Page 64 of Coram House

Parker joins us. I notice a tiny spot of blood on his chin where he must have cut himself shaving. Garcia turns to him.

“Officer Parker, you check it out and then report back. I’ll take Mr. Rooney back to the station. Question him once he sobers up.”

Garcia climbs into the cruiser, slamming the door behind her ratherharder than necessary. As she pulls onto the street, Rooney turns to look out the back window. He waves, at me or at Bill, I can’t tell.

“Lead the way,” Parker says, gesturing to the graveyard. Bill Campbell looks from Parker’s boots to his own flimsy black dress shoes.

“It’s a long walk,” Bill says.

Parker pulls a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. He glances down at my own sensible boots, then up at Bill. “Then I guess we had better get started,” he says.

As we follow the path away from the church, I wonder at what Garcia said. Why didn’t Bill Campbell report the missing excavator? The only answer that makes sense is he knew and was protecting Rooney. But why?

We reach the iron gate that marks the entrance to the graveyard. Two stone angels flank it, making a very dramatic show of weeping. Just in case you forget a graveyard is supposed to be sad, I guess.

The main path only has an inch or two of snow. It must have been plowed sometime this morning, but most of the gravestones are buried under soft mounds, like turtles tucked in under a white blanket. We pass through a circle of evergreens with a stone bench in the center. It’s sheltered from the snow, so brown pine needles crunch underfoot. On the other side the view opens up to reveal the lake. Last time I was here, the water was dark and churning. Today, it’s been replaced by flat, endless white. Without the breeze rattling the bare branches, the landscape would be still as a photograph.

“What’s that?” Parker points down the path. I scan the snow-frosted gravestones, but don’t see anything out of place. Not at first.

“I don’t know,” Bill says. He sounds nervous.

Then I spot a flash of yellow at the edge of the woods. A crust of snow crunches underfoot as we step off the path. Bill’s feet must be soaked, but he follows us without complaint.

“Stop.” Parker holds out his arm to block our way. Tire tracks. Not fresh, they’re covered in a layer of snow, but still visible. We give them a wide berth.

At the edge of the woods, a yellow backhoe lies tipped on one side in a mess of broken saplings and underbrush. The machine is coveredin a thin layer of undisturbed snow, so it must have been here since at least last night, maybe days. But all around it the earth is torn up and stained brown with mud. A small tree has been dug up and cast aside, dirt still clinging to the roots. The ground is covered in chunks of stone, some bearing fragments of text.Sister. Beloved. 19.

Gravestones.

“Oh my god,” Bill says.

In the middle of the debris there’s a deep wound in the ground. I drift closer until Parker puts a hand on my arm. “It’s a crime scene,” he says. “And I don’t know if the ground is stable.”

But I don’t need to go any closer to see the splintered wood and torn satin lining, black with age and mud. The remains of a coffin. A gravestone lays on its back, miraculously unbroken.Fr. Edmund Foster. 1914–1994.

There’s a clicking sound. Bill’s face is pale with cold or shock. His teeth are chattering.

“Parker,” I whisper and nod toward the older man.

Parker frowns. “Mr. Campbell,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“What?” Bill snaps. “Of course I’m not all right. Look at this mess.” His speech is slightly slurred.

“It’s cold out here,” Parker says. “Why don’t you wait back at the church?”

Bill looks like he’s going to protest but then spins on his heel and trudges back to the path.

“Give me a second,” Parker says. “I have to call this in.”

I take a few steps away. My eyes follow the tread marks that lead back up the hill, a straight line to Coram House. Not a single other section of graves looks damaged. I’d pictured Rooney drunk, taking the excavator on a whim. But maybe not.

“Copy that,” Parker says into the phone and then hangs up. “They’re sending a team. We should clear the area.”

I nod, but don’t move. “This has been here for days,” I say.

Parker’s smile is wan. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“No—I just mean, look at this place. It’s a mess. And the ground must have been frozen solid. It would have taken a long time to do this.Plus, how much do those things cost?” I point to the excavator lying on its side. “A hundred thousand bucks? If it was your business, wouldn’t you report it missing? Unless you knew exactly where it was.”

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