The Life We Bury (25 page)

With a ten-minute limit to drive a five-minute distance I was ahead of schedule. I tried to think of what else I could do to prepare.

I had been driving with my thumb over the speaker of Jeremy's cell phone, keeping Rupert's voice away from Lockwood's ear. As the county road twisted through some frozen wetlands, I eased back on the throttle, giving Rupert every possible second to catch up. Had I given him enough clues? Dan and I talked about his father's house, the one he burned down, and a barn nearby. Rupert knew where the house was; he's the one who told me about the fire. He was a cop, a detective. He would figure it out.

I carefully lifted Jeremy's phone, removed my thumb, pressed the speaker tightly to my ear, and listened. No voice. No breath. No white noise of a car engine in the background. Nothing. I looked at the face of the phone, at Rupert's number backlit on the screen. I listened again. Silence. I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece, whispering “Rupert” into my hand in a soft breath, enunciating the consonants, spitting them out so that Max might understand me and answer.

He didn't answer.

I stopped breathing. My hand trembled. Had I been leaving a voice message this whole time? “Rupert,” I whispered again. Still no answer. I dropped Jeremy's phone onto the floor behind the passenger seat, my mouth suddenly dry. I had no plan now—no way of saving Lila.

I could smell Lockwood's garbage, his DNA, the evidence of his crime, decaying behind my seat. If I had been recording on Rupert's voice mail, then Rupert would get the message and know that Dan Lockwood killed us. I decided to drop the trash in the ditch. If things went bad, Rupert might find it and use it to nail Lockwood. As a backup plan it sucked, but it was all I had.

I reached behind my seat, easing the bag up and onto my lap, the cans and bottles rustling slightly as it settled. I felt the neck of a beer bottle pushing against the side of the bag. Using my fingernail to tear a hole in the side of the bag, I eased the bottle out and set it next to me on the seat.

“Five minutes, Joe,” Dan called over the speaker on my cell phone.

“Let me hear Lila's voice.”

“You don't trust me?”

“What's it matter to you?” I said, with more than an edge of frustration, or maybe resignation, in my voice. “Consider it a final wish.”

I heard Lila mumbling as Dan removed the gag. The phone would be away from his ear, giving me an opportunity to pitch the bag. I slowed the car to a crawl to limit the wind noise, lowered the window, and, steering with my knees, slid the garbage bag out, giving it a toss so that it landed in the snow-covered ditch.

“Joe?” Lila murmured.

“Lila, are you okay?”

“That's enough chitchat,” Dan said. “You have two minutes. I don't think you're going to make it.”

I closed my window, picked up my speed again, and crested the last rise before my turn onto the gravel road where Doug Lockwood once lived. “If you're at your old man's place, then you can see my headlights,” I flicked the brights on and off a few times.

“Ah, at last, the hero approaches,” Dan said. “There's a tractor path just past my dad's place; it leads to a barn. That's where I'll be waiting.”

“With Lila standing where I can see her,” I said.

“But of course,” he said smugly. “I'm looking forward to meeting you.”

I turned onto the gravel road, my eyes searching the darkness for movement. The chimney of Doug Lockwood's house was a lone spire rising from a pile of ashes. Spurs of ice left behind by the fire hoses dangled from its edges like frozen plumage.

I drove past the house and paused before turning into the tractor path. I followed the tire tracks laid down in the snow by Dan Lockwood's four-wheel-drive pickup. The trail wound back eighty feet to a dilapidated gray barn, the planks of its walls rotting and separating like old horse teeth. I knew that I would get stuck in the snow before I got anywhere near the barn.

I clicked the high beams on and gunned the engine, ramming Lila's little car into the snow. A wall of white exploded high into the air, the crystalline flakes shimmering in the glow of the headlights. I plowed along for ten feet before I ground to a halt, the tires spinning impotently, the engine revving in futility. I took my foot off the accelerator and watched as the final mist of powdery snow drifted away in the breeze. A single, heavy, insistent thought filled my mind—now what?

My headlights fell across the snow-covered pasture, illuminating the barn in the distance. Lila stood in front of the tattered door, her arms stretched above her head, her hands tied together by a rope that reached up to a hoist outside of the hayloft. She appeared weak, but she stood under her own power. Dan Lockwood stood next to her, a gun in one hand pointed at her head, a cell phone in his other hand.

Seventy feet of snow-covered field separated me from the barn. The field between us was bordered by a tree line about fifty feet to my left and a creek off to my right. Both the tree line and the creek extended from the road back beyond the barn. Both could provide cover. But the creek might get me within thirty feet of Lockwood.

I lowered the car window, grabbed my phone and the beer bottle, and slid out the window—no creaking door hinge to announce my intention. Putting the phone against my cheek to hide the light of the display, I moved around the back of the car, heading for the creek.

“I think you should bring my garbage to me,” Dan said.

I needed to stall. “I'm afraid I can't,” I said, as I sidestepped my way into the creek. The headlights shining in Dan's eyes covered my movement in the shadows. “The snow's too deep.”

“I'm getting tired of fucking around here,” he yelled.

The ice crackled under my feet as I moved closer to the barn. I paused for a moment to peek over the creek bank to see Dan still focused on the car. A thin surface of ice had crusted over the snow, making a light popping noise with every step, barking my arrival into the quiet night. I moved faster when Dan spoke, hoping that the noise of his own voice in his head would cover my approach.

“Get out of your fucking car, and walk your ass down here,” he yelled into the phone.

“I think you should come here and get it,” I said.

“Do you think that you have any say here, you little cock weasel?” He put the gun to Lila's head. “I hold the cards. I'm in control.” I turned my walk into a scamper as he yelled—my head lowered, the phone still tight to my ear. “You get your ass here or I'll kill her right now.”

I was close enough now that he might hear my voice coming from the creek instead of the phone. I lowered my volume to a whisper, the change in tone giving my words a menacing edge that I had not expected. “You kill her, and I'm gone. The cavalry will be on your ass before the echo dies.”

“Fine,” he said. “I won't kill her.” He lowered the muzzle of his gun to her knee. “If you're not in my sight in three seconds, I'll take out her pretty knees, one at a time. You have any idea how painful a bullet in the kneecap can be?”

I had gone as far as I could in the creek.

“After that,” he said, “I'll start on other body parts.”

If I charged, I'd be dead as soon as I came into the glare of the headlights. If I stayed in the creek, he would dissect Lila with his gun. From this distance, I would hear her screams of pain through the gag in her mouth.

“One!”

I looked around for a better weapon than the beer bottle: a rock or stick, anything.

“Two!”

A fallen tree jutted out from the opposite shore, its dead branches within reach. I dropped the bottle and grabbed a branch as big around as a stair rail and jerked it with all my weight and strength. It snapped off with a deafening crack. I stumbled back.

Two shots rang out from Dan's gun, one hitting a cottonwood tree above me, the other bullet disappearing into the darkness.

I grunted as if I had been shot and threw my cell phone like a Frisbee onto the frozen surface of the snow on the far bank of the creek, its display casting a beam of light that could be seen from the barn.

I crept up the near bank, hiding behind the cottonwood with my stick. I waited for Dan's approach, hoping that his attention would be focused on the light from my cell phone on the opposite bank.

“You're a persistent fuck,” Dan called out. “I'll give you that.”

I raised my stick, gauging his distance by his voice, listening to his footsteps draw closer.

He stopped walking just out of reach of my stick, probably letting his eyes adjust to the darkness away from the headlights. Two more steps, I thought to myself, just two more steps.

“It's not gonna work, Joe,” he said, taking another step toward the creek, his gun still pointed toward my phone, his voice lowered, almost whispering in my ear. “I hold the cards, remember?”

He stepped again.

I lunged from my hiding place behind the tree, swinging my stick at his head. He pulled his gun around, raising it at me as he ducked away from my swing.

My aim failed. The stick crushed into his right shoulder instead of his skull. But his aim failed as well, the gun firing a bullet into my thigh instead of my chest, the hot lead tearing through the skin and muscle, punching into the bone, turning my leg into useless weight.

I fell face first into the knee-deep snow.

If I stopped my attack, I would die—Lila would die.

I pushed my body up with my arms, only to crash back into the snow, the full weight of Dan Lockwood driving down on my back. Before I could react, he pulled my right arm behind my back, a cold metal handcuff ratcheting around my wrist. Why hadn't he shot me in the head? Why keep me alive? I fought to keep the other arm away from him, but his weight on my shoulder blade and neck brought my struggle to an end.

He stood up, grabbed my collar, and dragged me through the snow, leaning me up against a fence post at the edge of the barn. His belt made a zipping sound as he pulled it from his pants. He wrapped it around my throat, buckling me to the fencepost. Then he stood back, admired his handiwork, and kicked me in the face with his snow-covered boot.

“Because of you my dad is dead,” he said. “You hear me? This was none of your damn business.”

“Fuck you.” I spit blood from my mouth. “You killed your dad cuz you're fucking insane. You raped and killed your sister cuz you're fucking insane. See a theme?”

He kicked me in the face with his other foot.

“Bet you're wondering why I didn't just shoot you,” he said.

“It crossed my mind,” I mumbled. I could feel a tooth rolling around in my mouth. I spit again.

“You're gonna watch me,” he smiled. “I'm gonna rape the shit outta your little girlfriend here, and you're gonna watch. You're gonna hear her scream and beg, just like they all do.”

I lifted my head, my eyes blurry, my ears still ringing from his kicks.

“Oh yes, Joe,” he said, “there have been others.” He walked over to Lila and lifted her chin in his hands. I could see a patchwork of red and purple bruises crossing both her cheeks. She looked weak. He slid his hand down her neck, grasping the zipper of her sweatshirt between his fingers and pulling it down.

I fought against the belt around my neck, pulling at the thick leather, trying to stretch it or break it or pull the post out of the ground. Nothing budged.

“You can't get away, Joe. Don't hurt yourself.” He put his hand on her breast, and she came to life as if waking from a trance. She tried to wiggle away from his touch, her tether making resistance impossible. She tried to kick him with her knee, but she was too weak to have any effect. He punched her hard in the gut for her effort, emptying her lungs of air. Lila gulped and wheezed, trying to breathe.

“In a few minutes it'll all be over, and you'll be burned up in a blaze of glory.” He wet his lips, drawing in close to Lila, reaching one of his hands down to undo the buckle of Lila's pants while moving his gun up her body, brushing the muzzle over the contour of her torso, pausing at her breast for a second. He slid it up her throat, then her cheek, before raising it to her temple.

He started to lean in as though he might lick her face or bite her, but he stopped, interrupted by the difficulty he was having undoing her belt with a single hand. He took a step back to get a better look at the buckle. When he did, the nose of the gun tipped skyward for just a second, away from Lila's head.

Suddenly, three quick gunshots erupted from the tree line. The first bullet entered Dan Lockwood's left ear, exiting the right side of his head in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. The second bullet ripped through his throat with similar results. Lockwood was dead before the third bullet cracked through the plate in the side of his skull. He fell to the ground, a lump of meat and tissue.

Max Rupert stepped from the shadows of the tree line, his gun still pointed at the pile of waste that used to be Dan Lockwood. He walked over and kicked the body onto its back, Lockwood's eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Two more figures stepped from the shadows, sheriff's deputies, each wearing brown winter coats with badges on the left lapel.

One spoke into a radio microphone pinned to his shoulder, and the horizon lit up red and blue, as if the officer had called in his own personal Aurora Borealis. Soon the lights of the squad cars crested the rise, their sirens piercing the night.