A Living Grave

by Robert E. Dunn

  I crouched in the grass in front of Carrie and brushed her hair back to see her face.

  Crying.

  “I understand that home isn’t a good place for you. We can change that, get you out of there.”

  “Go where? You put my dad in jail.”

  “He’s there so he can’t hurt you anymore. I know you’re mad at your mom for not protecting you. We can get her some help too, but first we have to get you away so she can’t hit you again. That’s why you ran away today, isn’t it? They found the stick she hit you with.”

  “You don’t know nothing.”

  “Help me, Carrie. Make me understand.”

  “He was supposed to help me. I gave him what he wanted. Angela wasn’t like me. She was a perfect little goodie with her perfect life.”

  Carrie was beginning to sound sleepy, speaking slower, slurring. I touched her face and she flinched. Her skin felt cold.

  “We need to get you out of here and someplace warm.”

  “Angela was a virgin,” she said. “I did her a favor.”

  “A favor? Letting Danny kill her?”

  “Danny didn’t kill her. I did.”

  I froze. Even this far into the trees some of the strobes of my lights came through. Flashes bit at trees and leaves in a random staccato that gave the woods the appearance of moving slowly inward.

  “You?” I asked.

  “I hit her with the rock. She thought we were playing. I needed a virgin to give to Leech. He wouldn’t want me. So I gave him Angela. When that didn’t work we tried to make a baby here to give him. You screwed that up. You hurt Danny and spoiled everything.”

  My head was spinning with the lights. The food I had eaten earlier was rising in my throat with a flush of heat. I wanted to get her parents here, in these woods where so much harm had been done and make them pay. I wanted to make them wish for Leech to come take them.

  “How old . . .” I choked back the question and the bile in my mouth. Then I tried again. “When your father . . . When did it start, Carrie?”

  “God, you’re so stupid,” she said. “So stupid. You don’t understand anything. It was Mama. It was always Mama.” Carrie raised her face to look at me and even in the darkness I could see she was pale. “She didn’t hit me with the stick. She didn’t hit me.”

  Carrie slumped backwards, falling to the grass. When she did the picture that had covered her hands flipped up and revealed the bleeding gashes up her forearms.

  “I want my daddy,” she whispered.

  It was the blood that finally pulled me into action. I grabbed Carrie up in my arms and started running between the darkness and the flashes of light. At one point I tripped in the trail and fell. Carrie never left my arms. I tumbled and rolled over, clambering back to my feet and ran on without slowing.

  At the truck, I pulled out my small first-aid kit, wishing I had Billy’s. Then I wished that Billy himself were here. He would have been handling this so much better. I called in and got units on the way as soon as I had her wounds bound. Instantly she bled through all the gauze I had, so I pulled a blanket from behind the seat and cut it into strips to wrap her tighter and more thickly. As I was working, Carrie started convulsing and throwing up a frothy bile. It spilled down her face and into her hair as I turned her head to try and keep her from choking. Within the hot and sticky flow were small white chunks that, for some reason, I thought were teeth. It wasn’t until I tried picking them up that I understood they were the remains of pills.

  This was a serious attempt at suicide, not an attention-getting ploy. I could see why she thought she was out of options. All her pleas for help had been ignored or misunderstood. Worse, many had been directed at a fairy-tale character.

  * * *

  Carrie Owens died just shy of eleven p.m. I was in the waiting room still bloody and stinking and looking for someone to take it all out on. I tried telling myself I was past this, when my skin felt the grit of another land’s soil. The calming pastels of hospital walls burnished out to dead brown and the hot wind carried the dust across my eyes again.

  I cried.

  I cried like I never had before, in wrenching sobs of pain and uncontrolled tears. No one wanted to be close to me. No one wanted to even look at me until Sheriff Benson arrived. He cried with me.

  That should have been it. In a sane and compassionate world the night would have been done with us. We could have gone into the darkness to rage, or drink, or wail in private. The memory of two young girls deserved that, at least.

  But there is nothing sane about the world we live in. There is no compassion in the spinning wheel of fate.

  The sheriff’s cell rang. He took a long moment to compose himself before answering. When he did, his face that was slack and wan, flushed red and turned to marble.

  “I’m at the hospital now,” he said to the caller. “I’ll meet them here. Get everyone not on scene to my office and call in anyone not on duty.”

  I had enough presence of mind to turn to the water fountain and splash my face. When I turned back to listen, Sheriff Benson said “No” in a very certain tone. Then he added, “I’ll call the feds after we talk with the witness.”

  Once he cut the line he looked at me and said, “Come on, Hurricane. Our work’s not done yet.”

  I followed him out to where the ambulances brought in their passengers. Then we waited.

  Billy was the first of our two deputies to be brought in. After him was Calvin. They each had skull fractures behind the right ear. Someone had hit them with something hard. They probably weren’t trying to kill; they just didn’t understand or didn’t care that knocking someone out isn’t like the movies.

  I tried to talk to Billy but he was out with a tube down his throat.

  Does he hear the roar of Humvee tires on bad roads?

  Seeing Billy, the liveliest person I’d ever known, slack-faced with a matting of blood in his hair hit me like a wave of hot water. Rage and something else that I didn’t want to think about washed all around me.

  The EMTs cared nothing for my need to hold Billy’s hand. They pulled him away, even pushing me aside to get him into the building. I had just enough sense left in my brain not to fight. I stood there in the night under the glowing red Emergency sign. The sheriff followed both of his men into the hospital.

  When the next ambulance backed in I was still standing there alone with black thoughts and a feeling in my chest like a raw, open wound. Billy was my friend. In many ways he was barely even a friend. I had kept him at a distance that was comfortable to me.

  Why am I so hurt to see him wounded?

  I didn’t like the question or anything it implied.

  I love Nelson.

  It was true but all of a sudden it felt so damnably complicated.

  Even though time seemed to be moving slow against a strong current, there wasn’t enough of it to smooth out or even understand the complications of my feelings. The shrieking beep of the ambulance backup warning stopped. Then the doors burst outward. They were pushed by a pair of big hands and followed by a flurry of white hair. Lawrence, the same EMT who had taken care of Nelson that first day, jumped down from the deck like a much younger man.

  “You part of this mess, Hurricane?” he asked even as he pulled out the loaded gurney.

  His partner came out with the back end and I got look at the passenger. It was Riley Pruitt. He had been burned, probably shot as well. Lying there, he wasn’t near the monster Leech was. As soon as I saw him I understood the basics of what had happened. We had plans with the feds to hit the bikers first thing in the morning. Someone had beat us to it. Someone who didn’t have any problem with taking down the cops doing surveillance.

  “I am now,” I told Lawrence as they started taking their patient away.

  He winked at me and then grinned without humor. “Give ’em hell,” he said and they were through the doors, rolling smoothly into the light.

  I knew exactly who had done this and where to find them.
I went to the truck and headed for Moonshines. I should have told the sheriff. At least I should have called in to dispatch and given my location and reason for going. There were a lot of things I should have done, but I went alone in anger, paying no attention to the dry brown dust of other nations that swirled at the edge of my vision.

  I hadn’t forgotten Carrie Owens or Billy but I had laid aside my grief for them in favor of the rage that served only me.

  Selfish.

  My truck, with high beams and emergency lights, looked like a low-flying UFO on dark roads as I raced to the bar.

  Vengeance.

  When I reached the parking lot I stepped out, leaving the lights on. I pulled my weapon and checked its readiness, then I made sure I had spare and loaded magazines. It was just a precaution but it would have been foolish not to be sure. When I walked through the door I had my telescoping baton in my hand, not a gun. More discreet, less provocation, and I liked the feel of it. It’s a good thing I did because I gripped it tighter the farther I walked into Moonshines.

  The lights were off except for some in the far back, probably the kitchen. Most of the light came from Branson’s neon ambience and the clear, moonlit night. In an eerie echo of the dark woods where I found Carrie, my truck’s emergency lights shot through and died quickly within the angles of the restaurant. In the murk I could hear movement in two directions. On one side the slight sound of a footstep came from deeper shadows. On the other side, the bar, was the louder sound of ice in a glass. It was the combination of darkness, tiny sounds, and the threat within both that finally calmed me. I wanted vengeance but that wouldn’t happen if I got myself killed. It wasn’t the fear of dying, though: It was the fear of failing that let me be careful. I’d failed enough for one night.

  Without turning my back on the shadows I went around the corner into the bar. There was Byron Figorelli in a square of sodium vapor light that came in through a high window. The yellow light reflected off the bottles behind the bar and through the glass partition, casting a speckled sheen on the stainless-steel distilling tanks. It was beautiful in a weird sort of way, like a promise you choose to believe against all reason. Figorelli put a cigarette in his mouth, then lit it. When the lighter flared the promise was lost to the light. His hands were swollen and cracked with one finger turned at an angle from the others. They weren’t as bloody as his face. His right eye was blown and red and seemed to look at something not there. His nose was crushed and turned toward the bloody right eye. Everywhere there was blood. He smiled.

  “You want a drink?” he asked. The slurred mumble wasn’t because he’d been drinking.

  “Who did this?”

  “I ain’t no snitch. A lot of things maybe, but . . . Fuck it.” He poured more whiskey into the highball glass.

  “Are they still here?”

  He took a sip, careful of the split lip and broken teeth, then said, “I don’t know. But if I had to bet I’d say yes. I’m still kicking so someone is waiting to finish the job.” Figorelli took another longer drink and I felt myself craving one as well. “You should get lost,” he said after setting the glass down. It touched the bar almost silently and I was surprised by the fact that he was using a coaster. That seemed to be the most normal and the most out-of-place action in this entire exchange. He took a drag from the cigarette then another drink, setting the glass exactly in the center of the coaster.

  “I can get you out of here,” I told him.

  “There’s no gettin’ out of what’s coming. You think about it, you’ll know I’m right.”

  Something creaked in the dining area.

  “Come on,” I said. “There are still lots of ways this can play. Help me get the bastards, then laugh in their face. Don’t do that honor-among-scumbags crap.”

  Figorelli laughed at that despite the pain it caused him. “I like you,” he said. “You got some brass balls, lady. Bigger than I ever had.” He laughed again; this time it was pointed inward. After that he drained the last of the whiskey from his glass.

  “This isn’t the time to talk anatomy, Figgs. I think we should get out of here.”

  “You think I’m a son of a bitch, don’t you? You think I’m just another fucking goombah. Maybe I am. But you think I’m like all the rest of ’em. I ain’t.”

  There was another movement in the shadows. It could have been a rat, but I knew it wasn’t. I squeezed my grip tighter, comforted by the feel of my weapon in my hand. As soon as I thought it I realized that the weapon was my baton, not my gun. Was I being watched? If I went for the automatic at the small of my back, would I make it? I took a deep breath and held still. There was a chance that the lack of a gun in my hand was the only thing keeping things quiet so far.

  “You know why I’m in this fix?” Figorelli asked. “Because I’m not a complete son of a bitch. Because I’m soft. I didn’t kill your boyfriend because I felt sorry for him.”

  In my chest my heart beat hard and something cold bloomed outward with it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We had a deal, him and me. He wanted to die and I wanted his share. Like some kind of schmuck I wouldn’t do it. Who knew I had a conscience?” Figorelli laughed again. This time it was more spitting in the face of life than introspection. “Hell, he was dying anyway. I thought that just once things would go easy.”

  “Then why’d you send the bikers after him?”

  “That was all on Johnny. He wanted the painter’s share too. He’d already fucked up and got desperate to keep Joey D’s people away. He let the bikers sell meth for a cut then used them to cut out the locals cooking booze. It didn’t matter. It never mattered. The Marciano family wanted this place, they were gettin’ it.” He was looking at me then, really looking. The light of confession or maybe the light of death was in his one good eye as he stared. In his hand was the empty drink and his cigarette smoldered, untouched in an ashtray. “You got any idea what it could be worth? Owning a still that’s legal but pumping out gallons of extra booze that no one looks for. That’s just the tip of the thing. No middlemen, no markup, no taxes.”

  He started shifting his left eye, casting his fractured gaze over my right shoulder. When I began to turn, Figorelli shook his head. It was a small movement, barely a tic, but combined with the fear in his eye it stopped me. I adjusted my grip on the baton and put my thumb on the button.

  “Can you believe this fucking world? I did the right thing, maybe the one time in my life, and it goes to shit. But there’s no figuring some people out. First your guy wants to die but he won’t just lay down and let it happen. He don’t give a good goddamn about this place but he won’t let it go. Some people gotta go hard. Then he tells Dauterive about this trust thing. He coulda just spit in the guy’s face and dared him to do something about it. If he ain’t got a death wish now he’s just fucking stupid. If he’d just died like he was supposed to, none of this would have happened. Now Dauterive is going to make sure it happens before things get in your hands. This thing can’t stand up to probate court and audits.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Dauterive is going to make sure what happens?”

  “What the hell you think?” he asked me. At the same time he opened his good eye wide and nodded his head. I imagine my eyes widened too, both in alarm at what he had said and in anticipation of the blows to come.

  From behind me, stealthy motion became a lunge. Someone was coming out of the shadows making a reach for the baton in my hand. Trying to disarm me was their mistake. A blow to the head or a shot in the back and everything would have been over.

  I felt hands touch my arm and I turned with it, rolling my shoulder forward and pivoting. As my body came around I pressed the button, dropping the weighted end of the baton into full extension. The body behind me kept moving forward as I came around my pivot point, swinging my arm and baton. When I came full circle I added extra energy by snapping my wrist. The baton slammed into the back of a thick skull with a satisfying crunch. The attacker went down sprawling
onto Figorelli, then rolling to the floor like a spilled drink.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Figgs said, then poured himself another highball.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “It was Sal Rubio. I wouldn’t lay odds it’s anything more than a body after that crack. They call you Hurricane for a good reason, don’t they?”

  “What did you mean, Dauterive was going to make sure things happen?”

  “I told you. He ain’t the go-to-court kind of lawyer. He’s more hands on, know what I mean?”

  “They’re going after Nelson for his share of this place?”

  “Dauterive said, if the painter dies before the trust thing is all set up he can beat it.”

  “When?” I almost shouted at him.

  Figorelli held up his mangled left hand and counted off on his twisted fingers as he spoke. “Tonight was about the bikers, me, and the painter. In that order.”

  Chapter 25

  The further that night went the further I strayed from being a cop. Who I was or who I thought I was didn’t matter placed up against the lives of people I cared about. Nelson was in danger so I left Byron Figorelli sitting in a dark bar with a man—possibly critically injured, possibly dead—at his feet. They were my responsibility and I walked—make that ran—away with barely a thought. Once in the truck and speeding down the road, I did call in to report and request medical care. Our entire department was involved with the scene at the Nightriders meth lab and clubhouse. I tried to reach the sheriff directly but he wasn’t picking up. In the end I left messages telling who was at Moonshines and why. I also outlined as best I could who was responsible for the violence and where I expected to find them. Finally, I asked for help to meet me at Nelson’s place. It was a faint hope, since anyone who could help was on the other side of the county.

  My ass was hanging out in the wind every bit as much as when I had left Figorelli. I believed him when he said there was no getting away for him. I’d gotten Sal Rubio but someone else would be coming for Figorelli: if not tonight, sometime soon. I didn’t care about either one of us.