by TJ O'Connor
“Good idea.” Angel descended into the big pit beneath the old barn’s crumbled foundation. There were a few piles of hand-honed timbers on one side and the remnants of the stone foundation on the other. The entire site was only perhaps thirty feet across and about twelve feet deep.
This was the heart of Kelly’s Dig.
I stood on the edge and looked around. A breeze blew through the tall grass and nearby trees, rustling what few fall leaves were left. The air smelled of turned earth and that musky, autumn smell I’ve loved since childhood. The breeze, the scent, and the sound of the trees were magical. Closing my eyes, I took it all in.
I’d been here before.
No, not chasing Civil War skeletons or battlefield historical markers—but watching two dark-skinned men digging in the night. Digging in my foyer. Digging here.
My vision.
If it were here where those men were sweating in the lamplight, what did it mean? When had it happened? Was it recent? The future? Perhaps years or decades ago? Had it been them who buried soldiers after some horrific battle?
No answers fluttered to me. I sat on the edge of the pit watching André and Angel work.
Thirty minutes later, Angel’s excavation stopped.
“André, I’ve found something.”
He joined her in the pit. “What?”
“Here, at the corner of the stones.” She chipped away at the base of the foundation ten feet below the lip of the pit. “The foundation goes down deep here. This must have been a root cellar beneath the barn. Byrd’s people broke through the corner stones and collapsed the walls. There was definitely something down there.”
The foundation stones ended in a crude pattern, covered in clay. There was a two-foot hole dug into the corner of the stones, probably by a backhoe, and a few of the stones were missing. Angel had dug deep into the soil on the fringes of the hole and more of the stones were now falling away. The foundation’s corner was fully exposed.
“Look, ” she said, pointing her trowel. “Looks like bone.”
André knelt down and brushed the loose dirt away from the stones. A dull, dirt-crusted, grayish saucer, perhaps six inches in diameter, protruded out of the ground.
“Well now,” he said. “This looks like a partial parietal bone. It’s in remarkable shape, too.”
“This piece was inside the old foundation, I think.” Angel picked up her camera and took several photographs. “I cannot imagine someone being accidentally interred this way.”
“The heavy equipment could have moved all this around.” André stood up. “We might need ground-radar equipment. That’ll show us if there are actually more bone or graves here. It’s going to take a lot of time.”
“And cost a lot of money.” Angel frowned. “A lot of money. Tyler won’t be very happy.”
“No, least of all with us.”
twenty-two
While Angel and André worked Kelly’s Dig, I spent the rest of the day mulling Angel’s abduction. My premonition in that dark parking lot, somewhere in her future, terrified me. If there was any good news, it was that I had not seen her death, or witnessed worse. Worse, I say, because now that I’ve experienced the “after” side of death, it’s not being dead that is troubling—it’s how you get that way. My demise was just a blur of movement, a flash of light. It was over in an instant. What may lay ahead for Angel might be far more horrifying.
If only I could reach her. If only I could warn her or Bear. My faded voice on Bear’s cell phone ignited an argument between them that ended in a draw. Angel chose hope, Bear denial. I wasn’t even sure which Angel embraced the most. Bear was a lost cause, but there might be a way to reach her.
If only I could find it.
It was nearly dark before Angel drove home and went to shower off the dust and grime from Kelly’s Dig. She changed into a business suit and put on some expensive perfume. Twenty minutes later, we were driving toward the far side of town with her briefcase between us. I’d used the “being there” trick that Doc taught me and popped into the passenger’s seat for the ride.
“Ah, Angel? Where are we going?”
A smile cracked the corners of her mouth. I asked again and just when I thought she might answer, her cell phone rang. “Hello? Oh, hello, Ernie.”
He was giving her an ear full. She interrupted him, saying, “Yes, André and I photographed and documented the skull bone. The judge will have to keep the injunction in place for at least a couple more months. That should please you, Ernie.”
More ire from him.
She frowned. “It’ll take longer, but yes, we’ll do the excavation ourselves. We’ll find every skeletal fragment we can. I promise.” That seemed to calm the old coot down and Angel’s smile confirmed that. “I’m pulling into the parking lot now. See you inside.”
Oh, hell no.
As Angel turned into the Northern Shenandoah Valley High School parking lot, a searing ice pick penetrated me. The lot was filling but she was able to park two rows from the front on the far end. It was a large campus with a grand, three-story, brick and stone main collegiate building that joined three other structures around a quad. The campus was rich with oaks and evergreens that enveloped the grounds—particularly the parking areas—and gave the campus ivy-league charm. That charm was gone now, shrouded by a veil of dread and hopelessness.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t stop her.
Angel climbed from the Explorer and joined a group of people walking toward the quad. In a moment, she disappeared in a gathering of others and was gone.
Dear God, not tonight. Not here. I wasn’t ready. I had no plan.
The school’s marquee announced the Frederick County Board of Supervisors meeting. A special town meeting to discuss the impact of Kelly’s Dig on the new highway bypass. Anyone and everyone with the tiniest bit of interest in the project were expected to be here. Ernie, André Cartier, Tyler Byrd, and of course, Angel.
It was all here. The parking lot. The premonition. Angel. Only one thing was missing and I prayed it stay away. It did not. The darkness turned desperate and the clouds chilled me.
Then, it started to rain.
twenty-three
Angel had been inside more than two hours and most of the other people attending the meeting were gone now. Only a few cars remained. While she was inside, I stood vigil over her car and watched, hoping I was wrong. At the front of the quad, I searched the trees and bushes for any sign of danger. Everyone who passed by was a potential stalker—anyone walking instead of running through the rain was him—but none were. Maybe I was wrong.
No.
He was there. I saw him just beyond the rim of wet, tense darkness—waiting. No, that was wrong, too. I felt him. Danger and lethality simmered somewhere ahead, just beyond recognition. Through the dark, there was the tenseness of waiting, ebbing patience, and anxiety.
He was waiting for Angel.
A dark panel van sat in the center of the lot, three rows behind Angel’s Explorer. I couldn’t see inside but knew a man was there. I felt the intensity of his focus. How I felt the connection, I don’t know—but it was unmistakable. The image of a tall, powerful man filled me. His raw, uninhibited menace stabbed at me like hot, burning pokers. His image fit my premonition. Perhaps he was the same man who shot at Angel. There was no evidence of that, but there could be no other explanation. Who else would do her harm?
A twinge of angst struck me and I felt anticipation. Was it his or mine?
Through the quad’s darkness, I heard a door shut. Angel emerged from the main school building and walked alone into the parking lot. I ran to her, staying just a few steps ahead. Fear made me stay between her and the van; reason said I could do nothing to save her.
“Angel, you have to go back inside. Please, go back inside.”
I focused all my thoughts on her—t
rying to will my words into her conscious but couldn’t penetrate the veil between our worlds. “He’s here, in that van. You have to go back.”
She slowed her pace and dug inside her bag. As she moved, her head pivoted around, searching the parking lot. Something startled her. Her pace quickened as her hunt for keys became frantic. I urged her to move faster—prodding her, pleading with her. I didn’t know if my words were reaching her, but she was responding, feeling the danger, seeking safety.
“Angel, get into the Explorer. Go. Run!”
She strained to see into the darkness as the van’s engine started. It was moving; now two rows away, rolling forward. She groped deeper into her purse and grasped her keys. Her pace was near a run.
“Go. Get out of here.”
She kept an eye on the van and she hastened her steps as the danger prodded her on. We reached the Explorer and she triggered the electric lock. “Tuck, why aren’t you here?”
“I am. I’ll get you out of here. Hurry.”
The van was on us. Its lights were on high and bore down on Angel. She sprang into the Explorer and started the engine. I waited outside urging her to safety. The engine roared but before she could pull away, the van stopped perpendicular to her door. He flashed his lights. The high beams blinded her and she froze, staring into them, uncertain of what to do.
The man slid from the van and took two steps, stopping outside the cone of Angel’s headlights and behind his own. He wore a long overcoat with its hood drawn over his head. He pointed toward her front wheel and patted the air. The rain and his hood shielded his face.
He pointed at her front tire and motioned for her to cut the engine.
Her tire was flat—flat to the rim.
Angel tried to roll the Explorer back away from his van. It resisted and its sluggish steering fought her until she heeded. She yanked the shift back into park and grabbed her cell phone from the console. With an unsteady finger, she stabbed speed dial 2.
“Please, Bear. Answer …”
He didn’t.
“Angel, stay in the truck. Try to …”
The man went to her door and pulled his hood tighter around his head. When he stepped closer to the Explorer, I saw his face—or what should have been his face. It was veiled behind the dark material of a balaclava.
“No, you bastard, no.”
“Leave me alone.” Angel shook her head, her eyes unable to hide the panic. She looked around. There was no one to come to her rescue. She dialed Bear again, cursed, and punched redial. Voicemail.
Before she could redial, the assault began.
The hooded man’s hand lashed out in a vicious arc and smashed her window with the butt of a knife.
Angel jolted. Her cell phone tumbled out the shattered window onto the ground. She tried escaping across the seats, clawing for the passenger door handle to pull herself free. She fumbled for the door lock and handle. Terror blunted her success.
She screamed.
“Jesus, no,” I yelled as the hooded man grabbed her hair and hauled her back behind the wheel. He grappled through the window, fought for control, and twisted her head backward. His strength was overpowering.
With little hope, I tried to intervene. I swung at him, tried pulling his hands from her. My fists found no bone, my grip found no flesh. I swung again and again—cursing and yelling at my own impotence. I was watching my wife’s death and was helpless to do more than cry.
“No, you bastard, no!”
He wrestled through her flailing arms, twisted her hair, and slammed her backward. His silent, focused assault was deafening. And what was most precarious was his foray, which came not from trepidation or any spontaneous rush, but from an obvious familiarity with violence.
“No.” I felt it. The rage began careening inside me. Singeing heat surged into me in a rush of angst and rage. Exhilaration shuttered me as sparks ignited inside and the power flashed.
“No, let me go.” Angel thrashed and tried to claw his hands loose. “Please … no …”
He cursed and pulled her into the window. Twice, he struck at her but didn’t land a solid blow. He struck her again. This time he connected with her temple. She went limp. He reached inside and tore the ignition keys free.
“No.” The energy in me burst into rage. “You bastard.”
I grabbed him by his throat and whipped him backward. His body spun and I propelled him to the ground. He crumbled four feet from the Explorer and Angel’s ignition keys dropped to the pavement. “Angel, the keys—get the keys.”
The hooded man froze. He lay on his back, staring at the Explorer. He looked around, unsure of who attacked him.
The shock didn’t last. He recovered faster than I expected. Angel lurched from the Explorer, hunting her keys. He sprang up and grabbed her. He took hold of her arm and stopped her in mid-stride like a marionette on a string. He shoved her backward and pinned her arms to her sides. He kneed her in a violent strike. She coughed and cried out.
She was done.
“No.” I kicked hard into the back of his knee but there was little impact. His head spun around, but he was unfazed. I kicked at his knee again. Nothing. Something was wrong.
Jesus, no. I was draining, losing focus … losing the surge of energy … losing.
The hooded man hammered her against the Explorer and she coughed again. He tightened his grip on her hair and shook her. He spun her around and wrapped his knife-hand around her neck.
The blade pressed her cheek. She stiffened. “Please, no …”
I tried to grab him but couldn’t find a hold. Then, I saw my chance. Angel’s cell phone lay at my feet, open. The screen was bright and alive with power—I grabbed it. My fingers tingled and the energy gushed into me. I grew stronger and stronger as my anger boiled and sought an outlet.
“Angel, drive yourself against him. He’ll loosen his grip. Then smash his balls. Now, Angel, now!”
Time froze.
She stared—stared right at me. Her eyes exploded and her mouth went agape. It wasn’t her attacker’s knife she saw; it was me. “Tuck? Help me.”
The hooded man twisted her sideways and pinned her again. She cried out for me again and his head spun around. His eyes found me and he gasped; surprise loosened his grip.
“Angel, now.”
She growled a war cry and thrust her body against him. Her legs went limp and she dropped her weight against him. As his grasp loosened, she slipped down, momentarily free. She dropped
to one knee, pivoted, and hammered her fist into his groin—once, twice.
He howled and released her.
She twisted free and sprang up. She kicked him hard in the groin.
He exploded with a guttural slur of pain and surprise. He sank to his knees and clutched his crotch. The knife clattered to the pavement. His eyes never left mine—they remained fixed on me—uncertain and terrified.
Angel screamed, “Help me.”
I swung as hard as I could and drove the cell phone into the hooded man’s face. The phone crushed into pieces and blood erupted through the ski mask from his face and nose. As I reared back for another strike, the surge faltered. The phone’s screen dimmed and with it, my strength. The blow struck and I felt flesh, but it was weak and without steel.
“Go, Angel. Drive as fast as you can. Forget the tire—drive.”
She leapt into the Explorer, fumbled with the keys, but started the engine. The Explorer lurched forward and she floored the gas. The steering fought back, but she forced the vehicle to obey and lumbered from the lot.
She never looked back.
“Oh my God, was that really you? Tuck, please?”
I sat beside her in the front seat. I was drained and fading. My entire body was numb as my strength ebbed away. There was a hole in my being and the energy was oozing out. A moment ago, I’d struck down h
er attacker. Now, I was spent—slipping away in a steady, murky stream.
“Drive Angel, drive. Go somewhere safe—a gas station, a store … anywhere with people. Call Bear.”
She had a death grip on the steering wheel and her foot hard on the accelerator. Crying and near hysteria, she shot glances at me as she strained to control the injured vehicle. Her face was ashen and she trembled in jerky, uncontrolled spasms.
“Tuck … if you’re really here. Stay … I need you.”
She wanted desperately to believe.
For a few brief moments, we bonded. It seemed so simple now. Emotions allowed it—love and terror—with some help from Ben Franklin’s kite. That’s how I reached her. When her heart was breaking or when danger was close, somehow, she found me. Death and life are separated by so many plains and so much unknown. Yes, it was love and terror—the strongest emotions—that bridge the two worlds and somehow let us bond again. Even for just a brief tryst.
This time, though, it had been enough. Just enough.
Darkness was swallowing me and yet there was no darkness. There was nothing. “I love you, Angel. You’re safe now.”
“Was it really you? I’m not sure—I just don’t know. Tuck?” She crushed the brake pedal and the Explorer lurched to a stop. “No, come back, it’s all my fault!”
twenty-four
“I told you to lighten up, Oliver.”
Doc Gilley was somewhere nearby. I couldn’t see him—I couldn’t see anything. Emptiness enveloped me. I felt suspended in darkness without footing and without frame of reference.
“Focus, dumbass. Focus on me and it’ll pass.”
I did and it passed. As I concentrated on his voice, the darkness shifted, and the light ebbed toward me like the dawn. When the blackness evaporated, I was back in my den. This time, I was flat on my face in the center of my expensive Persian rug. I felt sick like I had the flu. The room was teetering and disorientation welled inside me.