In the Graveyard Antemortem Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Contents

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Part I

  Chapter 1 Hollowed Heart

  Chapter 2 The Grant Mansion

  Chapter 3 Bright as Yellow

  Chapter 4 ’Roid Rage

  Chapter 5 Jar of Emotions

  Chapter 6 Sold to Grand Hallow

  Chapter 7 Wrapped Ham

  Part II

  Chapter 8 Into the Mouth

  Chapter 9 The Green Room

  Chapter 10 Good-bye, Dandelion

  Chapter 11 Corpses Don’t Bleed

  Chapter 12 Marco Polo

  Part III

  Chapter 13 Expired Jam

  Chapter 14 Emerald Bridge

  Chapter 15 Pork Rinds and Liver Pâté

  Chapter 16 The Great Escape

  Chapter 17 The Offering

  Chapter 18 Prisoners in the Bog

  Chapter 19 Edge of the Map

  Part IV

  Chapter 20 Body Factory

  Chapter 21 House of Blood and Bones

  Chapter 22 Bottom of the Jar

  Chapter 23 1982

  Part V

  Chapter 24 Sorry, We’re Closed

  Chapter 25 Happy Birthday

  Chapter 26 Bette Davis

  Chapter 27 Whispers in Skeleton City

  Part VI

  Chapter 28 Bumps in the Night

  Chapter 29 The Show Must Go On

  Chapter 30 Truth or Dare

  Chapter 31 Blood and Formaldehyde

  Chapter 32 Follow the Flaming Light

  Part VII

  Chapter 33 Devil Shit

  Chapter 34 Insight and Power

  Chapter 35 Beautiful Weed

  Chapter 36 Morning Light

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Hollowed Heart

  It happened when I was seventeen. It was the beginning of summer in 1985. That morning, I stood clutching my backpack under the service garage awning, waiting for my best friend, Tina, to pick me up for school. A red car with a black stripe down its hood suddenly pulled into the dusty gravel gas station lot. I knew all the cars in Ruthsford. And I hadn’t seen that one before. It looked too new, too expensive, for our small town. As the strange car pulled beside me, I wondered just who was behind the wheel. But when the sun struck her teased blonde hair and bright red lipstick, there was no question.

  “Killer, huh?” asked Tina as she lowered the passenger-side window, grinning in delight.

  “Oh my God! It’s so great!” I shouted as I climbed inside. “What kind of car is this?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she scoffed. “Lisa! It’s a freakin’ Mustang!”

  “How can you afford a Mustang?”

  “Well, it’s not like I paid for it myself. My parents got it for me. You know, for my birthday.”

  “First of all, you are so lucky. And second of all, I am so sorry!” I cringed. “I totally forgot today was your birthday. But I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

  “No biggie. And don’t worry. You’ll never forget this birthday after the big bash I’m throwin’ this weekend.”

  “Shit. I wish you would’ve told me sooner. I don’t think I can go,” I moaned. “I promised my dad I’d help him out with the shifts this weekend.”

  “C’mon,” she scolded. “Don’t let this hellhole run your life.”

  “Don’t call it that,” I warned as I saw my dad emerge from the garage.

  He wore a pristine pair of coveralls, which would no doubt be covered in grease by the middle of the morning. He made his way toward the car, wearing that weird grin he got whenever he was around vehicles that impressed him. “I thought I heard a set of wheels pull up that sounded a bit more Christina’s speed,” he joked.

  “Yup. I’m finally free of the ‘Blue Bomb,’” she happily announced, referring to her mom’s hand-me-down robin’s-egg-blue Buick LeSabre.

  “Four- or six-cylinder?” he asked.

  Tina shrugged. “Hell if I know.” I jabbed her with my elbow.

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the hood. Tina fumbled for the lever before finally popping it open. “Yup. There they are. Six bangers,” he announced before gently dropping the hood back down. “Now, Christina, be sure to drive carefully. Remember, you still only have a learner’s permit. And you’re carrying precious cargo,” he said, turning to me with a wink.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Jacobs. I’ll get Lisa to school safe. But more importantly—on time!” With that, she sped out of the lot with her foot heavy on the pedal. The tires kicked up gravel, spitting the tiny rocks high into the air. And when the car grabbed the pavement, the tires squealed, creating a small cloud of smoke from the burned rubber.

  “Tina!” I shouted. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

  “Relax. Your dad likes me,” she said flippantly as she pushed in the cigarette lighter and then fumbled through her purse for a cigarette.

  The strangest thing was that there wasn’t anything strange about that day at all. We never suspected a thing. It was an ordinary day. A day like any other. Those were the types of things victims’ families would say on all those true crime shows when asked to look back to the day of a tragedy. It always seemed like such a cliché. But that day, it truly was ordinary.

  Tina dropped me off after school. I stopped by the vending machine beside the service garage for a can of orange pop. Nothing seemed out of place as I entered the house and dropped my backpack on the kitchen table. I was hungry. “Dad!” I yelled. He hadn’t started dinner, so I wanted to see if I should start something myself. I listened for a moment. He did not answer. The house was silent. So I assumed he was still working in the garage.

  I headed across the yard and made my way toward the service station. I knew he was home because his pickup was in the drive. I jerked the side door of the garage open. The lights were off, but I yelled inside anyway. “Dad?” I called, wondering where he could be. Perhaps he was in the backyard? I ran out to the garden. The tall sunflowers bobbed gently in the breeze, their stems barely able to hold up their heavy heads. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called again beyond the garden and into the cornfield, which lined the backyard. Perplexed, but not alarmed, I headed back to the house.

  Macaroni and cheese sounded good. So I put a large pot of water on the stove. While waiting for it to boil, I began to be frightened by the stillness of the house more than I thought I should have. It was strange. I was used to being alone. It was just that I also was used to our afternoon routine. Even if he had a large repair job to finish, he’d always take a break for dinner when I got home from school. And if he was working late, why the heck were the garage lights off?

  With that nagging thought, I jolted once more across the yard. I stormed into the service station and flipped on the lights. The overhead fluorescents flickered and popped to life. In the first bay, a red-rusted pickup had been hoisted from the ceiling by a chain. The old truck was from anoth
er era. Its large, round, old-fashioned headlights resembled troubled eyes. It seemed sad and lonely strung up by its hindquarters in the dank garage.

  “Dad?” I called again as I opened the door to his office. The small desk lamp was on. Keys and invoices were strewn about the desk. But where was he? I noticed his chair was missing. Odd. I rounded the dangling relic of a pickup and stepped into the second bay.

  And there, in the middle of the garage floor, my father sat in his office chair. I had told him a hundred times to get a more comfortable chair for his office. But the old wooden chair from his grandmother’s farmhouse was as much of a tradition with him as was the old painted sign welcoming the townsfolk to the “Ruthsford Gas & Service Station.”

  He sat with his back to me, the chair facing the large bay door. His arms hung loose at his sides. It was peculiar, his sitting so still in the garage. “Why are you out here? And why were you sitting in the dark?” I asked, beginning to feel a tinge of trepidation. He did not answer. He did not move. “Dad?” I asked, as a seed of fear began to travel up my spine. Slowly, I approached him. “Are you OK?” I asked meekly. His stillness caused me to move forward with apprehension, wanting to delay the moment I would see his face. I struggled to hold onto my mind, which threatened to leave my body and flee to an alternate universe. As I finally rounded the chair, I brought my hand to my mouth. And then I froze. I did not scream. I did not move. I simply recorded what I saw in a numb state of trauma.

  His jaw was slack. His mouth wide open. He wore no shirt. His chest and torso—they had been split open. There was a deep vertical cut from the top of his chest all the way down to just above his stomach. And there was a horizontal cut straight across his upper chest. Flaps of skin hung where the cuts intersected.

  Even in my state of paralysis, and beyond the fact that it was evident my father had not done this to himself, I realized something else was not right with the scene: there was no blood. The surgical-like incisions were dry. His face and body were so white, there seemed to be no blood in him at all. That is, except for the tiny bit that trickled down his arms from the puncture wounds in the creases of each elbow. The blood dripped down his arms and off his fingertips. It created tiny puddles on the garage floor, where it then streamed into the drain just below the chair.

  I wasn’t sure how long I stood there locked in that surreal abyss. Unable to move. To feel. To process what I was seeing. I didn’t recall moving from the spot. But somehow, I had managed to make my way back to the office. I picked up the phone and dialed the Ruthsford Police Department. The number was by the phone. Not just because it made sense to have it handy, but because the police department was our largest account. “My dad. He’s been—come to the gas station,” I said simply.

  I stared at the phone in a daze until I saw flashing red and blue lights through the windows that lined the top of the bay doors. I emerged from the garage like a zombie, nearly colliding with Sheriff Sternhardt, who stood in my path. Because Ruthsford was such a small town, I had known him all my life. His intimidating presence always made me feel tense, sick to my stomach. Everyone at school agreed that his name, aptly pronounced “Stern Heart,” matched his reputation, especially after his notorious locker searches put several small-time high school drug dealers out of business.

  Even though our interactions were rare, because of the police department’s account with the station I’d see him often. He’d simply refuel without visiting the cashier’s window, expecting the unpaid transactions to be recorded and billed monthly to the department. It made it difficult to know if anyone was in fact stealing gas when no one was watching. If someone was, the ironic thing was that it was being paid for by the Ruthsford Police Department.

  “Got a call from dispatch,” he said. “What’s this about, Lisa?”

  I didn’t hear his words. I could only focus on his thick beard and mustache, which had been half-overtaken by patches of gray. “My dad—” was all I managed as a response.

  “I already told your dad he’s chargin’ too much for his damn gas. I’ve been talkin’ to a station in Sharlaton. They’ll give us close to wholesale. Sure, it’s a farther drive. But it would still sure as hell beat his prices. We’re gettin’ gouged!”

  My arm felt heavy and weak as I lifted it and pointed to the garage door. “Please,” I begged. “My dad. He’s in there. He’s been—murdered,” I said at once, struggling to believe the reality of my own words. And as his jaw became slightly askew with his own measure of disbelief, I immediately turned from him and began my slow shuffle toward the house. At that moment, I didn’t worry whether my numbness could be mistaken for calmness.

  By that time, the pot of water had turned into a mad boil. I had completely forgotten about the macaroni and cheese and the gas burner. The thought of food itself seemed plainly odd, like it was the least important thing on the planet. I methodically turned the knob and removed the pot from the burner. Then the silence came. It permeated the house like an invisible invader, a quiet stillness that brought with it a perplexing, deafening hum. I gripped the countertop and braced against it as if a strong wave were crashing into me. And then I looked to the yellow phone hanging from the wall near the kitchen table. Its long, tangled cord just about reached the floor. I leaped for it as if I were in deep water and it were a life preserver. Immediately, I dialed Tina.

  Typical Tina, she answered after a half ring. Thank God. “Hey, Tina,” I said attempting to sound as normal as possible. “What’re you up to?”

  “Whattaya think, dipshit?” she said followed by a mock snorting laugh. “My party. Now if I make it a pool party, we can see if Mark Kheller’s chest is as hairy as everyone says. Will that be enough to get you to ditch that dump on Saturday?”

  “My dad is dead,” I blurted.

  “Whoa. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “Murdered.”

  She didn’t say anything for the longest while. The silence once again began to creep from the far corners of the house and surround me like an eerie blanket. “Tina! Say something!” I screamed.

  “I’m comin’ over,” she said. “Stay right there.”

  “No. Don’t hang up,” I pleaded. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. Sternhardt’s here. In the garage. With my dad.”

  “OK then. Call Richard. Have you called Richard?”

  “No.”

  “Just call Richard. And I will be there before you know it.”

  “OK.” I took a deep breath. “OK.”

  Richard. How could Tina have been the one to think of calling Richard and I hadn’t? His own sister? I clenched the receiver and dialed, not knowing how I would have the strength to tell him about Dad. He picked up on the fifth ring but did not say a word. “Richard?”

  “What is this? I just got to sleep.”

  “It’s Lisa.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “Why are you sleeping? It’s not even five o’clock.”

  “I’m tired. That’s why. What do you want?” he said, dismissing me as he often did in those days.

  “It’s Dad. Will you come to the house?”

  “Shit, Lisa. I told him I don’t have his money yet. I’m working on it, OK? Just tell him to back off for a damn minute.”

  “He’s dead, Richard,” I declared.

  As soon as I had laid those words on him, the door burst open. My body jolted in shock as Sternhardt rushed into the room, his voice booming at the top of his lungs. “Did I tell you to move from where you were standing, missy! This is an active crime scene! Move back onto the driveway! If you deviate from that spot, I will hold you in my squad car. Do you understand?”

  As instructed, I dropped the phone and rushed back to the driveway with Sternhardt close behind. We were met with two more squad cars and an ambulance. Two officers met with Sternhardt, and he directed them to the garage. A man in plainclothes emerged from another squad car and every few steps st
arted taking pictures with a large camera. As he passed me, my limbs trembling, he took a shot of my bewildered face. The giant flash blinded me for several moments. When I regained my vision, Sternhardt’s face was inches from mine. As he began to speak, I focused again on the gray and black whiskers that peppered his upper lip.

  “Now I need you to retrace your actions, specifically, from the moment you got home to the moment you called the police.”

  As I began to recall my story about being hungry for macaroni and cheese, I saw Tina’s blonde hair bobbing toward the station. Immediately, I threw up my hand. “Tina!” I shouted. “Over here!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Miss Jacobs!” shouted a perturbed Sternhardt. “Is this who you were telephoning?”

  “Yes,” I answered meekly as Tina gave me a hug.

  “I can’t believe it. What happened to your dad?” she asked.

  Sternhardt cleared his throat, annoyed. “I’m the one asking the questions here, young lady. Now go back where you came from. I’m sure Miss Jacobs will call you when it’s all over.”

  Tina folded her arms and defiantly took a step forward. “Sternhardt? Really? They sent you? Finding who did this isn’t exactly going to be like finding Quaaludes in a high schooler’s locker. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Tina!” I begged. “Please. I need him to find out what happened.” Tina retreated by taking a few steps back but kept her arms crossed and her glare squarely on the sheriff.

  Then began the onslaught of questions: “Had your father been acting strangely the last few days? Have there been any changes in his schedule recently? Had anyone strange been hanging around the station? Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm him? Did anyone owe him money? Did he owe anyone money?”

  But I knew my answers were of no help. I had noticed no strangers lurking about. He hadn’t owed anyone money as far as I knew. And the only outstanding debt owed to him, aside from what I guessed was a small amount from Richard, was a few unpaid bills by Ruthsford’s very own police department.

  Just as he finished his questioning, a stretcher emerged from the garage door. I wanted to avert my eyes but couldn’t as it rolled past, my father under the sheet. Tina spun me toward the house. “Oh, Miss Jacobs?” Sternhardt asked. “One more question.” I turned back to face him, catching a glimpse of my father being loaded into the ambulance out of the corner of my eye. “What about your brother?”