caught by the cops than anything else. As they gathered at the front gate once the last glow of twilight had faded, she insisted that one of them be on the lookout for patrol cars; the rest could watch, drinking their Cokes from McDonalds spiked with E&J brandy. The only other tricky thing would be taking care not to make it seem too easy—there was a fine line, she knew, between looking brave and looking like you enjoyed doing freaky things just a little too much. Jerry Dorpinghouse had taken such delight in eating dead bugs the last time this bunch got together that he could expect to find cockroaches Scotch-taped to his locker with notes (“Snack for you, Jerry”) from now until graduation.
But it was easy for Nola to take the dare. As she walked through the gates among the stones, she knew these were remains. Nothing here had died here. That had occurred elsewhere, and even if she didn’t know any of these people, how they lived or how they died, she knew what happened each time one of these deaths transpired. When she judged she’d gone far enough in to be really in but not so far that her darers at the gate couldn’t see her, she picked a random grave. Fredrick M. Garten, 1913-1978. Standing before the stone doing the Macarena, she offered a silent apology. It was hard not to, even though she knew Fredrick Garten was not there in the ground, or hovering in the sky above her, or wandering around the crosses and angels moaning like a specter in the movies. The apology, she knew, was more for herself than anyone living or dead. It was necessary to feel contrite, not because she was desecrating the dead but because she was doing something utterly ridiculous in order to be accepted. Fredrick Garten was not there, hadn’t been anywhere for a while, but Nola figured he’d probably gone through the same kind of thing while he was alive. Most everyone did, especially in towns like Redfort. Walking back to the gate, seeing the figures there ahead of her and wondering how they’d react, she knew the dead couldn’t hurt you nearly as much as the living.
She recalled all of this now as she drove home in a daze—one of those drives, she reflected as she suddenly found herself in her apartment parking lot, where you’re on autopilot and have no idea how you managed not to cause an accident. When she shut off the ignition, she immediately opened the door. No sitting around waiting for someone else to come around.
Her cell phone rang before she could get out, and she laughed out loud.
It was a local number, not one she recognized but clearly not a telemarketer either. Curiosity got the better of her. It could very well be Grayson again, after all, with yet more to overload her brain. She took the call.
“It’s Lynette.” She didn’t add a last name, though she didn’t need to. Nola knew only one person named Lynette, even if she would never have expected a call from her.
“Um . . . yes?”
“I need to talk to you about Culver Bryant. It’s important, really important, and I can only talk to you .”
5
Lynette Veesy worked at Tryst, a nightclub in the warehouse district. It was a place Nola had heard about but never been to, instinctively knowing it would not be her scene. The post-dinner crowd would be too yuppie and the late-night crowd would make her feel too obviously like a 27-year-old transcriptionist wearing her coolest outfit and trying to look like she always stayed up this late. Pretty easy to figure out which crowd Culver Bryant had been in when he’d met Lynette.
Of course, it occurred to Nola that this might not be the smartest thing she could do, that if Lynette was involved in murder or kidnapping, she could be walking into a trap. Just thinking those words, though— walking into a trap —sounded ludicrous. Still, she took precautions, telling Lynette that she was leaving a note on her desk at the police station saying when she expected to be back. If
But it was easy for Nola to take the dare. As she walked through the gates among the stones, she knew these were remains. Nothing here had died here. That had occurred elsewhere, and even if she didn’t know any of these people, how they lived or how they died, she knew what happened each time one of these deaths transpired. When she judged she’d gone far enough in to be really in but not so far that her darers at the gate couldn’t see her, she picked a random grave. Fredrick M. Garten, 1913-1978. Standing before the stone doing the Macarena, she offered a silent apology. It was hard not to, even though she knew Fredrick Garten was not there in the ground, or hovering in the sky above her, or wandering around the crosses and angels moaning like a specter in the movies. The apology, she knew, was more for herself than anyone living or dead. It was necessary to feel contrite, not because she was desecrating the dead but because she was doing something utterly ridiculous in order to be accepted. Fredrick Garten was not there, hadn’t been anywhere for a while, but Nola figured he’d probably gone through the same kind of thing while he was alive. Most everyone did, especially in towns like Redfort. Walking back to the gate, seeing the figures there ahead of her and wondering how they’d react, she knew the dead couldn’t hurt you nearly as much as the living.
She recalled all of this now as she drove home in a daze—one of those drives, she reflected as she suddenly found herself in her apartment parking lot, where you’re on autopilot and have no idea how you managed not to cause an accident. When she shut off the ignition, she immediately opened the door. No sitting around waiting for someone else to come around.
Her cell phone rang before she could get out, and she laughed out loud.
It was a local number, not one she recognized but clearly not a telemarketer either. Curiosity got the better of her. It could very well be Grayson again, after all, with yet more to overload her brain. She took the call.
“It’s Lynette.” She didn’t add a last name, though she didn’t need to. Nola knew only one person named Lynette, even if she would never have expected a call from her.
“Um . . . yes?”
“I need to talk to you about Culver Bryant. It’s important, really important, and I can only talk to you .”
5
Lynette Veesy worked at Tryst, a nightclub in the warehouse district. It was a place Nola had heard about but never been to, instinctively knowing it would not be her scene. The post-dinner crowd would be too yuppie and the late-night crowd would make her feel too obviously like a 27-year-old transcriptionist wearing her coolest outfit and trying to look like she always stayed up this late. Pretty easy to figure out which crowd Culver Bryant had been in when he’d met Lynette.
Of course, it occurred to Nola that this might not be the smartest thing she could do, that if Lynette was involved in murder or kidnapping, she could be walking into a trap. Just thinking those words, though— walking into a trap —sounded ludicrous. Still, she took precautions, telling Lynette that she was leaving a note on her desk at the police station saying when she expected to be back. If
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