Dugan considered that but didn’t much like the idea. “I’d have to get a warrant. Or Martha’s permission.” He sighed. “And I damn sure don’t want to go over there this time of day and ask her if we can dig her husband up because someone might’ve stolen him.” He stifled a yawn. “Why would someone do that in the first place?”
“Beats me.”
“I’d bet on dogs,” Dugan said. “Or maybe those feral pigs that’ve been roaming around causing mischief lately.”
“What should I tell Carl?” Travis asked.
“Tell him not right now. But that I’m thinking on it.”
Eddie was of the opinion that luck had always followed him. Floyd, too, for that matter. But mostly him. Hooking up with Antoine, and his mysterious boss, was an example. Easy money. But right now, he couldn’t come up with a plan. The local newspaper obituaries offered no leads. Maybe they’d have to spread out a little bit. Check out a couple of the neighboring counties.
It was two days after their last meeting with Antoine and he and Floyd sat on stools at McGill’s, their favorite bar. The clock had just rolled past midnight. The crowd had thinned a bit, but since it was Friday, or in actual fact Saturday now, still plenty of folks hanging around — some shooting pool, others simply drinking and swapping lies.
Then it happened. That stroke of luck that always seemed to come at the right time. From two guys a few stools down. He thought maybe he’d seen them there before, but couldn’t be sure. What caught his ear was one of them saying, “You going to Jerry’s visitation this afternoon?”
Eddie nudged Floyd. Nodded toward the men.
One was older, maybe fifty, heavy, and wore a blue work shirt; the other younger, skinnier, gray shirt, the one that asked the question.
Blue shirt: “Yeah. Four o’clock? Right?”
Gray shirt: “Yep. Over at Grace Funeral Home. Gloria and me’ll be there.”
Blue shirt: “What time’s the funeral Sunday?”
Gray shirt: “Noon. Over at Pine Valley Cemetery.”
Blue shirt: “Closed casket, I assume.”
Gray shirt, nodding: “I hear his truck hit a tree. Tore his head all to hell.”
Blue shirt: “Well, at least it was quick. That’s a blessing.”
Gray shirt: “He was only twenty-eight.”
Blue shirt: “A pure-dee tragedy’s what it is. He was a fine boy.”
“Pardon,” Eddie said, looking past his cousin. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you was saying.” Blue shirt looked at him. “He was only twenty-eight?”
“Sure was.”
“What was his name?” Eddie asked.
Blue shirt hesitated, and then said, “Jerry Crabtree.”
“From Pine Valley?”
“Yep. Why?”
“He a baseball player?” Eddie asked. “In high school?”
“Sure was. A good one.”
Eddie nodded toward Floyd. “We played against him.”
“You did?”
“He was a couple of years ahead of us but we remember him. First base. Could really hit.”
“That’s him.” Gray shirt jumping in. “It’s the rain what did it. I hear tell he lost control of his truck.”
“That’s awful,” Eddie said, shaking his head, doing his best to sound concerned. “Maybe we’ll come to the funeral.”
Blue shirt nodded. “I suspect his family would like that.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Floyd asked.
They had paid the bill and were now walking down the street toward their car.
“I got me an idea,” Eddie said.
“What might that be?”
Eddie climbed behind the wheel and waited for Floyd to get in. “Better than all that digging.”
“What on God’s green earth are you jabbering about?”
Eddie pulled from the curb. “Let me noodle on it for a minute.”
It was just over twenty-four hours later when they drove into Pine Valley.
The last couple hours had been busy. First a stop by McGill’s for a beer and a chat with Wayne, the bartender. The only way they had to reach Antoine. Eddie motioned Wayne over. Eddie leaned on the bar, looked around, made sure no one was listening. “Need to get a message to Antoine.”
“About what?”
“Tell him we got something for him. We’ll meet him around two a.m. Usual place.”
Wayne nodded, cracked open a couple of long-necks and slid them toward the cousins. “On the house. Be back in a minute.”
Wayne disappeared down the hallway, toward his office.
“This better work,” Floyd said. “If we bring Antoine out in the middle of the night and we ain’t got nothing, he’s gonna be pissed.”
“It’ll work.”
Wayne returned. “All set.”
Next stop, Pine Valley. Eight miles east along a winding, two-lane, asphalt county road. They saw only two cars, both zipping by the other way. Before heading into town, Eddie guided the car off onto a dirt road and then across a field where he parked near a stand of pines.
Eddie stepped out. “This’ll work.”
Floyd removed a pair of saws from the backseat and they went at it. Took half an hour to take the tree down and cut the trunk into five pieces, each about thirty pounds, figuring the sections all told weighed about as much as old Jerry. Close enough. They lugged them to the trunk and lifted them inside.
“Let’s get this done,” Floyd said.
Pine Valley wasn’t much of a town and this time of night the streets were dark and deserted, only a couple of the bars showing any signs of life. Along the road that marked the north edge of the business district, if you could call it that, sat Grace Funeral Home. A wooded lot that backed up to a wad of trees, its front lawn and driveway sloping down toward the road. To the left of the low brick building sprawled the cemetery, dotted with a few trees and sprinkled with white headstones that seemed almost ghostly in the dark. They drove by, giving it the once-over before circling back. No lights on inside, no cars in the lot. Eddie switched off the headlamps, scooted up the drive, and whipped around behind the structure.
Getting in was easy. Floyd used a screwdriver to lever open the lock. In less than half a minute, they stepped inside, the odor of formaldehyde and death greeting them.
Eddie hated funeral homes. Never been in one, unless there was a visitation in progress. Those were all lit up and filled with people. Not like now where it was dark and spooky. The stillness was smothering, the echoes of their footsteps on the concrete floor unnerving.
“This place is creepy,” Floyd said.
“That it is,” Eddie said. “Let’s get at it and get the hell out of here.”
They found the cold storage area behind a metal door that grated and squeaked as they slid it open. Inside, the chilled air held a nauseating stench.
“Jesus,” Floyd said. “How does anyone do this for a living?”
Inside were two caskets, each supported by a metal stand. One open and empty, the other closed. It was pewter colored and the lid heavy. Floyd directed his flashlight beam inside.
A corpse. Covered with a white cloth. Eddie peeled it back. They jumped in unison. Jerry Crabtree’s body was wrapped in similar cloth, his exposed face a brownish, reddish mass of flesh.
Eddie felt his stomach lurch. He struggled not to vomit. “Good lord.” He stepped back. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” Floyd said. “Think of it as two hundred and fifty bucks.”
Eddie took a couple of deep breaths, settling things. He nodded.
Twenty minutes later they had removed the body, placed the five tree sections inside, closed the casket all nice and tight, and ferried Jerry’s corpse to the trunk.
“What if they take a peek inside before the funeral?” Floyd asked.
“Don’t see why they would.”