by E. G. Scott
“I’d appreciate that.” He offers us a pensive look. “Hate to say it, but I’d probably just end up dealing with these same folks on the other end of things.”
* * *
WE’RE IN THE PARKING lot returning to the cruiser when my partner’s phone rings.
“Detective Wolcott . . . Yes . . . How long ago? . . . We’re headed out there right now.” He hangs up and looks at me. “We gotta go.”
“What’s up?”
There’s the faintest hint of a grin on his mug. “They just called in a body.”
thirty-two
REBECCA
MY BODY IS paralyzed.
“Stop fighting.”
The dirt rains down on me in a cascade. I struggle to keep my head above the quickly rising soil.
The voice speaks again from the darkness.
“Let go.”
I want to. I can’t fight any longer. The exhaustion and defeat have become too much. I surrender and lay my head back on the ground rising around me. I’m so tired.
“I’m sorry.” I can barely get the words out. All the air in my lungs is being compressed by the unmovable weight crushing my ribs.
As I begin to breathe in the dirt, I see Paul standing above me, the trowel in one hand and a “For Sale” sign in the other. He smiles at me as he kicks a large swath of dirt into the hole.
“You brought this on yourself.”
Everything goes black.
thirty-three
WOLCOTT
THE ENERGY IS CRACKLING in the cruiser as we roll up to the lot on Smithtown Bay. Silvestri and I don’t say anything, but we both know whose body this is.
As we exit the vehicle, we’re met by an eager young fellow with a soaking-wet pair of ears. “Detectives, I’m Officer Litman. First on the scene.” The kid has a firm handshake.
“Officer, I’m Detective Wolcott. This is Detective Silvestri.” We walk him over to the body. “What are we seeing here?”
“Jogger stopped to retie her shoe on a run this morning and saw something poking out of the ground. Called it in. Ended up being a hand.”
“That’ll throw a wrench in your workout routine,” I say. “How’s the body looking?”
“It’s a real mess. Female. With this level of decomp, hard to get a bead on her age. As you can see, she was wrapped in a tarp and buried in a shallow grave. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s been in the ground six, eight weeks.”
I look to my partner and exchange a quick nod.
“You guys got an idea on this?” asks Litman.
“Fits the timeline on a possible missing persons case we’re looking at. Has the coroner been called?”
“On their way,” offers Litman.
“Good,” I say. “And let’s try and keep the press out of this until we can get an ID on the body, yes?”
“On it,” responds Litman.
“Good man.” I pat the officer on the shoulder, and he walks back to his cruiser. Silvestri and I lean in and peel the tarp away from the face.
“Glad I skipped breakfast this morning,” my partner says. “Jesus.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Depends. Are you thinking that Paul Campbell’s about to make our list of things to do this week?”
“You’re a regular mind reader, my friend.”
thirty-four
REBECCA
I KNOW EXACTLY what needs to be done. It came to me this morning. I’d put on my daily costume: my work clothes, a full face of makeup, and straightened hair, looking the part of a well-dressed pharma professional, as I’d been doing every day since I’d been fired. Paul had just gotten out of the shower and winced as he dried himself.
“Paul, what’s wrong?”
“My shoulder and back are acting up. Must be the weather. Would you mind grabbing my heat wraps from my bag, babe?”
Keeping with the dutiful, loving wife act, I smiled and made my way to his bag. I found the wraps easily. As I took stock of the contents, I didn’t see the red bandanna containing the gun anywhere, which made me uneasy. The discomfort gave way to a perfect idea. It was so simple I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of it earlier. But getting the materials needed could be challenging. I’d need to get into Mark’s house when he wasn’t there.
* * *
“YOU DON’T HAVE to be a psychic to know that a lot more people are going to die around here.”
I can’t see anything and I’m unable to open my eyes. I feel myself belted in tightly. There are men in the car with me. I should panic but my body feels so damn good right now.
“Drug-related deaths in this community are seven times what they were last year. And that isn’t just overdoses. The homicide rate has doubled in Nassau and Suffolk Counties in that time too. Things are officially dire.”
I pry my eyes open with my fingers and the daylight stings. I face myself in the rearview and wipe away the drool from my cheek. The seat belt has left an indentation in the left side of my face. I’m alone. And high as fuck.
“There are literally thousands of heavily addicted folks in our region searching for the best and most cost-effective solutions they can find, and the stakes continually get higher.”
I turn the radio down so that the voices are a comforting, faint murmur. Everything feels soft and slow. Recognition releases another wave of cool happiness into my bloodstream. I am parked a few houses down from Mark and Sasha’s house. His car was parked in the driveway instead of at work, where I’d expect it to be, so I figured I’d wait him out. He was bound to leave at some point, but there were no signs of that and I’d fallen hopelessly asleep. The ongoing deprivation isn’t helping my ability to stay awake during the day, pills or not.
I can’t believe it is five thirty P.M. I have missed my window of opportunity to sneak in today and still get home at a reasonable hour. I am furious with myself for not having my shit together.
I check his GPS location and see that Paul is in the general area. Texts with Wes update me that they don’t have any showings today and Wes is getting an early start on the weekend in Montauk. I’m struggling to keep my attention focused on the phone screen for very long. Carefree times of beach bonfires and night swimming play like someone else’s happy memories in my head. I think about how good swimming would feel right now and remember that Mark and Sasha have a much-boasted-about pool. Maybe I’ll take a dip, but the thought melts away. The scene on Dana’s lawn comes to mind, and a shock wave of anger rolls through the euphoria. I remember what has brought me here.
Thanks to Sasha lamenting her terrible memory in the locker room, she’s already given me the key. I regularly made a point of having my locker near enough to hers so that I could learn her code. She always used her birthday. And she couldn’t keep herself from bragging to one of her sycophants at Lotus Pedal about how her husband had put the entire home security system on a password, using the one combination of numbers she could actually remember, after she’d forgotten the access code enough times that Mark got sick of the security company sending patrol cars to their house.
I’ll come back tomorrow to pay Mark a friendly visit, and hopefully he won’t be home.
thirty-five
SILVESTRI
“BUT WHO ELSE could it possibly have been?” I ask my partner.
“I don’t know. Did you see anyone else going in or coming out of there this morning?” asks Wolcott.
“Yeah, but come on. It’s gotta be Greene. It’s as obvious as the crumbs on his chin. Fucking hump never met a snack he didn’t like.”
The loaf of banana bread that Wolcott’s wife, Abby, baked for the station house has gone missing from the break room. My partner is incensed. “Did no one ever explain to that guy that consideration makes the world go around?”
“Take it easy. We’ll siphon the gas out of h
is cruiser later. Would that make you feel better, big guy?”
His phone rings. “Wolcott.” He shoots me a look as he straightens up in his seat. “Okay.” He silently mouths the word “coroner” in my direction as he listens intently. I lean in. Suddenly the eager expression on his face is replaced by a decidedly perplexed look. “Is that right?” He looks at me and shakes his head. “Okay, thanks for the quick turnaround. Really appreciate it.” He hangs up.
“What is it?” I ask.
He looks at me with disbelief. “I’m glad you’re already sitting down for this.”
thirty-six
PAUL
“I CAN’T BELIEVE it,” I say as I inspect the finished roof. “We’re really knocking this thing out.”
“Yes, boss,” Javier answers absently. He and the guys are glued to a portable radio set up on a sawhorse. Their breakfast sandwiches sit neglected as they hang on the reporter’s every word.
I don’t understand enough Spanish to get the gist of what’s happening, but their intent focus is intriguing me. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Javier keeps one ear on the proceedings as he turns slightly to me. “They found the woman out by the bay. Is dead.”
No. Please, God, no. The pit of my stomach knots up. My hands go numb as they tremble wildly. The smell of the breakfast sausage causes bile to run up my throat. My insides burn as my extremities lose all feeling. My heart seems poised to bust through my rib cage.
“Boss, you okay?” Javier is now focusing all of his attention my way.
“Yeah, sorry. Forgot something back in the truck. Give me a minute.”
I have to make a concerted effort to keep myself upright as I beeline for the Jeep. As soon as I’m close enough I fall toward the hood, barely catching myself as I do. I key into my breathing to keep myself from passing out. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck. This can’t be happening.
I manage to get myself around to the driver’s-side door and into the seat. I check my phone. Nothing from Rebecca. She must be blissfully unaware that our universe is about to come crumbling down around us.
I pull up the newsfeed on the phone. I’m both desperate to see what’s happening and terrified to know the extent to which we’re completely fucked. There’s no way this development ends in anything but disaster.
Here it is. The top story on every news source on my feed. I scroll down, then back to the top, and click on the first link. It’s a city paper.
Body of Long Island Woman Found in Shallow Grave
I look at the accompanying photo. I look back at the headline, then back at the photo. My brain feels as if it’s just been rolled by a wave. It’s finally happening. I’m losing my fucking mind.
I force my eyelids closed and squint hard. I open them to find myself looking at the same impossibility. This is not in my head. This is absolutely real. Even though it can’t be.
Under the headline is a full-color photo of the victim, in happier times. The woman the cops dug up from a lot out near Smithtown Bay. A woman I know. Or, rather, knew.
Sasha Anders.
part three
thirty-seven
REBECCA
I’M IN A DEAD sleep when Paul bursts into the bedroom waving a folded newspaper. Something terrible has happened.
“Rebecca! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for an hour.” His voice is shaky and hoarse.
It takes everything to pry myself out of the hole I’ve sunk so deeply into. Sleep after fentanyl is like falling into a coma. I’ve been dreaming about Sasha and Sheila and stewing in my anger. Now that I’m awake I struggle to assume my wifely mask. He is here now and I have to remind myself that as far as he’s concerned, I’m still his loving, supportive wife.
The curtains are closed, making it impossible to determine the time. I’m not clear what day it is or how long I’ve been in bed.
The only certain thing is Paul’s agitation.
“Sorry. I had a migraine. I turned my ringer off. Sorry, honey.” I haven’t the foggiest idea where my phone is.
He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a firm hand on my leg and speaks to the floor. I’ve seen this stance before and get a pang of fear for whatever he’s about to say. Through my grogginess, I pull myself into focus as quickly as the building cortisol will take me.
“They found a body,” he says.
My stomach starts to hurt. “Fuck.”
“Right where I put her . . . there was a jogger who found it . . . but . . .”
He’s got his head in his hands and is kind of rocking back and forth. The gravity of what he isn’t able to say is dawning on me. I hear Sheila whispering that we are going to get caught.
“Okay. Let’s talk this through. We knew this might be a possibility. We just have to figure out what to do next.” I’m impressed by my own coolheadedness despite the panic exploding in me.
“Rebecca. They found a body where I put Sheila, but it isn’t her!” Paul erupts. His temper causes me to withdraw. I feel like a little girl again being yelled at by my father.
“That doesn’t make any sense. There must be a mistake.”
“The police don’t make mistakes like that. Come on, use your head. All of those pills are making you stupid.” His whole energy right now is scaring me. He looks like he’d love to take a swing at me.
I speak to him like he’s a feral animal and try to calm him as much as possible. Hard to do when I can’t begin to calm myself. “How can you know for sure?”
“Besides, this body wasn’t hit in the head. It was shot.” His knuckles are white from clutching the paper so tightly. His face is twisted into something very dark.
I try to move away from him without being too obvious. “Whose body is it, Paul?!”
Dramatically, he puts a copy of The Independent Press on the bed. Sasha’s photo is splashed in vivid color above the fold.
Local Resident Shot to Death and Left in a Shallow Grave
The paper and Sasha’s image seem to take up the whole room. Sasha. Shot. What the fuck did Paul do? Sasha’s dead. Sasha’s fucking dead. My mind reels in too many directions, to the point of dizziness. I feel sick and relieved. I never have to see her again or feel small in her shadow. There is no repressing this horrible part of me that is emerging. I’m glad she’s dead. I lie back against the headboard. Paul barely registers my preoccupation. I wonder if he’ll notice if I excuse myself to snort some Adderall off the sink.
“It’s Sasha’s body. Same timeline as Sheila.” He looks up at my face and I see the fear in his. “Babe, it doesn’t make any sense. I put Sheila in that ground. How the fuck did Sasha end up there?” He is nearly pleading. But a tinge of me feels like he is overdoing it.
I swallow hard. My mouth is a desert from the drugs, and pain rips through my throat. I lean back farther and close my eyes. In my dream, Sheila kept saying that Paul had done bad things. Believing a dead woman in my dreams feels more reliable than anything Paul has said or done in the last month.
We sit on the bed looking at each other closely, searching. The sum of his features makes up his face, but something crucial is absent. He looks different, not in any one specific way. Just off. Like someone who could murder too. He mistakes my scrutiny of his face for concern and takes my hands urgently in his. I fight the urge to recoil.
The slow spokes of my frontal lobe move through a few revolutions before I can get the burning question out from behind my lips. I’m careful to keep my words from sounding accusatory, afraid of what he’s capable of.
“Paul, if they just dug up Sasha, then where the fuck is Sheila’s body?”
thirty-eight
SHEILA
THE BEST THING about being dead is that nobody suspects you when bodies start turning up.
* * *
THE NIGHT IN PAUL and Rebecca’s bedroom wasn’t the first time I died.
When I was five years old, my mother found me on the kitchen floor sitting next to an open bottle of insecticide. Always bordering on hysterical, she dissolved into a full-blown panic attack instead of calling for help. I lay next to her with my little hand on her shoulder, knowing something was very wrong but unsure of what to do.
I actually hadn’t ingested any poison and was perfectly fine until she fell apart before my eyes. I internalized her stress and my body seized up with each jagged breath she could muster until I was paralyzed. As hard as I tried to move my arms and legs to help her, my limbs had turned into wood. We were side by side, frozen in our shared panic. Some minutes or hours later, my father arrived home and called 911.
By the time the paramedics arrived I was completely rigid, with a pulse so shallow it took two EMTs to locate it. As far as my father knew, I was nearly dead from poison and it was my mother’s fault. Motherhood had been too much for her already fragile emotional constitution, and no doubt it wasn’t helped by a husband who avoided being at home and who was a tyrant when he was.
The debut of my unknown nervous condition combined with an injection of atropine in the ambulance to counteract the insecticide slowed my already weak heart rate to undetectable. The ER doctor on the eleventh hour of his first shift declared me DOA. I don’t know how my stoic father reacted when they told him the news. I’ve wondered if he was a little relieved. Even at my young age I could sense that he didn’t like me. My mother was heavily sedated in another section of the hospital.
I woke up under a sheet, completely unaware of my surroundings. I could see shadows of light and dark cycling above me. The sounds of wheels squeaking on the floor stirred my second feelings of dread and awareness that day that something was terribly wrong. I flexed and wiggled my fingers and toes in a fleeting moment of relief to have some movement back but quickly began to thrash and scream under my shroud. I still wonder if the orderly wheeling me from the ER ever recovered from the five-year-old-girl who came back to life en route to the morgue.
