by Eddie Jones
With a wave of panic sweeping over me, I blurted out, “Let’s make a deal. You take me and I’ll help you create a new identity. One so good no one will ever know you were involved in Bill Bell’s murder. Just let Wendy and Kat and the rest go.”
“Like I told you on the phone, Caden. You’re in no position to bargain.”
I lifted my head to keep water from seeping into the corners of my mouth, but the creek became like a large blanket being pulled over me.
“Please, I’m begging you …” Gritting my teeth, I breathed in through my nose.
Gabrovski placed his hand on my forehead. “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.” With his eyes locked on mine, he pressed my head down, pushing me under the water until mud oozed around my ears.
Salt water flooded my nasal passages and stung the back of my throat. For several terrifying seconds I remained rigid. Small bubbles escaped from my nose. Then I began to choke and buck. Oh God, oh God, oh God … I arched my back and dug in my heels, and tried with all my strength to pull the stakes free. Gabrovski’s hand pressed down harder, pinning me to the bottom. With an uncontrollable rage I flung my head side to side, all the while clenching my teeth together so tightly that my jaw throbbed.
With eyes open wide I stared through blurred blackness at Gabrovski. Stared until salt water stung my eyes. Stared until Gabrovski became an evil monster standing over my deathbed.
Slowly I closed my eyes and welcomed the end.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DEAD BUT NOT QUITE GONE
November 1
Palmetto Island, Savannah, Georgia
10:57 p.m.
Dear reader: If you reached this part of the Heidi May Laveau story, then you know I drowned. It couldn’t be helped. Oh, I suppose if I had planned better and thought things through, I could have saved myself. But really, what fifteen-year-old has the skills and smarts to overpower a sociopathic killer?
And that’s what Patrick Gabrovski is — a cold-blooded assassin with an inability to recognize others as worthy of compassion. You know, sort of like a zombie, only worse. Monsters like Gabrovski are fearless thrill seekers, incapable of having meaningful relationships. For someone like Patrick, a tormented soul who has suffered a lifetime of apparent injustices and rejection, murder seems like a logical solution to a perceived problem.
So he killed me.
Patrick, if you are reading this on the Cool Ghoul Gazette website, I congratulate you. You got away with it. You silenced the only person who knows your dark secret. The only investigative journalist who knows you died and remain alive.
The key — the one clue that helped me solve the riddle of who had my sister — came when I read that episode of Grave Discoveries. Took me a while to process the synopsis, but I remembered that the mobster in the show had been pronounced dead in the morgue. That removed him as a suspect and gave him the freedom to travel in disguise while executing his rivals. When I overlaid my father’s letter of recommendation, the receipts from Buffalo Bob’s, and heard Officer McDonald say that you died in a truck crash, I began to wonder if you might have seen that episode, too. I remembered you mentioned in Deadwood Canyon how you had always been infatuated with the Mafia’s ties to Vegas. When you demanded on the phone that I give you access to the Crime Watchers website it all clicked. Only you would have known about our connection to the FBI’s database and how it gives us the ability to monitor those in the witness protection program … and keep tabs on those individuals who might want to harm someone in the witness protection program.
So thanks, Patrick. Without realizing it, you solved the case for me. All I needed was a way to bait and trap you. The baiting proved easy. Catching you in the act, not so much.
And so here we are, you and me, dead but walking and working among the living.
I may not know where you are, but I know enough. And I will hunt you for as long as I’m dead.
Nick Caden: Dead but Not Quite Gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
UP FROM THE GRAVE HE AROSE
Forty-nine minutes earlier …
Twenty-two minutes and twenty-two seconds. That’s how long Tom Sietas held his breath. In doing so he set a new world record. I would only need to hold my breath for two minutes. Three tops. I hoped by then Gabrovski would move on to other concerns, like disposing of Kat and Poke Salad Annie and the rest of the evidence that tied him to my sister’s abduction.
The thing about holding your breath is that you need to conserve energy. The cocoon of cold creek water had the opposite effect. I felt my hands and feet growing numb. Don’t think about the cold, Caden. Focus on happy thoughts. Two minutes, come on, you can do this.
I clenched my eyes shut and pictured an island. On the island stood a small bamboo hut. Strung between two palm trees was a hammock. I lay in the hammock. A sea breeze rocked me gently while surf boomed on an outer reef.
Small bubbles escaped from my nose. My back, shoulders, and head settled into soft mud.
Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty …
On my imaginary beach I spied a figure walking toward me. A girl. She wore a ball cap and a faded denim shirt. In her hand she carried a pair of flip-flops. White shorts hugged bronzed thighs.
Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three …
The girl from the beach ambled over and stared down at me. I pretended to be napping but through slitted eyes I watched her thump me on the chest. When I did not respond, she tapped harder as though trying to wake me.
My counting stopped, the imaginary scene vanished. I focused all my effort on keeping my lips sealed and tiny bubbles from escaping from my nose. I could sense Gabrovski standing next to me, his feet stirring the mud, legs shifting the flow of the current swooshing past.
He stood watching me for what seemed like hours. He had to be certain I really was dead.
I could feel panic clawing at the edges of my consciousness. The sensation of terror that seized my brain became so complete I had the feeling that any second my body would become unbolted from my brain, like a headless snake, and begin thrashing uncontrollably. Leave, Gabrovski, just go!
To take my mind off the presence of the monster standing beside me, I began counting backward from twenty. I reached the number nine before I sensed him sloshing away. I held out as long as I could and, with as much control as I could manage, allowed my head to float up. My mouth barely breached the surface, that’s how fast the tide had risen. Parting my lips, I sucked air as quietly as a drowning person could. With lungs full, I settled, once more, on the bottom.
I chanced a full minute before surfacing again. I needed Gabrovski to think I was dead. That was the only way I would survive. But I almost waited too long. My lips barely broke the water on my second ascent.
With another mouthful of air, I sank. I began with my right hand, the stake under water the longest. Tug, pause, tug, pause, tug … Slow down, he’ll see you … Shut up, I’m out of air … Mess up now and you die … I’m dead anyway if I can’t … The stake wiggled. Not much, but enough that I felt encouraged. I couldn’t wait. I lifted my head. There was enough slack in the rope to allow me to slurp air. Back I sank and returned to the hard work of loosening death’s grip upon me.
When it felt like my lungs would burst, the stake slipped from the mud. I breathed in more air and went to work on the left hand.
When at last my hands were free, I surfaced. With periscope eyes I took in the scene around the campfire. Gabrovski had peeled off his shirt. He was using it as a mitt to lift one end of the skewer. Walking to the edge of the creek, he flung the skewer, carcass and all, into the water. I watched him shoulder himself back into the shirt and begin kicking sand onto the embers. Nothing remained but fading smoke mingling with heavy fog. Satisfied, he pivoted and looked straight at me.
I froze. Had the fire still blazed, he would have seen me for certain. I couldn’t be sure if my eyes, brow, and nose blended in with the dark water, but I hoped so. I thought he might wade out and check on me a
final time, but the water’s depth must have dissuaded him.
Finally Gabrovski went striding into the mist.
For several seconds I sat there, shivering. Chill and fright had left me exhausted. Finally I bent forward, found the rope securing my right ankle, gripped the stake with both hands, and pulled.
From somewhere in blackness I heard an almost imperceptible splash. I jerked my head and searched the creek. My eyes had begun to adjust to the dark. I scanned the water, taking in the horizon of deeper black and hedge of marsh grass on the opposite bank. The V-shaped wake of the beast gliding toward me came into focus. Instantly I understood why Gabrovski had tossed the carcass into the creek.
He had been chumming the water.
I almost got the first leg stake free before the gator attacked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DEATH IS THE PITS
Alligators first appeared almost thirty-seven million years ago. Think about that. Gators have survived with relatively little innovation longer than pop quizzes have been around. New or old, it didn’t matter. Seeing the gator’s wake expanding toward me quickened my pulse and spurred me into action.
By some herculean effort I managed to rip out the stakes and bolt from the water. I’m pretty sure in one of my other stories I mentioned how I was a pretty fast runner. Not fast enough to outrun an adult alligator, but speedy enough. Gabrovski was a good five minutes ahead of me and I had a ten-yard head start on the gator.
I sprinted across the narrow spur of matted marsh grass until I was sure I’d lost the gator. Farther away from the creek the fog thinned, allowing for a clearer view of my surroundings. I stumbled upon a path of packed shells and followed it until the shack came into view. It sat in the shadows of trees, its tin roof melting into the mist. No lights on. I leaned against a tree and listened. Nothing. My only hope was that Gabrovski had arrived by boat.
Staying in the shadows, I walked down the path to the dock. A flat-bottom skiff lay tied next to the pilings. I jumped into the boat and felt the small outboard engine. It was cool. Gabrovski or Matthew Carter or someone else had been there a good long while. Lifting the cover, I removed the spark plug wire. It wouldn’t stop Gabrovski but it might slow him down.
I retraced my steps up the pathway and continued around to the back of the shack. As I crept past the fire pit, I saw evidence from where Gabrovski had removed parts of the rotisserie. In the forest I skulked, eyes and ears alert. At last I came to where I’d last seen the old woman dangling upside down. Poke Salad Annie was gone. Only the eerie chill of cool evening mist cloaked the branches overhead. I glanced around, fear now replacing fatigue.
Then it started, a whispering exhalation blowing through the trees. Huff, sigh. Huff, sigh. Huff, sigh. My heart took a sharp upward lurch in my chest. The sound reminded me of a large winded animal, roaming the forest for prey.
I stood perfectly still, listening. The crescent moon sailed in and out of clouds, first illuminating the clearing, next leaving it in darkness. I couldn’t be sure, but the breathing noise seemed to be coming from the zombie pit. Knees shaking, I carefully picked my way across the clearing and peeled back the briars in the thicket hedge.
The breathing sound seemed somehow familiar. I hunched my shoulders and stepped forward. Thorns picked at my shirt and scratched my arms, neck, and legs. I let go of the branches; they snapped back into place, sealing me inside the prickly cocoon. My panting now nearly matched that of the invisible beast that lay ahead. Huff, sigh. Huff, sigh. I moved ahead blindly, using my hands to probe the sides in order to remain on the skinny path, though “path” is hardly an accurate description. Finally I came to the end of the thicket. The monstrous breathing ceased. I pressed my hands against sharp barbs and pushed outward.
At that moment the moon sailed out from behind clouds and shone upon the scene. My eyes widened. Gabrovski stood beside the pit. Behind him a pile of dirt. I hadn’t noticed the pile before. Probably because I’d been too busy trying to reach Kat. When I’d spied the pit before I thought it was part of the old woman’s zombie compound, her way of keeping safe. But now I realized the hole was not a zombie trap at all, but a grave.
Kat’s grave.
And I was too late.
The base of the palmetto tree stood empty. The gag Kat had worn lay at Gabrovski’s feet. I felt panic, anger, and fear all at once.
The loud breathing sound began again. Huff, sigh. Huff, sigh. Huff, sigh. The shovel’s snuffing sound caused tears to well up in my eyes. My hands shook. Run, I told myself. Run and kill that monster! But I did not run. Instead I froze, unable to will my feet to move.
Gabrovski had removed his shirt. His shoulders glistened with sweat and dew. Spearing the pile, he worked tirelessly, tossing dirt into the trench. Burying Kat.
Oh God, this can’t be happening! Make it stop! Make him stop!
I expected him to finish filling the grave, but instead he put away his shovel and went striding into the woods. I studied the shovel. All I had to do was sprint over, grab it, and wait for his return, hit him on the head, and …
Gabrovski came back before I could act.
And he brought company.
My sister walked in front of him. Gabrovski had one large, meaty arm around Wendy’s waist. She was blindfolded and barefoot and he held her close to his sweaty chest. The sight of her stumbling along in that way sickened me. The two of them reached the pit. Gabrovski shoved Wendy to the ground and my sister screamed. A weak, wheezing, laryngitis-strained gasp. Gabrovski jerked her head back.
“Another sound,” I heard him bark, “and I’ll hurt you bad, understand?”
Sobbing beneath the blindfold, my sister nodded.
I had to do something, but what? Praying seemed like a waste of time. I wasn’t even sure I believed in prayer. But then I recalled something Kat had said to me. Let something really bad happen to somebody and first thing they say is, “Oh my God.” And He is. He’s your God.
Gabrovski snatched up the shovel. With the cold detachment of an assassin, he returned to burying Kat. I hid in the thicket like a coward, frozen with fear. I couldn’t imagine what Wendy was thinking. I’m sure she was terrified. The only reason I could see for Gabrovski to bring her to the grave was so she could watch before he …
I shuddered at the thought. Instantly another idea came to mind and I recalled the words of the old woman. Hinny hep you find you sistuh. Teach’a you how to see whit faith eyes.
And she had. Wendy was there before me, alive … for now. I shut my eyes and silently whispered, “God, help her, help me. Don’t let my sister die, please, I’m begging You …”
“Wendy?”
I jerked my head around. The voice came from behind me, from back at the clearing with the old woman.
“Honey, you out here? It’s Dad. Where are you, sweetie?”
“This way!” I was tearing through the thicket, racing toward the sound of Dad’s voice. “She’s over here. Quick, hurry!”
Officer McDonald nearly knocked me down as he bull-rushed past me. I managed to get partway turned around just as he burst into the moonlight. There was a loud pop-pop. I couldn’t tell who shot first, McDonald or Gabrovski, but then it became clear. McDonald whirled, and in a twisting fall, he landed on one knee and looked up at me. The front of his shirt had a spreading dark spot. Dropping onto both knees, he grunted and fell facedown.
Silence filled the void as the echo of gunfire died.
I stood trembling, horrified at the sight of Officer McDonald.
Dad came racing past me. “Wendy? Wendy!”
I pulled my gaze away from Officer McDonald and ran after Dad. He dropped to the ground and ripped the blindfold from Wendy’s eyes. Pulling her into his arms, Dad rocked back and forth, wailing with such a deep, mournful cry that I felt my heart breaking. As soon as I saw Wendy was okay, I jumped into the pit.
Pawing at the dirt, I found Kat’s wrist and began trying to dig her from the grave.
CHAPTER TWENTY
-THREE
SAVANNAH DAYDREAMING
You done?”
I ignored my sister’s question. When you are writing your own obituary, it helps to ignore all distractions. Focus, that’s the key. Focus and purpose. I had both.
I ran a quick spell check. No obvious mistakes or typos, but that didn’t mean much. As I mentioned earlier, I’m a lousy grammarian. But I wasn’t too concerned about proofing. I knew my editor would review the copy before it was published on the Cool Ghoul website. With a few keystrokes I inserted the date and time and reviewed the first paragraph of my article.
November 1
Palmetto Island, Savannah, Georgia
10:57 p.m.
Dear reader: If you reached this part of the Heidi May Laveau story, then you know I drowned. It couldn’t be helped. Oh, I suppose if I had planned better and thought things through, I could have saved myself. But really, what fifteen-year-old has the skills and smarts to overpower a sociopathic killer?
When I finished reviewing the article, I emailed the file to Calvin. Minutes earlier he had informed me that the Cool Ghoul Gazette website was back up. “No worries, bro. You did good. I’m reading the breaking news coming out of Savannah and it sounds like you nailed the zombie story!”
I allowed my gaze to linger on Calvin’s words. My final assignment and I’d hit a home run. Just like I’d dreamed. And if things with Gabrovski had not gone so terribly wrong, I could have continued investigating strange supernatural events. Why, in just the past few minutes I’d come across a report of a werewolf sighting in Maine. Bogus, obviously. There is no such thing as a wolf man. But still …
I sighed and tucked my tablet into my backpack. The night had turned cool and clear, the heavy fog vanquished by a stiff northwest wind. There was an amber glow to the west over the Savannah skyline. Over my shoulder dock lights cast long shadows across the stern of the Ms. Fortune.
