Perfect Grave

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A t the moment Sister Anne Braxton’s coffin was being lowered into the earth of Snohomish County, Henry Wade was miles away in Seattle.

Driving toward his demons.

A mournful Johnny Cash ballad kept him company, soothing his unease as his pickup truck headed west on 50th.

He had to do this.

He turned off the street and entered one of the city’s largest cemeteries. It was peaceful but the serenity did not allay his fear. Henry dreaded returning to this place. He hadn’t set foot in it since the day they buried his partner.

Vernon Pearce

After Vern’s death he’d slipped deeper into the abyss. In the time after it happened, the shrinks told Henry he had to confront the issue.

You must look your worst fear square in the eye.

Henry ignored their advice.

And he’d paid a price

The day Sally walked out, he gave up, let go, and wrapped himself in the lie of being alive. On the worst nights, he knew the truth. He wasn’t working at the brewery. He was entombed there. That was the word for it, Henry thought, easing his pickup by a mausoleum and traveling deeper into the cemetery.

Hell, it got so bad and so lonely back then that he nearly pulled Jason into the darkness with him. But Jason was strong enough to pull Henry back into the light. Jason had never given up on him. Jason stood by him. Forced him to get sober. Forced him to reconnect with the living, which led to his PI job with Don Krofton’s agency.

Henry owed his life to his son.

But Krofton’s new gun policy had ripped open old wounds and Henry knew he had to do something about it, or this time it would be the end.

He was getting close now.

He knew the way. Even after all these years. Even though the taller trees cast larger shadows, Henry never forgot. He wheeled by the plum trees, the mountain white pines, and a pair of buttonwoods that now reached some seventy-five feet, his tires rolling on the earthen path that was cushioned like casket lining.

He came to a stop.

When Johnny Cash’s ballad ended, Henry switched off his engine and looked out at the headstones.

Why don’t you admit it? Go on, admit it.

He craved a drink right now. Craved it as a whirlwind of emotions and images swirled around him. The gun, Vern, the blood of wasted lives.

No.

No, he shouldn’t be here.

Henry was startled by the sudden ringing of his cell phone. It was Michelle from the agency. He didn’t answer, letting her call go to his voice mail, like the others. Relieved by the distraction, he let a minute pass, then decided to check his messages.

The first was from Michelle at the agency. It had come earlier this morning.

“Hello, Henry, are you coming in today? Will Murphy called asking on the status of his workers’ comp case. He’s got new data. Give me a ring.”

The next message was from Don.

“Krofton. Good work on qualifying. Just heard from Webb at the range. Listen, Henry, got an insurance agent who was looking for you. Wants your help with a claim. Employee theft or something. Kid’s name is Ethan, or some shit like that. I never heard of him. I gave him your number. Expect a call.”

The next one was from Jason.

“Hey, Dad, I need your help on this nun murder. Give me a call.”

And finally, Michelle again.

“Henry, Susan Gorman called from over at Seagriff’s, wants to chat about that infidelity case. Where are you, by the way?”

That was it. All right. Stop this right now.

He was procrastinating. Ignoring the issue. He switched off his phone, put both hands on the wheel, and squeezed until his knuckles turned as white as the sheet covering a victim in the morgue.

As white as the fear on the face of…

Get out and do this. It’s time for battle. Henry glanced at the ocean of grave markers, swallowed hard, then stepped from his truck and started walking.

With each step he remembered Vern’s face. The sound of the record scratching, the smell of his house, the look in his eyes, the blur of the gun, the explosion.

The blood.

Oh, God, the blood.

Henry kept walking until he came to the headstone of Seattle Police Officer Vernon Pearce. He stood over it for a long time, feeling numb as he searched the graveyard for inspiration.

“Vern, I’m sorry, it’s taken me this long. It’s been hard, buddy. So damn hard. We both died that day, but my son brought me back to life. You know that I always wanted to make detective. I just never expected that it would be like this. That it would cost so much. And now here I am, licensed to carry a gun. Again.”

Henry’s attention went from Vern Pearce’s headstone to a distant corner of the burial ground. This battle was far from over.

In fact, it was just beginning.

Other ghosts were still out there pulling him back to that day.

The day they got the call.

They’d come upon the suspect fleeing with a weapon in his hand. They had him dead to rights right there on the street. It’s happening so fast.

Too damn fast.

Henry’s heart is pounding a blood rush in his ears. He can’t think. They draw on him, screaming.

Drop your weapon! Drop your goddamn weapon!

Henry blinks and now the guy’s got a hostage.

Oh Jesus, Vern, he’s got a goddamn hostage.

Eyes wide with fear are locked on his.

Are pleading with him.

Don’t let me die!

This is everything in a heartbeat.

This is all you are and all you will be.

This is your life.

Right here. Right now.

Henry’s finger is on the trigger.

Shoot. Don’t shoot.

Don’t let me die!