“That what?”
“That cream-colored coupe.”
“I think it looks rather nice.”
“Then suspend thinking and do as I say. Pretend to get into it, wave to him if he’s watching—as he’s likely to be. Then change your mind and go into Howardsons. As though you’ve decided to visit the John. Exit this side. By then I should have the new plates on.”
“And the old ones where?”
“On one of the several hundred Auditors in that lot. It’ll be some time before the cops start checking all dark-blue Auditors in all the used-car lots in Massachusetts.”
“But won’t the dealer notice when he sells the car?” “Probably not till he gets to sell it. And the turnover in that lot doesn’t seem rapid.”
“Okay—I charm and you switch. Though God knows how I can charm anything dressed like this. And with a face that’s spent the morning in a coffin and under the sea.”
I studied her; she did look part worn. “You’ll do,” 1 said, to raise her morale.
“Gavin-—you’re a bad liar. For this Job I’ll have to refurbish my face. But don’t change anything about yourself. You look a slob to the life!” She laughed and disappeared into Howardsons.
I stood fretting until she emerged, looking as though she really might be in the market for a Cadillac. The very rich wear the weirdest garments, but they wear them in a way that shows what they are, with an assurance we lesser beings never seem to learn. Her face was now a study in elegant beauty. And she added to her act by going to die Austrian Abortion, seemed about to get in, glanced at the Caddys, and started to stroll toward the lot with an air that brought the salesman hurrying toward her even before he had seen her face.
I was ignored as I went around kicking tires and jumping on rear bumpers. I found an Auditor of the same year and much the same condition as the one we had borrowed and went down on my knees to inspect the rear shocks. I got up with our plate on and its plate under my droopy raincoat. After that I kicked a few more tires and then wandered off in patent disgust.
Judith tended to overact and she gave me a few nervous minutes while she dallied with the salesman and used the washroom. We exchanged only a few brief remarks until we reached the thruway and I headed southwest.
“Where are we going now, Gavin?”
“Buxton—just outside Greater Washington.”
“Washington suits me. But what’s at Buxton?”
“My grandfather’s grave.”
She swiveled around to stare. ‘Tm religious-minded myself. But that’s extreme. Can’t your grandfather wait until we’ve had some sleep?”
“I’ll sleep easier after I’ve checked Gramps.”
“Then you won’t mind if I grab some now?”
“Sleep all you like. I’d rather drive than be driven.”
She tilted back her seat, stretched out, closed her eyes, and within two minutes was snoring softly. Asleep, with her face repaired and the lines of strain relaxed, she was a damned good-looking woman. I was tempted to kiss her again, and only refrained for fear of waking her. Life was quieter with Judith asleep.
She came partly awake when I stopped for fuel and food but only woke fully when I finally reached the dirt road behind the Buxton Cemetery. By then it was dusk and though the rain had stopped the cemetery was shrouded in mist and the trees were dripping water. I had parked on the grass shoulder beneath an overhanging oak so the first thing Judith saw when she sat up was a row of iron railings.
“Where the hell are we? Back behind bars?”
“Behind Buxton Cemetery. My grandfather’s last resting place. That’s Washington—over there!” I pointed to the carpet of lights, starting a few kilometers away from the rise on which the cemetery stood, and spreading to the horizon.
“And what’s up here?” She got out of the car to look quickly around her. The way a cat looks around for hidden threats when suddenly put out of doors.
“This is the balanced, self-contained community of Buxton, An elegant habitat of luxury homes for the upwardly mobile. Sited to integrate unobtrusively with an authentic historical setting.”
“Gavin—I’ve just woken up. Talk like a condemned murderer, not like an advertising copy-writer!”
“Sorry! Post-Pen euphoria!” I joined her by the railings. “Those are the luxury homes. Their yards end at this dirt road. Half- of them are empty. With no kids, who needs a house that size? The only thing in Buxton with any history is this graveyard. Note the old oaks, the worn headstones, and the high spiked railings. They were put up to protect the dead from body snatchers. They’ve been kept because the cemetery’s been declared an historical site. Also to prevent people from taking the stones for their back-yard patios.”
“And where’s this grandfather of yours we’ve come to visit?”
“Follow me.” I moved along the fence checking landmarks until I came to an upright which gave slightly when I pushed at it. They had repainted but not repaired. I pushed hard and it swung back, leaving a gap just sufficient for someone of my build to squeeze through. I gestured to Judith. “Ladies first!” She hesitated, and I did not blame her. A deserted cemetery at dusk is not the place where a woman would want to be alone with a convicted killer. But the reason for her hesitation was less rational. “I’ll dirty my dress getting through that. Why don’t we go in by the gate?”
“The gates are locked at eighteen hundred hours. This cemetery is under the care of the Bureau of Parks.”
She looked at me, shrugged, and squeezed through the gap into the shadows beyond.
VI
We stood together, looking down at my grandfather’s grave. “Good!” I said.
“Good? What’s good about this place? We start the day in a morgue. We hide in coffins. Now you dragged me into a cemetery! What kind—?”
“Judy—stop bitching! We nearly got shot. We almost got drowned. You’ve got a new dress. And we’ve done the impossible—escaped from the Pen. Luck’s been with us so far, but—”
“Not luck—light! The Light’s guided us, tested us, and we’ve passed the test. For some purpose, Gavin. Remember that! And I doubt it was to pay our respects to your grandfather!” She bent to read the inscription. “Robert MacDonald, 1919-2011, ‘In the Arms of the Lord.’ What does that mean?”
“Remembering Gramps, it means that God is probably female.”
“A graveyard’s no place for blasphemy!” She glanced away into the shadows.
“God help us all if He hasn’t got a sense of humor.” I ran my hand over the headstone. “My father was a Minister— Presbyterian, of course. His father was a soldier—of the free-lance variety. My father had me educated. But it was Gramps who taught me how to survive. ‘War’s like clap. It’s mostly the amateurs who catch it!’ Good advice for a healthy youngster with a yen for excitement.”
“You’ve brought me in here to listen to that kind of nonsense?”
“I’ve come to get help from Gramps.”
“What? More bad advice from his ghost?”
“Better than advice.” The main gates were about fifty meters away and securely locked. The dusk was deepening and there was nobody in sight. I knelt on the grass.
“I’ll throw up if you start to pray!”
I tested the blocks around the grave, felt one loosen, and eased it out. “I endowed this plot in perpetuity to keep Gramp’s memory green. And to give myself an emergency cache.” I reached into the space behind the block and pulled out a 7mm Luger, wrapped in preserving plastic.
“A gun!” Judith jumped back as though I had produced a devil’s hoof.
“Two guns!” I extracted a Jeta. “One with slugs; one with darts.” I felt around in the cavity. “Spare magazines for both. Also money, ID’s et cetera, and a badge.” I laid my collection on the edge of the grave, then slid the stone carefully back into place.