Mercy is not legally able to request information about her biological parents until she is eighteen. But Ness and I decided long ago that we would help her whenever she reached the age to ask about it. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but this kind of decision is just so much academic crap until you have to back it up with action. Your idea of what the right thing to do is can change over time.
"What did you tell her?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I said we could talk about it this weekend."
"Good girl,” I said. And I kissed her on the forehead.
The dream came for the first time that night.
* * * *
I hid behind the tall evergreen bush that grew between our yards. Thick mist rose from the ground, but I could see the stars glimmering against the pitch-black overhead. Ferguson wore a miner's hat lighted at the forehead. Moonlight fell on his pale skin. He grunted, and bent methodically to shovel spades of dirt into a pile, then pulled a heavy shape—a body, wrapped in a dark cloth—toward the opening. He pulled it from the shoulders, its head lolling to the side, heels dragging on the ground.
Ferguson dropped it into the recess, then grabbed the shovel and threw dirt into the hole.
I stepped backward, and a cat prowling close behind yowled. I twisted to look at Ferguson. Our eyes met, his were wide and crystalline clear like blue daggers.
* * * *
I woke with a start, but found Ness still sleeping.
My skin tingled. I stared out the sheer drapes that covered our windows. After thirty minutes of trying to sleep, I gave up and went to write.
I admit I stopped at the kitchen and glanced out over the Fergusons’ yard.
No one was there, but the light was on in their basement.
* * * *
The next day was Thursday.
It was traditional that I took Mercy to dance class, something she had done since she was four. Afterward we always had a father-daughter date that consisted of fast food and a stop at Terri's for homemade ice cream.
"Can we skip Terri's?” she said as we were finishing.
"What have you done with my daughter?"
"I've got trials for the summer troupe. I need to keep my weight down."
"You're thin as a rail."
"No, Daddy, I'm not."
"You're not fat."
"I know. But I'm smaller than the other girls, and I need to be more careful because Mexican bodies hold fat better than others."
"Where did you hear that?"
"We're studying anatomy in science."
"I see."
Ness and I had learned everything we could about children from Mexico as soon as we knew we were adopting. We read about unique infections, language acquisition, learning issues, and how growth rates and onset of puberty of adopted children were often different from biologicals. So I knew Mexican children have a proclivity to higher body fat—I just hadn't been ready for it to raise its head yet.
"So, can we skip it?"
"Sure,” I said.
So we went home.
* * * *
The dream returned that night.
Again I was unable to get back to sleep, and went downstairs to put another chapter on the book. The kitchen was dark. Outside the window the hilled portion of the Fergusons’ yard caught the moonlight differently than the rest.
The light in the basement was on again, too.
Then I saw movement—a dull gray flash in the shadows behind Ferguson's tool shed, maybe a leg or at least a foot. My eyes adjusted to the moonlight and I could make out a form. Ferguson. I recognized him from his distinctive gait, all legs and arms, tilted slightly forward. He knelt and did something to the ground, then stood and examined his work. Then he was gone, disappeared behind the house.
I felt voyeuristic anxiety.
I stared harder, but nothing came from the shadows for long enough that I became embarrassed. I put on some coffee and went downstairs to let my imagination run free.
Blood ran in chapter eight, and a twist came at the end—the perfect cliffhanger to move the reader to chapter nine. The bad guy pulled a fast one there that was so good it surprised even me. The hero reacted. It all made sense and I found myself riding this wave of the now that was so strong and so familiar. This is why I write. It's for damned sure not the money, or the idea of seeing my name on the cover of a book, or the pleasure of working with a publisher. Christ no. I write for the sensation of being in the story, the sense of being alive inside pages of black and white.
It seemed like only a few moments later I heard Ness upstairs getting her coffee. I was surprised to see my progress. They were the easiest 4,500 words I've ever written. I went upstairs with my empty cup in hand, and I gave Ness a kiss on the cheek.
"Couldn't sleep again?” she asked.
"Guess not."
Out the window, the sun was painting the sky purple. My eye caught something then—a crease in Ferguson's yard, a curled-up corner of sod alongside one of the mounds. Then I saw a shovel leaning against Ferguson's tool shed, its blade caked with soil.
The image of Ferguson digging atop a midnight pile flashed.
"Is something wrong?"
"No,” I said. “Everything's fine."
Mercy came into the room, and Ness turned her attention away. The specter of that shovel lingered over me, though. It stayed there all morning as the girls left, and was still there when I went outside for my walk.
I find walks help clear my brain of the morning's writing, and this exercise kick-starts my creative side so well that I've taken to answering the tired question of “where do you get your ideas” by saying I find them on the corner of Ivy and Gladstone. I received no ideas that day, however. Instead I kept thinking about the mounds.
Could I have actually been right? Could there be bodies in there?
No, that was silly.
But this aura of doubt was like static cling, and the memory of Tomas Ferguson in his back yard and the sight of a soil-caked shovel would not go away. What if there really were bodies there? I mean, just because it sounds crazy doesn't mean it couldn't be true. It's a strange world, after all—this place where people freeze their heads when they're dead in hopes that technology may someday save them, this world that gave light to Jack the Ripper and Son of Sam and the Zodiac killer.
I couldn't help but glance at the Fergusons’ place.
The shovel was gone.
Perhaps I should have just gone on with my business, but it was too late, now. I had to know.
I went to the fence and surveyed the area while pretending to scan the horizon. Their windows were dark and silent, which made sense because both should be at work. Tomas sold electronics at the local department store, and Willie—short for Willifred—was a receptionist for a radio station in Indianapolis. Both of them were usually gone before Mercy left for school.
I rode the momentum of the moment, walking quickly along the fence to let myself into their back yard. Clear lines showed in the grass where the sod had been cut and re-laid. I went to one knee and lifted an edge.
The dirt below was soft, freshly turned and pounded down, but obviously disturbed. Something was definitely under there.
I dropped the sod, tamped it back into place, and power-walked to the safety of my own kitchen. A dark veil of evil crawled over me. The grit from the soil became paste between my fingers, and sweat formed on my brow and upper lip.
This was insane.
I rubbed my eyes.
It was the lack of sleep. That had to be it.
At 41, my body didn't do all-nighters anymore, much less two in a row. I fished a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, went downstairs, and sat in front of the computer for two hours before deciding that nothing was coming.
I needed to do something, but what should it be?
Call 911?
Right.
Hello, officer, this is Laughlin West. Yes, that Laughlin West, the writer. Yes, vampires. That's me. I wanted
to report three shallow graves in my next-door neighbor's yard. Uh-huh. No, I promise this is no crank call. Seriously, officer. Three. Yes, shallow graves. I see them right outside my window, sir. I can tell they're graves by the different colored patches of grass. My next book? Due out in two months. Sure, I would be happy to sign one for you. No, officer, I'm not making this up. I promise. Dead bodies, yes, and buried right in my neighbor's back yard. Seriously . . .
No, 911 didn't seem like such a good idea.
I was still stewing over it when Ness and Mercy got home, and it became time to get dinner ready, which today, as luck would have it, would be chicken on the grill.
The coals were beginning to glow when Ferguson got home.
He waved a perfunctory hello. I gave a nod in reply. He went into his tool shed and emerged a few moments later with a hand saw and an electric drill.
"What's cooking, eh?” he said.
"Looks like chicken today,” I replied. “Got a project going?"
His smile was forced. “Yes. There is a project. The women folk always makes so certain of that, right?"
I nodded again and glanced at the three patches, then, before thinking about it, said, “What was your last big project?” I hoped he hadn't caught the glance, but being cool is always easier in second draft.
Ferguson's hesitation was a gambler's tell, a moment where you see truth hidden deep inside—and this tell was one of fear. I had no idea what was going to come out of Ferguson's mouth, but whatever it was, he had not expected to answer this question.
"Nothing important,” he said.
"Another on the honey-do list, eh?” I grinned at him.
"Just so,” he said as he stepped inside. His door shut behind him. The lock clicked.
It took forty minutes for the chicken to finish roasting.
Do you know how hard it is to not stare at something that you're dying to look at? It's like having a birthday cake hidden in the refrigerator that your mother doesn't know you know about. It's like the hottest chick in school sitting right next to you. It's like God promising eternal redemption to your sorry behind just so long as you don't touch that rosy red apple that smells so delicious your stomach is tearing itself apart.
After forty minutes of ignoring the green patches, I realized I had only one option.
If I wanted to confirm this strange hypothesis brewing inside me, I would need to get dirty. I would need to dig them up. The idea nearly stopped my heart. I would dig at night, I decided at first. I would get out a flashlight and dig under the light of the moon. But then I thought about Ferguson doing his digging at night, and that he had another project to work on. Damned if I was going to be caught playing in his personal graveyard when it came time to use it again.
I would have to dig during the day when they were at work—which meant everyone would be able to see me. Except, of course, no one else had our view.
If I started early in the morning I could dig up a patch and replace the evidence in less than a workday. Then at least I would know something for certain. And then, if I called the cops or talked to anyone else, I wouldn't be just a silly writer making mad imaginings down in his basement.
* * * *
The next morning came with clear skies and a brilliant sun. The moment Ness and Mercy left the house, I went upstairs and pulled on a pair of old jeans and a light flannel shirt. I went to the garage to grab my work gloves and my shovel. The tool felt like a weapon in my hand. To avoid making a mess I pulled out an old sheet Ness and I had once used as a picnic blanket.
The Fergusons’ house was dark.
Because it was under the most cover, I went to the patch that was farthest from our place. It was bordered by a tall fence on one side, and the tool shed on the other. Despite open sky, I felt a touch of claustrophobia. I spread the blanket beside the patch and went to one knee. The sod still pulled back easily. One more nervous glance at the silent window, and I began to dig.
I dug much too quickly at first, and my arms burned with my effort. I was panting when I took my break. I leaned against the shovel and tried to catch my breath. My back was already sore, and a river of sweat ran down my temple.
A jay landed on a budding tree and seemed to watch. I thought I heard a police siren, but it faded.
When I returned to digging, I fell into a rhythm I could sustain. The work was like a prayer. The earth smelled like truth. I felt power as I dug deeper. Twenty minutes later, my blade struck something hard.
A skull? No, it sounded more metallic than bone.
I fell to a knee and pushed dirt away to reveal a rounded metal tube wrapped in some kind of paper-thin skin. My shovel had broken through the skin, so I ripped a piece away and pulled off one glove. Animal hide, perhaps? If so, it was unique—smooth and slippery under my touch, perhaps coated with something. I jammed it into my pocket and returned to work. More of the device became exposed. It was a collection of boxes and wires and tubes. Another half-hour brought me a dish-shaped receiver that was covered in more of the skin.
I stopped then, and I looked around.
The wind had died, and the sun was nearing its apex. I stepped back and examined the machine as a whole. What the hell was it? I would need to dig another hour to get it all out, but it looked to me like a cross between an old Mars probe, a mad-professor's computer bank, and a bazooka. It had small wheels at what I assumed was its base, more like a cart's than a car's.
Was it a radio? A weapon?
What the hell was Ferguson up to?
I chuckled at the idea the Fergusons might be members of some Scandinavian Secret Service, then I soured. They had lived next to us for nearly half a year, yet I actually knew very little about them. They could be anything.
My back throbbed, my arms felt like rubber, and the pile of dirt looked like Mount McKinley. I was going to pay for this tomorrow.
I had seen enough for now, though. It was time to put everything back the way it had been.
I tossed three shovels of dirt back before deciding pictures might come in handy, so I drove my shovel into the mound and jogged across the yard until I came to my back porch.
After being out under the open sky, the house—with its silence and its air conditioning—seemed almost sterile. I felt out of place. The sense of joy powered by the physical activity of my digging seemed blunted. Part of it—a large part, I'm sure—was that I knew I wasn't going bonkers. But a moment ago I had been Huck Finn in the middle of exploring Injun Joe's cave, and now the house closed about me, familiar and a little too safe for my invigorated blood.
I went to the basement and grabbed my phone, then made my way upstairs and out the door.
The screen slammed behind me.
And I came face-to-face with Tomas Ferguson.
* * * *
I had never been close enough to him to realize just how tall Ferguson was. I claim 5'11", though honesty would force me to admit an inch shorter and the tape would suggest even that was a stretch. Ferguson was like a human skyscraper. He was trim, too, with a flat chest beneath a blue button-down. His short-cropped hair spiked at the part, his eyes vivid blue and burning with anger.
"What are you doing?” he said.
"I, uh . . ."
"You dig up my property?"
"Yes, I'm, uh . . ."
"My property."
I didn't know what else to say. The hole gaped in the yard behind him. I gazed at the ground and slipped the phone into my pocket.
He grabbed my shirt collar in one hand.
"Hey—"
He pulled me against his rock-solid chest.
"You come with me, then."
He walked toward his yard, dragging me along like a dog.
I was bent over and tumbling, just barely able to keep my feet.
"What the . . . shit, slow down, Tomas. I'm sorry."
The shirt burned against my neck. Ferguson's gait was long, and his hold was firm as steel. I stumbled. I tried to dig my heels in, but he was too strong. I tripp
ed and fell to one knee. He picked me up without missing a stride.
We did not go to the hole.
Instead he took me to his back door. I caught my balance as he put a key into the lock.
"Can we just talk about this?” I said.
He opened the door and dragged me in.
I didn't get a chance to see much, but even at Ferguson's pace I could tell the place was a wreck. Drawings and maps and other materials were pinned up over most of the walls, and what wasn't covered in loose paper was a bank of television or computer screens, each flashing a steady stream of information and images. A machine that reminded me of the one in the hole outside stood in the middle of the room.
Ferguson kept me moving.
He pulled me through the kitchen and down a set of wooden stairs before throwing me into a chair. It was an old chair, built to last, with a thin layer of frayed padding on the seat. He bent to where his face filled my view. “Sit still,” he said, one finger waving like a blade so very close to my eyes.
I admit, I sat there, slack-jawed, heart pounding. He turned away and picked up a roll of duct tape.
I bolted for the stairs, but two strides and his hand clamped over my arm like a vise. He hurled me back into the chair, its wood popping, its legs screeching on the tile floor as it slid back against the wall.
I swung at Ferguson. He caught my fist and slammed it against the chair's arm. Next thing I knew it was wrapped in duct tape. I kicked and pushed and screamed. My head pounded with rage. Ferguson's breath was labored, his grip was like steel. He finally managed to tape me down—arms and legs, waist and hands.
He stood, not sweating, but at least his hair was tousled.
"God damn it, Tomas.” My throat was raw. “I'm sorry. What more do you want?"
He taped my mouth shut.
I started to imagine bone saws and corkscrews and meat cleavers.
The door upstairs opened. For an instant I thought it was the cops.
"Tomas?” a female voice came. Willie. She came down the steps. She was shorter than Tomas, though not by much. Her lipstick was vivid red. She spoke in a language I'd never heard before, full of guttural consonants and clicks and whistles—maybe something African. He responded similarly, gesturing at me. She glanced my way. They did a check on my restraints, then clomped up the stairs and out of the house.
Analog SFF, May 2011 Page 16
