"Reckon we'll need a pickax, Si."
Simon thrust the spade at Ben and went back inside.
* * * *
Ben was right about the pickax: The ground was like concrete. But he was wrong about Simon giving up. To his surprise, the larger man kept going, taking it in turns as the hole deepened. Half an hour later, both men were stripped to the waist, streaked with dirt and sweat. It was Ben's turn in the hole. He threw out a final shovelful.
"That's got to be enough. Let's try it again.” He clambered out, grabbed the handle of the trunk.
Simon threw down his empty beer can and took the other. Slowly they lowered it down.
"Perfect.” Ben cranked up the lid. “Your coffin awaits, Master."
"It is not a coffin!" Simon wiped his face with his shirt, then threw it over a bush. “Oh, this is insanity. . . . “ He slid into the hole, dropped to his knees, and leaned forward.
"Not like that. Lie on your side."
Simon twisted around, manoeuvred himself into a fetal position, and finally squeezed in. Even Ben could see it was a painfully tight fit.
"Just don't close it yet, okay? Ouch! This is . . . Oh my God . . ." Simon struggled to his feet, face twisted in pain, and began hopping around.
"What's the matter?"
"Cramp, what d'you think!” He rubbed furiously at his calf. “I told you it was madness. Sorry, Benny boy, but it'll have to be you."
Ben shook his head. “You lost, remember?"
"Hey, you saw what it was like.” Ben noticed the hint of a smile.
"You bastard!"
"Uh?"
"You knew, didn't you? You knew you wouldn't fit. Well, that's tough, Si, because I'm not doing it either.” He turned away, folded his arms.
"Look, Ben... “
"No! Forget it, okay?"
"What's the matter—don't you trust me?” Simon stared at his partner. “Hey, you don't, do you! My God. What d'you think I'm going to do, bury you alive ‘cause of what happened with Kathy?"
"It crossed my mind."
"Oh, Ben, Ben . . . “ Simon was shaking his head. “Look, you've got it all wrong, buddy. When you and she got together—well, I was glad, okay?"
"Like hell you were! As I recall you hit the roof."
"Of course I did—rather well, I thought. I always said I was on the wrong side of the camera."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, come on, Ben . . . you know what women are like. I wanted out, you fancied her, so a bit of diplomacy on my part—"
"That's balls, Si! She'd had you up to here."
"Is that what she told you?” Simon laughed. “Anyway, what does it matter? We both got what we wanted—least, I know I did.” He gave a knowing smirk. “The point is, no bitterness, okay? If anything, I'm in your debt. You did me a favour, Benny boy. You could say we did each other a favour."
"You arrogant . . . “ Ben looked at his partner with contempt. “You think I need your favours to get a woman?"
"Hey, that's not what I meant and you know it! I just . . . helped things along a bit.” He clapped Ben on the back. “Now are we going to stand here all day discussing Kathy or are you getting in that trunk?"
"No way. I've already told you."
"Great!" Simon threw up his hands. “So all this has been a complete waste of time. What's the matter—having doubts yourself?” He stared at Ben, his eyes narrowing. “That's it, isn't it? You don't think the idea will work either. Well, I wish you'd said before—"
"Of course I think it'll work!"
"Yeah? Then prove it."
Ben glared at him, silently cursing. He'd fallen into that one—literally, if he wasn't going to lose face. He stared down at the trunk, clenched his fists. Already his heart was threatening to leave his chest.
"Well?” Simon prompted.
Ben took a deep breath and jumped in, curled up on his side. Above him, Simon gave a satisfied smile. He reached out to close the lid.
"Wait!" Ben sat up, breathing heavily. “I want my phone."
"Phone? Ben, a phone's not going to work through a tin box and a pile of earth."
"Says who? Or d'you want to prove that too?"
Simon sighed. “Where is it?"
"Shirt pocket. No wait—I think it's at the house.” He started to climb out.
"Whoa! Here, use mine if it's so important.” He pulled a mobile from his trouser pocket.
Ben snatched it, checked to see it was working. “And I want an air line—a pipe or something. If anything goes wrong, I want to be able to breathe."
"Nothing's going to go wrong! Okay, okay . . . I'll see what I can find in the barn."
As Simon disappeared Ben clambered out and sat on the edge of the hole, eyes closed, gulping in air. Despite the heat, he felt himself shivering. He jumped when something brushed against his arm.
"Oh, it's you, Medici!” He ran his hand over the cat's back. “I should get out of here, mate, before he buries you, too."
The cat looked round as he heard Simon returning, and as if he understood, took off into the trees.
Simon arrived carrying a coil of hose. “All I could find, Benny boy."
Ben took the end and squeezed. “No good. Feed that under the lid and the weight will crush it."
"Then we'll shove it through the top!” Simon slammed down the lid, picked up the pickax and swung it, embedding the point in the metal. He wriggled it free and fed in the hose. “That do?"
Ben shrugged. “How long's this going to take?"
"How should I know?"
"Guess!"
Simon opened the lid. “Five minutes."
"You sure?"
” ‘Course I'm not sure. That's what a guess is. Now are you getting in or aren't you?"
Ben swallowed, took another deep breath, and slid in. “You'll talk to me through the tube?"
"I'll talk to you."
"Promise?"
"I'll sing you a damn lullaby if you want.” He lowered the lid, found the other end of the hose and put it to his ear. Ben was already yelling.
"Can you hear me, Si? Si? Say something!"
Grinning, Simon brought the tube to his mouth and began humming the Funeral March, then threw it to the ground and shovelled in the first spadeful. Immediately the lid shot up and Ben came scrabbling out.
"I can't do it!"
"Oh, for . . . You still think I'm going to—"
"It's not about you."
"I told you, Kathy and I—"
"It's not about you!"
"What then? Five minutes, that's all it'll take. You're fit, you've got air, you've got contact—"
"I'm claustrophobic, damn it!"
Simon gaped at him. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Now he tells me. We break our backs digging a blasted hole and . . . here, move over!"
He pushed Ben out of the way and dropped into the trunk, somehow folded himself in. “Five minutes, okay? Make that four."
Ben nodded and closed the lid, for the second time that day unable to believe his luck. He threw in a few shovelfuls and picked up the hose.
"You okay down there?"
"Just get on with it!"
Ben smiled and carried on, shovelling and dragging the loose earth into the hole. This was the easy bit—so easy he was in danger of meeting Simon's deadline. He paused and picked up the pipe. “Still okay down there?"
"Of course I'm not okay! How much longer?"
"Almost there. Oh, hang on . . . “ Ben cocked his head, looked towards the house. “I think the phone's ringing, Si."
"What?"
"In the house.” He squeezed past the bushes, walked to the front of the barn. “It might be Kathy."
"Stuff Kathy! Just get me out of here. Now!"
"Look, I need to speak to her. About tonight. A couple of minutes, okay?"
"Are you crazy? I'm—"
But Ben had dropped the hose and was running towards the house. Let the bastard sweat for a while. Favours to get a gi
rl, indeed!
He threw a wave at Arthur, who was returning with the wheelbarrow, and dived in through the French windows. “Kathy? Hi, I guessed it was you. What? No, Simon's . . . in the garden. Anyway, how was the audition?” He leaned back against the wall, as if he had all the time in the world.
"That's great, love. At least someone had a good day. Me? Oh, the usual nightmare, Simon picking at the script at the last minute with nothing to offer in return. He's a dead weight, Kath—totally burnt out. I can't remember the last time he came up with a decent plot line.” He pushed away from the wall. “Anyway, you don't want to hear all that. Are we still on for tonight?"
He wandered out onto the terrace, smiling as he listened to her reply, vaguely aware of movement by the barn. Suddenly his brow furrowed. “Hang on a sec, Kath... “
Clutching the phone to his chest, he stared towards the barn, eyes widening in alarm. He opened his mouth to call out...
Then just as suddenly he stopped, turned his back, staring without seeing at the blank white wall.
A lifetime later he returned the phone to his ear. “Sorry about that. It was just Arthur. Anyway, about tonight... “
* * * *
Humming to himself, Arthur returned the tools to the barn. Funny—where were the other spades? Don't say Simon “Manicured-hands” Markham had done a bit of digging?
Arthur laughed. That'd be the day.
Immediately he was reminded of the old Buddy Holly number and launched into that instead. "You say you're gonna leave me, you know it's a lie,” he sang, though the tune wasn't appreciably different. “ 'Cause that'll be the day-ay-ay when I die." He wheeled his bike out into the sunshine.
He was about to get on when he remembered the sprinkler. Better turn it on again and hope Simon remembered to turn it off, though knowing him, it would probably still be going when he arrived next morning. It wouldn't be the first time.
He looked down at the ground. The end of a hosepipe was lying by his feet. He picked it up, connected it to the tap. The pipe stiffened, squirming like a snake as the water surged through. He glanced in the direction of the sprinkler. Why was nothing happening?
He was about to investigate when something caught his eye. A shirt was draped over the rhododendrons at the side of the barn. He pushed his bike towards them and stood on tiptoe to peer over the top. So that's where the spades had gone. What on earth were they playing at?
"Need any help?” he called, but nobody answered.
Arthur shrugged. Presumably they knew what they were doing. Which was more than he did—he'd never understand these media types. And with that he threw his leg over the saddle, all thought of the sprinkler forgotten, and to the tuneless strains of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head"—his favourite cycling song—pedalled off home for a hard-earned cup of tea.
* * * *
As Arthur disappeared, the cat emerged from behind a tree and headed towards the freshly dug earth. Suddenly it stopped, stiffened. An unfamiliar knocking sound was coming from the ground. It took a step backwards, then another, and as the knocking became more frantic, turned tail and fled. It didn't like soil that held unpleasant surprises.
Copyright © 2010 Caroline Benton
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Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of blogging. Okay, that's not exactly what Tennyson said, but it's close enough for this column. After all, who doesn't love blogs and blogging?
And food. Everybody loves food, right? So let's start with a blog called Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen (www.mysteryloverskitchen.com), a group blog that has “Mystery writers cooking up crime . . . and recipes!” The bloggers are Avery Aames (Mondays), Julie Hyzy (Tuesdays), Jenn McKinlay, aka Lucy Lawrence (Wednesdays), Riley Adams (Thursdays), Cleo Coyle (Fridays), and Krista Davis (Saturdays). These people aren't just fine crime writers. They must also be great cooks, and they provide plenty of recipes to choose from. For example: cranberry sauce cookies, rigatoni with garbanzos and pepperoni, herb scalloped potatoes, rosti, and, well, I can't go on. I'm too hungry. Even if you don't cook, you'll have fun reading the recipes and the comments that go along with them.
Jean Henry Mead is the blog host at Writing Advice and Good Books (advicefromeditors.blogspot.com), which consists of guest posts from writers and editors. Recently, Debbi Mack has written about “A Series of Unfortunate (Publishing) Events,” Robert Fate has discussed writing and marketing, and Nancy Pickard has explained how “by practicing a lot of small acts of letting go, a writer can build up her muscles for bigger ones.” You should read the post to see what she means by that. Like all the posts on the site, it's well worth your time.
Sandra Seamans has staked out her spot in the blogosphere, and she calls it My Little Corner (sandraseamans.blogspot.com). Sometimes she talks about what's on her mind, sometimes she talks about her writing, and often she posts numerous links of interest to writers and readers. Sometimes the links are to markets for fiction, sometimes they're to other blogs about writing, and sometimes they're to articles about crime fiction and other things. I nearly always find a link or two that I just have to click on, and I think you might, too.
Inkspot (midnightwriters.blogspot.com) is another group blog. It's written by “a collection of authors who have been published by Midnight Ink Books. We write novels ranging from cozy mysteries to suspense thrillers. Our members are international bestsellers and award winners.” Lots of good stuff here on a lot of different writing topics. Check it out.
Copyright © 2010 Bill Crider
* * * *
Bill Crider's own peculiar blog can be found at billcrider.blogspot.com
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Department of First Stories: DEVOTION by Will Dunlap
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* * * *
New writer Will Dunlap studied music at the University of Michigan and while there won a Hopwood Award for Short Fiction. He is currently at the University of Texas at Austin where he is a fellow at the James A. Michener Center for Writers. Two of his stories have received the University of Texas's Keene Prize for Literature, but the following tale is his first paid professional publication. We do not ee many first stories that belong to the historical subgenre, as this one does.
* * * *
5 March 1824
Mr. Corey, the sheriff, took us in to see the Indian-murderers. They number four—Old Stoddard, his son, and Perry and Walter Kile— Old Stoddard being by far the elder of the group, near fifty and inclining on corpulence. At sight of us he stood wearily, like a man rising from a half-night's sleep. It is a curiosity shop, this jail, and Mr. Corey collected our pennies and stood back that we might have our say. A young farmer, in town for the land sales, asked, “Are you all killers, then?” To which Old Stoddard managed a grin and replied, “We kill as well as any man."
Perry Kile, dressed like the others in pantaloons and a hunting shirt, pointed to where Old Stoddard's son, an overgrown boy of perhaps eighteen years, sat by the wall, knees drawn up to his chest.
"Ask Harry if he loves them Indians, I reckon he'll say he's guilty of that!"
At this the prisoners laughed, all except Harry Stoddard, his face a mask of sullen rage. Only when the conversation had turned away from him did he take our measure, fixing his eyes on me with such force I thought myself the one condemned. He is, as Mr. Corey told me later, vehement about his confinement and declares his innocence at every turn.
Nine peaceful Indians these prisoners murdered, nearly all women or children—set upon, it may be surmised, while the men of their group were away on a hunt. The women stabbed or shot, and the children bludgeoned till lifeless against trees. And for nothing more, one must conclude, than a plunder of furs and skins and native trinkets, since all were found later under the floor of Old Stoddard's cabin. In much the same way did these wretched men disguise their atrocities, stowing the dead in a sinkhole not far from the Indian camp. As two days
went by before the bodies were discovered, it was truly by His grace that a woman was drawn out a survivor. It was hoped she would say names, but as she was afterwards unable or unwilling to speak, it was by chance that the murderers were found.
All of this I learned from Mr. Corey. He is a large, well-worn fellow—a man, one judges immediately, who is fierce in his loyalties. He called me Reverend, and tells me it is many weeks since anyone has come to Floodwood to preach. Concerning the murderers’ capture, he said it was not purely chance, for he had his suspicions—it was, after all, the Stoddards and Kiles who traded with the Pottawatomie. But chance it was that gave him to hear Perry Kile one night at the inn saying how he and some others had delivered those savages from this life to the next. Right there Mr. Corey took him by the collar and dragged him to jail. Not long was he there before he gave up the others.
"Yet they do not blame him,” I said, and Mr. Corey nodded.
"All but Harry admit what they done."
"They cannot believe they'll hang for this."
He smiled glumly. “It may be they're right,” he said, and explained how nearly a fortnight has passed since their capture and still they await the circuit judge, without whom there can be no trial.
I asked him to tell me about the Indian woman. She has lived, he says, beyond all expectations, well cared for by the Sutcliffes, a young farming couple. “Baptist, like yourself,” he added. I asked for directions to the farm and he, having supplied me with them, asked after my circuit. I told him a little but he, prying further, remarked that such long miles must leave my wife in eager want of my return. After all our talk of dying, his words dug into me.
"There was a time,” I said, “when such was the case."
My tone of voice was enough to silence him. I have, in the last year, appreciated such talk for the chance it gives me to speak of my loss. Yet something of what I have seen today, the ease with which a man may make a murderous admission, has rendered vain that need for pity.
I write this by my pallet at the inn, a squalid place unwelcoming to any but the worst brand of men. The horses at the hitch rack give the place the odor of a livery. In light of such abysmal lodgings I must here make a description of the jail, for this structure, the largest yet to be found in this settlement, has made a great impression on me. A number of pickets, logs set upright in the ground, form an enclosure of perhaps seven yards square. Within these walls a guard house is situated, providing station for three sentinels whose work it is, day and night, to keep watch over those captive. That prisoners must await trial, or execution, with little cover from the elements, recalls to me a promise from the scriptures: Harsh correction is for him who forsakes the way.
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