An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) by P.J. Parrish Page B

the flashlights out by E Building. Dalum had told him he didn’t expect to find anything out there tonight. Tomorrow, in the daylight, Dalum and the state police would conduct a more thorough search.
    A hundred and eighty acres. He wondered what else they’d find.
    “Mr. Kincaid,” Alice said.
    “Yes?”
    “Do you still want to see Claudia DeFoe’s medical records?”
    “Of course I do.”
    Alice was still for a moment, head down, her fingers working the Kleenex. “I’m going to make you an offer,” she said. “I will show you the records, even let you copy them, if you’ll do something for me.”
    He knew what was coming. And it surprised him that Alice would cross that line. But then he realized that she wasn’t crossing it for him.
    “You want me to prove Charlie didn’t do this.”
    “Yes,” Alice said. “Or at least prove beyond any doubt he did. So the town knows for sure. So I know for sure.”
    For an instant he wondered if she really wanted the truth. He had known other people, family members of accused murderers, who said they wanted to know the truth, but most didn’t really. No one wanted to know that they were close—be it next door or by blood—to a killer. But he suspected Alice was different. She had seen the worst of things here. And in many ways, she had to be stronger than he was. Stronger than most cops he knew.
    “You have a deal, Miss Cooper.”
    “Call me Alice,” she said.
    “When can I see the records?” Louis asked.
    “We’re closed now for Thanksgiving weekend,” Alice said. “How about Monday morning? We don’t have much time after that. The hospital will be closed by December thirty-first.”
    “Monday’s fine. I’ll be here early.”
    Alice pushed open the door against a rush of cold air. She whispered a soft thank-you and she was gone.
    Louis waited until she had climbed in her car and he saw the headlights go on before he even backed out. He followed Alice down the narrow drive and through the gate. She turned east, toward Ardmore. He sat for a moment, watching her taillights grow smaller.
    His mind was already working on Charlie and Rebecca and the plastic flowers. And he was hearing Charlie’s strange, childlike voice as they stood by the single white shoe in the woods.
    I got them from the cemetery.
    What were you doing in the cemetery, Charlie?
    I walk there every night.
    Louis turned west, easing down Highway 50, trying to find the tiny road that led to the cemetery. He knew why he was going, but the thought was so absurd he almost couldn’t let it linger long in his mind: He wanted to see if he could hear the graves cry.
    In the black cloak of darkness, he almost missed the road. But soon he saw the towering sentry pines that marked the entrance and he eased the car to a stop. He got out and went to the trunk, hoping Phillip had a flashlight. He didn’t, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need light. Maybe it was better if he approached this in darkness.
    A wisp of a moon scampered between the high icy clouds, giving him just enough light to see. He could make out the dark hulk of the backhoe in the far corner. He didn’t see a security guard. Maybe he was out helping the cops, or more likely sleeping inside the backhoe. He was about to let it go when it occurred to him the guard could wake up, and in a panic, think Louis the killer and shoot him. So he walked to the backhoe, climbed up on the side, and peered inside. No one.
    Maybe the guard had quit, afraid to sit in a cemetery with a killer running loose. Shit, maybe the damn guard was the killer.
    Louis walked across the frozen dead grass, shaking his head. He would check it out with Dalum on Monday. But for the moment, he was glad the guard wasn’t there. There was something about all this that required solitude.
    Louis stopped in the center of the cemetery and looked around. For a moment, the wind died and a silence, as thick and heavy as the night, enveloped the cemetery. He closed his eyes,