Cesspool

by Phil M. Williams

  He glared at James. “What the fuck you doin’ with all these envelopes?”

  “The girl got a job working for a junk mail company. She stuffs envelopes.”

  He chuckled. “Fuckin’ junk mail. That shit should be illegal.” He dropped the box on the floor and marched into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. “No beer?” He smirked at James. “You look like a wine drinker.” He went through the kitchen drawers and their contents. He knocked over some spice containers on the counter. He swaggered to the back door and stood on the mat covering the cellar hatch. He inspected the hinges on the door. He turned to James. “What’s all this?”

  “Brackets to make the door stronger,” James replied. “Probably a good idea with all the burglaries we have around here.”

  The officer stood silent, staring at James.

  James stood expressionless, matching his stare.

  “All right then,” Dale said finally. The officer marched past James to the front door. He turned around at the threshold. “Next time just let me in, and I won’t be such a dick.”

  James shut the door behind Dale and breathed a sigh of relief. James parted the window curtains, watching the cruiser drive away. He walked over to the mat and pulled it aside.

  “He’s gone,” he said. “You can come out.”

  * * *

  James pulled the Hyundai into the gravel driveway of the Stricklands’ stone house. He was dressed in his chemical suit, booties, jacket, gloves, and knit cap. He glanced at his burner phone—3:12 a.m. James took the duffel bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of the vehicle. He slung the bag over his shoulder and opened a rear door. The sixty-inch pry bar was laid diagonal, barely fitting in the compact car. He grabbed the pry bar in one hand and the sledgehammer in the other. The house was pitch-black, the moonlight guiding his way. His arms felt immediate relief as he placed the heavy tools and bag next to the back door.

  He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of wire cutters. He snipped the phone line and placed the wire cutters back in the bag. He took a deep breath and shook his arms. Condensation blew from his mouth as he picked up the sledgehammer. He held on to the fiberglass handle and positioned the steel head just beneath the doorknob. He stepped back and tried a few practice swings, using his legs, hips, and back to give the tool the most striking power.

  Comfortable that he had found the right technique, he stepped toward the door and took a deep breath. James swung the sledgehammer, connecting just beneath the doorknob. It bucked but held. He swung again and again and again. The door was warped, but still it held. He set down the sledgehammer and shook his arms, his breathing elevated. As he caught his breath, he listened. He heard leaves shuffling and wind whistling. He picked up sledgehammer and swung repeatedly. Finally, the wooden door frame cracked; the door flew open, and the alarm blared.

  His heart pounded as he pulled his flashlight from his jacket pocket and hurried inside. He shone his light on the breaker box. James opened it and turned off the main breaker, cutting power to the house. The alarm still screamed. Shit! He glanced at the metal alarm box beneath the breaker box. Battery backup. It was locked. The earsplitting siren made it difficult to think. He felt queasy. He ran to his bag and grabbed his mini–pry bar and hammer. He returned and shoved the pry bar into the edge by the lock. He hammered the bar into the edge and cranked on the pry bar, bending the thin metal. After a minute of cranking, the box was deformed, the lock impotent. He opened the box and ripped out the batteries, dropping them on the floor. The noise ceased. It was quiet, his heavy breathing now audible. He stepped outside and put his tools back in the bag. He moved to the corner of the house and surveyed the road, listening for signs of life, listening for sirens. Nothing. James went back inside, slinging his duffel bag across his chest.

  He started at the fireplace and searched toward the kitchen. He moved methodically, touching and shining his light, looking for crevices, compartments. A cellar hatch was underneath the bearskin rug, similar to the one in his cabin. He opened the hatch and descended the ladder. The cellar was cramped with a dirt floor and stone rubble walls. Rusted metal racks stood with a few hundred old empty mason jars. Empty plastic crates were lined along the wall. One of the crates was turned upside down. Gray metal glistened in the flashlight beam. James picked up the crate to find a small safe underneath.

  He went upstairs and exited the open back door. He heard a twig snap. His gaze flicked toward the sound. He peered into the black woods, listening, afraid to shine his flashlight. He stood still and heard nothing. James retrieved the long pry bar and returned to the cellar. He turned the safe faceup and wedged it under a large stone that jutted out from the wall. He used the mini–pry bar and hammer from his bag to get a corner bent just enough for the big pry bar to fit. He cranked on the door for a couple minutes until it opened. Damn, I love YouTube. Inside were a few bound stacks of fives, tens, and ones. This can’t be more than a thousand dollars. This has to be a dummy safe.

  James shoved the cash in his bag and climbed the cellar ladder, the pry bar in hand, his duffel bag still slung across his chest. He leaned the pry bar against a recliner in the living room. He continued to search—drawers, cabinets, closets, every nook and cranny. Nothing. Maybe they’ve already moved it. He paced back and forth across the wood floor. He stopped and looked at the painted drywall ceiling. There has to be an attic. He shone the flashlight on the ceiling, searching for a hatch. He found it in the kitchen, eight feet above the floor. He pulled the kitchen table under the hatch and stood on top of it. James pushed the hatch up with his arms but didn’t have the leverage or the strength to pull himself up. I should have brought a ladder. He moved a chair on top of the table.

  Standing on the chair, he could stand with his head through the hatch. He shone his flashlight around. Dust motes hung in the air, suspended in the light. Pink fiberglass insulation was rolled between each joist with a hump of fiberglass in the corner. With the extra height the chair provided, James pulled himself into the attic. He walked on the joists toward the hump. James pulled the fiberglass off the hump, revealing another safe the size of an old microwave, this one bolted to two-by-fours that were in turn bolted to the joists. He set his duffel bag next to the safe.

  He climbed back into the kitchen and fetched his big pry bar from the living room. James climbed the table and chair and pushed the pry bar into the attic. He pulled himself up again. He cranked on this safe like he did the other one, bending and warping the metal until the door opened. James gasped. It was nearly filled to the brim with stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. Jackpot.

  He hurried back to the Hyundai and tossed the sledgehammer in the backseat. He placed the pry bar diagonally to fit. James dumped the contents of his duffel bag, and slammed the door in haste, the thud reverberating through the woods. He heard a low rumble and gravel crunching, then saw headlights and a vehicle rounding the corner. Shit. James scurried behind his car, peering out from the back corner. He waited as the rumble grew louder and the lights grew brighter. His stomach turned as he saw a lifted truck cruising down the gravel road. Kurt. The truck and its driver were obscured by fog lights perched on the roll bar and the grill. I need a weapon. The tools! The big truck rumbled past. It was a beautiful shade of green. James put his hand over his chest, catching his breath.

  He rushed to the attic, his duffel bag empty. Full of adrenaline, James opened his bag and stuffed it with stacks of cash. With the safe bare and his bag bulging with Benjamins, he retrieved a solitary hundred-dollar bill, and a Sharpie from his jacket pocket. James wrote Hugs and Kisses ☺ on the bill and placed it at the bottom of the empty safe. He had to press down on the money to get the duffel’s zipper to shut. He coughed, tiny fiberglass particles irritating his throat and lungs. James slung his bag over his shoulder and climbed down from the attic. He hustled to the Hyundai with a wide grin.

  James glanced at his burner phone as he pulled out of the driveway. 3:41 a.m. Not bad for a beginner.


  He returned to his cabin, dimly lit by a single floor lamp. Brittany was curled up on the love seat, distracting herself with a book. The Buck knife sat by her side. She popped up as James entered with a bulging duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  She stood. “How did it go?”

  He frowned. “Not great.”

  Her mouth turned down. “Are you okay?”

  He dropped the duffel bag on the kitchen table. She walked over.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “They don’t have much of value there … anymore.” He grinned as he unzipped the bag, revealing the endless stacks of C-notes.

  She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. Is that what I think it is?” She picked up a stack and flipped through the bills. “They’re all hundreds. How much is here?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t count it, but I would estimate somewhere between half a million and a million.”

  “Holy crap.” She put the stack of bills back in the bag. “What do we do now?”

  “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  “What about the envelopes?” she asked. “We’re not done.”

  “We’ll take them with us. We can mail them from anywhere.”

  They spent the next several hours covering their tracks and getting ready to leave. James took his burglary tools down to the river and threw them in, while Brittany packed. When he returned, they packed the Hyundai with the envelopes, latex gloves, folding machine, bag of cash, laptop, MP3 recorder, memory cards, USB flash drives, and two small suitcases. Brittany shut the trunk. James stood next to her.

  “I think that’s it,” she said.

  The morning sun was peeking over the horizon.

  “I have something for you,” he said. He pulled out two letters from the inside pocket of his jacket. One was labeled Brittany, the other Yolanda. “If we ever get split up, open the letter with your name on it. It’ll explain what to do and where to—”

  “James, no.” She frowned. “I told you. I’m stayin’ with you.”

  “Brittany, listen to me. This is important. It could be the difference between life and death. If we split up, open the letter with your name on it and take the other one unopened to Yolanda. All the instructions are inside.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Won’t need it.”

  “Will you just take them please? It’ll make me feel better.”

  She snatched the letters and shoved them in her jacket pocket. “Is that it?” she asked.

  “I have one more thing,” he said, “but we have to get this car out of here first. I don’t like it being here in the light.”

  She threw up her hands. “Why can’t you just get it done now? How long can one thing take?”

  He deadpanned, “I have to dig it up.”

  Chapter 18

  A Tangled Web

  They parked the Hyundai at Gil’s Storage and drove back to the cabin in their truck. James checked his unused burner phone—7:07 a.m.

  James opened the tool locker on his porch and pulled out a shovel. He tightened his work gloves. He heard the throaty roar of a V-8 in the distance. His heart pounded.

  “Go to the cellar,” he said to Brittany as he threw the shovel back in the locker.

  They hurried into the cabin. He locked the front door behind them. She pulled the mat from the hatch and opened it. James tossed his gloves on the kitchen table and fished his car keys from his pocket. He grabbed her hand and put the keys in her grasp.

  “If something goes wrong,” he said, “you know what to do.”

  Her blue eyes were glassy. “Let’s just run now, together. We can make it.”

  “We need more of a head start. Besides, it’s only one car, no siren. They’d send the cavalry if they knew. Let me take care of this, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  She nodded.

  The alarm monitor chimed, “Alert zone one. Alert zone one.”

  “Go,” he said.

  He shut the hatch and covered it with the mat.

  “Alert zone two. Alert zone two.”

  He knew from the short time span between the alarms that the person had moved from the vehicle quickly. His stomach churned. Someone pounded on the front door. He parted a corner of the curtains. Officer Dale Strickland stood on the stoop in jeans and a heavy coat. James opened the door. Dale marched inside. He had dark circles under his beady eyes. They stood in the middle of the cabin, the front door wide open.

  “You don’t mind if I come in, do you?” he said.

  “Can I help you, Officer?” James asked.

  Dale smirked. “I don’t know. Can you?”

  James shrugged. “Depends on what you need.”

  “What do I need? What do I need?” Dale said in a singsong voice.

  Dale moved into James’s personal space and punched him in the stomach. James doubled over, falling to one knee, coughing. Dale pulled his Glock from the holster under his jacket and pressed the barrel to James’s forehead. James’s eyes were wide, his eyebrows arched.

  Dale said, “I need you to tell me if you know my brother, Kurt. If you lie, it’ll be the last lie you tell.”

  He knows I know him. “He took one of my classes last summer.”

  Dale nodded. “What about Heather Davenport?”

  “She was in the same class.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “I think they’re dating. He drives a red truck with big tires.”

  He pressed the square barrel harder into James’s forehead. “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “I see them sometimes in the campus parking lot. The truck’s hard to miss.”

  He pulled the Glock from James’s forehead, leaving an impression of the barrel. He narrowed his eyes. “Charles Lee Ray mean anything to you?”

  “No,” James said with a poker face.

  “Did you send me a text message?”

  “No.”

  Dale chuckled. “You know, most times when you jam a gun in a man’s face, he cowers and begs. My dad doesn’t think you have the stones to fuck with us, but I can see now that you do.”

  He walloped James across the head with the butt of his gun. James grunted, still on one knee. He held his head, blood pouring from a gash just above his hairline.

  “Why did you send those texts?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  Dale reared back and struck James again, knocking him off his knees and opening another gash on his head. Blood gushed down his face, blurring his vision. Dale cackled. James crawled away, vaguely in the direction of the open door. He felt the cold air on his face. Dale grabbed James’s foot and twisted it. James grimaced as Dale pulled him back into the cabin by his twisted ankle.

  Dale dropped James’s foot.

  James turned and looked.

  Dale reached behind his back. He exhaled, his breath spraying blood droplets from his mouth and nose. He wobbled and dropped to his knees. He wheezed and sprayed more blood.

  Brittany backed away, her hand over her mouth.

  Dale collapsed on his side, sucking in air and exhaling blood. James’s Buck knife was stuck in his back. James struggled to his feet and wiped the blood from his eyes. He limped over to Dale, pried the Glock from his hand, and set it on the floor out of reach. He hobbled to his dresser and grabbed an old T-shirt. James tied it around his head to stem the tide of blood.

  He struggled past Brittany to the kitchen table and grabbed his gloves. He put them on as he limped back to Dale. James clasped his gloved hands around Dale’s neck and squeezed. Brittany stood like a statue, her eyes wide, her hand still over her mouth. James held tight until the death throes came. James staggered back, careful not to drip his blood on the body. He removed the T-shirt headband and wiped his face.

  He looked at Brittany, his eyes wide, his head still bleeding. “I have to clean this up.”

  She remained frozen.

  “You need to go,” he said. “Take the Hyundai and driv
e south on I-15 for half an hour, then pullover and open the letter I gave you.”

  She was silent.

  He limped closer. “Brittany, get moving. Now.”

  Her eyes were saucers. “I killed him.”

  “No, you didn’t. I did. I choked him to death. Do you hear me?”

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “Head wounds bleed, a lot. They look worse than they are.”

  “And your leg. You can’t clean this up on your own.”

  “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She shook her head. “I told you. I’m stayin’ with you.” She went to the sink and opened the cabinets.

  “Brittany, this is not the time to be obstinate.”

  She pulled out the first aid kit, holding it up. “We have to clean you up first, right?”

  He exhaled, shaking his head. “First we need a tarp. He’s bleeding on the floor.”

  James told her where to find a fresh tarp. With gloved hands they laid out the tarp next to the body. James pulled the knife from Dale’s back and wiped the blood on the man’s jacket. James took the knife to the sink. Brittany grabbed the oxidized bleach jug from under the sink and washed the murder weapon. She put it back in its sheath.

  “Could you give me that?” James said. “I don’t want to forget it.”

  She handed the knife to him, and he attached it to his belt.

  They returned to the body. James took Dale’s car keys and cell phone from his pocket, and shoved them in his. The Glock was on the floor a few feet away. They rolled the body on the tarp, stopping when he was facedown. They tucked the tarp around and under his body, like a Dale burrito.

  “Could you grab the gorilla tape?” James said. “It’s in the bottom drawer, to the left of the sink.”

  Brittany hustled to the kitchen and picked up a half-used roll of tape.

  “Not that one. There should be a brand new roll, covered in plastic.”