by Marcy McKay
I forget all about Turdmouth crouched beside me. Tears flood my face. I can’t let go of her long, beautiful hair. I sort of knew all along this is how it would end, but now that it’s here, I still can’t handle it.
My stomach lurches. I try to run away before I get sick on Turdmouth, but don’t make it far. Dropping to my knees, I start to hurl, but the puke doesn’t come up. I just cough and sputter, still gripping a few hair strands between my fingers and tasting the dirt clods from digging. Mama’s death tastes bitter, her last moments on earth must’ve been brutal.
Who’ll give me Hershey Bars on my birthday now? Who’ll sing me songs when I’m sick? Who’ll call me Copper Penny and love me best of all?
Nobody, that’s who. I’m sobbing, while Mama seeps deeper into the cold ground. I lost her two days ago, but know now she’s gone forever. I can’t stop shaking. I’ll never—
“It’s a dog!” Turdmouth shouts.
“What?”
“Yeah.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Come back, it’s not your mom at all. It’s a long-haired dog. Someone must’ve buried their pet here.”
I scramble beside him and reach into the grave and feel the poor fella’s back legs. Sure enough, it’s a d-o-g. I sniff and wipe my runny nose. Why’d they bury him here?
Turdmouth says, “Whoo. That pooch really stinks.”
Pooch. Worry needles my gut … it couldn’t be.
“No,” I say. “Please, no.” I start digging closer to the dog’s face. Smelly dirt flings around like before. The stench of rotting meat whizzes by me again. I ignore it and keep working.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Just dig.”
We tunnel together in silence. The moon breaks enough away from the clouds to give me some light to see. The hair’s not black like Mama’s at all. It’s reddish. I feel the leather collar and already know what the tag says ’cause Mama taught me to read it:
SUGAR – 2613 S. HILLTOP
Turdmouth gasps. “Your friend.”
My tears unleash again, but now over Sugar. The Irish setter I love, my ginger buddy, lies dead before me. His glazed eyes have that same forever stare like Spook lying dead in the street. I saw Sugar just last night, but sent him away. He seemed fine.
I pat “sorry” on his neck. Guess I’m touching him for the last time. That’s when I feel the crusty, gunky mess.
Blood, mostly dried, but some still wet.
Lots.
As I peel back his neck hair, I see his slashed throat—jagged and long. Someone killed my favorite dog, then buried him by my favorite grave in the whole cemetery. Who’d know that?
The Street Killer.
He found me here last night and had a knife. I know ’cause he tried to stab me with it. Did he murder Sugar, too? Is this a message for me? I survived my attack, but this dead body shows what he’s planning next. I can’t stop screaming. I yell louder than Diablo’s wailing wind. Did that gangbanger do this? He’s following me and seems to know my every move.
Turdmouth must understand ’cause he tries to pat my shoulders, but I don’t let him. I can’t have him die, too. There’s a murderer hunting me down.
The blood on my hands proves it.
The wind isn’t wailing now. The only sounds are my whimpers and our footsteps as Turdmouth leads me through the dark cemetery, his pocketknife pointing the way. He’s looking for somewhere to clean Sugar’s blood off me.
It won’t help. I may as well have stabbed that dog myself. He was always so happy to see me, his tail wagging along the way. I sent him home after he followed me to the cemetery fence, but may have sent him off to die. My clothes reek and no amount of water can ever wash away my guilt. I’m stained for life.
Sugar’s neck was sliced and Diablo’s a cutter. I’ve got the sliced cheek to prove it. One more time I’m thinking he’s the Street Killer. Did he murder Sugar after he attacked me?
Turdmouth takes us through the Mexican Section where more trees and fancy stand-up graves start popping up. He doesn’t know it, but he’s leading us right by Maria Flores, Diablo’s dead sister. That’s where I saw Diablo and his shovel last night.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore. Diablo isn’t here now, but he’s stalking me all over the city. He won’t stop ’til I’m dead. His shiny blade wants to slash my throat like he did Sugar and his other victims, too. There’s a body bag with my name on it.
The wind wails.
We stop. Me and Turdmouth tense up together. I should care more about figuring out the noise, but my insides have shut down. Caring hurts too much. Diablo’s wounded-animal cry never comes. He’s not visiting his sister tonight. Turdmouth should run from me as far and fast as possible, but he’s helping me instead.
He leads me to a pond in the Garden of Friends with pine trees all around it. I see the outline of a few ducks sleeping on the water, the moonlight shimmering down. He kneels by the edge, then helps me do the same.
I sigh as he pushes back my sleeves. The water chills me. The dirt and blood rinse off my hands, but I still smell death. There’s too much buried here—Diablo’s secret … poor Sugar … the truth about Mama.
Turdmouth says extra soft, “Sorry about Sugar.”
“Thanks.”
“Why would anyone—”
A twig snapping nearby shuts us up. Something glides through the darkness on the other side of the pond. It moves through the night like a shadow. Turdmouth squeezes my hands to quiet me even though I’m not talking. We’re both shaking, but the figure slips on through the cemetery.
It’s gone.
Turdmouth waits a few seconds, then whispers, “Was that Diablo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s follow him.” He stands.
“No.” I tug him back.
“Why?”
“Are you crazy? Do you want to die?”
“But, what if it’s him?”
“Who cares? Sugar’s dead. Both our folks are still missing. Someone attacked me here last night. You’re not safe with me. Why should we catch up to Diablo to make it easier for him to kill us?”
“You made us stake out his headquarters all freakin’ afternoon. What’s so different now?”
“That’s before Sugar died.”
“But—”
“Don’t you get it? Go chase after Diablo if you want to, but I’m done playing detective. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s gone so good for you.”
“Shut up.”
“No, you shut up.”
Our angry words float up over the water, through the trees, then settle over the graves like dust. Even through the dark, I still feel his glare. It doesn’t matter. I’m too tired to care anymore. Caring turns people in a Disappeared.
Turdmouth stands and gives me his hand.
I don’t take it and get up all by myself, though the pain crushes me. I’ll hobble on home to get my cash, but don’t know what I’ll do then. He’s almost stepping on me from walking so close, but he’s smart enough to not touch me. We walk in black silence. Diablo scatters my thoughts to places even darker than this night.
As we head into the Historic Section, there’s more of everything—more trees, more graves, more sadness buried beneath the ground. Death happens here 24/7. An owl hoots in the distance—whooo, whooo, whooo?
I keep asking myself the same thing about the Street Killer.
Turning the corner, we see a light shining from inside the chapel. The stained glass window twinkles all different colors like a rainbow flashlight. That’s not normal. Another knot forms in my gut.
The building should be locked up and quiet, but two white Eternal Peace trucks sit parked outside, with a cop car beside ’em. The chapel door is wide open. Sweat breaks over my body. I wonder if it’s another 10-88, more suspicious activity.
I can’t believe how different inside looks from last night. Bibles and hymnals, torn and flung across the wooden floor. Jes
us paintings that were hanging on the walls are now broken on the ground, glass smashed everywhere.
Red spray-paint on the wall matches the graffiti back in Paradise:
Está muerto
You’re dead.
The Street Killer destroyed the chapel. Chills tremble through me.
Turdmouth whispers, “That looks like Diablo’s tagging.”
I nod. He left me a message all right. Now, I’m wishing we’d followed him like Turdmouth wanted, but can’t admit that to him. He motions to me and we tiptoe behind one of the cemetery pickups.
Junk food bags litter the seat and floorboard, so I bet this is O’Dell’s work truck. It probably smells like tobacco in there.
Two cops walk by the chapel door inside. They weren’t No-Brains, but we still duck behind the pickup truck. We should get out of here quick before we get caught. I start to tiptoe away and Turdmouth follows.
“Freeze. Put your hands up,” a deep voice says behind us.
CHAPTER 30
My neck hairs rise, though I don’t turn around. Looks like my uncle’s sending me to juvie after all. I can’t outrun No-Brains this close. The thought of those heavy handcuffs weigh down my heart. Maybe I can stop him long enough to let Turdmouth get away.
Uncle Patty doesn’t say a thing to me about Mama. I start to—
“Fooled you.” O’Dell laughs and says in his normal voice.
The Butt Munch extraordinaire opens his truck door for us. “Get in before Uncle Butch sees you and fires me. Stay down until I say so.”
I shock us both by minding him. Turdmouth scrambles past the steering wheel, then I do the same. We’re facing each other across the seat, both curled up. My insides flutter at his nearness even though I don’t want ’em to.
O’Dell starts the engine, cranks the heater, then drives off. The overhead light is still on as he elbows my butt out of the way. “Well, you still look like shit.”
“You still are a shit.”
“Geez, you smell it, too. What’d you and your boyfriend roll in?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” The inside light turns off before they see me blushing. Shadows bounce off the windshield as we ride along.
O’Dell says, “Okay, you can sit up now.”
We do and I elbow his side. “We dug up a dead dog in the Nobody Section. Way to go.”
“Did not.”
“Did, too.”
Turdmouth adds, “It’s true. Someone slashed his neck.”
He scores points for not mentioning me bawling. This small space swells with the stench of death and makes me queasy all over again. I breathe in and out of my mouth extra slow to try and stop it.
The pukey feeling starts to pass, but not my sadness over Sugar. I elbow O’Dell again harder. “Lazy Butt Munch.”
“Ow. What’d I do now?”
“It’s what you didn’t do. The Nobodies matter as much as the Somebodies around here. Pay more attention.”
“I know that. I pay attention to all the graves.”
“The murdered dog says you don’t.”
“The stink in here says I do. Roll down your window. You two reek.”
Him and Turdmouth both crank ’em down and the fresh air helps my seasickness right away. Cool rushes inside over the heater. The hot and cold confuse my body. I shiver, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. Breathe, I remind myself.
“Hey, man, I’m O’Dell.” He leans around me and shakes Turdmouth’s hand.
“Eugene O’Dell,” I add.
“I’m Tommy Tucker, not her boyfriend.”
“He goes by Turdmouth.”
“No, I don’t. You’re the only person on the freakin’ planet who calls me that and I hate it. Call me my real name.”
“Excuse me, Tommy Tucker.”
“Thank you.”
O’Dell says to Turdmouth, “She thinks she’s funny.”
“Tell me about it.”
I ignore ’em both. The headlight beams skip across the headstones and naked trees. Sometimes on nights like this, the moon rises and the mist shines over the whole cemetery in a twinkling graveyard glow. Me and Mama love it. This place is my heart and my home. I don’t want to leave Eternal Peace, but it’s just not safe for me here anymore.
Especially if Diablo is the Street Killer. He’s been here twice the past two nights and bad stuff happened both times.
O’Dell drives one-handed and spits a stream tobacco into a cup. “So, a dog really was murdered?”
Turdmouth explains what happened and about Diablo by the pond, too.
O’Dell says, “I’ll call Uncle Butch in a sec.”
We pass the Vanderhausen Mausoleum, bumping along the road. That’s where Mama puked the other night, but seems like forever ago …
On Valentine’s Day night, the wind blew through me as I pulled out our sleeping bags extra fast to get Mama to bed. It’d been a drain of a day—working the corner at Burger Heaven, the shelter’s holiday lunch, a few customers at the Shangri-La, then partying with Bird and her boys. That woman made us all miss dinner at chunch. Mama was just going along with her to be nice, even though I wanted to leave.
My tummy growled as Mama staggered around the Warrior Angel, laughing and crying at the same time. I knew this could go either way—her sound asleep in five minutes or throwing a fit forever.
She flung her arms out wide like a cross and shouted at the night like she was screaming to God himself, “Do not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak. Save us from walking in lusts, excess of wine and abominable idolatries.”
God shivered up my spine. I hate it when she does her bible talk, even though she does it as good as those preachers on The Lord’s Power Hour.
She laughed and stumbled around more, wagging her finger at me. “Asshole, thinks he can trick me, but I’ll show him.”
“Come to bed now, Mama.”
“No.” She pouted and stamped her foot, then took off running.
Here we go. I wasn’t in the mood for her games, but followed her so we could get to sleep. She was faster than you’d think that messed-up. The chilliness didn’t wake me up at all and I just straggled behind.
By the time I caught up to her, she’d dropped to her knees. Mama hung there a few seconds. “Whoa, I don’t feel so good.”
She slumped onto all fours and hurled onto the ground.
I gagged and looked off, but knew my job and held back her hair, while she got even sicker. When she finished, I said, “You okay?”
Mama burst into tears, globbing onto my knees so hard I almost tumbled over. She wailed like the wind. I felt her pain in every teardrop as she sobbed against me, “I’ve got to chaaaaaaaaaaaange.”
I couldn’t stop my own earthquakes inside. Badness hung in the air. I tried to fan it away, but the funk stayed and stayed.
When she’d cried herself out, I folded Mama into my arms and walked us home like always. “Shhh, it’s okay.”
The Warrior Angel watched me tuck her into bed, then pet her hair to go to sleep. I repeated what she told me earlier at the shelter. “Things are about to get better, Mama. You’ll see.”
Riding along in the truck, tears brim on the edge of my eyes. I cannot cry in front of these two and snap at O’Dell, “Did you ever clean up that hurl?”
“You’re not my damn mother, but yeah, I did. Speaking of, I didn’t learn any news about her today, but told the police about Diablo and his shovel here last night.”
“So, you’ve been playing hero with my info?”
“You betcha.” He laughs, spits more tobacco into his cup, then stares outside. “Nothing much has happened until that gang ransacked the chapel.” The wind jostles the truck a bit and the smile falls away from his face. “Did you hear the freaky wind again out there?”
Turdmouth shudders. “That wailing. Man, it’s got so much …”
“Pain,” O’Dell says.
“Exactly.”
Nobody says anymore, though I think w
e’ve all heard the same heartache. I see it in their faces—Diablo’s wailing sounds like broken glass dragging over an unfixable hurt. It doesn’t just fill our ears, it’s in the pit of our guts, too.
O’Dell eases the truck up to the Warrior Angel, then stops. His headlights make the statue’s sword shine almost golden, while pointing up toward Burger Heaven. He looks ready to conquer Satan, just like the library book says. He doesn’t seem out of sorts like he did this morning. Being back home makes me feel better than I have all day.
’Til I think of the Street Killer, but I reach fast into my pocket for Mr. Lincoln to calm me down.
Turdmouth stares at the statue. “Kick ass.”
I smile. Now, that’s the kind of uncle I want in my family. Not someone Mama’s too ashamed of to mention.
O’Dell’s talking on the phone to his uncle now, while Turdmouth lets me out of the truck.
“Be right back,” I say.
I know I’m walking across the speckled dried blood from me and the Street Killer. There’s been too much blood lately—mine, Spook’s, Sugar’s.
When I reach Miz Elsie’s two praying hands, I skim my fingers along her headstone and read:
A Precious Daughter
Mama’s made tons of bad mistakes, but she’s just as precious to me. I want her home again, so I can go back to being hers and she’ll be mine. The truck’s too dark inside to see if they’re watching me, but at least the hiding spot’s in back of the statue. I’m standing eye-level to the Warrior Angel’s feet, exactly where I rested my face while someone or something saved me last night.
It’s nothing but cold stone now. I touch the vines chiseled into the base, then shift up the small leaf that’s the swinging door. My hand wobbles reaching into the secret hole ’cause I half-expect the cash to be gone or that I made it up. I’m not sure what’s real anymore.
The envelope’s still there.
The cash is still inside.
I’m happy, but not even this much money can bring Sugar back to life. Surely, Mama didn’t go to LA without me like stupid Bird said. But, how could I track her down there? Maybe, Uncle Patty could—