The Frighteners Read Free Page B

of going to seed. His suits were old and no longer fit. His hair was badly cut and seemed always uncombed. And his demeanor fitted his appearance. Bannister was nervous and appeared to be ashamed of something. All in all, he gave the impression of being a man with a mysterious, perhaps tragic past who was clutching at the straws of life. Unfortunately for him, enough people in Fairwater knew Bannister’s business well enough for them to become very uncomfortable when he was around.
    Some of them were in the funeral business. When Bannister approached funeral director George Zmed, he had his head down, as usual, and was avoiding eye contact as he thrust his business card into the hand of a man who knew him well and hated the thought of him. The funeral director glanced at the card, then crumpled it up and dropped it onto the rain-softened ground. He drove it into the mud with his heel.
    “What did you do that for?” Bannister asked, in a whisper that was loud enough to earn him suspicious looks from other mourners.
    “I was afraid it was going to burn a hole in my hand,” Zmed whispered back.
    “I don’t mean why did you rip it up? I mean why did you read it at all? You know who I am.”
    “I was hoping you’d changed; got religion or something.”
    “I can help your business,” Bannister said. “You know I can. That’s why I gave you my card.”
    The man rolled his eyes. The preacher was reading the Twenty-third Psalm.
    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters . . .”
    Bannister grabbed hold of the funeral director’s coat sleeve and gave it a tug. “Your stubbornness maketh me sick,” he said. “Is this what you consider an exciting funeral service?”
    “They’re not supposed to be exciting, Bannister,” Zmed hissed between his teeth. “They’re supposed to be poignant.”
    The preacher continued: “He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
    Bannister said, “If you use my service, you can have funerals your clients will remember forever.”
    “They don’t remember anything,” the man replied. “They’re dead.”
    “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. In the afterlife, for most people there’s nothing much to do but remember. Which is why it’s important to give the dearly departed a good send-off. ’Cause if they don’t like the way they were treated at their funerals, there can be hell to pay.”
    “There will be hell to pay if you don’t get out of here,” the funeral director said. “I swear, this time I’ll have you arrested.”
    The preacher droned on: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me . . .”
    Bannister tossed his hands up in frustration. “You see, you can’t send men to their final rewards thinking someone with a rod and a staff will protect them. I’ve seen it. It’s a jungle down there. Some of them carry Uzis, for God’s sake. What are you going to do with a rod and a staff?”
    “Get religion, Bannister,” Zmed snarled. “Get born again. I’ve seen it work for killers on death row. It can help you, too. If that fails, get a shrink. Try Prozac. But whatever you do, get out of my face.”
    And he gave Bannister a shove that momentarily caused him to lose his balance, stepping backward and nearly tumbling over the headstone of a chandler—a provider of ship supplies—who died in 1867.
    Undaunted, Bannister waited until the mourners had stopped looking at him before slipping up to some of them and thrusting business cards in their hands. Then things began to heat up. A spanking-new black Mercury Tracer hatchback pulled up. Steve Bayliss got out and scurried through the headstones toward the funeral, brandishing a steno pad and a newly sharpened pencil. Zmed frowned at this latest intrusion and began gesturing to his