Chapter One

Saturday, September 29, 1978:  6:15 p.m.

Mac Jones, head of security, stood at the edge of the cemetery and watched two members of his security force and two attendants finish shoveling dirt into the grave of the latest resident to die at Oak Valley Training School and Hospital.  He stroked his thinning hair as he thrust out his chest.  A tense twitch in his right cheek kept time with the rippling of muscles beneath the shirt of his slightly rumpled standard issue uniform.  Standing at five foot six and 165 pounds, he didn’t appear necessarily big or outright menacing, but tonight, as his body continued its ominous rhythm, he noted that even his own men took care not to look him square in the eye.

Jones had observed the arrival of Dr. John T. Cordell just moments after the makeshift pine coffin had been lowered into the ground.  Cordell stood next to the grave, his chin twitching at the sound of each shovel of dirt thudding into the grave.  His starched, white lab coat hung loosely on his six-foot frame and his hands were jammed into its pockets.  His classic blond features and crisp exterior were a stark contrast to Jones’ own darker, disheveled appearance.  He watched one of the men use the shovel to smooth the top of the grave.  The burial crew gathered their tools while Cordell remained at the foot of the mound, his silent presence invoking a somber mood among the otherwise boisterous men.   

Jones twirled a toothpick between his teeth, scowling. He tried unsuccessfully to gauge Cordell’s reaction to the burial but the man was unreadable.  The shadows of the lingering dusk masked Cordell’s face as darkness began to engulf the tangle of weeds and exposed roots.  This obscure corner of the grounds, away from the main footpaths and roadways, was the most neglected.  The dead that were buried here seldom had anyone come to pay their respects. 

One of the men finished the burial detail by placing a marker engraved only with the number 8627 on top of the mound.  It would sink into the ground as the loosely piled earth settled into the grave and soon be as obscure its predecessors.

Jones moved forward to shake his men’s hands and thank them for their effort.  The men simply nodded, moving off in unison toward the dirt path that connected to Chestnut Lane, the road that led back to the parking area beside the Administration Building.  Cordell waited until the men disappeared before heading for the path himself.  Jones caught up with him, cutting him off before he had reached the edge of the cemetery. 

“Evenin’, Doc.”

“Mac.”

“Another one in the ground,” Jones commented, pointing the toothpick at the now deserted grave.  “Guess this makes fourteen funerals since you came on board.”

Cordell glared at Jones in silence.

“Any progress in locating those missing files?” Jones continued, determined to provoke a reaction from the stoic physician.   Even from five paces away, Jones could smell the strange combination of antiseptic and Cordell’s cologne. 

“You’ll be the first to know if and when they turn up,” Cordell responded in a curt tone.  “Now, if that’s the end of your interrogation for this evening, you know Dr. Jefferson’s wife is holding dinner.”

“You don’t really like it here at Oak Valley, do you, Doc?” Jones challenged.

Cordell paused, leaving Jones with the impression that Cordell was measuring the importance of each word before replying.  “I’m just doing my job as instructed, like you and everyone else.  All I know is I inherited one hell of a mess.”

“You never know where life’s going to lead you, Dr. Cordell, particularly in a place like this.”  He stepped closer and leaned forward until his face was five inches from Cordell’s.  “For example, if Old Doc Henderson had taken better care of his colon, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation now, would we?”

Cordell’s eyes narrowed.  Ignoring Jones’ last statement, he quickly sidestepped him and strode toward the overgrown path.

Jones walked back and knelt down beside the grave, calling out to Cordell before he disappeared into the overhanging foliage of a red oak tree, “Hope you take better care of your colon than Doc Henderson did, Dr. Cordell.”  

Still twirling the toothpick between his teeth, Jones knelt down and picked up a clump of dirt that had evaded the burial detail.  The damp earth was pungent with the smell of years’ worth of decayed leaves.  He squeezed it in his palm and the loose particles fell on top of the rectangular metal grave marker that bore the number 8627.   “Number eight six two seven, don’t you fret none, I’m sure you’ll have some company joining you here fairly soon.  In fact, I’d be willing to bet on it.”

Jones stood up, made one final sweep of the landscape with a turn of his head and added, “Dinner time.  Hope Mrs. Jefferson has cooked up some of her famous greens.”  He headed down the path as the night air caught up the low echo of his laughter.  The sound rumbled in the looming darkness that was soon to be challenged by the rise of the autumn moon beyond the surrounding hills. 

© 2009 by Ruthie-Marie Beckwith