When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

I was at the office. Elmo sat motionless across from me looking like he was painted on black velvet. I was tempted to shout or something, to lever him out of his trance. I had finished my umpteenth cigarette. So had Elmo. The air around us resembled a heavy Scottish mist. I resisted the urge to walk to the window and open it to replace the sour air within with the sour air without. Then, with extreme ease, I sank back into my own malaise. I was into the habit now of possessing Tommy every day, rain or rain, just to keep in practice. We hadn’t had a case in weeks.

After the Billings’ murder, Elmo and I drove west, and we didn’t stop until we reached a lonely motel set on a stark hump of granite. We had started without a destination in mind, the motel simply appeared to us out of the rain. It was a nice little place lost in a twilight zone of décor—fake tiger skin couches and plastic dome lamps. A fat landlady would keep us honest. I had passed over the possibility of a trip to Vicetown because so many gangsters and outlaws called it home. All those casinos were like magnets to gunmetal. If Adrian were going to hire a hit man he would do it from there. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I would be a well-marked target with the clown makeup.

Instead, Elmo and I visited the Bonny-Vu Motel about eight hours west of Greasetown. The name must have come from the Old World before the Change, because the view was anything but bonny. The motel overlooked a waste disposal dump. Mrs. Loxley, the landlady, explained with chubby vociferation, that the dump was new. There used to be a lovely lake for fishing, she said, canoe rides and everything. The woman was obviously upset about the turning tide, but you could tell by her earnest eyes and perpetual blush of embarrassed self-assertion, that she would do her best with what the good lord had given her.

We stayed there about three weeks, drinking ourselves into oblivion in a cozy fisherman’s lounge where stuffed trout cavorted in varnished glory for the guests. Tommy had quite taken to Mr. Loxley, who after initial hesitation accepted the clown as a formidable drinking partner. Mr. Loxley occasionally described supplementing his income with trips into the dump. “Incredible, the things people throw away,” he had said time and again. Once, he took us into his workshop where every kind of machine from toaster to dishwasher sat about with insides of wire and metal vomited on the floor. “A gold mine!” Mr. Loxley’s eyes seldom betrayed the madness growing behind them. I spent the week in and out of Tommy. He seemed content to ride the wave, so to speak—as long as there was plenty of strong drink handy. I had held onto him until we were checked in at the motel, and he seemed fairly content upon waking. That was likely due to the exhausted and injured condition his body was in when I returned it. Mr. Loxley was perfect though. Tommy loved to drink and talk—argue, if he could—preferably about nothing—and Loxley had an appetite similar in both respects. Things almost took a bad turn one night when, full of liquor, Tommy made a clumsy pass at the lady of the manor. I managed to take over and avert what promised to be a disastrous situation, much to Tommy and Mrs. Loxley’s chagrin.

A phone call to Inspector Cane gave us the okay for return to Greasetown. He told us that Van Reydner was still missing, and that by all appearances; Mr. Adrian had joined her in oblivion. He had not been heard of, or seen, since the day I spoke to him. Authority was still looking though. Surprisingly—mainly because of his earlier malice—Cane described the Authority investigation into Simpson’s Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased. Files had so far shown over fifty clients with questionable deaths. What had put them onto it was a businessman, Henry Ogden. The files said he had been brought to Simpson’s after a fatal heart attack. One of the investigating Inspectors knew him, and was certain that Ogden claimed to have suffered the fatal attack in his sleep after a night of extreme sex with his mistress—one, Jane Van Meering. When questioned further Ogden described a relationship with a redheaded massage therapist. This led to further investigation, and the bodies started popping up. Simpson’s made the claim that their treatments worked best if applied immediately after Blacktime. As part of their preservation policy, Simpson’s acquired written permission to transport a client’s remains directly to the facility, forgoing the customary trip to Authority run morgues or private hospitals. Upon arrival, a doctor would determine the cause of death using Simpson’s patented non-evasive techniques. When questioned Simpson’s doctor seemed to be a genuine dupe. Ogden agreed to a physical examination by Authority physicians and they found no sign of heart attack trauma. Instead, they discovered high levels of barbiturates in his now inert tissues.

As I sat across from Elmo, I thought about Van Reydner for about twenty seconds. It passed. I supposed professional pride wouldn’t let go of her. She was the one who got away. That always led to a twinge about Adrian’s absence. He, too, had escaped retribution. I pushed the disturbing thoughts aside and slipped back into somnolence. I had done my job. I found a killer. It wasn’t my problem that society was corrupt, or that justice was insubstantial. It wasn’t my problem.

Now, we had suffered through weeks of inactivity. The season had changed. We had been back for over a month. The temperature was rising. The humidity grew to ridiculous proportions at noon. That meant summer was near. Approaching summer didn’t mean there would be more sun. It simply meant that after it rained, you could expect to sweat intensely for hours. I looked at the office clock. It said ten-thirty. It was Monday, the seventh of May. Oddly enough, Tommy didn’t have a hangover this morning when I took over. The money was running low, so the clown had to settle for minimalist bingeing. The only thing that kept our offices was a secret account that I had taken out while in possession of Tommy. So far, I had managed to keep it a secret from Elmo as well. I began to toss around the idea of releasing my hold on Tommy. Boredom was less acutely felt when disembodied—no aches to complain about, no buttocks turning to sand.

The phone rang. Elmo and I looked at each other with surprise. I quickly choked down my optimism as I prepared my business voice. It was my theory that creditors always expect stupid people to default on payments. It was the only way I could rationalize their being so unpleasant. My method was to hit them oozing intelligence and self-confidence. It caught them off guard. I always tried to make it sound as though I purposefully missed a payment, just to check up on them.

The phone rang again. I pulled the receiver to my ear.

“Wildclown Investigations.”

There was silence for four seconds. Just enough to get the adrenaline going.

“Wildclown.” A voice. It was heavily disguised—completely androgynous and muffled.

“Wildclown,” I parroted.

“Not doing your job.”

“Thank you,” I said, resisting the urge to snipe.

“Another murder.”

“Such is the way,” I murmured, interested now.

“At the Morocco.” The voice was almost mechanical.

“The Morocco Hotel no longer exists. I was there when it burned down.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“All right, I won’t.”

“Same night as the lawyer.”

My mind began to race. “Who?” I didn’t expect an answer.

A resounding click was all I got.

“Hello?” No answer. So, an anonymous phone caller—perhaps a fellow do gooder? I doubted it. Looking up, I noticed that Elmo was watching me with intensity.

“I think we may have something.” I lit a cigarette, kept the phone cocked at my ear, and put a finger in the dial. Cane first—then the paper.