felt. He wanted to stay calm so that he could gauge Norton’s initial reaction.

Norton leaned forward so that he could see past Frank, but hardly seemed to look at all before shaking his head and saying, “I don’t see a Goddamned thing ‘cept a bunch of gravestones. Come on. Let’s get a move on.”

“Up the hill there,” Frank said. “Doesn’t that-holy shit!” His first impression was that it was a trick of the moonlight, reflecting off the polished tombstones. There was a hazy, blue glow that flickered dimly at the crest of the hill, hovering like a strangely illuminated mist above one of the graves. “That almost looks like a ... like a kid standing on top of the gravestone there. “