Each Shining Hour (14 page)

With this, everyone became stewed into the conversation about Oscar Fox and all the old stories, and as well about the plight of Louise and Will Fox.

I leaned toward John. “I've got an idea regarding the Foxes I want to run by you sometime.”

John responded drily, “Sure.”

The discussion regarding the old bandstand murders lasted quite a while. So much so that I became concerned that Ann was being left out of the conversation. Conversely, however, she sat quietly and listened to every word with great interest. I was glad. I was still trying to figure her out. But her patience demonstrated a quiet intelligence and a low-maintenance personality.

In time we had all finished dessert and were lolling back in our chairs, swollen from our indulgence. Angus and Amelia invited Ann to walk over the farm with them, an offer she readily accepted.

She turned to me. “If it's all right, I will see you at the clinic in the morning, Luke. I don't want to monopolize your whole afternoon.”

She departed and I focused my attention on John, who had grabbed his coat and was making overtures of thanks and departure. I walked him to his truck.

“John, I want to get you and Connie together to discuss this idea I have about the Fox family. I'll call you in the morning.”

“Hmm, holding a summit, huh? Well, let me know.”

As he opened the door to his truck, I couldn't help but prod him a little.

“You've been sort of quiet this afternoon. I expected you to have a little more comeback with our new nurse. She got your tongue tied?”

By now John had climbed inside, leaving the door open, and
had started the engine. He stared forward with a vacant expression, mulling over my chiding remarks. A slow, wry grin surfaced.

“Nah, sport. I just make it a policy not to negotiate with terrorists.”

I laughed and stepped away, shaking my head. Christine stood on the front porch waiting for me.

“I want to go do something,” she said.

“Sure,” I responded. “Whatcha got in mind?”

“Let's drive over to the old cemetery.”

“As in the old Taylor family cemetery, where Oscar Fox is buried?”

“Sure, why not?”

I shrugged. “Nothing spells romance like tombstones.”

“Let me go grab my coat.”

We headed inside and Christine went upstairs for a moment. I was still holding my now empty iced-tea glass and needed to return it to the kitchen. As I passed through the dining room, I was thinking about what a creepy, eerie thing it was that we were about to do—go to the graveyard of a gruesome killer. Stepping into the kitchen proved to be much more
frightening.

The Cemetery

I
was three steps past the door when I realized that Mattie Chambers was leaning against the counter, holding a cup of coffee and staring at me with a quiet, brooding intensity. Madeline had apparently disappeared to some far corner of the house. Once again, I was Daniel caught in the lion's den.

I endeavored to place the glass on the nearest counter and beat a hasty retreat. But I wasn't hasty enough.

“Where are you two heading now, Jasper?”

I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Chambers, I feel the need to clarify something. My name is Luke, Luke Bradford. I'm not this Jasper person you seem to have me confused with.”

“Don't get smart with me, Jasper. When's the last time you had a good butt kicking? Keep it up and I'll give you a real slobber knocker. So what if you changed your name? You watch yourself.”

Dumbfounded, I folded my arms and stood my ground. What was I to do about this woman? Telling Christine that her 110-pound grandmother was a scowling tyrant would be relationship suicide, and I didn't know Madeline well enough to talk to her
about the matter. I was stuck. My only consolation was that if push came to shove, I had eighty pounds on the old gal.

I tried to blow all this off and think of her in a clinical manner. That is, attempt to recognize the dementia for what it was and not take it personally. But this was difficult, especially in a room with so many knives. I began to nod and back toward the door when, fortunately, Christine arrived.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Very ready.”

Christine turned to leave and I glanced back at Mattie Chambers, only to catch her pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at me in rapid succession. She would be watching. It occurred to me that John had it wrong. Mattie Chambers was the one with the flying monkeys.

We got into the Corolla and before I could buckle up, Christine leaned over and grabbed my coat, pulled me toward her, and proceeded to plant a delightful, lingering kiss on me. After a delicious moment she released me, pushed me back, and began to buckle herself in.

“Okay, drive. Do you know where it is?”

“Gee. Give me a moment to reenter orbit. Not that I'm complaining, but what brought that on?”

“That's for encouraging my uncle to go to church and for being sweet to my grandmother. What were you two talking about in the kitchen?”

“Oh, just, you know. Stuff, things.”

“Well, I think she really likes you.”

I pondered this for an anxious moment. “Okay, good to know. And, well, as far as John goes, I probably dared him more than encouraged him.”

“Either way, I was glad to see him there.”

“Mmm, I wouldn't get my hopes up too high on that one. I
don't think he'll be putting a fish bumper sticker on the Mercedes anytime soon.”

I started the car and headed down her driveway. “Boy, and here I was thinking you planted one on me because I'm a great kisser.”

Christine looked out her window, wearing a coy smile. She let a few moments pass before she responded. “Oh, you're not too bad.”

By now we had arrived at Summerfield Road.

“I assume I take a right toward Hoot Wilson's place?”

“Yeah, the cemetery backs up to his farm.”

I turned in that direction. The countryside had the cold and barren look of winter, a sleepy world of tired fencerows and frozen grass. A solitary hush lay over the open fields, and even though the clock was only approaching four, the first shadows of dusk were beginning to spread across the chilly landscape. Within a mile we turned down a rough chert lane that availed only a small opening into a dense woods. It was a dark, sunken road shouldered tightly by an impenetrable stand of trees. Their thickly intertwined limbs overhung the narrow passage in an ominous canopy.

Moments ago, my only thought had been to escape for time alone with Christine. Now an awareness of where we were heading gained my full attention and a strange unease crept over me. “You know, not to spoil the magic or anything, but this feels a little creepy.”

“We're going to see the grave of a knife murderer. It's supposed to feel a little creepy.”

“Well, okay. But shouldn't we be wearing garlic around our necks or something?”

“This is Watervalley, not Transylvania.”

“So, then, no ghouls, no Ring wraiths, no hounds of hell that you know of make a habit of hanging out here?”

“Not unless somebody tore down the ‘No Demons Allowed' sign.”

“Mmm, funny. And when you were a little girl and all those times you came over here with your friends, nothing ever happened, huh?”

“Oh, crud yes. Something always happened. We ran back down this road squealing more times than I can remember.”

“You're not helping here.”

I had pulled up to a small clearing where a crippled wrought iron fence overgrown with vegetation surrounded an area just large enough for some fifty-odd tombstones. Time and nature had slowly worked to reclaim this despondent plot with its dozens of stilled souls. Large maples and oaks had shouldered against the fence, bending and pushing it to their will. Over to one side were the remnants of an old brick foundation, now with several good-sized trees springing up within its broken walls.

“There used to be a small chapel here, dating back from the eighteen hundreds,” Christine said. “I'm told my great-great-grandfather Taylor and his brothers built it. Quite a few of the Taylor ancestors are interred here, although I think Oscar Fox was the last person to be buried in the cemetery.”

We made our way through the tall grass and approached the dilapidated gate that was shrouded on either side by a tall, dense thicket. The overcast sky offered only a bleak light. Wisps of our breath vanished into the moist air. As we stepped closer, a soft, moaning wind poured through the nearby trees. Nearing the gate, I heard a distinct rustling from among the bushes. I froze. My eyes caught a split second of some phantom movement. The attack began before I could utter a single word.

A snarling beast surged toward us in a blur of black eyes and large teeth. Both of us pushed back on our heels, stumbling over the grass and underbrush, falling on our backsides. It leaped closer, spewing forth a rapid succession of vicious, deep-throated barks.
The animal had the shape and form of a dog, but this was something more than a dog. Rhett was a dog. This was something you could ride into battle.

I instinctively held out my hand and yelled at the creature, accomplishing little more than to halt his approach and doing nothing to stop the barrage of bloodcurdling barks. It was Christine who got his attention.

“Rufus, stop. Stop that right now, Rufus.”

Her voice was like magic. Immediately the huge creature sank back on all fours, staring up at Christine with watchful, cautious eyes. We both rose to our feet, and Christine put a hand over her heart and gasped while I kept a close eye on this massive dog, unsure of this uneasy truce.

Christine was wide-eyed and laughing. “Oh, my gosh. That scared the daylights out of me.”

“Didn't do a lot for me either. So, you know this fellow.”

“This is Rufus. He belongs to Hoot Wilson.”

“Is he some cross between a wolf and a horse?”

“No, he's a mastiff hound. They're pretty rare. Hoot keeps him for protection.”

“From what? This guy wouldn't just fight a bear—he'd try to date his sister.”

“Well, he's not real good with strangers. Let me walk him back up to Hoot's place. It's only a hundred yards down that fencerow.”

“You sure about that?”

“Oh, he's a big baby once you know him, but it's probably best if you keep your distance.” She walked over and spoke to the enormous animal, gently grabbing him by the collar. They disappeared down a narrow dirt path and I was left to stand guard over the cemetery and, hopefully, get over the willies.

While I was trying to open the iron gate, another blaring
sound startled me. It was a cell phone ringing in the weeds a few feet behind me. Instinctively I patted my chest coat pocket, thinking it was mine. But it must have fallen from Christine's coat when we took the tumble. I scrabbled for a moment, trying to find the phone in the tall grass. When I finally did, I hastily answered it.

“Hello, hello.”

“Where's Christine?”

I moaned. I knew that gruff, geriatric voice only too well. “Um, she's not here right this moment.”

“What do you mean she's not there? What have you done with her?”

“Well, nothing. She's just not where she can talk right now.”

“I don't believe you. Take a picture with your phone and send it as proof of life or I'm calling the cops.”

“Mrs. Chambers, she'll be back in a minute. So just sit tight and I'll have her call you.”

“Better yet, take a picture of yourself and send it. You better have all your clothes on.”

“Mrs. Chambers, I'm hanging up now. Christine will call you in a couple of minutes.”

I ended the call and stared at the phone, shaking my head.

After a few seconds of wrestling with the rusty latch, I was finally able to push the old gate open enough to squeeze in. Despite the cold weather, an undergrowth of green vines covered much of the graveyard. Time and weather had tilted some of the larger obelisks. Along with the headstones, some of the graves were also marked with thin, moss-covered concrete slabs. Most were old and cracked and likely not very heavy. A garden-variety ghost in decent shape could easily slide one aside and take a leisurely stroll in the moonlight.

I was reading the inscriptions on the various markers when
Christine called out and squeezed through the iron gate behind me. I walked toward her with her phone.

“Here, you must have dropped this when we fell. Your grandmother called. I think she's worried about you.”

Christine smiled, shrugged, and proceeded to dial. I wandered back into the graveyard, taking notice of the names and dates that extended back almost two centuries.

I turned and watched Christine talking with great animation to her grandmother. The delightful lilt of her voice cut against the still and stark tranquillity of this modest place. I envied Christine and her deep well of family. For her, these humble markers were more than cold stone. They were the book covers of distant lives whose labor and laughter and love had transcended the years and were infused into her. Because she knew their stories, she never walked alone. I was only beginning to understand how this defined her.

She finished and headed toward me. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Grandmamma just wants to know if we can pick up a couple of things at the grocery since we're out.”

“And . . . that's it?

“Yeah, is that not okay?”

“No, no, it's fine. It's just, well, never mind.”

Christine shrugged. “So, find anything interesting?”

“Yeah, amazing really. There are some very old grave markers here. One of the inscriptions over there is pretty thought provoking.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘I told you I was sick.'”

Christine pushed my shoulder. “Stop it.”

“Hey, it's every doctor's nightmare.”

She laughed again and grabbed my arm. “Come on. If I remember correctly, Oscar Fox's grave is toward the back.”

Twilight and the soft tides of cooler air began to seep around our hands and faces. We made our way through the low thick vines and lonely markers. With each passing second, the gathering darkness seemed to be moving upon us at an accelerated pace. It occurred to me that in reality there was nothing to be gained by finding Oscar Fox's grave. But it had become something of a challenge to locate him before night blinded us. We hastily began to check the various tombstones. Many were covered with a light film of black grime and reading the names required rubbing with our fingers.

Finally, I came across a small marker with a cross mounted on top, standing in the back right corner of the cemetery. Although the stone was almost seventy years old, there was a noticeable difference in the weathering. I knelt down and read the inscription. “Oscar Fox. Born November 17, 1913. Died April 28, 1944. Rest in Peace.”

I stood quickly and took a step back. “Dang. Now that's just a little weird.”

“What's wrong? What is it?”

“I realize it's only a fluke happenstance, but Oscar Fox and I have the same birthday. What's more, I'm thirty years old. He was thirty when he died.”

Christine exhaled a ghostly, shuddering laugh. “Oooh. That is kind of creepy.”

I shrugged. “Well, it's a coincidence, that's all. No need to start going all
X-Files
about it.”

We stood there for a frozen moment, staring at Oscar's modest grave site. Then in the remaining light, I noticed something wrapped around the marble cross on top of the headstone. It was a chain looped around the front and hanging toward the back. Someone had clearly placed it there. I lifted the chain and for a speechless moment, Christine and I stared at it in disbelief.

It was a Star of David.