Dig Ten Graves Read online

  He didn’t bother with a seatbelt. That would be at what they call cross-purposes.

  He drove higher along the winding road, jerking the steering wheel right at the first sharp turn, then left a moment later, then right again. The road snaked up the steep hillside and Henry couldn’t help it, he started laughing. It was fun, this recklessness.

  He came to the drop-off he’d been thinking of. The road veered off to the left and climbed upward, but straight ahead the city loomed in the distance, beyond some scrubby pine trees and rocky turf. The lake shimmered serenely between them.

  Henry pushed his foot down hard on the gas, gritting his teeth, gripping the steering wheel fiercely.

  The Malibu flew off the road at sixty miles an hour.

  Henry’s stomach stayed somewhere back on the road and he screamed in terrified ecstasy as the car sailed out over the tops of the trees, engine roaring, tires spinning against air. The car shot what seemed like a hundred feet through space, held suspended, before starting to drop.

  The driver’s side door snapped off and spun away. Gravity shoved Henry out after it.

  He tumbled what turned out to be mere feet to the sloping hillside below him, hit the scrubby ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of him, and went rolling down the hill. He rolled and slid and thumped for what seemed like minutes, but was really more like four seconds, before sliding into a tree stump.

  Then he was staring straight up at the sky, shaken but unhurt.

  As his breath started to come back to him, he saw the Malibu off to his left, still soaring but on an inevitable arc downward.

  On his back, he turned his head to look in the direction the Malibu was heading.

  In a little clearing, right next to the sparkling lake, a family was enjoying an old-fashioned picnic.

  “Ah, crap,” Henry wheezed.

  Mom and Pop. Little Junior, about eleven or twelve years old. And Sissy, eight or so. Laughing and smiling as Pop handed out sandwiches.

  Until a shadow fell over them and they all looked up at the same time to see the old crappy Malibu coming out of the sky, right at them.

  The next morning, Henry went to the diner just up the road from his house. He stopped in the doorway, glanced around, and saw the man he was looking for in a booth at the far corner. The man waved and smiled when he saw Henry.

  Henry made his way over, slid into the seat opposite. The man said, “Hey, dude. You must be Black, right? Zat like a whatchacallit, code name or something?”

  “It’s my real name.”

  “Cool. Hey, have some coffee.”

  The guy didn’t look like what Henry had imagined. He had long, shaggy hair and fuzz on his chin. He wore a Def Leppard tee-shirt. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five or so, and Henry smelled weed wafting off him.

  The guy said, “So, dude, good to meet you, right? I’m Danny, and I’ll be your professional hit man today.” He guffawed and drummed his fingers on the table in time to whatever song was playing in his head.

  Henry said, “I, uh, I heard about you from Larry, and he said you might be the fella to talk to about—“

  “Whoa, dude.” Danny held up his hand and said, “Don’t say nothing like that too loud, cool? Don’t wanna advertise.”

  Henry had been speaking quietly, but he nodded. “Right. But… you are a professional, yeah?”

  “Damn straight, dude. I can do the job for you. Just tell me who needs to go bye-bye, and I’m on it. Who you want me to whack?”

  Henry said, “Me. I need you to kill me.”

  Danny nodded and said, “Cool, cool, I can do that, no sweat. Thousand bucks. I’d say half now, half later, but since you won’t be around later…” He laughed and shrugged.

  Henry reached into his pocket for the bills there, slid them across the table. Danny snatched them up and pocketed them.

  “But here’s the thing,” Henry said. “It has to be soon. My ex-wife is getting married day after tomorrow and if you don’t kill me before then, I’m gonna have to go to the goddamn wedding. Okay?”

  “Right. Day after tomorrow. Hey, that sucks about your old lady, dude.” He shook his mangy head and sipped his coffee. He said, “Chicks, huh?”

  “Yeah. Chicks.”

  “So, uh… how you want me to do it?”

  Henry frowned and looked at his coffee. He said, “Surprise me.”

  Two days later, and Danny had proven completely useless.

  Henry had spent all his time after coffee with the amateur hit man making himself an easy target—wandering aimlessly around the shopping mall, hanging out at the Dew Drop Inn, leaving his front door unlocked. But Danny was a complete no-show. Henry decided that, if he saw him on the street, he was going to beat the shit out of him and get his thousand bucks back.

  And now here Henry was, at Rachel’s wedding. Sonofabitch.

  He walked into the church, mulling it all over, thinking on it, and he knew it wasn’t really Danny he was angry with, or even Rachel. It was God. God was doing this on purpose, he’d become convinced. Up there on his Pearly Throne or whatever, laughing his omnipotent ass off.

  All Henry wanted was oblivion. But the road from here to oblivion was goddamn long.

  He sat in the first pew on the side meant to seat Rachel’s friends and family. It was difficult to see the podium, since Rachel had decided to seat him right behind a supporting column. In a few minutes, the whole ugly charade would start, and people filed in with all the solemnity of a funeral or a will-reading. Henry knew some of them—a few he’d counted as friends before the divorce. None of them looked at him, which suited Henry just fine.

  It was a Baptist church that looked more like a meeting hall than anything else, unadorned with much except a few not-very-good paintings of waterfalls and Jesus hanging out with some street kids on a basketball court. Fluorescent light made everything pale blue and unhealthy looking.

  An old lady came out from behind the podium at the front of the church, settled in at the organ, and started to play something religious. Henry peered around the thick column, just in time to see the preacher appear.

  The groom and best man followed, trailed by two other guys who looked like they’d partied a bit too much the night before. Henry had met the groom once. His name was Steve something-or-other.

  Four women dressed in pink chiffon shuffled out and took their places at the podium opposite the guys. They were all situated right in Henry’s blind spot now.

  The organist launched into “Here Comes the Bride” and everyone stood up. Rachel came strolling up the aisle with her Pop. She looked good, Henry thought, for her age. Thirty-seven years old, and the years had taken a toll, just like they did to everyone, but over all she looked all right. Her hair was done up in some crazy elaborate web of lacing and the dress—white!—showed off her cleavage, which was still ample.

  She glanced at him and smiled as she walked slowly past. It didn’t seem like a mean smile, and without any warning at all Henry found himself softening toward her.

  She and her Pop made it up to the podium just as the organist put the finishing flourish on the tune. From Henry’s lousy vantage point, it looked like Steve was ready to burst into tears. His best man was staring at Rachel’s cleavage. The preacher said, “Who gives this woman into marriage?” and Pop choked, cleared his throat, and said, “I do.”

  He handed off his daughter for the second time and scurried to sit down in the front pew, a few feet away from Henry.

  Henry glanced around and saw that everyone was smiling and something weird happened in his gut. Something icy broke and sank away and was replaced with a steady, pulsing warmth. He craned his neck to look around the column at Rachel and he suddenly remembered some of the good times they’d had together. He remembered dancing with her. He remembered laughing and carrying on and all that romantic happy-crappy.

  And he felt happy for her, damned if he didn’t. He felt happy to be there. Yes, everyone was smiling, and Henry Black was
smiling too.

  He sat back down and now he couldn’t see Rachel past the stupid column, but Steve was smiling dreamily. They clasped hands, and the preacher was about to say the final vows, when the church doors crashed open and Danny came rushing in.

  Everyone stopped dead and stared at the high-on hit man, and Henry’s heart sank. Oh, he thought. Oh, you stupid, useless blockhead.

  Danny’s eyes were crazy, flashing, and he held something in his hand that looked like a large, green egg.

  He took three steps down the aisle, said, “Sayonara, bitches!” and tossed the egg.

  The egg bounced once, twice, and came to rest against the podium.

  Someone screamed and the egg exploded with a thunderous roar.

  The newspaper the next day had the whole story.

  Sixteen people were killed in the explosion. The entire wedding party, the preacher, the organist, and almost everyone in the front row, including Pop.

  The lunatic who’d thrown the grenade was also killed, and police speculated he may have been one of Rachel’s jilted lovers who’d snapped and gone homicidal.

  Henry Black was shielded from the explosion by the heavy supporting column, and emerged from the church completely unscathed.

  They took him to the hospital anyway, for evaluation they said, and didn’t release him until the next morning. Reporters waited outside the hospital to talk to him, and Henry stumbled through them in a sort of daze.

  He took a taxi home and was relieved to find no one there. He’d been afraid the reporters might find out where he lived. His front door was open, just as he’d left it for that dumb-ass Danny. He shut the door behind him, trudged wearily up the stairs. In his meager little living room, he paused and looked around.

  Ragged easy chair. Beat-up lamp. Lumpy mattress.

  That was it. That was all he owned, all that he could say was his. No possessions, nothing tying him to this big, cruel world. He’d been alive and breathing for thirty-nine years, and everything he owned could be thrown into the back of a pick-up truck in about five minutes.

  That meant freedom, didn’t it? No possessions meant he owed nothing to anybody, he could do whatever he wanted. And his life, so far, wasn’t so bad, was it? He’d had good times. He’d made people happy and had been made happy by other people and did his share of laughing.

  He’d felt it at the wedding, right before the carnage and all, he’d felt just a glimmer of it. But now the full weight of it pressed up against his heart, and it felt pretty damn good.

  He laughed. He laughed right out loud.

  He was glad to be alive.

  It was such a strange, giddy feeling that he had to say it, had to say the words, even though nobody could hear it.

  So he said, “I’m glad to be alive, damnit. I’m glad.”

  Chuckling, he flopped down easily in his beat-up old chair and turned on the lamp next to it.

  The electrical current that shot through Henry’s body was strong enough to kill him almost instantly. He didn’t feel a thing.

  Gator Boy

  Keegan had tied the rope himself, cinched it tight around the boy’s waist, had tousled the straw-blond hair and said Okay, go get ‘em, boy so he knew there was no one to blame for what happened but himself. The gators were just too fast this time.

  And he could say now that he’d had a funny feeling , had a sudden flash of dread as he watched Sammy wade out into the swampy water, watched the gators on the muddy isle perk up. But that could’ve been hindsight talking.

  They’d done it countless times before. The rope, the boy, the gators. Sammy would go out in the water, start splashing around, and it was never long before the gators got interested and came after him. And when they’d get close, Keegan would yank the boy back, right out of the jaws of death as it were, and as the boy scrambled up on the land Keegan would snatch up his bow and let loose with an arrow right into the gator’s head.

  It worked every goddamn time.

  And Keegan himself grew up doing it with his own Pop. His father had taught him how to cinch the rope tight, how to splash around in the water, how to get the gator’s attention. He had more than a few scars from his days as the Gator Boy—mostly on his legs and arms but one nice one like a jagged bolt running down his jaw.

  Keegan had learned from his own Pop’s mistakes. He’d learned the best ways to minimize the danger and keep his Sammy as safe as possible.

  Yeah, it worked every time.

  Except this time.

  The boy had yelled, They’re comin’, Pa, they’re comin’! but Keegan had allowed his mind to wander in that one split second, that most crucial second. And then the rope had slipped a little in his callused hands when he yanked on it. Those two things were all the gators needed.

  One of them got Sammy by the leg, dragged him under, the whole time the boy screaming Pa, Pa, help me, Pa! and then two more dove in on him and the water turned red as they tore him to pieces. And Keegan could only watch in numb horror as his son was devoured.

  He stood there on the shore forever and wasn’t positive exactly when the cops showed up. But one of them said to him, You got scars, buddy. I guess you used to do the same thing as your boy there. And you got hurt more than once, by the look of it.

  Numbly, watching the gators now back on the muddy isle, full on the flesh of his son, Keegan said I really don’t mind the scars. They’re all I got left, and the cops put him in the car.

  Incident on a Rain-Soaked Corner

  Getting shot in real life wasn’t anything like what he’d read about in novels. There was no ‘lancing pain’ or ‘sliver of fire’ along his torso. There was nothing that specific. What he felt was like someone had shoved him from behind, very hard, pushing him forward and off his feet so unexpectedly that he landed right on his face.

  A second later, he heard the crack of a gunshot, echoing up and down the empty city street. At first, he didn’t feel anything, just a strange, scared confusion. But then he realized that he couldn’t move and his back felt funny and then not so funny at all as the pain exploded and sent little telegrams to his brain and his brain read them, wrote appropriate responses and sent them back. The responses were Feel it now. Feel the buzz saw along your spine, feel the sensation of having your nerve endings ripped right out and twisted by some ugly metal machine. Feel it? Good.

  He lay there face-down on the sidewalk at the corner, unable to move or speak, and the rain plummeted out of a dark cloud-shrouded night.

  His name was Bridges, and he’d been thinking idly about committing murder when he got shot. Only idly, in the sort of off-hand way one thinks about how much easier it would make life if so-and-so was dead, or how that jackass who cut you off in traffic deserved to have a knife stuck in his eye. Nothing serious or heartfelt. He was simply fantasizing.

  And the rain started to come down, and he wished he had an umbrella, and he turned the corner onto his street and someone put a bullet in his back.

  Face-down on the sidewalk, rain and blood puddling around his head, he finally realized what had happened. He had no memory stored in his databank that correlated to it and that he could draw upon to work out what had happened to him, but he still knew, in a strange, disconnected way. Someone had shot him in the back.

  The pain was already fading, which he was aware enough to realize wasn’t good. As long as he felt pain, he would be okay. As long as he could feel it, he knew he was still alive. But the pain faded, and he clenched his fingers into claws and tried to grip the sidewalk.

  “Help,” he said.

  He was on the corner, and both streets were silent except for the gentle wash of rain. From where he lay, he could see the intersection, see water gurgling down the grate on the opposite side of the street. The dim glow of the streetlight glimmered a weak hollow yellow, buzzing like a hive of bees in the rain. He tried to lift his head, couldn’t.

  “Help,” he said again, knowing there was no one to hear him.

  The pain was almost e
ntirely gone now. His whole body felt numb. He couldn’t even feel the rain that pattered down on him. I’m paralyzed, he thought. The bullet tore into my spine and I’m paralyzed and I’ll never walk again.

  He started crying, soundlessly. He kept crying until he realized that being paralyzed was probably the least of his concerns. Wheelchair for the rest of his life? Someone else to cook for him and clean for him and wipe his ass for him? That was nothing. He’d been shot and he was alone on the corner and he was going to die.

  “Ah,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Ah, Christ please. Someone help me.”

  He heard footsteps coming from up the street he’d been about to turn on to. Steady, sure footsteps, and someone whistling cheerfully in the rain.

  His heart leapt in his chest, and the pain surged forward like a racehorse. He tried again to lift his head, without success. He gathered what little breath he had and said, “Please. Help.”

  The footsteps kept coming, closer to where he lay, and he had an awful thought: what if the person keeps going? What if the person has his head down against the rain, is looking nowhere but straight ahead, and doesn’t see me? Or worse, what if the person sees me and just walks on, like one of those horrible city people you always read about who just doesn’t want to get involved?

  Or worse yet, what if it’s the person who shot me?

  But no, it wouldn’t be the person who shot him. This person was coming from the other direction. The footsteps kept coming, the whistling louder and louder, and again Bridges said, “Help.”

  The footsteps stopped very suddenly and the whistling died. Bridges tried to call out again but couldn’t. The footsteps resumed, a bit more slowly, coming closer, until a pair of expensive shoes appeared in front of him and stopped. Bridges could see the shoes and the pant legs and the bottom part of a dark raincoat. His fingers scrambled weakly on the sidewalk toward the shoes.