A Walk Among the Tombstones (Matthew Scudder #10)

A Walk Among the Tombstones (Matthew Scudder #10) Page 42

He said, "They get there at ten-thirty, right? And we're due ten minutes later, and then we work our way up to where they're waiting. Is that about right?"

I said it was.

"So we'll be face-to-face across no-man's-land about ten minutes of eleven, is that about how you figure it?"

"Something like that."

"And how long to make the trade and get out? Half an hour?"

"Probably a lot less than that, if nothing goes wrong. If the shit hits the fan, well, it's another story."

"Yeah, so let's hope it doesn't. I was just wondering about getting back out again, but I guess they don't lock the gates until midnight."

"Lock the gates?"

"Yeah, I woulda guessed it'd be earlier, but I guess not or you would have picked someplace else."

"Jesus," I said.

"What's the matter?"

"I never even thought of that," I said. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Then what would you do, call him back?"

"No, I guess not. It never occurred to me that they might lock the gates. Don't cemeteries stay open all night? Why would you have to lock them up?"

"To keep people out."

"Because everybody's dying to get in? Jesus, I must have heard that one in the fourth grade. 'Why do they have a fence around the cemetery?' "

"I guess they get vandals," Kenan said. "Kids who tip over the gravestones, take a shit in the floral urns."

"You think the kids can't climb fences?"

"Hey, man," he said. "I'm not setting the policy here. It's up to me, all the graveyards in town'll be open admission. How's that?"

"I just hope I didn't screw up. If they get there and the gates are locked-"

"Yeah? What are they gonna do, sell her to white slave traders in Argentina? They'll climb the fence, same as we'll do. Matter of fact, they probably don't lock it before midnight. People might want to go after work, pay a late call on the dear departed."

"At eleven o'clock?"

He shrugged. "People work late. They got office jobs in Manhattan, stop for a couple of drinks after work, they have dinner, then they go to wait half an hour for the subway because they're like some people I know, they're too cheap to take a cab-"

"Jesus," I said.

"- and it's late by the time they get back to Brooklyn and they say, 'Hey, I think I'll go over to Green-Wood, see if I can find where Uncle Vic is planted, I never liked him, I think I'll go piss on his grave.' "

"You nervous, Kenan?"

"Yeah, I'm nervous. What do you fucking think? You're the one's gotta walk up to a couple of stone killers armed with nothing but money. You must be starting to sweat."

"Maybe a little bit. Slow down, that's the entrance coming up. I think it's open."

"Yeah, it looks like it. You know, even if they're supposed to lock up, they probably don't get around to it."

"Maybe not. Let's drive once around the entire cemetery, all right? And then we'll find a place to park near our entrance."

We circled the cemetery in silence. There was no traffic to speak of, and there was a stillness to the night, as if the deep silence within the cemetery fence could reach out and suppress all sound in the vicinity.

When we were just about back where we'd started TJ said, "We goin' in a cemetery?"

Kenan turned aside to hide a grin. I said, "You can stay in the car if you'd rather."

"What for?"

"If you'd be more comfortable."

"Man," he said, "I ain't scared of no dead people. That what you think? That I scared?"

"My mistake."

"Your mistake is right, Dwight. Dead folks don't bother me."

DEAD people didn't bother me much, either. It was some of the live ones that worried me.

We met at the Thirty-fifth Street gate and slipped inside right away, not wanting to draw attention on the street. For now, Yuri and Pavel were carrying the money. We had two flashlights among the seven of us. Kenan took one of them. I had the other, and I led the way.

I didn't use the light much, just flicked it quickly on and off when I needed to see where I was going. This wasn't necessary most of the time. There was a waxing moon overhead, and a certain amount of light from the streetlamps on the avenue. The tombstones were mostly of white marble and they showed up well once your eyes were accustomed to the dimness. I threaded my way among them and wondered whose bones I was walking over. One of the papers had run a story within the past year or so on where the bodies were buried, an inventory of gravesites of the rich and famous throughout the five boroughs. I hadn't paid too much attention to it, but I seemed to recall that a fair number of prominent New Yorkers were interred at Green-Wood.

Some enthusiasts, I'd read, make a hobby of visiting graves. Some take photographs, others make rubbings of tombstone inscriptions. I couldn't imagine what they got out of it, but it doesn't sound that much nuttier than some of the things I do. Their pursuit only brought them out in the daytime. They weren't stumbling around in the dark, trying to keep from tripping over a chunk of granite.

I soldiered on. I stayed close enough to the fence to see the street signs, and I slowed down when I got to Twenty-seventh Street. The others drew closer, and I gestured for them to fan out a ways without advancing any farther north. Then I turned toward where Raymond Callander was supposed to be and pointed my flashlight out in front of me, triggering the trio of flashes we'd agreed on.

For a long moment the only answer was darkness and silence. Then three flashes of light blinked back at me, coming from a little right of dead ahead. They were, I calculated, something like a hundred yards from us, maybe more. It didn't seem that far when someone was running with a football under his arm. Now, though, it looked much too distant.

"Stay where you are," I called out. "We're going to approach a little closer."

"Not too close!"

"About fifty yards," I said. "The way we arranged."

Flanked by Kenan and one of Yuri's men, with the rest of our party not far behind, I covered about half the distance separating us. "That's far enough," Callander called out at one point, but it wasn't far enough and I ignored him and kept on walking. We had to be close enough so that someone could cover the transfer. We had one rifle, and Peter had been entrusted with it, having proved a good marksman during a six-month hitch a while back in the National Guard. Of course that was before a lengthy apprenticeship as a drunk and a dope addict, but he still figured to be the best shot in the group. He had a decent rifle with a scope sight, but the scope wasn't infrared so he'd be aiming by moonlight. I wanted to keep the distance down so that he could make his shots count if he had to.

Although I wondered what difference it made to me. The only reason he'd start shooting would be if the players on the other side tried a cross, and if they did they'd take me out in the first minute of the opening round. If Peter started firing back at them, I wouldn't be around to know where the bullets went.

Cheering thoughts.

When we'd cut the distance in half I signaled to Peter, and he moved off to the side and selected a shooting stand for himself, propping the rifle barrel on a low marble grave marker. I looked for Ray and his partner and could only see shapes. They had drawn back into the darkness.

I said, "Come out where we can see you. And show the girl."

They moved into view. Two forms, and then as the light got better you could see that one form was made up of two persons, that one of the men had the girl in front of him. I heard Yuri's intake of breath and just hoped he'd keep his cool.

"I've got a knife to her throat," Callander called. "If my hand slips-"

"It better not."

"Then you'd better bring the money. And not try anything cute."

I turned, hefted the suitcases, checked our troops. I didn't see TJ and asked Kenan what had happened to him. He said he thought he might have gone back to the car. " 'Feet, do yo' stuff,' " he said. "I don't think he's crazy about graveyards at night."

"Neither am I."

"Listen," he said, "whyntcha tell them we're changing the rules, the money's too heavy for one person to carry, and I'll walk up there with you."

"No."

"Gotta be the hero, huh?"

I can't say I felt terribly heroic. The weight of the suitcases kept me from being particularly jaunty. It looked as though one of the men had a gun, not the one holding the girl, and it looked as though the gun was pointed at me, but I didn't feel in danger of being shot, not unless someone on our side panicked and got off a round and everybody just let fly. If they were going to kill me, they'd at least wait until I'd brought them the money. They might be crazy but they weren't stupid.

"Don't try a thing," Ray said. "I don't know if you can see it, but the knife's right at her throat."

"I can see."

"That's close enough. Put the bags down."

It was Ray holding the girl, holding the knife. I knew his voice but I would have made him from TJ's description, which was right on the money. His jacket was zipped so I couldn't see the lame sport shirt, but I was willing to take TJ's word for it.

The other man was taller, with unkempt dark hair and eyes that looked in the half-light like a pair of holes burned in a bedsheet. He wore no jacket, just a flannel shirt and jeans. I couldn't see his eyes but I could feel the anger in his stare and I wondered what the hell he thought I'd done to provoke it. I was bringing him a million dollars and he was itching to kill me.

"Open the bags."

"First let the girl go."

"No, first show the money."

The pistol Kenan had insisted on giving me was in the small of my back, its barrel wedged under my belt, its bulk concealed by my sport jacket. There is no terribly adroit way to draw it quickly from that position, but I had my hands free now and could go for it.

Instead I knelt and unfastened the snaps on one of the cases, lifting the lid to show the money. I straightened up. The man with the gun started forward and I held up a hand.

"Now let her go," I said. "Then you can examine it. Don't try to change the ground rules now, Ray."

"Ah, sweet Lucy," he said. "I hate to see you go, child."

He let go of her. I'd barely had a chance to look at her, half-shadowed by his body. Even in the darkness she looked pale and drawn. Her hands were clutched together at her waist, her arms tight against her sides, her shoulders hunched. She looked as though she was trying to present the smallest possible target to the world.

I said, "Come here, Lucia." She didn't move. I said, "Your father's over there, darling. Go to your father. Go ahead."

She took a step, then stopped. She looked very unsteady on her feet, and she was gripping one hand tightly with the other.

"Go on," Callander told her. "Run!"

She looked at him, then at me. It was hard to tell what she was seeing because her gaze was unfocused, vacant. I wanted to pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, run back to where her father was waiting.

Or tug my jacket aside with one hand, draw the gun with the other, and drop both of the bastards where they stood. But the dark man's gun was pointing at me, and Callander also had a gun in his hand now, a companion piece for the long knife he was still holding.