Grave Promise Page 9

  Ruby answered the door and returned with a short, rather stocky man of about forty-five. He had salt and pepper hair cut spiky in front, high and tight on the sides, and down to his shoulder blades in the back. His nearly white mustache was a thick handlebar with a full 360-degree curl on each end. His nearly black goatee was split in the middle and curled on each side to match the ‘stash. Piercing blue eyes flickered out from under heavy gray brows and too-white teeth flashed in an easy grin. He was wearing dark green slacks, light tan dress shoes with very thin soles, an oversized beige silk shirt, tail out and belted at the waist with a dark green sash, and about eleven silver rings. When Ruby introduced them, he extended his hand palm down and allowed Crockett to take only his fingers. She stood behind Carl, grinning at Crockett and bumping her eyebrows.

  Crockett controlled a smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Carl,” he said. “Good of you to stop by.”

  “How could possibly I not?” Carl said. “An invitation from Ruby is an absolute summons! You, of all people, should know that, David.”

  “Call me Crockett.”

  “That’ll be just fine. So, you two cohabitate?”

  Before Crockett could answer, Carl turned to Ruby.

  “Girlfriend, this is absolutely going to ruin your reputation. Am I the last to know?”

  “Not possible,” Ruby said. “You’ll tell a thousand people at least.”

  “Slut,” Carl said.

  “Pussy,” Ruby countered.

  “God!” he crowed, launching himself at her, “how I love you!”

  Laughing, Ruby enfolded Carl in her arms, and they stood rocking back and forth for a moment, his face squarely against the front of her sweater. When they pulled apart he leered at her chest and addressed her in a stage whisper.

  “You really should do something with those, Darling. If they ever escape, hundreds of innocent people could be killed!”

  Ruby roared and Crockett, in spite of his best efforts, laughed out loud.

  Carl looked at Crockett. “This woman,” he said, “this wonderful woman absolutely saved my life. Had I not found her, I surely would have wound up killing myself. She was so patient, so understanding, so compassionate with all my problems and self-pity. Amazingly un-dyke-like for a Lez, don’t you think? And every time she slapped me around, I just loved it!”

  Crockett smiled. “I’ve grown to enjoy it myself,” he said.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Carl said.

  “Speaking of acquired tastes,” Crockett went on, “could I interest you in some coffee?”

  Carl raised an eyebrow. “That depends,” he said.

  “It’s Kona.”

  “A large cup please, black. I’ll drink it while I sit in that massive leather chair over there. Unlike Ruby, I really enjoy looking butch.”

  Crockett poured coffee for Carl, and sat on the couch next to Ruby. She leaned against him and put her hand on his leg.

  “You are a fortunate man, Crockett,” Carl said. “To have the love of such a truly wonderful person is a marvelous gift. If only she wasn’t such an obnoxious bitch. Oh, well, tell me, why am I here? Reading? Séance? Figure skating? My time is your time and, of course, there’s no charge. Isn’t this coffee just fantastic?”

  Ruby and Crockett spent the next few minutes recounting the recent events. Carl listened without comment. When they finished he poured himself another cup of coffee, and grabbed a cookie. He was three bites into it before he spoke.

  “Well, this is unusual. For a discarnate to manifest appearance in broad daylight requires great effort. It must be very urgent in nature for her to expend her energies in such a way. You say that both times you saw her, she was moving toward the entrance of this building?”

  “That’s correct,” Crockett said.

  “And you are the only one to have seen her?”

  “As far as I know. Uh, maybe not. My cat saw something.”

  “Well, he would. Cats, dogs too for that matter, are aware of many things we don’t recognize. Partly because their senses are different from ours, partly because no one has told them it is stupid or impossible or against God or whatever. Ruby, you have not seen this woman?”

  “No.”

  “So the connection would seem to be with you, Crockett.”

  “Why me?”

  “Networking.”

  “Huh?”

  “Contacts. It’s always contacts. One way or another, this woman has a line of contact with you, perhaps more than just one line. I suspect that she has not only had contact with you, but that you and she share a mutual situation of some sort.”

  “How in the hell do you know that?”

  “You are the only person to have seen her. Had you been her only concern, why didn’t she come to you at least one of the two times you encountered her? She didn’t. She even looked right through you. Both of those times, she appeared to be on the way to this building. According to your cat and your nose, she not only came to the building, but to your residence in the building. I would imagine, for whatever reason, she needs help. She seems to be drawn to you.”

  “Aw, Jesus. Now I got a ghost on my ass.”

  “You don’t have to get involved, you know,” Carl said. “There are ways of stopping all this. And the term ‘ghost’ is such a dreadful cliché, don’t you think?”

  Crockett looked at him. “To be completely honest, Carl,” he said, “I don’t know what to think. Ever since the trip to Chicago, things have been screwed up.”

  “What trip to Chicago?”

  Ruby and Crockett spent the next half hour recounting the trip, the connection with Ivy, Rachael, Crockett’s injuries and recovery, all of it. When they finished, Carl’s eyes were shining.

  “That’s it, then,” he said.

  “What’s it?” Crockett said.

  “I’d just bet you anything the woman on the sidewalk and the woman in the trunk are the same person. You need to get back in touch with this Marta. Ask her opinion. She’s certainly more in touch with all this than I.”

  “But why me?” Crockett said. “Why not Ruby? She did the hypnosis, she is certainly more open to this kind of thing than I am, and she was there at Ivy’s, too. I was nothing more than a bystander.”

  “You were available. Look at where you were. This woman, Rachael, who meant so much to you, lived in that house. You lay near death there for months. You recuperated and got your life back in that house. Your relationship with Ruby grew and blossomed in that house. You might as well have painted a target on your forehead.”

  “Carl, with all due respect and the understanding that I believe you are sincere in everything you’ve said, if I believed all this, where the hell do I go from here? What can I do? I don’t know anything about this kinda stuff.”

  “If it were me,” Carl said, “I’d try to find out who this woman is. Attempt to locate relatives, find out about her life. Look for a trail and follow it. See where it leads. This is not a random event. This has come into your life, and therefore Ruby’s life, for a reason. This is not random chance, Crockett. There is purpose here.”

  “What about this ghos…ah, spirit or whatever? What do we do about her?”

  “Again, if it were me, I’d do my best to welcome her. Once she knows she has your attention, she probably won’t manifest anymore. If it gets annoying or troubles either of you, let me know. There are things we can do. Meanwhile, should she show up again, I would welcome her. It certainly can’t hurt anything. None of us like to be challenged. Be nice to her.”

  “Great. I’ll put out some milk and cookies.”

  Carl smiled. “Works for Santa,” he said.

  After Carl left, Crockett flopped back down on the couch. Ruby sat beside him and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’re so good,” she said.

  “What brought that on?”

  “You did really well with Carl. You listened to him, you paid attention, you didn’t jump up and down and get all anal. I’m prou
d at ya, Crockett.”

  “About Carl,” Crockett said.

  “What about him?” Ruby said, and took a sip of Kona.

  “Do you think he might be gay?”

  Ruby’s coffee nearly came out her nose.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Beckett and the bureau

  Ruby left Crockett to his own devices that afternoon. He went through some papers and found the special phone number Cletus Marshal had given him back when Ivy had talked he and Ruby into starting the investigation into Rachael’s death. Clete answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Texican.”

  “Crockett? The famous one-legged ass kicker?”

  “That would be me.”

  “Son! Sorry I didn’t get to spend very much time with you and the outstanding Miss LaCost when ya’ll were here. Duty called.”

  “Well, now so have I.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Way back when, you provided me with a driver’s license and some I.D. for the Illinois Bureau of Investigation and the Department of Justice under the name of Daniel Beckett.”

  “Sure.”

  “That stuff still valid?”

  “It will be within an hour after you hang up. What’s going on?”

  “This thing with Marta and her nightmares may be more than we thought.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Ah, shit. Okay, here goes. It followed me home.”

  “Followed you home?”

  “Oh, man. This is kinda strange, Clete.”

  “So far.”

  “I mean, I don’t see UFO’s, I don’t hear voices in the dark, I don’t get messages from my dead Aunt Gertie, all right?”

  “How is your Aunt Gertie?” Cletus asked. Crockett could hear his grin.

  “I don’t have an Aunt Gertie.”

  Cletus chuckled. “Things goin’ bump in the night, Crockett?”

  “What if I said they were?”

  Dead silence.

  “Clete?”

  “You serious?”

  “Christ, Marshal, I don’t know. Maybe. No. No maybe. I am.”

  Clete’s voice became soft and understanding.

  “Oh my, Little Podnuh” he said. “You just take two aspirin, set down, and put your feet up. Think happy thoughts. In a little while a pretty white van is gonna show up and two very nice men are gonna take you someplace you can get a lot of rest.”

  “Havin’ fun, Asshole?”

  “A bunch of your friends will be there too. The Easter Bunny, Abe Lincoln, Zorro, Rocky Balboa. Ya’ll can play together.”

  “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Crockett said. “Clete’s next show is at midnight, and he’ll be here all week. Drive carefully on your way home.”

  “Okay, okay,” Clete said. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. What’s got your ruff up?”

  “What do you know about Marta’s dream?”

  “Just that she saw a woman’s body being lifted out of a car trunk and dropped in a hole.”

  “I’m gonna come back up in a few days to see her. As strange as this sounds, it looks like the woman from the trunk is hanging around my place.”

  There was a pause in the conversation for a moment.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?” Clete said.

  “I wish to hell I was.”

  “She followed you home?”

  “I think. So does Ruby. So does my cat. She freaked Nudge completely out. Didn’t do Ruby and me a lot of good either.”

  “Well, my dear old grandpappy believed they was real. Called ‘em Haints. I never come across any of ‘em, an I damn sure don’t want to. You are one a the few people’s word I’d take for somethin’ like this, Crockett. Don’t that rip the tail off the cat!”

  “Your accent is getting pretty thick, Boy,” Crockett said.

  “Yeah. That happens sometimes when my brain is movin’ too fast for my mouth.”

  “Anyway, I need that I.D. This scared the hell out of me, Clete. There is something going on and I want to know what it is. I’m gonna poke around a little bit.”

  “Why don’t ya call one a them psychic hotlines?”

  “Why don’t you–”

  “Now, be nice, Crockett, or should I say Beckett. I’ll make a couple a calls and you’re in business. Anything you need, anything you want, you got it. Give Ruby a big ol’ squeeze for me.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “She’s gonna need more than that,” Clete said, and the line went dead.

  Crockett scrounged around in his dresser until he found the box containing his Daniel Beckett I.D. Then, for the second time in three days, he put on a suit.

  It was spitting drizzle and blowing cold, typical Kaycee spring weather, when he finally found a parking space in a downtown lot and walked two blocks to the local FBI emporium.

  The glass in the old oak door rattled as Crockett stepped into the lobby. Institutional green walls, twelve-foot ceilings with uneven plaster, large metal-framed windows and gray plastic chairs. A stern looking, chunky, forty-year-old woman sat behind a government-issue steel desk. The nameplate in front of her blotter said Lois Burr. She looked at Crockett. Brrrr.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  Crockett walked to within arm’s reach and extended his I.D.

  “I hope so,” he said. “My name’s Dan Beckett. I need to speak with someone.”

  Lois looked at his ponytail.

  “Department of Justice?” she said.

  Crockett smiled. “Afraid so.”

  “In reference to–”

  “Just a little help.”

  “Concerning–”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “About–”

  “Five minutes. Ten at the most.”

  She stared at him. Crockett smiled. Nothing.

  “Mr. Beckett–”

  “Call me Dan.”

  “Mister Beckett, if you’d care to share with me the nature of your needs, perhaps I could better expedite their resolution.”

  Crockett turned on the charm.

  “We all have needs, don’t we, Lois?”

  She regarded him blankly for a moment then reached for the phone.

  “Special agent McHenry? Sir, we have a representative of the Justice Department in the lobby who wants to speak to someone. I don’t know, Sir. I don’t know, Sir. I have been unable to determine that. Yessir. Thank you, Sir.”

  Again Lois turned her steely eyes on Crockett.

  “If you’ll take a seat, someone will see you in a moment.”

  “Sure.”

  The front legs of the chairs had been sawn off a bit shorter that the rear legs so whoever sat in then had to constantly fight gravity to maintain an upright position. If the FBI wants you to be comfortable, they put you in an office or briefing room. In the lobby, they don’t want you to be comfortable. It’s an old trick. It’s effective. Crockett fought the slick plastic for about ten minutes before his someone arrived.

  He walked out from a hallway. Late-thirties, pale complexion, five-ten, thinning blond hair cut high and tight, dull black wingtips, faded gray suit, white shirt with a worn collar, and a slightly wrinkled plain black tie. He had a small canker sore on the edge of his lip and his fingernails were ragged from chewing. Middle management in the corporation, forever doomed to second banana in a small office. He stepped to within six feet of Crockett and did not offer to shake hands.

  “Edmund McHenry,” he said in a voice much deeper than his appearance indicated. “You’re with Justice?”

  Crockett rose to his feet and offered his I.D.

  “Dan Beckett,” he said. “Thanks for seeing me. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “This way,” McHenry indicated, and walked off toward the hall.

  Crockett followed him to a small office. This plastic chair had even legs.

  McHenry examined the badge and I.D. for a moment, then handed it back.

  “How may the Federal Bureau of Investigation be of servi
ce to you, Special Investigator Beckett?”

  “Well, Ed,” Crockett said and watched the smaller man wince. “I really don’t need a thing from you guys. What I’m looking for is a sketch artist. I recently encountered a subject that we cannot identify. I’d like to get a good drawing of her as soon as possible before my memory of her face begins to fade. Since we don’t have a local office, I thought you might be able to lend me a hand.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “You could have told that to Ms. Burr.”

  “Sure, but that would have been too easy. Ol’ Lois is a hoot, huh?”

  The tiniest of smiles touched the corners of McHenry’s mouth.

  “We have a couple of people who do that type of thing for us,” he said. “As a matter of fact, one of then may still be in the building. He came in this morning to work on an MP, ah, missing person’s case. I could loan you a room, but, of course, his fee would have to come from Justice. You understand. Our budget doesn’t allow us to–”

  “That’s very kind of you, Ed, I’ll pay him out of my own pocket. The use of a room would be greatly appreciated.”

  Ed picked up his phone. “Ms. Burr, is Mr. Gorman still in the building? Good. Would you locate him and ask him to join Special Investigator Beckett in the small conference room?”

  Two minutes later Agent McHenry had deposited Crockett in a windowless room about ten feet square and said his good-byes.

  Almost immediately the door swung open and a young man walked in. He was not yet thirty, about five-six and razor thin. A scraggly dark-brown beard blotched his face and his relatively short hair was un-brushed. He wore a wrinkled chambray shirt with unbuttoned cuffs, blue jeans with several holes, ragged old-fashioned tennis shoes with no socks, and carried a wooden artist’s case that was immaculate.

  Crockett looked him up and down.

  “I bet you’re real popular around here,” he said.

  The young man grinned and extended a hand.

  “Like a dead cat in a bed of roses,” he said. “Fuck these uptight assholes. They need me more than I need them. Jerome Gorman. Call me Jerry.”

  Crockett shook hands. “Dan Beckett,” he said. “Call me Justice.”