When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗

from the Inspectors. It never did sit well; but I decided to follow up the Billings story first. Since people always like to read what the victims have to say, and Cotton wasn’t talking. It was easy to find Mr. Billings’ address in the city registry, so I drove down to talk to him. He lived in New Garden, really nice neighborhood with an Enforcer on every street corner. Well that’s where he was staying at the time I’m not sure where he ended up. The money down that end of town usually squeezes the dead people out. At the time I talked to him, he was still a little disoriented with the Blacktime and death, but he gave me a fairly detailed description of events.”

“I believe this is old news to me. Adrian did it.”

“Adrian? Interesting.” She went on to describe the story Billings had told me. I puffed on two cigarettes during the narration.

“Did he tell you why he got up that night?” I felt strange saying it, but a focused silence within told me that Tommy approved.

“Oh that’s the weird part of the story.” Her eyes dropped to study her shoes. I watched the smooth skin on her hands. “He said he got up because he heard a baby crying—but you’ve got to remember the guy had just been murdered, and God only knows what happens to you in Blacktime.”

I remembered Adrian’s face when I had visited him at his office, and Tommy had slipped that question out about the baby. I had seen a similar twinge of recognition in Cane’s features. “It’s the same thing he told me.” I stood up, crossed to the front of the desk and leaned on it. “What do you think about it?”

She smiled over the rim of her cup. “Come on, the Gazette isn’t one of those papers—don’t tell me you’re one of those detectives.”

“Indulge my infantile curiosity in the unknown then, if you will. Let’s say that as a boy I did a Bigfoot project at a science fair. Just give me your opinion.”

“We don’t follow stories like that any more. Even though in these days, Elvis Presley being seen may be a little more believable.” She smiled. “Don’t tell me Elvis Presley’s involved.”

It was my turn to smile. Partly because it hurt, partly because I wished I had said it. “That strip of cold cuts we saw tonight—Mr. Adrian—when I spoke to him, I happened to mention that a baby was heard crying at the Morocco and he got nervous. From reading the lumps on the back of my head, I came to the conclusion that he was at the Morocco the night of Billings’ murder. He as much as confessed to me, and I believe that he heard it too—the baby.” I lit a cigarette and looked at Ms. Redding.

“Don’t be insane.” Her eyes pleaded, she pressed her palms together as though in prayer. “Please don’t be insane. You seem like such a nice guy.” She smirked and leaned back in her chair. “There are no such things as babies.”

“I know that. But, whatever it was, Billings heard it, Adrian heard it, and I’m wondering if Cotton heard it too.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I don’t know. I’m really not sure if it’s anything. It could have been a television running an old movie—for all I knew…” Then my brain turned on. “What floor was Cotton on? What was his room number?”

“The twelfth. Room 4. He had registered under W. Irving.”

“Right, and Billings was in—”

“Room 6, on the twelfth. Shit!” Ms. Redding sighed. “Why didn’t I put that together?”

“Because the building was burned to the ground before anyone had time to link the cases.” I stared blankly into the corner. “Something was going on up there that night. I know why Billings bought it. Adrian and the missing woman, Van Reydner, were in on a scam to collect bodies for their preservation treatments. But Cotton. What the hell was he up to?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about!” The line between Redding’s eyes throbbed with barely restrained ire. “You conned me before. You weren’t working on that case at all.”

“Sorry,” I grumbled, frowning. “I have to get jobs somehow. Besides, we’re both working for the same end. Whatever Authority is hiding, might be exposed. That must please you, and, I might add, without any risk to yourself.”

“It’s not the risk. I just hate being had.” I watched her face relax, and again become a mask of calm.

“So do I.” I lit another cigarette. “Indulge me. It’s probably a lot of nonsense, but I’d like to refresh my memory. You’re a newshound, you must know more about the phantom baby than the average person.” Urgency suddenly clenched my jaws. “Just a moment ago, you asked me if I was one of those detectives, what did you mean by that.”

She laughed outright. “I’ve heard about guys like that. You know, ghost hunters, all that shit…” She paused, stared hard. “So Adrian murdered Billings—it was the rumor, but they gagged that one too!”

“Yes,” I said, smiled again. I could see frustration cloud her vision. “You reporters have got to dig a little harder.”

“And you detectives have to be a little braver and tell the press about your cases.” Chagrin settled in her eyes, but passed. “They told us it was a lover’s quarrel. Said the murderer was at large. They never update us on these things.”

“God only knows what else they’ve been suppressing, but like it or not, everything’s starting to slide out.”

“So, how big do you see this conspiracy?” Her cheeks flushed red with excitement.

“Big. And dangerous. I’ve got a bad feeling about it all. There are two people I know were there that night besides Billings. The paté out on the eastbound highway, who is shall we say beyond questioning or the justice you mentioned earlier.” Her expression was expectant. “And Van Reydner. That’s what hurts. Van Reydner could clear up this whole mess in twenty minutes. Maybe. But if the recent demise of Mr. Adrian tells me anything, I’d say the best place to start looking for her would be the Landfill.” I paused a second to look out the window. The streetlights gleamed like tin stars.

Ms. Redding derailed my train of thought. “What’s your theory?”

“I don’t have one.” I cracked open a new coffee and burned my mouth with it. “I think it’s a case of a couple of small-timers getting smashed in the wheels of a bigger machine. What do you know about Cotton?”

Her eyebrows became a delicate arch. “Not much. After I talked to Billings about his murder, I called Authority to ask about the other murder, but the news gag was already going into effect. All I got was his ID read Alan Cotton. He had checked into the Morocco under the name of W. Irving. He was from Vicetown. Made a living selling makeup for the dead. You know, collagen creams, synthetic tans and the like.”

“Who gave you the bio on Cotton?”

“Authority. An Inspector Cane.” I could see doubt forming behind her features.

Cane. I was starting to hate that guy. “What did Cane say?”

“He said they found a big cache of Greaseasy and syncrak in a valise by the body, so Cane told us it was a drug-related murder. Then came the gag order. Under investigation. That type of thing.”

“Convenient,” I said. “Would all of this be in your records?”

“Probably, the Gazette has a huge library of old and related stories—we call it the morgue. Should be stuff in there about the baby, too. If you’re serious.” Her face was flushed.

“Can I see your files?”

“Sure, later.” She got up, walked over to me, and passed one arm around my neck. She smiled.

“What?” I said in my usually succinct manner.

“I was going to ask if you had to wear the makeup, but decided to keep my mouth shut. It’s kind of sexy and weird.” Again her teeth flashed at me. “Do you have an apartment?”

“No,” I growled. “I sleep on the couch out…” I could feel her solid form pressed against me. Her other arm slid into the small of my back and pulled me closer. I had no doubt now, that she was a strong woman. If she had hugged any harder, we’d have passed through each other. Her breasts felt like armor-piercing shells.

“Are you sure about this?” I gestured to my face.

I counted the teeth she showed me in answer. “I don’t care, Wildclown, it’s not so bad I guess. Besides, it’s hard to find a man in Greasetown who can spell justice let alone one who has a concept of it.”

“What time is it?” I asked, my nose tickling hers. She looked at her watch where it hung over my left ear.

“Almost one-thirty,” she whispered, and pressed closer. “Come to my place.”

“I’ve got to stay close to the phone. I’m open all night.” I slashed out behind me at the papers on the desk. The phone fell with a thump and a ring. An ashtray cartwheeled across the floor and broke in the corner. I leaned back; Ms. Redding followed. Her solid form pressed down on me.

“Don’t come in, Elmo!” I shouted at the door. We froze for a moment—faces close and expectant. Then I kissed her. Our tongues met like hungry snakes. I felt Ms. Redding’s hands like vices on my buttocks. As my hand took an enjoyable ride on a long zipper, I had the sense of being watched. Elmo would be down on one knee at the keyhole. Hell, who wouldn’t?