Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Tonic D. P. Lyle

“What you think he does with them?” Eddie Whitt asked his cousin.

Floyd Robinson rode shotgun in Eddie’s old ’49 Ford, black, dented, primer-coated left front fender, a jagged crack across the windshield. The tires weren’t none too good neither. He twisted in his seat. “You ask me that ever time.”

They had parked beneath a large oak tree, middle of a grassy field, protected by a small hillock from McFee Road, a rutted, asphalt ribbon that wound through trees and rich farmland. Far enough from the town of Pine Creek to avoid any unwanted attention. It was just past midnight, the sky black, dotted with stars, the moon a sliver, like a fingernail clipping.

Eddie’s hands rested on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead, cigarette dangling from his lip. It bobbed as he spoke. “And you never have no thoughts on the subject,” he said.

“’Cause I don’t care.” Floyd gave him a glance. “Long as he pays, I don’t give a big old hoo-ha what he does.”

“Don’t get all pissy. I was just wondering.”

“Maybe you should wonder about something else. Like what he’s going to say when he sees this one.”

Eddie took a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “Won’t be happy.”

“Nope.”

“And I bet we don’t get two-fifty for it,” Eddie said.

A pulse of light flashed over the tree. Then another. Eddie glanced over his shoulder. A pair of headlight beams bounced across the crest of the hillock and wound down toward them.

“Here he comes,” Eddie said.

They climbed out as a brand new 1954 Chevy Bel Air jerked to a stop behind the Ford. Cream colored with a dark green top, white wall tires. Classy. The kind that told the world the driver had a wad of cash in his pocket.

Antoine Briscoe stepped out. Tall, lanky, black pants, white shirt, long black duster, what he always wore. “What you got for me?” His voice deep, smooth, almost lazy. A twinge of annoyance buried in there. Like he had better things to do. Or maybe didn’t care too much for Eddie and Floyd. Which was true. Hell, a rickety, old, blind coon dog could see that.

Eddie popped the trunk. Antoine reached inside and pulled back the canvas. He tugged a flashlight from his duster’s pocket, flicked it on, and aimed it inside. He shook his head, his long dark hair swaying just above his shoulders. “This ain’t fresh.”

“It’s the best we could come up with,” Eddie said.

Antoine flapped the covering back in place. “Won’t do.” He looked from Eddie to Floyd. “Won’t do at all.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Eddie said.

Antoine smiled. Not friendly, more a grimace. “And who might that be?”

“You know we don’t know,” Floyd said.

“And you never will.” He nodded toward the trunk. “A hundred bucks.”

Eddie twisted his neck, trying to work out a gathering crick. “Our agreement was two-fifty.”

“Our agreement was for fresh product. Not this shit.”

Eddie saw Floyd’s jaw flex. Knew the sign. His cousin had a temper and when it started to rise, his jaw muscles would pump up. Get all big like a squirrel with a mess of hickory nuts stuffed in its cheeks. He laid a hand on Floyd’s arm. “That’ll do.”

Antoine smiled. “Thought it might.” He reached in his pants’ pocket and pulled out a thick fold of bills, gripped by a silver clip. He tugged them free, peeled off a pair of fifties, and handed them over. He returned the clipped money to his pocket and walked to the rear of the Chevy, his duster flapping with each step.

He opened the trunk. And waited. Offering no help. As if it was beneath him. Or, as Eddie suspected, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

The cousins awkwardly transported the bundle from one trunk to the other and folded it inside.

“There you go,” Floyd said.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie said.

Antoine offered a smirk. “You can ask.”

“What’s he do with them?”

“Don’t see that that’s any of your concern.” He took a step forward, looking down on the cousins. “Who he is and what he does is not for you to know.” He closed the trunk with a sharp click. “When can we expect another one?”

“When we get the opportunity,” Eddie said. “Ain’t like they grow on trees.”

Antoine stared at him. “Make it soon. Demand is up and we’re running low.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe expand your search area.”

“We’ll look into that,” Floyd said.

“Do. Otherwise we’ll have to find another source.” Antoine walked to the driver’s side door, pulled it open. “And make it fresh.” He climbed in, cranked the engine, wheeled a U-turn, and drove away. A faintly visible dust trail blurred his taillights as he disappeared over the hill.

“I don’t like him,” Floyd said.

“He don’t seem to like us much neither.”

“What the heck does ‘messed with’ mean?” Sheriff Amos Dugan asked Travis Sutton, his best officer. Dugan glanced at the bedside clock. Five a.m.

Amos Dugan was the sheriff of Lee County. A pretty easy job most days since his jurisdiction was small, consisting of assorted farms and two small towns; Pine Creek, the county seat where his office was located, and Pine Valley, eight miles east over a few wrinkles in the farmland. That was it. Unless you wanted to count Harper’s Crossroads, which he didn’t. Not as a bona fide town. Only sixteen folks lived over there on old man Harper’s land. Each resident a direct descendant. Except for the two boys who’d married Harper’s daughters and gave him a passel of grandkids.

But, this day wasn’t kicking off all that well. Not just Travis’s call but last night’s dinner over at Clay’s Diner. It had seemed greasier than usual and he’d eaten too much, and too fast, his stomach now complaining. Had most of the night, making his sleep fitful at best.

Travis laid it out. “Just that. Someone messed with a grave over at the cemetery. Carl called me this morning. Maybe an hour ago. You know how he’s always up before dawn and hankering to get to work. Anyway, he got over to the cemetery right early, even for him, and found someone had been digging around at Wilbert Fleming’s grave. I drove over and had a look-see.”

“And?”

“Sure enough. Looked like the soil had been disturbed.”

“Of course it was disturbed. He was just buried yesterday.”

“Yeah, but Carl said it’d been messed with.”

“There you go again. Did someone just root around or did they dig up Wilbert? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, nothing like that. Didn’t seem so anyway. Just looked like the dirt mound wasn’t like it should be.”

“According to who?”

“Carl. He should know. He’s the one what dug the grave after all.”

“Maybe dogs or something like that?” Dugan asked.

“I suspect it coulda been but it didn’t really look that way. Carl wondered if he should dig it up and see if Wilbert’s missing.”

Dugan considered that but didn’t much like the idea. “I’d have to get a warrant. Or Martha’s permission.” He sighed. “And I damn sure don’t want to go over there this time of day and ask her if we can dig her husband up because someone might’ve stolen him.” He stifled a yawn. “Why would someone do that in the first place?”

“Beats me.”

“I’d bet on dogs,” Dugan said. “Or maybe those feral pigs that’ve been roaming around causing mischief lately.”

“What should I tell Carl?” Travis asked.

“Tell him not right now. But that I’m thinking on it.”

Eddie was of the opinion that luck had always followed him. Floyd, too, for that matter. But mostly him. Hooking up with Antoine, and his mysterious boss, was an example. Easy money. But right now, he couldn’t come up with a plan. The local newspaper obituaries offered no leads. Maybe they’d have to spread out a little bit. Check out a couple of the neighboring counties.

It was two days after their last meeting with Antoine and he and Floyd sat on stools at McGill’s, their favorite bar. The clock had just rolled past midnight. The crowd had thinned a bit, but since it was Friday, or in actual fact Saturday now, still plenty of folks hanging around — some shooting pool, others simply drinking and swapping lies.

Then it happened. That stroke of luck that always seemed to come at the right time. From two guys a few stools down. He thought maybe he’d seen them there before, but couldn’t be sure. What caught his ear was one of them saying, “You going to Jerry’s visitation this afternoon?”

Eddie nudged Floyd. Nodded toward the men.

One was older, maybe fifty, heavy, and wore a blue work shirt; the other younger, skinnier, gray shirt, the one that asked the question.

Blue shirt: “Yeah. Four o’clock? Right?”

Gray shirt: “Yep. Over at Grace Funeral Home. Gloria and me’ll be there.”

Blue shirt: “What time’s the funeral Sunday?”

Gray shirt: “Noon. Over at Pine Valley Cemetery.”

Blue shirt: “Closed casket, I assume.”

Gray shirt, nodding: “I hear his truck hit a tree. Tore his head all to hell.”

Blue shirt: “Well, at least it was quick. That’s a blessing.”

Gray shirt: “He was only twenty-eight.”

Blue shirt: “A pure-dee tragedy’s what it is. He was a fine boy.”

“Pardon,” Eddie said, looking past his cousin. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you was saying.” Blue shirt looked at him. “He was only twenty-eight?”

“Sure was.”

“What was his name?” Eddie asked.

Blue shirt hesitated, and then said, “Jerry Crabtree.”

“From Pine Valley?”

“Yep. Why?”

“He a baseball player?” Eddie asked. “In high school?”

“Sure was. A good one.”

Eddie nodded toward Floyd. “We played against him.”

“You did?”

“He was a couple of years ahead of us but we remember him. First base. Could really hit.”

“That’s him.” Gray shirt jumping in. “It’s the rain what did it. I hear tell he lost control of his truck.”

“That’s awful,” Eddie said, shaking his head, doing his best to sound concerned. “Maybe we’ll come to the funeral.”

Blue shirt nodded. “I suspect his family would like that.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Floyd asked.

They had paid the bill and were now walking down the street toward their car.

“I got me an idea,” Eddie said.

“What might that be?”

Eddie climbed behind the wheel and waited for Floyd to get in. “Better than all that digging.”

“What on God’s green earth are you jabbering about?”

Eddie pulled from the curb. “Let me noodle on it for a minute.”

It was just over twenty-four hours later when they drove into Pine Valley.

The last couple hours had been busy. First a stop by McGill’s for a beer and a chat with Wayne, the bartender. The only way they had to reach Antoine. Eddie motioned Wayne over. Eddie leaned on the bar, looked around, made sure no one was listening. “Need to get a message to Antoine.”

“About what?”

“Tell him we got something for him. We’ll meet him around two a.m. Usual place.”

Wayne nodded, cracked open a couple of long-necks and slid them toward the cousins. “On the house. Be back in a minute.”

Wayne disappeared down the hallway, toward his office.

“This better work,” Floyd said. “If we bring Antoine out in the middle of the night and we ain’t got nothing, he’s gonna be pissed.”

“It’ll work.”

Wayne returned. “All set.”

Next stop, Pine Valley. Eight miles east along a winding, two-lane, asphalt county road. They saw only two cars, both zipping by the other way. Before heading into town, Eddie guided the car off onto a dirt road and then across a field where he parked near a stand of pines.

Eddie stepped out. “This’ll work.”

Floyd removed a pair of saws from the backseat and they went at it. Took half an hour to take the tree down and cut the trunk into five pieces, each about thirty pounds, figuring the sections all told weighed about as much as old Jerry. Close enough. They lugged them to the trunk and lifted them inside.

“Let’s get this done,” Floyd said.

Pine Valley wasn’t much of a town and this time of night the streets were dark and deserted, only a couple of the bars showing any signs of life. Along the road that marked the north edge of the business district, if you could call it that, sat Grace Funeral Home. A wooded lot that backed up to a wad of trees, its front lawn and driveway sloping down toward the road. To the left of the low brick building sprawled the cemetery, dotted with a few trees and sprinkled with white headstones that seemed almost ghostly in the dark. They drove by, giving it the once-over before circling back. No lights on inside, no cars in the lot. Eddie switched off the headlamps, scooted up the drive, and whipped around behind the structure.

Getting in was easy. Floyd used a screwdriver to lever open the lock. In less than half a minute, they stepped inside, the odor of formaldehyde and death greeting them.

Eddie hated funeral homes. Never been in one, unless there was a visitation in progress. Those were all lit up and filled with people. Not like now where it was dark and spooky. The stillness was smothering, the echoes of their footsteps on the concrete floor unnerving.

“This place is creepy,” Floyd said.

“That it is,” Eddie said. “Let’s get at it and get the hell out of here.”

They found the cold storage area behind a metal door that grated and squeaked as they slid it open. Inside, the chilled air held a nauseating stench.

“Jesus,” Floyd said. “How does anyone do this for a living?”

Inside were two caskets, each supported by a metal stand. One open and empty, the other closed. It was pewter colored and the lid heavy. Floyd directed his flashlight beam inside.

A corpse. Covered with a white cloth. Eddie peeled it back. They jumped in unison. Jerry Crabtree’s body was wrapped in similar cloth, his exposed face a brownish, reddish mass of flesh.

Eddie felt his stomach lurch. He struggled not to vomit. “Good lord.” He stepped back. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” Floyd said. “Think of it as two hundred and fifty bucks.”

Eddie took a couple of deep breaths, settling things. He nodded.

Twenty minutes later they had removed the body, placed the five tree sections inside, closed the casket all nice and tight, and ferried Jerry’s corpse to the trunk.

“What if they take a peek inside before the funeral?” Floyd asked.

“Don’t see why they would.”

“But if they do? What then?”

“No way they can connect this to us,” Eddie said.

“We better hope not.”

Eddie got in the car and sat behind the wheel. Sweat frosted his face and his stomach continued its protest.

“You okay?” Floyd asked as he climbed in the passenger seat.

“Mostly.”

“Let’s see what you got,” Antoine said.

They stood near the Ford’s trunk beneath the tree where they always made such exchanges. Eddie popped open the lid. Antoine peeled back the dingy canvas covering the corpse. He gave a start.

“What is this?” Antoine asked. “What the hell’d you do?”

“We didn’t do nothing,” Floyd said.

“He hit a tree,” Eddie added. “All we did was snatch him from the funeral home.”

Antoine looked at them. “You did what?”

“We figured it was better than digging him up tomorrow night,” Eddie said. “And he’s a day fresher.”

Antoine shook his head. “Don’t you think they’ll miss him? At the funeral?”

Eddie explained the closed casket service, the logs they had slipped inside. He closed with, “Clean and simple.”

Antoine smiled. Sort of. “That’s actually pretty clever.” He looked back at the corpse. “Not sure he can use this though.”

“Sure he can. The rest of him’s fine. Only twenty-eight and just forty-eight hours dead.”

Antoine hesitated, and then said, “Okay, get it moved.”

Again, he stood back and let Floyd and Eddie do the work. Once the transfer was completed, Antoine handed them the two-fifty, climbed in his car, and drove away.

Eddie followed him down the drive to the road. When Antoine turned right toward Pine Creek, Eddie went left. In the rearview mirror, he watched until Antoine’s taillights disappeared around a curve, then swung onto the gravel shoulder and pulled a quick U-turn.

“What’re you doing?” Floyd asked.

“I want to know where he’s going. Who he’s delivering the body to.”

“You think that’s wise? He might see us.”

“Not if we’re careful.”

Eddie raced back up the county highway, until he saw Antoine’s taillights disappear over a rise in the road. He flicked off the headlamps.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Floyd said. “And don’t run into nothing.”

Tailing Antoine was a snap. His was the only car on the road and once in town they could easily stay a couple of blocks back and follow his every turn. Just south of downtown, he climbed a steep drive to a massive antebellum home that possessed views over the town and the entire valley.

Eddie pulled to the side of the road. “What the hell?”

“Ain’t that Dr. Bell’s house?” Floyd asked.

“Sure is.”

Eddie watched Antoine’s car slide around the side of the mansion and toward the large white barn behind. The car came to a stop and the taillights went dark.

“What on earth does Dr. Bell need with a corpse?” Floyd asked.

Eddie thought about that but couldn’t come up with a reasonable idea. “Let’s go grab a beer and think on it.”

“I ain’t sure this is a good idea,” Floyd said.

“Me neither,” Eddie said. “But we got to know what’s what.”

“We do?”

“Ain’t you curious?”

“Course I am. But I don’t want to get caught neither.”

“It’s three in the morning. Ain’t nobody up and about.” Eddie motioned toward the mansion. “Not a light nowhere.”

Over a few beers at Floyd’s place they had decided that a look inside Dr. Bell’s barn was in order. Took Eddie a while to convince Floyd but finally he gave in. He always did. They parked in McGill’s lot, walked the two blocks to the edge of town, crossed the county road, and eased into the trees a couple of hundred yards from the Bell Mansion. They worked their way to the back side of the property, hopped the fence, and now stood near the barn’s corner, the rear of the mansion in full view. Bell’s Caddy sat near the back door.

“Now what?” Floyd asked.

“Find a way inside.”

That proved easy. The large double doors were closed but the lock hung loosely and unlatched in the metal loop. The door squeaked softly as Floyd pushed it open, then closed, once they were inside. The air seemed musty and laced with a slightly sweet, almost medicinal odor.

Eddie swept the interior with his flashlight. One large room, no loft, a series of tables lined up cross-ways in the center. Open bins filled with plastic barrels and stacks of cardboard boxes, alternated with tall lockers along the left wall. To the right, a massive industrial mixer sat near a low gas stove topped with four metallic stock pots. Along the far wall, shelves held rows of Dr. Bell’s Body Tonic.

“What the hell?” Eddie said.

“You don’t think...?” Floyd fell silent as if he couldn’t finish his thought.

Eddie walked among the tables. A few bone fragments and what looked like strips of leather lay on one. An electric meat grinder and two stainless steel blenders on another. A black plastic jar labeled “Bone Meal” caught Eddie’s eye. He lifted it, shook it, spun the lid off. Floyd directed his flashlight beam inside. A fine, grayish-white powder.

“What the hell is all this?” Floyd asked.

Eddie did a slow three-sixty before responding. “Looks to me like old Doc Bell is grinding up bodies and putting them in his tonic.”

Dr. Bell’s Body Tonic was famous. The drug store downtown had an entire shelf devoted to the various mixtures. Each touted a specific health benefit. Printed right on the label in big, red letters. Some made your brain better; others built muscles or cleaned up your liver or kidneys. Still others were for fevers or bowel regularity or to build stronger bones. Dr. Bell’s stuff could fix your whole damn body.

“Your mom used to give us that shit,” Floyd said.

“I know.” Eddie scratched an ear.

“What are we going to do?” Floyd asked.

“Ain’t much we can do. I mean, we been stealing bodies. Not like we can tell another living soul.”

“Exactly.”

The voice came from behind them. The cousins spun that way. Dr. Thomas Bell and Antoine stood in the doorway. Eddie hadn’t even heard it open.

“We was just curious,” Eddie said.

“Like the cat?” Bell said. “Didn’t work out well for him, did it?”

“We don’t mean no harm,” Floyd said. “And we ain’t going to say a word. We was just...” His voice trailed off.

“Just what?” Bell said.

Eddie stared at him, racking his brain for something to say, something that would get them out of this. He came up empty.

“Looks like we have ourselves a couple of fresh ones,” Antoine said.

Eddie now noticed the gun Antoine held in his hand. “Look, we don’t want no problems.”

“Probably should’ve thought of that before you came snooping around,” Antoine said.

Bell laid a hand on Antoine’s arm. He waved his other toward the tables. “What do you think of all this?”

“I don’t rightly know what to think,” Eddie said. “This ain’t what I expected.”

Bell nodded. “It’s really quite simple. My product, my tonic, is better than all the others because it contains what the body needs. The right mixture of proteins and minerals for good health.”

“’Cause it contains body parts?” Eddie asked.

Bell smiled. “See, you do understand.”

Eddie glanced at the jar of ground bones again. “I suppose.”

“The only question is, what are you going to do?” Bell said. “Now that you possess this knowledge.”

Eddie glanced at Floyd, getting a blank stare in return. “Ain’t much we could do. Or would, for that matter.” He shuffled his feet. “I mean the folks’re already dead and gone. Ain’t no harm in using them to make others better, I suspect. It’s not like the dead would know.”

Bell clapped his hands together. “That’s exactly right. Death is always tragic and sad, but if we can help make others better, the loss is not in vain.”

Eddie nodded.

“So can I be assured you two are okay with this?”

Floyd shrugged. “Ain’t no skin off my nose.”

“Mine neither,” Eddie added.

“Good.” Bell held their gaze for a moment. “The one you brought us tonight is exactly what I need. Young, muscular, and fairly fresh.”

“What about his face being all stove in?” Eddie asked.

“No concern. You see, I dry them out. Sort of like making jerky. Then grind them up. The bones, too. Only need a tiny amount to make each bottle of tonic.” He smiled. “So the only question I have is, how many can you supply?”

Eddie looked at him. “I guess that depends on how many folks pass. And how soon we can get to them.”

Bell nodded. “Maybe expand your horizons to other counties.”

“We’re already thinking on that. It’d be a might trickier since we don’t know those areas as well.”

“And that’s why I’m offering you a raise. Double. How does that sound?”

“Good.” Eddie nodded. “Sounds real good.”

“You see,” Bell said, “I sell in four states right now but I see an opportunity to move into half a dozen others. Which requires growing the operation. And, in turn, more raw materials.”

“Bodies?” Floyd asked.

“As many more as you can locate.”

It was Sunday morning. Sheriff Amos Dugan sat in his front porch rocker, reading the newspaper, and finishing off a cup of coffee. He had another hour to kill before getting dressed for church. That’s when a car pulled into his drive.

“Amos,” Bill Grace said as he climbed out and walked toward the porch. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning.”

Dugan knew Grace, the funeral director over in Pine Valley. Fact was, they went way back. To grammar school.

“No problem, Bill.” He folded the paper. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Millie just made it fresh.”

“Another time.” Grace lowered himself into the adjacent rocker.

“What can I do for you?” Dugan asked.

“Got me a situation.” Grace shook his head. “One hell of a situation.”

“Sounds like I ain’t gonna like it.”

“Jerry Crabtree’s body’s gone missing.”

Dugan rocked forward and stared at his friend. “Want to explain that?”

“His momma stopped by this morning. Early. Brought Jerry’s Bible for me to slip in the casket.” He stared off toward the peach tree in the yard, took a breath, and went on. “She’d of put it in herself, at the visitation yesterday, but it’s a closed casket deal. The funeral’s today. She wanted her boy buried with it.”

“And he’s gone?”

Grace nodded. “Someone replaced the body with chunks of tree trunk.”

“Good lord.” Dugan let out a sigh. “Sometime during the night?”

“Looks that way. I saw some scratching on the back door lock so I suspect that’s the way they got in.”

“What would someone want with Jerry’s body?”

“Ain’t got no idea.”

“I’m here to tell you,” Dugan said, “the world don’t make no sense sometimes.” He rubbed his chin. “You tell his momma yet?”

“Nope. Wanted to talk with you first. But she’s my next stop.”

Dugan stood, his knees protesting with a few creaks and pops. “I’ll get dressed and tell Martha I ain’t going to make church today. Then I’ll meet you over at your funeral home. Say about an hour?”

“Sounds good.”

Dugan watched his friend drive away, letting the news settle. This changed everything. The disturbed dirt over at Wilbert Fleming’s grave took on a whole new meaning. Opening it up could no longer be avoided. If someone stole one body, why not two? He suddenly felt all of his sixty-two years.

Tuesday night around midnight found Eddie and Floyd at McGill’s. Sitting on barstools, knocking back a few beers. They’d heard a few folks talking about the theft of Jerry Crabtree’s body and someone digging up Wilbert Fleming, God rest their souls, but those conversations were short lived and quickly moved on to the weather, hunting, fishing, football. The usual topics.

Eddie was feeling good about things. Sure Jerry and Wilbert going missing was creating a bit of a stir, but now three days later, he felt Floyd and him were in the clear.

That’s when Antoine walked in. He didn’t say a word, merely nodded toward the back as he walked by. Eddie and Floyd slid off their stools and followed him down the hall that led to the restrooms, past them, and out the rear door to the gravel parking lot over near the trash cans. Antoine turned, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at them.

“So much for your brilliant idea,” Antoine said.

“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. “It worked.”

“Did it?”

“Well now, we weren’t thinking they’d ever know, but even if they do there’s no way it comes back to us.” He tapped his cousin’s shoulder. “Or to you and Dr. Bell.”

“Not yet.”

“If they was going to, they already would of. Don’t you think?”

“I think Dr. Bell ain’t happy. I think I ain’t happy. I think you two shouldn’t think so much. You’re not very good at it.”

“It was a good plan,” Eddie said. “How’d we know they was going to look inside? I mean, it being closed and all.”

“But they did.”

“It still ain’t gonna cause us no grief.”

“You better hope not.” Antoine’s eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles gave a couple of pumps. “No more stealing from funeral homes. Dig them up like you’re supposed to. No one will look after they’re buried.”

Eddie nodded.

“And no more big ideas lest you run them by me first.”

Thursday evening, Eddie and Floyd were again at McGill’s. It was nearing two a.m., closing time, and only half a dozen people remained. A few stools down sat a visitor. Skinny guy from Maryland, on his way to New Orleans, stopping for the night. At least, that’s what he jawed to Wayne the bartender about. He’d had more than a few beers and wobbled, even when planted firmly on a barstool.

“You sure about this?” Floyd asked, speaking just loud enough for Eddie to hear.

“Seems easy enough,” Eddie said.

“Should we talk to Antoine first?”

“Screw him. He don’t own us.”

“But he’s the guy who pays,” Floyd said.

“Bell does that.”

“Not directly.”

“Maybe it’s time to cut out the middleman.”

“Bell won’t like that,” Floyd said.

Eddie cut his eyes toward his cousin. “He just might. One less mouth to feed. And we’ll get more money.” He nodded toward the visitor, leaned near Floyd. “Especially if we can bring him a real fresh one.”

“I don’t know. I ain’t sure I like this.”

Eddie smiled. “You never like what I think up. Until you dwell on it a spell. Then you see the wisdom. Way it always is.” Another smile. “Besides, ain’t nobody going to miss him.”

“Someone will.”

Eddie shrugged. “Not no one around here.”

The guy dug in his pocket and pulled out a few wadded bills. “How much I owe you?” he asked.

“Make it seven even,” Wayne said.

The man laid a five and three ones on the bar. “There’s a dollar for you.” He slid off the stool and shuffled toward the door.

Eddie paid their tab. Once on the street, they saw the guy. Half a block away, weaving his way down the sidewalk. The street was otherwise deserted. They caught up to him as he reached his car and struggled to unlock the door.

“Hey buddy,” Eddie said. “You okay?”

The guy looked up, grinned. “If I can get this door unlocked I sure will be.”

“Don’t look like you’re in any condition to drive. Can we help you? Where you going?”

The guy straightened up, wavered, caught the car roof to maintain his balance. “Bartender said there was a motel just down the road.”

“There is,” Eddie said. “Pretty nice one. Why don’t we take you there?”

He seemed to consider that. “Can’t leave my car here.”

“No problem. My cousin’ll drive you there and I’ll follow along. That way you’ll have your car in the morning.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. We’d be obliged to.”

Seven-thirty in the morning found Sheriff Amos Dugan behind his desk, staring at the nervous young couple before him. Robbie Peters, seventeen, high school junior, football player, and Betty Jane Marks, a sophomore who played clarinet in the band.

“What can I do for you youngsters?” Dugan asked.

Robbie glanced at Betty Jane. “We saw something the other night.”

“Something like what?”

“It was last Saturday night. We’d gone to a movie over in Pine Valley. Then we...” again, he looked at Betty Jane.

“Just relax, son,” Dugan said. “Tell me what you came here to say.”

“We went parking for a while. Over in the cemetery.”

Dugan laughed. “Me and the missus used to do that when we was your age.”

That seemed to relax the couple.

“We like it because it’s quiet,” Robbie said.

Dugan nodded, laughed again. “It is that.”

Robbie smiled. “Anyway, you know it’s right next to the funeral home. Grace’s.” Dugan nodded so he continued. “We saw a car come up and park behind it.”

Dugan sat straight up. “Go ahead on.”

“Two guys went in the back. They had flashlights and seemed to be carrying stuff in and out for the better part of a half hour. Seemed odd.”

“Any idea what they was up to?”

Robbie shook his head. “We was too far away to see good. And we were afraid to leave. Didn’t want no one knowing we was there.” He glanced at Betty Jane again. “She missed her curfew ’cause we had to wait until they left.”

“And my daddy wasn’t happy,” she said.

Dugan nodded and smiled. “Parents can be that way.” He looked back at Robbie. “I take it you couldn’t identify these guys?”

“Like I said, we was a good piece away and it was dark.”

“Their car? What kind was it?”

Robbie smiled. “That I know. I like cars. It was a forty-nine Ford. Black.”

“And it had that brown stuff on the fender,” Betty Jane said.

“Primer?” Dugan asked.

“Yeah,” Robbie answered.

“If it was dark how come you could see that?”

“When they left, they circled around by the cemetery. They was only maybe fifty feet from us. I was afraid they’d see us but they didn’t. Anyway, we saw the fender then.”

After the kids left, Dugan picked up the phone and buzzed his secretary, out front at the reception desk. “Clarice, you know where Travis is?”

“Sure do. He’s standing right here, drinking coffee and looking like an idiot.”

Dugan loved Clarice. Her irreverent sense of humor kept him and Travis on their toes. “Well, send the idiot back here.”

Travis walked in. “What’s up?”

Dugan told him the story.

“I know that car,” Travis said. “Belongs to Eddie Whitt.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure he’s got a forty-nine Ford with a stove-in left front fender.”

Dugan nodded, then stood. “Maybe we should go have a talk with him.”

“You thinking Eddie stole Jerry’s body?”

“Looks that way.” Dugan shook his head. “Means he’s probably the one what dug up Wilbert Fleming, too.”

Eddie turned up Dr. Bells’ drive.

“I still think we should’ve talked to Antoine first.”

“Don’t you see his car? Up there by the barn?”

“Course I do. I just meant maybe we should’ve met him out at the usual place. Showing up here, Dr. Bell might not like it.”

“He will when he sees what we got.”

Eddie parked next to Antoine’s Chevy. One of the large double barn doors was cracked open a couple of feet so they stepped inside. Dr. Bell and Antoine stood by one of the tables, mixing a pot of liquid with a large wooden paddle. It smelled almost like stew. Almost.

“Morning,” Eddie said.

The two men whirled toward them, surprise on their faces.

“What the hell you doing here?” Antoine asked.

“Got a new one for you,” Eddie said.

Antoine walked toward them, the scowl on his face deepening. “Didn’t I tell you to never come here again? We got a place to do this. A private place.”

Eddie nodded, smiled. “This one’s so fresh I thought we’d get it to you right soon.”

Dr. Bell approached. “Please tell me you didn’t steal it from a funeral home again.”

“Nope. He’s just some guy. Passing through town.”

“What happened to him?” Bell asked.

“I think he choked on something.”

“What does that mean?”

Eddie laughed. “Let’s just say he had trouble breathing.”

Dugan and Travis scoured the town for Eddie’s car. A visit to his house and then a quick stop by his momma’s place turned up nothing. They then zig-zagged all over but saw no sign of the car. As they circled the county road on the edge of town, Dugan said, “Not sure where else to look.”

“What about there?” Travis said. He pointed up the hillside toward Dr. Bell’s mansion.

Dugan glanced that way. Eddie’s car sat near the barn behind and to the left of the house. “Good eyes.”

“Damn fine police work’s what it was.” Travis smiled.

“What the hell’s he doing at Dr. Bell’s place?”

“Don’t know. But that’s Antoine’s car up there, too.”

“Antoine Briscoe?”

“The one and only,” Travis said.

Antoine was no stranger to Dugan. He’d arrested him more than once. Drinking and fighting mostly.

“Interesting group of folks,” Dugan said.

“That’d be my assessment.”

Dugan slowed, turned up the drive. “Maybe we should go have ourselves a chat.”

He parked near the left front of the house, out of any sightline from the barn, and stepped out. He opened up the back door, grabbed his twelve-gauge LC Smith double-barreled shotgun. He cracked it open, saw the two 4–0 buckshot shells inside, and snapped it closed.

“You think you’ll need that?” Travis asked.

“Can’t hurt to have it.”

With the stranger’s body stretched out on the table, Dr. Bell cut away the clothing and began his examination. Head to foot. Eddie watched, wondering just what the hell he was doing. Bell seemed to focus on the dead guy’s neck. Finally, he straightened and looked at the cousins.

“This man didn’t choke. He was strangled.”

“So?” Eddie asked.

“So? That’s all you have to say?” Bell’s face reddened, his jaw pulsed.

“You wanted fresh ones. We got you one. And it ain’t even been embalmed or nothing.”

Eddie felt the heat from Bell’s glare.

“It’s one thing to dig up dead bodies, even steal them from funeral homes, but this? Are you two mentally defective?”

Antoine’s gun appeared, leveled at the cousins. Eddie took a step back, raising his hands.

“I was you, I’d put that gun down.”

The voice came from behind him. Eddie whirled around. Sheriff Dugan and his sidekick Travis Sutton stood in the doorway, Dugan’s double-barrel aimed at the group.

“Set it on the floor, Antoine,” Dugan said. “And give it a kick over this way.”

Antoine did, the gun skittering across the floor. Travis picked it up.

Dugan’s gaze swept the room, the four men, the corpse, the stacked cases of Dr. Bell’s Tonic. He gave a slow nod. “Looks like we all’re gonna need to engage in some sort of discussion.”

“I can explain,” Bell said.

“Got my ears on,” Dugan said.

Bell stood there, silently. Seemed to Eddie that he was figuring what to say. Probably running through his options but not finding a good one. Neither could Eddie. Not one that would explain away the dead guy on the table and all the bones and jars of tissue and organs waiting to be dealt with.

“What’s the matter?” Travis asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

Bell sighed, then spelled it out. The corpse, the tonics, the entire operation.

Dugan’s gaze hardened, but as Bell went on his face seemed to relax. When Bell finished his story, Dugan gave a slight nod, did a spin around the table, along the shelves, examining everything.

“And this is how you make all your money?” Dugan asked.

Bell nodded.

“How much we talking here?”

Bell shrugged. “You’ve seen my home.” He waved a hand. “And the Caddy I drive.”

Dugan propped the shotgun over one arm, the muzzle angled at the floor. “Why don’t we go inside, grab some coffee, and you tell me more about how all this works?”