The Burying Place

by Brian Freeman

  It happened again. The constriction in his chest. The sensation that his lungs were struggling for air. He held on to the sink as lightheadedness washed over him and made him dizzy. A vise tightened around his skull. When he looked in the mirror again, his skin was pasty and damp with sweat. His eyelids were dark hoods over his eyes. He ran water in the sink and splashed it on his face.

  He needed something to drink. Slowly, he made his way through the cottage's great space into the kitchen and found a can of Coke in the refrigerator. He opened it and set it on the counter and then reached up to the top shelf of a cabinet for a large glass. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing. His hands were wet. He took the glass between his fingers, but it slipped from his grasp.

  It fell.

  He fell with it.

  Goddamn.

  He was high above the water again. His body shot like a bullet from the bridge, knifing toward the harbor. The night air became a searing whistle in his ears. Three seconds, that was all it took. Three seconds to realize he was about to die, three seconds to hammer into the bay. His nerve ends erupted with agony. The hard, cold water became his tomb. His mind drove him into the deep jaws of the bay, over and over, and each time his body rocketed through the air, he wished that the impact would kill him once and for all. He could almost hear the words forming in his chest.

  Kill me.

  Stride was on the kitchen floor when he awakened. Broken glass surrounded him, some shards as pretty as diamonds, some large and deadly like arrowheads. Crimson trails oozed from the cuts on his arms. His shirt was dyed with stains from the blood that dripped down his cheek and neck, where the eruption of glass had sprayed his face. He spread his hands wide and watched the smears as if the blood were coming from a stranger's body. The cuts didn't sting. His leg, the leg he had broken in the fall, didn't throb. He was numb.

  On the floor, he saw a pointed shard with edges as sharp as a razor. So sharp they could slice through tissue like a surgeon's knife. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers. The glass glinted in the light. He squeezed his fist and saw the veins in his wrist bulge like twin lengths of rope. If only the fragments had cut him there, opening him up like a fountain. If only he hadn't awakened at all. He didn't want to live like this.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-five

  'Where did you go last night, Valerie?' Serena asked.

  They sat in front of the fireplace in the lobby of the Sawmill Inn in Grand Rapids. Valerie wore a conservative gray suit, with her blonde hair pinned up. She stared at the fire with an uncomfortable expression and refused to meet Serena's eyes.

  'Go? What do you mean?'

  'Don't play dumb. Do you think we're not watching your house? You left last night at eleven thirty, and you got back shortly before one in the morning.'

  Valerie rubbed her fingers along the smooth oak on the arm of the sofa. 'Oh, that. I couldn't sleep. I went for a drive.'

  'Where?'

  'Around town. I do that sometimes. I'll sit in a park by the river at night. I like to be by myself when I'm sad.'

  Serena put a hand on Valerie's shoulder. 'It doesn’t help when you lie to me.'

  'I'm not lying.'

  Valerie glanced at the hotel door. Serena had stopped her as she emerged from a breakfast meeting in the hotel's restaurant. Valerie's friends lingered, watching them. 'I've been part of this prayer group for almost five years,' she added, changing the subject. 'Are you a religious person, Serena?'

  'No.'

  'I try to be.'

  Serena said nothing.

  'One of the older women asked me if I had sinned,' Valerie continued. 'She thinks I'm being punished.'

  'That's a load of crap,' Serena said.

  'Who knows? Maybe she's right. Then again, when you're a sixty- six-year-old virgin, it's easy to be pious. It's a little harder for the rest of us.'

  Serena sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup. 'Were you meeting someone?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Last night.'

  'I told you, I went for a drive.'

  Serena shook her head. 'I understand that you don't want to tell me, but when the mother of a missing child starts lying to me, I wonder why.'

  'Why are you so sure I'm lying?' Valerie asked.

  'Because your lower lip is trembling, your smile is fake, you keep changing the subject, and you won't look at me. Is that enough?'

  Valerie didn't say anything.

  'Was it about Callie?' Serena asked. 'Did they tell you not to talk to the police? I realize you're scared, but if a kidnapper made contact with you, you have to tell me. I need to know.'

  'It wasn't that.'

  'Then what was it?'

  'It was just someone playing head games with me.'

  'Who?'

  'Regan Conrad.'

  Serena leaned closer, her voice low. 'What did she want?'

  'She said she knew what happened to Callie, but that was a lie.'

  'Did she tell you not to talk to the police?'

  Valerie nodded.

  'What exactly did she say?'

  'It doesn’t matter. She didn't know anything.'

  'Tell me what she said, Valerie. Why did she want to see you? What did she say about Callie?'

  'I don't want to play her game,' Valerie replied. 'If I tell you, I'm giving her what she wants.'

  'I'm going to talk to her anyway. You know that. I don't care if you think she was lying. If she told you she knows what happened to Callie, she's a suspect.'

  'She was just trying to get under my skin. She wanted me to believe Marcus was involved in Callie's disappearance. This is about her getting revenge on the two of us. That's all.'

  'Did she have new information?' Serena asked.

  'No.'

  'Then why did she think Marcus was involved?'

  A flush rose on Valerie's face. 'She said - she said he told her things. About him not wanting me to have a baby. Like he told that stripper in Vegas. I don't believe her. I think she made it up to torture me.'

  'What else?'

  'That was all.'

  Serena could see Valerie covering up the rest of the story the way a mother covers a baby. She was protecting a secret. 'You're holding out on me, Valerie,' she said.

  Valerie stood up and smoothed her skirt. 'There wasn't anything else. She didn't know what happened to Callie.'

  'I can't find your daughter if you keep things from me. Even the things you don't want to face.'

  'I'm sorry. I don't have anything more to tell you.'

  Valerie walked away. Serena watched her leave the hotel with the elegant march of a woman who was at ease in high heels. Two of the women from the prayer group waited by the door, but Valerie didn't acknowledge them. When Serena went outside herself, she saw Valerie climbing into her Mercedes in the parking lot. Their eyes met. In that instant, Serena saw through Valerie's shell and felt the other woman reaching out to her for help, as if she were apologizing for having a secret that was too awful to share. Then the moment passed, and Valerie drove off on to Pokegama Road.

  Serena wondered what sin Valerie thought she was being punished for. How could any sin be worth the life of a child?

  Valerie didn't go home. She didn't want to see Marcus or run the gauntlet of police and media. Instead, she drove to her sister's house by the river and parked outside. Denise was gone; she always left early. Tom's car was in the driveway. The kids were already in school, except for the youngest, and Valerie knew that Tom dropped Maureen at day care on his way to work.

  She sat in the car with the engine running and reached over and opened the glove compartment. The envelope that Regan Conrad had given her was inside. She took it out and turned it over gently in her hands, feeling the slight bulge of the paper sealed under the flap. All she had to do was rip the envelope open.

  I don't have to tell you why, do I?

  Valerie shook her head. She wouldn't let her mind be poisoned by Regan Conrad, and she wouldn't let Serena
be poisoned either. Whatever it was, she didn't want to know. She slid the envelope back into the glove compartment and closed it.

  'Valerie.'

  She looked up at a knock on the window and the muffled sound of a voice. Tom Sheridan stood outside the car with Maureen in his arms. He wore a heavy coat over a brown business suit.

  'Hi,' she said, unlocking the door.

  Tom climbed inside. He warmed a hand at the hot air vent and didn't say anything. Maureen was bundled up in a fleece blanket, with a pink cap on her head. Valerie reached out and ran a finger along the girl's soft cheek and was rewarded with a giggle.

  'Hello, sweetheart,' she said.

  Valerie couldn't help it. Seeing Maureen made the pain of losing Callie even worse. Despite Maureen's disability, there was a resemblance between the faces of the two girls. Denise's daughter had Callie's eyes and an echo of her smile.

  'How are you, Val?' Tom asked.

  'I'm OK,' she murmured, not taking her eyes off Maureen.

  'Do you want to come inside?'

  'I can't. I just needed to get away from the circus for a couple of minutes.'

  Tom nodded and stared at his lap. Valerie held out her hand and let Maureen grab her fingers. Their breath made steam on the car windows.

  'Is there anything I can do to help?' he asked.

  'No. I wish there was.'

  'I can't think about anything else,' he said.

  'I know. I appreciate it.'

  'Are you sure you don't want to come inside with me?'

  'No. I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry.'

  'Don't be.' He added, 'I was going to call you this morning, but this is easier in person.'

  Valerie tensed. 'What?'

  'That reporter Blair Rowe came by my office last night.'

  'What did she want?'

  Tom hesitated. 'It's a problem.'

  'What is it?'

  'Someone gave her some information. I begged her not to go ahead with it, but she's going to put it on the news tonight.'

  'Oh, my God.' Valerie closed her eyes. 'What is it this time? Is it something new about Marcus?'

  Tom shook his head. 'No. I'm really sorry, Val. This one's not about Marcus.'

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Maggie grabbed two bags of fast food breakfast and a foam drink caddy that held coffee and orange juice. With her hands full, she navigated the steps of Stride's cottage in her heels. Her sunglasses - which were mostly for show, because the sun wasn't shining - slipped to the end of her nose. Red hair swished in front of her eyes. She reached Stride's front door and kicked with the toe of her boot.

  'Hey, it's me,' she shouted.

  No one came to the door. Maggie put down the tray of drinks and dug in her pocket for her keys. Stride's key had a purple tab on her chain. She maneuvered her body between the screen door and the oak front door and undid both locks. With her shoulder, she shoved the door open and spilled inside.

  'You around? I've got McMuffins and a couple breakfast burritos.' Maggie listened for the noise of the shower, but the cottage was quiet. 'Hello?'

  Maggie deposited the food on the dining-room table. She unwrapped a straw and stuck it into the lid of one of the cups of orange juice. Her cheeks dimpled as she sucked on the drink. She strolled around the island separating the dining room from the kitchen, in order to retrieve plates for the table.

  That was when she saw him.

  'Oh my God.'

  Maggie dropped her drink. The lid popped, and orange juice splashed on the floor. She sank to her knees. Stride sat with his back against the cabinets. Sharp glass fragments surrounded him like popcorn.

  There was blood on his face and on his hands. His eyes were open, but he stared through her as if she were invisible.

  'Are you OK?'

  He didn't reply.

  Maggie crawled to him, dodging the crumbles of glass. She took his hands and wiped away some of the blood on her shirt. She held his face and lifted his chin, and his eyes slowly focused on her. They were no more than six inches apart.

  'Stay there,' she said, holding his shoulders as he tried to move.

  She pulled a towel from the oven handle, soaked it in water under the sink, and washed the blood from his face. She did the same with his arms. When she was finished, she saw that he had no serious injuries, just surface cuts that had bled profusely. The cool water began to bring him back to life.

  'Damn, I'm sorry,' he murmured. 'I'll be fine.'

  Maggie stroked his hair. One of the cuts on his cheek began to bleed, and she used the damp towel on his face again.

  'Can you stand up?' she asked.

  He nodded.

  'Take it slow,' she said.

  With an arm around him, she helped him to his feet. He swayed as he stood upright and grabbed the counter for balance. She led him through the great space to the bathroom, where he held on to the sink with both hands. He bowed his head, and his hair fell across his face. She yanked the shower curtain back and turned on the water. She grabbed another towel, put it under the water, and carefully dabbed at the remaining blood on his skin. When she switched on the faucet, pink liquid swirled in the wash basin.

  She helped him off with his bloody shirt. His bare chest was damp with sweat. 'Take a shower, OK?' she said. 'That'll help.'

  He ran his hand through his hair. A few pieces of glass sprinkled to the floor.

  'I'll clean up,' she said.

  Maggie left him in the bathroom. She returned to the kitchen and grabbed a broom from the utility closet and swept up the glass. With a fistful of paper towels, she swabbed the blood and orange juice from the floor. Everything went in the trash. She went into Stride's bedroom and found a pair of boxer shorts in his bureau. She opened the bathroom door and saw his shadow behind the shower curtain. His hands were propped on the shower wall. She grabbed his dirty clothes under her arm and left the boxers on the towel rack, then picked up the remaining pieces of glass with her fingers.

  When she was done, she sat on the floor in the great space, with her back against Stride's red leather chair and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her heart raced. She swallowed hard and stared at her feet and held back her own breakdown.

  'I'm really sorry.'

  Maggie looked up. Stride was in the doorway leading to the bathroom. He wore the boxers and nothing else. Drops of water clung to his body, and his dark hair was wet. She rubbed her eyes and looked down at her feet again without saying anything. He padded across the carpet and slid down beside her. Their shoulders touched, and his skin was warm. He put his big arm around her and pulled her into him.

  'Thank you,' he said.

  She lost it. She cried into his shoulder, hating herself for letting him see her as weak and vulnerable. That wasn't who she was. She wiped her face and pulled away from him. 'You scared the shit out of me.'

  'I know.'

  'What happened to you? Talk to me.'

  'I dropped a glass,' he said.

  'Did you have a stroke? A heart attack? Should I get an ambulance over here?'

  'No, it's nothing like that.'

  'Then what is it?'

  He hesitated. 'I don't think I can talk about it.'

  She twisted her body to stare at him. Their faces were inches apart again. Her voice caught in her throat as she scolded him. 'I don't care. Talk to me.'

  'Mags,' he murmured.

  'I'm serious. You are not going to lock me out.'

  He steepled his hands and laid his chin against his fingers. He closed his eyes. 'It's been happening for the last couple months,' he whispered.

  'What?'

  'Panic attacks. Flashbacks.'

  'Flashbacks of what?' Maggie asked. Then she understood. 'The fall.'

  He nodded. 'I drop something, anything, and it's like I'm back there. It isn't just a memory. I'm there. And it's not getting better, it's getting worse. It's driving me crazy.'

  Maggie exhaled with a loud sigh. 'Have you talked to an
yone?'

  He shook his head. 'No.'

  'You need help,' she snapped. 'Since when do you have to be Superman? Oh wait, who am I talking to? You can't lean on anyone. You always have to be strong.' She stopped and mentally cursed herself. She leaned into him and rested her forehead on his cheek. 'I'm sorry.'

  'You're right,' he said.

  'Is it just the flashbacks?' she asked. 'Or is there more?'

  'There's more,' he admitted. 'I'm dead inside. I don't care about anything or anyone. When I was sitting in the kitchen, I wished I was dead. I mean, I really thought about—'

  He stopped talking.

  'Now you're scaring me,' she said.

  'I wasn't going to do anything, but I thought about it.'

  Maggie took his hand in hers. Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship, she felt as if the differences between them had melted away. There was no span of years separating them. No division of boss and partner. No history of one-sided emotions she had tried to suppress. They were on a level playing field, one man, one woman.

  'You're not nuts, you know. It's normal.'

  'Normal? Please.'

  'If it was anyone else, you'd see it immediately. You just can't look in the mirror.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. For God's sake, wake up, will you? Three months ago, you nearly died. You think your body can heal and that's the end of it? You've been digging a hole for yourself because you won't face it.'

  He stared at the ceiling. 'It doesn’t make sense, Mags. I've been through worse shit in my life than this. Even when I lost Cindy, I still hung on to myself.'

  'I was there,' she reminded him. 'You've blocked out how bad it was.'