Page 2 of Carry Me to My Grave
A gust rattled the windows. They were closed, but the house was old enough that a cold breeze slid through, stirring the curtain. He stared at its frayed edges. Stepped toward it. Violet reached for his hand, but he waved her away and drew the curtain open. A cloud had blotted out the moonlight, so he narrowed his eyes to peer into the dark.
A figure lurked beneath that willow tree, partly veiled by drooping branches. The orange tip of a cigarette burned in the darkness. Malcolm and Violet had been sharing this vigil, waiting with Maggie as the lights in her soul flickered out, one after another, and now it seemed the watcher had joined their vigil.
It wouldn’t be long.
Malcolm watched the wraith-thin figure beneath the tree. Though he stood behind the drooping willow branches, he didn’t seem to have any interest in being inconspicuous. He simply stood and smoked and watched the house.
Waiting, Malcolm thought.
The clock on the wall announced the time with three gentle chimes. The man’s cigarette flared in the dark, faintly illuminating a narrow, gray face with a sharp nose and a stark-white goatee.
“I feel like we’re in a film,” Violet said. “One of those with the icy blond girl and the hard-nosed detective.”
Malcolm forced a smile. Violet loved going to the movies. He didn’t point out that maybe she loved those movies with slinky blonds with lots of diamonds and bad luck with dangerous men because she’d escaped a life not much different from that.
“In Elkhart, and with our family’s luck, it’s much more likely he’s a bill collector.”
Malcolm had been working in construction, but when his mother’s health had taken a turn, he’d begun to miss the occasionalday, and his employer hadn’t liked that unpredictability. He’d been fired, and now the bills were piling up.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Violet reminded him.
So, he’s not a bill collector.
“You really have no idea who it could be?” she asked, peering over his shoulder and out the window.
“This time of night, I don’t much care. The son of a bitch is fraying my nerves.”
He started for the bedroom door.
“Maggie asked you to stay with her,” Violet said.
Malcolm glanced at his mother. Her breathing remained shallow and ragged. If she died in the few minutes he’d be out of the room, perhaps he would carry some guilt over it, but he was helpless at her bedside and had nowhere to vent his grief and frustration. He had a feeling the man under the willow tree might provide him an opportunity.
He strode down the little hall to the front door. As he turned the knob, it blew inward, banging into his chest and knee, but his forward momentum could not be slowed.
The door swung open behind him as he stormed along the flagstone path. Crisp autumn leaves danced and swirled on the grass. By the time he reached the pavement, he regretted not putting on a coat. November had teeth, and it could bite.
He marched across the road, hands flexing the way they always had in Korea when they didn’t have a weapon in them. The war had been over for more than three years, but it still echoed in his bones.
This time, the watcher didn’t vanish.
“Mister,” Malcolm said as he reached the willow tree. “You’d better explain yourself.”
A gust of wind shook the willow branches, giving him a better look at the man. Malcolm blinked in surprise as he realized what he stared at was no human face, but a mask, apparently donned in the minutes since he’d looked out the window. The mask was elaborate, the head of a raven, made of feathers and plaster. Theblack beak protruded, but Malcolm realized it was only the top of the beak. An illusion, like every decent mask. The man remained still, so silent that in his blurry threeAMbrain, Malcolm wondered if this might be some kind of scarecrow and not a man at all.
The man lifted the cigarette up beneath his beak and took a puff.
“Go back inside,” the raven said, his voice low and even, eminently reasonable. The words slithered out from his lips wreathed in cigarette smoke that the wind stole away.
Malcolm stared. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The raven made a rasping noise that might have been laughter. “It’s almost over, Malcolm. After all this time, the end is coming. It might relieve you to know they don’t hold their pain againstyou. In fact, if I were you, I’d go inside, say one last farewell, and just walk away. You don’t have to be here for what comes next.”
Malcolm used both hands to part the willow’s veil and stepped closer to the man. Inches from that black beak.
“I’m gonna give you one last chance to explain why you’re spending the night spying on my house. If we owe you money, come back in a couple of days, goddamn it. My mother’s not well.”
The raven took another puff. When he blew out the smoke, his breath smelled so rancid that Malcolm took a step back, turning his head away.
