Play Dead

by Anne Frasier

  The ground was harder than I'd thought it would be. I dug for a long time, then sat down on a log and had a smoke.

  Should have just dumped him in the river. Why hadn't I just dumped him in the river?

  I knew the answer.

  I get these ideas in my head, and I can't get rid of them. They won't go away. They never go away until I see them through. Doesn't matter what they are. It can be as simple as something telling me to go touch a particular railing. Or brush my teeth. Wash my hands.

  When I got in that mode, I had to do it. No questions.

  Just do it.

  That's how it was with the cemetery. Bury Jordan in a cemetery. Seemed like a good idea. But the fucking ground. And the fucking shovel. It was dull. Like trying to dig with a board.

  I took a couple more quick puffs, dropped the filter-less cigarette, and ground it out with the toe of my boot. Even though the place was littered with butts, I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket.

  Leave no clues. No solid ones, anyway.

  Back to work.

  I dragged the body into the shallow trench. I tossed dirt until the entire thing was covered with at least a good six inches. Then, with my gloved hands, I raked leaves over that.

  I carried the crappy shovel back to the boat, then pulled out a backpack. At the burial site, I removed some items and arranged them nicely on the grave.

  A silver dollar. A bottle of whiskey. Things a dead guy would need. Then I pulled a small flannel bag from my pocket, opened the drawstring, and reached inside.

  Chapter 7

  "Watch the road," Eric Kaufman warned.

  Amy jerked her mom's van off the shoulder and back between the white lines. The windshield wipers were going full blast, but they couldn't keep up with the condensation. "It's so foggy." She put the headlights on high and they both recoiled from the glare. She switched back to low beam.

  "There," Eric said, pointing.

  Amy exited the two-lane to a gravel road with dense vegetation on both sides. Five minutes later they arrived at their spot—an old plantation cemetery on the edge of Savannah, overgrown and forgotten.

  Eric dug into a paper bag and pulled out two beers. He popped one open and handed it to Amy before opening another for himself.

  He took a long swallow, then contemplated a tombstone that was barely distinguishable in the yellow glow of the van's parking lights. "Do you ever think about what it's like to be dead?"

  "Don't say that!"

  "Everybody dies," he told her.

  Eric knew it was mean, but he couldn't help himself. He liked to tease. "It could be a car wreck. Or a virus. Cancer. Maybe a hockey puck to the chest. I knew a kid that happened to. Hit in the chest with a puck doing over ninety miles an hour. Killed him. Stopped his heart." He snapped his fingers.

  "Quit!"

  She sounded like his little sister.

  "People are walking cartoons, ignoring the iron beam when they bend to tie a shoe," Eric said. "Sometimes I feel like I should hook a loudspeaker to my car and drive down the street shouting warnings. Watch out, little kid. Don't ride that bike in the street. Watch out, old lady with the big purse. You may as well be wearing a sign that says beat me up and rob me."

  Eric didn't know what was wrong with him. He had been in a weird mood all day. A weird mood ever since high school graduation. He didn't want to grow up. He didn't want to have to make big decisions. He didn't want to have to go to college, get a job, wear a suit.

  "When I was in Girl Scouts, we had part of the highway we kept clean," Amy announced as she finished off her beer and stuck the empty in the sack. "You shoulda seen the stuff people threw out. I hated them for being such pigs. You wouldn't believe all the rubbers we found."

  "You picked up rubbers?" Eric asked, horrified. The image of Girl Scouts in their little green hats, sashes, and uniforms picking up rubbers—even if they wore gloves or used a stick—was disturbing.

  There were a lot of things in the world innocent kids shouldn't have to see. "That's disgusting!"

  "Some were pretty fresh."

  "Stop it. Now you're scaring me. I've heard enough, so just stop it, okay?"

  "Oh, it's fine for you to talk about dying and I can't talk about filthy rubbers?"

  "I just hope to hell you wore gloves." He finished off his beer. "I don't want to talk anymore." Maybe rolling around naked with Amy would make him feel better.

  While a CD played, they climbed in back and began making out. Eric was surprised at how fast he forgot about everything. They started breathing hard and the windows fogged over.

  "I gotta pee," Amy announced in the darkness.

  "Go ahead." He sat up and reached into the sack for another beer.

  "Aren't you coming with me?"

  He popped the top. "Nobody else here. Just go behind the van."

  She always wanted him to go with her and stand guard to make sure somebody didn't surprise her in the middle of a peeing session. One time she'd squatted in front of a bunch of cars and somebody turned on his headlights.

  Amy was completely uninhibited when it came to her body, but she still hadn't liked getting caught with her butt hanging out. Wasn't cool, and everybody she knew was concerned with being cool.

  "Somebody might pull up," she said.

  Eric put his beer in the holder. "Okay, I'll come." He hadn't meant to sound so annoyed.

  "Forget it. I'll go by myself." She started to step from the van, then paused. "Did you hear that?"

  "What?"

  "Some weird sound."

  She turned down the stereo until they were surrounded by nothing but the trilling of cicadas.

  "I don't hear anything," Eric said.

  "It was probably a cat. Or my imagination. You know how I am."

  Amy had a history of seeing and hearing things that weren't there. Like the time she swore she'd seen the lead guitar player from The Chambermaids in the school cafeteria, claiming he'd ordered a veggie burger and fries. Or the time she'd gotten to shake hands with the president of the United States, and thought he'd said, "Like to fuck you." Everybody else heard, "Good luck to you," because she'd been about to compete in a state swimming competition.

  Amy ducked from the van, slamming the door behind her. Eric waited a few seconds, listening to her crashing through the brush before deciding to grab the keys from the ignition and go after her.

  He followed the sound of snapping twigs, making his way around broken tombstones ensnarled by vines and roots and deep grass.

  "Amy?"

  He could hear her moving to his right.

  He took a few steps that direction, just beyond the haze cast by the parking lights, unzipped his pants, and peed. He was rezipping when his ears picked up a muffled sound that seemed to come from inside his own head. He froze, ears straining, the hairs on his neck standing up.

  "Amy?"

  Another noise. This one directly below him.

  Something pattered across the toe of his sneaker.

  What the hell? Was Amy hiding, tossing dirt at him?

  Something touched his ankle.

  It felt suspiciously like a hand.

  "Ha-ha. Very funny."

  She was trying to get him back for not immediately volunteering to baby-sit while she peed.

  Branches snapped and he looked toward a faint circle of light to see Amy walking toward him. "Did you say something?" she asked.

  Eric's jaw dropped and terror rapid-rushed through his body, weakening his muscles, making it impossible to breathe or move.

  It seemed years later that he was finally able to bend his neck to look down.

  A clawed hand was reaching out of the ground, its fingers wrapped around his shoe.

  *

  Jordan Kemp lost his grip on the shoe. He heard a shout, followed by the sound of someone running away.

  No! he cried out in his mind. Don't go!

  He fought the heaviness, rocking his body left and right in the loose soil, trying to make more roo
m.

  Air.

  Needed air.

  The muscles in his neck tightened. In one swift movement, he strained upward, his head breaking through the soil. Like a swimmer, he surfaced and gasped, sucking dirt into his mouth, his lungs.

  He gagged and coughed. Sitting up, he pulled his arms free, then his legs.

  Naked.

  Cold.

  He grabbed the blanket he’d been buried in and wound it around himself. His body began to tremble, to come alive.

  He heard music.

  Somehow he shoved himself upright, then stiffly shuffled in the direction of the sound.

  Couldn't feel his feet.

  Couldn't see.

  He fell down and got back up.

  Follow the music.

  His legs shook. He felt dizzy and sick. Even though he was free of the grave, an overwhelming sensation of impending doom washed over him.

  He was going to die. He was dying. Right now. His body was shutting down, giving up.

  He stumbled into a cleared area. He stood there swaying, trying to see where the sound was coming from, but everything was out of focus.

  The music stopped.

  Not much time left.

  He ran.

  Or at least he thought he was running. Prancing along, stumbling, trying to hurry before he fell again. Because if that happened, he wouldn't be able to get back up. That would be it. Last call for alcohol. Checkout time.

  Straight. Go straight.

  He zeroed in on the vehicle and flew toward it, the dark wool blanket fluttering like wings.

  With one quick, forward motion he slammed into the van, smacking his forehead, his palms spread flat against the window.

  A girl screamed.

  He tried to cling to the glass. His legs buckled and he hugged the van as he melted to the ground.

  Help me, he said, but no words came out. Help me!

  He was pretty sure he'd died and come back to life. And now he was dying again.

  How many times could a person die? he wondered. Were people like cats? Confused, he began to crawl, to drag himself back into the woods until he blacked out.

  The death he'd been expecting was very near.

  Chapter 8

  Officer Eve Salazar was thinking that the night had been fairly quiet when the police scanner flashed and the dispatcher spit out a suspicious-person code. The location, an abandoned cemetery where kids liked to hang out, was close. Her partner, Officer Reilley, flipped on the siren and swung the car around in the middle of the deserted street, tires squealing.

  Kids thought cops liked busting parties, but Eve hated it. It made her feel like such a hypocrite.

  Two miles later, Reilley executed a sharp right turn, leaving the blacktop behind. He barely slowed as the car bounced roughly over a narrow, rutted lane, the road eventually opening to a clearing.

  Directly in front of them was a blue van.

  Reilley jerked the patrol car to a stop while Eve scanned the area with the searchlight.

  Silence, fog, and broken gravestones.

  "This place is creepy," she said.

  "Didn't you ever come to a cemetery to make out?" Reilley asked, stepping from the squad car. Eve ignored his question, called in their position, then followed, panning the clearing with her flashlight, the fog creating a glare.

  "What's that?" she asked, freezing the light.

  She shifted the beam up and down; the movement made the shadows jump.

  "Let's check the van."

  Eve shone her light through the passenger window into the front seat. Empty. She knocked on the glass. "Police. Anybody in there?"

  She heard scrambling; then the door burst open and a girl of about seventeen tumbled out.

  "Oh, my God! Am I glad to see you. I always hated cops, but I love you." She threw herself at Eve, hugging her tightly. "I love you!"

  A blond-haired boy fell out behind her.

  Both kids began babbling at once, trying to tell them what had happened.

  "Somebody grabbed me," the boy said, his chest rising and falling, his words rapid-fire. "We ran back to the van and called the cops."

  As the story progressed, it became more ridiculous. Eve began to think the kids were victims of a practical joke. She looked up to see Reilley standing with a hand pressed to his mouth, trying not to laugh.

  So much better than finding somebody dead, Eve thought. Give her a practical joke any day.

  "Then this guy in a black cape—" the boy said, gesturing wildly. "He comes swooping out of the woods and slams into the van. Just throws himself at the van. Attacks it. Isn't that right, Amy? He attacked it, didn't he?"

  "Yeah. He came outta nowhere. He was flying."

  "And I couldn't find the van keys." The boy reached in his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and stared at them. "They weren't there before."

  Reilley turned his back to them.

  Don't laugh, Eve prayed. If she as much as heard a smirk coming from him, she'd lose it. The kids were scared to death. They didn't need adults laughing in their faces.

  "Where did he hit?" Eve asked, moving toward the van.

  "On the passenger side. Near the door."

  Eve ran the flashlight beam over the indicated area. "It's dented," she said with surprise.

  Reilley turned back around to join them. "Is that blood?" He pointed to a dark smear.

  Eve leaned close. "Maybe. Or makeup."

  "Makeup?" the girl asked. "What do you mean, makeup?"

  Reilley let out an exasperated sigh. "Somebody's playing a trick on you." He was growing tired of the situation.

  "This was no joke," the boy insisted. "If you think it's a joke, why don't you find the guy? He ran off that way. Into those trees."

  The kid was cocky. Reilley wasn't used to being challenged like that. Before he had a chance to jump all over him, Eve nodded. "Good idea." She began moving in the direction he'd pointed, her flashlight trained on the path before her. She heard Reilley following behind.

  Poor kids.

  She stopped abruptly, panning her light across the ground. Reilley ran into her, grabbing her by the waist. "You never answered me about making out in a place like this," he said, his breath against her neck. His hand moved up to her breast.

  They'd been dating for two months, but she disapproved of sexual contact on the job. She knocked his hand away. "Look, Romeo."

  "Reilley. Name's Reilley."

  Directly in front of her, in the glow cast by her flashlight, was a dark heap.

  Something left by the merry pranksters? Eve wondered. A blanket arranged to suggest the shape of a person? Or was there actually someone under it?

  The air was wet. She could feel the dampness on her face.

  Without hesitation, Reilley stepped around her and approached the heap. Eve remained where she was and reached for her gun, releasing the snap on the leather case. "Careful," she warned.

  One of these days he was going to jump into a situation too quickly and wouldn't live to tell about it.

  Reilley touched the shape with one booted foot. He gave it a nudge. Eve could see it was heavy and solid. "A body?" she asked.

  In all of her years as a cop, she'd never gotten sick, but now a surge of nausea swept through her.

  To her shame, she believed in ghosts. She'd seen ghosts, and she didn't like them. Not a damn bit.

  Her heart began to hammer, and she felt twelve years old again, sneaking into an abandoned house that was supposed to be haunted. She'd come face-to-face with the ghost of a young woman who'd killed herself after being forced to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  Eve wanted to call for assistance, but she didn't have any reason for such action other than an irrational fear of the unknown.

  Reilley crouched near the pile. Eve pulled her gun, but didn't release the safety.

  Reilley tugged at one corner of the mud-caked blanket to finally expose a bloody, smudged face.

  The stench of death hit her.r />
  No ghost.

  "Whew," Reilley said, recoiling.

  A moment later, he forced himself to lean forward again. He examined the body in silence, then finally let out a frustrated sigh and rocked back, sitting on the heels of his boots, one arm dangling over a bent knee.

  "Dead?" Eve asked, even though her nose had already supplied her with the answer to that question.

  "Yep. Better call Homicide."

  "Don't touch anything."

  "I know, I know."

  She radioed the dispatcher with her shoulder mike.

  *

  Jordan Kemp felt cool air against his skin. Even though his eyes were closed, he could sense a light shining in his face. Was that the tunnel everybody always talked about? Would there be dead relatives waiting for him on the other side? Relatives he'd always hated?

  He wanted to explain that the prostitution thing had started out as something temporary. Quick money so he could get his life on track. But once he'd started living that kind of lifestyle, he couldn't go back because he was already tainted. And truthfully, he hadn't wanted to go back, because prostitution had become his reality.

  But he didn't want to go to hell for it. If he'd known Death was going to come knocking so soon, he would have been good.

  “How old do you think?” a woman asked.

  “Not over nineteen or twenty.” The guy sounded sad. “Just a kid.”

  Not dead. Couldn't they see he wasn't dead? Not yet.

  Hafta tell 'em. Hafta let 'em know.

  People always said he was bullheaded. That he could levitate if he ever set his mind to it. He didn't make himself levitate, but after a bout of skull-exploding concentration he managed to open his eyes.

  That's when all hell broke loose.

  "Radio paramedics," the man shouted.

  Too late, Jordan would have said if speech had been possible.

  Too fucking late.

  *

  The passenger-side tire dipped into a rut, and the steering wheel was wrenched from Elise's hands as she maneuvered her car along the overgrown road leading to the abandoned cemetery. Beside her, Gould let out a curse as his head smacked the window.