Prayer for the Dead (22 page)

“Not quite. She wanted to play with my gun.”

Becker laughed. “A consummation devoutly to be wished, I would have thought.”

Tee leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I’m serious. She wanted to fondle the goddamn .38.”

“Confusing symbol with substance.”

“Whatever that means. Stop grinning. She wanted to stroke it. Weird.”

Becker laughed, glancing at Janie.

“Don’t look at her, for Christ’s sake. And stop laughing. I’m not sure it’s funny. You shouldn’t laugh at her.”

“I’m laughing at you,” said Becker. “The horny chief finally gets the girl in his cruiser and all she wants is his hardware.”

“She’s looking at us,” Tee hissed. “Stop it. Act natural.”

Becker tossed his head back and laughed aloud.

“Ah, Tee,” he said. “If I could act natural… If I knew what the hell that was.” Becker stuffed a napkin in his mouth and shook with laughter. At least it sounded like laughter, but Tee thought his eyes looked enormously sad.

Becker found Cindi in her basement, hanging from the ceiling like a three-toed sloth pondering its next move.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She was dangling from a horizontal I beam running across the ceiling joists, clinging to the half-inch flange of the beam with the heels of each boot and the first knuckle of her fingers. Becker had seen her work out on the beam before, and also on the exposed pipes which she had reinforced with U-bolts and wire, converting her cellar to a kind of adult jungle gym.

She tipped her head all the way backward to see him as he came down the stairs, making her look a bit like a slain deer being carted away on shoulder poles.

“Hello, Becker,” she said coolly.

Becker removed his jacket and sat on one of the old packing mats that Cindi had lifted somehow from a moving van. They were not there for padding in case she ever fell—as far as he could tell, she never fell— but for insulation against the cold cement of the floor when she did her loosening exercises. The basement was totally unfinished; except for the beam and the pipe reinforcements, it was unimproved in any way.

“There’s something oriental about this room,” Becker said. “You know, spare and clean, but somehow evocative of—of—what would you call the essence of this room? Indoor plumbing?”

Cindi released the beam with her feet and swung down to hang by her fingertips. Her feet were a foot off the floor. She walked hand over hand to one end of the beam, then worked her way backwards. After repeating this procession three times, she swung one foot onto the beam again and let go with one hand so she hung by one heel and the opposite hand. She let the free arm and leg dangle as she stared at Becker.

He had removed his shoes and was slowly stretching his thigh muscles on the mats.

“Keep your clothes on,” she said.

Becker looked up at her and grinned. “That sounds like a promising invitation.”

“You’ve got the wrong day,” she said. Cindi switched arms and heels and let the others dangle, still staring at Becker.

“It’s like having a conversation with a gibbon,” he said. “ ‘Course, I’ve always liked doing that.”

“You’re thinking it’s Thursday,” she said. “You’re confused. It’s Saturday. Our date was for last Thursday.”

“I was in Washington. Talking to my shrink again.”

“What about?”

“Partly about why I wasn’t with you.”

“I hope he offered a better explanation than you have.”

“He doesn’t explain things. He asks questions.”

“Did he ask you why you didn’t call me to tell me you weren’t going to show up? Did he ask you why you’ve been avoiding me generally?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition on you, Becker. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But I don’t like being used like a port of convenience, either.”

“I understand.”

“If you don’t want to come around, don’t come around. But don’t come around at all.”

Becker looked at his feet. Cindi began a series of pull-ups on her heels and the fingers of one hand. She’s stronger than I am, Becker thought. And wiser.

“You going to say anything?” she asked finally. Becker wished that she would give some sign of exertion, at least. She didn’t appear to be even breathing hard.

“I’ve never been any good talking to angry women,” he said.

“If you always act the way you do with me, you must have had lots of practice.”

“I told you I was no good for you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You wanted to sleep with me.”

“I still do.”

“Look, Becker, I like you, you’re an interesting man, but basically I don’t like the way you want to treat me. I’ve got better things to do. So do you, apparently.”

Becker sighed. “I don’t have anything better to do than you.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” she said. She dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups on her fingertips, her spine rigid as a plank. Becker watched the muscles in her shoulders work under the spandex. He resisted an urge to grab her buttocks.

“I mean to say I’m worth something, you understand?” she continued. “You’ve got nothing better going in your life than me. You just happen to be too stupid to appreciate it.”

“I do appreciate it,” Becker said. “I already said so. You’re the best thing I’ve got going.”

“I’m young and I’m smart and I’ve got a good heart.”

She rolled onto her back and lifted first one leg and then the other and hooked them behind her neck. Sweat finally broke forth, bursting like a sudden freshet on her skin.

“In fact, I’ve got a great heart,” she said. “I’m a damned nice person. Better than you are.”

“A lot better,” Becker agreed.

“A lot better,” she said. Her voice finally showed some sign of her exertions. “Plus you’re too old for me.”

“I warned you about that, too,” he said.

“No, you didn’t. I didn’t need you to tell me. All I have to do is look at you. You’re too old for me, Becker. And you’re not nice enough, and generally you’re not worthy.”

“I wish you’d call me John,” he said.

“What I’m saying is, I think you’d better take a hike.”

“The reason I go to the shrink is—I’m a mess.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You might have saved me a few trips to Washington.”

“You’re closed up like a tin can. I can’t get close to you, I doubt if anybody ever has. I don’t know if you’re worth the effort. You may be hollow for all I can tell.”

“I’m not hollow,” he said.

“How would you know?”

“Because if I were hollow, I wouldn’t hurt.”

For the first time she stopped exercising and looked directly at him. Becker felt suddenly overcome by shyness and could not hold her gaze.

“Why do you hurt, John?” she said finally.

Becker pulled his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know,” he said in a small voice. “But I don’t want to take a hike,” he said.

“No.”

“I want to move m,” he said.

Cindi paused for a long moment, looking at him. She lifted his face so he could not avoid her eyes. Becker tried to grin but could not sustain it.

“Well, okay,” she said finally.

Chapter 12

H
atcher shook a small bag and the stones
clunked together dully.

“The only source of gravel within thirty-five miles is a quarry in Clamden. They made one hundred thirty-five deliveries of grade-C gravel—this is grade C, it goes by size—within a fifty-mile radius of Clamden in the six weeks before we found Dyce’s—uh— operation.”

Hatcher laid a computer printout in front of Becker before he continued.

“These were still covered with dust—a fine rock powder, actually—that’s the residue of the crushing machine. Did you know they actually
make
gravel by crushing rock? I didn’t know that. I thought they just dug it out of a gravel pit, but they have to break up the big rocks into smaller ones, then run them through this machine—anyway, these still had the powder on them, which meant it hadn’t rained on them between the time they were crushed until Dyce acquired them—you realize this doesn’t tell us anything about when he actually got hold of them. They could have been sitting in his rock collection for ten years. Maybe he got a wheelbarrowful at a time and was just keeping them handy.”

“You know anybody who bothers to store gravel indoors?”

“So he got a fistful, put them in a flower pot.”

“And never watered the plant? Besides, he didn’t plan these things. He didn’t sit down and decide to kill eight men.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s not the way it happens.”

“Statements like that worry me, Becker.”

Becker studied the printout. “How do you think they make me feel? Look, Hatcher, you’re right. We don’t know when or where or how Dyce got the gravel. My bet is he didn’t take it until he needed it, and he didn’t need it until he’d already acted, but I don’t
know
that. I don’t
know
anything about Dyce. I’m just hoping to get lucky. You cross-checked with the weather bureau, right?”

“Right. Assuming Dyce got the gravel to use as a …”

“Headstone.”

“So you say. Assuming he got it on or within a day of the time he murdered Mick, and eliminating all deliveries from the quarry that happened before the last rainfall, which was fourteen days earlier, we have seven places the gravel was unloaded. They are marked with asterisks on your printout.”

Becker put his finger on one of the names.

“I know,” said Hatcher. “I thought that would appeal to you. They were using it for the pathways.”

“Riverside Cemetery,” said Becker.

“I know, I know.” Hatcher shrugged. “It’s ironic. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I agree,” said Becker.

“You agree?”

“Probably just an ironic coincidence.”

“Then why are you smiling? I really wish you wouldn’t do that, Becker.”

“Smile?”

“Smile if you have to. Just not at me.”

“Why?”

“Humor me. I don’t like it.”

“Did you interview the people who work at the cemetery?”

“Certainly. No one recognizes his photo or description. Did you expect them to?”

“I don’t hope to be that lucky. Who’s buried there?”

“In the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“In the whole goddamned cemetery?”

“He’s there to visit someone’s grave, isn’t he? Isn’t that why people go to cemeteries?”

“Most people don’t go at all,” said Hatcher, “except to bury somebody. People don’t ‘visit’ graves anymore, do they?”

“He was there for some reason.”

“We don’t know he was there at all. And even if he was, I thought you thought he was there to get a ‘headstone.’ “

“He could get a stone anywhere, pick one up out of the street. If they were using these for pathways … it’s not as if they’re consecrated rocks. I think he was there—if he was there—for some other reason and happened to see the stones at a time when he needed one. Which means either that he goes there regularly—if he goes at all—and his visit happened to coincide with a time when he needed a gravestone. What’s wrong with that theory?”

“Is this a quiz, Becker?”

“Just checking my thinking.”

“It probably wasn’t that he just happened to be there at a convenient time, because three of the stones still had dust on them, which means—since you don’t think he got them in advance—that he goes there when he’s killing somebody—or because he’s killing somebody—something along those lines?”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

“It’s not hard,” said Hatcher. “Just toss logic and probability out the window and we can all be geniuses.”

Becker studied Hatcher a moment. “There’s no point in being envious of me. Hatcher.”

“Envious, Christ…”

“Because it’s no fun.”

“That doesn’t stop you from doing it.”

Becker paused. “Can’t argue with you.”

Breathing deeply to let the moment pass. Hatcher continued. “So you figure he goes there to commune with the spirit of someone when he’s in the act of— whatever?”

“I think it’s possible. I think doing this thing to men stirs him to the depths. Let’s find out who’s in the cemetery. Do a genealogy on Dyce.”

“We have. All his relatives are dead.”

“That’s fine. We’re looking for a dead one if Dyce visits him in the cemetery. While you’re doing the paperwork, I’ll go visit the cemetery. You were there, weren’t you? What’s it like?”

“What’s a cemetery like?” Hatcher could think of nothing appropriate to say about a cemetery. “Very nice,” he said.

The man behind the car-rental counter had the right look to him from the back. Dyce noted the pale hair, neatly trimmed, the long expanse of neck, the ears that pushed out from the head. When in a good mood, Dyce’s father had sometimes made fun of his own ears. “I’m just waiting for a good wind,” he would say, “then I’m going to take off and fly.” And he would wiggle his ears, his eyebrows moving up and down at the same time. Dyce would laugh, delighted by this inexplicable display of whimsy. His father looked so unguarded, so harmless.

“A regular Norwegian squarehead,” Dysen would say. “My mother used to cut our hair, practically scalp us, and those were the days when everyone’s hair was short. Everybody had big ears; look at the old pictures. But I was worse than most, practically a Dumbo, and don’t think the kids didn’t give me shit for it.”

And then his mood would turn darker as he recalled the slights of his youth. “I’d get back at them, though, don’t worry. They could laugh and fart around during class, but I’d be waiting for them after school. Your old man knew how to take care of himself, don’t you worry about that, old Rodger-Dodger.” He would sometimes try to return to the lighter mood, but the moment was past and Dyce had been reminded of the paranoia and anger lurking always just a fraction of an inch from the surface. He would no longer laugh with his father and that seemed to make the older man angrier.

The man behind the counter turned and the resemblance vanished. He had a round, vacuous face, a countenance without contrast of bone or flesh. His name tag read Tad.