Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  The small room Jennings found was lit by one naked overhead bulb. The floor gradually sloped to a drain at the center. Saline bags hung from a pole on wheels. A medical kit sat open on a work bench, next to other supplies that didn’t make sense in Jennings’ brain—a red silicone ball, red ribbons, leather straps, tourniquets, unmarked bottles. A framed picture smiled at him from the bench. It was Daisy posing with the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a photo he knew he’d seen on her fridge. In the corner, red jerry cans that smelled like gasoline.

  A thick chain stretched across the room near the ceiling, bolted into opposing walls. Dangling from the thick chain were big silver hooks.

  Jennings’ attorney, Josh Dixon, hung limp from the hooks. Two pierced Dixon’s armpits and one went through his chin, tilting his head back. He’d been dead for hours. Dixon’s arms were forced wide by the pressure, a cruciform in a white button-down shirt. The shirt had been white, now dark with blood—his heart had still been pumping as the hooks entered.

  I’ll put your hooks through your armpits. And a third under your jaw, through the fleshy part, the sharp point into your mouth like a fish. String you up that way.

  Dixon had gone to the field without him. Jennings had warned the man to stay way. He’d felt the attorney’s ambition gnawing, whispering reckless ideas and looking for headlines.

  He got them, the hard way.

  One of Dixon’s shoes was missing, the other caked with dirt. Toes six inches off the floor, near the cans of gasoline. Jennings was putting clues together, guessing Lynch burned his corpses and buried what was left over.

  His stomach threatened again. He forced himself to look away.

  WHERE was Daisy?

  Hathaway stood in front of the mirror and admitted Lynch had picked out a spectacular dress. A crimson evening gown with an asymmetrical, off-the-shoulder neckline and mermaid silhouette. She’d never worn anything by Valentino. Lynch had guessed her height wrong by an inch—too much of the train draped the floor—but otherwise it was uncomfortably accurate.

  She would not be wearing those absurd stiletto heels, though.

  She’d go barefoot. She’d run until she saw a friendly face and borrow a phone. She had to, had to get out of this house right now.

  Hathaway stepped back into the bedroom on wobbly legs and her vision lurched. Whatever cocktail Lynch drugged her with was slow to wear off.

  “You look beautiful.” The girl was back, standing next to the tall man. The man squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Thank you,” said Hathaway. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

  “I’m not allowed.” She pointed at the man. “Neither is he.”

  Of course not. I’m not either, inside this house.

  “I understand. How do I…” Get out of here! “How do I get downstairs?”

  “I’ll show you,” said the girl.

  Jennings was still nauseated as he peered into the short hallway on the main level. A phone, all he needed was a phone. A phone and Hathaway. He had to get her out now.

  He estimated over a hundred people were in the great room. In the hallway one of the basketball coaches and the dean’s secretary were whispering and laughing, standing under mistletoe.

  Jennings had a direct view into the kitchen, where caterers were plating hors d’oeuvres and servers scraped off their trays.

  He spotted a landline phone on the wall beyond them. One phone call, 911, that’s all he needed.

  Coach Murray saw her first.

  Hathaway slowly coming down, gripping the rail with both hands. Her face looked pale, her eyes wide and searching.

  “Ah shit,” Coach Murray said to himself and he spilled half his drink. The golden liquor splashed and puddled on the stone of the hearth.

  The bastard Lynch had kidnapped her.

  But then, why was Hathaway dressed so good? What the hell was going on?

  Murray looked at his phone again. Still no messages or calls from Jennings. He had to talk to Hathaway right now, right fucking now.

  He set his drink down next to the fire. So confused and upset, he knocked the glass sideways, spilling the rest.

  Whatever, he’d clean it up later. Right now he needed to fight through the crowds and reach the stairs.

  What Murray didn’t know was, vapor from alcohol caught fire, not the liquid. The hotter the alcohol, the more vapor was produced. His puddle near the fireplace, seventy-five percent alcohol, heated quickly.

  Something else Murray didn’t know—his puddle was spreading, tentacles reaching toward the stockings hung on the legs of the mantel.

  As he entered the fray, pushing past partiers, whispers began to circulate…

  It was true! Peter Lynch was about to propose and here she came down the stairs. The whispers spread like wildfire.

  The phone. Fifteen steps away.

  Jennings ducked his head and stepped into the hallway.Go go go.

  Police Chief Gibbs uncoiled from his hiding spot in the kitchen and slammed Jennings’ back into the wall, next to the basement doorway. Jennings’ left leg gave out and he scrambled to stay standing.

  “Look who it is.” Gibbs breathed hot beer breath into Jennings’ face. “It’s everyone’s least favorite gimp, Daniel Jennings. I had a feeling.”

  Jennings’ mind raced, switching gears, searching for a way forward. Playing ignorant would do him no good. Better meet the man head on. His only chance at averting disaster.

  “Let me by, Chief. Or I’ll burn down your career.”

  The man laughed. “Threatening my career? I don’t give a damn anymore.”

  “I know everything. I know—”

  “You know shit.”

  “I know you’re Peter’s father. And we both know he’s sadistic and insane.”

  "Breaking the terms of your bonds, aren’t you? You’re violating the court order being here, you one-legged freak.” Gibbs smacked at Jennings’ jacket, his belt, under his arms, looking for a gun.

  He didn’t find one.

  “Came without a gun? Not sure if you’re stupid or smart.”

  “Chief—”

  “I give you credit, boy. You’re tough and stubborn as an oak. Just like the Jennings name. Tell you what, I’m feeling generous. It’s Christmas after all, ain’t that right.”

  Jennings detected the lie.

  Gibbs said, “We cut a deal. You don’t ruin my son’s Christmas party, I’ll let you go. We’re going out back to talk.”

  “I’m not going out back.”

  “Like hell, you’re not.”

  “I want to use the phone. I’m calling my lawyer.”

  “You trying to piss me off? You don’t cooperate, I’ll haul you to jail and throw you in with guys who’ll do me a favor to get out. You follow?”

  Jennings feeling desperate. “How deep into this are you, Chief? Do you know what’s in the basement? Do you know about Peter’s kill room?”

  “Peter’s what?”

  “The hooks and tourniquets?”

  A brief check in Gibbs’ anger. “Hooks?”

  “Downstairs, Chief. There’s a man hanging dead. Josh Dixon, the lawyer. If you didn’t kill him, your son did.”

  “Bull shit.”

  “Go look. He’s hanging with a hook in his mouth.”

  “That ain’t true.”

  “Peter killed someone else today too. Daisy’s—”

  “You’re lying.” Gibbs hit him. A big right hand into Jennings ribs. “You’re a lying son of a bitch. That can’t be true.” Another punch, a left into Jennings gut, driving out his air. His stomach was already mutinying and now he dry heaved.

  “Hey.” A voice down the hall. “Hey! What’re you doing?” It was the dean’s secretary, Ms. Nancy.

  “Police business, ma’am. Pay no attention.”

  “No, that’s police brutality.” Ms. Nancy’s eyes were shining with alcohol. “And oh! Mr. Jennings? Let him go, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You need to get on back to t
he party, ma’am.”

  The assistant basketball coach said, “What are the police doing here?”

  “I’m the police chief and I was looking for this man.” Gibbs pressed a forearm into Jennings’ chest, riveting him to the wall. “He’s under arrest. I’m taking him out back and you keep celebrating. Merry Christmas.”

  “Let him go. We all know the charges are fake,” said the woman. She held a flute of champagne in her right hand. With her left she tugged on Gibbs’ sleeve.

  “Ma’am, get your hand off me.”

  “This is Christmas! We love Daniel! He’s one of us!”

  “Yeah, Gibbs.” Jennings coughed. “It’s a party. Let’s get a drink.”

  “Quiet, gimp.”

  “Don’t call him that. I’ll get you fired, I will.”

  Another couple walked in. Mrs. Wagner, the guidance counselor, and her husband, Rick Wagner the defense attorney, looking for the restroom.

  “Excuse me.” Rick frowned.

  “Go back to the party.”

  “What’s happening?” said Rick.

  “Everything is fine. We are leaving out the back.”

  Mrs. Wagner grabbed her husband’s arm. “That’s Daniel Jennings. They framed him, Rick, the one I told you about. He would never…”

  Rick said, “Officer, is this man resisting arrest? Otherwise—”

  Gibbs grunted. “Oh for Christ sake.”

  “The police officer hit him,” said Ms. Nancy. “Hit him and Daniel was just standing there!”

  “Folks! This is police business!” Gibbs was irked his almighty authority had come under scrutiny. The hectic hallway turned into a courtroom of jurors and he’d been found guilty.

  “My husband is an attorney! He’s representing Daniel as of this minute.”

  “Let him go!”

  The basketball coach was holding up his phone. “I’m recording this.”

  Jennings called to the crowd, “Has anyone seen Daisy Hathaway? She’s missing.”

  “What’d I say?” Gibbs hit him again, knocking his wind out. “You’re under arrest and you stay silent.”

  The audience shouted outrage.

  Gibbs tugged Jennings toward the rear door. Under his breath, “Come hell or high water, Jennings, you’re staying with me.”

  All eyes swiveling toward Hathaway.

  She was stunned to discover her unwillingness to call for help. Her fear of humiliation was stronger than her fear of danger. She should be screaming and yet she wasn’t. The dramatic entrance mortified her, and the sea of friendly faces looked more like a grotesque congregation. Their attention was hot, and the music, Drummer Boy, sounded obnoxious and loud.

  Already they’d been whispering about her upstairs in Lynch’s house, about her being Lynch’s girlfriend, about her wearing clothes he’d bought, arriving barefoot, and she refused to stumble down the stairs like she’d been drinking. She was sweating, her entire being focused on placing her feet.

  She wished Daniel was here.

  She reached the bottom and Peter Lynch materialized. A strong hand grabbed her wrist.

  Lynch wore dark slacks and a white collared shirt. Tufts of black at the sleeves and neck. She barely reached his collar bone.

  “Daisy.”

  A hundred eyes still watching, her head twirling. She felt sick.

  “Trying to escape?” He said it loud, a joke.

  “Not quickly enough.” The people closest to them laughed.

  “You’re far too nervous.”

  “What am I doing here, Mr. Lynch?” A stupid question, her brain asked it automatically.

  He led her away from those prying ears. Toward a clearing in the center of the room. He pulled her and she didn’t fight, not yet. She felt safer in the crowd, could scream if she had to.

  “We haven’t spoken in a while.” Now he spoke soft, intimate.

  “Not since I fell out of your car.”

  “When Craig Lewis shot at me.”

  “Yes. Craig, the poor man.”

  “What was he doing there, Daisy?”

  “He prevented me from being raped,” she heard herself say. The crowd had drawn back, giving them space. Their words were lost in the music.

  Think, Daisy, think! Get control!

  “Raped,” said Lynch.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s only rape if you didn’t want it. But you told me you did. And you would have had a good time.”

  “I told you no, Mr. Lynch. I screamed it at you.”

  “I… This conversation isn’t going well. Let’s start over.”

  Hathaway cast her gaze around. Where was Daniel? Where was anyone who cared? Should she scream?

  Lynch shoved his hands into his pockets. The muscles in his forearms bunched like he was squeezing something.

  “Do you like the dress?” said Lynch.

  “It’s lovely, but—”

  “I bought it for you. Over a week ago, before our date, because I knew. I knew.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” She pinched her eyes closed. Demanded the room settle. Demanded her stomach settle. “Because I don’t want it.”

  “I’m taking you on a walk, Daisy.”

  The little hallway next to the kitchen and bathroom was occluded with outrage. Two phones were recording Gibbs now and he couldn’t move his prisoner an inch.

  Jennings’ attention was snagged by a sight beyond the hallway in the great room. The flash of a red dress under the chandelier.

  Daisy!

  She and Lynch standing toe to toe, talking in the middle of the room. Beauty and a beast. Lynch’s hands in his pockets.

  Alarms screaming in Jennings’ mind. He had to reach them now.

  Gibbs followed his gaze. Peered through the angry mob demanding Jennings’ release. He saw the same thing Jennings did. The crimson, the girl, Lynch with hands in his pockets. He knew Lynch held a diamond ring in one hand. In the other? Knowing his son, it was a hook.

  “He kidnapped her, Chief. And now he’s going to kill her.”

  “Oh Christ,” said Gibbs.

  Murray’s drink caught fire caught and he didn’t notice.

  The rum had spread in a thick rivulet to the base of the fireplace and the roaring blaze ignited its vapor. Blue swirls of fire licked the membrane of the Cruzan, the puddle and all its tendrils lighting at once. Flames from the alcohol caught the lowest cotton stocking, Ann’s stocking, hung beside the fire instead of above. Within seconds, Ann ignited Benji, the flames from his stocking reaching up and over the mantle shelf, near a wooden Christmas tree decoration.

  Murray was frozen in the crowd. Lynch had reached Hathaway first. Now what did he do? They were talking in the center of the room, surrounded by a crowd pretending not to watch. Looked like Hathaway was in no mortal danger.

  Damn this whole thing. He needed another drink.

  He turned back to the fireplace and shock shone orange in his eyes.

  Two stockings were ablaze and the original Greg Osterhaus painting above the mantel shelf was smoking and brown at the bottom corner.

  “Well,” he said, “shit.”

  “I grew up a few miles from here, in the mountains. We had nothing, Daisy. My father, he didn’t…he didn’t know about our intelligence yet. We set traps to catch our meals. We ate squirrel and wild rabbit. We fished because our father wouldn’t give us a gun to hunt with. Sometimes just a hook and a line, and we’d string up the fish to clean them. And now look at my house. Look at me,” said Lynch. “I want to show you.”

  “Mr. Lynch—”

  “This house, this farm, came from nothing. Nothing but me. Because I beat the hell out of everyone I had to. I had none of the resources of a respected family so I had to work and fight and here I am, here we are. I did it right and I want to show you. Let’s walk and we’ll come back to the party in a few minutes.”

  “I’m staying here, Mr. Lynch,” said Hathaway.

  “Tonight, you mean. Yes.”

  “No.” She o
pened her eyes. Relieved to see the house steady and firm. “No, right now. I’m not going on a walk, I’m staying here.”

  Lynch fidgeting. He was sweating too, his eyes twitching with energy.

  “I’m going to ask you a question, Daisy.”

  She knew. Knowledge borne from some subterranean level, a flicker of intuition and survival. Knew he was about to propose.

  The attention of the room was pinning them in.

  “Wait, Mr. Lynch.”

  Tugging at something in his pocket. “No I’ll ask you now—”

  She placed her hand on his shirt, on his chest. “Wait.”

  Lynch was electrified by the touch. “Wait for?”

  “My answer is no.”

  “No?” he said.

  Louder. “Mr. Lynch. Peter. You are unwell. You need the help of mental health professionals. Maybe it’s sickness, maybe it’s trauma, maybe it’s evil, I don’t know, but I cannot be with a man who hurts women. Especially not one who brags about it after. You drugged me. You abducted me. My answer is no.” For the rest of her life, Hathaway would be proud of the words and the unyielding resolve in her voice.

  The muscles in Lynch’s jaw worked. Otherwise his face had gone wooden.

  Whispers spreading outward like ripples in a pond.

  He separated his gnashing teeth and swallowed. “Your answer is no.”

  “Correct.”

  “No to marriage. You answered before I asked.”

  “And I’m calling the police too,” she said. “I need to be taken to a hospital to see what you drugged me with. To see if you violated me.”

  “The police.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I should be in prison. You’re like the rest, you think I’m broken. This is because of Daniel,” he said.

  “No.”

  Connections sparking in his mind. “You broke off your engagement for him.”

  “You know I broke off my engagement? How?”

  “Daniel is the big handsome man preoccupied with life. Not ME.” His left fist came empty out of his pocket, the ring abandoned. “And you’re a stupid slut, a bitch who thinks she’s brave. But that always changes. I don’t lose.”