Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “No!” I try to slide the door shut but he sticks his expensive sneaker in the way.

  Then he puts up his hands defensively as if he thinks I might try to push him over the balcony, which is a real possibility. “Truce,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

  “Ever heard of a phone? Get off my balcony!”

  “Why the hostility?” He puts on an innocent expression, but I’m not fooled.

  “You know what you did! And I do, too. Your minion gave it away by laughing at the scene of your crime.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I do not have minions.” He pushes further into my room, so our faces are only angry breaths apart.

  “Your Jay-Clones,” I spit out. “Wiley was there, gloating over your tagging. You make me sick! Hurting someone who never wronged anyone else is beyond low! K.C. is the sweetest, kindest, most generous guy I know. Why tag his car?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Wiley thinks you did.”

  “Wiley doesn’t know anything. He has no idea I’m the Reaper.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say skeptically. “How can your closest friends not know?”

  “If they did, they’d turn me in—after they beat the crap out of me. They hate the Reaper.” He gestures to the ski mask half hanging from his coat pocket, where only half a yellow smile shows. “Mason, Wiley, and Keith are okay, but Danny—he’s my third cousin—has a mean streak. Last year he was one of the Reaper’s targets.”

  “Your own cousin?” I’m not sure if I’m disgusted or impressed.

  “He deserved it. He used his girlfriend as a punching bag, then when she dumped him he trashed her rep in online videos. So the Reaper cast him in a video on how to treat ladies with respect.” He grins. “That video passed a million hits on YouTube.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you afraid it’ll get back to your friends?” I emphasize the last word in an accusing way.

  “I know you can be trusted,” he says.

  “Don’t you mean blackmailed ?”

  “Whatever works.”

  My hand grips the sliding door forcefully, keeping him out of my room. I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m both intrigued and reconsidering my plan to shove him off the balcony. I’m not ready to invite him in.

  “I haven’t gone to NB High long, so I don’t know much about what happened last year,” I admit. “I didn’t even know about the Grin Reaper until this week. A lot of things don’t make sense. Your friends look up to you so much, yet you don’t confide in them. Why hang with people you don’t trust?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s the vague sort of non-reply I’d expect from you. How about being honest for a change?”

  He bites his lower lip, which I notice is slightly chapped. There’s a tiny scar, too, at the edge of his lips, giving him a ghost half-smile even though he’s scowling. He’s so close I smell his earthy scent—sweat, and citrus from soap or shampoo.

  “You want the truth?” he asks quietly.

  “It would be a refreshing change.”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to K.C.’s car—but I know who did it.”

  My fingers slip from the sliding door as I reel back. “How do you know?”

  “I told you I have ways of finding out things. When someone hurts a decent guy like K.C., I don’t sit around doing nothing. I gather facts—then I make plans. I’ll tell you more if you let me inside.”

  “I’ve been told to never let strangers into my home,”

  “And you always do exactly what you’re told,” he says sarcastically.

  “Of course. My mother is a minister, you know, so I’m a model citizen.”

  He laughs, and I can’t help but smile, too.

  I glance behind him into darkness. “Why even come here?”

  “To give you an invitation.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t do proms.”

  He laughs. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

  “What’s the invitation?”

  “The Grin Reaper is going after the guy who tagged K.C.’s car. Tonight. Want to come along?”

  His words are more seductive than poetry or music. Not in a romantic way—in a vengeful way. Although I have to admit there’s something roguishly sexy about Jay that adds a thrill when I answer, “yes.”

  So I invite him into my room.

  “All this yours?” He gestures to my living room, which opens into a bedroom with a peaked ceiling, the kitchenette, and my private bathroom.

  “As much as a rented house can be. My parents want the younger kids closer to them, so I lucked out and got the attic. It’s drafty, with old plumbing and a toilet that doesn’t always flush. But it’s great to finally have my own bedroom.”

  “Not a bedroom: a suite.” He gives a low appreciative whistle. “Sweet.”

  I shrug, not believing for a minute that the son of a wealthy judge is impressed with my ramshackle farmhouse.

  “Sit there.” I point to the sagging couch which came with the house. “I’m going to change my clothes.”

  “Can I watch?” he teases.

  “Only if you want to get kicked somewhere that will hurt very badly.”

  “Tempting offer but I’ll pass.” He shifts his hands to cover his lap.

  “Good idea.” I’m smiling as I shut my bedroom door behind me.

  What does a girl wear on a Vigilante Night Out?

  I open drawers and search my wardrobe, settling on black jeans, a dark blue knit top, and a black jacket. I shut off the warning in my head that this is insanity squared by stupidity. I refuse to think of consequences. Instead I remember K.C.’s stricken face staring at his ravaged car. And I lust for revenge.

  When I step out into the brittle icy air on my balcony, I blink into inky night until my vision adjusts. The sky is blanketed in dark clouds that shut out the stars, and if there’s a moon, it’s hidden, too. I tighten my jacket, then look down to see how Jay got up to my balcony. He gestures to a grapple hook rope attached to the balcony rail.

  “Climbing was easy,” he explains.

  “Not bad for an amateur.”

  “Amateur?” He snorts. “You got something better?”

  “Live and learn,” I say with a swagger as I reach down for my silk ladder.

  I attach the ladder to the rail and toss it over the balcony; it unfolds with the grace of silken wings. Gripping the rail, I fling myself over, my feet catching on the rungs of the fabric ladder. Then I climb down as if the silky cloth is a sturdy staircase.

  “Not bad for an amateur.” Grinning, Jay tosses his grapple hook and rope to the ground, then follows me down my silken ladder.

  I pull the string to roll up the ladder, then follow Jay through the back gate. We hurry down our long dirt driveway to the country road, where only a dim light from our porch cuts through the night.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, with a curious glance up and down the deserted street.

  “Seven miles east.”

  “Like that tells me anything.”

  “Patience,” he says.

  “Not one of my traits.”

  “I’ll explain all soon.”

  “You’d better,” I tell him.

  His strides are long and quick, making me half-run so I don’t lose him. I consider asking him to slow down, but that would come off as weak—which I’m not. So I take two steps to his every step. After what has to be a mile, I’m breathing hard. When he said we were going seven miles, I didn’t think he meant by foot. I’m relieved when he stops at a teal green sedan parked on the road.

  “This is your car?” I expected him to drive the latest model pickup, like most guys at Nevada Bluff High.

  “No. M
y father’s.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his tone.

  “He’s okay with your using it?”

  “He’s okay with anything I do—as long as I keep up my GPA and stay out of his way.” Jay shrugs, then opens the passenger door for me in a gentlemanly gesture. The door shuts behind me and there’s a click of the lock as I slip into plush leather.

  He twists the key in the ignition. The engine is soft as a kitten’s purr and the heavy doors are soundproof; it’s like we’re shut off from the world. Jay doesn’t turn on the headlights for a few miles. It’s eerie to drive with no lights, only the faint red and blue glow from the dashboard. When he flips the lights on, the dashboard flashes with complex dials and buttons. I suspect this deluxe luxury sedan could drive itself.

  “Now we can talk.” He leans back comfortably in his seat and steers with only two fingers on the wheel.

  “I only want to hear the truth.”

  “You think I’d lie?” He lifts his brows, offended.

  “It seems likely, considering how good you are at it.”

  “I swear I won’t lie to you,” he says with a cross-the-heart gesture. “If you ask something I can’t talk about, I just won’t answer.”

  “Fair enough. So start with the name of the tagger.” Anger flares as I remember the broken-winged hood eagle and K.C.’s stricken face. “Who is he?”

  “Clive Farnway.”

  I search my memory but come up blank. “Don’t know him.”

  “You don’t want to.” Jay replies. “But you’ve probably seen his truck—super-sized tires, gold hubcaps, fully loaded and lifted up high enough to drive over a bull without getting pierced by its horns.”

  “That monstrosity?” I scowl. “It always takes up three parking places.”

  “That’s Clive for you—greedy as all get-out. And a mean bastard.”

  “What does he have against K.C.?”

  “Nothing personal. I doubt he even knows K.C. With Clive, it’s all about cars. He’s a car snob. If K.C.’s car had been the latest-model truck, Clive would have been cool with it. But he considers all old cars junk—even a vintage classic.”

  “You’re saying Clive attacked K.C.’s car because it wasn’t good enough for him?” I ask angrily.

  “Clive is picky about what’s acceptable for the student parking lot. This isn’t the first time he’s tagged a car.” Jay’s lip scar stretches into a dead-serious line. “But it will be his last.”

  I like the dangerous edge to his tone. Jay and I are on the same side now—at least for tonight.

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask him. “Are we going to beat Clive until he looks like dog meat?”

  “Violence isn’t my style,” Jay says as the darkness folds around us. “My punishments suit the crime.”

  “Like what?”

  “Strike Clive where it’ll hurt worse than anything physical.” Jay’s grin widens. “We’re going after his truck.”

  Seventeen

  Clive lives in an area of expensive ranch homes where the

  fencing is plastic and the horses are pedigreed. We park a few blocks away and start walking.

  “What if someone sees us?” I ask when I spot a neighborhood watch sign and security lights glaring from driveways.

  “We pretend to be lovers out for an evening walk.”

  “Don’t make me ill.”

  Jay chuckles. “Pretend I’m the hottest guy you know and you’re wild for my body.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not that good an actress.”

  “Then we should rehearse now. First step is holding my hand.” His words throw out a challenge.

  I don’t back down, reminding myself I’m doing this for K.C.

  The callused touch of Jay’s hand surprises me. I’d expected that a preppy guy who lettered in golf—not a rough sport like football—would have soft skin. Besides, as the Reaper, he wears gloves. His hands are tan, with long fingers with a firm grip. There’s a ring on his left hand, a large smooth stone with multifaceted angles. It’s too dark to see what kind of stone, but I’m guessing something expensive like a diamond or ruby; a ring easily identified, which explains why the Reaper wears gloves.

  His voice breaks into my thoughts. “Are you going out with K.C.?”

  I rock back on my heels as if thrown off balance. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Curious. Is he your boyfriend?”

  My cheeks warm. “Don’t be stupid. K.C.’s just a friend.”

  “A friend that lives with you,” he points out.

  “Not with me—with my very large family. K.C. doesn’t even sleep in the house. He has the room over the garage.”

  “He’s a boarder?”

  “More like an adopted brother,” I say fondly. “When I met him, he was living out of his car. He’s had some bad breaks but he’s working hard to make something of himself. He helps my parents by fixing our car and doing occasional babysitting. He has a job after school and is saving for his own place, but it’ll take a while because he sends money home to his sister.”

  “Sounds like a saint.”

  “He’s just a nice guy,” I say defensively.

  “And I’m not,” he says, in a way that could be an apology or a boast.

  “Not much. When we first met you pushed me down, stole my backpack, and tossed it in a Dumpster.”

  “I needed to hurry back to class so I could anonymously leave a note saying where to find Bruce Gibson. I only dumped the backpack to get rid of you. I felt bad about that.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to lie,” I accuse him.

  “It’s the truth. You might not believe it, but the Grin Reaper evens the score around here. Nice kids are an endangered species and need protecting.”

  “But what makes you their protector?” I retort.

  “I can’t stand bullies winning and nice kids being victims. Like what happened to your friend.” Jay arrogantly lifts his chin. “Do you think what I do is wrong?”

  “Well … not so much anymore. I understand wanting to help the underdog. But why sneak around in a mask? If you know who’s guilty, why not go to a teacher, or to the sheriff for more serious things?”

  “Knowing and proving aren’t the same. Besides, have you met Sheriff Hart?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I say ruefully. “I get the feeling he thinks all teens are guilty until proven innocent.”

  “Yeah.” Jay nods. “If you’re under age, you’re under suspicion. He’s not corrupt like a lot of officials around here, but he can be as dense as winter fog. You need to smack him with hard evidence to get his attention. Since I don’t have proof that Clive tagged K.C.’s car, there’s no point in telling the sheriff. I’ll get my own justice.”

  “Like your name.”

  “Justice is my father’s name.” He stops walking. My eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness, so when he stares at me, I can see every curve and edge of his face. “You know what my mom used to say?”

  I shake my head.

  “‘Don’t expect life to be fair and you’ll never be disappointed. But when a rare miracle of justice occurs, be grateful.’”

  “I like that,” I tell him. “Your mom sounds cool.”

  “She was.” He glances down at the ground, then back up at me. “I learned the hard way not to wait around for miracles. I create my own justice.”

  The angry passion in his tone surprises me. Did something happen to his mother? Is that what drove him to become the Reaper? I want to ask, only there’s an uneasy tension between us. Being so close, talking like old friends instead of … well, I’m not sure what we are now. Not friends, but no longer enemies.

  “We’re away from security lights.” I walk ahead of him. “If we stay in the shadows, no one will see us.”
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br />   “Yeah.” He points up a rolling hillside. “Clive lives up there.”

  I look past the lush green lawn, which seems oddly out of place in this rural setting. I hear whinnies of horses from a pasture surrounded by pale white fencing that looms ghostlike in the dark. Golden lights twinkle from a sprawling two-story house—not a farmhouse, more like a mansion.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “We hope there aren’t any vicious guard dogs.”

  “Comforting thought.” I listen carefully, hearing nothing except the wind and neighing from the horses.

  “I didn’t have much time to check things out,” Jay says almost apologetically. “Only a quick drive-by of the area and a trip to the hardware store.”

  “Why the hardware store?”

  “Supplies.”

  “Where are they?” I gesture at his empty hands.

  “In the car for later.”

  He stops in front of a livestock gate and unhooks the latch. After holding the gate open for me to step through, he latches it behind us. We make our way cautiously along the fence line, creeping low until we reach the red barn.

  “What are you planning?” I ask, suddenly nervous when it occurs to me that he might be an arsonist. “Nothing that hurts animals?”

  “No animals will be harmed in the course of my actions tonight.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  He puts his finger to his lips. “No more talking.”

  I hear squawking from chickens but no barking, which is a small relief. We move in the shadows, nearing the barn with its strong odor of manure and the low sound of mooing. We pass the barn and continue toward the house. Are we going to break into Clive’s home?

  But Jay stops in front of a large metal building, which I thought was another barn until he whispers it’s a garage. “Clive’s into big, expensive toys.” He reaches out for the large double doors and pulls the curved metal handle. But nothing happens.

  “It’s locked,” I say, both disappointed and relieved.

  “I can handle it,” he assures me as he reaches into his coat pocket for a slim cloth case the size of a wallet. He slides it open to reveal tiny metal picks. I watch in fascination as he tries different picks, poking until there’s a click and the door opens.