“He was late. It took him longer than expected to find some men to bespell to do the digging. I could have waited, but I panicked.”
“No wonder. Why didn’t he dig for you himself? He could have done it faster than bespelled humans.”
“Vilmos get his hands dirty? Please!”
Mark supposed it wasn’t surprising that he disliked Stella’s sire so intensely.
“At any rate,” Stella said, “the coffin was broken up pretty thoroughly. Vilmos splintered the rest, tossed it back into the grave, and had it buried again. I don’t know how long it takes wood and cloth to rot, but I don’t expect they found anything when digging Jane’s grave that would have told them I’d been buried there. Only there should have been a marker of some sort. Let me see that picture.”
He moved the screen so it was aimed toward her.
“No tombstone, no fieldstone, no nothing,” she said. “I don’t understand. Why would Mama have moved the marker? Why didn’t she get me a real tombstone? I know they’re expensive—she had to save for a year to pay for Daddy’s—but…I guess she decided not to bother.”
“Hey, don’t make assumptions! Tell you what—tomorrow I’ll go back and see what the story is. There must be records of who’s supposed to be where.”
“Probably not. When Daddy died, Mama just picked a spot and buried him. I’m not even sure who owned the land then, let alone now.”
“I bet Officer Norcomb will know. I’ll track him down and ask him.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. You were right. It was stupid to come back.”
“I didn’t say it was stupid—I said it was morbid. And I’m going to find that guy tomorrow and see what happened.”
She shrugged, saying only, “I am a little curious.” Then she reached for the TV remote control. “I wonder what they’ve got on pay-per-view.”
They picked out something violent and mindless, and when it was over, Mark produced the birthday present he’d hidden in his suitcase. Stella demonstrated her appreciation for the sapphire pendant ardently, proving once again that her years had given her skills beyond safe driving. Still, Mark could tell her unbeating heart wasn’t in it, though he certainly enjoyed her efforts on his behalf.
As the night ended, Stella got into bed, and after making sure the door was locked, the windows thoroughly curtained, and the DO NOT DISTURB sign was in place, Mark joined her. An instant before dawn arrived, he felt her start to cry. Then they both stiffened in death.
At some point, Mark shifted from a vampire’s death-sleep to human sleep, and he woke when it was nearly eleven. Stella would remain cold and unmoving until dusk, but his body was still fighting off the vestiges of humanity.
Normally he stayed nearby while Stella rested, especially when they were away from home, but finding out about Stella’s grave took priority. His first target was Officer Norcomb, the one who’d given permission for Jane Doe to be buried in the Spivey plot. While en route to Allenville, he used his cell phone to call the police station to find out if Officer Norcomb was in. According to the cop who answered the phone, Norcomb was on his lunch break, and he directed Mark to Benny’s Truck Stop near the highway.
Mark had noticed Benny’s the night before, admiring the glamor of the chubby neon chef and his flashing burger. In the daylight, it was less glamorous, but the gas and diesel islands were doing a brisk business. As Mark got out of the car, he tried for a deep breath of fresh country air but instead breathed in a horrible mix of ammonia and general nastiness coming from the buildings a field away. He stepped inside quickly.
As the only police officer in the place, Norcomb was easy to spot. A skinny man, despite the remains of gravy-soaked meat and mashed potatoes left on his plate, and as far as Mark could tell, he didn’t bear the slightest family resemblance to Stella.
Mark approached his booth and, with his friendliest smile, said, “Officer Norcomb?”
Norcomb gave him such a suspicious look that Mark used his tongue to make sure his fangs weren’t out. “You the one who called the station looking for me?” he said.
“That’s me. Can I join you?”
“If this is about a traffic citation, don’t bother. I don’t fix nobody’s tickets.”
“Nothing like that,” Mark assured him. “I’m here about Jane Doe.”
Norcomb sat up straight, and before Mark could put rump to the sticky vinyl of the bench, the cop said, “Do you know who she is?”
“No, I’m afraid not, I just wanted to—”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Why don’t we start over? My name is Mark Anderson.” He offered his hand, and Norcomb reached over his late lunch to take it. As they shook, their eyes met, and Mark exerted the force of will a vampire used to bespell his victims.
A moment later, Norcomb said, “You going to let go of my hand anytime soon?”
“Sorry,” Mark muttered. Stella assured him he’d develop the ability to bespell victims before too much longer, but so far, nothing. Since his compelling gaze hadn’t worked, he’d have to rely on his backup plan. “I believe you and I are related,” he said.
“Is that right?” Norcomb said skeptically. “I don’t recall any Yankees in the family. No offense.”
“None taken. If we are related, it’s only by marriage. You see, my wife’s great-aunt Estelle is from Allenville, and she’s always said she wanted to be buried in the Spivey family cemetery. Since I’m in Raleigh on business, my wife asked me to confirm that it’s still in use.”
“I’d heard there were some Spiveys who moved up North, and I know old folks are big on coming back home to be buried.”
“Exactly. Aunt Estelle is getting quite frail, so I don’t think it will be too much longer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Norcomb said with enough genuine sympathy to make Mark feel guilty.
“At least she’s had a long life,” Mark said, which was true enough. “I found the Spivey cemetery the other day, and while I was checking for recent burials, I noticed Jane Doe’s grave. I was curious, so I did some research on the web, read that you gave permission for Ms. Doe to be buried there, and figured you were the one to talk to. Do we need to fill out any paperwork?”
“Shoot, we don’t get that formal around here. If Aunt Estelle is family, she’s welcome.”
“My wife will be glad to hear that.”
Norcomb seemed to be pulling himself together in preparation for leaving, so Mark hurriedly said, “I know you’ve got to go back on duty, but I did wonder how Jane Doe came to be buried with the Spiveys. Is there reason to suspect she’s a relative?”
“We don’t have any idea of who she is, bless her heart.”
“Really? I realize it might not be proper to talk about an ongoing investigation…” He tried to bespell the man again, and was almost certain he felt something. Or maybe Norcomb just felt like talking.
He said, “The case is still open, but I wouldn’t exactly call it ongoing. That poor girl’s been dead over two years, and we don’t know a bit more than we did a week after we found her. Wasn’t far from where we are now, as a matter of fact. Just on the other side of that chicken barn you can see from the parking lot.”
“So it’s chickens in that building. What a stink!”
“You should smell then in the middle of summer. Anyway, some boys found the girl in a field, partially covered up with leaves and brush. She’d been stripped, and the killer bashed her face in so bad that she was unrecognizable, so we had no clue who she was. Nobody’s ever claimed her.”
“I read online that she was seen in Wal-Mart.”
“That’s right. The manager identified her from her hair, believe it or not. She had it dyed solid black and cut kind of funny. One of those Goths. We don’t get many of those in Allenville, which is why the manager remembered her. Even though she bought some things, she paid cash, so that was no help, and she wasn’t with anybody, either. I went through the store’s security tapes and got some pictures of her to run in the newspaper, but nobody knows who she is.”