When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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Book online «When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗». Author G. Wells Taylor
Elmo and I had a devil of a time finding this particular warehouse, there were so many of them, old and new. My instincts were on full alert. I was afraid to call Authority. I was afraid to talk to anybody. I knew I was lucky that Cane had missed the call I made before slipping down the coast to Vicetown. I couldn’t trust anyone, least of all, someone in Authority. I was certain I couldn’t trust the anonymous person who had slipped a cryptic note under my office door during the night.
Warehouse 31, Pier 14: It read.
After driving all the way down, and a frustrating hour of traveling blind alleys, a scorched sign greeted me from one of the loading doors. It read: King Industries. Now, it wasn’t logical to chase after every lead, especially after one that came to me so mysteriously; but I had the distinct feeling that the anonymous phone caller was the letter writer as well. I took it for granted that someone was going to lead me for a step or two. I had decided to do a thing a detective does at great risk. I was going to wait for guidance. It was obvious that there was a good deal of power at work, and if I looked lazy, they were bound to feed me something. It was risky, because I’d have to decide whether or not I was being led into something dangerous and deadly.
Someone had started the chain of events I was following. If it was just a case of vengeance, they could walk in and shoot me whenever they wanted. Whoever had called wanted me to do something specific. Well, I wondered what they’d do if I went sedentary—if I just kicked back and relaxed. I’d find out.
The security tape on the building indicated that Authority was involved, and as usual, wanted to hog all the fun. But it was hardly proof. I hoped that by letting my mystery guide feed me clues, I might get lucky and find out who he was and what he wanted—and who else was involved.
I poked my head through a scorched window frame. There were the expected chunks of melted plastic that had been computers and centrifuges, amid the charred skeletons of tables with so many hunks of glass and metal spot welded to them by the intense heat from a blast or fire. I could see the remains of a Bunsen burner, and a few firebombed cabinets and cupboards. The place was cinder and coal from baseboard to ceiling. There was no way I would trust the floor. It had collapsed in one corner already. I was looking at a burnt out lab all right, and it was supposed to be Cotton’s. Plenty of evidence was lying all around to support that, so much so that I doubted it immediately. I knew there’d be something there with his name on it, if I looked. But it was all too pat. I had a nagging suspicion that this, too, was a part of an intricate shell game.
I turned from the building and headed toward the car. I would go home. It was noon, Tuesday. The paper sometimes came early on Tuesday. I needed to think, and Tommy needed to relax. A change is as good as a rest, they say. Well, I would change my approach to this case, and rest. Someone would be calling, I felt sure of that. I didn’t know who, but someone had a timetable of his own that he wanted me to follow. I would let him make the next move.
The office was its usual depressing self. The single picture on the wall was crooked, and the ballerinas practicing in it were ready to cartwheel out into the waiting room. I left them. Something about their unbalanced state complimented my mood. I motioned for Elmo to sit, then jiggled the bottle of Canadian Club at him. He shook his head. I nudged his portion into the glass after mine. Waste not…the whiskey set its teeth in my tongue and hung there for a moment like a bulldog. I smiled at Elmo, emptied the glass, and then replaced the four ounces or so. I took another mouthful then lit a cigarette. I moved over and opened the blinds. Night was falling fast; it doesn’t have any other speed in Greasetown. I resumed my seat.
“Boss?” Elmo’s voice broke my silent contemplation of another drink.
“Yes, Elmo.” I twisted my head toward him. I had been staring distractedly at a streetlight outside the window. I realized it had been on continuously for the last month. That was fine, because I knew when it burned out, it would be off continuously for a month or so.
“What are we d-doing?” He seemed nervous, as he usually did when questioning the boss. I had tried to encourage him to be a little more democratic about our relationship, but he looked at me like I had run over his grandmother. Elmo liked things the way they were. Anyway, whenever Tommy was in control he had a way of undoing my efforts with his insane bombast.
A whole day had passed, all I had done was walk down the street for coffee and a sandwich, tried to straighten my files, and leafed through a nudie magazine looking for interesting articles. I glanced at the clock on my desk. Ten-thirty, Wednesday evening and I was still waiting for Tuesday’s paper.
“We’re waiting, Elmo.” I grimaced wickedly. “We’re playing chess.”
“Chess?” Elmo’s eyes looked at me incredulous.
“Basically, I’ve finished all the moves I want to make.” I laughed with Tommy’s strained and frightening mirth. “We’ve been led along for a while, and the longer this case, or cases, go on, the more I see conspiracy. Since I’ve only suspicions about who is involved, I’ll wait. I can afford to, and hope one of the conspirators will grow impatient, and make a move. Either that or they’ll get another detective. I need to know more, so I know whose toes to step on.”
“Oh,” Elmo nodded and lit a cigarette. “We’ll w-wait.”
“It’s the best thing.” I leaned back in my chair and burped—hot and acid. What was it about alcohol? Why could they never hide its poison nature? I never made the attempt, but even in those gigantic tropical drinks with the beach umbrellas, coconuts and fruit spears, you could taste its distinct toxic flavor. Unless the body held some sway still. Like a dog trained to sniff skiers out of Swiss avalanches, perhaps the body was trained to nose and dig out poisons. A lengthy memory of hangovers was testimony to its poisonous effect upon the body; but I drank it anyway. As I eyed its dangerous amber spirit, I felt something equally menacing rise within myself. I understood the relationship. It was that strange human impulse towards death that had us murder old dogs and cats with cataracts—that murderous pity of the human race—that made me drink. Humanity, the bifurcated beast—the mad dog that strained at Darwin’s leash with as much desire to survive as destroy itself. Drink made it plain. Our survival mechanisms assured our destruction. I upended the glass, and drained it. At least I understood the relationship. That’s why I drank it straight.
The phone rang. I smiled knowingly at Elmo and lifted the receiver.
“Wildclown,” I said. At the back of my mind, I could feel Tommy all stretched and rubbery with the alcohol.
“This is Inspector Cane.” The voice came hard and harsh.
“Inspector Cane. How wonderful of you to call.” I blew smoke from a fresh cigarette.
“No fucking around, Wildclown.” I’m sure I heard him snarl. I know I imagined him showing his teeth. “We found your friend, Adrian.”
“My friend…” I sat upright now. “Where? How about Van Reydner?” I conjured up my mental picture of her—all eyes and breasts—or was it breasts and eyes.
“No. Van Reydner’s still a no-show.” He went quiet. “I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, but where’s Adrian?” I began to smell complicity again.
“Take the Western Highway for about an hour. I’m still at the scene.” He hung up.
I hung up. At the scene. Not likely a traffic accident. That would be too easy. Murder? I emptied my glass, then looked at Elmo.
“Out onto the highway west, Elmo. Want to come?”
I could see fear and loathing in his sad and cold dead eyes. His dead lips formed an ugly frown. He nodded.
“Good!” I smiled, as I quickly took another shot of Canadian Club, secreted its long dark length in one of my oversized pockets, and then led the way out the door. It might have been the whiskey thinking, or Tommy, but I genuinely hoped I wasn’t too late to talk to Mr. Adrian—maybe push his broad white teeth down his throat.
We were on the highway west. The night sky and my thoughts were dark. Long black Authority vehicles blocked a section of the highway. Their bullet-shapes flickered in scarlet light. A circle of figures gathered near the edge of the double eastbound lane. “Elmo, stay here, okay?” I climbed out of the bullet-riddled passenger door. It rattled with shrapnel when I slammed it. Elmo was glued to the steering wheel. He simply nodded, then drank from the Canadian Club. I had brought it for him. His boss didn’t need it. I was already feeling pretty light in the loafers. Elmo seemed to sense the Landfillers many feet below. I left him and crawled over the cement median wall. Authority Enforcers had cordoned off a large section of the far lane of the eastbound. They grew to elephant size in the strange light. I swaggered up to them as best I could in clown makeup. The Enforcers didn’t stop me. I had the urge to make a snarky remark about whether the food at the zoo was as bad as everybody said it was, but their grim features—galvanized in the protective masks—snapped my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I walked past them to a circle of trench coats.
Mr. Adrian was looking a bit unraveled—if it was him. The body had dropped a lot of fluid on the road. Every liter of its blood smeared the asphalt. I could feel it glue my boots in place. I found I could make squishy, sticky noises if I moved my heels rapidly up and down.
Mr. Adrian with the blue eyes was now a ribbon of wet gray flesh. He was stretched out in a thirty-foot smear. He had been cut up with something sharp, then stretched out like a streamer at a parade. The worst part of it was that what remained was moving. Mr. Adrian had been out here for a while because Blacktime was over. Strange, snakelike undulations rippled through the grisly mess as the corpse made its first attempts at afterlife. Only the whiskey saved me from realizing the full horror of Mr. Adrian’s position. I saw one of his eyes—it blinked and I felt bile rise at the back of my throat. There was no sign of the other, or the nose that had sat for so many years between them. I had no reason to wish anything good for the man, but only a monster would do this. At least they could have burned him up, or something—committed him to the only grave that
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