The early morning sunshine peeked through the branches and foliage on the line of trees that formed a border along the decorative wrought iron fence that surrounded the cemetery at St. Luke's. A softly swirling ground mist had settled over the lower areas during the night, reflecting the brilliance of the sunshine, and droplets of dew glistened in a silvery sheen on the grass and sparkled on the rows of marble headstones. On the main thoroughfare outside the fence, a few cars had taken to the streets as commuters drove past the cemetery's closed gate.

Normally open daily at 7:00, it was at that moment exactly four minutes past, and the cemetery gates remained closed and locked by order of the Salem Police Department. On the asphalt parking lot, a man in a business suit paced restlessly in front of the cemetery offices, eager to return to a normal day of operation.

Roman had seen the cemetery director's nervous pacing, and had assured him that they would have their business completed as soon as possible, but any interruption in the normal process was an inconvenience to clients seeking to visit the resting places of their loved ones. Turning on his heel, the director glanced at his watch, tossed a pointed glare toward the police chief, then resumed his pacing. When he reached the sidewalk at the other end, he turned again just as a car pulled up to the gate and stopped, waiting for the gate to be opened.

Frustrated, he jogged to the gate explained through the bars that the cemetery was temporarily closed. The visitor was understanding, once he knew the reason, but as the car backed out to leave, the director turned toward the police chief again, and gave a harsh scowl. Roman, his back to the gate, did not see the angry glare, and would have paid no attention to it if he had.

Breaking the peaceful silence inside the cemetery grounds, he heard the start-up ignition of heavy equipment, and knew that a backhoe was being backed out of a nearby shed, which was strategically concealed by a tall hedgerow.

Listening to the backhoe as it revved its way out of the shed, Roman stood in quiet contemplation beside one of the graves, gazing down at the gray granite marker bearing the name of his brother in law. The flowers that Kayla had placed there several days earlier were still there, glistening with dew. He knew his mother, Caroline, had placed flowers there on holidays for Kayla, but it was a place he himself had rarely visited in the years following the funeral. Thinking back to that horrible day, he vividly remembered the pain and sorrow in the sad blue eyes of his sister.

"Chief Brady?"

The voice that had spoken belonged to a boyish faced rookie from uniform division, and Roman turned to face the youthfully eager young man, expectantly. Robert L. Jones, Jonesy to his friends and coworkers, came to a stop a few yards away.

"The backhoe people say they're ready to go as soon as they get your name on the requisition," he said, gesturing toward the hedgerow.

Although he maintained a neutral expression, Roman was smiling, inwardly. The rather nervous cemetery director, anxious about the prospect of keeping the town's residents from visiting the graves of their loved ones, had insisted on getting his signature on the requisition before he would allow the exhumation to be carried out. This in spite of the court order that had already been signed by a judge. Clearly the idea of digging up a grave and opening the coffin was particularly repugnant, but signing the paper was not a problem. "Bring them over, and I'll sign the form when they get set up."

"Yes, sir," Jonesy responded promptly, then turned and sprinted back up the winding lane toward the heavy equipment shed to relay the message. As the cemetery road twisted and turned away from his destination, he cut across the grassy lawn, dodging the headstones in his path with the vitality and stamina of the young.

Roman could not suppress a wistful sigh, wishing he still possessed that degree of endurance. Enthusiastic on the job and eager to please his superiors, Jonesy did not do anything halfheartedly. Roman himself had mentioned that time was essential in completing the investigation so that the cemetery could resume normal operations, so the young officer had taken it to heart, wasting no time getting from one point to another, although, with another amused smile, Roman wondered if it would not have been faster to have simply driven his cruiser.

The backhoe shifted into idle, and the roar faded into the background as Jonesy relayed the message, allowing Roman to hear the approach of a private vehicle on the cemetery road, and he turned toward it just as Bo drew to a stop behind his brother's car, shifted into park, and opened the door. Out of habit, a custom drilled into them as children by their mother, he paused to look up and down the winding lane before crossing it, even though there was no traffic in the closed burial ground. Leaving the asphalt road, Bo stepped onto the wet grass, leaving dark footprints in the shimmering dew.

"I thought you might want to be here," Roman commented as Bo stopped beside him.

"I was surprised that you got the court order so fast," Bo said. "What did you do, drag the judge out of bed last night?"

Roman chuckled. "Even I wouldn't be that brave. I called him yesterday evening, and I have to admit he wasn't happy that I interrupted his date with his girlfriend, but after I explained what was going on, he understood the need to move quickly on this."

Bo's eyes dropped to the headstone, drawn to the name on the granite marker, and he shook his head slowly in revulsion. "That is just creepy, knowing that Steve is alive and well."

"I know; I was just thinking the same thing. Never, in a million years, did I imagine that something like this could happen."

"Makes two of us," Bo agreed. "I remember the day of the funeral. I've never seen Kayla look so devastated. So lost. I never thought Steve was a good match for her, but I admit I was wrong. She was never quite the same after losing him."

Roman nodded in agreement. "I know. I hate to admit I was wrong, too. It hurt like hell seeing her so depressed, so sad."

"So," Bo changed the subject abruptly, his voice becoming more cheerful. "What did you do to the cemetery director? He's down by the gate pacing like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on the first cop he sees."

"He's a little put-out with me over keeping the gate closed until after the exhumation takes place. He agreed to comply with the court order only because he had no choice, but he stressed that it must move along as quickly as possible. I can understand his distress, but we should be out of here pretty quick."

The roar of heavy equipment interrupted them, and they both turned toward the backhoe, which rumbled along the paved cemetery road toward them. When it reached an access point, an area where the paving had been sloped like a ramp to accommodate the equipment, it entered the grassy area and rolled slowly and carefully along the narrow path between rows of graves. It came to a halt just short of Steve's grave, and, leaving the engine running, the driver climbed down from the cab. With a clipboard in his hand, he approached the two detectives.

Roman reached for it and signed his name to the requisition form. "Thanks for getting here so quickly and on such short notice. We appreciate the promptness."

"Well, our boss, Mr. Duvall, said there may be a crime involved with one of the graves, and wanted us to get over as quickly as possible." He accepted the clipboard that Roman handed back to him, and his eyes dropped to the grave. "So, this is the one, huh?"

"That's the one," Roman confirmed.

"It isn't often that we're called to exhume a body. I've dug a lot of graves, but this is the first time I've ever been called to dug one back up. You questioning the cause of death, or something?"

"Nope. Fact is, I'm hoping to find an empty coffin."

The driver lifted his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. "No kidding? We buried an empty box?"

"No way to know until we get it back up. So, you're ready to go, then?"

"Yup. I'll get 'er into position."

The driver returned to the backhoe and climbed up into the seat. Bo and Roman started to move away from the grave to give the backhoe room to dig, but almost as an afterthought, Roman bent over and scooped up the flowers that Kayla had left, unaware that she had been decorating a grave that was not that of her husband. With the flowers in hand, he followed Bo to a nearby position beneath a maple tree, where they could watch and talk without shouting over the machinery.

The backhoe was positioned at the foot of the grave, and the driver and several of the workers stabilized the unit by cranking down the support legs, then he climbed back into the cab and took the controls. With one swipe, the backhoe peeled back a huge chunk of sod and deposited it beside the grave, then pivoted on its base and lifted out another chunk of soil. The two detectives watched with interest, noting the amount of soil that could be lifted out at one time. And near the cemetery offices, still fretting over the locked gate, the director also stopped his pacing to watch, clearly relieved that the work was progressing quickly.

"Hard to believe, the gravediggers used to do this by hand," Bo commented. "Six feet down, with nothing more than shovels and spades."

"Backbreaking work," Roman agreed, then a hand unexpectedly slapped down on his shoulder from behind, bringing him around with a start.

Shane had arrived unnoticed, apparently as curious about the result of the exhumation as the brothers. "Didn't take long to get the court order, did it?" he asked. "I figured we'd have to wait a few days, at least."

"Once I explained what was going on, the judge agreed that we should proceed as soon as possible to keep from losing the momentum. He signed the court order immediately, and I started making arrangements right away. The cemetery director brought the diggers in for us, even though it was Sunday, and even though he wasn't particularly happy about it."

"I noticed. That nervous fellow over there by the gate refused to let me in without showing him my identification."

"He doesn't have a high opinion of me right now," Roman said, and as he spoke, his eyes scanned the edges of the property, where traffic could be seen through the trees. "I'm sure Vaughn has someone keeping an eye on things," he added, shifting his attention to the cemetery's interior, half expecting to see a stranger watching from the shadow of St. Luke's or behind one of the shrubs. "If they were uncertain before that Steve is in Salem, they'll know now."

"Yes. Digging up the grave is a bit of a tip-off, isn't it?" Shane asked.

"And they'll almost certainly be combing Salem looking for him. You both already know this, but anyone going to the safe house needs to keep a sharp eye out to make sure we're not being followed."

"So," Shane said, lowering his eyes to the grave. "What do you expect to find in there?"

Roman shrugged. "I can think of several things that might be in there, but I'm holding out some hope that we'll find it empty with maybe some pertinent evidence."

Shane nodded, soberly, considering the alternative to an empty coffin. "Yeah, I know what you mean. By the way," he added, placing his hand on Bo's broad shoulder and clamping his fingers in a reproachful grip. "Thank you for letting me know that Kim and Jeannie were in town. I mean, how many chances did you have yesterday to mention it?"

"Ooops," Bo said with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Hope and I were talking about that before your plane landed, and then we were so startled about Steve showing up alive that it completely slipped our minds. And when I thought of it again, you had already left the safe house. We were hoping that Roman would mention it when you stopped by the office."

"Don't put that on me," Roman protested. "He dropped that bombshell about Steve on me when he came into the office, and I never gave it another thought."

"Likely stories," Shane said accusingly, but he was smiling, indicating that they were forgiven for their oversight.

"So, I take it you figured it out at some point," Bo said.

"Yes, I sort of stumbled on Kim at the park yesterday evening. That was a major surprise, I might add. I didn't expect her to be in town."

"I hope it wasn't too awkward for you."

The memory of the way his heart had leaped at the sight of her, the way he felt warmed just at the thought of her, drew him in with a pleasant sensation. "It was a little awkward at first, but we decided to go out to dinner as a family for Jeannie's sake, and I have to admit I rather enjoyed it. I think Kim did as well."

"It's always good for the kids if the parents can get along," Roman agreed.

'Yeah, that's what we both decided."

A rather ominous scraping sound reverberated throughout the cemetery as the digger bucket scraped the lid of the vault, drawing their attention back to the grave. Carefully, the operator cleared the lid of as much soil as possible, then he and the other workers secured chains to the heavy lid, which was then hoisted out of the grave and placed carefully on the ground beside the mound of excavated soil.

The officers moved closer as the cemetery workers attached chains to the casket, and a few minutes later, the familiar light colored casket came into view for the first time in a decade. It was lifted into the air, and settled gently on the grass.

The operator of the backhoe equipment shut off the engine and he and the other workers watched with intense curiosity as the three law officers approached the casket. At the gate, the director shaded his eyes from the sun, hoping that whatever they found inside would settle the matter once and for all.

Bo could not suppress a shudder of revulsion. "I never thought I'd see that again."

"Yeah," Roman agreed, grimly. "I know what you mean."

They waited while one of the workers unsealed the lid and stepped back, deferring to the law officers. Roman hesitated briefly, wondering what he would find inside. Then, drawing a deep breath, he lifted both halves of the lid and folded it back.

Everyone present experienced the flinch of an unpleasant discovery, even though they had expected what might be found inside.

The body in the casket had not been embalmed, and was therefore not in good condition, but it was clearly a man dressed in a black suit.

Repulsed, they stood silently for several moments, examining the body.

"Look at this," Roman said, pointing to a frayed round hole in the black fabric surrounded by a dried, rust colored stain.

"Poor bloke was shot," Shane said. "So, I presume this is probably the missing mortician?"

"We'll have to send him down to the morgue for an autopsy and to examine his dental records, but that would be my guess," Roman answered. "Obviously, he didn't get the sort of payoff he had expected." There was no humor in his comment, as none was intended.

"Let's see if he has any I.D.," Bo said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. "Hey, Jonesy," he called to the boyish faced officer who had taken a position a short distance away, near enough to watch the event, but far enough back to be out of the way. It was obviously not far enough away to avoid being noticed, however. "I need you to document the things I find in his pockets."

Jonesy glanced both right and left, as if making sure it was he to whom the detective was speaking, even though he had been summoned by name. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice weak. Fumbling through the papers in his clipboard, he moved an evidence sheet to the top and walked toward the coffin. His face was paled slightly when he saw the body, and even though he was repulsed by it, it was difficult to avoid looking at it.

"Don't get sick on me, now," Bo warned, recognizing the expression.

"No, sir. I'm okay."

Carefully, Bo lifted the edges of the black suit coat and inserted his hand into the lapel pockets, trying to ignore the feel of the hard ribs beneath his hand. "Got something here," he announced as he withdrew his hand. "Five business cards for Salem Funeral Home. The name on the card is Clifford Wilkins."

"The missing mortician," Roman confirmed, holding an evidence bag open to receive the cards.

Bo dropped them in, then checked the other coat pockets, turning up only a dried stick of chewing gum, still in its wrapper.

"Nicotine," Bo said. "Looks like he was trying to quit smoking."

After dropping the gum into a separate evidence bag, he began checking the dead man's trouser pockets, then straightened up with a plain brown wallet in his hand, dried and cracked. He opened it, thumbing through the clear pockets to view the name on the driver's license and credit cards.

"Clifford Wilkins. Matches the name on the business cards." He opened the bill compartment and counted the cash. "Seventy-seven dollars: three twenties, one ten, one five, and two ones."

Jonesy wrote down the figures, and the wallet and its contents were dropped into another evidence bag. All of them were sealed and initialed, and Bo signed the evidence sheet.

"Better get a coroner's wagon out here," Bo said to the young officer, who relayed the request through his shoulder mike.

"Well," Roman said. "We'll have to get the results of the autopsy back to be certain, but I have no doubt that our DB is Mr. Wilkins, our missing mortician."

"Why did they leave the ID on him?" Jonesy asked.

"They never expected we would have any reason to dig the body up. Which means they had no intention of letting Steve Johnson go after they got whatever it is they're after. He was going to stay dead, and no one would have been the wiser."