The Servants of Twilight

Maybe a change would bring justice.

But, of course, he did not believe the world was ruled by either God or the devil, anyway. He did not believe in divine monarchies.

Which made his presence here even more ridiculous.

The zipper tab glinted.

He rolled onto his back so he'd be unable to see the zipper shine.

He got to his feet, picked up the coffin lid. He would put it in place and fill in the grave and go home and be sensible about this situation.

He hesitated.

Damn.

Cursing his own compulsion, he put the lid down. He reached into the grave, instead, and heaved out the bag. He ran the zipper the length of the sack, and it made an insectlike sound.

He was shaking.

He peeled back the burial cloth.

He switched on his flashlight, gasped.

What the hell-?

With a trembling hand, he directed the flashlight beam at the small headstone and, in the quaverous light, read the inscription again, then threw the light on the contents of the bag once more.

For a moment he did not know what to make of his discovery, but gradually the mists of confusion cleared, and he turned away from the grave, away from the decomposing corpse that produced a vile stench, and he stifled the urge to be thoroughly sick.

When the nausea subsided, he began to shake, but with laughter rather than fear. He stood there in the still of the night, on a knoll in a pet cemetery, a grown man who had been in the fanciful grip of a childish superstition, feeling like the butt of a cosmic joke, a good joke, one that tickled the hell out of him even though it made him feel like a prime jackass. The dog in Brandy's grave was an Irish setter, not a golden retriever, not Brandy at all, which meant the people in charge of this place had screwed up royally, had buried Brandy in the wrong grave and had unknowingly planted the setter in this hole. One canvaswrapped dog is like another, and the undertaker's mix-up seemed not only understandable but inevitable. If the mortician was careless or if, more likely, he nipped at the bottle now and then, the odds were high that a lot of dogs in the graveyard were buried under the wrong markers. After all, burying the family dog was not exactly as serious a matter as burying Grandma or Aunt Emma; the precautions were not quite as meticulous. Not quite!

To locate Brandy's true resting place, he would have to track down the identity of the setter and rob a second grave, and as he looked out at the hundreds upon hundreds of low markers, he knew it was an impossible task. Besides, it did not matter.

The pet mortician's screw-up was like a dash of cold water in the face; it brought Charlie to his senses. He suddenly saw himself as a parody of the hero in one of those old E.C. Horror Comics, haunting a cemetery in pursuit of. Of what? Dracula Dog? He laughed so hard that he had to sit down before he fell down.

They said the Lord worked in mysterious ways, so maybe the devil worked in mysterious ways, too, but Charlie simply could not believe that the devil was so mysterious, so subtle, so elaborately devious, so downright silly as to muddy the trail to Brandy's grave by causing a mixup in a pet cemetery's mortuary. A devil like that might try to buy a man's soul by offering him a fortune in baseball trading cards, and such a demon was not to be taken seriously.

How and why had he taken this so seriously. Had Grace Spivey's religious mania been like a contagion? Had he picked up a mild case of end-of-the-world fever?

His laughter had a purging effect, and by the time it had run its course, he felt better than he had in weeks.

He used the blade of the shovel to push the dead dog and the canvas bag back into the grave. He threw the lid of the coffin on top of it, shoveled the hole full of dirt, tamped it down, wiped the shovel blade clean in the grass, and returned to his car.

He had not found what he expected, and perhaps he had not even found the truth, but he had more or less found what he had hoped to find-a way out, an acceptable answer, something he could live with, absolution.

Early May in Las Vegas was a pleasant time, with the fierce heat of summer still to come, but with the chill winter nights gone for another year. The warm dry air blew away whatever memories still lingered of the nightmare chase in the High Sierras.

On the first Wednesday morning of the month, Charlie and Christine were to be married in a gloriously gaudy, hilariously tasteless nonsectarian wedding chapel next door to a casino, which vastly amused both of them.

They did not see their wedding as a solemn occasion, but as the beginning of a joyous adventure that was best begun with laughter, rather than with pomp and circumstance. Besides, once they made up their minds to marry, they were suddenly in a frenzy to get it done, and no place but Vegas, with its liberal marriage laws, could meet their timetable.