The Burying Place

by Brian Freeman

  Marcus.

  I was wondering if you bad any idea what your husband may have been looking for in Regan's files.

  Valerie stared at the hospital envelope. She had unearthed it from the drawer of lingerie in her dresser and brought it with her, unopened, to the living room. A gleaming pair of oversized silver scissors sat next to her. She could snip off the end of the envelope and extract what was inside, or she could cut it into miniature pieces and add them to the fire, where they would dissolve into the only real ash ever to burn there. She could know the truth, or she could cover it up.

  She thought: this is what you were looking for at Regan's house, isn't it? Tell me, Marcus. This is what you so desperately wanted to find. What could be worth so much? What do you not want me to know? Regan laughed at the idea that I didn't know already. She thought I was a fool. And maybe I am.

  Did you kill Regan, Marcus? Is the secret so terrible that you had to silence her? But you're too late.

  All she had to do was pick up the envelope, but she couldn't bring herself to touch it. Instead, she picked up the scissors. They were hefty and sharp. She nestled them in her hand and spread the blades wide. They formed her initial, V, in a mirror finish. The blades reminded her of other things, too. They were the mouth of a fish, gasping for air on the floor of a boat. They were legs opening wide, inviting a man to make love to her.

  She took the edges of the envelope with her other hand and lifted it in the air. Held it. Felt its weight. She couldn't imagine how a single sheet of paper could change a life, or be worth the price of a life.

  Some sins, some secrets, are not worth knowing. She wanted to cut it up, put it in the fire, pretend, forget, grieve, move on.

  But no. She had to know.

  Valerie wielded the scissors and in a single motion slit the side of the envelope open. She made an oval of the envelope and let the paper inside fall out into her hand. It was folded. The truth was inside. She separated the folds, turned it over, and tried to make sense of what she was holding.

  It was a dirty Xerox copy, hard to read. A medical form, heavy with codes and scribbled over in a doctor's unintelligible writing. The first thing she saw that she understood was a date stamped in the corner from nearly five years earlier. The paper was old. How could something so old have any relevance to her today? Five years was a lifetime ago. Five years was the time when she had sat in this very room at two in the morning, with the fake fire glowing and her husband asleep upstairs, and she had poured the tablets of aspirin into her palm.

  It was that same month, she realized. The month of her despair and rebirth.

  The form was dated two weeks after she had tried to kill herself.

  She studied the codes, the handwriting, the notes in the margin, and tried to interpret it, as if it were a foreign language. And then one word jumped out at her. It was a medical term she didn't really understand, but it didn't matter, because she knew. Other words began to make sense. The timing, the implications, everything was clear.

  She knew how a single sheet of paper could rewrite history.

  It hit her like a rogue wave. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream, so deep and anguished that no real sound could emerge. The form dropped from her hand. She toppled slowly, sideways, sinking like a fallen statue into the carpet. Her knees drew up to her chest, and she wrapped her arms around them. The outside world escaped. The wailing pierced her ears, but only inside her head. Her tears flowed, but they stayed inside her eyes. Like a child, she rocked back and forth, willing away the knowledge and drowning in her grief.

  The snow began to fall.

  The flakes navigated the web of branches like silver balls in a Pachinko game, ultimately landing and melting on Stride's skin. The white bed on the forest ground was thin now, and bare in patches, but as the night stretched on, the blanket would deepen. After decades in Minnesota, he was still amazed that snow could be so insubstantial and yet gather into drifts that brought the entire world to a halt. The calendar said autumn, but November here meant winter.

  The three of them stopped in the woods. They were only thirty yards from the slope of the cemetery, and he could see the lights of the police cars revolving on the dirt road beyond the graves. Stride shone his flashlight beam ahead of him and watched Migdalia Vega, who looked uneasy as her eyes studied the trees. The beam illuminated streams of snow. He directed the cone of light at the ground and swept it back and forth.

  'Are we close?' he asked Micki.

  'Everything looks alike,' she said.

  'Five minutes ago, you said we were almost there.'

  'I'm not sure now.'

  Stride frowned. He thought she was stalling.

  Beside them, Craig Hickey restrained his beagle, whose tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bit at the snowflakes. The squat handler wore heavy gloves and a red wool cap yanked down over his ears. The frigid wind raised a rosy glow on his face.

  'Bitch of a night,' Hickey said, stamping his feet in the pine needles littering the ground. 'Don't know why we can't wait until daylight to do this.'

  'It won't be any warmer in the morning,' Stride replied, 'and there'll be a foot of snow covering up everything.'

  Hickey shivered. He chewed gum and worked his jaw like a teeter- totter. 'My Cujo don't care about snow. She'll sniff through it.'

  Stride didn't ask why anyone would name a cadaver dog Cujo. He wanted to move the search forward quickly. Part of it was practical; he didn't want to be shoveling into a crime scene through deep snow. Part of it was human; he knew this was going to be the longest night of Valerie Glenn's life.

  'Maybe he's right,' Micki said. 'It looks different in the dark. Maybe we should try again tomorrow.'

  'The snow will erase all the landmarks by then.'

  'Well, I don't know if I can find it again.'

  Stride noticed the stubborn bulge of her lower lip as she pouted. He nodded his head at Craig Hickey. 'Give us a minute, OK?'

  'Yeah, whatever.'

  Hickey dragged Cujo back through the tangle of brush growing between the birch trees, leaving Stride and Micki alone.

  'What's going on?' Stride asked her.

  Micki kicked at the ground. 'Nothing. You try finding anything in these woods at night. I'm lost. I got turned around.'

  'You saw Marcus Glenn back there,' Stride said. 'I think you're having second thoughts about helping us.'

  She rubbed her runny nose with the back of her glove. 'I know how it works. You find something, you're going to arrest him.'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'Yeah, like I can trust anything you say. I'm fucking cold. Let's get out of here and try again in the morning. I don't know where I am.'

  Stride shook his head. Snow sprayed off his damp hair. 'I saw your face a couple minutes ago, Micki. You know exactly where you are. You know every inch of these woods by heart. Are we close? Is that it?'

  'I thought so, but now I'm not sure.'

  He switched off his flashlight, and they stood in darkness. Over his shoulder, he could make out the lights of Micki's trailer not far away. 'You knew the significance of that toy horn as soon as you found it, didn't you? You knew what it meant. I think you studied the landmarks in the forest. Maybe you even left yourself a clue to find the place again. You knew we'd be here sooner or later.'

  She said nothing.

  'Tell me something,' Stride continued. 'Do you visit your own child?'

  'Yes. Sure I do. All the time.'

  'It's nice that you know where to find him,' he said, turning on his flashlight again and directing it ahead of them. 'Imagine not knowing.'

  Micki cursed under her breath. 'If I tell you, then I go, OK?' 'OK.'

  Micki's eyes followed the light, and she pointed into the trees. 'There's a cluster of four birches there. Twenty feet north, there's an old pine by itself with a thick trunk. I carved a cross in the trunk. I thought she deserved that, you know.'

  'Where did you find the toy?'

  'The pine's on
the edge of a clearing. Not big. I found it right in the middle. Like someone put it there special, not by accident.'

  Stride whistled for Craig Hickey, who returned with Cujo on the leash. 'Follow me,' he said.

  He led the way forward with Hickey following in his footsteps. Micki stayed where she was, letting them go. The four birch trees ahead of them grew from a single trunk, bending in different directions, and he knew that north lay straight ahead, based on the location of the cemetery. He went slowly. With each step, he swept the ground with the flashlight. The soft pine bed didn't keep footprints. He saw a black pile of animal scat, dried pine cones, and a rusted coffee can.

  The tree was exactly where Migdalia had said, standing lonely where it had grown for years. Thick, spiny bushes hugged the pine and made a wall. As he came closer, he squatted and studied the trunk and found a tiny cross, three inches by three inches, carved into the bark with a pocket knife.

  'There,' he said, pointing into the brush.

  Hickey let Cujo go. The dog shot into the bushes and disappeared. Stride heard the noise of its frantic paws.

  'How will we know?' he asked.

  'You'll know,' Hickey said.

  Stride stood next to the pine, where he could see over the crown of the brush into a small, open patch of flat land. His light captured Cujo, nose to the ground, snuffling through the litter of pine needles. The dog looked busy and excited. It ran back and forth around the clearing in a blur of brown and white fur, always making its way back to the very center and pawing at the earth. Whatever smell was coming from under the soil, the dog buried its face down to get more of it.

  'Wait for it,' Hickey said.

  Cujo stopped all of his movements abruptly. He sat on his haunches in the middle of the clearing and sneezed. His snout pointed toward the sky. Then, as mournfully as a wolf baying for a lost pack, the dog began to howl.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-two

  Kasey packed a box in the basement, where the air was damp. She wore wool socks, but she could feel the chill of the concrete floor under her feet. As she pulled books off the metal shelves, she eyed a patch of black mold that had grown into the shape of a spider on the wall. She hadn't noticed it before, and she wondered in horror if spores had been floating through the ductwork all year, infesting their lungs. She stared at the giant patch as if she expected it to mutate in front of her eyes.

  When her phone vibrated in her pocket, she jumped in surprise. She answered but heard only a long stretch of silence. Then, finally, a voice whispered to her.

  'Hello, Kasey.'

  Her hands tightened into fists. She knew the voice. It was him.

  'Did you get my message?' he said.

  Instinctively, her eyes darted around the basement, but she was alone. The only movement she saw was a mouse that scampered along the ledge of the foundation and vanished into a burrow-hole in the pink insulation. She shivered.

  'What do you want?' she said.

  He took a long time to reply. 'You're leaving.'

  'That's right.'

  'But our game isn't over, Kasey.'

  'Yes, it is. I'm ending it. I'm not playing any more.'

  The silence stretched out. She stared at the rust stains under the wash basin and prayed he had hung up.

  'It's over when I say it's over, Kasey.'

  'Fuck you,' she hissed, slapping the phone shut. She knew her bravery was hollow. Seconds later, the phone buzzed again in her palm, like the whine of an insect. She wanted to let it ring, but she couldn't.

  'Leave me alone,' she insisted.

  'We're way beyond that. You know it. I know it. This is about you now, not me.'

  'What do you want?' she repeated.

  'I want you to meet me.'

  'You're crazy.'

  'You're talking like you have a choice, Kasey. But you don't. We both know you don't.'

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears pushed their way under her eyelids. 'We're leaving. Tonight. We're driving away. You'll never find us.'

  'I will find you. I'll find your husband, too. And your child.'

  'Leave them alone!' Her voice was a strangled scream, choked and heavy.

  'I'd like to. This is between you and me. But if you leave, then I have no choice. I'll have to make sure you pay, and then your family pays, until there's nothing left. You don't want that.'

  'Oh, my God, why are you doing this?'

  'You're the one who put yourself in the middle of my game.'

  'It was an accident. I never meant for it to happen like this. I never wanted anything to do with you.' Her cheeks flushed red as she cried. 'Please.'

  'You're going to meet me. Now. Fifteen minutes.'

  'I won't do it.'

  'Yes, you will. You'll do anything to save your family. I know you.'

  Kasey said nothing. Her brain raced, and she looked for a way out, and she saw nothing but the walls.

  'Fifteen minutes,' he repeated. 'Meet me where it started between us. Alone.'

  'No.'

  'If you're not there, I'll kill them, Kasey. In awful ways. You know I'll do it. If you're late, or I smell a cop, you can expect to come back home and find them both gone. You better hurry.'

  He hung up.

  Kasey put her hand flat on her chest as she hyperventilated. She saw a rusted hunter's knife on the shelf and thought about killing herself, cutting open her wrists and bleeding to death on the concrete floor. But it wouldn't save them. If she was gone, he'd still come after them. She knew it. She knew his game. Instead, she grabbed the knife and shoved it in her back pocket.

  Fifteen minutes. She didn't have much time. She wiped her face and steeled her nerves. If he wanted a fight, she would give him a fight. Only one of them would end up alive, and it would be her, not him. He was right about one thing. She would do anything to save her family.

  Kasey climbed the stairs out of the basement. Bruce was in the kitchen, watching her strangely.

  'Did I hear you talking?' he asked.

  'It was Guppo. He needs me at the crime scene out at the old dairy.'

  'Why?'

  She shrugged. 'He can't figure something out, and he needs my help. He knows we're leaving in the morning.'

  'You don't have to go. This is their problem now, not yours.'

  'As long as that guy is out there, it's my problem,' Kasey blurted out, her voice growing shrill with anger and frustration. 'It's our problem.'

  Bruce stared at her. 'What's wrong?'

  'Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I have to go. I won't be long.'

  Her coat was draped over the back of the couch. She put it on and zipped it up to her neck. Bruce watched her, and she hoped he couldn't read her mind. He always told her he didn't trust anyone in the entire world except her, but there were days when that felt like a burden she couldn't handle. He was her opposite in so many ways. That was one reason they were good together. She would never have survived this past year without him.

  'It'll be better when we're in the desert,' he told her. 'You'll see.'

  Kasey nodded as she put on her gloves and tried not to cry. The desert felt like a dream. She wondered if she would ever see it. She opened the front door, where the wind gusted into the foyer, bringing a cloud of snow. Before she left, she turned back and put a gloved hand on Bruce's bushy beard.

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  'For what?'

  'For putting us in the middle of this.'

  'It's not your fault,' he told her. 'You can't blame yourself.'

  'I do anyway.'

  She kissed him and closed the door before her emotions betrayed her. As she tramped across the dirt toward the garage, she cringed in the cold air. The fierce wind bit at her exposed skin, and the wet snowflakes clumped on her eyelids, making her blink. Her eyes moved constantly, studying every corner and shadow. She wondered where he was. When she yanked open the garage door, she made sure the space was empty before hurrying to their car and climbing inside. She locked the doors and di
dn't let the engine warm up before backing through the drifts and speeding toward the highway.

  Kasey was alone on the road. Snow poured across the headlights and made it difficult to see. She remembered the same lonely drive a week earlier, lost in the fog, but she knew where she was going this time. She remembered how the gun on the seat beside her had comforted her that night, but she had already surrendered her gun. She put the knife there now instead and eyed its dull blade, but no sense of security came with it.

  It took her less than ten minutes to criss-cross along Highway 43 and retrace her steps to the abandoned dairy on Strand Avenue. She came from the northeast, past the house of the woman who had died in the field, across the bridge over the rapids of the Lester River. Her body felt the icy grip of the water again, the way it had knocked her off her feet. She remembered the screams and the sounds of the shots coming from her gun. She remembered standing over the woman's body after the man had escaped.

  She turned into the driveway near the white dairy building. No other cars were parked there. She saw no one waiting for her. She grabbed the knife and secreted it in her pocket as she got out of the car. The wind howled. She swayed on her feet as images of that deadly encounter a week earlier hammered her brain. She had spent the days since then trying to forget, and now she was back here, the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  Kasey shoved her hands in her pockets. She squinted against the snow. When she wandered toward the dairy, she saw water stains on the cinder blocks and broken frosted windows. If she looked closely, she expected to see her own footsteps, coming up from the river, winding between the pines and stealthily hugging the rear of the building. As she came around the corner of the dairy into the open stretch of grass, now white with snow, she had a vision of the woman still lying there, her body in the field. Susan Krauss. Kasey could run and run and never escape her.