I started to walk. Then I shivered once, mightily, when the shadowy thing across the street mirrored the move. As soon as we were clear of all the shadows, I could see plainly who it was:
El Niño, Señor Linares’s little Filipino aborigine. He was dressed in those same clothes what were four sizes too big for him-and for whatever reason, he was, in fact, smiling at me. Slowly lifting an arm, he seemed to try to signal to me in some way, and for a minute I grew less fearful. The attempt at communication and the smile combined with his appealing round features to make him look something other than threatening. But then he made a different sort of move: lifting his head, he reached up with one hand and ran a finger around his neck. Now, in most parts of the world what I know of, that only means one thing; but he was still smiling, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt for another few seconds, on the off-chance that I was reading him wrong. But what came next was in no way reassuring: still grinning, he put his hand around his throat in a kind of choke hold, as if he meant to strangle someone-in this case, pretty apparently, yours truly.
Shivering violently again, I turned and bolted up the street toward the cemetery, fully believing that the little man who I figured for some kind of assassin was going to follow me and that I was in a race for my life. I didn’t look back-I’d seen how quick El Niño was, and I didn’t want to slow down for even a second. When I hit the northern edge of the fenced-in cemetery, I got within sight of Miss Howard, who had her back to me. Not wanting to scream for help, I just picked up my pace, hoping that she’d catch the sound of my feet. She soon did, and when I was about thirty feet from her and she could see the look on my face, she pulled out her revolver, holding and aiming it with practiced skill at the area behind me. Much relieved, I kept on running toward her; but then, when I saw her face go blank and her arms drop to her sides in confusion, I slowed down. She just looked at me and shrugged, and I stopped altogether, gasping for air and finally glancing behind me.
The little aborigine was nowhere to be seen.
Miss Howard walked quickly over to join me as I leaned down, hands on my knees, to take in some big gulps of air and spit into the street.
“Stevie,” she said quietly, “what’s happened?”
“That servant of Señor Linares’s,” I answered. El Niño-he was down there!”
In a flash Miss Howard brought her pistol up again, though only as far as her hip this time. “What was he doing?”
“Just-watching me,” I answered, finally getting my breathing under control. “And he made a sign with his hands-Miss Howard, I think he meant to kill me. But it was strange-he was smiling, too, the whole time.”
With her free hand she grabbed my right arm and pulled me toward the cemetery gate. “Come on,” she said “The Doctor’ll want to know about this.”
I’ve never counted myself a religious man, really; but when we got to the gate I looked inside the graveyard and saw a scene what struck me as so unholy that I stopped dead in my tracks. The area directly ahead of us was lit partly by the moon, but also by the faint glow of a pair of arc streetlamps what stood just outside the back fence of the cemetery. Together, these sources of light made it pretty impossible to mistake what was going on: the Doctor was crouched over a small coffin, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. The lid of the coffin lay to one side, along with a pile of dirt from a nearby open grave. In the Doctor’s gloved hands were a scalpel and a pair of steel forceps: he was working quickly but carefully, like a man carving a turkey at a table full of hungry people. Mr. Moore was standing to one side and looking away, a handkerchief over his mouth. It was pretty apparent that he’d been sick in the last few minutes.
“Wait,” was all I could say as Miss Howard started into the cemetery. “It ain’t-it ain’t worth interrupting him. We can tell him when he comes out.”
Miss Howard gave me the once-over in a way what said she completely understood my reluctance. “You stay here and keep watch,” she said. “But I’ve got to tell him-the aborigine may not have been alone. Do you want my revolver?”
I looked down at the thing, but just shook my head in reply; like I’ve said, guns were never my style. Miss Howard walked quickly in to Mr. Moore and the Doctor, and though I couldn’t hear what they said, I could see looks of extreme alarm register on both their faces. But we’d come too far to break the thing off now, even I knew that; so the two men just sent Miss Howard back to the gate, and then the Doctor returned to his work with even more energy. I looked farther down Ballston Avenue and saw Cyrus, who was peering back toward us, obviously wanting to know what the hell was going on.
I thought to run up and tell him; but then I heard a satisfied sound-one what was maybe just a little too loud, given the situation-come from the Doctor’s direction. Turning, I saw him holding something up between his gloved fingers: it had to be the bullet. Mr. Moore looked at the thing and patted the Doctor’s back with a smile of relief. Then they quickly started to get the lid back onto the coffin. Looking over to me and Miss Howard, Mr. Moore hissed, “Stevie!” as loud as he felt it was safe to do; and, with the part of my stomach what hadn’t gone into my throat at the sight of El Niño now starting to rise and join the rest, I ran inside to them.
The smell of dirt and decay hit me from about ten yards away, though thankfully, by the time I got to the grave site, they’d refastened the lid of the little coffin. Then it was up to me and Mr. Moore, using the lengths of rope, to maneuver the thing back into the hole he’d dug, which we managed to do without too much trouble. This task kept me busy enough to avoid really taking in where I was-along with what I was doing-but once the coffin was down and we’d started to first refill the grave with dirt and then re-cover it with large sections of sod what Mr. Moore’d carefully cut away, I had a chance to glance around at all the headstones and monuments what were surrounding me.
With a start I suddenly realized that I was actually standing on little Thomas Hatch’s grave. Moving quickly to do my job from another angle, I glanced at Thomas’s and Matthew’s headstones. The pair of them were identical except for the words what were carved into each. In the upper portions they displayed the boys’ names and years of life, and under each name was the phrase “Loving Son of Daniel and Elspeth.” But under these words were two different quotes. Thomas’s read, “A lamb gone too soon to the Lamb,” while Matthew’s said, “He that believeth in Me shall not Die.” At the bottom of each stone, in lettering what was less stodgy and more flowing than the rest, was a message: “Love always, from Mama.”
Maybe I was just looking for something to fix my mind on as a way of calming down, but it occurred to me to ask, “How come they’re buried here, and not at the Hatch place? There’s a cemetery out there, behind the house.”
“Many cities and towns now require burial in a designated public cemetery,” the Doctor answered, holding the small object he’d found up above his head and studying it “For reasons of public health. I’m sure Mrs. Hatch didn’t object-she must have realized that the chances of anyone attempting just what we’re doing now were far more remote in a public graveyard.”
“Yes and she had good reason to think so, Mr. Moore said getting the last of the sod into place and trying to cover the remaining visible cuts in the ground by pulling up clumps of loose grass and sprinkling them over the cuts. “It’s a lot easier to get caught in a place like this. He stood up, examined his work, and then nodded once in satisfaction. “Okay. Let’s get the hell out of here.”