Graveminder (8 page)

Chapter 16

D
AISHA STEPPED INTO THE BUILDING, CROSSING THE THRESHOLD WITH
the assurance of one who knows she is safe. It was an unfamiliar feeling. After years of flinching at every sound, the security of her new
life
was heady.

She was in a cloakroom, an antechamber for the mourners who hadn’t yet readied themselves for the viewing. Even out here, beige carpet and leafy green plants were positioned for a calculatingly soothing atmosphere.

Beyond the doorway stood the man she needed to find. Mr. Montgomery knew she was different; she could tell by the cautious way he watched her. No one else in town—
except Maylene
—had looked at her that way.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

Her body had known she needed to come here, just as it had known she needed to find Maylene. She’d walked for days, not knowing where she was going or why, just that she was going to the place where things could be made better. Her body belonged here in Claysville.

“But I
am
here,” Daisha told Mr. Montgomery. She stepped into the viewing room, where he waited. Once she’d sat in this same room mourning an uncle who’d been in a wreck after too many drinks and who knows what else. The smell of it was the same as it had been then, a lingering perfume of flowers and something sweeter. Once she’d thought that this was the scent of death, an almost sickly sweet odor. Then she had died. Now she knew that sometimes death smells like copper and leaves.

“I can help you.” His voice was comforting, confident.

“How?”

“Help you get where you need to be,” William said. If not for the fine trembling in his hands, Daisha would think he was unaffected by her.

Daisha shook her head. “The other one that tried that ...”

“You killed Maylene.”

“She offered to feed me,” Daisha whispered.

William raised his voice then: “So you
murdered
her
.”

She frowned. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He wasn’t supposed to be so mean.
Maylene
hadn’t been.

“What else could I have done?” She wasn’t objecting; she was asking. William didn’t see that, though. Maylene would’ve. She
did
before she died.

Maylene offered Daisha a glass of whiskey and water.

“I’m not old enough to drink that.”

Maylene smiled. “You’re a bit beyond their rules now.”

Daisha paused. “Why?”

“You know why.” Maylene was gentle but firm. “Take it. It’ll help.”

Daisha took the glass and tossed it back. It didn’t burn like whiskey usually did; instead, it felt heavy, like some sort of syrup coating her throat all the way down to her stomach. “Nasty.” She tossed the glass at the wall.

Maylene poured another. This one she lifted in a toast. “You might finally have me, you old bastard.” She emptied the glass and then looked at Daisha. “Let me help you.”

“You are.”

“I need you to trust me. If I’d known you were ... gone, I would’ve minded your grave. We still can do that. Tell me where—”

“My grave.” Daisha stepped backward. The truth that hadn’t taken shape yet hit her.
My grave.
She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were dirty. She hadn’t crawled out of anything, though. She mightn’t remember everything, but she knew that. “I wasn’t in a grave.”

“I know.” Maylene poured another glass, tilting both the whiskey and the water bottles over the cup. “That’s why you’re so thirsty. The dead always are if they haven’t been minded properly.”

“I’m not ...” Daisha stared at her. “I’m not.”

Maylene cut a thick slice of bread, laid it on a plate, and poured honey over it. She slid the plate forward. Her fingertips were right next to the handle of the bread knife. “Eat.”

“I don’t ... how can I be dead if I’m hungry?” Daisha felt the truth in Maylene’s words, though. She knew.

Maylene nodded toward the glass and the plate. “Eat, child.”

“I don’t want to be dead.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be in a grave either.” Daisha pushed away from the table. The chair fell backward to the floor.

Maylene didn’t react.

“That’s what you want, though, isn’t it?” Daisha understood. She knew why she’d come here, knew why the old woman was giving her the whiskey and the bread.

“It’s what I do.” Maylene stood. “I keep the dead in their place and I send them back when they wake. You shouldn’t have been left outside Claysville. You shouldn’t have been ...”

“Killed. I shouldn’t’ve been killed.” Daisha was shaking. Her head felt like it was full of bees buzzing so loud her thoughts weren’t staying clear. “That’s what you want. You want to kill me.”

“You’re already dead.”

The next thing Daisha knew she was kneeling over Maylene, the floor hard under her knees. “I don’t want to be dead.”

“Me either.” Maylene smiled. Blood ran down a cut by her eye. “But you already
are
, child.”

“Why you? Why did I come to you? I couldn’t stop myself from coming,” Daisha whispered.

“I’m the Graveminder. It’s what I do. The dead come knocking, and I set things right.”

“Put us back.”

“Word, drink, and food,” Maylene murmured. “I gave you all three. If you’d been buried here ...”

Slowly Daisha walked farther into the room. All the while, she watched William. He didn’t seem like a threat, but she wasn’t sure.

“He doesn’t know what I am ... the other Undertaker. He doesn’t know any of this,” Daisha guessed. She took a step forward.

William didn’t back up, but the tension in his body said he wanted to. His gaze narrowed. “Leave them out of it.”

Daisha ran a hand over the back of a chair beside her. “I can’t. You know that, don’t you? Some things aren’t choices.”

“We can end this before anyone else gets hurt.” William held his hands out to the sides as if to show her he was unarmed. “You don’t want to hurt people, do you? You will if you don’t come away with me. You know that.”

“I’m not bad,” Daisha whispered.

“I believe you.” He held out a hand to her. He curled his fingers toward him in a beckoning gesture. “You can do the right thing here. Just come with me. We’ll go meet some people who can help us.”

“
Her.
The new Graveminder
.
”

“No, not her. You and I can fix this all on our own.” He took another step forward, hand outstretched. “Maylene gave you food and drink, didn’t she?”

Suspiciously Daisha said, “Yeah, but not enough. I’m so hungry.”

“Do you need me fix you something?” William’s breathing was ragged. “Would that help?”

Without meaning to, Daisha took his hand and pulled him to her. He was so close; it wasn’t as if she’d even meant to move, but she had. She was shaking her head. He trembled.
Like Maylene did.
Daisha sank her teeth into his wrist, and he made a sound, a hurt animal noise.

He pulled something out of his pocket and tried to stick it in her arm.
A needle.
He’d offered her hope, but he was trying to hurt her.
Poison.
She pushed him away. “That wasn’t nice.”

He clutched his bleeding arm to his chest. Little red drops fell to the floor; more sank into his shirt.

“Let me help,” he said. He reached for the needle, which had fallen from his hand. “Please, child. Let me help.”

Daisha couldn’t stop looking at his wrist. The skin was torn. “I did that,” she whispered.

“We can make it okay.” He picked up the needle. His face was pale, and he dropped to the floor so that he was half kneeling, half sitting in front of her. Despite his obvious pain, he reached out to grab her wrist. “Please. I can ... help you.”

“No.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her mind felt clearer now. Everything made more sense when she wasn’t so hungry. “I don’t think I want the help you have.”

He cradled his bloody arm and tried to stand. “This isn’t right.
You
aren’t right. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“But I
am
.” Daisha shoved him down. She was still hungry, but she was more afraid of him than she was hungry.
He doesn’t understand.
Afraid meant falling apart. She didn’t like that. She wasn’t going to let that happen. Daisha might not have chosen to be dead—or to be awake after dying—but she could make a few choices now.

Quietly Daisha left the room and closed the door behind her.

William didn’t follow.

She thought about visiting the woman who was humming in her office, but staying here seemed unwise. William might not be strong enough to stop her, but he knew things and people who might be able to hurt her.

Daisha slipped out the door.

Someone else would feed her, someone who didn’t make her afraid. She’d find them, and then she’d decide what to do next.

Chapter 17

R
EBEKKAH WAS GRATEFUL FOR
B
YRON’S SILENCE AS THEY RODE THE
short distance to Maylene’s house. Some part of her rebelled at how easy it always was to pick up where they’d left off. At the beginning, Byron had been her guilty secret.
And Ella knew.
Rebekkah didn’t mean for anything to happen; she’d loved her stepsister.
One night. One kiss. That was it.
She shouldn’t have, and she knew it then, but it was only once.
It wouldn’t have happened again. We wouldn’t have ...
It took years before she could even talk to Byron without feeling guilty. Then one night, too many drinks and years of wanting edged her across the line she swore she wouldn’t cross. Afterward, he’d become the one addiction she couldn’t shake, but every time she let him in she thought about her sister.
Ella knew how I felt, how he felt, and she died knowing it.

The car stopped. Byron opened the door and got out.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“No, not really.” Rebekkah took a deep breath and followed him to the front porch and into her grandmother’s home.
My home.
She didn’t want to know where in the house Maylene had died, but knowing that she had died there made it hard not to wonder.
Later.
She would ask questions later—of Byron, of Sheriff McInney, of William.

Cissy sat in Maylene’s chair, and by the look on her face, she wasn’t feeling the least bit friendly. She glared fixedly at Rebekkah and Byron as they entered the room.

“Aunt Cissy,” Rebekkah murmured.

“Becky.” Cisssy held a cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the other. Her tone was scathing as she said, “I assume
he
told you.”

Rebekkah paused. This wasn’t the time or place. “Please don’t.”

“My mother was killed here in her home.
My
home ... Right there.” Cissy closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them to glare at Rebekkah. “They found her out there in the kitchen. Did he tell you that part?”

“Cecilia! Please, not now.” Daniel Greeley, one of the councilmen, had walked into the room. Rebekkah had met him a few times during her visits to Maylene, and she was grateful to see him today. He stood like a sentinel in front of Cissy.

“Oh, it’s fine for me to know? It’s okay for my daughters to know? But we have to protect
her
?” Cissy stood up so abruptly that the rocker clattered into the wall. She glared at Rebekkah. “You aren’t even
family
. You don’t need to be here. Just say you don’t want it, Rebekkah. That’s all you have to do.”

Everyone stopped talking. People were politely leaving the room or turning their backs as if they couldn’t hear the conversation. However, Cissy was loud enough that there was no way not to hear her.

“Mother.” Liz stepped up beside Cissy. “You’re upset, and—”

“If she had any morals, she’d leave.” Cissy glared at Rebekkah. “She’d let Maylene’s real family have what’s rightly theirs.”

For a moment, Rebekkah was too stunned to react. She was sickened by the idea that Cissy’s hostility was over something as petty as money and things. Had the years of anger toward Rebekkah and her mother been because of Cissy’s greed?

“Get out,” Rebekkah said softly. “Now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out.” Rebekkah stepped away from Byron, putting herself closer to Cissy, but not too close; she kept her arms at her sides to stop herself from grabbing hold of the woman and tossing her out. “I am not going to stand in Maylene’s home and have you do this. I get that you’re angry about the funeral, but you know what? I’ve watched Maylene do the
exact same thing
when you started caterwauling, but she’s not here now to tell you to stop making a spectacle of yourself.”

Both twins were now standing beside their mother. Teresa had taken Cissy’s arm in her hand in a gesture that could be either supportive or restrictive. Liz stood with her arms folded over her chest. The twins, like everyone else in the room, were silent.

Rebekkah didn’t move. “I never wanted you to hate me, and God knows I’ve tried to make nice with you, but right now, I don’t care. What I care about is that you are disrespecting Maylene in her own home. You have two choices: you can act civil, or you can get out.”

Cissy shook off Liz’s hold and stepped forward. Her voice was lower now as she said, “I’ll never bother you again if you release your claim on my mother’s bequests. Just walk away from here, Rebekkah.”

Rebekkah frowned.
Release the claim on her bequests?

“Cissy?” The sheriff walked up beside them. “How about we get a little air?”

Rebekkah didn’t stay to find out if Cissy went with him. She turned and walked into her grandmother’s kitchen. It was full of people, some familiar and some not. Her visits home weren’t that frequent, and it had been years since she lived there, but every time she came home, Maylene seemed to want her to accompany her everywhere. The result was that she knew a fair number of the Claysville residents even though she had only truly lived there a few years.

“Ladies.” Byron had followed her into the kitchen. “Would you give us a minute?”

“So, I thought that went fairly well.” Rebekkah forced an I’m-not-falling-apart expression to her face before she turned to look at him. She knew he’d see through it, but she wanted the illusion that she hadn’t already slipped into the habit of letting down her guard around him.

He snorted. “She was waiting for that.”

“I’d ask why, but I don’t think you know any better than I do.” Rebekkah looked at the kitchen floor. “The rug’s gone. My grandmother died right here, and they had to get rid of the rug because of it, didn’t they?”

“Don’t do this to yourself, not right now. ” Byron wrapped his arms around her.

“That was a yes.” Rebekkah leaned into his embrace. “I don’t understand why Cissy wants to hurt me. I don’t want to know that Maylene ...” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t want her to be dead.”

“I can’t change that.” He held her for a few moments, and when she relaxed a little, he asked, “Want me to kick Cissy’s ass?”

Rebekkah laughed a little, but the laugh didn’t completely hide the sob.

They were still standing like that when Evelyn came in a few minutes later. She was only a few years older than they were, but she’d always had a maternal streak to her. When Byron had spilled his first bike during a race out at the reservoir, it was Evelyn who hovered over him until Chris got him to promise he’d go to the doctor
and
got Ella and Rebekkah to promise to call him to wake him every forty-five minutes to make sure he wasn’t concussed. Being the sheriff’s wife and mother of four kids had made her even more of a nurturer.

“Cissy and her daughters agreed that it was probably for the best if she went home to rest a bit,” Evelyn said.

With a watery smile, Rebekkah turned to face her. “Thank you.”

Evelyn waved it off. “It wasn’t me, shug. Christopher does a good job of handling difficult women.” She lowered her voice. “He had to learn that skill with his sisters. He comes from high-strung women.”

“Well, please thank him, too.” Rebekkah gave a small laugh. When she’d lived here, the McInney family had been responsible for more than its fair share of disturbing the peace, and to hear Maylene talk, one of the reasons the town council made Chris sheriff was that he knew all the troublemakers—or was related to them.

“Everything will be okay, Rebekkah.” Evelyn pulled out a chair. “And it will be easier once you get a little food in you. Grief is exhausting, and you can’t keep up your strength on an empty stomach. Come on.” She patted the chair. “Sit.”

Obediently, Rebekkah did so.

Evelyn looked at Byron. “You go on and see if your father’s here yet. He’s hiding it well enough, but he’s having a rough time of it, too. Those two were always thick as thieves.” She made a shooing motion at Byron. “Go on. I’ll stay with her for a bit.”

Byron glanced at Rebekkah, who nodded. Leaning on Evelyn didn’t feel as dangerous as leaning on Byron. With Evelyn, there was no confusion, no conflict. She was simply being kind. Most likely, she’d do the same for every person currently in the house if they were grieving.

“I’ll be right out there,” he said.

Evelyn started fixing a plate for Rebekkah, filling the kitchen with the same sort of easy chatter that Maylene always used to when Rebekkah was upset.
Which is why she’s doing it
, Rebekkah realized
.
She smiled gratefully at Evelyn. “Thank you.”

“Shush.” Evelyn patted her hand.

Over the next hour, a number of people flowed in and out of the kitchen, telling little tidbits of stories about Maylene—a fair number of them about conversations in that very room—and generally helping Rebekkah erase the thought of her grandmother dying there.

Then Rebekkah felt a tug, as if she were being drawn along a cord she couldn’t see. She walked back into the living room, trying to make sense of the utterly unfamiliar feeling inside of her. She’d grieved before, but grief didn’t compel you to follow unseen paths.

“Bek?” Amity stepped toward her. “Rebekkah? What are you doing?”

Rebekkah ignored her and kept walking. She opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Vaguely, she realized that she should say
something
, explain herself in some way, but a pressure inside insisted that she keep moving.

Amity followed. “What are you ... Oh my gods.” She turned and ran back inside yelling, “Sheriff? Daniel? Somebody?”

A child Rebekkah didn’t know was lying on the ground. She had several long gashes in her arm, at least one tear in her shoulder, and scrapes on her legs as if she’d been dragged over the ground. The child’s eyes were closed, and her face was turned away.

In a haze, Rebekkah knelt down beside the girl and felt for a pulse. It was thready, but there. It took all of her efforts to force herself to focus on the child.

This isn’t what I am looking for.

“Oh my God.” A woman, presumably the child’s mother, sobbed the words as she shoved in front of Rebekkah and scooped the little girl into her arms. “Call an ambulance. Oh my God, Hope ...”

Sheriff McInney helped the woman over to the porch. “Let me see her.”

Then Father Ness and Lady Penelope, the local spiritualist, were both there. Evelyn was steering the crowd. Someone had come outside with a kitchen towel and was using it as a makeshift bandage on the little girl’s arm. Everything was as under control as possible, but the compulsion Rebekkah was feeling hadn’t abated.

It’s farther away now.

Rebekkah walked past the child and the people clustered in the yard. Beyond her was a small patch of woods. At the front of the woods were trees and bare ground; Maylene had always kept the front-most bit clear of underbrush. Beyond that, it grew wild.
That’s where it went.
Rebekkah searched the trees and underbrush for movement, eyes, something to help her locate the animal that did this.

Why would I
feel
an animal outside?

Byron came up beside her. “The EMTs are on the way. Evelyn called them the minute she heard Amity. The station is close enough that they should be here in a couple minutes.” He paused. “Bek? Are you okay?”

She kept watching the shadows in front of her.

“Do you see something?”

“No,” she said.

“Did
you see anything?” Byron looked out into the small wooded area. “Cougar? Dog of some sort?”

“No, I didn’t see anything.” She felt like her voice wasn’t entirely her own, as if the sound of the words echoed around her.

For several moments, they both stood silently. Then the tug that had pulled Rebekkah outside released all at once. She rubbed her hands up her arms, trying to chase away the prickled feeling on her skin.

“There were a couple other children out here. Are they all here? I don’t know a lot of these people. I’d think their parents would check, but ... I don’t know.” She kept her voice low, as much in hopes of not spooking anything that waited in the trees as not to alarm anyone who overheard her. “Can you check?”

“Sure. Let me go ask Chris. Are you—”

“I need a minute,” she told him.

Obviously, the shock of the past two days had hit her.
I was in California yesterday.
Today she was at her grandmother’s funeral breakfast staring into the woods in some strange attempt to find an animal that had attacked a child. Grief wasn’t always the same, and if she was acting irrationally, it was to be expected.
That didn’t feel like grief.
She wasn’t sure what else it could be, though—or if she wanted to know. What she wanted was to kick everyone out, go upstairs, grab a shotgun, and sit on the porch watching for whatever big cat or feral dog had bitten the child.