CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It always seemed to rain at burials. There was a blue tarp over Bud Ganley’s casket, which Grant had no doubt was a cheap one. There were only a handful of mourners: Ganley’s mother, his employer, Jim Ready, a couple of like-aged slouchers who looked like pool room buddies, and Petee Wilkins, who stood off by himself. Grant had made his way into the back end of the cemetery, through a small stretch of woods, and stood at the top of a moderate rise looking down at the proceedings below. His raincoat collar was up against the chill, and his cigarette was used up.

He lit a new one and watched as the reverend finished his ministrations and the two slouchers, who turned out to be the grave diggers, began to lower the casket into the ground. They pulled the blue tarp off it then, and Ganley’s mother threw a clod of dirt on it and turned away, not looking at Petee Wilkins. The way she walked told Grant that this was the last in a long line of disappointments.

Petee stood watching as the two grave diggers began to shovel the mound of waiting dirt into the hole. Grant ambled down the hill and approached him. Too late to flee, Petee noticed him and stood rooted to the spot, looking at the ground. Grant was struck by how much Wilkins looked like a skinny rat, down to the twitching nose and sniffles. He had always been a follower. Grant had first met him when Wilkins was twelve, and got caught trashing a house on Sagett River Road. The punk he was with got away, but Petee got caught. He was the kind who would always get caught.

“ ’Lo, Detective,” Petee said, running the back of his hand across his continually running nose. He wouldn’t look up. Grant was reminded of Baby Charlie.

“I just have one question to ask you, Petee,” Grant said.

“Sure. Whatever.”

“I want you to tell me the dead-ass truth, and if you do I won’t bother you again. That’s a promise.”

Petee’s nose twitched, and his shoulders spasmed up and down with what might have been a form of assent.

“Okay?” Grant asked.

“Sure.”

“Just answer me this. Did you and Bud Ganley take Jack Carlin home before you took him to the hospital?”

Petee drew the back of his hand quickly across his running nose. His nose twitched twice. “No, Detective Grant.”

“Are you sure? Look at me, Petee.”

Wilkins glanced up briefly. Even his dark brown eyes were small and ratlike. “He wanted us to, but we didn’t!”

“He was alive after that car hit him?”

Petee was staring at the ground again. Behind them, the two grave diggers went about their work, which lent a susurrus of shoveled dirt to the conversation. “Yeah, but just for a couple of minutes. At first he begged us to take him home. Then he got all glassy eyed and kept calling for Marianne, saying he had to go to her. That he had promised. He started yelling a bunch of stuff.” He glanced up at Grant briefly again. “Then he was gone. He died right there in the street before we put him in Bud’s car and took him to the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police that he was alive after the car hit him?”

Sniffle, wipe. “Bud was afraid we’d get in trouble. And I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Twitch, shrug. “Afraid . . .”

“Tell me, Petee, or we end up down at the station with you in a holding cell.”

“Oh, shit.” He shuffled his feet, looked back at the grave diggers, who were wiping their hands, stared at the ground again. Grant noticed that his knuckles were white, his hands trembling. “Afraid . . .”

“Petee—”

“I was afraid of what he said, and what happened! I believed Jack, is all! Bud ran to get his car, and Jack was all busted up and dying, and he stared right through me and was yelling, ‘I promised you a baby! I promised!’ And then . . .”

“And then what?”

“And then he died, and . . .”

Grant was about to prod him again when Petee blurted, with a groan, “And something flew out of his body and away, Detective! Smoke, or fog, or . . . something that looked just like Jack!”

“Petee—” Grant began.

“Aw, shit, Detective,” Wilkins said, wiping his nose and then his eyes. He was crying now. “Can’t you leave me alone? Can’t you just leave me the hell alone? All my friends are dead now, and my life is shit. Can’t you just lay off me?”

Grant took a long breath, and said, “Sure, Petee. Like I promised.”

Wilkins turned abruptly, almost stumbling into one of the grave diggers, who was loading his shovel into a wheelbarrow, and walked off, hitching sobs and wiping at his face with his hands.

Grant stared after him for a moment, then turned and made his way up the slope, lighting a cigarette. The rain had turned to a chill mist, coating fallen leaves and making their brilliant colors slick. The trees were almost denuded now.

It was two days till Halloween.