“100% all natural pine casket”
The scream took a moment to register, but when it did, it reverberated off my death trap into my chest and then back out again. I thrashed and kicked, clawed and screamed again. They had buried me alive, and who knew where I was or if anyone would ever find me. How much time did I have? What could I do other than lie back and let the tiny casket suffocate the life out of me?
Pain in my fingertips reminded me I was not dead yet. Despite the sheer panic and my trembling body, I tried to talk myself down. I couldn’t have been buried long. I was not hit that hard. I had an hour at least, if I was careful. That meant no more panicking. My breaths slowed, even though each one shook with the same current as my body. I closed my eyes and pretended I was in the MRI, nothing to worry about, just another checkup. What I would have given for all the clanging and thumping instead of the deafening silence of that casket.
As my breathing stilled and my meditative training took over, I pulled my cell phone to my face, careful to stare only at the screen, not at the words on the box that had caused my panic. I expected no service at the top of my phone, but there were two bars.
I dialed Uncle Shane’s number and waited. Each ring drove my heart rate up. Each moment that passed drove me closer to loosing it once more. Voice mail. I waited for the beep and said, “Uncle Shane, it’s Lindy. Please pick up. I’m in trouble. Please. They’ve buried me somewhere, and I need your help. Please—” The machine cut me off, and I had to squeeze my eyes closed to remain in control again. My head was killing me. I wasn’t sure if it was the blow to the head or the buildup of carbon dioxide. How much oxygen could one casket hold?
I glanced at the screen again. One of the bars had disappeared. With my jaw clenched to trap the scream inside of me where it could not eat up my air, I dialed Ryder’s number. The screen flashed, “connecting” for nearly a full minute before it said, “call ended.” I tried three more times, all with the same result. My battery was fading, and my oxygen was depleted.
I opened up the page that contained our texts and typed in a short message, “SOS,” hoping that a smaller package would find its way out. Then I clicked off the phone and waited. As long as my eyes remained closed, I could pretend I was waiting for the MRI. I made up a story about a technician that was always behind. Any minute Lenny the late technician would start the process, and I would be that much closer to finishing.
As tears dropped from my eyes into my ears, I realized my tricks were not enough. I had to face the reality that I might not get out. There were hundreds of stories of people buried alive, but only a handful of survivors.
The ancient Romans used to punish the unfaithful Vesta virgins by burying them alive. At least they were given some food so they could choose when they died. I had even heard of a few cases in more recent times where carelessness had played a part in the premature burial, and the families found out the hard way that their child had been buried too soon.
One woman in Greece was buried alive and discovered only because the children above her heard the screams as they played on the ground where she had been buried, but even she was dead before help arrived. There were other cases throughout history but very few survivors. Why did I suspect I could be any different?
It was ironic really. All my life I had thought that my disease would kill me in the end. Asphyxiation had never even been in the running. I spent so much time worried that I would die a long and horrible death, and yet I had mere moments left. I thought I should be relieved. After all, I had been spared the agonizing deterioration that I had feared. Hadn’t I always said that if I was going to go, I wanted to go in my sleep? I had been granted that wish. My head was already swimming, slightly loopy and light. Before long the lack of oxygen would force me into a sleep, and I would never wake up. It was painless and dignified in a way. There would be no need to rebury me. I was already there. A hysterical giggle bubbled up out of my throat but quickly choked off into a sob. I did not want to die. I was not ready to die. Not yet.
The light of my cell phone burned through my eyelids and they popped open in response. After a moment I could focus on the words. “Where are you? I’m coming.”
A surge of hope swelled within me but was quickly crushed. Ryder had gotten my message, but what could I tell him? I had no idea where I was.
I quickly typed, “Was at the church. Knocked out. Buried alive,” and pressed send. On a second thought I added. “Battery and oxygen low.” With only 2 percent left, I clicked off the phone and waited. I dared not get my expectations up. If he was coming from Seattle, I was as good as dead. Even with controlled breathing, there was no way.
The light flashed, and I opened my eyes. Just before my phone died, I read the words, “I’m coming for you. Don’t give up, Huckleberry.” Then it was just the darkness. Oppressive and encompassing and never ending like my inevitable death.
I had never been religious, that was Stella’s thing, but there in that box, I began to pray. I didn’t know what I was doing, not really, but I hoped wherever God was, he could hear the thoughts of my mind. I didn’t ask for a rescue. It was too improbable. But I did ask for peace for Uncle Shane. I asked for closure for Ryder and a woman who would love him. I asked for forgiveness for my mistakes that had hurt the people I loved. I asked that my sister Jackie would somehow be found and that my parents could hold their baby girl one last time since they would be robbed of my life. Then I asked God to be patient with me for treating Him as if He were Santa Claus, I just didn’t know any better. I said “amen” at the end because that was what Stella said, and I hoped it was a thick enough stamp that it could reach Him.
My hair was damp from my tears, but I was careful not to relinquish control. It would cost me valuable air. The space in my head that held rational thought faded in and out. Concepts became fuzzy, and memories flooded in indistinguishable patterns, distant moments from a life I wished I had actually lived. It seemed so wrong to end it so easily, as sweat pooled on my forehead and my breath became shallow.
I could feel the sleep pressing in, the angel of death was knocking at my door, and I had no choice but to let him answer. If my disease did not kill me first, I had often imagined a painful death, especially with the career I had chosen. A gunshot or a knife wound, something that made me bleed out painfully until my last breath faded. But, the angel of death was more like an angel of mercy, guiding me to another place, a peaceful transition of light and blissful happiness. Stella would be there. Through the angel’s knock, I could almost see her hand. The air was thin, the knock was loud, and I could hear my name. “Lindy! I’m coming.”
There was a sickening crack, then a rush of dirt and air, sweet, sweet air. Light, lantern light, and a strong masculine hand stretched out to me. With my weak arm I grasped his and let him drag me free of the mud and splintered wood. Dirt tumbled around me, clogging my mouth and covering my body. I coughed over and over as I landed on firm soil. Oxygen seemed foreign to my lungs. Light danced behind my eyes as I half-crawled, half-dragged my limp body as far as I could from the hole. Ryder grabbed the lantern and followed after me, collapsing to his knees and flipping me over to examine me.
“Lindy, are you breathing okay?”
“It hurts,” I whimpered through gasping breaths, but I gulped air just the same as if there were not enough to fill my need. I could feel the wet earth beneath me, my hands grimy and coated from my escape.
He flashed a light into my eyes, nearly blinding me, and then checked my pulse and respiration. When he was satisfied, he collapsed beside me, his body damp with perspiration and mud.
We lay there a long time, like two zombies brought back to life. In essence, I had been brought back to life. With all of my strength, I rolled myself into his arms and clutched him to me. Never again could I claim I was without a friend. He had saved me, and I was forever indebted to him. My vision finally cleared. I could see the stars in the sky and the moon just barely peeking over the trees. I tilted my head up
and kissed Ryder’s lips. It wasn’t romantic, not really, but what could convey my feelings better than that? It was a part of me I wanted him to have, and I was happy to give it.
I pulled back and let the kiss break without a word. I collapsed against his chest, completely spent.
The words tumbled from me with ease as I said, “Thank you, Ryder. Thank you for coming for me.”
I felt his hand skim down the length of my hair, entwining with the strands at the base as he pressed me close. His voice was at a whisper but husky with emotion. “I thought I lost you, Huckleberry. I never thought I would make it here in time.”
I didn’t want to confess that I had given up, that I had consigned myself to death. He had beaten every scenario in my mind, and I was beyond grateful.
“You saved my life,” I agreed.
Reason trumped the moment of victory as Ryder sat up, my head slipping down to the leaves and sticks on the ground.
“We have to get out of here. If they come back, you’re in no condition to run,” he said.
“My car is back on the main road behind some bushes. Take me back there, and I’ll get home.”
Ryder retrieved my cell phone from the hole and began filling the dirt back into my grave.
“We’re leaving your car right where it is, and you’re not going home.”
I watched him with wide eyes, unsure of his plan. “I know I’m still groggy, but I don’t follow.”
“We will fill in this hole and leave your car. They think you’re dead, and with what I know and what you know, we might stand a chance. You’re coming back with me to the lighthouse.”
I wanted to understand. I wanted to help with his plan, but I was still too hazy. Instead I listened to the rhythm of his shovel and focused on the stars above my head. Somewhere inside me I knew my prayer had been heard. I could rationalize away the coincidences, but the first conclusion made more sense to me. God heard me, and he sent an angel to rescue me. From somewhere in the heavens I could feel Stella smiling at my interpretation.
Ryder’s sweaty hand grasped mine and pulled me to my feet. With my arm around his shoulder, we hobbled through the darkness, the shovel in his hand and the lantern swinging haphazardly from mine. Through the swaying light, I could see the cemetery. Somehow Ryder had found me in the dark, nearly 10 yards away from the other graves. I thought of the men I had seen working in the cemetery. I had to wonder if it had been their plan all along to bury me. I had just simplified the plan by coming to them instead.
“How did you find me?” I asked as we stumbled through the forest.
Ryder stopped near an outbuilding, leaned the shovel against a wall and clicked off the light of the lantern.
“You wouldn’t believe me.” He replaced my arm around his neck and resumed our pace in the light of the moon.
“Try me,” I encouraged.
“I don’t know. The same way I found that shovel and the light. I felt like someone was guiding me, like I knew it was there on instinct. Maybe I saw it at the funeral and forgot. Then I got lost while I was trying to find the main cemetery, and I caught a glimpse of some disturbed dirt. I just knew it was you, so I dug as fast as I could.” His arm braced my ever-weakening body as he added, “You must have one heck of a guardian angel.”
If that job had been assigned to my Aunt Stella, then I was in luck because I could not think of a better angel.
Chapter 21
The door at Ryder’s place squeaked as it swung open. The air inside was frigid and damp almost like a basement. He quickly walked to the thermostat, apologizing along the way.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been gone so much, and I was on my way back tonight. I turned the heat off. It’ll warm up quickly, and I can light a fire if you would like.”
How could I complain? I was alive, and he was offering sanctuary. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Ryder flipped on a light, and the space illuminated instantly. It was obviously used as his studio. Half-finished sculptures, large metal poles, and countless canvases were stacked against the walls. If I had not been so shaken up, I might have wanted to look around. I was particularly interested in the piece he had covered in a drop cloth before I could catch sight of it. The space was a full access pass into Ryder’s mind. But my own mind was far from functioning and certainly not fit to analyze what I saw.
It was so unusual to see Ryder anxious in any way, but as he watched my eyes move over the space, I felt his need for my acceptance.
“This is my place,” he said, his arms outstretched before they fell at his sides.
The heater kicked on, a whirring and then whooshing sound filled the space between us.
“It’s pretty amazing,” I said.
I must not have shown enough enthusiasm because he immediately ushered me from the room. “You need to rest. It’s late. You can have my room.”
He pressed me toward the nautilus staircase that led straight up out of the room in a dizzying spiral. As I ascended the metal stairs, I tried to argue with him. “I don’t have to take your room. Just give me a couch. That’ll be fine.”
He was adamant. “No. I’ll take the spare room on the second floor. That way they would have to pass by me to get to you.”
The second floor felt more like a home. In the brief moment I glanced around the open floor plan, I could see a kitchen, couches, and even a dining table, but Ryder’s insistence urged me on to the next staircase and farther up.
“What time is it?” I asked as I finally took the last steps.
He did not have to look at his watch. “Near midnight.”
Ryder left my side and moved to the far side of the room where his dresser sat. As he searched through the drawers, I surveyed his room. Though it was huge, it was relatively empty other than the antique pieces of furniture that dotted the room, another reminder of his privileged life gone sour. His bed sat on a box spring with no frame, the blankets pooled around the edges on the ground. In place of a headboard, he had painted a mural. I recognized the Seattle skyline, though the buildings all melted as if they were black sand disintegrating in a thunder storm, evidence of his frustration over a former life.
“This was your grandfather’s home?”
Ryder pulled a couple of pieces free of the drawer and stacked them on top before diving back in to find something else. “Yes. My mother’s father. She grew up here. Her mom died when she was pretty young, so it was just her and my grandfather for a long time.”
It made sense that he would gravitate toward his maternal grandfather, considering the strain he felt with his father.
“What did your grandfather do? Did he operate the lighthouse?”
I could see another set of stairs at the end of the enormous room. Surely it led up to the short tower that held the light.
Ryder took a stack of clothes and set them in my arms, a nostalgic smile spread across his face.
“Grandpa Mark was the coolest guy who ever lived. He was in the Navy, and he built this place with his own two hands when he got out. He was a carpenter and welder, and I think he raised me for the most part. I used to spend summers here to escape my parents’ constant bickering.” His eyes traveled over the space with reverence. “It’s always been my safe haven.”
His gaze met mine for a moment, and my head started to spin with anxiety.
Ryder’s hands fell away from the stack. “Do you want a shower?”
Dirt still dappled my skin and left a little trail behind me as I walked. I wanted to sleep, but the thought of lying down again still terrified me.
“Yes. That would be good.”
He pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. “Through that door, and if you toss your clothes out, I’ll wash them for you tonight so you don’t have to stay in mine.”
I acknowledged his words and followed his instructions. The bathroom was small but adequate. I turned on the shower in the boxy stall and let the water heat. Carefully, I placed my clothes outside the door then climbed in
to the shower. The warm water felt soothing against my skin, but the confinement of the shower made my pulse rise. If I kept my eyes open, I could breathe through it and remain rational.
As I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, my eyes closed out of reflex, and my elbow hit the tiled wall of the shower. The small collision crushed me with the weight of the dirt that had nearly suffocated me, flashbacks of reaching out to the edges of the tiny casket, and memories of what I had believed were the last moments of my life.
A small scream burst from my throat as I stumbled back and smacked into the opposite wall. As water dripped over my face and choked my other screams, I tried to remind myself it was not real. I knew that, but I crumpled to the floor anyway, tucked into a ball as the water pelted me relentlessly.
The knock was almost immediate. “Lindy, are you okay?”
His voice had a way of anchoring me without a single touch.
“I’m fine. Just soap in my eyes,” I lied. My hands shook with the same tremor as my voice.
He did not buy it, but he let it go anyway. “I’m right outside if you need me.”
Pulling myself to my feet, I rinsed my hair and turned off the water. Opening the door again felt like pure freedom as if I feared I might never free myself from the tiled box. I dried quickly and pulled on the sweatpants and long-sleeved top Ryder had loaned me. I stared at my reflection, a wide-eyed ghost with a dark bruise forming near my right temple. My hair was clean but tangled.
As if reading my mind, Ryder’s voice came through the door. “There’s a brush in the top drawer. My mom left it last time she was here.”
Gratefully, I removed the brush with blonde hair caught between the bristles and combed my hair until I felt a little more human again. There was nothing I could do about the bruise or the fear or the constant tremble of my hands, so I opened the door and stepped out.
Ryder sat on the edge of his bed bent over, his face buried in his hands. The sound of my feet on the hardwood brought his head up. He had changed into sweats as well.
Caskets & Conspiracies Page 22