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

stack of flyers and bills that the post office had been delivering to Grey’s office. I took a quick look through the envelopes, and found only creditors. A gun shop, a bill from a grocery store. I smiled at the superintendent and told him not to worry. I went up to the office. Elmo came with me this time. My dead gunsel looked around wide-eyed before remarking, “Just like home.” I walked to the couch and lifted a cushion. A hide-a-bed. I pulled it out. Musty blankets and mattress. I turned down the covers and found a few dark spiral hairs, nothing more. I glanced at the coat rack. There were a handful of wire hangers empty. I surmised that Grey lived at the office. The fact that there were no clothes piled up anywhere gave me hope that he was still alive. He may have run. I asked Elmo to wait in the outer room and keep an eye open for trouble. He was engrossed in an old magazine when I left him.

I had a pint of whiskey, and a couple of sandwiches in front of me. I’d dusted off the ink blotter to use as a place mat then bent the lamp over and set the journal down in front of me. Biting into a sandwich I paused. Tommy hadn’t protested at all. I had been in possession of his body for a full day and he had not complained. I shrugged, then yawned. It was about eight. I had to make sure he got some rest. The beating the Handyman had given me still told; but the absence of bacteria did wonders for my recovery time. It was another of the few benefits of the Change. The bacterial extinction centered on the types that caused infection and rot, while miraculously allowing the survival of species that produced alcohol. Maybe it was proof there was a God—if I were God I would have worked it that way. Regardless it left me mainly tight muscles and tenderness. I’m sure my shoulder could have used a couple of stitches but I didn’t have the time. And whoever had worked me over might be keeping tabs on Greasetown’s hospitals.

To work. I opened the journal. The first page was covered with handwriting. It was in blue ink in a strong hand.

February nine, ‘48. Received phone call from Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Helen Hawksbridge. I talked to Mr. Hawksbridge. He sounded worried. Told me they had to see me. Needed my help. I told them to come over.

They arrived at ten p.m. Mr. Hawksbridge a real stuffed shirt. Mrs. Hawksbridge a fine looking piece of womanhood. Too young for the old guy. Might be plastic surgery. Both felt out of place in my neighborhood. Made sure I knew it.

They want me to look for their daughter: Julie Hawksbridge. She is 25 pre-Change age. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Disappeared two weeks ago. Authority won’t take them seriously. She is old enough to get lost if she wants.

I take the job.

They went quiet. Then the woman spoke. She said Julie is pregnant. I try not to laugh.

I go along with them and ask about the father. She has boyfriend, Victor Davis. They gave me his phone number. 555-1536

She has been pregnant before. All miscarriages. They gave me photo of girl. Very pretty.

I dropped my sandwich and riffled through the journal’s pages. No photo. I quickly realized Grey would have carried it with him if he were trying to identify her.

February 10, ‘48. Talked to Inspector Borden. He is uninterested in my questions. Says it’s none of my business. Prick. He works in records at Authority HQ.

Same day. Try calling Victor Davis. Number disconnected. Nothing in phonebook or information.

Same day. Followed home. Dark car. Drove off when I approached it. Talked to John Harker. Reporter-Greasetown Gazette. Let me see files on phantom baby. A lot of wild rumor. Strange calls. Nothing specific on pregnant women.

Same day. Talked to Dr. Arthur Klingspon. I did double-check on baby problem. Assures me, many women have hysterical pregnancies. Knows of no genuine cases since the Great Stillbirth.

Same day, talked to Dr. A. Forrester. Hawksbridge family doctor. Tall, thin bird—all arms and legs like half a spider. Said Julie had miscarriages. I told him about Dr. Klingspon and half medical profession. His answer: I know what I know. No evidence. Probably a flake.

Same day, spot Authority Inspector in doorway across street. He runs when I approach. I don’t recognize him.

February 11, ‘48. Talked to John Harker again. Said no new reports on babies. Thinks I’m an asshole. Probably right. Said I should talk to someone in Twelve Stars Group—they’re baby crazy.

February 13, ‘48. Talked to Ingrid Hloren. She is mistress in Twelve Stars. Crazy as a bedbug. Said they are waiting for Him. Unsure which Him. That would be Him up or Him down. They expect the Him ‘up.’ Will come soon, will be baby. They call him the fifth horseman.

February 15, ‘48. Got a call. Voice said to stay out of it. Did not say what ‘it’ was. Also followed to office. Tall man in coat and hat. No positive I.D. Took off in car when I approached. Got another call. Wouldn’t say who it was. Just told me to drop case. Prick.

Same day. Hawksbridges called. How things going? I asked them if they knew the whereabouts of Julie’s boyfriend. They hadn’t heard from him. Didn’t like him.

Same day. The King called. Said he had had enough. Prick.

Same day. Friend in Authority comes up empty on Victor Davis.

February 16, ‘48. Went to Davis’ apartment. Empty. Been stripped. Just walls and tile. Landlord says rent’s been paid up with money orders.

Same day. Got a call. Same guy as before. Said I’d be dead if I continued. Prick.

Same day. Called again. Repeated threat. Prick.

February 17, ‘48. Saw John Harker. Have to let him in. It’s getting too hot. Followed again. I know how this works. Have to get out of town. Will talk to the Hawksbridges before.

I set the journal down. That was it. The rest of the pages were blank. My whiskey was half gone. It felt like it was half gone. I had managed to stumble onto the same case Grey had been on—or part of it. But why hide the journal? There was nothing ground breaking in it. Unless he wanted to leave town, and hid it where he knew it would be safe and easy to retrieve on his way out. Which meant he didn’t get out of town. And he mentioned a friend in Authority. Maybe it was for him.

I called the operator and asked for a number for Wilson Hawksbridge at a New Garden address. I had it in minutes. The phone rang with a far off rattle. A couple of bonk-bonk sounds and someone answered it.

“Hello, Hawksbridge residence.”

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Wilson or Helen Hawksbridge.”

A pause. “That will be quite impossible. Who is speaking please.”

I froze a moment. “Owen Grey. I work for them.”

It was his turn to pause. “Mr. Grey. The detective. Really, well I assumed you had finished your employment with the Hawksbridges.”

“Still tidying up a few loose ends.” I rubbed Grey’s journal for luck.

“Well, I’m surprised you haven’t been informed. I certainly should think you would know. The Hawksbridges are deceased. They passed away in a terrible car accident. Oh it must be two years ago. There was a fire—nothing left. It was all quite tragic.” He paused. “Wait now…Yes, I’m sure of it. They were on their way to meet you. That’s it yes. You called and told them you had information about Julie. I’m surprised you don’t know. Authority said it would have to speak with you. I talked to them myself. I gave them your number. Miss Hawksbridge’s brother is here. I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear news about his sister. Have you found her?”

“Actually, I’d like to speak to Mr. Hawksbridge.”

“Of course, I will bring him to the phone.”

Another bonk-bonk as he put the phone down, I imagined a pink marble table with angels carved into its legs. Their little wings would be beating frantically. They had to keep the tabletop level otherwise the bowl of glass fruit in the center would go toppling. I heard his heels clicking on the polished floor. I immediately pronounced the Hawksbridges to be still more victims of foul play. Far away, through the receiver, I heard a number of footsteps approaching. Bonk-bonk and:

“Hello Mr. Grey. I’m Robert Hawksbridge. I understand you were employed by my poor parents.” The deep voice of Robert Hawksbridge was full of curiosity.

“Yes, well. To be honest, I’m Wildclown, also a detective. I’m investigating a related case, and would like any information you could give me. Can I drop around to talk to you?”

A pause, then. “What was the name again?” I gave it. “Wildclown? That’s an interesting name. Is it European?”

“Yes,” I drawled, “Bulgarian.” That sank in a moment before I continued. “Would it be all right if I came by to ask those questions?”

“Certainly Mr. Wildclown. Drop around tomorrow afternoon, say 2 o’clock. I’ve always been curious about the way things turned out. I’ll make certain I have no appointments.”

“Thank you. And your address…” I jotted it down, hung up the phone. A vision of a well-heeled, but decent enough, couple burning alive in a car passed before my eyes. More bodies. I grabbed up the journal and tore through its pages. There it was:

The King called. Said he had had enough. Prick.

The King called. And I was supposed to avoid him. He was going to make it impossible if his name kept cropping up. I was beginning to wish I’d never met Conrad Billings.