An Unsettled Grave

by Bernard Schaffer

  The old man’s lips trembled, like he couldn’t get them working right at first. He coughed into his hand and said, “Well, all right. But just a minute or two. Long enough to say a prayer. This is highly irregular, Chief Auburn.”

  “I know,” Walt said, standing aside as Schumacher headed for the basement stairs. He winked at Ben, who ignored him. Walt pointed at J.D. “You sit down. We’ll just be a minute. Don’t get into anything, all right?”

  “I won’t,” J.D. said, taking a seat on the nearest metal chair. The basement door closed behind the chief, and he could hear the men going down the steps. The funeral director was saying, “Just so you’re prepared, he’s still the same as when he was brought in. I haven’t had the chance to attend to him yet, if you understand my meaning. Are you certain you wish to see him?”

  Ben kept walking. J.D. held the cool metal underside of his chair, swinging his legs back and forth.

  “Here he is under the tarp. Now, I must warn you, he is in bad shape. If you start feeling sick, turn away and let it out on the floor by the drain next to you,” Schumacher said.

  J.D. could hear the whisper of plastic cloth crackling below, and then Chief Walt’s voice, gentle. “We’ll give you a minute to yourself, Ben.”

  Silence sucked the sound out of everything around him. Even the sound of his own heart seemed to cease. J.D. seemed to be floating. He was an astronaut detached from his ship and floating through the vacuum of space, soundless and weightless, without any chance of going home.

  A sound erupted beneath him. Inhuman and terrifying, making him clench the chair with his legs and hands. An animal sound rising up through the floor, echoing throughout the house and throughout his being. A sound loud enough to crack the foundation of his existence and give way to the howling winds of the void. It could never be unheard. That roar of ultimate suffering and rage, cast from his own father’s mouth, would reverberate through the boy forever.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ben Rein came up the steps from the Schumacher Funeral Home’s basement and shoved his way through the door, went down the front steps before the screen door banged shut. J.D. stood up, watching Ben head down the street, unsure of what to do.

  Walt Auburn came up the steps next and stopped, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your dad’s going to be okay, son. Just give him some time. You want me to give you a ride home?”

  J.D. said no thank you and ran after Ben, calling for him to wait up.

  Ben didn’t notice. His face looked made of stone and he stared straight forward as he walked up the side of the road, never stopping for traffic when he crossed or looking to see if cars were coming. A few drivers honked at him when they had to slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into him. J.D. hung back, holding up his hands, waving for the people to go around.

  The old steel mill’s cooling tanks and smokestacks rose over the tops of the trees ahead and J.D. realized where they were going. Ben made a left down Ollie’s street and vaulted up the front steps of his house, moving faster than J.D. had ever seen him do. Ben thrust his hand down into the soil of a potted plant at the far corner of the porch, digging through it until he came up with a key. He stuck the key in the lock and twisted. J.D. thought it was lucky the door opened, otherwise he was sure his father would have kicked it down.

  Ben went straight into the kitchen and ripped open the cabinet doors under the sink. He tossed soap boxes and cleaning sprays over his shoulder onto the linoleum floor but stopped when he saw a bottle of drain cleaner, shaking it to make sure it was full. He put that on the counter and kept looking. “There we go,” he said, pulling out a large container of bleach, then a large container of ammonia, and setting them on the counter as well.

  With nothing left in the cabinets, he whirled around the rest of the kitchen, in search of things that made sense only to him. He pulled open each of the counter drawers until he found the junk one, and scooped out handfuls of whatever was inside it and tossed it on the floor. He stopped when he found a box of matches and a bone-handled pocketknife and dropped them into his back pocket.

  J.D. didn’t talk or move from his place in the living room. He saw his father turn toward Ollie’s bedroom and nearly cried out in protest, but he kept his jaw clenched shut. The shoebox of money was inside the closet in Ollie’s bedroom. One look at that, and every penny would go straight to the man at the liquor store, J.D. knew. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep from saying anything. Ben stopped at the bedroom doorway, seeing something that interested him more. Ollie’s liquor cabinet. He grabbed the first bottle he saw, a large bottle of vodka, nearly empty. “Go put this on the counter,” he said, passing it to J.D.

  J.D. did as he was told. When he looked back, Ben was twisting the cap off a half-empty bottle of whisky. Of course you are, J.D. thought. The second we got here, I knew you’d be stealing your dead brother’s liquor. He watched in astonishment as Ben set the bottle down, opened another bottle instead, and poured the contents of the half-empty one into it. He passed the empty one to J.D. and said, “Take this.”

  Soon, the counter was littered with empty bottles. Ben counted them. He twisted the cap off the vodka bottle and poured the contents down the sink, then put the cap on and set it back. He stepped back, looking from one bottle to the next, muttering like he was doing calculations in his mind. Whatever answer he came up with, it wasn’t enough.

  Ben went for the door at the rear of the kitchen and made quick work of the rusted sliding bolt keeping it shut. He went down the back steps, hurrying past Ollie’s truck and riding mower. Reaching a shed at the edge of the property, Ben pulled its doors open and grabbed the first thing he saw, a large Styrofoam cooler that was cracked down one side. It was useless to hold anything, but Ben lifted it and admired it, then set it on the grass. He pulled out several gas cans and placed them next to the cooler, then disappeared inside the shed. J.D. heard metal clanging against the shed’s concrete floor. Tools were flung out onto the grass to get them out of the way. J.D. heard the sound of a thousand iron nails spilling. After that, Ben emerged holding a large metal bucket, a length of rubber tubing, and a pair of thick work gloves.

  J.D. came outside and stood in front of the items, waiting to be instructed. “The cooler and the bucket,” Ben said. “Put everything else inside of them and bring it all out and set it in the back of Ollie’s truck. Find Ollie’s keys. They should be hanging on a hook by the front door.”

  The boy ran back into the house and filled up the cooler with the empty liquor bottles. He put the bleach and ammonia and drain cleaner inside the bucket. The ammonia bottle’s warning label was facing him, and he read it: Do not use or mix with bleach, drain cleaners, or other household chemicals. To do so will cause the release of toxic gases that can be fatal.

  When J.D. came out of the rear door, his father had stuffed one end of the rubber tubing into the gas tank of Ollie’s lawn mower and put his mouth around the other, sucking hard until he gagged and spat out a mouthful of gas. He stuffed the end of the tubing into one of the empty gas cans and filled it halfway.

  Ben grabbed the gas can and tubing and hurried around the side of the house, stopping at the curb and turning his head to look up and down the street. He squinted at the house nearby, making sure no one was looking, then walked over to the first car he saw parked in front of it. He bent down, popped open the gas tank lid, and stuck the rubber tubing down inside, repeating the same process as before, the gagging and spitting, and filled up his gas can the rest of the way, then capped it off. He dragged the tubing out of the car, still spilling gas, and ran back to Ollie’s house.

  J.D. was already sitting in the truck’s passenger seat with the engine running. Ben tossed the tubing aside, dropped the gas can on the ground and ran back inside the house once more, then came out a few seconds later with one full bottle of whisky. He set the gas cans in the back of the truck next to the cooler and bucket, filled exactly the way he’d instructed J.D. to do. He opened t
he driver’s-side door, stuffed the full bottle under the seat, and hopped in. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He wiped it away, letting out a quick breath before shifting the gears and backing out of the driveway and gunning it. Soon, Ollie’s house was behind them.

  J.D. turned and looked at the items rattling around in the truck bed, then back at his father. Ben kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “There’s ways to tell when a man’s been shot at close range,” Ben said. “He’ll have powder marks all over his skin. It looks like little black dots tattooed around the bullet’s entry wound. If someone were to shoot themselves, say, by putting the gun up to their forehead, you’d see that clear as day.” He grabbed the window lever and cranked it down, filling his face with cool air. “Ollie didn’t shoot himself. That cop was lying. You know what doesn’t lie? A dead body. Never. Not if you know what you’re looking at.”

  J.D. listened to his father, absorbing what he was being told. He watched the trees whip past, as his father’s long, greasy hair flapped away from his face. “You’re going after those men, aren’t you?”

  Ben didn’t answer.

  “I want to come with you. Let me help.”

  Ben looked at his son, considering it. The mechanisms of his mind were working again. He’d been fighting it all for so long. So many years. Tried burying it down in the basement of his soul, doing all he could not to let it escape. But now it was out and running free, and Christ, it felt good. He looked at his hands. They were steady as could be.

  He could use the boy. There were a thousand ways he could help accomplish the mission. Ben had used children for ruses multiple times in-country. Hiring village kids to deliver messages or scout a location or identify a target in a crowded place. They could get in and out easier because they were small and fast, and people had a natural aversion to killing them if they grew suspicious. Most of the time, anyway.

  J.D. looked willing and eager. A small soldier wanting to serve. He’d make a good asset, Ben thought. Yes, the old brain was working once more and the voices were fading to a faint whisper, replaced by one clarifying voice that was back in control.

  “What grade are you in?” Ben asked. “Fourth, right?”

  When the boy didn’t respond, Ben looked back at the road. “I’m just messing with you. I know you’re not in fourth grade.” He pointed at the glove box and said, “Take a look in there for me.”

  J.D. pulled the lever to lower the panel and looked at the pile of papers and napkins there. “What for?”

  “Ollie’s binoculars. Hopefully, he’s got a pair in there.”

  J.D. moved a stack of mail out of the way and reached in, feeling the smooth, curved glass of a binoculars lens. He handed them to Ben, who set them on the seat between them and said, “At least he learned that much. You know how many times a good pair of binoculars saved my life? Plenty. Just taking that extra second to stop and look before you go rushing in somewhere. Essential field equipment for any and all operations. Never forget.”

  The boy picked them up and pressed them to his face, peering out through the truck’s windshield. He turned the dials back and forth until the image tightened into one large, clear circle.

  Ben muttered numbers to himself and held up his fingers, counting on them, messing up and restarting, correcting himself, and finally got it right. “You’re twelve years old, and you’re in sixth grade.” He reached for the binoculars and put them back down on the seat. “Anyway, you’re not going with me. You’re going home.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Ben found ruts in the earth where a car had recently parked and bent down to inspect them. No footprints in the stiff mud, but he knew plenty of other ways to follow his brother’s trail. Look at this mess, Ollie, you goddamn secretary, Ben thought. Somebody deaf, dumb, and blind could cut this sign.

  In the old days, when they were kids, the white-haired hunters talked about cutting sign. Looking for animal tracks and scat that would lead them toward whatever they wanted to shoot. Those old hunters would bend down and pick up little turd nuggets and squish them between their fingers to feel how fresh they were, and how close the animal was. After that they’d just wipe their hands on their pants and keep going.

  “You remember them cranky old bastards, Ollie?” Ben whispered as he crouched behind a tree and raised the binoculars to his eyes. He could see the hideout’s roof from there, and the narrow trail of smoke rising up from the chimney. “That one sicced his dog on us for cutting through his property and it chased us right into a skunk. Mom made us take a bath together in tomato juice when we got home.”

  He could hear music playing inside the cabin. Psychedelic rock, just like the good old days. A beat-up truck and a station wagon with wood paneling sat parked in the driveway leading up to the cabin, near the outhouse. Purposeful, nondescript vehicles, perfect for transporting various supplies, both with New York plates. There was another car behind them that didn’t fit in. A bright blue hatchback with beads and feathers hanging from the rearview mirror. Stickers spread across the back window sported silly slogans.

  The front door opened, and a woman in high heels and a black leather miniskirt came out. Through his binoculars, Ben could see another woman inside the cabin, sitting on Wombat’s lap. They were laughing at someone doing something near the wall, out of Ben’s view. The room was filled with a smoky haze, and the girl on Wombat’s lap was smoking out of an ornate pipe.

  Ben watched the girl in the skirt go to the hatchback, get something out of it, and go back inside. The door shut behind her and the music grew quieter again. He walked back to Ollie’s truck to get the things he would need.

  * * *

  He sat on a tree stump on a hill above the bikers’ cabin, looking down on it. No other buildings were visible for miles around. No other columns of smoke rose above the trees, even as the wind turned cold and the temperature fell. The road leading up to the cabin was just a dirt path, kept flat by cars going back and forth. A set of wires connected the house to a pole down the road. It was the only sign of a more civilized world out in those vast woods.

  The sun was fading, but he still had a good vantage point over the building and the vehicles. He watched one of the bikers lead a girl out of the house by her elbow, both of them so drunk they staggered, and take her around the back of the outhouse. He bent her over in the grass and pulled his jeans down to his ankles, laughing as he lost his balance and collapsed on the ground next to her.

  There was no child in that building, Ben thought. Ollie had been wrong. And if he wasn’t wrong, she was gone already. Or dead. Maybe the bikers had disposed of her somewhere in the woods. It didn’t matter, he decided. She wasn’t inside the building and he didn’t have to factor her into his plan.

  He snapped off a chunk of Styrofoam from the cooler and dropped it into the bucket, stirring it into the gasoline until it dissolved. There wasn’t much left of the cooler, and the gasoline was becoming like a soft paste. He poured more gas in and added the rest of the Styrofoam, continuing to stir.

  The United States Army spent tens of millions of dollars paying factories to manufacture napalm during the war, Ben thought. And here I am mixing it up in a bucket.

  He picked up the bucket and moved it away from the stump, then stopped and inspected himself to make sure none of it had spilled on his clothes or boots. When he was certain he was clean, he set each of the five empty glass liquor bottles on the stump, making sure they wouldn’t topple over. This was the part he needed to be careful with. He unscrewed the caps and set them down on the stump beside each empty bottle.

  First, the bleach. He filled each of the bottles a third of the way. That was the easy part. He slid on Ollie’s work gloves and picked up the bottle of drain cleaner, then poured some of it into the first bottle, making sure he saved enough to fill the remaining ones, and capped it. The chemicals inside the bottle bubbled, foaming against the glass walls and rising up. Ben picked up the bottle of ammonia. He took the deepest breath he could ma
nage and held it while he opened the bottle. He quickly unscrewed the cap on the glass bottle containing the mixture, filled it the rest of the way with ammonia, and replaced the cap as fast as he could. His eyes felt on fire as he stepped back, gasping for breath. The stink of it filled the air.

  He did it again, and again, until he could no longer force his tortured lungs to breathe. The trees swam before him, their lush green leaves melting and blurring as he braced himself against the stump, determined not to vomit, determined not to die.

  Come on, you weak piece of shit. These cocksuckers think they know war. Let’s show them war. There’s just two more bottles to go.

  * * *

  The last song ended inside the cabin and no one started the music back up again. The night was clear and cool and quiet now. Ben took a deep breath and let it out, relieved he wasn’t coughing anymore. From his position, he could see the entire cabin and the driveway leading up to it, and the woods all around. The front door opened. Two women stumbled outside, heading for the blue car. They were carrying their shoes and purses in one hand and pulling down the hems of their miniskirts with the other.

  Someone appeared at the front door before it closed. The bald, black biker called Orange, Ben saw. No doubt, the hair all over his body had been burned off by too much exposure to defoliant chemicals dripping down from the trees overhead while he patrolled the jungle. He was bare-chested, his round black belly shining in the moonlight, as he unzipped his jeans and let out a stream of piss onto the grass. The room was dark behind him, but Ben could make out a few of the other bikers lying on the floor and couch. They were in various states of undress. One in his underwear. Another completely naked. Ben spotted Wombat, sitting on the couch with his shirt open. He was wearing sunglasses in the darkened room, head tilted back and mouth open, snoring.

  Orange waved to the girls while he pissed and said, “Good night, ladies.”