posted on April 5, 2010 in Caught Dead, Features | 37 Comments to Read | Print

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“A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.”
—George Moore

. . .

“Is there supposed to be a car in the graveyard?”

My book, Hermeneutics for the Twenty-First Century, hit the floor with a thud. I knew I should have chosen a mystery to keep me awake.

Hamlet, my fifty-pound mutt, growled. He wasn’t accustomed to strangers wandering the house at night. And waking to find a bald man in plaid pajamas hovering over us was strange.

“It’s just Dad,” I said and snapped my fingers. Hamlet quieted.

My brother had warned me. “Alzheimer’s makes Dad unpredictable, especially after dark.”

As if on cue, the old clock on the bookshelf chimed midnight. “I thought you were asleep,” I said as I climbed out of the La-Z-Boy. This was my first night with Dad and when I’d tucked him into bed at nine, I’d prayed he would stay there until dawn, at least.

“How can I sleep when people keep driving through the cemetery?” He shuffled his considerable weight from one bare foot to the other. The manse was a drafty old house and despite the worn carpet on the floor, his feet must have been cold.

I shoved my fingers through my hair. When I accepted the call to St. Andrew’s—my first pastorate but my second career—I thought living in the house behind the church would be convenient. Being next to a century-old graveyard seemed the right recipe for quiet neighbors.

And moving back to Lynngate meant I could help my older brother look after Dad. Like now. Nick and family were Christmassing in Florida and Dad and I were here in western New York. Hunkered down in the middle of the latest winter storm.

“Where’s your friend?” Dad asked, apparently forgetting the car in the cemetery. “Is he gone already?”

I shook my head. “Never came.”

Nick claimed that lately Dad forgot half of what he heard. I felt foolishly pleased Dad had remembered this small thing.

I said, “Maybe Justin decided not to risk the drive,” though I knew from experience that Justin was an expert driver who could handle any road conditions. “Maybe he changed his mind and decided whatever it was could wait until morning.”

Even as I said this, I doubted my own words. Justin had sounded insistent when he called at eight-thirty. “I need to see you.”

“Tonight?” The weatherman had predicted freezing rain. I could already hear ice pellets pinging against the front room window.

“It’s important.” Justin’s voice had sounded hollow, as though he was calling from his car. “One quick stop and I’ll be there in half an hour, tops.”

I’d glanced at Dad slouched in the La-Z-Boy supposedly watching TV, his snores keeping rhythm with the wind outside.

“Fine,” I’d said to Justin. “I’ll be waiting.”

Now I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled through the call history. “Maybe he called while I was dozing and I missed it.”

But there were no messages. I dialled Justin’s number and listened until his message service kicked in. “Justin, it’s midnight.” I said to his machine. “Where are you?”

“Maybe he’s the guy parked in the cemetery,” Dad said.

Taking Dad’s elbow, I steered him back to his room. “No one’s parked in the cemetery. You couldn’t get a car in there unless you dropped it by parachute.”

He shook off my hand. “I know a car in a cemetery when I see one. Look for yourself.”

Before he came downstairs, Dad must have pushed up the inner pane of his bedroom window and flipped open the slot at the base of the ice-coated storm window. Ignoring the frigid wind blasting through the narrow opening, he crouched down, his chin propped on the sill, and peered outside. “I’m sure it wasn’t there when I went to bed,” he said.

I tried hoisting him to his feet.

“Maybe we should call the tow truck. And the ambulance.”

“Dad, people can’t call for emergency vehicles when there’s no emergency.”

His brow furrowed with annoyance. “Just because your brother treats me like a mindless idiot doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Nick does not treat you like an idiot.” Our gazes locked. “Fine, let me see.”

Dad wiggled out of the way and I moved into position. Hamlet pressed against my side. Looking through the opening was like gazing through an empty paper tube. I could see a narrow band, beyond the manse’s cedar hedge to the cemetery that surrounded St. Andrew’s Church. It was after midnight and the church Christmas lights were out. Street lights didn’t reach into the cemetery and the yard should have been dark.

It wasn’t, though. I shifted, trying to get a better look. Sure enough there was a car in the cemetery, its headlights pointing at an odd angle. As I pondered what was wrong with the lights, motion caught my attention. Someone was running through the cemetery. A man or woman—I couldn’t tell which—stumbled between the gravestones, slipping and sliding on the icy ground. Likely a drunk driver.

I almost sighed with relief. “You’re right,” I said. “There’s a car in the cemetery. How about you climb back into bed and I’ll call for back-up.”

Dad loved it when I used my former-cop lingo. And knowing he’d been vindicated, he grinned like a kid. “Call now. I want to hear what you say.”

I dialled 911 and talked to the harried operator. Apparently ours wasn’t the first motor vehicle accident of the night. All available patrol cars were already out. She’d slot my report at the bottom of the list, unless an ambulance was needed.

I squinted through the window opening. “I don’t think so. I saw someone, I assume the driver, running away. Probably drunk, but in one piece.”

“Are you able to check the scene personally?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad, eyes shining, lay in bed with the covers clutched under his chin. His enormous feet stuck out beyond the end of the bed.

“I suppose.” I tapped Dad’s toes and pointed toward the door with my chin. Checking the car in the cemetery meant taking him with me. Hamlet’s tail thumped against my leg. My dog too.

“I’ll notify you if I find anything urgent,” I told the 911 operator. And to Dad, “Okay, let’s go check the car.”

Dad was down the stairs in a flash, shoving his bare feet into his galoshes as he donned his overcoat, hat and gloves.

I grabbed the flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen. My actions disturbed the fat orange cat sleeping atop my microwave. My brother’s cat, which I was also babysitting, showed her fangs. Although this time she didn’t try to bite me.

I slipped on my own shoes, jacket and knitted cap, and led our troop out the door. Down the steps and around the house I followed the faded light-path my flashlight cast. Had it snowed before the freezing rain, walking would have been easier. I could have punched through the icy crust to safer footing in the powder beneath. But there was no cushioning layer over the frozen earth and walking was treacherous.

Dad came next. His massive hand gripped my right shoulder and every time he or I slipped, his grip tightened excruciatingly.

Hamlet took the rear, watering every shadowed bush, tree and grave marker we passed.

The manse’s backyard was dark, the kind of dark where you can’t see your hand in front of your face. I smacked the flashlight, hoping to brighten its beam as we pressed through the cedar hedge that encircled the manse. Once we broke through the evergreen boundary, I could see the car’s outline in the cemetery. Its crooked headlights shone on a row of weathered monuments. Their narrow shadows pointed toward the church like bony fingers reaching for a second chance at life.

I shook my head, dispelling the ridiculous notion.

We approached the car, a dark, Lexus SUV. Justin drove a Lexus. My chest tightened.

“I’m sure I saw the driver running away.” My voice echoed through the graveyard. “If it had been Justin, he would have come straight to the manse. Whoever drove this car ran in the opposite direction.”

Dad said nothing.

I held my breath as we skirted the passenger’s side—looking, never touching. The car had rolled. I could tell that much from the busted windows and crumpled roof before my flashlight died.

Ice rain drummed against the metal of the car, the gravestones, and the ground. It clung to my lashes and chilled me to the bone. Dad, wearing flannel pajamas beneath his overcoat, shivered. He kept his hand on my shoulder and, once our eyes re-adjusted, stepped where I stepped. Hamlet ambled off with his nose to the ground.

The driver’s side damage was hard to make out. The door hung open; in the darkness the car appeared empty. I reached inside, groping for what I couldn’t see. Thankfully I found nothing untoward.

It looked like my initial assessment had been correct. I had no idea who the driver was, or how he’d managed to flip his car into the middle of St. Andrew’s graveyard, but he had apparently survived to run away and drink and drive another day.

No need to call the 911 operator and order that ambulance.

“Come on, Dad. Let’s call it a night.” I whistled for Hamlet.

Twenty, thirty feet away I head him whimper. I’d never heard him make that sound before and it raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

Setting Dad’s hand on the closest gravestone, I ordered, “Stay here,” and hurried toward Hamlet’s cry. My feet skidded this way and that as I maneuvered between the stones. In the darkness it took precious seconds to locate Hamlet. And when I did, I also found the thing I dreaded most. Justin.

He lay against a cracked grave marker, his head bent at an unnatural angle. Hamlet nuzzled and licked his motionless face, trying to revive him. Just by looking at him, though, I knew Justin was beyond Hamlet’s help. Or mine. The right side of my brain, the logical, former-cop side, told me to step back and call 911. The left side urged me forward. Don’t give up hope.

Pushing Hamlet away, I squatted beside Justin. I knew better than to move him—just in case—but I had to be sure. My fingers trembled as I skimmed them over his head. His hair felt crusty from the ice rain. Behind his head, where it rested against the gravestone, it was sticky and warm. I withdrew my hand and stumbled back a pace, afraid I might vomit.

“What is it? “ Dad asked. “What’s wrong?”

Wiping my frozen fingers on my jeans, I took slow deep breaths until I composed myself. Then I pulled my cell from my pocket.

“911.” The emergency operator answered before the second ring. “Can I help you?”

“This is Reverend Dean Constable. I need to report a fatal accident.”

Jayne Self is a freelance writer based in Orangeville, Ont., and a member of the Word Guild. Visit her online at jayneself.com.
Read a new chapter of Caught Dead: A Dean Constable Mystery every Monday.