by Todd Ritter
The number lodged itself in Henry’s brain, and he was unable to shake it out.
Ten minutes.
Not a lot of time, really. Not long at all. Once Nick arrested Lucas, he would need to dig the coffin up again. Certainly that would take a while. Digging a hole took longer than shoveling one in. Even if Nick was cuffing Lucas at that very moment, it would take him five minutes to clear enough dirt away from the coffin lid to let him out.
Henry forced himself to stop thinking that way. Nick knew he was down there. He wouldn’t leave him. So it would take him a little longer than expected. He still had ten minutes of air, which was plenty. He just needed to calm himself. He needed to inhale, count, exhale.
It didn’t work. His thoughts turned to Gia, as they often did. She, too, was in a coffin. Probably similar to the one Henry now occupied. The only difference was the amount of time they spent in it. For Gia, it was five years and counting. Hopefully, for Henry it would be less than ten minutes.
He hadn’t attended Gia’s funeral. He wasn’t able to. She was buried without him, planted somewhere east of Pittsburgh in a plot of ground he had never seen.
During the years since her death, he had never thought about visiting her grave. Seeing it didn’t serve any purpose. Standing at her grave, knowing she was there under a layer of dirt and grass, would only make him feel his loss all over again.
A sobering thought popped into Henry’s head. That exact moment, several feet below the ground, was the closest he had been to her in five years. Although many miles apart, they were in a sense together, sharing the same earth. It was a horrible thought, and just like visiting her grave, it served no purpose. Yet it fascinated him, making him temporarily forget his confinement, forget the diminishing air, forget the creaking.
Unable to move, his watch ticking madly, Henry felt Gia’s presence. He could reach her if he really tried. If he punched through the side of the coffin, freeing his trapped arms, he could push his hands through the dirt and reach her.
“That’s sick,” he said aloud, his thin voice breaking the stale silence of the coffin. “You’re sick, Henry.”
It was difficult to speak. The air inside the coffin felt heavy and thick, like sludge in his lungs. Had it always been that way and he was just noticing it for the first time? Or was it getting progressively worse? If so, he couldn’t waste any more.
He stopped speaking. He breathed. He counted.
Despite his attempts to relax, tightness crept into Henry’s chest, pushing against his rib cage. It caused his breathing to become agitated and desperate. He no longer bothered with the counting. Instead, he gritted his teeth and breathed as fast as he could, air flaring out of his nostrils. The sound of it filled the coffin—a frantic wheezing taking over.
A long time had passed. That was undeniable. He estimated he had five minutes of breathable air left. Maybe less, if the warm thickness of it was any indication.
For the first time, it occurred to Henry that he could die there. He had been nervous from the start. But it wasn’t a real nervous. Not a jab-in-your-guts-until-you-puked nervous. It had been tingly, almost enjoyable, like watching a horror movie.
But now real anxiety seized him, grabbing him by the neck and refusing to let go. He was running out of air. There was no doubt about it. And it was messing up his head, making him crazy, making him think about reaching out to his dead wife.
He had to get out of the coffin. He didn’t care if it botched the arrest, which should have taken place by that point.
He lowered his thumb, the pager smooth against it.
He opened his mouth, inhaling a deep gulp of air.
Then, as panic took control of his body, Henry pressed the button.
Nick stared at his watch impatiently. When five minutes passed, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. It was now or never.
Stuffing the recorder and headset in his back pocket, he moved through the fog-shrouded cemetery, stepping around oak trees and edging past headstones. When he saw the glow of Lucas’s lantern in the mist, he swerved left, sweeping in a wide arc around the grave and keeping himself just out of the light’s reach.
Unholstering his Glock, he kept low to ground, approaching the light in a predatory crouch. He moved in fits and starts, hurrying behind one headstone, pausing, then proceeding to the next.
As he got closer, he saw Lucas silhouetted against the lantern light. The grave digger held a shovel, heaving as he threw a clump of dirt into the hole at his feet. When he turned to get another scoop, Nick sprang from the fog.
“Lucas Hatcher, this is the state police! Put your hands up!”
It took a moment for Lucas to understand what was happening. When he did, the grave digger froze, still gripping the shovel.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” Nick said. “Just drop the shovel, put your hands in the air, and I’ll be a happy man.”
Lucas considered it, his eyes shifting back and forth while he pondered his options. To Nick, it was a no-brainer—drop the shovel or get shot.
The grave digger thought otherwise. He released the shovel, letting it fall into the dirt. Then he began to shuffle backward.
“Stop right there!”
Lucas ignored the order. He kept going backward, twisting his body as he moved. Once his back was turned toward Nick, he broke into a full-out run.
Nick ran, too, barreling toward Lucas and tackling him. Lucas howled, madly trying to push him away. Nick refused to let go, rolling until he was on top of Lucas.
“I asked you to make this easy,” Nick said, flipping Lucas onto his stomach and cuffing his hands behind his back. “Why couldn’t you just listen?”
Clicking the handcuffs tight, Nick saw a pager hooked onto the belt loop of Lucas’s jeans. Pulsing steadily, it glowed an urgent green.
Nick hadn’t forgotten about Henry. Running ceaselessly in the back of his mind was the knowledge that he had to get him out of the coffin as soon as possible. Only soon hadn’t come as fast as it should have, and poor Henry was still trapped.
He reached for the shovel, which in hindsight was a bad move. Lucas realized he had one last chance at freedom, and he took it.
Rolling onto his stomach, he used both legs to kick at Nick’s back. When Nick toppled forward, Lucas moved into a kneeling position. Two seconds later, he was on his feet, scrambling away.
Nick was up in a flash, sprinting toward the grave digger. When he was close enough, he made a rough leap and tackled Lucas once more. Arms and legs tangled in battle, they seemed to linger in midair a moment. When they fell, it was hard and fast, the two of them crashing down into the dirt-covered grave.
Inside the coffin, it sounded like a car crash right above Henry’s head. He heard the groan of metal caving in, giving way.
Then the coffin lid crumpled in front of him. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it lurching suddenly closer, stopping in front of his nose.
Something light and gritty slid onto his cheek. Startled, Henry yelped, allowing some of it to slip into his mouth. It softened on his tongue, forming a foul-tasting paste.
Dirt. It spilled into the coffin, onto his face, into his mouth.
Henry tried to spit it out, but more fell in. A steady line of it trickled in from above, unceasing. He turned his head to the left to keep any more from getting into his nose and mouth. The stream of dirt landed on his cheek and slid onto his right ear. Henry felt it gather in his earlobe. When it overflowed, it slid into his ear, tumbling inside, covering his eardrum until everything sounded distant and muffled.
He rolled his head in the other direction, trying to shake out the dirt. It was useless. The dirt was everywhere, falling over his entire face. The sound of it was a sickly, slithery noise that reminded Henry of bugs and snakes and other things he didn’t want to be reminded of.
It sounded, he realized, like something was trying to get into the coffin with him. A hand. Dead and rotting. Reaching for him.
He imagined Gia’s hands
—those supple hands that used to slide across his bare skin—pushing through the dirt, busting through the coffin and grasping for his own. Now that he was in the ground with her, she didn’t want him to leave.
The dirt’s slithery tumble seemed to mutate into a hiss, like someone was calling for him.
Stay, it hissed. Stay.
It was Gia. He knew it. She was trying to speak to him, trying to get him to—
Stay.
Henry heard something else, something more horrifying than the sound of falling dirt. It was a beep, high-pitched and steady, loud even in his dirt-jammed ears.
The alarm on his watch. It was going off.
Fifteen minutes had passed since the coffin lid closed.
The seriousness of the situation stopped Henry from thinking about anything else. Gia vanished from his thoughts, as did the dirt still raining on his face. He couldn’t even hear the creaking that had earlier seemed to surround him.
He was only aware of how he had been belowground for fifteen minutes. That was the limit Lucas dared him to push. Now the seconds were ticking beyond that limit, taking him over it.
And soon, very soon, he was going to run out of air.
Reminding him of that fact was his watch, which wouldn’t stop beeping. He tried to turn it off, stretching his arm across his chest in an attempt to silence it, but he couldn’t reach. There wasn’t enough room. The beeping continued, drowning out all other noise, the incessant sound indicating that death would be coming soon.
Struggling to reach the watch, he noticed it had become much harder to breathe. He gasped for air, struggling to swallow some into his aching lungs.
He needed to breathe. He needed to get out, get away from the beeping, from the dirt, from Gia’s voice that hissed in his brain, begging him to stay.
He scrunched down as far as space would allow, head sliding off the poor excuse for a pillow. Lifting his legs until his knees touched the lid, he shoved his feet against the bottom of the coffin, hoping it would—do what? He didn’t know. He wasn’t thinking straight. There was no time for rational thought. He was trapped in a life-or-death situation. He had no choice but to act.
He kicked a second time, a third time. The force of his feet jarred more dirt into the coffin. It poured onto his forehead—pebble-specked grit bouncing off his skull. Lifting his hands, he clawed at the lid, fingernails catching on the satin lining and tearing into it.
His lungs felt like they were about to explode. They needed more air than what was available. It didn’t help that he was exerting himself, working himself into a state of breathless panic.
But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
He kept on kicking and shredding while trying to block out the beeping of his watch and Gia’s voice, which was getting louder in his head.
He heard her clearly, pleading with him. Stay.
But Henry didn’t want to stay. He wanted to live.
He increased his kicking and his desperate shredding. His hands burst through the lining and clawed at the underside of the lid, fingernails screeching along the impenetrable steel.
Then he no longer felt it. The lid moved away from his touch. Light shot into the coffin, a thin yellow line of it that rapidly expanded. Henry saw Nick kneeling over him. He opened his mouth and took in air the way a thirsty man did water. It tasted like water, too, cold and refreshing.
With Nick’s help, he lifted himself out of the coffin and onto the ground, gasping.
He was alive. He was safe.
TWENTY-FOUR
Kat sat on the edge of James’s bed, trying to get him to fall asleep. It was long after they had taken Jeremy home. After Amber’s tearful intrusion. After Nick and Henry both left in a huff.
It had been a strange night for James, full of new people and adult situations he couldn’t comprehend. And although he looked ready for sleep, with a blanket pulled up to his chin and his ragged stuffed dog wrapped in his arms, he was full of questions.
“Mommy, is Lieutenant Nick your boyfriend?”
Kat laughed. “What gave you that idea?”
James’s shoulders poked up from beneath the covers in a muffled shrug. “Jeremy’s mom has a boyfriend.”
“Lieutenant Donnelly is just helping me for the time being,” Kat said. “He’s a coworker, not a boyfriend.”
“Do you want a boyfriend?”
Coming from a boy on the edge of sleep, it was a surprisingly complex question. Kat had moments when she wished there was a man around the house, able to do things she didn’t have time to take care of. And there were lonely nights when she missed the feel of a man’s arms, the sensation of his skin upon hers. But she was a realist. She knew her son and her job prevented an active social life. Besides, she had James, who was the love of her life.
“I’m happy with things the way they are,” she said. “Are you?”
“I’d be happier if we got a dog.”
James’s desire for a dog was well documented in the Campbell household. Pictures of dogs plastered his bedroom walls. Every school art project he brought home contained some canine-related theme. And each Christmas, getting a dog sat at the top of his wish list. But owning one was a huge responsibility that neither of them was ready for.
“We’ll get one someday, Little Bear. I promise.”
James held up his stuffed dog. “One like Scooby?”
“Sure. Just like him.”
When James rolled onto his side, hugging Scooby even tighter, Kat thought he was ready to sleep. But his eyes remained open as he asked, “Why was Amber crying?”
“Because she was sad.”
“Because her friend is gone?”
A tingle of anxiety swept over Kat. She had no idea how much James knew about what was happening in Perry Hollow. She had hoped he was oblivious to everything, even despite the presence of a state police investigator in their home. But that wasn’t the case. James apparently knew a lot.
“Yes,” she said. “She’s sad because of her friend.”
“Jeremy told me the bogeyman killed him.”
Under her breath, Kat cursed his talkative best friend. Compared to Jeremy, the thought of getting a dog sounded better and better. At least a dog couldn’t fill his head with unhelpful ideas.
“Jeremy’s wrong,” she said, not bothering to elaborate.
“Is there a bogeyman?”
Kat wanted to tell him no, that bogeymen were harmless myths little boys talked about to scare each other. But she couldn’t lie to James. Bogeymen existed. One stalked Perry Hollow, possibly using that very moment to pick the next person to kill. Knowing that terrified Kat, but she vowed to never let James see her fear.
“It’s time for you to sleep,” she said.
“Will the bogeyman come after me?”
Kat hugged James as tight as she could, wishing hugs were all it took to make his bad thoughts go away.
“Never,” she assured him. “Mommy’s the police chief, remember. I’ll protect you. Nothing bad will ever happen.”
Once James fell asleep, Kat crept downstairs and locked every door and window. It had become her nightly routine ever since March, when Nick Donnelly first shared his serial killer theory. Knowing he had been right only heightened her vigilance. There was a madman out there, and Kat was going to do everything she could to keep him from getting inside.
She had just locked the back door when the phone rang. Worried the sound might wake James, she lunged for it, answering with a harried “Chief Campbell.”
“Chief? It’s Carl.”
Deputy Bauersox was working the overnight shift at the station. Hearing his voice sent Kat into a minor panic.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Has there been another death notice?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing like that. But Lisa Gunzelman was just here.”
Kat checked her watch. It was almost eleven. Why Mrs. Gunzelman would stop by the station at that hour was beyond her. But she didn’t have a chance to ask Carl b
ecause the doorbell chimed.
“Carl, I need to run.”
“But, Chief, there’s something you should know—”
The doorbell rang again, and Kat pictured James being roused from his sleep, thinking it was the bogeyman coming for him.
“I’ll call you back,” she told Carl before hanging up and hurrying into the living room. She unlocked the front door and opened it, just as Lisa Gunzelman was ready to ring the bell a third time.
The smell of alcohol swirled around Lisa, and she swayed unevenly on the front porch. Grass stains on her jeans indicating she had taken a tumble on her way across the front yard.
“Hello, Kat.”
The slur in Lisa’s voice was noticeable after only two words.
“Lisa? What are you doing here?”
Kat briefly glanced into the living room behind her, hoping curiosity hadn’t led James downstairs. This was something he didn’t need to see. Lisa was so drunk she could barely stand on her own. She staggered backward across the porch, almost tumbling over. Luckily, the railing blocked her fall. She remained against it, the railing the only thing keeping her upright.
“Is it true?” she asked.
“Is what true?”
“That you caught Troy’s killer?”
Kat wanted to chalk up Lisa’s nonsense to drunkenness. But she remembered what Carl was trying to tell her on the phone. But, Chief, he had said, there’s something you should know. Apparently, it was something Mrs. Gunzelman had already found out.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I want to know if he killed my Troy.”
“I’ll find out,” Kat said. “I promise.”
Once she found out what was going on at the station, of course. Had the Grim Reaper turned himself in? Barring that unlikely scenario, Kat had no idea what else could have happened.
“I want to ask him myself,” Lisa said. “Right now.”
When Kat told her she couldn’t, Lisa looked crestfallen. “You have a child, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes. A son.”
Mrs. Gunzelman’s eyes moved away from Kat, turning instead to the darkened yard.
“I hope you don’t ever lose him.”