“Let's go.”
Paul clutched a low-hanging willow branch and scooted under its leaves, making himself invisible in the night. “No – not yet.” He shook his head slowly without ever taking his eyes off the patio.
“What?”
“I don't think think they're trying to hurt us.”
Malcolm shoved him, and he used the tree branch to steady himself. “Snap out of it. Didn't you see what that thing did to my ankle?”
Paul nodded. “I think it was just trying to get up. I don't know. Maybe it was confused. I know I would be if I was dead and then I wasn't.”
Malcolm started hobbling again. “I'm leaving. You're insane.”
“Just a second. That girl wasn't in the house, man. I want to see what they do – why they came back. Maybe it'll help us figure out where she is.”
“I don't give a damn about the girl or the dead people or anything else. Don't you get it? Our prints are everywhere. We need to leave. Now.”
Paul's eyes remained fixed on the porch. “Just a minute. I promise. It's not like we can't outrun them even with your ankle.”
Malcolm lunged for the car keys in Paul's pocket. Maybe they weren't his salvation, but they could buy him a couple hours. But Paul shoved him away when he got close. Malcolm fell backwards, caught a tree root with his heel, and crashed to the ground. He screamed. His ankle was on fire, dragging uselessly behind him and making him yelp every time he felt the slightest pressure. “Fuck you,” he said. “I never should have brought you in on this.”
“No,” Paul said, pointing at the back patio. “You shouldn't have. Too late now though.”
Malcolm looked up and held his breath.
The corpses were coming out of the kitchen.
The woman stepped onto the patio first, swiveling her head around like it was a camera recording the scene for posterity. She reached back with one hand and only then did Malcolm notice what was in the other: a shovel. The man crawled out after her, his leg stumps and the gash in his chest leaving behind a trail of blood. Then the woman reached back and offered her dead hand. The man grabbed it, and she helped him over the precipice.
They paused on the patio. The night was quiet except for frogs croaking in the swamp and the pounding in Malcolm and Paul's chests. They watched the woman lean down – she moved like a crane, twisting and turning at right angles – and whisper to the other corpse. Her lips moved, the sounds they produced inaudible. Then the man looked up and whispered back to her. Their lips kept moving as they struggled towards the backyard.
“Holy shit,” Paul said. “Are they… talking?”
“Shut up,” Malcolm said. “Look.” Moonlight struck the corpses when they shuffled out from under the covered patio. Something glowed on their faces: the spade marks. They glowed and pulsed with a life of their own. Slowly the corpses navigated across the yard, not towards Malcolm and Paul, but a large oak tree shading their daughter's play set. Their bodies turned sallow under the moonlight – just a few shades away from transparent. They stopped beneath the oak tree, and after the woman looked up at the moon she let go of the man's hand and readied the shovel.
The man crawled away as the woman raised the shovel. It struck the ground clean and rang metallic. She shoveled with the grace of a dump truck, piling the fresh earth under the oak. Again and again she shoveled. The tiny hole grew into a larger one, and the woman never slowed from the strain.
Once the hole was large enough the man crawled over and started to help. He dug with his bloodied hands while the spade mark throbbed on his face, adding his own pile of earth next to the woman's.
“What are they doing?” Paul said.
Malcolm's throat was dry when he spoke. “Isn't it obvious? They're digging a grave.”
Something sniffled beside him. He turned to Paul, but that wasn't right. The sound had come from the other side – the side where there was nothing but bark and willow branches. Then the sound repeated itself, like someone's breath caught halfway up their throat. “Did you...”
But Malcolm didn't have to finish his question. One look at Paul's face told him everything he needed to know. That face was pale. It turned this way and that in a wild, desperate circle. Then the sniffling sound stopped just as fast as it started. Paul reached in his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and pointed it across the backyard at the corpses. He steadied the camera with trembling hands. Then a series of flashes went off, rapid-fire photographic evidence that they weren't crazy, that there were in fact moving, breathing dead bodies digging their own graves.
“Can we go now?” Malcolm said, rubbing his eyes from the flash.
Paul nodded. He reached under Malcolm's armpit and pulled him up. Malcolm leaned on his shoulder – the fall over the root had made his ankle even worse – and they set off through bogs and brambles and brush. Around the little pond they went. Its black water seemed to boil, heated somewhere deep beneath the surface. Their feet plunged into the mud with every step. Several times they nearly fell into the oily, algae-covered water. They sweat and cursed, somehow putting enough distance between themselves and the house for the corpses to disappear from sight.
Some time – ten minutes or two hours – later, their path spit them out onto the street from where they came. Dogs barked behind fences, but no one came out of their houses to bother them. They staggered towards the taxi as fast as their battered feet allowed. Paul unlocked the doors, and somehow they made it inside untouched. He turned on the engine and gassed it before Malcolm had a chance to shut his door. They tore through the night to the scent of burning rubber, speeding away from the house where the dead returned to life.
Its yard and fence and street-side appearance were still immaculate. But its backyard held a terrible secret.
A secret that was burying itself.
* * * *
When they got back to the duplex they looked at Paul's pictures. They squinted at the phone as he scrolled through them slowly at first, then faster as their frustration mounted. “I can't believe this, man. I really can't believe this.”
Malcolm shook his head. The house and dirt piles and hole in the ground came out clear enough, but the corpses were missing. It looked like someone had edited them out, somehow made them transparent to feature the oak tree background. A few of them even captured the shovel in mid air. Except no one was holding that shovel, and there was no sign of the legless corpse crawling around on the ground beneath it.
“What are we going to do?” Paul said. “The cops definitely aren't going to believe us now.”
Malcolm pressed an ice-filled plastic bag against his ankle and winced. “They never would have believed us anyway.”
Paul grabbed him by the shoulder. “We have to tell them.” They sat side by side on the porch, camp chairs pressed together facing the street, in a little pow wow only men who shared a life-changing secret could have.
“You're right,” Malcolm said. “We left enough prints and DNA in there to give the forensics people a wet dream.”
Paul just shook his head. “And what the hell was that crying thing?” He clutched a cup of coffee and watched it steam. “I didn't sign up for this, man.”
“I know. Believe me. It definitely wasn't worth 300 bucks. Well, 306 bucks.” There were a thousand things he could have said. Things like I have a way of dragging people into drama they don't want any part of. That's why I've been alone for so long. You probably should just run away as far as you can right now because I'm bad news, mister. My first name's Malcolm but my middle name might as well be Chaos. He could have said any of those things… but something made him keep his mouth shut.
“I'll tell them if you won't,” Paul said. “And what about that little girl? We gotta find that little girl, man. She didn't deserve that.”
Malcolm nodded. “I know you'll tell them. And that's fine: I think it's in our best interest. Just not yet.”
Paul sipped his coffee and shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“We hav
e something the cops don't have. If we can take advantage of it – before they find us – we can clear our names and hopefully find the girl too.”
“And that something is a some one – Miranda's man on the side.”
“You got it.”
“You think he's the one who did it?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he knows a hell of a lot more about what was going on with that family than us.”
Paul jumped out of his chair and nearly spilled his coffee. “Yeah? Great. That's the kind of information the cops need to figure this out.”
Malcolm pushed him back down into his camp chair. “Hold on just a minute. If we tell the cops about Fielder now we'll have to tell them how we know about him. We'll have to come clean about being at that house tonight.”
Paul covered his face with his hands. “Yeah? Okay. I don't know. I'm just a guitar player, man. When you find a murder you call the cops. That's what you do.”
“That's what we will do – first thing in the morning. Giving Fielder up without talking to him is no good. We don't know if he'll cooperate with them. Even if he does that doesn't leave us any better off. We'll just look like guys who knew way too much – who were in the wrong place at the worst time.”
“You want to talk to him first,” said Paul, “so you can do what you did to that – that dead woman from the park. Make him confess.”
Malcolm cracked a hint of a smile. “You've definitely got some detective in you. If he did it he'll confess… and we'll get it all on tape. And if he didn't? Then it's time to go to the cops and face the music.”
Paul shook his head. “I don't know. I don't like it.”
“I don't like any of it. But this might be the only chance we have to clear our names. Give me until tomorrow morning. If we can't find him by then...” His voice trailed off and he held his palms in the air.
Paul sat quietly for a long time. He sipped his coffee and watched people go by on the street. Runners. Dog walkers. Teenage skateboarders. A pack of college students about to hit the bar. None of them had a fraction of their problems. They didn't have any idea. Then he finished the coffee and put the empty mug on the porch. “Yeah. Okay. But if we don't find this guy by seven in the morning –”
“We go to the police. If they don't come for us first.”
Paul nodded. “How are we supposed to find him? He could be anywhere.”
“Not anywhere,” said Malcolm. “Those bodies were still fresh when we got there. I know where we can start. But change your clothes first. You'll need a suit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Craig Fielder worked at a law office. That's what Eric had said before he was killed. A quick online search gave Malcolm and Paul all the information they needed to get started. Paul drove them downtown in his taxi, checking the rear-view mirror and back seats every few seconds for bodies or some other unseen horror. They stopped in the middle of the business district among all the skyscrapers. Paul got out without bothering to check the parking meter, but Malcolm ran back to feed it. Parking tickets would prove they were out and about… and not contacting the cops. “We don't want to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves,” he said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “Whatever you say, man.” He walked awkwardly in his suit – both of them did – fabric hanging from his body where it shouldn't. His face settled on the beehive of office buildings, windows lit haphazardly like a code of glass he couldn't break. His mind was gone, and sailing farther from the cracked, cigarette-stained streets of reality by the second.
Malcolm wondered if it would ever make it back.
They wandered past businessmen whose dispositions ranged from stressed out to roaring drunk. They passed traveling professionals with badges for conventions on their chests. On one corner they even passed a pair of policemen with their hands on their hips. No one stopped them or paid them any attention. To everyone else, they were just a few more red-eyed businessmen pounding the pavement. Never mind that they'd just watched the dead come back to life.
Then the building that housed Craig's law firm loomed before them, a lifeless black tower full of right angles and plenty of hidden spaces. Malcolm told Paul to follow his lead and, before he could object, strolled into the lobby with a little smile on his face.
It was always easier to lie when you were smiling.
He waved at the security guard, whose eyes hardly budged from the computer monitor in front of him. Next they rounded the corner and found the elevator bank. Malcolm checked the sign displaying which businesses belonged to which floors and pressed the button for the fortieth. The doors opened, and Malcolm and Paul stepped into an empty elevator. No one joined them on their journey up. Paul seized the opportunity to start asking questions, but Malcolm waved them off as fast as they came. “The less you know, the better. You can't lie when I'm around, remember? Just leave the talking to me.”
“I knew you would say that,” said Paul. He rubbed his temples in little circles as if a massage would help him accept this hostage situation. The elevator stopped, the little button dinged, and then it was showtime.
Malcolm led them out, smiling even when a locked door stopped them. A janitor vacuumed the floor on the other side of the glass, eyes down, lost in her own little world. She looked up briefly when Malcolm started tapping on the glass, then back down again like she was almost embarrassed she couldn't help. Malcolm tapped on the glass again and pointed at the key-card reader. The woman looked up, slowly shook her head, and returned to her vacuuming.
“Look charming,” Malcolm said.
“What?” said Paul.
“I don't know. Smile at her or something.” He knocked on the glass again, louder this time. When the woman looked up they beamed at her, and Malcolm tapped his wrist where an imaginary watch rested. She stared at them, vacuuming the same spot of carpet. They smiled wider as she turned off the vacuum and walked over to the door. She opened it a few inches and the door beeped.
“No key card,” she said. “You can't come in. Sorry.”
Malcolm slid his hand between the door and its frame before the woman could shut it. “We'll just be in and out. There are a few files we need to get. We're on deadline. It's a maritime case with Craig Fielder.”
The woman's eyes brightened. “Craig. He's a good boy – man. Sometimes I call him a boy without thinking. It's because he looks so young.”
Malcolm smiled. “He is a good man.”
The woman stepped away from the door, narrowed her eyes into suspicious slits.“Wait. I've never seen you two before. How can you know Craig?” She glanced back into the hallway, body tense.
“We're from the Stonebridge office,” Malcolm said. “Just here for a few days to help out.”
The woman shrugged. She opened the door and waved them in. “You say hi to Craig from me – from Rita.”
Malcolm smiled as he and Paul stepped into the hallway. “Sure thing.”
She nodded and turned on the vacuum cleaner. They went around a corner and left her to her work. Down a hallway with its empty offices they went, each with a door cracked open and a desk chair and darkened computer standing watch. A few minutes later they found Fielder's office. Malcolm turned on the light and shut the door behind them. “Damn. I thought he might be here. Working late is a great alibi if you're a lawyer.”
Paul leaned against the door. “This looks just like every other office we saw. How are we supposed to find him?”
Malcolm buried his head in the manila folders strewn across Craig's desk. They looked out of place in such an organized office. But sifting through them only revealed court filings, notes, and deposition transcripts. Paul came over to help and started rummaging through cabinets. Office supplies. Nothing useful. Malcolm turned his attention to a filing cabinet beneath Fielder's desk. All of the drawers were locked except for the top one. He and Paul opened it, went through pens and staples and paper clips…
Until Paul found something interesting:
A pay st
ub.
“Are you kidding me?” he said, opening it. “Check out how much this guy makes.”
Malcolm tapped the envelope in Paul's other hand. “Check out that address.”
Paul flipped it over and looked at it. A home address, and just a few blocks away. “Nice.” He grabbed a sticky note and pen, but Malcolm grabbed him by the wrist.
“Just remember it. No writing. No pictures – in case things go bad with the cops.”
Paul nodded, staring at the envelope. “I got it. Now let's get out of here.”
“Wait.” Malcolm's eyes settled on a dark green coaster on Craig's desk. He removed a mug filled with day-old coffee stains to look at it. “It's from a bar,” he said. “The Black Cat. Really close to here too.”
Paul came over and looked at the coaster. “That's on the way to his house. I drop people off there in the cab all the time.”
“Let's go there first,” Malcolm said. “A lawyer works hard all day, goes to the bar for a few drinks, then heads home. Like clockwork, right?”
“At least in the movies,” said Paul. “We'll find out.”
On their way out, Rita the janitor asked them if they got everything they needed. They told her they had – at least that wasn't a lie. She said she hadn't seen Craig but she'd only started her shift an hour earlier. They left her with smiles and no names to remember them by. In just a few blocks they joined the throng in front of the Black Cat. People drank on the front patio that spilled out into the street, mixing freely with passers-by under the giant cat sign in the light of a full moon. It looked more like a spring break party than somewhere a respectable lawyer would unwind. Malcolm and Paul shrugged at each other, passed a hulking bouncer, and went inside.
The setup was familiar enough: pool tables, flying darts, and a horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle with stools and people crowded around. In the middle of the horseshoe stood a svelte blonde in a low-cut black top that defied dress codes far and wide. She tossed a shaker in one hand and filled a draft beer with the other, talking to the regulars at the same time.
The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1) Page 5
