Free Cemetery Lake by Paul Cleave

shakes my hand before he leaves, and when he takes his
    away I see that he is shaking. Then he disappears back through the doors. God’s working day is still not over.

chapter ten
    The rain has disappeared. For now. And the night has set in. I sit in the car with the heater going, trying to collect my thoughts, wondering why I’m chasing down Bruce the caretaker when
    I ought to be home chasing down some pizza with Jim the
    bourbon. I don’t know, maybe it’s just that my life isn’t interesting enough to be at home getting drunk in front of reruns of bad
    comedies and reruns of bad news that happens every day. That’s the problem with the news. The victims have different names,
    the presenters wear different outfits, but the stories are the same.
    Some of us put our hands up and say that’s enough; we try
    to make a difference. When I was on the job we would arrest
    one killer and another would appear. It was like the sorcerer’s apprentice Mickey Mouse cutting evil broomsticks in half, only to have each half grow whole and carry on doing whatever it was evil broomsticks did.
    The inside of the windscreen is fogging up, so I redirect the
    heater to take care of it. My reflection, slowly appearing on
    the warming glass, looks pale green from the dashboard lights. I take a small detour on the way out, heading back past the crime Scene that was once a tranquil lake in the middle of a tranquil cemetery. The machinery is moving around — I can hear and
    see it — and I wonder what unlucky girl is being dug from the ground by a giant metal claw.
    The cemetery road veers away from the machinery, from the
    lake, from my daughter, and towards more darkness and more
    trees and fewer gravestones, before taking me out onto the street.
    From there it’s a thirty-second drive to Alderman’s house, and most of that is taken up with hedgeline views of the edge of the cemetery. There are only a few houses nearby. One is old and
    looks like it is ready to fall down; another looks brand new, as if it was built yesterday. I figure the houses in this area are, like many, slowly getting replaced. New replacing the old. The new
    then slowly becoming the old. Then the new becoming so old it
    becomes condemned. Hard to imagine, I guess, that any house
    becomes that way when it’s getting built. But I suppose the same thing happens with people too. It’s the cycle of life.
    I strain to read the numbers on the letterboxes, but at last
    I park outside and walk up the driveway, the murky light from
    the streetlights detailing more of the house with every footstep.
    Warped weatherboards and chipped concrete tiles, the windows
    smeared with grime, or cracked, The windowsills uneven. There is no garden, just grass and weeds and mud. The concrete foundation and steps leading up to the front door are flecked green with
    mildew, and it’s the first time I’ve become aware that concrete can actually decay. There are no lights on inside. If a house could look as if it has cancer and is in its dying stages, then it’s this one.
    When I knock on the door the house creaks and I have the
    sudden fear it might topple over. Somebody inside yells for me to go away. I keep knocking, using the heel of my hand to keep the impact loud and annoying. Another thirty seconds go by. Then a minute.
    ‘Jesus Christ, man, what the hell do you want?’ The voice
    comes from behind my knocking.
    It’s turning into one of those long days when I’m not in the
    mood for personality clashes, so instead of telling him to open up the goddamn door before I kick it in, I grab a business card, identify myself and tell him I have a few questions.
    ‘I’ve had questions all day,’ he answers. ‘People only ever come to my door if they want something. I’m sick of people wanting
    something. How about what I want, huh? I want people to leave
    me the hell alone. Jesus, doesn’t it look like I want to be alone?
    You see any invites?’
    ‘It won’t take