“So anyway, the old guy dies, and gets buried. Then a couple of days later the son finds out that the lottery ticket the old man bought is a big winner. So he and his wife tear the cottage apart but they just can’t find it anywhere, and suddenly the son realizes that it was in the pocket of the sweater that the old man was buried in. So late that night he takes a shovel and a lantern and heads over to the cemetery. But when he pries the lid off the casket...”
I looked up from the paper, catching just the last part of what he was saying. “Who? What casket are you talking about?”
Walts looked at me, his fork poised beneath his mustache. “The one on the late show last night.”
I raised my eyebrows, and pointedly turned my attention back to the newspaper.
The story was on page four, right between a piece on an infestation of giant African garden snails somewhere down in Florida and the long-range weather forecast. They never got around to saying just how big a giant African garden snail actually is, but they somehow managed to convey the impression of hordes of softball-sized creatures crisscrossing lawns and driveways on trails of glistening slime. It made for entertaining reading but wasn’t exactly my idea of concise, accurate journalism.
The story on the vandalized graves was another matter. It had been written by Carmen Willowby and was little more than a succinct presentation of what few facts there were. I knew Carmen had written it because she had called me at my office to ask if I had noticed the business about the dates on the headstones.
Carmen Willowby is new in town and, so far as I’m concerned, a welcome addition to our little Missouri community. I imagine a number of local young men must feel the same way, though for an entirely different set of reasons.
Carmen is in her middle twenties — a condition that I can scarcely recall — and is slim and energetic, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a quick and friendly smile.
Walts has certainly noticed her. The first time he saw her he moped around the office for a week, looking like something somebody had let the air out of. He hasn’t been the same since. If you want my theory, Carmen is so bright and goodlooking that poor old Walts has been afraid to say word one.
In addition to all those other admirable attributes, Carmen Willowby is also tactfuclass="underline" No mention was made of either names or dates in her article, sparing one tired old county sheriff Lord only knows how many angry calls from outraged next-of-kin.
Believe me, folks, my gratitude knew no bounds.
I folded the paper, deciding that the whole thing would blow over inside a week.
Which serves to prove another theory of mine: Getting older doesn’t necessarily mean getting smarter.
It was three thirty Thursday morning when my phone started ringing. I was not at all pleased.
It was my old buddy, George Mackey.
“They been at it again, sheriff! This time up at Willow Creek!”
“Huh?” My brain was still fuddled with sleep. “Who’s been at what?” I glanced at the glowing dial of my bedside clock radio. “My God. George, do you know what time it is? Go to bed. Call me in the morning.”
Don’t ask me why I still bother with that line. For twenty-five years, it’s never worked.
“The body snatchers, sheriff. I caught ’em desecratin’ up at Willow Creek.”
I was suddenly wide awake. “You caught somebody? George, what in thunderation is going on? Where are you?”
“I’m up in Freemont — where you’d be if you was any kinda sheriff at all — in the phone booth outside Humbolt’s gas station. Hell! Right across the tracks from the Farm Co-op!”
I turned on the lamp. “Yeah, I know where you mean. Listen, George — are you in any danger?”
“Hel-l-l no! They got clean away!”
Thank God for small favors.
“So what happened?” I was sitting on the edge of my bed, pulling my trousers on over my pajamas.
“I don’t like people messin’ around in my cemeteries, sheriff. I don’t like it one damn bit!”
George warmed to the subject, and I found myself listening to a lengthy dissertation on the probable habits of people who vandalized graveyards, delivered in words that might make even some of George’s charges sit up and take notice. It suddenly occurred to me that old George was drunk as a skunk.
“Just tell me what happened, okay?” I managed to get that in during a momentary lull in the avalanche of abusive language. Even George couldn’t tip a bottle and talk at the same time.
“After what happened over at Oak Knoll the other night, I figured I’d better make the rounds, just in case. Well, I come up on Willow Creek Road, and sure enough, I see a light out there. So I pull in the entrance and park my truck and get out. Guess they musta seen me, too, ’cause it weren’t more’n a minute till an ol’ pickup come flyin’ outa there like a bat outa hell. The damn fool nearly run me over!”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“Nope. It was too damn dark, an’ they was movin’ too damn fast. But I’d sure know that truck. It was an ol’ Studebaker. You don’t see too many of them no more.”
“Now listen to me, George, you just stay right where you are. I’ll be up there as quick as I can.”
“I don’t know, sheriff. S’pose they decide to come back? Maybe I better wait over at the cemetery.”
“Dammit, George! That’s exactly what I’m worried about! Just what do you think you’d do if they did? Stay put! I’ll be up there in no time.”
George belched, mumbled something noncommittal, and hung up on me.
I dialed Deputy Walts. “Walts? This is Bigelow.”
“Huh?”
“Get yourself dressed, Walts. We’ve got trouble up at Willow Creek Cemetery. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
We rolled into Freemont half an hour later, to find George Mackey sitting in his pickup next to the phone booth. He’d been comforting himself with a pint flask of Wild Turkey. It had had the same effect on George as it had on the bird it was named after.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I thought I’d better pick up Deputy Walts,” I said. “We’ll follow you over to the cemetery.”
“Don’t know what good it’ll do. They’re long gone by now.”
George dropped the truck into gear in a manner that would make a mechanic cringe and lurched out into the street. He proceeded down the deserted street and turned onto Willow Creek Road, pointedly ignoring the stop sign at the edge of town.
We arrived at Willow Creek Cemetery ten minutes later. There was a full moon overhead, and ground fog was rolling eerily over the surrounding fields. It was cold, and I could see my breath on the night air.
The door of Mackey’s truck creaked open, then slammed. The noise set a dog at a distant farmhouse barking.
“Over here,” Mackey said.
It was much the same as before, but this time only four graves had been opened. Three were close by, and the other was sixty feet farther on.
I turned my flashlight toward the damp earth surrounding the closest open grave. “Watch where you step, George!” I said. There were footprints and a clear set of tire tracks, and I didn’t want him trampling all over the evidence again.
Walts started over toward the far grave.
I played the beam of my flashlight over the three nearest headstones. Again, all 1939.
George bent over to pick something up from the grass at his feet. Something that glinted in the moonlight.
“Sheriff Bigelow,” Walts said, “I think you’d better come over here.” He was standing over the open grave at the edge of the cemetery, shining his flashlight down inside. His voice sounded a little strange.