Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  “You paid it?”

  “You’ll pay me back before I drop you off. Believe me. I assume you got it?”

  Jennings grinned. “Just barely.”

  “You’ll get the money back when you show for court.”

  “Why do you trust me for $25,000?”

  “I trust Mackenzie August, who said you’re good for it. And I think you might be the golden ticket, my man. We’re going to talk about those bodies buried in the field. I have to be in court all day, otherwise we’d figure it out this very damn minute.”

  Jennings’ truck was impounded so Dixon drove him home to the Academy after a stop at Starbucks and the bank. He parked near the New River dorm.

  Jennings held out his hand and Dixon shook it.

  “Dixon, you’re a life saver. I owe you big.”

  “Wait until you get my bill.”

  Jennings grinned. “Worth every penny.”

  “I’m going to clear my schedule soon, and we’re going to talk. We’re gonna dig up those bodies and bust a famous lawyer and be the talk of the town, Jennings.”

  “Or we might die trying, keep that in mind.”

  “Hah. I’ll call you soon.”

  Jennings crutched to the apartment, his crusty prosthesis in a bag slung over his shoulder. It was…Wednesday, he thought. First period should be about to end.

  He let himself in. Dropped the clunky bag in the kitchen and maneuvered into the bedroom. Paused there, leaning on his crutches. His to-do list was long and he wanted to do none of it. Couldn’t find the strength, the energy.

  Behind him the door to the apartment banged open.

  Daisy Hathaway stood in the doorway. Breathless.

  “I saw you…” Her voice caught. Jennings, leaning on his crutches, leg missing, his hair a mess, haggard and weary. She said, “I saw you through the window and I ran…”

  The sight of Hathaway stuck Jennings as a bolt of pure sunlight, brilliance ricocheting off mirrors, reflections spreading throughout his dark body. He’d done it before, last year, leaving a hospital, wondering if life was worth living, moving on crutches, battling depression in a cold world. Getting a classroom across from Daisy had kept him afloat. Now here he was again, except Daisy wasn’t down the hall; she had run to his apartment, and he knew it was all worth it. Some sudden insight flashed as truths lined up, as he saw the universe from a new angle, and he saw that evil was real and hideous but it was nothing compared to the transcendence found everywhere else, in the laughter of students, the pain of a long jog, the aid of a friend, the welling green eyes of a girl placed here by someone above who wanted him to persevere.

  “…I ran and left my class…”

  “You ran in heels.” Jennings grinned.

  Daisy crying now. She put a hand to her lips. “I called you and I called you and I was scared.”

  “Sorry, my phone’s dead.”

  “I heard you were in prison?”

  “It wasn’t so bad. Great green beans,” said Jennings.

  Half laugh, half sob. “You tried to kill him?”

  “I did. Changed my mind at the last minute.”

  "I’m so sorry, Daniel. I called the police when you wouldn’t answer. I waited for two hours, hoping—”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Really?”

  “Lynch was going to kill me. But the police got there.”

  “What do you mean, what happened?”

  “He caught me off guard. And he had an ax.” It wasn’t a good memory but he was smiling. Daisy charged him like a battery.

  “Poor Craig Lewis was right. Lynch is evil and he’s breaking everything and why are you smiling?”

  “Because Daisy. I have this absurd, idiotic, wild schoolboy crush on you and it’s so strong I could fly.”

  “You do? Even after prison?”

  “You’re even prettier after prison.”

  Daisy came into his arms. Arms around his neck, pressing her mouth on his. She hit him hard enough that he had to hop backward on his right foot to steady. His bruised ribs protested.

  A long kiss, long enough to dispel the accumulated hurt and worry of the dark night. It had been years for Jennings, but it was worth the wait, better than he hoped.

  She spoke from the corner of her mouth. “A crush on me?”

  “Enormous.”

  “Like Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “But better.”

  She laughed, their lips touching, her on tiptoes. “Listen, soldier, I do things right. I don’t break the rules. So we aren’t kissing.”

  “We aren’t.”

  “This is a…reward. Not a kiss.”

  “Reward for?” said Jennings.

  “For not being mad I called the police. And for admitting the wild schoolboy crush.”

  “You already knew.”

  “A girl likes to hear it.”

  “I’m a gentleman struggling to keep his mind pure, Daisy.”

  She laughed. Kissed his bottom lip and said, “Good. It’s working on me.”

  “But you have a fiancé.”

  “I told Byron to move out. I told him I’d fallen for someone else, and he asked if it was you and I said yes and he said he didn’t blame me.”

  “Atta boy, Byron. Have you fallen for me?”

  “We’ll see,” she said, and her eyes said more. She dropped her hands to his shoulders, his arms. “You feel more muscular than you look and you already look…strong.”

  The bell rang, an intrusion through the open door.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “I need a shower.”

  “Oh, hey. I heard through the grapevine that you’re suspended from teaching. Maybe because of prison?”

  “Prison is frowned on, I’m sure.”

  “Call the dean?” said Daisy.

  “Soon.”

  “I’ll come back later. Is that okay?”

  “For more non-kissing? I’m taking a shower to encourage it,” said Jennings.

  “Good. But I might even if you don’t.” She kissed him again then and hurried back to class.

  Jennings stayed on his crutches several minutes, watching the open door, enjoying the lasting impression Daisy left on his lips.

  Hathaway endured some laughter in the hall from students who’d seen her running after Daniel Jennings. Benji Lynch told her she had nice moves.

  She would never run after a man. Not unless that man was her ideal, a man worth chasing, and her cheeks burned thinking about it.

  With her remaining thirty-seconds, Hathaway popped into the office to check her mailbox. She had a note, the same red invitation in every other teacher’s box.

  A festive reminder of the upcoming holiday gala, to be held at the home of Peter Lynch. Hers was personalized with black marker.

  Your attendance is eagerly expected.

  -Peter

  45

  Police Chief Gibbs had been working in Roanoke law enforcement over forty years, easily the longest tenured native to the courthouse, and he stalked through the security checkpoints without slowing. The deputies knew they should stop him but it was different to meet his glare.

  He knocked on a door and entered without waiting for permission. Years of Jehovah-like authority inured one to pleasantries, like granting privacy. Behind a wide oaken desk, the Honorable Francis Gibbs took his ease in a Steelcase office chair, a recent indulgence. A copy of last month’s Judges’ Journal sat in his palms, open to recent law made in the world of social media, a constant source of irritation.

  Francis marked his spot and stood. “Chief, come in.”

  Gibbs already was in. He closed the door. “What the hell’s so important we can’t talk on the phone?”

  “Some things should be discussed in person. Take a seat.”

  “I’ll stand,” said Gibbs.

  “I have tea. Would you like some?”

  “God no. What do you want? I don’t have time to waste.” Gibbs’ fists were clenched.

  As
it often happened, the fists acted as a trigger for Francis. They took him back thirty-five years to the mountains in Craig County. Memories of Gibbs coming home with fists clenched. A young man then, Gibbs was full of anger and no healthy way to vent. Memories of Gibbs spending any extra dollar their little make-shift family had on bottom-shelf bourbon, and Francis getting revenge by quietly manipulating his brother toward rage. Of Peter scaring away Gibbs’ would-be girlfriends and being assaulted with a phonebook after. A phonebook or a Zippo lighter.

  The painful remembrances were so vivid that he returned to his office to find it redolent with woodsmoke and alcohol and Gibbs glaring at him.

  “I apologize, Chief. I’ll get to it. Do you know Josh Dixon?”

  “Black attorney. Pissant little boy. Kid doesn’t understand how things work…” Gibbs’ face turned ashen and he lurched forward to grip the back of a chair. His other hand pressed hard against his hip, below the belt. “Christ.”

  “You’re in pain?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Did you go to the doctor? I’ve been asking you to.” Francis was irked to discover some genuine concern in his heart.

  “I went.”

  “The prognosis?”

  “Quack prescribed some pain meds,” said Gibbs.

  “You’re not taking them, of course.”

  “I am. Just forgot today.”

  He was taking his medicine? That was alarming.

  “Sit down, Chief.”

  This time Gibbs acquiesced. Wincing and gasping.

  “Do you have the prescription with you?”

  “No.”

  “I have Tylenol.”

  “It’ll pass. It does this sometimes.” Gibbs leaned back in the chair to push harder. “Forget it, I’m fine. What about Dixon?”

  Francis sat too. “He’s representing Daniel Jennings.”

  “Good. Those jackasses deserve each other.”

  “I overhead Dixon talking. Daniel knows about Peter’s field, Chief. He knows what’s buried there.”

  Gibbs, already sweating, said, “Got’damn it, Peter.”

  “My thoughts, precisely phrased.”

  “How does Jennings know?”

  “I have no idea. He was apprehended at Peter’s house, as you’re aware.”

  “Peter should’ve killed him when he had the chance,” said Gibbs.

  “From what I read in the report, it sounds like they both gave it a shot.”

  Gibbs closed his eyes. “Peter. You fat idiot.”

  “I told you we should have arrested him. And now it’s too late.”

  “Maybe I don’t give a damn anymore.”

  “You should. There’s no reason you should lose your reputation after a lifetime of work. Or your pension.”

  The sharp pain in Gibbs’ pelvis was easing. He drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. “My pension.”

  “Yes. And there’s my family to think about too.”

  “You know what I should have done? I should have drowned that kid when he was a teenager. Save us a lifetime of worry.”

  “Do you think you could have?” Francis’ words were carefully chosen.

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think you could now?”

  Gibbs didn’t answer, because he was remembering Peter as a teenager. Lumpy and awkward, already perverted. “I tried, you know. Raising you boys. I tried.”

  “I do know that, Chief.”

  “You think I was rough on you—”

  Francis finished the quote from memory. “It was nothing compared to your father.”

  “He was a—”

  “Your father was an alcoholic and abusive veteran, a Japanese prisoner of war for six months at Aomori, and he took out his hatred of the Japs on you. I know, Chief.”

  Despite the anger, Gibbs gave a lopsided smile. “I guess I told you this enough, huh.”

  “In lieu of a trained psychotherapist.”

  “I didn’t have to take you in. I saw two starving little boys, I did my best.”

  Francis wondered at the recent increase in Gibbs’ nostalgia. “I know you tried. I’ve never shamed you for your failures.”

  “Bullshit,” said Gibbs.

  “I blame you. Just as you blame your father. The same way my son will blame me one day. But I try not to shame.”

  “Your son will blame you?”

  “If we don’t act soon, Chief. If those bodies are dug up, there’ll be an investigation. Your relationship with him will be exposed. We helped.”

  A cruel smile. “You want to kill Daniel Jennings.”

  The words vibrated in the air between them.

  “I don’t want to…”

  “But we should,” said Gibbs. Almost a question.

  “These are desperate times. I know someone who will.”

  “And Peter?”

  “Here’s what I’m proposing,” said Francis. “We give Peter a final chance. To check himself into a mental health facility. If he goes, it solves many of our problems. It will place us above suspicion because it will appear we were trying to help him. Plus if he goes, there’s a strong chance he’ll never be let out.”

  “He won’t go. You know your brother.”

  “Then he’ll leave us with no alternative.”

  “Kill Peter.”

  “Not me personally. But yes,” said Francis.

  “I don’t trust whoever it is you’d ask. I’ll do it.”

  “God no.”

  “Why not?” said Gibbs.

  “I can barely propose the idea. There’s no way, when the time came, you could actually murder your own son.”

  “I’ve come close. I’ve come close several times. I been cleaning up his shit my whole life, Judge. I earned the right.”

  “How would you?” said Francis.

  “It’ll look like he and Jennings shot each other. Fewer questions. And everyone will believe it.”

  “Is that possible?”

  Gibbs stood. He’d been sitting too long and it hurt. “Hell yes. I’ve done it before. You remember Boyd and Lamb shot each other and bled to death, down Franklin County? About four years ago? That didn’t actually happen, Judge, don’t be so damn naive.”

  “If you change your mind, and I think you should, I know someone.” Francis looked at his watch. “Either way, let’s be cautious. No final decisions made today. I’ll talk to Peter first.”

  “I want to see my grandchildren.”

  Francis stood too and retrieved his black robe from a hook on his wall. “Come to dinner. Tomorrow night.”

  “So you can supervise us.”

  “So I can supervise you, yes.”

  “In case I get angry and do something you don’t like.”

  “In case—”

  Gibbs shouted, “In case what?”

  “You know what. Shouting is rude, Chief, especially at a man who invited you to dinner.”

  “So you can chaperone me.”

  "You’re clearly upset. The idea of murdering your son bothers you, as it should. So I’ll handle it.”

  Gibbs gave the chair he’d sat in a shove. It tilted and crashed forward. “That’s not it.”

  After a lifetime of suffering through Gibbs’ violence, Francis exhibited no shock at his furniture on the floor.

  He did, however, feel it when Gibbs pulled his service pistol from his belt. A Glock 22, blocky like the man holding it. Profane and lurid inside the chambers of a judge. Gibbs pressed the barrel into the chair, teeth grinding, and he fired three times. Despite the dampening cushions, the sound rocked the room and hurt their ears.

  “Dammit, Chief!”

  Quick as Gibbs pulled the gun, he holstered it again.

  “I’m your daddy! Stop calling me chief.”

  “You may not fire your weapon in the courthouse!”

  Gibbs grabbed a stack of books from the tall shelves and pulled them onto the floor. The books landed with loud thumps. “I’m fucking mad and I’ll do as I please.”
/>
  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I’m dying, son.

  And no one cares.

  The door behind Gibbs banged open. An armed deputy stared inside the office, eyes wild.

  “This room clear?” The man’s voice shook. More like a boy, not yet twenty-five. Francis made a note to send him a gift; he’d never been so relieved.

  “Get out, bailiff,” said Chief Gibbs.

  “Sir, we heard—”

  “It was me.” Gibbs pointed at the floor. “I dropped some books. They were loud. Close the door.”

  It was an obvious and ludicrous lie. The room reeked of a discharged firearm. But the bailiff was staring at the two most powerful men he might ever meet.

  Francis cleared his throat. “Thank you, Deputy Rowe. We’re fine. I’m on my way.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Shut the damn door,” said Gibbs. “Or don’t I matter anymore?”

  “No need. I have to be in court.” Francis strode to the door, donning the black robe and working at the collar. Desperate to get out of the room.

  Gibbs said, “Francis—”

  “The dinner invitation is rescinded, Chief. I’ll contact you soon about our situation.” The judge swept out of the room, his immortality shaken.

  Gibbs fought down rising tides of anger and grief. When he turned to go, Deputy Rowe was still there, agape, his gun drawn.

  With a sneer, “Little deputy with his big gun. What’d you think you were going to do with that?”

  “Sir, I heard—”

  Gibbs grabbed the deputy’s gun and took it away. Rowe didn’t fight it. Technically his boss was the sheriff, but the police chief was something akin to the same level of authority.

  The hallway was populated with clerks and attorneys who’d heard the racket, so Gibbs spoke quietly.

  “You ever pull your sidearm in a courthouse again, or if you ever pull it on me again, I swear to you, deputy, I will stick the barrel up your ass. I’m not speaking figuratively, Rowe. I’ll rape you. With a gun.”

  He gave the bailiff a shove and walked away, determined not to wince at the agony between his hips. Passing a trash canister, he tossed the pistol inside with a clang.