Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  He wondered what would break first. Jennings’ sense of duty, or Lynch, or Jennings himself.

  25

  Friday. Breakfast at Waffle House on the far side of Salem.

  Francis Lynch arrived first in a black Acura. Police Chief Buck Gibbs parked beside him in a Ford Ranger, his personal vehicle.

  “Don’t know why you make us eat here.” Gibbs slammed the truck door.

  “Because of your proclivity for grease. And it’s outside your jurisdiction so we won’t be pestered.”

  “Seems like you always eat nice except with me, Judge.”

  “Think of it as nostalgia. We ate eggs every day growing up.” Francis got the door.

  “Eggs are cheap.”

  “Halcyon days.”

  They selected a booth in the back, away from the windows and closer to the clatter of the griddle. Francis ordered an omelette and coffee, Gibbs the biscuits and gravy combo with coffee and OJ. Neither recognized their waitress, a woman who’d been in front of the men twice for crystal meth charges. She’d been treated fairly, she thought, and wouldn’t contaminate their food as she did some cops.

  Gibbs sipped his coffee black. “Hear from Peter?”

  “I always do when he’s excited.”

  “What’d he tell you about?”

  “The new girl,” said Francis.

  “Daisy something.”

  “And the teacher, Daniel Jennings.”

  Gibbs grinned without humor into his mug. “His name you know.”

  “Peter mentioned him twice and then I happened to meet him by chance. Peter and his desperate need for a foil.”

  The heavy frown crevice between Gibbs’ eyebrows deepened. “The hell is a foil?”

  “A reference to literature. A character to contrast the hero. What I really mean is, Peter retains his pathetic need to pick some alpha male to prove himself against,” said Francis.

  “An alpha male with one leg.”

  “Still. You know how Peter is with his devotion to the myth.”

  “The myth?”

  “That his biological father was a war hero. That his genetics are more than trailer trash. That’s why dashing Daniel irks him so much,” said Francis.

  “I gotta piss. I’m always pissing.” Gibbs labored out from the booth.

  “When was your last prostate exam?”

  “My first will be after I’m dead, that’s a promise. Not all of us enjoy other men—”

  “Yes yes, Chief, go piss.”

  Gibbs went. Came back two minutes later. Sat and said, “I didn’t tell you—Jennings came to see me.”

  “In what role?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m Peter’s daddy, if that’s what you mean. He knows Peter’s harassing him and he said he wanted the Kelly Carson case reopened.”

  Francis sniffed at the dramatic irony. “Poor Jennings went to the wrong man.”

  The waitress brought their food, clunking the heavy plates, and she poured more coffee.

  “Poor Jennings is trying to deep-six our family.”

  “No, just Peter. Clearly he doesn’t know Peter’s makeshift parentage.”

  “Makeshift? You know why we ate eggs every day and fished and hunted for our food? We were broke,” said Gibbs. “I was nineteen, working at the jail, and I didn’t have to raise you boys.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Francis raised his mug in a pseudo toast. “Ingratitude is an ugly thing. I simply meant that his mother and father aren’t the mythical war heroes he wishes.”

  “Well I didn’t do so bad, did I, Judge.”

  “Perhaps we should turn our attention to safer topics.” Francis picked up his fork.

  They ate in silence a moment, absorbed in memories of a two-bedroom cabin and the surrounding trees which rang with laughter and screams. Of the stream they fished and the animals they caught.

  Gibbs slurped his coffee and set the mug down too hard. “My grandson is nearly grown and I have little to do with his life.”

  “When Ethan was six, you suggested I beat him with a phonebook,” said Francis. “You offered to show me how.”

  “He broke a window.”

  “He raked leaves as recompense. That was one of your methods that I find constructive.”

  Gibbs snorted some air from his nose. “The phonebook worked on you, didn’t it.”

  “We were beaten senseless.”

  “It helped you.”

  “You taught us to hit when we’re mad. If Peter hadn’t learned that, perhaps he wouldn’t have beaten me with a pipe.”

  “My boys. I got one son bleeding from the mouth and the other drools, both in their forties. Me, the proud papa.” A loud sip of coffee. “The phone book helped you. Not so sure about Peter.”

  “I won’t aid him anymore, Chief.”

  “Told you, he’s got a new girl. Prettiest one yet.”

  “I won’t even attend the wedding, though we both know she won’t survive that long.”

  Gibbs leaned back. Pressed one hand to his hip, the other across the top of the booth. “It gets worse. The girl Daisy, she’s sweet on Jennings.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Why’re you smiling? It’s not funny.”

  “Everyone enjoys a love triangle, Chief.”

  “Grow up.”

  “It’s true. Someone’s bound to be left out. You’re sure, about Daisy?”

  “She didn’t say it, but I could see it. It’s a triangle your brother isn’t welcome in.”

  “He rarely is,” said Francis.

  “He’ll kill her if he finds out.”

  “I agree. But, as I said, I won’t help him.”

  A statement heavy with memory. Francis and Gibbs had been helping Peter since middle school. Intervening with angry teachers had been simple enough, but as Peter’s sins grew, so did the required coverup. Ten years ago, Gibbs had flown to California without a suitcase and returned the next day—on the return flight, he’d noticed blood in the links of his watchband and tossed the thing into the lavatory trashcan. A recent summer, Francis had purchased a shovel and gloves and spent a sweltering night digging alongside his brother. Francis fretted his DNA was at the bottom, because he’d vomited into the pit as they tossed in reeking bags.

  Gibbs said, “If we don’t, he’ll get caught.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Francis sipped his coffee without sound. “Maybe he’ll get killed.”

  26

  Valley Academy met Fishburne Military that night in Lynchburg, a neutral field. The Academy dressed twenty-two; they’d lost four players to injury last week. Fishburne dressed forty-one, many bound for college, including two blue chips.

  All of Coach Murray’s ingenuity and crafty plays were buried in the mud by pumping knees and churning cleats. The Crusaders were trampled and demoralized by halftime and there was no relief in the third and fourth quarter. Benji played poorly.

  Final score, 51-17. Fishburne fans rampaged onto the field to celebrate their state championship.

  Craig Lewis joined Jennings at the cold rail as the Academy Crusaders filed for the locker room. They both had eyes only for Coach Murray. His team had surpassed all reasonable goals. His head should be held high.

  And it was. But not in triumph. Murray looked like a man marching defiantly for the headsman’s ax.

  Lewis and Jennings were two of the last to leave the stadium. Neither spoke but their despair and anger was communicated. Murray’s feud with Benji’s father was not a secret and the faculty knew Lynch wanted him gone. Lewis and Jennings felt Murray’s plight more acutely than most.

  Lewis’ words crackled in the air from their last meeting.

  I wish someone would kill Peter Lynch.

  27

  Chief of Police Buck Gibbs parked his cruiser at the general practitioner’s office on Peters Creek Road. He suffered a checkup once every five years; he saw no point in greater frequency. Unless something fell off, he didn’t need a doctor.

  Gibbs had lied to his s
on, when he said he’d never allow Dr. Warner to perform a prostate exam. He’d been pissing blood since the summer and his bones ached enough to keep him awake at night, and that’s why he’d made the urgent appointment on a Saturday. Inside the office, he assumed the position, and afterward Dr. Warner immediately ushered him to the lab for blood work.

  Ninety minutes later he emerged from the office. He’d walked in for a checkup but teetered out with a death sentence.

  Dr. Warner said there was hope but Gibbs saw it in the man’s face—treatment should’ve started years ago. This late in the game, the cancer had metastasized to the lymph nodes and bones. He needed to undergo imaging, biopsies, hormone therapy, radiation, pain medication…the bastard even mentioned a support group at First Baptist Church. Like hell would he go to a support group.

  Gibbs sat in his cruiser and let his own mortality crash through. He couldn’t catch his breath, eternity sitting on his chest. As all the years he thought he’d have were slipping through his quivering fingers.

  $86,500. Gibbs had looked it up recently. It was time for him to retire and he would be collecting $86,500 every year until he died. He had assumed he had at least twenty good ones left. And now.

  And now.

  Looking back on it days later, he found that moment of grief and shock in the driver’s seat telling. His mind didn’t dwell on Ann or Junior or Benjamin or Ethan, his grandchildren. Nor on missing important events in the coming years.

  Instead he settled on Francis’ face as they talked over Peter and his ability to break things. Francis had a life, a career, a family, and he had some control over it. He looked happy and content, except when it came to his brother. His brother, who they’d spent a lifetime protecting. Cleaning up his shit.

  But now, sweating in the car with the windows cracked in late November, Gibbs understood Peter was out of time. He’d always assumed his boy would get his life together one of these days; he’d grow up and become the man Gibbs demanded. A parent keeps hoping.

  Francis saw the truth—that wasn’t going to happen. There was no sudden leap of maturity on the horizon. No sanity riding over the hill.

  Especially not with Peter fixated on this new girl. And the new girl fixated on a man like Daniel Jennings.

  But did it matter? Did anything matter anymore? Gibbs would be gone soon, free from the responsibility.

  Panic rose in his chest again. Facing the unknown. Facing The End.

  He’d be gone. Gone gone.

  But Francis wouldn’t. Francis would be left to deal with Peter. Peter who threatened to burn down Francis’ carefully constructed life. Peter who would tarnish his legacy. Peter who’d angered a Green Beret.

  That’d be a fate worse than death—leaving this earth knowing both his boys were in jail. That couldn’t be allowed.

  Maybe Gibbs might have enough life left to fix things. One final time.

  Part II

  He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.

  - Nietzsche

  28

  Catastrophe snaked its way through the corridors of Valley Academy, looking for prey. There was perhaps no hunting ground more fertile than a boarding school dormitory on a cold Saturday night. Muscular boys on the cusp of manhood. Pending millionaires. Wealthy and entitled and bored. Without parents and without restraint. The corridors reeked of leonine musk, territories marked, violent rivalries restrained by thin threads of self-respect and memories of family.

  Most adults didn’t dare venture through, alien and unwelcome, including many dorm proctors. Their danger wasn’t real but it was heavy.

  Daniel Jennings loved the hallways, fraught with testosterone and peril. Not because the environment was good, but because he knew life held worse terrors beyond. Because the hallways needed men like him, needed their guidance. Because with the right nudge, the hallways became crucibles instead of crucifixes.

  Jennings was strolling the noisy second floor when room 208 ruptured, spewing Sean Salazar into the hallway. Sean, heir to the Salazar Investments fortune and current star of the Academy’s lacrosse team, landed on his back. Benjamin Lynch, red-faced and hairy like a baboon, emerged from the room and knelt over Salazar.

  “Call me new money again, Salazar.” Benji was trembling and he cocked a fist. “Talk about my family one more time!”

  The hallway sensed a fight and spectators spawned, drawn by visions of gore.

  A savage Ground and Pound attack would end with Sean in the hospital and Benji expelled. Jennings lowered his shoulder and bowled Benji off the boy. They spilled onto the floor, Jennings holding Benji’s right arm in a half-nelson.

  “No.” Jennings’ voice held reason and resolve. “It’s not worth getting kicked out, Benji. Walk away.”

  Tribes gathered with conflicting alliances. The football team supported its own, as did the lacrosse team. But old money was old money, and new money was new, and colors blurred and howled.

  Benji stood and tried to swarm his way by Jennings but couldn’t. The former Green Beret frustrated the boy’s efforts and sent him backward.

  “Outside, let’s talk outside,” said Jennings.

  When Benji had fought enough to prove he was a man, he allowed himself to be manhandled to the stairs. Jennings herded him like a sheep dog.

  Sean Salazar stood, shaky in the knees and hands. He pushed his flop of hair into place. “Dumb fuck,” he told his audience. “Not smart enough to know he doesn’t belong.”

  Outside, the giant boy paced the dark grass and refused to talk. His body steamed in the cold. Jennings watched and marveled at the rage.

  “You know what gets me, Mr. Jennings?”

  “What’s that?”

  “They blame me. For losing the game. I played my ass off and…”

  “Forget them. They’re mad and don’t know what to do with it,” said Jennings.

  “I played hard. I let the other team know who I was, you know? None of my teammates played as hard as I did.” Benji gripped his thick hair. Arched his back and closed his wet eyes. “But you know what my dad said? He said I must not have cared enough. If I cared, I would have won. He said I embarrassed the family.”

  “That’s bull.”

  “I know it is. I mean, kinda. What else am I supposed to do? I tried and it didn’t work. I don’t mind the losing. In some ways it’s better than winning because it takes the pressure off. But not for my dad. He just…he gets mad and…”

  Benji reached the end of his route and turned to pace back, but he ran into Jennings. Jennings grabbed him into a rough embrace and squeezed, the same hug his father had given at college drop off. One of those awkward and necessary gestures no one knows how to do well. The boy didn’t want to sob but the unexpected contact forced it. Jennings let it happen for thirty seconds. Mr. Hogan, another dorm proctor, noticed and gave them space.

  “You’re doing good, kid. You got a dad who’s tough on you. Maybe he doesn’t see it, but the rest of us do—you’re trying and you’re doing good. I’m proud of you.” A stupid thing to say but Jennings didn’t have other words.

  Benji mumbled things that he couldn’t understand.

  Jennings said, “And killing Sean won’t help.”

  The boy stepped back. He laughed and cried together. Pointlessly wiped his eyes. “It might.”

  “Yeah. It might.” Jennings tried to grin and couldn’t. “Trust me, though. Don’t do it.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Jennings. I’m not sure where all this came from. Sorry to dump it on you.”

  “You got friends in the other dorm? Go hang out there and cool off.”

  Benji, nodding and sniffing. “Good idea. Yeah I will.”

  Jennings watched him plod to the sidewalk. He was cut down with grief at the wake of destruction Lynch left across everyone.

  In some ways losing was better than winning because it took the pressure off. A crushing observation.


  Jennings was returning to his apartment when his phone started buzzing with text messages. The first few were from Coach Murray.

  >> Get this, Jennings… after the game last nite, we r loading the buses and Lynch grabs my arm. That sasquatch tells me next year I’ll b looking 4 a job and I’ll b lucky 2 b coaching a middle school team.

  >> AFTER WE GOT TO THE FKN STATE FINALS!!

  >> I almost hit him. I don’t know about anything, man.

  Jennings read the words again. Set the phone down and thought over a good reply. He was still formulating when Craig Lewis texted too.

  >> Mr. Jennings, perhaps we should meet again. I cannot help but think something MUST be done about Peter Lynch. This old man is tired of doing nothing.

  Jennings sniffed to himself.

  Me too, Craig. Got any great ideas? Cause I’m running on empty.

  And then a third text. This one from Daisy Hathaway and it raised the little hairs on his neck.

  >> Mr. Jennings. I hope you don’t mind a Saturday night text. But I’ve been thinking all day and I have a plan. A crazy, ridiculous plan to catch Peter Lynch in the act. Would you like to hear it?

  He’d received the texts within sixty-seconds of each other. Now they beckoned from his phone. A coincidence? Or perhaps a supernal sign from above?

  He’s killed before. He’ll kill again. It might be you or Daisy, his phone cried.

  Missing girls in California. Ripped ears. A hook through her mouth. Modern Monsters. Kelly Carson. Benji in agony.

  He typed a reply. Copied and pasted it to all three.

  Can you come over right now?

  Coach Murray arrived holding a six-pack of Miller Lite by the empty rings; he’d already finished two.

  Jennings said, “Did you go see Benji first?”

  “Yeah. That was a good idea. Kid’s a mess.”

  “He needs new father figures. You give him a beer?”

  “Hell no. I need these.”

  Craig Lewis knocked on the door and raised a bottle of white wine. He smiled at the two men, abashed. “I know wine isn’t allowed on campus. But I’m more brave after a glass.”