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There was a long moment of stunned silence. <\/span><\/p>\n Then Dave asked, \u201cAre you insane?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I replied, suddenly feeling very foolish. \u201cI mean, Mary experienced it, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI felt something in the bookstore that day,\u201d she confirmed, \u201cbut I don\u2019t know what I think about the rest of this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOh, I\u2019ve no doubt you guys experienced something,\u201d Dave said. \u201cI\u2019ve had my own encounters with the paranormal over the years. And who knows? Maybe you did make brief contact with Jesus. It\u2019s possible.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I frowned. \u201cThen why do you think I\u2019m insane?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBecause you\u2019re not talking about seeing his ghost. You\u2019re talking about stealing his corpse!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAshes,\u201d I countered.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAshes, corpse\u2014it still amounts to grave\u00a0<\/span>robbing, Brian!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnd asking us to help,\u201d Phoebe chimed in.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll do the stealing,\u201d I said. \u201cI just need you guys to distract Jim.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Dave threw his hands up in the air. \u201cJim owns the store! If Jesus really wants to go home, why not just ask Jim to give you the remains?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I admitted. \u201cI mean, Jim got that nice memorial plaque made up. That wasn\u2019t cheap. And he went through a lot of work interring the urn in the wall. It would kind of be a dick move to ask him to tear the wall apart again.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Dave flailed. \u201cAnd it\u2019s not a dick move for us to tear his store apart and steal from him?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re not stealing from Jim,\u201d I insisted. \u201cWe\u2019re just helping our Jesus. I think Jim would understand that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Phoebe frowned. \u201cThen why not ask him?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I repeated. \u201cI just\u2026I get the sense Jesus doesn\u2019t want me to.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThen you have to at least tell Cathy,\u201d Mary said.<\/span><\/p>\n I shook my head. \u201cWe can\u2019t. Seriously. She\u2019s just now healing from it all—as much as anyone ever truly heals after losing their husband and best friend. I\u2019m not going to fuck up her shit by telling her that I\u2019m in touch with him, and that he wants to come home.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSo\u2026\u201d Dave paused. \u201cWhat exactly is your plan?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWho said I have a plan?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou always have a plan,\u201d all three of them said in unison.<\/span><\/p>\n I shrugged. \u201cOkay. You know I\u2019ve got that jar of H.P. Lovecraft\u2019s grave dirt, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n At this point in our narrative, I should probably tell you about the dirt I dug up from H.P Lovecraft\u2019s grave many years ago. I kept it in a clear glass jar on my bookshelf. For the most part, it was just a knickknack, serving as a bookend between my complete collection of Lovecraft\u2019s Arkham House volumes and books by M. Stephen Lukac and Brian Lumley. Occasionally, however, it had other uses.<\/span><\/p>\n One such usage was the fault of my friend Jason (who, in a bizarre bit of cruel synchronicity, died of a sudden brain aneurysm two months before Jesus). A few years ago, Jason brought a stranger to my home. Now, usually, I trusted Jason\u2019s judgement, but this particular individual wanted to be a horror writer, and later that evening—after many drinks—he became obnoxious and aggressive, insisting that I help him achieve his dream. Now, I\u2019ve got a pretty good track record of helping people do just that in this business, but this guy\u2026? This guy. I didn\u2019t like him. I didn\u2019t like the fact that he was using one of my oldest friends to get to me. So, I got him drunker. And then I pulled down H.P. Lovecraft\u2019s grave dirt. And then I told him that there was a secret ritual—an initiation of sorts. Every successful horror writer had done it. Stephen King, Robert Bloch, Dean Koontz, the Splatterpunks, Poppy Z. Brite, Richard Matheson, Clive Barker, Jack Ketchum, Tanith Lee, Richard Laymon. Even Bentley Little. All of us had snorted a line of H.P. Lovecraft\u2019s grave dirt, and that had led to our successes.<\/span><\/p>\n He was just drunk enough to believe me. I poured him a line of dirt, and cut it up fine with a butter knife. He declined my offer of a straw, hunkered down next to my coffee table, and proceeded to snort H.P. Lovecraft\u2019s grave dirt up his nose—half the line in one nostril, the second half in the other.<\/span><\/p>\n He started to scream and squirm pretty much instantaneously.<\/span><\/p>\n His nose started to bleed after that.<\/span><\/p>\n Turned out I hadn\u2019t smashed up all the little pebbles in the dirt.<\/span><\/p>\n He left soon after, and as far as I know, he never took advantage of my friends again. He also never became a horror writer.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMy plan is simple,\u201d I told Mary, Dave, and Phoebe. \u201cI’m going to swap out Jesus’s ashes with H.P. Lovecraft’s grave dirt. The girls will distract Jim up at the counter.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow do we do that?\u201d Phoebe asked.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou have boobs,\u201d I said. \u201cJim likes boobs.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t have boobs,\u201d Dave pointed out. \u201cWhat am I going to do while they distract Jim?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re going to stand in front of the horror section and be my lookout. If a customer comes toward it, you get rid of them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow do I do that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cTalk to them. That usually seems to work.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d Dave shook his head. \u201cYou need Lombardo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re not bringing in Mike Lombardo,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d Dave countered. \u201cHe was as close to Jesus as we were. And distracting people is something he excels at.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cLombardo\u2019s film career is just taking off. He\u2019s young. How\u2019s it going to look if we get busted? Getting busted for grave robbing isn\u2019t going to look good on his IMDB profile.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow are you going to get Jesus out of the wall?\u201d Mary asked.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know yet,\u201d I admitted. \u201cI guess I\u2019ll need a crowbar, and a cordless drill, and\u2026shit, I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cCoop would know,\u201d Dave said. <\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cAbsolutely not. We are not bringing Coop into this either. No Lombardo. No Coop. Just us. This isn\u2019t fucking <\/span>Ocean\u2019s Eleven<\/span><\/i>!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBut you need a construction expert,\u201d Phoebe said. \u201cSomebody who knows how to get into the wall quietly and without making a giant hole. Who better than Geoff Cooper?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d I pounded my fist on the table. The podcast microphones trembled.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d Dave asked.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI know why,\u201d Mary volunteered. \u201cIt\u2019s because other than me, Coop is the only person that can talk Brian out of doing something after his mind is made up. And his mind is made up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d I confirmed, \u201cit is. I\u2019m doing this. I\u2019m getting our friend out of there, and I\u2019m going to get him home. I could use you guys’ help, but if I have to, I\u2019ll do it alone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo, you won\u2019t,\u201d Mary said. \u201cIf you\u2019re set on this, then so am I.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Dave nodded, reluctantly. \u201cOkay. Me, too. I\u2019m in. But I still think you\u2019re insane.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I turned to Phoebe. \u201cHow about you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDo you really believe this is what Jesus wants?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I nodded.<\/span><\/p>\n She cocked her head. \u201cAnd when Mary and I are distracting Jim—would I get to wear one of my Renaissance Faire dresses?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d I shrugged. \u201cThat would probably add to the distraction factor.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThen count me in.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n * \u00a0\u00a0* \u00a0\u00a0*<\/span><\/p>\n Later that night\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n Mary turned to me on the couch. \u201cSo, when are you thinking about doing this, Keene?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not sure yet. Why?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBecause I\u2019ll need time to save up bail money for you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I smiled. \u201cI\u2019ve got to think about it a bit more. Plan everything. Figure out how to explain it to folks.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat folks? You\u2019re not going to write about it, are you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I shrugged. \u201cSooner or later, I write about everything. So do you. That\u2019s what we do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Mary nodded. \u201cPoint.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll put it in End of the Road. By the time I wrote about it for the column, the deed would already be done.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n We turned back to the television, but my mind was elsewhere. Mentioning this column had reminded me—the road was still out there, waiting. I had a third and final leg of touring to do, and it was set to start the following Saturday.<\/span>
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