She looked at James with her brow furrowed.
“No fingerprints,” he said.
Brittany retrieved the new roll of tape. James pulled off the plastic wrap, and they taped the tarp tight around Dale’s body.
Brittany helped James clean his face and head in the kitchen sink. She disinfected his head wounds and wrapped a bandage around him like a mummy. James placed his knit hat over the bandage.
“I’m actually more worried about my ankle. It’s swelling. Feels tight in my boot.”
She bit the lower corner of her lip. “Do you think it’s broken?”
He winced as he tried to move his ankle. “I think it’s a bad sprain.” He glanced at the gun on the floor. “Shit, the gun. Could you bring me that handgun? Fingers nowhere near the trigger please.”
James washed his blood and fingerprints off the butt of the Glock. He set the handgun on the counter. She stared at the blue tarp.
“I need you to drop me off at Harold’s, so I can get rid of the body,” he said. “Brittany, did you hear me?”
She turned to James and nodded, her face blank. “You need me to help you with the body?”
“I just need you to help me get it in my truck and into Harold’s backyard. I can handle putting it in the cesspool. It’ll take a few hours to dig up the manhole cover. I don’t want you there.”
“I can help. It’ll go quicker.”
“No. Someone has to drive my truck back here. We can’t park at Harold’s for hours in broad daylight. It’s too risky. I need you to come back here and start the cleanup. There’s a lot of blood.”
He instructed Brittany on cleaning. He told her to mop the floor with a heavy amount of bleach, letting the sanitizer soak into all the crevices of the wood. He told her to wipe down the furniture and walls as well, because of the blood spray that had come from Dale’s mouth.
“Check the cellar ceiling,” he said, “and wash it if you see any sign of blood that may have seeped through the floor. You’ll have to move furniture to get all the crevices. Also inspect every item in this house. Leave nothing uncleaned. When in doubt, wash it again.”
She nodded.
“Let’s get this piece of shit out of here.”
Outside, Dale’s black SUV was parked tight behind James’s truck. James turned into the leaves and brush and backed up his truck across the yard, next to the front porch. He dropped the tailgate and limped into his cabin. James put booties over his boots. He gave a pair to Brittany. They were big, but they stayed on. Brittany put her hair up and placed a knit cap over her head. They wore slick puffy coats and gloves. They took turns being frisked by the lint roller.
Dressed for success, they dragged the Dale burrito outside to the truck.
“This’ll be the hard part,” James said between heavy breaths.
James had the head. Brittany had the legs, but they were having trouble getting the saggy middle high enough to clear the tailgate. They dropped him and stood, condensation spilling from their lips. James shook his arms, trying to recover.
“Let’s try something different,” James said.
They heaved Dale upright and bent him over the tailgate. They grabbed his legs and shoved him into the truck bed.
“Could you grab some tools from the locker?” James asked. “I need the pickax, a shovel, and the leaf rake.”
Brittany hurried to the locker, retrieved the tools, and dumped them in the truck bed. They sped to Harold’s with the blue burrito bouncing in the truck’s bed. James backed into the driveway.
“I didn’t want my tire tracks here,” James said, “but it’s too far to drag him from the road. And someone might see us.”
They dragged Dale around back. Brittany left James with the tools and drove back to their cabin to cleanup.
James surveyed the area, his rake in hand. I wish I had left that rebar in place. James raked leaves from the approximate area, finding fresh, loose soil. He hobbled around the cleared area, feeling for a soft spot. His boot sank into the ground. James grabbed his shovel and began to dig. Despite the loose soil, his throbbing ankle slowed the process. I would have left it open if I knew this was going to happen. His shovel thudded off the concrete manhole cover. He hopped around on one foot, excavating the soil from the manhole. He estimated that the digging took three times as long as the first time. James reached down and grabbed the handle on the cover. He braced himself with his good leg and heaved. Shooting pain reverberated through his ankle as the cover slid off the hole. The raw sewage smelled like rotten eggs.
He struggled to drag Dale the short distance to the hole, stopping several times for the searing pain in his ankle to subside. James positioned the burrito close to the hole and gave it a few pushes. The tarp-covered body leaned over the edge. He helped it along with another big push, and now Officer Strickland joined his uncle, slipping into the black sludge. A bit of tarp was visible through the manhole. James hobbled to the woods and picked up a sturdy stick. James pushed on the body with the stick, tucking it out of sight. He threw the stick in the cesspool and lugged the cover back over the hole.
He spent the next couple hours backfilling the hole, raking the soil, and replacing the leaves over the site. He glanced up at the sun and checked his burner phone—12:38 p.m. Shit, it’s been almost six hours. He dialed Brittany’s burner phone.
“I was getting worried,” she said.
“I’m all done here,” he said. “Can you come pick me up?”
James peered out from behind the back corner of Harold’s trailer, waiting for Brittany. She pulled into the driveway, stopping near the house. James gimped toward the truck, his tools in hand. He tossed the tools in the truck bed and climbed into the driver’s seat. Brittany scooted over. He adjusted the seat and put the truck in Reverse. He heard the rumble of an engine, not his own. It was faint at first. James stopped his truck in Harold’s driveway. He glanced at Brittany. Her eyes were wide. She’d heard it too. He watched in his rearview mirror as an old Jeep Cherokee lumbered past.
“Do you think they saw us?” she asked.
He backed out of the driveway. “Unless they know Harold, it’s probably fine.”
He limped into their cabin behind Brittany. His eyes burned from the bleach fumes. The entire place was wet and shiny.
She turned to James. “I still have to check the cellar.”
They climbed down into the cellar. James pulled the string on the lightbulb. The bulb cast a dim glow. They scanned the ceiling with flashlights, looking for blood. Blood dripped between the floorboards on to the cardboard boxes of freeze-dried food.
“Shit,” James said. “We have to clean the ceiling, and we have to use heavy bleach on this cardboard.”
They spent the next two hours cleaning the cellar. James struggled up the ladder after Brittany.
“I think everything’s clean,” she said.
James checked the time on his phone—2:14 p.m.
“Let’s get Dale’s truck out of here,” he said. “Follow me in the Ford but don’t follow close.”
“You don’t wanna get the Hyundai?” she asked.
“I do, but Dale’s supposed to be at work at four, and we’re running out of time. Just keep your distance. I’ll drive slow to make sure I don’t lose you.”
James drove the black SUV wearing his jacket and hat over his chemical suit. Brittany followed in the Ford. They drove to the next town over. James parked the GMC Yukon in a rundown residential area, leaving the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition. Brittany waited a block behind. He hobbled back to the Ford pickup, and they drove toward the river. James parked his truck on the shoulder, the river just beyond an edge of trees. James gave her Dale’s cell phone. Brittany hiked through the trees, looked around, and chucked the phone into the water. James and Brittany drove on toward the cabin and storage place. He turned down the gravel road toward their cabin.
“We’re not going to the storage place?” Brittany asked, her eyes bulging.
�
�I still have to dig up something,” James said.
“James, come on. I have a bad feeling. We have to go.”
“I’m not going to leave it now after everything. I’ll be quick.”
He heard it before he saw anything. He looked in the rearview mirror—nothing. He glanced at Brittany. She bit her lower lip. She had heard it too. It was getting louder. He turned around and caught a glimpse of red and blue lights. He mashed on the accelerator, the V-8 roaring to life, the truck’s back end fishtailing on the gravel. The sirens were getting louder. He saw her out of the corner of his eye. She gripped the armrest, her knuckles white, as the speedometer hit ninety. He slowed as he approached his cabin. James swung the truck into the driveway and drove over the garden, parking directly in front of the porch. Brittany hopped out, her door facing the cabin. She waited at the front door, bouncing on the balls of her feet as James hobbled around the truck. She turned around, facing the house, too afraid to look at the onslaught coming. James hopped up the steps on one leg, holding his keys, as a caravan of four cruisers and an SUV turned into the driveway.
“Barricade and evade,” James said, his hands shaking as he slid the key into the dead bolt.
Brittany nodded.
He opened the door, letting her in first.
“Stop right there” James heard from the driveway.
He entered the cabin, not bothering to see if a gun was pointed at him.
The monitoring box chimed and said, “Alert zone one. Alert zone one. Alert zone one. Alert zone one …”
He slammed the door and locked the reinforced dead bolt. Brittany moved the mat and opened the cellar hatch. James struggled down the ladder, hopping down with one foot, his arms controlling his descent.
Brittany positioned the mat over the open hatch and closed it as she climbed down the ladder, hopefully with the mat still in position over the hatch.
The monitoring box was going crazy. “Alert zone two. Alert zone two. Alert zone two. Alert zone two …”
“Shit!” James said, limping toward the ladder.
“What?” Brittany asked.
“The gun’s in the kitchen.”
Brittany turned and sprinted for the ladder.
“No!” James said as she blew past him.
She scaled the ladder and pushed open the hatch. He heard pounding on the front door and a constant invader alert from the monitoring device. A hard bang on the door shook the cabin. The door held. Brittany scurried down the ladder, shutting the hatch over her head, the Glock in hand. She handed it to James. He put the handgun in his jacket pocket and zipped it up. The house shook again, the doorjamb armor giving them extra time.
A two-by-two piece of plywood hung from hinges at the top of the back cellar wall. It opened outward. Brittany lugged a forty-pound bucket of rice and positioned it on the floor under the hinged plywood. James opened the tiny door. Brittany stepped on the bucket and climbed into a twenty-four-inch-diameter tunnel made of black corrugated pipe.
The house shook again, this time followed by a crunching sound, deep voices, and a dog barking. They’re in. James stood on the bucket with his good leg and squeezed into the pipe headfirst, letting the plywood door shut behind him. He was prone, his elbows jammed against the pipe walls. He felt like he was in a coffin. He looked ahead, with his eyes wide open, but there was only darkness. Brittany was gone, her tiny body fitting with ease.
James struggled; he felt claustrophobic. The voices grew louder. They found the cellar hatch. James closed his eyes and thought of the woods. He thought of the places they’d hiked. He pulled himself forward, with no reference to the distance he was traveling. The voices grew quieter. He was making progress. He heard her groaning ahead.
“It’s stuck,” she said, groaning again. “I can’t get it open.”
He was close now. He touched her foot, but he couldn’t see anything but black.
“There’s a few inches of soil on top,” he said. “Squat underneath it and push up, using your legs for power.”
“I’m tryin’. I’m not tall enough.”
“Can you turn around?”
“I think so.”
“Climb over me, and I’ll try.”
She wiggled her body over his, barely squeezing past. James inched forward, reaching the end of the pipe. He pushed himself up on his knees, the drain pipe elbow allowing vertical space. He stood, hunched, on one foot, his knees bent toward the open pipe. James put his hands on the hatch above him. He heaved, grunting. The hatch pushed open, and light filled the tunnel. He stood, his head peeking out of the ground. He was behind a brush pile. James couldn’t see the cabin through the pile, but he knew he was only eighty feet from the back door.
“They went through here,” a man said, his voice reverberating through the tunnel.
James climbed out and helped Brittany from the pipe.
“We need to hurry,” he said.
James leaned on Brittany as he hobbled along the trail. Rocks and tree roots made the hike especially difficult and painful. The police dog barked in the distance. James’s ankle was getting worse. His boot was tight from the swelling. Any weight on his bad foot sent shards of pain through his body. They soldiered on. The dog barked again; Brittany flinched. It was closer, much closer. James grabbed his keys from his pocket.
“Meet me at the car,” he said.
“We’re almost there,” she said.
He slammed the keys in her hand. “Wait ten minutes. If you don’t see me, go.”
“No, I’m not leavin’ you.”
James pushed her, a lump in his throat. “Go, you stupid fucking bitch.”
She looked at him with glassy eyes for a moment, the keys in her hand. She ran, disappearing down the trail in the blink of an eye.
The barking grew closer. He took off his jacket and turned around. Here it comes.
Chapter 19
Melty Chocolate Chips
Brittany sprinted through the woods like an experienced trail runner. She reached the fork at the end of the trail. She followed the trail downhill to the small empty gravel parking area. Brittany looked left and right and ran across the street to Gil’s Storage. She ran through the open gate to the Hyundai. She unlocked the door and sat in the driver’s seat. Brittany put the key in the ignition and started the car. She looked at the clock on the radio—3:36 p.m. She climbed over the hand brake and automatic shifter to the passenger seat. He’ll be here.
She glanced at the clock—3:42 p.m. Come on, come on, come on. She tapped her foot on the floor mat and watched the cracked asphalt lane in front of her. Any second he’ll be here. Come on, James. She glanced down at the clock—3:44 p.m. Eight minutes. Come on, James. Don’t do this to me. She watched the asphalt lane, biting her lower lip. Her eyes flicked to the clock—3:46 p.m. Ten minutes. Come on, James. Hurry up. I’m not leaving you. She jumped at the gunshot in the distance. The clock read 3:49 p.m. Tears welled in her eyes as she climbed into the driver’s seat. She sped out of the storage lot.
Brittany drove south on US 15 for half an hour. She peeked at the gas gauge—three-quarters of a tank. She heard his voice in her head. This is enough gas to get down there. We’ll stay in the right lane and drive slow but not too slow. She saw signs for a Subway. She pulled off the exit and followed the signs for the restaurant. A Sheetz gas station was across the street. The Subway was next to a grocery store. She parked away from the restaurant, in an empty part of the lot. She pulled the two envelopes from her jacket pocket. Brittany put the one for Yolanda back in her pocket and opened the letter for her. It contained two pages; one was a double-sided printout from Google Maps. The other was handwritten in James’s neat cursive.
Brittany,
If you’re reading this, something went wrong. But something also went very right, because you are reading this. First, know that if we’re separated, I will do everything in my power to find you, but, if it is too dangerous for either of us, I will stay away. Under no circumstances do I want you to seek
me out. You need to distance yourself from me and absolutely do not go back to that town. Further, do not contact Jessica or Denise. I know they’re your friends, but it is best that they do not know where you are. It is possible that the police will question them.
You’re the strongest person I know and the most important person in the world to me. I know you’re probably scared right now. That’s a perfectly normal reaction. If you follow my directions listed below, everything will be fine. Just follow the directions, like a recipe for freedom and happiness. It’ll work out. I promise.
1. Take a deep breath. You did it!
2. Follow the Google Maps directions I printed for you. They will take you to Yolanda’s house. There’s likely to be lots of traffic. Don’t freak out. The driving rules are the same. Just be extra careful when changing lanes.
3. When you get to Yolanda’s house, park in a spot clearly marked Visitor. People in northern Virginia can be really snooty about their parking spaces.
4. Ring the doorbell. If it’s after five, she’ll be home. She knows who you are and that you might show up on her doorstep. After you introduce yourself, ask her if you could talk to her in private. It’s best if as few people know as possible. In private, give her the letter addressed to her.
5. Let Yolanda help you. She’s my second-favorite person in the world.
6. Destroy this letter. Yolanda has a shredder.
Love—Your Best Friend,
James
Brittany burst into tears, her chest convulsing in sobs. She leaned her head on the steering wheel and cried. It all poured out—the stress; the trauma; her mother; her mother’s boyfriend; Harold and the chief touching her, taking her, choking her; wanting to curl up in a ball and die; the knife in Dale’s back; James. The man who gave me everything without asking for anything in return.
She sniffled and pulled a tissue from the glove box. She wiped her face and went into the Subway. She ordered a turkey sub, recreating the one he had ordered for her, the one that was better than what she would have picked for herself. She bought two chocolate chip cookies. She smiled to herself, thinking of what he had said. I don’t know how they get the chips to stay melty. She ate by the window, keeping an eye on the car, not that would-be-burglars would think a three-thousand-dollar Hyundai would be carrying close to a million dollars in cash. After a long overdue meal, she was back in the car. She went through the Google Maps directions, making sure she understood them.
Cesspool Page 18