Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  An icy wind whipped at her cheeks. She dragged up her hood, pulled on her gloves. Then taking short, wary steps over the ice and snow, she headed towards the exit.

  Her progress was slow, the wound in her gut biting with every step. Headlights approached her, a couple of crawling vehicles, their hoods steaming from the cold. One was a cab. Jodie flagged it down, and when the driver directed her back to the official rank at the door, she offered him cash to bend the rules. He shrugged, said, what the hell, and told her to hop in.

  12

  ‘Where to?’

  Jodie’s gaze met the cabbie’s in the rear-view mirror. Recalling Momma Ruth’s bizarre instructions, she said, ‘Edgell Grove Cemetery, please.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Jeez, at this time of night? You sure?’

  Jodie nodded. The cabbie flipped on his indicator, did a slow U-turn and set the cab in a crawl towards the exit. The tyres made slick-slack sounds in the slush, and she flicked a quick glance over her shoulder, willing him to hurry. So far, no one was following them.

  They pulled out onto the main road, and Jodie eased back against the seat. Warm air swaddled her, thick with the aroma of stale clothes and fries. The cabbie glanced in the mirror.

  ‘Bleak places, graveyards. You know it’s minus fifteen degrees out there?’

  His eyes were round and gooseberry-pale, and from the back of his narrow, balding head, she put him somewhere in his fifties. The ID clipped to the dash offered a frontal view: gaunt face; raggedy, grey moustache. He half-turned his head, directing his remarks to the space between the seats.

  ‘My cousin’s in Edgell Grove. You lose someone close?’

  The question was like a punch to the chest, the directness of it almost winding her. She was saved from answering by the crackle of his radio, the dispatcher’s voice cutting through the static. Jodie strained to make out the scratchy transmissions, aware that the cabbies would be among the first alerted to her escape. The driver spoke into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Hey, Joe, two-fourteen, signing out.’

  The dispatcher’s response was distorted and tinny. Jodie watched the driver for signs of alarm, but after a brief exchange, he flipped a switch and cut the radio out.

  ‘Too damn cold for a late night shift. Weather report’s nothing but flash freezes and arctic air masses, whatever in hell they are. Gets any worse, five minutes out there’ll give you frostbite.’

  Jodie’s gaze strayed to the window. Outside, the landscape looked lit up, the night sky and snow combining to cast an eerie, luminous glow. Snowbanks hemmed the houses in, shouldering up to the windows. Christmas-card pretty or cabin-fever stifling, depending on your point of view.

  Jodie hugged the holdall against her chest, feeling for the hard edges of the trowel inside. The hand tool seemed suddenly inadequate against so much snow.

  She risked another quick glance over her shoulder. The road was empty, no blaze of headlights burning holes in the dark. She guessed the police would catch up with her eventually, but till then she had to stay ahead for as long as she could; for as long as it took to bring Ethan down. What happened after that didn’t matter.

  They cruised along for another slow mile before the cabbie eased right and coasted to a halt by the kerb. He left the engine idling, indicator ticking into the silence, and gestured out the window.

  ‘Rather you than me.’

  Jodie followed his gaze to a pair of wrought-iron gates, set into a knee-high wall that bordered the roadside. A platoon of trees stood guard alongside, and between them, she could make out an array of snow-capped headstones.

  The cabbie twisted around in his seat. ‘You sure about this? You don’t look too good, if you don’t mind me saying. Why not come back in daylight?’

  Jodie managed a half-smile. ‘I’m okay. Hey, can you wait for me? I won’t be long, I promise. Maybe fifteen minutes. I’ll pay you double, plus tip, when I get back.’

  He eyed her doubtfully for a moment, then sighed and reached for a newspaper from the passenger seat.

  ‘I guess there’s no place you can run off to.’ He nodded at the gates. ‘Nothing back there, only woods and wilderness.’

  Thanking him, Jodie pulled her scarf up over her nose and clambered out of the car. Freezing air bit her face. She slung the holdall over her shoulder, hunching to lessen the pain in her gut, then headed through the gates and along the main path. Her feet crunched through crisp snow. The dense whiteness reflected the moonlight, illuminating the way ahead.

  ‘Follow the path,’ Momma Ruth had told her. ‘Behind the church, there’s a big family plot, must be a dozen or so graves. There’s a statue in the middle. An angel, maybe fifteen feet tall, writing something down in a book. Right behind him. That’s where I buried it.’

  Jodie shivered. A money cache buried for thirty-two years. What were the chances that it was still there?

  An owl hooted somewhere behind her. She trudged past the headstones, some large and ornate, others small and plain, all cloaked in snow and presided over by gloomy statues. The place felt primitive; an ancient ward where time had stopped.

  She flashed on an image of Abby’s headstone, anchored into the cold, hard ground miles away in Peterborough. Ethan had selected it with such care: the white-grey granite, highly polished; the gentle-looking dove carved in one corner. But nothing could soften the starkness of those chiselled dates: Abby McCall, Jan 1 2009 – May 23 2012.

  Jodie’s chest constricted, and she shoved the memory away. Tried to focus instead on Momma Ruth’s instructions, noting the small, stone chapel and the cluster of headstones on the raised bank up ahead. A statue towered above them, taller than the others, and as Jodie got closer, her pulse ramped up.

  Momma Ruth’s angel.

  He was perched on top of a twelve-foot column, balancing an oversized ledger in one hand, noting down an entry inside it with the other. Like an accountant of souls. Credits and debits; payments due. It seemed a pitiless image for a family plot.

  Jodie wound her way between the headstones towards the statue. The snow was thinner here, flattened and cleared away to one side, a trampling of footprints suggesting a recent gathering of mourners. She hunkered down behind the statue and dragged the trowel from her bag.

  The ground was hard-packed and frozen. Jodie stabbed at it with the trowel’s pointed end, chipping through the compressed layers of snow till the blade hit denser, drier earth beneath. She gouged through it, excavating a hole wide enough to get purchase to dig. Then she wedged the trowel in deep, scooping up gritty clumps of dirt. She widened the hole, drilled it, shovelled it, deepened it, till her arms felt weak, her midsection stretched and sore. She kept on digging, penetrating the earth an inch at a time, until finally the trowel clunked against something solid.

  She scrabbled away the dirt, groped with her gloved fingers along a rigid, oblong shape encased in protective plastic. She plunged the trowel in deep along its sides, loosening the earth around it, wrenching the gardening tool like a crowbar beneath it, until finally she managed to prise the object out of the ground.

  Jodie tore away the raggedy, plastic bag. Stared at its contents: a bulky, metal cashbox, the size of a jumbo biscuit tin. Rust crusted along its surface, and the locks showed ancient signs of brute force. She jimmied the lid open, gaped at the wads of banknotes inside: twenties, fifties, a mix of bills, all exuding a musty, dried-earth smell.

  More than sixteen thousand dollars, according to Momma Ruth.

  Jodie had asked her where the money came from. In truth, she hadn’t expected an answer, but the older woman had lowered her voice and said,

  ‘Botched robbery. Worst mistake I ever made.’

  Then to Jodie’s surprise, she’d told her the rest: how she’d burgled a nearby family home where, according to her sister, who’d cleaned there twice a week, the guy sometimes kept business cash on the premises; how she’d escaped through the graveyard, cops on her tail, and buried the cashbox to dump the evidence. It hadn’t helped. S
he’d been caught and arrested a few days later, charged with armed robbery and first-degree murder.

  Jodie’s insides had chilled. Momma Ruth had shaken her head and whispered,

  ‘He wasn’t supposed to be home. The whole family were meant to be away.’

  The wind in the cemetery picked up, whiplashing the trees and slicing at Jodie’s face. She shuddered, and shoved the lid down on the cashbox, burying the malignant image Momma Ruth had stirred up. She couldn’t think about the man who’d died that night. Blood money or not, she needed this cash and couldn’t afford to be choosy about its origins. Without it, she’d be back in prison within a few days.

  She stuffed the cashbox into the holdall and lugged it onto her shoulder. With a cold look at the bean-counting angel, she made her way back to the road outside. She’d make no apology to anyone for avenging her child.

  To her relief, the cabbie was still waiting by the gate, though she’d been longer than the promised fifteen minutes. He must have finished his newspaper. She could hear him scratching through radio channels, fragments of music shredding through the static. She opened the door to the back seat, as the cabbie settled on a channel.

  ‘ … escaped custody from Franklin Pierce Memorial Hospital this evening, she’s thirty-two years old, five foot three, a hundred and ten pounds … ’

  Jodie froze, her hand on the door.

  ‘ … dark shoulder-length hair, noticeable bruise on her right cheek, Irish accent … ’

  The cabbie whipped around. Stared at her for an instant. Then he flung open his door, leapt out of the car. Jodie spun on her heel, raced back towards the gates.

  ‘Hey!’

  Jodie slipped, stumbled. His feet scrunched after her through the snow, gaining ground. She clawed herself upright, and from the corner of her eye, saw him reach out to grab her. She whirled around, hauled the bag off her shoulder and swung it in a wide arc towards him.

  The cashbox weighted the bag like a bowling ball. It cracked against his temple, and he slumped to the ground. Didn’t get up.

  Shit!

  Jodie hesitated, then reached over to check his pulse, felt a thready flutter in his throat. She eyed the car, its engine still idling, ready to take her wherever she needed to go. A sudden wind-gust assaulted her, numbing her face; a reminder of the plunging overnight temperatures, the brutal cold that could kill a man in a matter of hours.

  Jodie grabbed the cabbie beneath his arms and pulled. He was narrow-framed, a bantam-weight, but Jodie’s muscles were already spent. She lugged at his body, dragging him towards the car. The strain wrenched her arms, tore at her abdomen. She hauled him the last few feet, and wedged him up against the open car door. Then she climbed into the back and heaved him onto the seat.

  She retrieved the holdall, scrambled in behind the wheel. Took a second to catch her breath.

  Then she flung the car into gear and took off.

  13

  Jodie peered at the road.

  Snowflakes swirled in the headlights, splat like insects against the windscreen. The wipers thunk-thunked as she flipped them up to high speed.

  She darted a glance at the cabbie in the back seat, noting the rise and fall of his chest. So far, he hadn’t stirred.

  She’d been driving for almost twenty minutes. Dixie’s directions had led her northeast, along Interstate 90 to the outskirts of Waltham, a town maybe twelve or fifteen miles from Boston. By her calculations, the place she was looking for had to be close by.

  Following the signs, she nosed the cab past a disused gas station and into a dimly lit street. She eyed the buildings on either side, a jumbled mix of residential and business units. The clapboard houses looked old and buckled, slouched against small, redbrick structures that offered services ranging from insurance to electrical repairs.

  Her gaze trawled the ramshackle buildings: kitchen fitters, barbers, tilers, laundromats. Tucked between BriteKleen and Frankie’s Cutz, she found the sign she was looking for: ‘M&R Auto Repair’.

  She cruised to a halt. The small, grimy yard lay open to the road, barely large enough to contain the three rusted pickups parked haphazardly inside. The place had an abandoned, cobwebby air.

  ‘Don’t be put off,’ Dixie had said. ‘Looks like an old junk yard, but his real business is run from upstairs.’

  Jodie’s eyes travelled upwards along the rickety steps to the narrow door, and the yellow light that glowed from a window above it. Looked like someone was home.

  She checked the clock on the dash. Almost three in the morning.

  She drummed her fingers against the wheel. Then she swung the car in a wide U-turn and zigzagged for a couple of unlit blocks before finally pulling up outside a row of darkened houses. She doused the lights, killed the engine. Watched the snow flocking over the windscreen. The walk back would be arctic, but it couldn’t be helped. Right now, the cabbie was out cold, but he could wake up any time. No sense in handing him a trail right to the door.

  Swaddling herself up in scarf and hood, she grabbed the holdall and got out of the car. The ice-laden wind cut into her face. She hunched against the driving snow, slogging back to the yard. Her eyes watered, her toes grew numb. On the upside, the blizzard would obliterate her tracks, masking her whereabouts for a while.

  The window was still lit. She climbed the steps to the unmarked door. Hesitated. Knocked. Wondered what the hell she’d do if no one answered.

  A security chain rattled, and the door opened a crack. Shadowed eyes stared out, and Jodie lowered her scarf.

  ‘I’m looking for Reuben. I was told I’d find him here.’

  No response. She tried again.

  ‘Dixie sent me. Dixie Johnson?’

  The chain rattled, the door opened wide. Jodie raised her brows at the open-sesame effect, and stepped into a narrow hall, thankful to be out of the cold.

  She peered at the guy who’d let her in. He looked to be in his thirties, with dark hair that sprung back from a widow’s peak and reached down almost to his shoulders. The lower half of his face was matted with untrimmed beard.

  ‘You’re Reuben?’ Jodie said.

  He stared at her for a moment, dark eyes made shadowy by a heavy, ridged brow. ‘I’ve been expecting you for the last half hour.’

  Jodie frowned. ‘How? Dixie couldn’t have known when I’d get here, I didn’t know myself.’

  He motioned her into a room. The space was cramped, and she picked her way through a mix of office and living room clutter. At the centre stood a small, kerosene stove, the air around it thick with heady fumes.

  ‘Dixie didn’t tell me.’ Reuben nodded at a TV angled in the corner. ‘They did.’

  Jodie’s eyes snapped to the screen. The sound was on mute, but she recognized with a jolt the blocky figure being pursued by the cameras: the fleshy Italian looks, the watchful eyes.

  Reuben reached for the remote, flipped on the sound.

  ‘… you tell us any more, Sheriff?’

  Zach Caruso was scowling, edging away. Someone shoved a microphone into his face.

  ‘You were one of the investigating officers. Is she dangerous?’

  Caruso paused, and stared directly at the camera, his gaze so intense Jodie felt herself shrink back. His scowl deepened.

  ‘She’s likely to be desperate, and she may be armed. The public should not approach her. Not under any circumstances.’

  The screen switched to an old mug-shot of Jodie: thin oval face; razor cheekbones; the almond tilt of her eyes more pronounced than usual. She looked lifeless. Broken. The photo of a dead woman.

  Jodie shuddered.

  On voice-over, the anchorman was filling in the details for viewers who missed it the first time. ‘Jodie Garrett was convicted of murdering her husband in 2012, after she shot him in the head during the Fourth of July celebrations in Cheshire County. Sentenced to—’

  The screen turned black, crackling with static. Reuben set the remote down, and Jodie slid him an uneasy glance. He gestured at th
e armchair.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  His face was impassive. With the dark, pointed hairline and bulging brow, he had the look of a tall chimpanzee. She eased herself into the chair and cocked a thumb at the TV.

  ‘That doesn’t bother you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I want to do business with saints, I’ll become a priest.’ He pulled up a wooden chair. ‘Dixie said you need a passport.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She also said you got money.’

  ‘Money’s not a problem. As long as I get the passport tonight.’

  ‘Hey, I can’t promise—’

  ‘It’s now or nothing. As you can see, I don’t have time to wait around.’

  He paused, and gave her an assessing look. ‘Dixie said you’d be bull-headed. She was right about that.’ His gaze lingered on her face, his lids half-closed. ‘Didn’t mention you’d be easy on the eye, too.’

  Jodie tensed. Kept her tone casual.

  ‘Let’s not get sidetracked here, Reuben. All I want is a passport, then I’ll be on my way.’

  He watched her for a moment, then shrugged in gracious defeat. ‘Worth a try.’ His eyes underwent a back-to-business shift. ‘Cash?’

  Jodie nodded. Reuben’s gaze drifted to her holdall, and belatedly she questioned the wisdom of turning up with a bag of cash in her hand. She tightened her grip on it, and Reuben smiled.

  ‘Let me talk you through my services.’ He settled back in his chair and started listing things off, like a waiter reciting the specials of the day. ‘I got false passports, driving licences, birth certs, college diplomas, credit cards, social security cards, immigration cards—’

  ‘Reuben, let me save you some time here. All I need is a passport.’

  ‘You sure? How about a burner phone? Or a gun? I can get you a gun.’

  A charge buzzed along Jodie’s spine. The time might come when she’d need a gun, but not right now. Not where she was headed.