Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  “No, babe. You’re fly. Trust me. I couldn’t believe it when Daisy Hathaway wanted to go out with me. The Daisy Hathaway. I still feel that way. Every time I look at you.”

  “You’re sweet.” She gave him a smile at half-wattage.

  “Is it working?”

  “No.” And it wasn’t. He was making a big speech, doing his best, but in her mind he’d already been gone.

  “You wanna fool around one last time?”

  “Tempting. But I think we better not, Byron.”

  “You and this new guy. Are you two an item?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Byron said, “Really? Why not? Then why the heck am I—”

  “You need to move out because it’s best for you. Not because I found someone else. With him, I don’t know what will happen because…like you said, life is difficult. I don’t know exactly how he feels and he’s dealing with life too.”

  “Have you two…?”

  “No.”

  “Is he blind? I see how you’ve been dressing.”

  “He’s preoccupied.”

  “Are you blind? Big good-looking guy like that… Surely you noticed.”

  She smiled. “I noticed. But I was engaged. And I don’t break the rules. At least when I can help it.”

  “Hey, weird question. Can I have the ring? Might be able to get some money back. You haven’t worn it in a long time.”

  Byron said it casually with no idea how it might sting. But Hathaway felt nothing. She wasn’t even sure where the ring was. She searched a moment, found it in a drawer, came back, and set it between them.

  The sight of the little gold ring on the cheap table grabbed them both. It felt like the totemic period at the end of a long, rambling sentence. This was the moment their old life ended.

  “We…” Byron’s voice caught. He wiped his eyes, surprised at their betrayal. “We really screwed it up, didn’t we.”

  “We really did.”

  “From here on out, we’ll do it better.”

  She lowered into her chair again. Pushed her hair back. She’d run out of words too.

  “Right, kid? We’ll do it better in the future.”

  She hoped so. At the moment, however, she couldn’t see beyond the next twenty-four hours. The future was a great yawning abyss.

  Peter Lynch sat in his office, not working. His inattention to his legal practice resulted in accumulating piles of manila folders on the desk and in the corners. His office manager Jerry had given up trying. Jerry came into work each morning hoping Lynch had dealt with at least one case the previous night, prepared for a day of forging his signature and making excuses to opposing counsels.

  Lynch’s eyes were glued on his two new monitors. Live video feeds, sharp, clear, and in color. One of a dark bedroom, one of a bright kitchen. He’d placed the small cameras himself two days ago when he could wait no longer. They were artfully hidden and motion activated—he had a few months of battery life. He’d installed a wireless Verizon hotspot in the attic for the cameras.

  Through his speakers, voices spoke.

  The man—a boy in need of a haircut, really—was talking.

  You wanna fool around one last time?

  The woman, Lynch’s woman, replied, Tempting. But I think we better not, Byron.

  Lynch’s teeth relented and he swallowed blood. He didn’t know what he’d do if his bedroom camera caught them fornicating. He might drive there and kill them both. He pumped his fist and smiled, crimson along the gums.

  You and this new guy. Are you two an item?

  I’m not sure.

  Really? Why not? Why the heck am I—

  You need to move out because it’s best for you. Not because I found someone else. With him, I don’t know what will happen because…like you said, life is difficult. I don’t know exactly how he feels and he’s dealing with life too.

  She’s talking about me. SHE’S TALKING ABOUT ME! The halls of his mind were fuzzy, the pathways changing, and he no longer knew how to think clearly.

  Have you two…?

  No.

  Is he blind? I saw how you’ve been dressing.

  He’s preoccupied.

  Are you blind? Big good-looking guy like that… Surely you noticed.

  I noticed. But I was engaged. And I don’t break the rules, at least when I can help it.

  Lynch stood up and his rolling chair shot backwards. He lumbered away from his desk, hands balled into fists.

  “Big guy, preoccupied…” he said. Lynch paused to enjoy the sensation of his chest swelling, the pure sweetness of requited affection. A shocking change from his primary emotion—rage. “I was engaged. Was engaged… She WAS engaged.”

  He stopped pacing to brace himself on his desk, his hands gripping the edge near the glinting fish hooks. The fish hooks he no longer needed. Probably no longer needed.

  We really screwed it up, didn’t we.

  We really did.

  From here on out, we’ll do better.

  Lynch’s strength gave out and he lowered to his knees. Dropped his head and bit the edge of the desk, leaving teeth prints in the mahogany. Clamped down until it hurt, hurt enough to provide release.

  On screen, the man said, Are you still going to that big Christmas party?

  No, I don’t think so.

  Lynch’s eyes popped open.

  Why not? I’ll go with you, if you don’t want to go stag.

  No thank you. That’s not it, said Daisy.

  She wasn’t going? Why the hell not?

  Not in the holiday spirit, huh. Me either, said the man.

  I just can’t this year.

  Lynch released the table with his teeth. Stared at the screen. His fingers moved automatically, like drawing the point of a hook across his thumb over and over, the reflex of a child in thought.

  Whispering, cold and quiet. “No, Daisy. The guest of honor can’t skip the party. Tomorrow is the most important day of your life. Of our life.”

  52

  Dean Gordon sat in his office on the morning of the Christmas gala. He was leaning backward in his chair, his fingers pressed thoughtfully to his lips.

  On his computer screen, an email from the school board of trustees waited for his reply.

  …We are concerned the severity of Daniel Jennings’ charges is being made light of by the head of our Academy. The safety and security of our student body must come first, and yet an instructor accused of assault and battery remains on campus. It is the board’s directive that Mr. Jennings be removed from his post immediately and indefinitely…

  The board’s directive. Gordon snorted. This email had been written by Lynch alone. What a disaster the hiring of Daniel Jennings had become. Not for anything he did wrong; in fact the students and faculty loved him. So did the parents. It was Lynch who bore the blame. He’d been suggesting to Gordon for weeks that Jennings should be released, offering no real reason.

  Farther down the letter.

  It is also the determination of the board that the Academy hire a new athletic director and football coach for the next school year. We leave it to your discretion when to alert Tyron Murray about his need to secure a position elsewhere…

  Firing Coach Murray was unconscionable. A hard-working and well-respected man who took a lesser football team to the state finals. Another demand directly from Lynch, who thought his son Benjamin was the next great NFL star. Everything about the email reeked.

  On his screen, just visible behind the Outlook window, was the audio file of Lynch and Ms. Hathaway. The file she says Lynch had doctored to cover his assault in the car. He still had the note from Jennings about Lynch’s erratic behavior in the classroom, throwing books and speaking inappropriately to Ms. Hathaway. And now Mr. Jennings claimed Lynch planted cocaine in his truck, something he wouldn’t put past the man.

  Gordon minimized the Outlook window, revealing an open Excel spreadsheet behind it. The budget projections for the next school year. They planned to spend fort
y-thousand dollars per student and that was the bare minimum. Fifty-thousand or higher was more in line with their competitors, but the Academy was only charging thirty-two for tuition, room, and board, and that was if the student didn’t qualify for assistance, resulting in their current huge deficit. Gordon had checks to write before Christmas totaling half a million dollars. And another half million in January. Another in February.

  It could work. It would work, based on trends. But only if the school’s benefactors didn’t bail. Only if he appeased the wealthy titans.

  Some days Gordon thought about quitting. Moving with his wife to Arizona and the dry heat and not providing Peter Lynch an address. Jettisoning himself from the grind. Escaping the budgets and instructor complaints and banal chores. Chores like arranging for substitutes when a teacher no-showed, as Daisy Hathaway had done today. Very unlike her.

  Gordon picked up his phone. Paused. Replaced the receiver. Better practice the speech first.

  “Mr. Jennings, this is Dean Gordon. I’m afraid the school board would prefer…no, the trustees are directing you…have directed you to leave… The trustees have directed you to vacate the apartment provided for you. In an abundance of caution. The safety of our students…the student body…”

  He picked up the receiver again and Jennings’ voice drifted from it.

  Let’s not pretend you’re innocent or ignorant. You have a guess about what happened to Craig Lewis. You have a big problem on your hands. And it isn’t me.

  No. He couldn’t do it. Not right now.

  He couldn’t call Murray either. The faculty would know instantly and tonight’s gala would be ruined. The Christmas gala.

  It was Christmas, for heaven’s sake!

  He replaced the receiver again.

  He’d tell Jennings in person tomorrow. He’d offer him severance pay. Hell, he might even help the man pack and pay for a moving truck.

  Why? Stone cold guilt and cowardice, that’s why.

  You have a big problem on your hands, Gordon.

  53

  Jennings slept like the dead until his apartment’s phone won the battle. It rang until Jennings forced himself into the kitchen.

  “Morning, my man. It’s your favorite attorney,” said Josh Dixon, loud and bright in his ear.

  Hathaway was gone but she’d left a note with XOXO after her name. “Is something wrong?” Jennings mumbled.

  “I’m guessing you just woke up and you won’t get there for your test,” said Dixon.

  Jennings blinked stupidly at the sunlight pouring through his window. “My test?”

  “According to the terms and conditions of your bond, you need to pass a weekly drug test. Your number popped today and you should’ve received a text about it.”

  “My phone’s dead.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll call them and reschedule you for this afternoon. District 15 Probation and Parole in Salem.”

  “Thanks, Josh. I’ll get there.” He rubbed his face and leaned against the bedroom door jamb.

  “You bet, what are friends for. And let’s talk after, huh? I can’t stop thinking about Peter Lynch, my man. I might drive out there myself and take pictures. You said it’s in a field? This could be huge.”

  “Not a good idea. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”

  “Why don’t I meet you after test?” said Dixon.

  “Because I’m getting out of town. He’s a danger to Daisy Hathaway, the girl I mentioned. I’ll call you from the road.”

  “You’d be breaking the conditions of your bond. Gotta stay in Roanoke. Let’s go to the field and you show me what you saw.”

  “That’d be breaking the conditions too.”

  “Fair point. The hell kind of lawyer am I?” Dixon laughed. “Can you send me the coordinates?”

  Some inner voice cautioned against it, concerned at his attorney’s blind enthusiasm. “Maybe later. I’ll think about it.”

  “Send some Google Earth photos too, of the field’s location. For evidence. Hey, that drug test today. You’ll pass, right?”

  “Yes, I’ll pass the test. No drugs.”

  “Good. Take the test and call me after. This is going to be huge, bud. For both of us.”

  Jennings took a shower. Dressed and made coffee. Using the apartment phone, he called and left a message with Coach Murray, thanking him for his help. Then he called Hathaway’s phone but she didn’t answer. He left a message, telling her he’d be ready to travel after his drug test, and to call him back.

  But she didn’t. Her reply never came.

  54

  A professional decorating crew was festooning Peter Lynch’s home in holiday cheer, and Chief Gibbs parked his unmarked cruiser beside their van.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead and fumbled with another pill bottle he’d purchased that morning after a sleepless night. He worked the safety cap with thick, shaking fingers but the damn thing wouldn’t open so he threw it against the glass. The top popped off and pills scattered like confetti.

  Good hell. Nothing was going right.

  He scrabbled two caplets together, tossed them back, and drank from his coffee thermos. Deep breath. Opened the car door.

  A woman dressed in a white parka and Isotoner gloves was wrapping blinking garland around Peter’s porch railing. She was about his age and she called, “Are we under arrest, officer?” the way women did to flirt with him.

  Gibbs couldn’t force a smile. “Maybe. You look like trouble.”

  Ann Lynch came running out of the house, arms raised. Such a little girl, such a big house, she often had it to herself. Her and Homer. Chief Gibbs picked her up, enduring the agony in his body, and kissed her forehead.

  “What are you doing here, Chief?”

  Gibbs wished she would call him Papa or Grandpa or something other than Chief. “I heard there’s a Christmas party. I don’t like to miss a good time.”

  She stuck her lower lip out. “I can’t go. I have to stay upstairs with Homer.”

  “Grownup parties are boring.”

  “Did you bring me a present?”

  “Not this time. Where’s your daddy?”

  He wanted to carry her across the lawn but couldn’t, so she ran up the wide staircase ahead of him. The house opened directly into a massive great room. More square footage than the chief’s entire home. A den, a living room, the dining room, all together with a good view of the kitchen over a marble counter. The ceilings were high and the room lit with wrought-iron chandeliers. The house was decorated like a luxury log cabin.

  Peter Lynch was in the kitchen shouting at his phone. Ann was inured to the shouting; she knew to shout back to be heard.

  Lynch saw him and his face paled. He’d trimmed his beard short to match the hair growing back in patches on his cheeks. He said, “Fix it. Get her here now or I’ll bankrupt you. And she better be kissing my ass when she arrives.” And hung up.

  “Afternoon, son,” said Gibbs.

  “Hello, Chief. What’re you doing here?”

  Gibbs noted the transformation, the tall angry man on the phone reducing to a frightened boy. It used to give him pleasure, but not today. “Your big party’s looking good.”

  “The bartending service is balking.”

  “I heard. Hope she shows, I could use a drink.”

  “Tonight is the Christmas party for the Academy,” said Lynch.

  “I know.”

  “The only invitees are the faculty and staff and the trustees. And their dates.”

  “Which means that pretty little Daisy is coming.”

  Lynch’s eyes glanced toward the stairs, so quick Gibbs didn’t register it. “She is.”

  “Which means you’ll do something stupid.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Your brother told me you plan on proposing.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” said Gibbs.

  “That’s not…your business.”

  “Like hell it ain’t. You d
o something stupid, it affects all of us.”

  “It’s not stupid. She won’t say no.” Lynch was talking in a whine. He heard it and hated himself.

  “Yes, boy. She will.” Gibbs walked toward him. Gibbs used the same method of intimidation that Lynch did, the menacing direct approach. Proximity and threat of violence. It worked on everyone, his clients, attorneys, teachers, and his children. He needed it to work on his son right now.

  “No I have it planned out.”

  “Your plans never work. Not once,” said Gibbs.

  “Trust me, I know she’ll say yes. I know she will. I… I have the ring.”

  Gibbs didn’t know it at the time, but Lynch had a big tuna hook in his left pocket, and an engagement ring in his right. Gibbs came around the counter into the kitchen. “You said that before, that you had it planned, that everything would be fine. With your first wife. With your second wife. With those girls you date. Trust me, you said, they love me. You fat… No.. Listen, son—”

  “This time—”

  Gibbs was close enough to hit Lynch, and he did. A slap to the face. Lynch, long accustomed to pain, showed nothing. Gibbs hadn’t meant to, but some reflex triggered. He pressed on. “This time nothing, boy. You can’t propose. She’s not some squirrel you can choke, a flopping rabbit you can hoist.”

  “I heard her, Chief. I heard her talking about me.”

  “You’re demented.”

  “No. I’m not! I did this.… My case is airtight.”

  “I raised you well and you… Dammit, Peter, you’re still a little demented boy chasing girls who don’t love you,” said Gibbs.

  “She does love—”

  Gibbs hit him again, the stinging slap of meat. “No. She doesn’t.”

  Lynch’s teeth started to grind. Through them he said, “You’ll see. You’ll see and it’ll be YOU apologizing to ME.”

  Gibbs reared back, ready to hit harder. “Daddies don’t apologize. Ever.”

  “I said YOU’LL SEE!” A sudden outburst and Lynch shoved the chief in the chest.

  The older man’s neck snapped forward—his muscles would hurt for a week. He hit the counter behind and rolled onto it, gasping. Twenty years ago he would’ve handled it better. Now everything screamed inside.