Читать книгу Topsail Island - Paul Boardman - Страница 10

Wendell had never before visited Charleston and he was immediately impressed by the old world architecture. The city had an aura that matched the tradition of southern hospitality. After a light lunch he set up base in a clean but small motel, run by an elderly couple who preferred watching endless hours of soap operas, rather than the comings and goings of their guests. He took advantage of the weekly rate and after unpacking his laptop spent the afternoon making a list of local banks. Remembering the story about Blackbeard’s blockade of the harbor he decided to drive down in that direction and try to find a restaurant with a patio, where he could enjoy the sunset while having supper.

The following morning, showered, shaved and wearing a business suit with an open necked shirt he began his search for a lending institution with enough foresight to realize that recessions didn’t last forever. By noon he was disappointed but by four o’clock he was downright discouraged. The second day of interviews resulted in identical response. Each time he presented his business plan it was handed back to him with someone telling him that the bank was not accepting real estate development loan applications at that time. Some suggested he return in six months, others didn’t even offer that much encouragement.

The third and fourth day yielded the same results and Wendell was moving his five o’clock cocktail in a little bar, walking distance from his motel, up to four o’clock.

On his fifth night, after tossing and turning for two straight hours, he snapped awake. He realized that despite the cool temperatures, he was sweating. One thought kept repeating itself over and over like an old fashioned record player playing a scratched record that skipped and repeated itself.

You have to think outside the box.

It was a common enough expression but not one he had ever used. So why was it stuck in his craw now. He didn’t even like the expression but some inner man kept repeating that mantra until he finally drifted back to sleep. The next morning was Saturday. When he awoke he slipped on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and was sitting outside the Barnes and Noble store, drinking coffee, when it opened. He bought half a dozen books on marketing and maintaining positive mental attitude before returning to his motel room where he began to read. A few books, he discarded immediately. The fifth book he picked up caught his attention. It was entitled “Guerilla Marketing.”

You have to think outside the box.

The book seriously encouraged his mantra. He continued to read it throughout the day, even taking it to a Subway where he ate a late lunch and later to a Bojangles chicken restaurant where he ate supper. He fell asleep reading and picked up the book again in the early morning hours, finishing it just before dawn. He slept again until nearly noon.

Sunday afternoon was hot and sultry. Paying no attention to his appearance, he donned an old pair of shorts and a favorite tee shirt and walked the mile to the harbor section. The place was busy with tourists and he strolled around until he found a patio with a view of the harbor where he plunked himself down at a table and ordered a beer and a Reuben sandwich. He watched the boats in the harbor and the girls who walked by, not necessarily in that order. The day passed uneventfully and he finally wandered back to his motel where he watched TV until finally falling asleep.

At three o’clock in the morning he woke with a start half realizing he had let out a stifled scream. Nightmares were something he was unaccustomed to. He quickly categorized what he had just experienced as nothing more than a bad dream. He wondered what had caused the experience he could now barely remember and tried to focus his memory on the vague sequence. They made no sense at all. Just a jumble of weird images and events. He climbed out of bed and walked on steady legs to the bathroom where he urinated and spent a minute or two washing his hands and face. Staring into the mirror he muttered a statement he had heard somewhere; The garbage dump of the brain. That’s all dreams were. The mind throwing out the garbage.

Yet there was something else. An intangible thought lingered. He focused on something he had read about the subconscious. The mind never really stopped working. It continued to try solving problems during periods of sleep or on the verge of sleep and wakefulness. That was a concept he had experienced and was more familiar with.

The previous week had been filled with rejection and failure. Repeating the same process was surely not the answer. His business plan had been rejected out of hand. He needed a new idea. Something powerful enough to break society’s current train of thought and make them want … really want … his product. His subdivision had to be unique. It had to have a twist that no other piece of property could lay claim to.

He wandered back to bed but spent the next hour staring at the darkened ceiling. An idea was beginning to form. Outlandish? Yes. Illegal? Also yes, though it really harmed no one. Eventually he fell asleep and this time slept soundly.

When he awoke, he quickly made a pot of coffee using the ten dollar coffee maker the motel supplied. He cleared the writing desk in the room of all his business plans, stashing the bound copies he had brought with him out of sight in a dresser drawer. His desk held nothing but his laptop, a notepad and pen, and his coffee. Like his mind, his desk was free of clutter. Perhaps that thing about dreams taking out the garbage really had some merit.

In 1715, Charleston, South Carolina, was one of the busiest seaports in the Americas. That was all the information Wendell Forbes needed to know before firing up his computer and beginning a search of cemeteries that dated back three centuries. When he had compiled a suitable list he climbed into his Nissan Pathfinder and programmed their addresses into his GPS. His search took him all around the city, however, upon visiting them, he was grossly disappointed. They were all immaculately neat, scrupulously well maintained, many of them tourist attractions for history buffs. He spread his search further afield into surrounding towns and continued to do the same thing, every day for two full weeks. His results left him tired and depressed. Although he worked hard doing research and drove countless miles checking out cemeteries, he was losing faith in his plan. He had started seriously looking forward to the end of each day when he usually wandered down the road a couple of blocks to the bar that served sandwiches and beer.

Late one morning, after another week of searching out in the midst of farmland, he discovered a rundown family plot on a tiny hill. It was surrounded by twenty acres of tall pine trees. The grass had not been mown in several months and the surrounding bush was thick with undergrowth. It was at least a hundred yards from the quiet, paved road. He parked on the shoulder of the road in the middle of the afternoon and trekked in, carrying a satchel with a couple of granola bars, a bottle of water and an expensive digital camera with high quality, interchangeable lenses. He also carried a notepad and a sketchbook.

He scanned the graves, looking for names and dates, chiseled in the soft white stone. He surmised that he was looking at three generations of settlers. Although many of the markings were worn away by three hundred years of wind and rain, he was able to discern a few names and dates. He realized that he was looking at the markers of an eight year old, a ten year old, and two eleven year old children, all of whom had died the same year. Influenza, smallpox, or fire? he thought sadly to himself. He took a few moments to think about what life had been like, three hundred years ago. It had certainly been tougher. That was a time when Survival had not yet been trumped by Prosperity. He continued to study the graves, searching for a timeline that revealed a partial family history. There it was. The father had been the last to die having reached the ripe old age of forty-five. Laid to rest in 1761. His wife, who had predeceased him by a year, was five years younger. A tough life.

Forbes looked around, shot a couple of photos of the grave markers, drank half a bottle of water and walked back to his truck, studying the path for recent footprints or tire tracks. He saw a few beer cans at the edge of the bush but none looked fresh. The ruts in the road had coarse grass growing in them. He was fairly certain that no one had driven by while he was viewing the tombstones and was convinced that no one was currently watching. Regardless, as he drove away he studied the rear view mirror for over a mile. He then proceeded another mile, turned around in a farm path and retraced his route, watching for anyone at all. Young kids on bicycles or old farmers with straw hats. Anyone who might have seen him. He passed the graveyard almost without seeing the overgrown path into it but realizing his mistake, quickly leaned forward and pressed the trip recorder on his odometer. Five miles later he turned onto a busier road.

On the way back to the motel he bought a six-pack of beer and an adventure DVD. It had taken much longer than he would have guessed but the first part of his self-imposed mission was completed.

The following morning he drove out the highway to the rows of box stores and pulled into a Lowes parking lot. Parking well away from the door, wearing a baseball cap and sun glasses he grabbed a cart and headed for the landscaping department where he purchased two shovels, one with a short handle and another with a longer one, a broad pick, an axe, a bag of quick set cement, two small tarps and a dozen varieties of potted flowers. Then, as an afterthought at the cash register he picked up two cases of drinking water. He paid for his purchases with cash. Declining to have one of the yardmen help him load, he pushed his cart across the parking lot and piled everything into the rear of the SUV on top of one of his new tarps.

The flowers were the last thing he loaded. He poked his finger into the soil in the pots. It was wet. These plants were probably sprayed down every hour to keep them looking fresh. His windows were heavily tinted but the flowers would probably end up half cooked before the afternoon was over. He made a mental note to water them in a couple of hours and run the AC if the vehicle got too hot.

He stopped by another box store and bought work boots, mosquito repellant, a long sleeve shirt, gloves, a cheap, camo-colored ball cap and a new pair of blue jeans. Then going to the grocery department he bought a half dozen varieties of junk food and six large Red Bull energy drinks. His third stop was at a hunting and fishing store where he bought a LED head-light and a lantern that deflected light down and around, not up. Making sure he had enough spare batteries for his needs, he moved on to his final stop on his shopping spree, a luggage store in a mall where he bought the biggest suitcase he could find. He hoped he would need it.

By the time he was finished in the last store he swore to himself that he would never again subject himself to the busy crowds of petulant shoppers. Or to the friendly, though insincere, sales clerks. Wendell was not an enthusiastic shopper. To him, every purchase was a grudge purchase.

The only uplifting factor was that the shopping experience had left him fed up enough that he thought he could have a successful afternoon nap. And that might help him a lot, later on that night.

X X X X X

He timed his return to the graveyard to be there at eleven o’clock. A hundred yards before the entrance, he reached under the seat and flipped a switch that killed all his lights including brake and back-up lights. Inching forward up the path he pulled deep into the grove of pines. Beneath the pines it was hopelessly dark. Going by memory alone, he felt his way through the pines until he finally emerged into the cleared meadow that was the graveyard. Gratefully he shut off the engine. Snapping the cap on one of his Red Bulls, he spent the next ten minutes sitting and waiting. When he was confident that no one had seen him arrive and that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he put on the head-light he had purchased at the hunting store and cautiously opened the driver’s door. None of the interior lights came on which pleased him. Wiring a kill switch into the lighting circuit was a precaution he had taken at the motel. He moved around to the rear door and flicked the button for his head-light. It lit up the area directly where he was looking, leaving his hands free. He extracted one of the tarps which he placed carefully beside the grave he had selected. The night was very still but he secured the corners of the tarp with four small rocks.

Then he began to dig. The ground began as a thin layer of topsoil that turned almost immediately into a sandy loam. He was careful to separate the different layers into two distinct piles, putting the topsoil on the bare ground and the sub-soil on his tarp. When he began to sweat, he also began to attract insects and took a quick break to douse himself liberally with mosquito repellant. His hole was only a foot deep and he knew that digging would get more difficult as he dug deeper. Two and a half hours later, having only rested once for another drink and a candy bar, his shovel hit different material. He began scraping carefully and confirmed the fact that he had hit wood. He felt a moment of elation that was quickly dashed as his foot penetrated the ancient planks. He shuddered at the thought that he had just stepped into a coffin and admitted that he was glad that he had purchased work boots that protected his ankles. Moving his feet to the outer edges of the hole he scraped away the remaining layer of dirt. Then, working on his hands and knees he pulled away a few pieces of rotting boards and found himself staring at a skeleton.

As he had lain in bed in the crumby motel room, planning this adventure, he had imagined what his feelings might be when this moment occurred. Would he throw up? Would he feel elated? Would he scramble out of the hole in terror? What he hadn’t imagined was the scientific coolness he now felt, free of any revulsion. He studied the bones, and poked at the soft, crumbly soil that encompassed them. Fine grains of sand, mixed with black peat from the rotting wood. He pulled off a few more pieces of wood that crumbled in his hands. He had exposed roughly two thirds of the skeleton before he climbed out of the hole and retrieved his camera. Keeping as low as he could, to avoid the flash penetrating the surrounding pines, he snapped a series of pictures, recording the placement of the bones.

Placing the open suitcase on the opposite side of the grave to the tarp, he began to carefully exhume the skeleton, thankful that he had purchased gloves. When he had finished with the bones he ran his hand through the loose soil at the bottom of the pit, searching for some memento that might have been buried with the corpse. His efforts were rewarded by finding a small piece of iron that he thought at first might have been a belt buckle. Then his hand touched something much more solid. He brushed away the soil with the fingers of his gloves. The shape was odd. Then he remembered a shape he had seen in a museum and again in countless movies and books.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled out loud. For the first time that night, he felt a pang of guilt as he began to extract the object from the earth.

“Probably will be. I certainly think grave robbing qualifies as an act for which good ol’ Saint Peter might consider signing a rejection slip,” said a voice from above.

Wendell Forbes jerked his head and looked up. He saw a bright light and panicked momentarily before he realized he was looking at a man’s shadow, backlit by the moon. From Wendell’s perspective at the bottom of a grave looking up, the man above looked huge. He tried to focus but his thoughts were bouncing off the walls of the grave like pop-corn in a glass pot. Who was this? …. a relative or neighbor? …. the police? …. a ghost? … God? …. The image looked more like the devil himself.

Still in a crouch at the bottom of the grave, his hand tightened around the object he had come in contact with. When he stood he did it stiffly but at the last second straightened and pointed it at the image, backlit by the half moon.

“I suspect mine is a bit more reliable,” said the voice calmly.

Wendell looked down at the earth encrusted, black powder pistol with it’s odd shaped hand grip. He felt foolish for even bothering to point it at someone.

“This one’s probably worth more,” Wendell snorted, disgusted at himself.

“You may have a point there, but I’ll keep mine pointed at you anyway. My guess is that you came here to steal something. Please enlighten me.”

Wendell weighed his options and realized he had none.

“I came for the skeleton,” he admitted.

“Really. What exactly do you want with a skeleton?”

“Medical research,” lied Wendell.

“Interesting. But a bit unorthodox, don’t you think?”

“I needed an old one because of the DNA.” Wendell had always been told that a half lie was less detectable than an outright lie.

“Well, far be it from me to interrupt such a commendable, scientific study.” The sarcasm drooled off the stranger’s tongue.

The stranger pushed with his toe against the suitcase that had been spread out open at the edge of the grave.

“Just put that hardware in the suitcase, along with the rest of your souvenirs.”

It was un-nervy how cool this person was but Forbes used that coolness to regain his own composure. There seemed to be few options, so Wendell Forbes complied with the orders from the man with the gun.

The stranger moved back a few paces and sat on the tailgate of the Nissan holding his semi-automatic handgun loosely, not aiming it directly at Forbes. He sat silently, asking no more questions. The silence was eerie. Wendell had no idea what the stranger’s next move might be. There was no possibility of him scrambling out of the grave and disarming his assailant. Finally the stranger waved the gun to indicate that Wendell could climb out of the grave.

“Sit down, right there … but sit on your hands.”

Wendell did as instructed. The stranger glanced over his shoulder into the back of the truck at the flowers and equipment.

“Take a few minutes to rest. Dirty work, grave robbing.” The stranger reached back and pulled a bottle of water from the case. “Here, have a bottle of water.” He tossed it toward Wendell who scrambled to catch it but was unable to free his hands in time. It bounced off his chest. “Just sit on one hand, then,” he relented. “I see you brought flowers.”

Wendell was thinking that he would probably end up in the grave he had just dug. He wondered if the stranger would bother to bury him and decorate it or just leave him there, uncovered. He realized how silly and erratic his thoughts were and wondered if he was hallucinating. He decided that he was exhausted and probably a bit giddy.

The two men sat, saying nothing for a good five minutes while Wendell drank the water with one hand as he continued to sit on the other. He tried to wiggle his fingers but it was no use. His hand had fallen asleep under his weight. Finally, the stranger spoke.

“I assume you came here with a plan. It isn’t likely that there is anything of value in that grave and you seem more interested in the skeleton than anything else. I find that intriguing. So please, enlighten me.”

“You’re right, there is nothing of value. I just needed a skeleton. Thought I’d dig up one and then refill the grave and plant a few flowers. When someone eventually finds the ground disturbed they will assume I planted a few perennials over an old ancestor.”

“Not bad thinking,” mused the stranger. “I think that might work.” He sat perfectly still, considering his next move. “Tell you what. Continue on. Pretend I’m not even here. I’ll watch. We can talk when you are done.”

“That’s it? Continue on? Pretend you don’t exist?” The proposition was surreal.

“Sure. Pretend if you want. Just don’t forget that I have a gun. By the way, I already removed yours from under the tarp. We can talk, if you like.”

“I’ll be damned,” stammered Forbes, thoroughly confused.

“Stop saying that. It’s a bit odd, coming from you. Furthermore, I don’t think you even believe it yourself. I doubt many devout Christians would entertain grave robbing.”

Wendell Forbes stood, stretched a bit. His body was aching, now.

“Do you mind if I take a quick feel around for any more relics?”

“Of course not. Be thorough,” said the stranger, but he leveled his gun as Forbes reached to pick up the shovel.

Wendell turned back to the stranger with at least a pretense of bravado. “Now it’s my turn to tell you not to worry. They say ‘never go into a gun fight with a knife.’ I’m sure as shit not going to go into one with a shovel.”

“Lift up your shirt tail with your finger tips and turn around slowly.”

“I’m un-armed. My thirty-eight was digging into my back so I put it under the corner of the tarp. You already found that.”

“Do it anyway. Then you can have your shovel.”

Forbes lifted his shirt and turned around slowly.

“Fine, fine. I can see you are clean. I checked out the small of your back while you were picking up bones. Just double checking. Probably best you empty your pockets, though.”

At that Forbes winced. There was a bulge in his front pocket. It contained over five thousand dollars in cash packaged in a Ziplock plastic bag. He began to place it on the ground but the stranger demanded that he toss it his way.

“That’s quite a bankroll,” he said admiringly. “Well it doesn’t matter. Time’s flying. Back to work.”

As Forbes climbed back into the hole and scratched around with a shovel he watched the stranger count the money and stuff it into his own pocket. He found nothing but sand and a few more bones. Satisfied, he asked for permission to climb out and begin backfilling the grave. That part of the job went much more easily. There wasn’t even much earth left over because from time to time Forbes tramped it down and the cavity where the wooden coffin had lain was now full of earth. The stranger said very little but they each had a Red Bull and a candy bar, part way through the job.

When the tarp was bare Forbes shook the loose soil over the hole and folded the tarp. Then he retrieved the plants from the back of the SUV and spread the topsoil around them. The tombstone had begun to lean toward the grave and Wendell had been forced to roll it backwards. Now, using half a case of bottled water he poured a slurry of quick drying cement and propped the tombstone up straight. Then he covered the wet cement with earth. Finally he sprinkled a bottle of water on each of the plants. When he was finished, the grave looked just the way he had described it to the stranger. It was as if some well-meaning person had tended to the grave of an ancestor.

“It’s already four o’clock. You did a fine job. Leave everything here and come with me. I’m going to give you a glass of whisky and fifteen minutes to tell me exactly why you were digging up that grave before I decide what I’m going to do.”

“Where are we going?” asked Forbes, nervously, as the stranger pointed him toward the woods.

“To my house. Where else?”

The stranger’s “house” was approximately a hundred yards away, hidden from the road and the old family plot, by the forest of pine trees.

The “house” was a twenty-five foot camping trailer, sitting level on trailer jacks. It was only a few years old and had been maintained like it was brand new. The tires looked like they had no more than a few hundred miles on them and dangled two inches off the ground. The stranger shone a flashlight around the yard. Everything was neat and clean. The site had probably been the location of someone’s home at some time. There was a well nearby, decorated with a little roof and bucket. An electrical wire and a pipe ran over top of the ground between the well and the trailer. A utility pole held an old meter and a yard lamp. The yard light was turned off. Near the door of the trailer rested an outdoor patio set and a stainless steel barbeque.

“Damned old house burned down about five years ago. Best thing that ever happened to me,” explained the stranger. “I bought this trailer with all brand new appliances, bulldozed the old place away and made myself a place ten times more comfortable than the old dump. Go on inside, I’ll get you a drink. Truth is you look like you need one.”

On that score, Wendell Forbes agreed. Suddenly he felt good. He was almost beginning to like the old codger. All that he had left to do was get out of there and the second part of his mission would be complete. He hoped the five thousand dollars the stranger now had in his pocket would be sufficient to buy his release. On that score, he couldn’t have been more wrong.