Cesspool (22 page)

Dale nodded. “What about Heather Davenport?”

“She was in the same class.”

“What do you know about them?”

“I think they’re dating. He drives a red truck with big tires.”

He pressed the square barrel harder into James’s forehead. “How the
fuck
do you know that?”

“I see them sometimes in the campus parking lot. The truck’s hard to miss.”

He pulled the Glock from James’s forehead, leaving an impression of the barrel. He narrowed his eyes. “Charles Lee Ray mean anything to you?”

“No,” James said with a poker face.

“Did you send me a text message?”

“No.”

Dale chuckled. “You know, most times when you jam a gun in a man’s face, he cowers and begs. My dad doesn’t think you have the stones to fuck with us, but I can see now that you do.”

He walloped James across the head with the butt of his gun. James grunted, still on one knee. He held his head, blood pouring from a gash just above his hairline.

“Why did you send those texts?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

Dale reared back and struck James again, knocking him off his knees and opening another gash on his head. Blood gushed down his face, blurring his vision. Dale cackled. James crawled away, vaguely in the direction of the open door. He felt the cold air on his face. Dale grabbed James’s foot and twisted it. James grimaced as Dale pulled him back into the cabin by his twisted ankle.

Dale dropped James’s foot.

James turned and looked.

Dale reached behind his back. He exhaled, his breath spraying blood droplets from his mouth and nose. He wobbled and dropped to his knees. He wheezed and sprayed more blood.

Brittany backed away, her hand over her mouth.

Dale collapsed on his side, sucking in air and exhaling blood. James’s Buck knife was stuck in his back. James struggled to his feet and wiped the blood from his eyes. He limped over to Dale, pried the Glock from his hand, and set it on the floor out of reach. He hobbled to his dresser and grabbed an old T-shirt. James tied it around his head to stem the tide of blood.

He struggled past Brittany to the kitchen table and grabbed his gloves. He put them on as he limped back to Dale. James clasped his gloved hands around Dale’s neck and squeezed. Brittany stood like a statue, her eyes wide, her hand still over her mouth. James held tight until the death throes came. James staggered back, careful not to drip his blood on the body. He removed the T-shirt headband and wiped his face.

He looked at Brittany, his eyes wide, his head still bleeding. “I have to clean this up.”

She remained frozen.

“You need to go,” he said. “Take the Hyundai and drive south on I-15 for half an hour, then pullover and open the letter I gave you.”

She was silent.

He limped closer. “Brittany, get moving. Now.”

Her eyes were saucers. “I killed him.”

“No, you didn’t.
I
did.
I
choked him to death. Do you hear me?”

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“Head wounds bleed,
a lot
. They look worse than they are.”

“And your leg. You can’t clean this up on your own.”

“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

She shook her head. “I told you. I’m stayin’ with you.” She went to the sink and opened the cabinets.

“Brittany, this is not the time to be obstinate.”

She pulled out the first aid kit, holding it up. “We have to clean you up first, right?”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “First we need a tarp. He’s bleeding on the floor.”

James told her where to find a fresh tarp. With gloved hands they laid out the tarp next to the body. James pulled the knife from Dale’s back and wiped the blood on the man’s jacket. James took the knife to the sink. Brittany grabbed the oxidized bleach jug from under the sink and washed the murder weapon. She put it back in its sheath.

“Could you give me that?” James said. “I don’t want to forget it.”

She handed the knife to him, and he attached it to his belt.

They returned to the body. James took Dale’s car keys and cell phone from his pocket, and shoved them in his. The Glock was on the floor a few feet away. They rolled the body on the tarp, stopping when he was facedown. They tucked the tarp around and under his body, like a Dale burrito.

“Could you grab the gorilla tape?” James said. “It’s in the bottom drawer, to the left of the sink.”

Brittany hustled to the kitchen and picked up a half-used roll of tape.

“Not that one. There should be a brand new roll, covered in plastic.”

She looked at James with her brow furrowed.

“No fingerprints,” he said.

Brittany retrieved the new roll of tape. James pulled off the plastic wrap, and they taped the tarp tight around Dale’s body.

Brittany helped James clean his face and head in the kitchen sink. She disinfected his head wounds and wrapped a bandage around him like a mummy. James placed his knit hat over the bandage.

“I’m actually more worried about my ankle. It’s swelling. Feels tight in my boot.”

She bit the lower corner of her lip. “Do you think it’s broken?”

He winced as he tried to move his ankle. “I think it’s a bad sprain.” He glanced at the gun on the floor. “Shit, the gun. Could you bring me that handgun? Fingers nowhere near the trigger please.”

James washed his blood and fingerprints off the butt of the Glock. He set the handgun on the counter. She stared at the blue tarp.

“I need you to drop me off at Harold’s, so I can get rid of the body,” he said. “Brittany, did you hear me?”

She turned to James and nodded, her face blank. “You need me to help you with the body?”

“I just need you to help me get it in my truck and into Harold’s backyard. I can handle putting it in the cesspool. It’ll take a few hours to dig up the manhole cover. I don’t want you there.”

“I can help. It’ll go quicker.”

“No. Someone has to drive my truck back here. We can’t park at Harold’s for hours in broad daylight. It’s too risky. I need you to come back here and start the cleanup. There’s a lot of blood.”

He instructed Brittany on cleaning. He told her to mop the floor with a heavy amount of bleach, letting the sanitizer soak into all the crevices of the wood. He told her to wipe down the furniture and walls as well, because of the blood spray that had come from Dale’s mouth.

“Check the cellar ceiling,” he said, “and wash it if you see any sign of blood that may have seeped through the floor. You’ll have to move furniture to get all the crevices. Also inspect every item in this house. Leave nothing uncleaned. When in doubt, wash it again.”

She nodded.

“Let’s get this piece of shit out of here.”

Outside, Dale’s black SUV was parked tight behind James’s truck. James turned into the leaves and brush and backed up his truck across the yard, next to the front porch. He dropped the tailgate and limped into his cabin. James put booties over his boots. He gave a pair to Brittany. They were big, but they stayed on. Brittany put her hair up and placed a knit cap over her head. They wore slick puffy coats and gloves. They took turns being frisked by the lint roller.

Dressed for success, they dragged the Dale burrito outside to the truck.

“This’ll be the hard part,” James said between heavy breaths.

James had the head. Brittany had the legs, but they were having trouble getting the saggy middle high enough to clear the tailgate. They dropped him and stood, condensation spilling from their lips. James shook his arms, trying to recover.

“Let’s try something different,” James said.

They heaved Dale upright and bent him over the tailgate. They grabbed his legs and shoved him into the truck bed.

“Could you grab some tools from the locker?” James asked. “I need the pickax, a shovel, and the leaf rake.”

Brittany hurried to the locker, retrieved the tools, and dumped them in the truck bed. They sped to Harold’s with the blue burrito bouncing in the truck’s bed. James backed into the driveway.

“I didn’t want my tire tracks here,” James said, “but it’s too far to drag him from the road. And someone might see us.”

They dragged Dale around back. Brittany left James with the tools and drove back to their cabin to cleanup.

James surveyed the area, his rake in hand.
I wish I had left that rebar in place
. James raked leaves from the approximate area, finding fresh, loose soil. He hobbled around the cleared area, feeling for a soft spot. His boot sank into the ground. James grabbed his shovel and began to dig. Despite the loose soil, his throbbing ankle slowed the process.
I would have left it open if I knew this was going to happen
. His shovel thudded off the concrete manhole cover. He hopped around on one foot, excavating the soil from the manhole. He estimated that the digging took three times as long as the first time. James reached down and grabbed the handle on the cover. He braced himself with his good leg and heaved. Shooting pain reverberated through his ankle as the cover slid off the hole. The raw sewage smelled like rotten eggs.

He struggled to drag Dale the short distance to the hole, stopping several times for the searing pain in his ankle to subside. James positioned the burrito close to the hole and gave it a few pushes. The tarp-covered body leaned over the edge. He helped it along with another big push, and now Officer Strickland joined his uncle, slipping into the black sludge. A bit of tarp was visible through the manhole. James hobbled to the woods and picked up a sturdy stick. James pushed on the body with the stick, tucking it out of sight. He threw the stick in the cesspool and lugged the cover back over the hole.

He spent the next couple hours backfilling the hole, raking the soil, and replacing the leaves over the site. He glanced up at the sun and checked his burner phone—
12:38 p.m. Shit, it’s been almost six hours
. He dialed Brittany’s burner phone.

“I was getting worried,” she said.

“I’m all done here,” he said. “Can you come pick me up?”

James peered out from behind the back corner of Harold’s trailer, waiting for Brittany. She pulled into the driveway, stopping near the house. James gimped toward the truck, his tools in hand. He tossed the tools in the truck bed and climbed into the driver’s seat. Brittany scooted over. He adjusted the seat and put the truck in Reverse. He heard the rumble of an engine, not his own. It was faint at first. James stopped his truck in Harold’s driveway. He glanced at Brittany. Her eyes were wide. She’d heard it too. He watched in his rearview mirror as an old Jeep Cherokee lumbered past.

“Do you think they saw us?” she asked.

He backed out of the driveway. “Unless they know Harold, it’s probably fine.”

He limped into their cabin behind Brittany. His eyes burned from the bleach fumes. The entire place was wet and shiny.

She turned to James. “I still have to check the cellar.”

They climbed down into the cellar. James pulled the string on the lightbulb. The bulb cast a dim glow. They scanned the ceiling with flashlights, looking for blood. Blood dripped between the floorboards on to the cardboard boxes of freeze-dried food.

“Shit,” James said. “We have to clean the ceiling, and we have to use heavy bleach on this cardboard.”

They spent the next two hours cleaning the cellar. James struggled up the ladder after Brittany.

“I think everything’s clean,” she said.

James checked the time on his phone—
2:14 p.m.

“Let’s get Dale’s truck out of here,” he said. “Follow me in the Ford but don’t follow close.”

“You don’t wanna get the Hyundai?” she asked.

“I do, but Dale’s supposed to be at work at four, and we’re running out of time. Just keep your distance. I’ll drive slow to make sure I don’t lose you.”

James drove the black SUV wearing his jacket and hat over his chemical suit. Brittany followed in the Ford. They drove to the next town over. James parked the GMC Yukon in a rundown residential area, leaving the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. Brittany waited a block behind. He hobbled back to the Ford pickup, and they drove toward the river. James parked his truck on the shoulder, the river just beyond an edge of trees. James gave her Dale’s cell phone. Brittany hiked through the trees, looked around, and chucked the phone into the water. James and Brittany drove on toward the cabin and storage place. He turned down the gravel road toward their cabin.

“We’re not going to the storage place?” Brittany asked, her eyes bulging.

“I still have to dig up something,” James said.

“James, come on. I have a bad feeling. We have to go.”

“I’m not going to leave it now after everything. I’ll be quick.”

He heard it before he saw anything. He looked in the rearview mirror—nothing. He glanced at Brittany. She bit her lower lip.
She had heard it too
. It was getting louder. He turned around and caught a glimpse of red and blue lights. He mashed on the accelerator, the V-8 roaring to life, the truck’s back end fishtailing on the gravel. The sirens were getting louder. He saw her out of the corner of his eye. She gripped the armrest, her knuckles white, as the speedometer hit ninety. He slowed as he approached his cabin. James swung the truck into the driveway and drove over the garden, parking directly in front of the porch. Brittany hopped out, her door facing the cabin. She waited at the front door, bouncing on the balls of her feet as James hobbled around the truck. She turned around, facing the house, too afraid to look at the onslaught coming. James hopped up the steps on one leg, holding his keys, as a caravan of four cruisers and an SUV turned into the driveway.

“Barricade and evade,” James said, his hands shaking as he slid the key into the dead bolt.

Brittany nodded.

He opened the door, letting her in first.

“Stop right there” James heard from the driveway.

He entered the cabin, not bothering to see if a gun was pointed at him.

The monitoring box chimed and said, “Alert zone one. Alert zone one. Alert zone one. Alert zone one …”

He slammed the door and locked the reinforced dead bolt. Brittany moved the mat and opened the cellar hatch. James struggled down the ladder, hopping down with one foot, his arms controlling his descent.