Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  Hers:

  Think risqué thoughts, Daniel, you’ll be irresistible.

  Not professions of love but something higher than platonic compliments.

  Now what? Jennings didn’t know. He wouldn’t pursue a woman engaged to another man. And he didn’t think she’d offer. Tantalizing silence stretched.

  Behind them, blue police lights flared to life. He hadn’t noticed the trailing car.

  “Are we speeding?”

  “No.” Jennings signaled a turn and aimed for the Jiffy Lube, closed for the evening. They were less than a mile from Mill Mountain Coffee. “And this is a rental, so it can’t be the registration.”

  He braked in the vacant lot and shifted into park, the door locks auto-disengaging. The cruiser stopped catty-corner behind, blocking escape. Blue lights blasted his vision in the mirror.

  Jennings got his wallet. “This makes no sense.”

  “Maybe you rolled through a light?”

  He buzzed down the window. Cold snuck in and they heard footsteps.

  Officer Hudson put one hand on the top of the Altima and one hand on his belt, and he leaned down, limned in bright light.

  “Evening. License and registration please.” His breath carried a faint tang of whisky.

  Jennings had his driver’s license ready. Hathaway fished out paperwork from the glove compartment.

  “It’s a rental, officer. I assume the registration and inspection are fine,” he said.

  The license and registration were placed on top of the car after he verified the name Daniel Grant Jennings.

  “You know why I pulled you over, Mr. Jennings?”

  “I don’t.” In the sideview, Jennings watched the second officer take a position behind the first, not on the passenger side. A trickle of fear crept down his spine like a centipede.

  “I got a call on the radio and we’re checking it out. No big deal, Mr. Jennings. Hop outside and chat with us.”

  “What was the call?”

  “I’ll explain.” Officer Hudson moved back and indicated Jennings open the door. “Come on up, bud.”

  “Am I suspected of a crime?”

  “Step out of your vehicle.”

  Hathaway leaned down and forward so she could look Officer Hudson in the face. “You need a valid reason to pull us over, Officer. Otherwise it’s his right to remain in the car.”

  “He was speeding, ma’am.”

  “No I wasn’t and you said this was about a radio call.”

  “Mr. Jennings, this is a standard traffic stop and there’s no need for defiance. Am I hearing defiance?” said Hudson.

  “Why do I need to get out of the car for a traffic stop?”

  “Because I’m asking nicely.”

  Hathaway whispered, “Something’s wrong, Daniel. Don’t get out.”

  He said, “I wasn’t speeding, sir. Is it something else?”

  “I got a call that the driver of this car was speeding and might be intoxicated,” said Hudson.

  “We left a coffee shop sixty-seconds ago. Can’t be us. You got the wrong car.”

  “You’re probably right, Mr. Jennings. Come out and pass a standard sobriety test and be on your way.”

  “All due respect, Officer, my driving was perfect and I’m not taking that test.”

  “That, bud, ain’t within your rights.”

  “Yes it is. You have no reason to suspect me. I’ll submit to a blood test at the station.” Surrounded by other witnesses.

  “Something you’re hiding in there, Jennings?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Sir. Get out the car. Now.”

  Hathaway’s voice began to shake. “No, he’s staying.”

  Hudson took a half step back. Jennings saw it about to happen. Saw the minute details of everything sharpen like under a magnifying glass—Hudson tensing, Hathaway fumbling in her bag, the other cop growing in the sideview.

  Corrupt cops.

  Jennings went for the locks. The second cop got the handle first. Jennings grabbing at the door and it swung wide open. Hathaway screaming. Hudson came in and wrapped muscular arms around Jennings’ neck as he tried to drop the car into gear. The shifting lever refusing to budge because the brake pedal wasn’t pressed.

  Jennings was dragged out by his head. He tried to get his feet under him but the prosthesis felt like an anchor. Hudson reeking of sweat. A sudden fist to Jennings’ gut doubled him over. A solid body shot, bruising organs, and Jennings tasted vomit.

  “NO! Stop it! Let him go!”

  The second cop maneuvered behind and put Jennings into a rear choke. Jennings was bent backwards and his windpipe pinched shut. Hudson hit him in the side at the floating ribs. The electric blue lights disoriented him, felt like pain.

  “Daniel!”

  Hudson leaned close to whisper.

  “Mother fucker, consider this a friendly warning. Let the thing with Lynch go. Follow that shit? Nod if you understand me.”

  Jennings’ oxygen supply was too low to dwell on shock. He strained against the powerful arm around his throat. Coughed, “Lynch?”

  “I won’t say it again, bud.”

  “Lynch sent you?”

  “I sent myself. Some friendly advice, Jennings? You ain’t the first poor jackass to regret bowing up against him. You get it? That’s as polite as I’m gonna be.”

  “Let him GO! Please!”

  Jennings couldn’t recall a single thing he’d ever learned from combat training. Between his ears there was only flailing panic. But his body remembered, instincts taking over. He brought his right knee up hard—Hudson was close and the knee was a battering ram to his testicles.

  Hudson felt the eruption of pain from kneecaps to navel. His legs gave out like he’d tripped and the subitaneous nausea drenched him in sweat before he landed on his side.

  Jennings brought his head back, catching the other officer in the nose. The man’s septal cartilage broke and the impact rang his skull.

  “Stop it! I’m recording this!”

  The officer released and sweet oxygen inflated Jennings’ lungs. The man fell into him and they toppled. Landed awkwardly on the pavement in the nook of the open door, Jennings underneath him.

  Blood from the officer’s nose smeared onto Jennings’ shirt. He slammed Jennings’ head into the blacktop with his forearm. Jennings experienced the pain in the back of his throat, like swallowing copper. Jennings struck back with his elbow, not his fist, catching the nameless officer in the eye socket.

  The officer howled like a child and raised up—his left eye wouldn’t open until next Wednesday. One hand fumbling for his pistol, the other holding his face.

  “Stop it! I’m recording this! We’re live. We’re LIVE on Facebook!”

  Hathaway’s tone took on a new note of meaning. Enough to penetrate the adrenalin myopia. The officer above Jennings looked at her, his face wrecked.

  Hathaway’s phone was pointed at them, the little LCD bulb on the camera bright and shining like a searchlight.

  “That’s right. This is live. We’re live on Facebook.” Her voice quavered with fear. “I’m broadcasting and people are watching you, Officer, right now. We have nine viewers so far. Ten. Twelve! This is Daisy Hathaway and we were just pulled over by two Roanoke County police officers. They pulled Daniel Jennings from the car without provocation and started hitting him.”

  The officer above Jennings had already slunk out of view, wary of his career being in the spotlight. Hathaway half crawled onto the driver’s seat, trying to follow.

  “If you’re watching this, please send help to the…to the Jiffy Lube on…where are we, we’re on 419. We’re the victims of police brutality. Twenty-five viewers so far, Officer Asshole!”

  The officer with the wrecked face had retreated back to the bright squad car, afraid of exposure. Hudson was crawling on his knees.

  The sudden comedown of the fight left Jennings queasy and raw. The loudest sound was the humming of car engines. He shifted the s
ocket of the prosthesis on his left knee and climbed to his feet, his abdomen protesting.

  “Daniel! Are you okay? Speak to me. Let’s go!”

  “One sec.” Wobbling. He squeezed his eyes against the throb in his head. Got his license and registration and tossed them into the car. Walked to Hudson and fought down the warm impulse to slam the man’s face into the blacktop and gravel. Instead he nudged the cop with his left shoe. “You’re off duty, Hudson. Aren’t you. No car cameras, no body cam, no radio.”

  Hudson, on all fours, didn’t answer. Pain still radiated from his crotch and he was drooling.

  “We got you on camera, Hudson. I got your partner’s blood on my shirt too. You show up again, you’ll be in front of a magistrate quick. So back down. That’s as polite as I’m gonna be. Besides, you suck at this.” He pushed harder with his foot and Hudson had to shift his hands or fall. “Tell Lynch you failed.”

  Jennings returned to the car. Ducked in, wincing, closed the car door. Dropped into gear.

  21

  Lying in his bed that night, Jennings watched the video again on his phone. It started as he was being hit and it ended a mile from Jiffy Lube when Hathaway remembered to press stop.

  Hudson was never visible. The other officer (Jennings didn’t see his name tag) was a grainy blur in poor lighting. There was a moment as Hathaway shouted, “This is live! We’re live on Facebook,” that his face was partially visible over the car seat. It wasn’t enough, though. Jennings paused it and slowly worked through the frames but the image would only be good for eliminating suspects, not for conclusively identifying one.

  Earlier, sitting in the car outside Hathaway’s house, she shot him a coy smile. “I lied about Facebook. We weren’t broadcasting. I…I was scared, Daniel, and panicking and I couldn’t make it work fast enough. So I faked it.”

  “You saved the day, Daisy.” He grinned despite the adrenaline tremors wearing off. They were both shaking. “Although I think I had them.”

  Hathaway smiled back, relief bonding them closer like glue. “You totally did, Daniel. There were TWO of them and they ambushed us, but you were amazing.”

  She insisted he come inside to have his injuries examined but he declined. He was feeling jumpy and violent, not fit for company, so he came home and popped Tylenol and two benzodiazepines—Xanax. Jennings had managed to stay off SSRI medication, instead working through depression with cognitive behavioral therapy and exercise. But he found short-term anti-anxieties useful for spot treatment.

  Jennings clicked off the phone and set it on the bed beside him. The medicine was settling in, smoothing his edges. Even so, he laid his arm across his face and cried into it.

  A good, healing cry. He’d grown to like them.

  The next morning, Thursday, he was woken not by his alarm clock, which he forgot to set, or by nightmares but a knocking at his door. He’d slept in—thirty minutes before class began.

  Hathaway stepped inside, carrying Starbucks and a bulging grocery bag. “I brought you get-well supplies.”

  It was a cold day. Her blue turtleneck reached her chin and she wore slacks, thankfully—otherwise seeing her in his apartment would’ve been unbearable.

  Think risqué thoughts?

  Not wearing a robe in the morning with a woman already engaged. And his abs hurt.

  He eyed the to-go cups. “Praise the Lord. And you. I accept.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “You didn’t?” He sipped the coffee black.

  “Barely. It took me hours. I was upset.” Hathaway unpacked the grocery bag. “I brought you a bagel and breakfast sandwich from Starbucks. A muffin and apples from Kroger, plus a refillable ice bag, Ibuprofen, Aspirin, and Neosporin.”

  “Thanks, Daisy. I didn’t get you anything.”

  “I…” Her voice cracked and she took a deep breath, shaking her hands at her side. She stared at a spot over his head. “I was worried about you. I’m sure you’ve been through scarier situations. But I haven’t.”

  He set the coffee down. “I get it.”

  “And helping you helps me, somehow. I needed to do this.”

  Neither planned it but they were hugging. Two people who’d survived something awful taking comfort from the only person qualified to give it. His chin above her head, her arms careful not to squeeze his ribs.

  Hathaway felt him shiver and knew she was letting herself get too close. Knew he was lonely and this wasn’t fair to him. But she didn’t let go either. He smelled clean.

  “Are we really not taking that video to the police?” she said.

  “The video isn’t as good as those cops think, so let’s not tip our hand. If we press the issue they’ll retaliate by charging me with assaulting an officer. I’m okay calling a truce.”

  She opened her eyes. “Daniel, is that a rifle case in the corner?”

  “Shotgun. Not loaded. I need to move the bag under the bed.”

  Hathaway didn’t let go until they heard sounds outside, the maintenance crew arriving with Jennings’ new window. She left so he could change but his scent remained with her.

  22

  Peter Lynch’s daily car was a Jaguar F-Type, purchased without a test drive. In April he’d told the concierge salesman he wanted the fastest and the most expensive sports car he could purchase in the next hour, and fifty-nine minutes later he had it. He’d been pulled over eleven times since and never issued a ticket—no officer wanted the hassle of appearing in court and fighting for his or her reputation over a speeding violation. Lynch’s vindictiveness was legend.

  He piloted the Jaguar to Valley Academy’s campus ten minutes before class let out, parking at a spot designated for him by a bronze plaque. He used the spot once or twice a month but his space was closer than the Head of School’s, and the faculty was forced to walk by it every day. Which was the point.

  Last year he’d ordered the middle school’s secretary’s Subaru towed when he found it in his spot. She worked for Roanoke City Schools now.

  He got out and examined himself in the Jaguar’s window. Nodded at his reflection and walked toward Daisy Hathaway’s classroom, feeling taller the closer he got.

  The bell rang as he reached Old Montgomery Hall and students recognized him. After all, he was everywhere.

  Mr. Lynch, let’s sue my science teacher!

  Fight for justice!

  Mr. Lynch! You help because you’re concerned!

  His commercials were quoted at him often, a necessary aggravation—the advertisements grossed his law offices six million a year. He shot the boys with his finger and a wink.

  Angela Pierce, the Director for Upper School, intercepted him before he reached the classroom of Daisy Hathaway.

  “Mr. Lynch.” Pierce’s face was white, the cowardly little pissant. “You arrived quickly.”

  “Time is money, Angela. For some of us.”

  She made an attempt at getting in his way but backpedaled. “I haven’t alerted Ms. Hathaway about your conference yet.”

  “No need. Scurry off to attend the pivotal and pressing matters waiting for an assistant principal after the students are gone.”

  She backed into the wall with a bump. “I’ll sit in on your conference, if that’s okay. One sec while I grab my planner.”

  “No.”

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Lynch?”

  “Not yet, Angela. I was in a good mood until you started panting.”

  “Sir—”

  A wave of anger roiled over him.

  In his mind, he saw a riot of collages. Saw himself choking Daisy Hathaway after she admitted she loved the new history teacher. The scene shifted, a different outcome, and she didn’t love the history teacher and she was undressing for Lynch, long legs, green lingerie matching her steady gaze. He saw them grow old together, her devotion unflagging. He saw a prostitute with Daisy’s face waiting to be paid, afraid to speak. He saw his daughter tossing petals at the wedding. He saw himself hitting Daisy because he loved her and she wo
uldn’t flinch because she loved him back.

  He saw other faces, women he’d married too quickly, other women who had flinched, soft women unlike Daisy, he saw flopping rabbits strung up by their ears, he saw his brother’s broken mouth, his father angry, he saw himself standing with a shovel.

  “Mr. Lynch?”

  He returned, warmer now. He dabbed at his forehead with the sleeve of his Tom Ford suit—only the best for the lonely and lovely.

  He smiled, the big teeth off-putting. Pathetic how easy fools were reassured with a smile.

  “Good bye, Angela.”

  She made a choking sound as Lynch let himself into the classroom.

  A memory, him receiving Daisy’s CV and the attached photograph, several years ago. He’d insisted she be hired for the upcoming school year.

  Daisy was even more striking than her photograph and his knees weakened in her classroom. She was surprised to see him. Her eyebrows arched and her chin raised.

  He gave a good leer. Though women were too simple to admit it, they wanted to be ogled by their superiors. Needed the approval. They were drawn like a dog in heat to money and power, and he had them in spades.

  “Mr. Lynch,” she said.

  “Ms. Hathaway. A moment of your time.”

  He closed the door. The glass pane rattled in the frame, Angela Pierce still visible through it.

  In the same room with Daisy now and he found the oxygen thinner. She’d dressed in slacks and a turtleneck with a thin cable knit design. The turtleneck was snug across her breasts. He thought she might be a C cup—he’d researched her measurements online but was frustrated by the dearth of information. Her hair was up in a ponytail.

  “Do you need to discuss Benji, Mr. Lynch? He has a B at the moment, honestly earned.”

  “Right now we’re talking about us, not Benji.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hathaway. Your shirt’s new, isn’t it.”

  Daisy glanced at her watch. “I have an English department meeting in five minutes. Perhaps you can walk with me and tell me what you need.”

  “What I need.”

  “Yes.”