The Ghost Rider Read Online Free Page B

That same voice told him that something shocking had occurred, something that went beyond mere murder or any other crime, something that made assassination and similar heinous acts seem mere trifles.
    The little church, with its freshly repaired bell tower, was now very near, but Stres suddenly veered off and went straight into the cemetery, not through the iron grille, but through an inconspicuous wooden gate. He hadn’t been in the cemetery for a long time, and he had trouble getting his bearings.
    “This way,” said his deputy as he strode along. “The graves of the Vranaj sons must be over here.”
    Stres fell in step beside him. The ground was soft in places. Small, soot-blackened icons streaked with candle wax added to the serene and melancholy atmosphere. Some of the graves were covered with moss. Stres stooped to right an overturned cross, but it was heavy and he had to leave it. He walked on. He saw his deputy beckon in the distance: he had found them at last.
    Stres walked over. The graves, neatly aligned and covered with slabs of black stone, were identical, made in a shape that suggested a cross as well as a sword, or a man standing with his arms stretched out. At the head of each grave was a small niche for an icon and candles. Beneath it the dead man’s name was carved.
    “There’s his grave,” said the deputy, his voice hushed.
    Stres looked up and saw that the man had gone pale.
    “What’s the matter?”
    His deputy pointed at the grave.
    “Take a good look,” he said. “The stones have been moved.”
    “What?” Stres leaned forward to see what his aide was pointing to. For a long moment he examined the spot carefully, then stood up straight. “Yes, it’s true. There’s been some disturbance here.”
    “Just as I told you,” said the deputy, his satisfaction in seeing that his chief shared his view mixed with a new surge of fear.
    “But that doesn’t mean much,” Stres remarked.
    His deputy turned and looked at him with surprise. His eyes seemed to say, sure, a commander must preserve his dignity in all circumstances, but there comes a time when one must forget about rank, office and such formalities. A battered sun strove to break through the clouds. They looked up, in some astonishment, but neither uttered the words each might have expected to hear in such circumstances.
    “No, it doesn’t mean anything,” Stres said. “For one thing, the slabs could have subsided by themselves, as happens eventually in most graves. Moreover, even if someone did move them, it might well have been an unknown traveller who moved the gravestones before perpetrating his hoax to make it look like the dead man had risen from his grave.”
    The deputy listened open-mouthed. He was about tosay something, perhaps to raise some objection, but Stres carried on talking.
    “In fact, it is more likely that he did it after leaving Doruntine near the house. It’s possible he came here then and moved the gravestones before he went off.”
    Stres, who now seemed weary, let his gaze wander over the field that stretched before him, as if seeking the direction in which the unknown traveller had ridden off. From where they stood they could see the two-storey Vranaj house, part of the village, and the highway, which disappeared into the horizon. It was here on this ground, between the church and that house of sorrow, that the mysterious event of the night of 11 October had occurred. Go on ahead. I have something to do at the church …
    “That’s how it must have happened,” Stres said. “Unless she’s lying.”
    “‘Unless she is lying?’” his deputy parroted. “And who, sir, might she be?”
    Stres didn’t answer. The sun at their back, though still a little hazy, now drew their shadows on the ground.
    “She … Well, Doruntine herself, or else her mother. Or anybody: you, me … What’s so mysterious about that?” Stres exclaimed.
    His deputy shrugged. Little by little the colour had returned to his