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Faith hoped that Daniel was their guy, if only because it meant that no one else had to get hurt, but she didn’t say that out loud. She stood, thanked Gary for the info, and handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, let us know, please.”
In the car, Faith looked Daniel Campanelli up in the FBI database. His record was clean except for one count of vandalism and trespassing when he egged his high school football coach’s house after getting cut from the varsity team.
She found something interesting, though. An article from five years ago. An obituary for a Constanza Campanelli, 89, deceased.
And where was the late Mrs. Campanelli buried?
Michael said it aloud. “Houston Hillside Memorial Cemetery.”
He and Faith shared a look.
“Looks like we have our second suspect,” Faith said.
CHAPTER TEN
When he was sober, William Hucksley despised the nickname Billy Boy. No one would know that by the smile he wore in the television ads or the way he freely used the name when assuring clients that Billy Boy really was their boy, and they could toss their worries to the side, but he hated the childish name. Seven years of college and law school while the rest of his friends were losing their virginity and enjoying their lives just so he could spend his adult life sounding like a character from a 1920s pulp fiction gangster novel.
He had never read a pulp fiction novel, and he had no idea if his assessment of the nickname was accurate, but in any case, it didn’t matter. The name made him money, and money, dear friends, was what made the world go round.
For that reason, when William Hucksley was drunk, he found the nickname almost likable.
He was drunk often—too often, the annoying little voice in his head would say when he woke up the morning after a bender with sand in his eyes and a railroad spike in his temples. He found that voice easy enough to silence, however. Besides, he only drank on his nights off, and he didn’t drive. Not anymore, anyway.
You only get away with something like that once,he would think to himself whenever laziness caused him to consider driving the half-mile to the Rowdy Rooster instead of hoofing it.Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.
“Christ, what a stupid name,” he said with a chuckle.
His words slurred a little, but not too bad. Either he was getting better at holding his liquor or worse at telling the difference.
The little voice in his head mentioned that if it was the latter, that could turn out to be a serious problem for his career. Can’t be slurring your words when you’re trying to convince an accident victim to give you half of their judgment. He didn’t drink on his workdays, but he knew that late-stage alcoholics always remained in a state of slight inebriation. Wetbrain, they called it.
He decided he would limit himself to two drinks a night on Friday and Saturday. He could make them strong drinks, but that would still represent an eighty percent cut in his typical weekend intake.
He had little confidence that he would keep this commitment, but maybe if he kept telling himself he would stop, one of these times it would take. Maybe.
He reached his house and reached for his keys, but they slipped out of his fingers. He bent over at the waist, steadying himself against the wall and nearly falling, but managing to keep his feet. His back creaked as he stood, and he grimaced and promised himself for the hundredth time that he was going to lose weight.
As he straightened, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it, but a strong hand wrapped around his neck. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped around his mouth. He struggled, but his attacker was much stronger than he was, and he couldn’t move. He felt a prick in the side of his neck, and a few moments later, the world went black.
***
That string is connected to a bell at the surface of the grave. If you sound the bell, there’s a chance the night watchman will hear it and know that you’ve been buried alive.
William heard the words as though he was underwater. He felt as though he was underwater. His movements were slow, and his body felt heavy. He could still breathe, but it seemed to take more effort than it should. He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly from side to side. At least, he thought he did. The world remained black, and he didn’t know if that meant his eyes were still closed or if there was no light available.
His head felt thick and furry, and his thoughts moved as slowly as his body. Where was he? He couldn’t remember anything that had happened. He was walking home from the bar, he reached his house but dropped his keys, and then… and then…
He realized that the voice he had heard was still speaking.Time moves quickly in the dark.
The voice stopped, and with it, the soft crackling sound he hadn’t realized was there until it stopped.
Where was he?
The question repeated itself with more insistence as the fog in his mind lessened. He tried to move, and this time he was certain he succeeded because when he lifted his hands, they knocked against something hard. Something wooden.
Was he in a closet? Had someone trapped him in a closet to rob him? He could now recall the hand slipping around his mouth at his doorway and decided that must be the case. He had been knocked unconscious and was now being robbed. The voice he heard.
Good evening,the voice began again.
