An Unquiet Grave - P.J. Parrish Louis Kincaid

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trying to find the tiny road that led to the cemetery. He knew why he was going, but the thought was so absurd he almost couldn’t let it linger long in his mind: He wanted to see if he could hear the graves cry.

      In the black cloak of darkness, he almost missed the road. But soon he saw the towering sentry pines that marked the entrance and he eased the car to a stop. He got out and went to the trunk, hoping Phillip had a flashlight. He didn’t, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need light. Maybe it was better if he approached this in darkness.

      A wisp of a moon scampered between the high icy clouds, giving him just enough light to see. He could make out the dark hulk of the backhoe in the far corner. He didn’t see a security guard. Maybe he was out helping the cops, or more likely sleeping inside the backhoe. He was about to let it go when it occurred to him the guard could wake up, and in a panic, think Louis the killer and shoot him. So he walked to the backhoe, climbed up on the side, and peered inside. No one.

      Maybe the guard had quit, afraid to sit in a cemetery with a killer running loose. Shit, maybe the damn guard was the killer.

      Louis walked across the frozen dead grass, shaking his head. He would check it out with Dalum on Monday. But for the moment, he was glad the guard wasn’t there. There was something about all this that required solitude.

      Louis stopped in the center of the cemetery and looked around. For a moment, the wind died and a silence, as thick and heavy as the night, enveloped the cemetery. He closed his eyes, trying to focus.

      On what?

      On some part of himself that he had never used before? On something deep inside his brain that he wasn’t even sure existed? On something that could allow him to see or hear or feel what Charlie Oberon did?

      But there was nothing. Nothing but the steady pulse of his blood in his ears. Louis opened his eyes.

      He walked away from the backhoe, his steps slow and quiet. He couldn’t see the flat concrete markers, but sometimes he could feel them under his feet and he had the urge to step away from them, like walking on them was disrespectful. But he couldn’t avoid them. The rows that had been so visible in the daylight now seemed distorted and he had no sense of the layout.

      He stopped.

      That silence again. No wind. Not even a sound of a car on the highway. Not the rustle of a branch.

      He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and held it.

      What did you hear, Charlie?

      The call of an owl in a tree?

      The cry of a wounded animal?

      The creak of a loose fence post?

      The murmur of the pines?

      The wind picked up suddenly, cold on the back of his neck, but he stood still, listening. And he guessed a minute went by. Then another. There was nothing. The silent nothing of the six thousand dead.

      He pulled up the collar of his coat and walked back to the car.

      CHAPTER 11

      The snow started just before dawn. Louis had been lying awake in the guest room, the window cracked against the blast of heat coming up through the floor vent beneath the sofa bed. The sound of the snow kissing the eaves drew him to the window. It was beautiful, peaceful, the white specks swirling in the streetlights.

      By six, he had gone down to the kitchen to make coffee, creeping past Phillip asleep on the sofa. Frances came down soon after, and by the time Louis finished the eggs she had made for him, Phillip had retreated to the shower. By noon, the snow had turned back to sleet, imprisoning the three of them in the house.

      The smells were almost suffocating. Ginger, cloves, sage, roasting turkey, and those cloying cinnamon candles that Frances always lit on holidays. The living room was dark and too warm. Louis was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

      “This is ridiculous.”

      Louis opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say something, Phil?”

      “They can’t even get across the fifty-yard line.”

      Louis’s eyes drifted to the television. The Lions were punting again. “What’s the score?” he asked. He didn’t really care, but if they talked about the game they didn’t have to talk about anything else.

      “Fourteen-zip, Vikes,” Phillip said.

      “Same old same old,” Louis said.

      “You got that right.”

      They fell into silence again. Louis watched the Vikings’ running back plow through the Lions’ line for another first down.

      “We need a decent running back, someone like Anderson,” Phillip said. “We need to get that Sanders kid out of Oklahoma State.”

      Louis gave a grunt to feign interest. His mind was miles away. He knew he had to tell Phillip about going to Hidden Lake yesterday, but he couldn’t do it with Frances around. And the sleet had been so bad, Phillip hadn’t even ventured out for a smoke.

      The game had gone into halftime. Phillip was just sitting there, staring at the screen.

      Frances appeared from the kitchen. She looked at Louis. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” She switched on the table lamp near his chair.

      Phillip looked up at her, blinking. She held his eyes for a second, then looked away. “Would you two like anything? There’s some cheese and—”

      “I’d like a beer, please,” Phillip said.

      Frances paused just a beat. “It’s a little early for a beer, don’t you think?”

      Louis jumped in. “I’d like one, too, Frances.”

      Her eyes were still on Phillip but then she gave a short nod and went back to the kitchen. Louis leaned in toward Phillip.

      “Phillip, we have to talk.”

      He let out a long breath. “I know.”

      Frances came back out carrying a wicker tray. She set it down on the table between them. “The turkey is about ready,” she said. “When will the game be over?”

      Louis tried a smile. “It was over a long time ago, I think.”

      She was looking at him oddly, and for a second, Louis thought he saw her eyes tear. Then she reached out and touched his hair. “It’s chilly in here,” she said quickly. “I’ll get you something to pull over yourself.”

      She was gone before he could tell her the house was too warm. He listened to her footsteps going up the stairs, then reached to the tray. A bottle of Heineken for him, a can of Strohs for Phillip. With a plate of crackers, Win Schuler’s cheese, and those god-awful little pickles.

      Louis picked up one of the pickles. “Why does she keep giving these to us? We never eat them.”

      Phillips lips tipped up slightly. “I made the mistake of eating one once a long time ago and she’s been bringing them out ever since.”

      Louis tossed the pickle back onto the plate. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Phil, I need to tell you what happened at the hospital yesterday.”

      “Did you find out where she is?”

      “Not exactly. But I’m hoping I can find out more Monday.”

      “You’re going back there?”

      Louis nodded. “To look at her medical records.”

      Phillip picked up his beer and took a small drink. “So there’s nothing else?”

      Louis thought for a second of telling him about E Building and about Rebecca Gruber’s murder. But Phillip needed something positive right now, even if it was only the hope of seeing Claudia’s name on a piece of paper. At least that would be something real, something tangible, evidence

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