The Burnt Island Burial Ground Part 3

She held up her hand to decline. "I'm good, thanks." Casting a quick glance down at the stained Elon College sweatshirt she was wearing, Lindsay silently resolved to change into clean pajamas and wash the dishes the moment she got back to her dad's house.

Kipper lay on the floor at Gibb's feet. He looked up at her helplessly. He wore an orange and pink argyle dog sweater, and all four Pomeranians stood on and around him like Lilliputians conquering a giant.

"Hey, buddy," Lindsay said, kneeling next to him and shooing the small dogs away. Kipper rose and nuzzled Lindsay's chin as she petted him. She buried her face in Kipper's fur to hide her huge grin from Gibb. She'd endured the heartrending pain of having to return the dog to Tanner after all he'd meant to her, and now Lindsay was overjoyed that he was coming back to live with her permanently. If she'd known that all he had to do to be banished from Tanner's house was to urinate on one of those furry little dog-shaped horror shows, she would've trained him to do it long ago.

At eye level with the coffee table, Lindsay caught sight of two framed pictures sitting side by side. One showed Gibb and Tanner on their wedding day-Gibb wearing a too-small tux, while Tanner clutched his arm tightly, her Day-Glo white skin making her bridal gown look almost dingy by comparison. The other picture showed a beaming Gibb kneeling behind a dead stag, holding its head up by the antlers. Lindsay couldn't recall ever seeing such an expression of pure, unadulterated joy on his face before.

"When was this taken, Gibb? You look really happy," Lindsay said.

Gibb cast his eyes toward the door. Usually, he spoke like he was being charged by the word, mostly communicating by pointing to the things he wanted and grunting. Tanner did the talking in their relationship, and without her there, he seemed slightly unsure exactly how this whole adult conversation thing worked.

"Me and my buddies head down to Robeson County a couple times a year."

"That's right on the border with South Carolina, right?"

"Yep. Porter's brother's got a cabin down in the swamps. We hunt deer and wild pigs mostly. Sometimes we fish," Gibb said.

There was a brief silence, and Gibb seemed in no hurry to fill it. Lindsay glanced back at the photo. "That's a really huge deer."

Gibb's eyes kindled into life. "That there's a 14-pointer. Bet you never seen one that big."

"Nope," Lindsay agreed. She'd never been one for hunting, but she knew that laying around the woods and killing whatever warm-blooded animal happened across your path was akin to a religion for many Southern men. "Do you use arrows or guns?" she asked.

Gibb scoffed. "Crossbow. Guns are for sissies. Last year, I had to take out a wild boar with just my bowie knife. d.a.m.n thing got up under the blind and just jumped at me when I was climbing down. Gave me this." He rolled up his pant leg to reveal a livid, red scar across his shin. "You shoulda seen the way..." Gibb stopped speaking abruptly when Tanner entered the room carrying two overflowing sacks.

"Is he boring you with his war story about killing that pig?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Gibb, I told you, n.o.body wants to see your dumb old scar."

"Not at all," Lindsay said. "I want to hear the rest of the story."

"You don't have to humor him just to be polite," Tanner said. "We're practically family. Pretty soon you and Warren will be as happy as me and Gibb. Right, baby?" She puckered up her lips and blew a kiss through the air at her husband.

Lindsay expected Gibb to show some sign of annoyance at his wife's condescension, but instead he held up his hand like a catcher's mitt and caught her imaginary kiss. He looked at Tanner with an odd sort of grat.i.tude, as if he were a not-wholly-competent soldier whose commander had just given him clear marching orders. The dynamics of their relationship both fascinated and repelled Lindsay.

"Anyway," Tanner said, "here's all the dog stuff. I bought him a bunch of sweaters so n.o.body would have to look at that ugly gunshot scar all the time. There are some lighter-weight ones in there, too, for when it gets to be summer. The mesh tank top is for if he goes to the beach," Tanner said.

Lindsay rose and took hold of the bags, her movements setting off a volley of percussive barking from John, George, Ringo, and m.u.f.fin. She glanced back at Gibb, but his dull gaze was planted firmly on the TV.

It was nearly 11 p.m. by the time Lindsay and Kipper returned to the quiet street of small, brick bungalows where her father's house stood. As she approached the house, she saw a dark-colored sedan back out of the carport and head off toward downtown Mount Moriah. The car looked familiar, but in the darkness Lindsay couldn't make out the details clearly enough to place it.

Once inside the kitchen, Lindsay found her father, Jonah, standing at the sink and washing the dishes that had been left piled there.

"Hey, birthday girl," he said, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "I was wondering what became of you."

"There was a Kipper situation," Lindsay replied, kneeling to remove Kipper's sweater. Once free, Kipper waggled his whole body as if trying to dry himself. "I hope you don't mind having a new roommate, because it looks like he'll be a permanent fixture. Tanner's worried that he's plotting to kill her, so she sent him packing."

Jonah smiled, a network of laugh lines fanning out from his warm, brown eyes. "That's great, sweetheart. I know how much he means to you. Looks like G.o.d answered your prayers. And He did it on your birthday."

"Just like Santa." Lindsay arched toward the ceiling and gave a double thumbs-up sign to the heavens. "Thanks for the birthday dog, Big Guy."

"I'll let your new mother get away with that blasphemy because it's her birthday," Jonah said, leaning down to pat Kipper on the back.

Lindsay poured herself a gla.s.s of sweet tea from the ever-present pitcher that resided in Jonah's fridge. She jokingly referred to it as the "fishes and loaves sweet tea," because, like the miraculous meal that fed the mult.i.tude, the tea seemed to remain undiminished, though she drank it every day. She knew that Jonah replenished the supply each morning before she woke up, but she'd never yet caught him in the act.

"Was somebody here just now?" she asked. "I thought I saw a car drive away."

Jonah turned back to the sink and began rinsing a plate. "That was a parishioner."

"At 11 o'clock at night? I don't remember you having so many late-night house calls and visits when I used to live at home."

Jonah turned off the tap and pivoted around to face her. He opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to mentally recalibrate. "Did you have a nice visit with your mother?" he asked.

"I suppose it was as nice as spending your birthday visiting your mother in prison can be," Lindsay replied.

"I'm really glad that you've patched things up with her. Your mother is your mother, no matter what she's done."

"Hold your horses," Lindsay said. "I wouldn't go as far as saying we've patched things up. Once she's back on the outside, if she can manage to go a few months without endangering my life or getting me or herself into trouble with the law, maybe we can talk about starting to make peace. It was really Simmy who wanted to go."

"Still, it was the right thing to do. People often go about their business forgetting that the Book of Matthew commands us to tend to the sick, clothe the poor, and visit those in prison."

"Well, if I swing by Goodwill to drop off all these stupid dog sweaters, I'll have done all three in one day. New Testament Trifecta!" Jonah shot her a sharp look, but she held up her hands to ward off his rebuke. "Hey, I have birthday blasphemy immunity for another 45 minutes. Anyway, you still haven't told me who was in the mystery car."

Jonah grabbed a clean plate from the drying rack and walked over to the sideboard, where a large paper box rested. Lindsay tried to see what he was doing, but he used his body to shield his actions. At last, he turned around. A large icing-covered cinnamon bun stood in the middle of the plate with a lit candle mounted on top of it.

"I asked Mrs. Bugbee to bake a special batch of nutty buns for your birthday."

"Aww, thanks, Dad," Lindsay said, holding her hair back with both her hands and puffing out the candle. "This is way better than a birthday cake."

Mrs. Bugbee, a plump, middle-aged parishioner at Jonah's church, held the secret recipe for Lindsay's favorite food of all time. Her nutty buns had won first prize at the Alamance County Fair three times and were the pride of the mid-Piedmont evangelical church bake sale circuit.

"That wasn't her dropping these off, was it? I thought she drove that huge A-Team conversion van thing."

"No, that wasn't her," Jonah said. His eyes travelled from Lindsay's face down to her hands. She was twisting her engagement ring around and around. "Is everything okay with your ring?" Jonah asked.

Lindsay looked down at her hands. "It's been really itchy all day. My skin is probably irritated from all the extra hand washing I've been doing to try to avoid catching this stomach thing that's going around."

Jonah stepped closer. "Why is your ring finger so red? Maybe you should quit messing with it."

"I guess I'm just not used to it yet," Lindsay said, closing her right hand over her left. She'd been incredibly relieved at how well Jonah had responded to the news of her engagement. Although he had never given any indication that he didn't like Warren, his natural tendency had always been to subject her potential suitors to withering examinations. She didn't want to say or do anything that might draw his scrutiny.

"So if that wasn't Mrs. Bugbee in the car, who was it?" Lindsay asked, as much to distract her father's attention as out of genuine curiosity.

Jonah lifted his Bible from the countertop, sat down at the table and folded his hands over the top of the book. The house phone began to ring, but he ignored it. When Lindsay rose to answer, Jonah gestured for her to stay seated.

"Lindsay, honey. If you're gonna get married to Warren Satterwhite, there's something we need to talk about."

Lindsay looked worriedly at the earnest expression on her father's face and then at the Bible. She involuntarily scooted her chair away from him. "Whoa, Dad. Is this going to be gross? I'm thirty-one, remember? And I've had boyfriends. Like really had boyfriends," she said, laying special emphasis on the word.

There was a second of silence and the phone began to ring anew. Lindsay practically vaulted up from her chair to answer it.

The caller turned out to be another of her chaplain colleagues from the hospital, Geneva Williams. Geneva had been stricken by the same virus that knocked Rob flat earlier in the day, and she'd been calling around to try to find someone to take over her shift.

"I don't even wanna ask you when you already worked all day, and with it being your birthday and all, but I can't reach n.o.body else. I know you and I both thought Rob was just being his usual big baby girl self when he went home, but, child, this bug ain't playing around. Seems pretty quiet here, so you can just curl up in the chaplains' room and get some sleep."

"Hmm..." Lindsay said. "I'll come in, but it sounds like I might want to avoid being in the chaplains' room if you and Rob have been there."

"No lie. Bring some bleach and a surgical mask. Maybe two surgical masks. This ain't no joke. I just threw up something I ate last week."

Chapter 5.

The uneventful shift Geneva promised failed to materialize. In its place came a frenetic night-the aftermath of a multicar wreck tumbled into the hospital and left Lindsay splitting her time between injured patients, anxious families, and traumatized first responders. She had been exhausted even before her shift began, and it was only through sheer determination that she was able to appear to be a serene presence amidst the whirlwind of tragedy. By dawn, things had finally calmed down enough to allow her a momentary respite. Still avoiding the chaplains' room, she headed for the chapel, hoping to find a quiet place to rest her eyes. Instead, she was surprised to find Angel Bledsoe, the nurse from the geriatric ward, and another woman with a similarly st.u.r.dy build, sitting in the front row of chairs near the pulpit.

The two turned, startled, at the sound of Lindsay's entrance. When Angel recognized the chaplain, she greeted her with a wave and a heavy sigh. She turned to her companion and said, "This is who I was telling you about. The one whose grandmother needs taking care of."

"Hey," Lindsay said, extending her hand in greeting. "You must be Angel's cousin."

"Dunette Oxendine. Pleased to meet you, Reverend," Dunette said, in a voice like velvet. Her hand, when it met Lindsay's, was every bit as soft and warm as her voice. Everything about her exuded a comforting wholesomeness; she was like a chocolate chip cookie in human form.

"I've been meaning to call you and arrange a meeting, but it's been a crazy couple of days," Lindsay said.

"I suppose the fact that we're all in a hospital chapel in the middle of the night, looking like we've been rode hard and hung up wet, attests to that fact." Dunette smiled, her eyes shrinking into little crescent shapes above her round, honey-colored cheeks.

Lindsay noticed that Angel managed only the slightest of smiles in response to her cousin's good-natured joking. Her usually pristine uniform was a ma.s.s of wrinkles and her eyes were swollen with fatigue. Lindsay knew that the demands of patient care could be overwhelming-part of her job as a chaplain was to see that the hospital's staff didn't burn out under the emotional strain.

"Is everything okay?" Lindsay asked her. "Don't you usually work the day shift?"

"Dunette's here to take me home. I was too tired to drive. We were just offering up a prayer for poor old Mr. Meeks before we go," Angel replied. "He pa.s.sed on."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Lindsay said, remembering the white-haired man who'd been wrapped tight in her sweater only a few days before. "What happened?"

"Just one of those things. He'd been fighting kidney infections off and on for a long time, but we had it under control before the knee operation. Labs looked clean as a whistle. But it had started to flare up again a few days ago. We thought we had it licked, but it just grabbed ahold of him and wouldn't let go. Got into his blood. By the time I got in this morning, he'd already been moved to the ICU. I called his son to tell him what was going on. His car couldn't make the trip, so he had to catch a bus up from Georgia and couldn't get here until later. He asked me to stay with his daddy until he got here so he'd have a familiar hand to hold. So I stayed."

"She's been here since 8 o'clock yesterday morning," Dunette said, stroking Angel's hand.

"You must be exhausted. Did his son make it in time to say goodbye?" Lindsay asked gently.

"Yes. He got here about an hour ago, and Mr. Meeks pa.s.sed on not 20 minutes later. It's probably a blessing for him to go downhill so quick, you know? All three of us have seen enough to know what it gets like with these dementia patients toward the end."

Lindsay was quiet for a moment, allowing s.p.a.ce for their shared sadness. Death was rarely pretty, but she had to agree with Angel that the way dementia could rob a person's humanity with such cruel relentlessness was especially terrible to behold.

"Should I go up and check on Mr. Meeks's son? Is he still here?" Lindsay asked.

"That might be nice. He was going to stop upstairs to pick up his daddy's things from the nurses' station. It all happened so fast they didn't even get a chance to bring it down for him. You might catch him if you go now. I'm just gonna stay here for another minute."

Lindsay promised to get in touch with Dunette about the home health care job later that day, and then headed up to the geriatric department. The ward was unusually quiet, and the lights had been dimmed to give the patients a better chance of catching whatever fleeting moments of sleep were possible in the hospital. The nursing station was empty and Mr. Meeks's son was nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the hall, she could see a nurse fiddling with the wires on an ECG machine. He didn't seem to notice her, so Lindsay leaned heavily against the desk for a moment and closed her eyes.

"Is that you?" A raspy voice cut through the stillness. Lindsay's eyes flew open. She looked around, but saw no one. "I'm talking to you, preacher lady," the voice said. Lindsay pivoted around and saw an enormous mountain of a man filling the dark doorway of what had been Mr. Meeks's room. He leaned heavily on the door handle with one hand and the frame of a walker with the other.

"Mr. Boughtflower?" Lindsay ventured uncertainly. Although Angel had told her the man whose voice she'd heard behind the curtain was gravely ill, Lindsay had expected someone with Boughtflower's vast wealth to possess the sleekly polished look that money often enabled. The man standing before her, however, looked like a city that had been brought down by an earthquake-an immense ruin. Brittle, jaundiced skin covered his body. His enormous belly hung in front of him like an ill-fitting ap.r.o.n.

Boughtflower nodded and gestured for Lindsay to follow him into his darkened room. He turned his walker away from her and headed back toward his bed. Lindsay gave a quick, almost involuntary glance around her, but no one was in sight. Boughtflower listed slightly to one side and Lindsay rushed forward to steady him, but before she even touched him, he swatted her away as one might shake off a buzzing insect. She took a step back and allowed him to make his way across the room unaided. The only sounds that filled the s.p.a.ce were the rattle of his breathing and the m.u.f.fled sc.r.a.pe of his walker against the linoleum. After several minutes of hard work, he reached his bed and settled onto it. With his hands, he physically lifted each of his tree-trunk legs from the floor onto the mattress. He lay there a moment, staring at Lindsay, his huge chest heaving, eyes bright from exertion.

"Shut the door. I feel a draft," Boughtflower said.

Lindsay paused for a moment. The idea of closing herself into a room with this man filled her with revulsion. Her reluctance wasn't simply a reaction to his vast, disintegrating body. Rather, a creeping pinp.r.i.c.k of anxiety, a feeling that she was being lured into danger, caused her to hesitate. This shapeless dread had dogged her for months, and she inwardly berated herself for letting her outsized worries about Leander Swoopes control her. Boughtflower could barely move. There was certainly nothing he could do to harm her.

She shut the door with a soft click. With the door closed, the room was thrown even deeper into shadow. Lindsay's hand moved to the light switch, but Boughtflower stopped her.

"Leave it," he demanded. "The light hurts my eyes."

"How did you know who I was?" Lindsay asked. "Have we met before?"

"I heard you pa.s.sing by. Recognized your squishy shoes," Boughtflower told her.

"Oh," Lindsay said, making her way to the chair next to Boughtflower's bed. "Did I wake you?"

He ignored her question and continued, "Hope you're not looking for him." He jerked his thumb toward Mr. Meeks's empty bed.

"No. I heard what happened," Lindsay replied. "I was looking for his son. I wanted to check that he was all right."

"He already left. One of the nurses walked him down to the lobby."

"Do you want to talk about anything...?" When Lindsay was working, this was a question that she asked a dozen times a day, but now it came out of her mouth with unaccustomed timidity. Something was clearly on Boughtflower's mind for him to summon her into his room, especially given his vehement dismissal of her a few days prior. And yet his continued posture-an almost menacing hostility-made her question just what, if anything, he planned to share with her.

"Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d got off easy, if you ask me." Boughtflower had a husky smoker's voice, and when he spoke, his mouth revealed a set of bright-white dentures that glowed in the dim light like highway reflectors.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Meeks had nothing going on upstairs." He tapped his temple with his index finger. "Not a care in the d.a.m.n world. Yesterday afternoon, he was eating vanilla pudding and laughing his head off at Howdy Doody."

Without warning, a coughing fit seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep within Boughtflower's body. For several moments, his whole body shook with violent spasms of coughing. Lindsay instinctively reached toward him, but he waved her away. After the coughing finally subsided, Boughtflower wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on his face and placed an oxygen tube that had been lying next to him under his nose, hooking it around his ears.

Lindsay waited for Boughtflower to say more, but when it became clear that he didn't plan on adding anything else, she spoke again. "Mr. Meeks did go quickly."

"I heard you praying with him the day before yesterday. He didn't even ask forgiveness for anything. Like he hadn't ever done anything to be sorry for. Or maybe he had, but he'd already forgotten," Boughtflower said bitterly.

"Well, Mr. Meeks didn't know he was dying. And even if he had, who's to say whether he would've prayed any differently?"

"Maybe it wasn't anything he did directly, but sins he carried with him."

Boughtflower's words were dripping with a hidden meaning. Lindsay, however, was still mystified about what that meaning might be.