Dig Your Grave

by Steven Cooper

  “I didn’t ask you if it’s a good idea. Turn it off. We don’t want any interruptions.”

  “What if there’s an emergency or something?” Gus asks.

  “I am the emergency or something.”

  Gus shakes his head and flips the heavy switch. Then he lowers his hand to the wall switch by the door and hits that, flooding the whole garage with light. “What exactly do you want, Richard? I mean, what’s the plan here?”

  “I’m going to take your place. You know that, right? Billie loves me. Now come on, I want to see my new house.”

  Knight bears all the features of an aging bully, his adolescent sneer slightly morphed by desperation. He’s a stocky guy, his head shaven to a buzz. He must imagine himself military, given the haircut, the army jacket, the camo pants, and the boots. His face carries the vestiges of acne, each pockmark a battle scar of a troubled youth. Gus doesn’t have to ask about that, won’t ask; he just knows. Richard Knight stands about three full inches shorter than Gus, but he’s thick, almost bulbous in places, his gut hanging over his pants. Knight orders Gus to let him in the house. Gus unlocks the door that leads in from the garage. Just inside the vestibule, Gus notices Knight eyeing the keypad for the house alarm. “Disarm it,” the intruder says. “Disarm it right now. If it goes off, I’ll shoot you dead, right here, instantly. Your body will be cold before the cops get here.”

  Gus’s body is cold now, but he’s not going to argue. He punches in the code. Then he feels the gun at his back, pushing him onward.

  “Oh, my God!” the gunman cries as Gus leads him down the short hallway to the left. “Is this what she smells like? It’s beautiful. It’s delicious. What is it?”

  Gus turns around, and the pistol is in his face. He stumbles backward, steadies himself, and, as they reach the front of the house, he says, “She lights a lot of incense. But there’s nothing burning now.”

  “Then it must be the remnants of her!” Waving his gun overhead, Knight turns 360 degrees, taking in the high-hanging tapestries of the grand foyer. His mouth gapes open with wonder. Then he stops his spin, and with a clownish smile from ear to ear, he looks at Gus and says, “I want a tour. And I want it now.”

  “A tour.”

  Knight points his gun. “Get moving.”

  Gus runs a hand across his forehead, trying to collect a cogent thought. How to handle a madman? This isn’t a first for Gus. Last time something like this happened, it was a serial killer, a lunatic involved with the Phoenix Police Department. But it happened while working on a case with Alex; it didn’t invade his private life. It threatened his life but not his life here—inside the walls that were built to keep strangers out. “C’mon,” he says to Knight. “Let’s start in the studio.”

  He leads the stalker down the winding hallway, adorned with Billie’s gold and platinum records. He hears the man whimper at each display. They enter the studio, and Knight leaps past him and says, “This is where she writes her music. She always talks about this room in interviews.”

  “That’s right, Richard. This is where the magic happens.”

  The man narrows his eyes and scowls. “Don’t you stand there acting like you know her better than me.”

  Gus suspects it’s a bad idea to rationalize with him, or correct his grammar, however he feels compelled to say, “I’ve been with her for over a year, Richard. We’re a couple.”

  The stalker points his gun at the far wall, the only bare one in the room, and fires. The blast sends a shock wave from Gus’s head to his toes. Yes, it was a bad idea to rationalize. A bad idea, indeed. The wall took a bruise.

  “I told you it was loaded,” Knight says.

  “I realize that.”

  Knight paces the room, stopping at each of the six guitar stands, admiring the guitars as if they’re museum treasures on exhibit. Which, to him, Gus figures, they probably are. The man sits on a stool, removes a guitar, and cradles it on his lap. He strokes it with his hand, caresses it to his chest. Swaying in the chair, Knight hums softly. Gus recognizes the melody; it’s a Billie Welch song, of course, and the madman treats it with love and devotion, sitting there in his incantation, the movement of his lips like soft kisses for Billie. Gus has to be careful with what he says, here, so he braces himself and holds his breath; no harm can come to these priceless instruments. No bullet holes. No smashed guitars.

  “Can we move on?” Gus asks.

  “You’re really kind to do this, Mr. Parker,” Knight says. “You know she’s in love with me. You’re being what they call very gracious.”

  “She’s in love with you?”

  The man winces. “Yes. Sorry you have to hear it from me.”

  “Did she tell you she loves you, Richard?”

  The man laughs. “Haven’t you listened to her music, Gus? It’s all over her lyrics.”

  “What is?”

  “Her love for me,” he replies. “She’s singing to me. Directly to me.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t get that, Gus?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I didn’t.”

  The man shakes his head, then looks to the floor, almost ashamed. “I don’t know what to say. We didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

  Gus turns his head so the man can’t see the terror in his eyes. He’s not afraid of the gun, for some disquieting reason; he’s afraid of the insanity. And he has no clue what to do. He can’t calculate the right move, the right response, and he’s been deep in calculation since the man’s eyes first appeared in the rearview mirror. The challenge is to calculate and act at the same time. “Let’s go, Richard,” he says, hoping the man will follow without resistance. The man not only follows, but he also follows quietly, not another word from him until they reach the round room with the fireplace. Gus stands aside at the entrance, making way for his stalker. Knight walks past him, surveys the architecture, then turns around and asks, “Why so many pillows?”

  “Billie collects them from all over the world.”

  “So, she just sits on the floor?”

  “That’s the point,” Gus says. “But sometimes she sits on one of the chaises.”

  Then the gun is in his face. “Do you and Billie fuck in here?”

  Gus doesn’t answer. He just stares at the man in utter disbelief.

  “Do you? Do you fuck in here?”

  “No,” Gus replies falsely. “We don’t make love in here.”

  The man scoffs. “I didn’t ask if you made love. I asked if you fucked. Because I know you don’t make love to her, Gus. No one does. She’s waiting for me.”

  “Yes,” Gus says.

  His gun still pointed at Gus, Knight says, “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  Gus nods and sits, as does the stalker, several pillows away.

  “I need to plan,” Knight says. “I need to know what Billie likes. I’ve been trying to prepare for our life together, but do you know how hard it is to find information about someone as reclusive as Billie Welch?”

  “She’s not nearly as reclusive as she used to be, Richard.”

  The guy’s face lights up. “That’s good news! What’s her favorite food?”

  “Italian,” Gus says falsely. Instantly, falsifications become his tactic. Knight will not invade Billie’s life. Gus will protect the inner sanctum of Billie. He will not hand over the keys and betray the fortress. This is good. It feels better. His stomach unknots.

  “What’s her favorite color?”

  “Red.” She hates red.

  “Her favorite TV show?”

  “She doesn’t watch a lot of TV, but I would say old reruns of

  Friends.” She always hated Friends.

  “I’m talking about a current show.”

  “Oh. Then it would have to be . . . hmm . . . probably Funny Melania.”

  The man cocks his head. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  Neither has Gus. “I think it’s about a First Lady who’s trying to escape the White House,” he says. “It’s on N
etflix.” No, it’s not.

  “I don’t get Netflix,” Knight says. “And I don’t appreciate humor at the expense of our government.”

  Gus nods emphatically. “And neither do I. But apparently, Billie does.”

  “I believe in serving your country,” the man says. He then goes quiet, pensive. Doesn’t say a word. Gus, meanwhile, listens to the white noise of the house. Ordinarily so peaceful, the white noise sounds barbed with danger. He closes his eyes, expecting to see Billie there, expecting her arms to wrap around him, expecting her to tell him what to do with a few simple words of wisdom. Instead, he sees a beach. He sees that same beach from Alex’s photos. But this time he sees himself on the shoreline. He’s in Mexico. Alex is with him. The water is a lazy tide of sapphire gems, the waves splashing gently at their ankles. They turn away from the surf and gaze upward at the hotel, at the beehive towers and the balconies stacked from bottom to top. He’s never actually seen the hotel, but here it is; he knows in his gut, he just knows, Alex Mills is contemplating this place right now, right now as Gus sits here opposite the gunman. He doesn’t have to check, but he does anyway. The souvenir pillow on which Gus sits is the pillow from Mexico. He wants to laugh right now here in this United Nations of cushions. He wants to bust out laughing, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t trust the temperament of Richard Knight. Instead, he smiles crazily.

  “You okay, Gus?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  “No.”

  “I thought for a minute you really trusted me with this gun,” Knight tells him. “I thought you trusted me enough to go to sleep.”

  “This has nothing to do with trust. I was daydreaming.”

  “Get up. Show me more.”

  Gus guides the man through the dining room, the kitchen, four of the guest rooms, the office, and the family room that looks out to the pool. He makes a conscious decision to avoid the master bedroom. There’s no way in hell he’s bringing this lunatic into Billie’s most private space, no way in hell he’d leave the footprints of Richard Knight in there. When Knight asks about the master bedroom, Gus has it all figured out. He tells Knight that the room is being renovated, the floor is already gone, and the place is being chemically treated to remove defective Chinese drywall. So damn clever, Gus thinks. So freaking resourceful for a hostage.

  “So where does she sleep?” the man asks.

  “In one of the guest rooms I showed you.”

  “Which one?”

  “Uh, the one near the spa.”

  “Take me back there.”

  “Seriously?”

  Again, the gun is in his face. “Yes.”

  “Did I mention I’m hungry for dinner?” Gus asks.

  “Fuck dinner. You’ll eat later.”

  In the guest room, Knight climbs onto the bed. He lies on his back, running his hands all over the ornate spread. “She sleeps in this bed?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulls the pillows to his face, four of them, and whiffs each one. He inhales deeply the fictitious scent of Billie Welch. Then he sits up, nearly delirious. “Oh, my God! This is sweeter than I imagined. So much sweeter.”

  “You’re not going to cry, Richard, are you?”

  The man’s eyes flood with rage. “I’m a real man. Not like you.”

  “Actually, Billie likes a man who knows his emotions.”

  “Fuck you.” The stalker points his gun at the closets. “Her clothes in there?”

  “Some of them,” Gus replies. “She has clothes all over the house.”

  Knight hops off the bed. “I want to see.”

  “Go crazy,” Gus says, regretting the words just as they escape his mouth.

  The man swings the closet doors open and stands there with his arms stretching wide, as if one of the dresses will leap from its hangar and hug him tightly. Then he enters. He meanders through the hanging clothes, his face full of Christmas morning wonder. Gus watches, fascinated, a bit frightened, aware now that there is nothing he can do or say to balance this unbalanced person. The man is too far gone into madness.

  Knight is dancing like a giddy toddler with one of Billie’s stage costumes when the phone on the nightstand rings. Like an alarm, the shrill ring pierces the air, and Gus jumps ever so slightly out of his skin.

  “Don’t answer it,” the gunman orders.

  “But—”

  “I said don’t answer it.” He emerges from the closet, the gun aimed at Gus.

  “Okay, but what if it’s Billie?”

  “Get in here,” Knight says, waving his weapon. “Don’t answer the phone and get in here.”

  “You want me in the closet?”

  “What the fuck did I just say, Gus Parker? Get in the fucking closet and sit down!” The man raises his gun. His fingers tease the trigger. “Now!”

  His nerves going haywire, Gus reluctantly enters and sits. He stares into the barrel of the gun, down its dark, hostile tunnel, figuring that’s it, he’s done for.

  33

  Joseph Gaffing answers the phone on the third ring, the scar of a dozen cigarettes lodged in just the word “Hello.”

  “It’s Alex Mills from Phoenix PD.”

  Gaffing responds by not responding.

  “Mr. Gaffing?”

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  “Just calling to check on funeral arrangements for Joe Junior . . .”

  “You’re late.”

  “Late?”

  “Yeah,” the man growls. “As soon as the body was released, I had him cremated. Why do you ask?”

  Mills hesitates, his plan preempted. “We sometimes will go to a victim’s funeral to scope the crowd for potential suspects.”

  “Well, sorry, but Joey’s up in smoke.”

  Mills lets that sink in: the death of a son, the ashes and the resignation, unresolved issues up in smoke. There’s a lesson here. Mills is lucky to see it and sad to see it. “I’m sorry,” he tells Gaffing.

  “There was no service,” the man says. “Just a few people from work. My brother flew in from Los Angeles.”

  Mills senses someone in the doorway. He looks up and sees the chief standing there. Jesus. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” Mills tells the bereaved father.

  “Your next call will be to tell me you’ve caught the guy who did this. Right?”

  “Of course,” Mills says. “Until then, take care.”

  He’s not off the phone for two seconds before the chief says, “May I come in?”

  “Of course. Take a seat.”

  The chief remains standing, because of course he does.

  “What’s up?” Mills asks.

  “I understand you have a mediation session tomorrow,” the chief says.

  This knocks Mills off-balance, even though he’s sitting. “Oh,” he says. “That’s what you wanted to see me about?”

  Mills’s personal cell rings. He doesn’t recognize the incoming number, so he ignores it. Not that he has a choice.

  “Yes,” the chief says. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back to me. Was there something else?”

  “I thought you wanted an update on the case.”

  “I can get that from Jake,” the chief says. “But what’s this business with your son? I heard from a Dan Heathrow who claims his daughter—”

  “I know what he’s claiming,” Mills interrupts. “I’m confident this is a misunderstanding.”

  “Are you?”

  Mills stands. “I just said I was. I know my son. He’s not a perfect kid. He can be a stubborn, bullheaded shit, but I don’t think he’s capable of doing what the Heathrows think he’s done. He’s always shown respect to women. Of all ages. He has a great relationship with his mother.”

  The chief looks unconvinced. Neutral, like a judge. “You have your hands full, Alex. But hopefully this matter can be worked out in mediation.”

  “I think it will.”

  His cell rings again. Same number. He sends it to voice mail.<
br />
  “You’re a popular guy,” the chief says.

  “Apparently.”

  “You know you can’t afford a family distraction now,” the chief says. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  But you just did. “You don’t.”

  “And the department can’t afford the distraction either. Make this go away.”

  “Consider it done, sir.”

  The chief turns on his heels, like a soldier, and leaves, nearly colliding with Jan Powell in the doorway.

  Can I not get five fucking minutes?

  “There really is a trade mission to Brazil,” Powell announces.

  It takes him a second to comprehend. “Oh. And Torento is on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You found proof.”

  “There’s a photo in the online edition of the Republic. He’s shaking hands with some dignitaries at the Sao Paolo airport.”

  “Great,” Mills says. “Now the question is . . . will he ever come home?”

  Powell laughs at first, then looks at him with doubt all over her face. “You serious?”

  “Think about it,” he says. His personal phone rings again. Same number. He sends it to voice mail. “Torento knows we’re still pursuing him.”

  “I don’t see a congressman as a fugitive, but crazier things have happened,” she concedes, then steps out the door.

  About ten minutes after she’s gone, his phone rings again. Immersed, distracted, call it what you will, Mills’s train of thought has derailed. It’s a pileup. A clusterfuck. And, shit, now it dawns on him: the same unfamiliar number could be another train wreck of parenting calling. I have a kid, and he could be in even more fucking trouble.

  “Hello?”

  “Alex?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Billie. Billie Welch.”

  He does a double take. Her name and her voice are as unexpected as a desert rain. But his muscles relax. Trevor’s fine. “Hi, Billie. What a surprise. Everything okay?”

  “I can’t reach Gus,” she says. “I’m worried.”

  “Oh? I talked to him yesterday morning. Seemed fine to me.”

  “I tried calling him several times last night, and he never picked up,” she explains. “It’s not like him to not return calls. I’m a bit frazzled.”