Death Notice (26 page)

His ears were covered by a headset, which allowed him to listen to Henry’s conversation with the grave digger. In his lap was a digital recorder, which had preserved every word.

Only there were no longer any words to preserve.

“I’m ready.”

That sentence, spoken minutes earlier, was the last Nick had heard from Henry. After that, a sharp hiss of static interrupted the transmission. Nick strained to hear more, but the static had taken over, sizzling in his ear. Then the transmission cut off, leaving an abrupt silence.

Nick waited breathlessly to hear something else. But no more noise came out of the headset, no words whispered into his ear.

The transmission was dead.

He tapped the recorder, hoping it would be enough to wake it up and get it functioning again. It wasn’t. Nothing came out of the headset but silence.

He assumed Henry had said more. How much, he couldn’t begin to guess. Was Henry now in the grave, being buried like Lucas promised? Or was he still aboveground, asking the grave digger more questions?

It was easy to find out. Nick could haul ass across the cemetery to the spot where Lucas plied his morbid trade. It’s what was going on there that was the problem. If Lucas was in the process of shoveling dirt over a coffin that contained Henry, everything would be fine. Nick would have ample grounds to arrest him.

But if Henry still stood beside the grave, the game would be over. Lucas would know the score and Nick would have nothing to use against him. All their effort would be for nothing.

Which is why Nick stayed put. He didn’t dare risk ruining everything. Not yet. Checking his watch, he vowed to wait five more minutes. That would be enough time. If Henry wasn’t in the ground by that point, then he’d never be.

And if he was, well, Nick hoped Henry Goll wasn’t now regretting his decision to come along.

Listening to the dirt being heaped onto the coffin’s lid, Henry tried not to worry. He wouldn’t be there long. There was plenty of air available if he kept his breathing steady. All he needed to do was remain calm.

But that was easier said than done, especially with dirt piling on top of him. Each shovelful rattled the coffin, jostling him with it and causing his teeth to clatter against each other.

After only a minute in the coffin, his lungs were already
aching for fresh air. Feeling tight, they urged him to gulp down all available oxygen. Henry resisted, opting instead for short, shallow breaths through his nose.

He took a breath and counted to three while holding it in. Then he exhaled, slowly and deliberately, the air scraping his nostrils.

He inhaled again. Mentally, he counted.

One . . . two . . . three.

He exhaled.

By that time, the coffin settled into place and the sound of dirt being thrown over it grew more distant. Soon, he couldn’t hear anything other than his own breath.

Inhale.

One . . . two . . . three.

Exhale.

The darkness heightened his other senses. His nose picked up unpleasant smells he hadn’t noticed at first—the tang of stale sweat mixed with mildew and the musky odor of dirt. Wiggling his fingers, he felt the cold smoothness of the satin, interrupted by the occasional snag in the fabric. And although his ears no longer detected the sound of the mounting dirt, he heard other noises. The scrape of his shoulders against the coffin’s sides. His stomach, untouched by food since lunch, grumbling lightly. The steady ticking of his watch.

He tried counting the ticks, gauging when a minute passed. He didn’t know how long he had been down there. Not long. Maybe two minutes. Two minutes more and he’d certainly be out, taking in fresh air while watching Lieutenant Donnelly cuff Lucas Hatcher.

After thirty seconds, Henry realized counting the ticks had disrupted the steadiness of his inhalations, throwing him off his breathing plan. He suddenly found himself with his mouth open, swallowing up precious air.

He clamped his mouth shut. Inhaling through his nose again, he counted.

One . . . two . . . three.

A strange noise appeared as he exhaled, one not made by his movements. Henry stopped breathing, trying to make out what it was.

He heard the noise again, coming from the top right corner of the coffin. The third time it happened, the sound lasted for a while, drawing itself out until Henry became certain of what it was.

Creaking.

Near his head, the lid of the coffin was creaking under the weight of the dirt being dumped on top of it.

Henry set his jaw, determined not to worry. Of course there was creaking. Everything creaked when you put some weight on it. Beds. Chairs. Even his own joints when he got up in the morning. The creaking was natural. It didn’t mean the lid would collapse and rain dirt onto him.

Yet the noise made Henry twitch. It kept him from relaxing, the sound of it reminding his body of how cramped it was inside the coffin. Unfortunately, there was no room to move, no way to ease his body’s impatience. With his arms against his sides, he was able to raise his hands but not much else. When he tried to lift them any higher, his knuckles scraped the lining of the coffin lid.

He attempted to focus his thoughts, reminding himself there was no reason to panic. He’d be out in a minute. Two, tops.

He inhaled.

He counted.
One . . . two . . . three.

He exhaled.

The creaking moved to the other side of the coffin, making him grip the pager tight in his hand, his thumb sliding across the button in its center. His desire to push it was overwhelming.
But he couldn’t do it. Not yet. He needed to give Nick time to arrest Lucas. That meant he had to lie still, start breathing regularly again, and wait.

But several minutes had already passed. Five, at least. Lucas told him there was only fifteen minutes of air available. That meant he’d start to run out in ten.

The number lodged itself in Henry’s brain, and he was unable to shake it out.

Ten minutes.

Not a lot of time, really. Not long at all. Once Nick arrested Lucas, he would need to dig the coffin up again. Certainly that would take a while. Digging a hole took longer than shoveling one in. Even if Nick was cuffing Lucas at that very moment, it would take him five minutes to clear enough dirt away from the coffin lid to let him out.

Henry forced himself to stop thinking that way. Nick knew he was down there. He wouldn’t leave him. So it would take him a little longer than expected. He still had ten minutes of air, which was plenty. He just needed to calm himself. He needed to inhale, count, exhale.

It didn’t work. His thoughts turned to Gia, as they often did. She, too, was in a coffin. Probably similar to the one Henry now occupied. The only difference was the amount of time they spent in it. For Gia, it was five years and counting. Hopefully, for Henry it would be less than ten minutes.

He hadn’t attended Gia’s funeral. He wasn’t able to. She was buried without him, planted somewhere east of Pittsburgh in a plot of ground he had never seen.

During the years since her death, he had never thought about visiting her grave. Seeing it didn’t serve any purpose. Standing at her grave, knowing she was there under a layer of dirt and grass, would only make him feel his loss all over again.

A sobering thought popped into Henry’s head. That exact moment, several feet below the ground, was the closest he had been to her in five years. Although many miles apart, they were in a sense together, sharing the same earth. It was a horrible thought, and just like visiting her grave, it served no purpose. Yet it fascinated him, making him temporarily forget his confinement, forget the diminishing air, forget the creaking.

Unable to move, his watch ticking madly, Henry felt Gia’s presence. He could reach her if he really tried. If he punched through the side of the coffin, freeing his trapped arms, he could push his hands through the dirt and reach her.

“That’s sick,” he said aloud, his thin voice breaking the stale silence of the coffin. “You’re sick, Henry.”

It was difficult to speak. The air inside the coffin felt heavy and thick, like sludge in his lungs. Had it always been that way and he was just noticing it for the first time? Or was it getting progressively worse? If so, he couldn’t waste any more.

He stopped speaking. He breathed. He counted.

Despite his attempts to relax, tightness crept into Henry’s chest, pushing against his rib cage. It caused his breathing to become agitated and desperate. He no longer bothered with the counting. Instead, he gritted his teeth and breathed as fast as he could, air flaring out of his nostrils. The sound of it filled the coffin—a frantic wheezing taking over.

A long time had passed. That was undeniable. He estimated he had five minutes of breathable air left. Maybe less, if the warm thickness of it was any indication.

For the first time, it occurred to Henry that he could die there. He had been nervous from the start. But it wasn’t a real nervous. Not a jab-in-your-guts-until-you-puked nervous. It had been tingly, almost enjoyable, like watching a horror movie.

But now real anxiety seized him, grabbing him by the neck
and refusing to let go. He was running out of air. There was no doubt about it. And it was messing up his head, making him crazy, making him think about reaching out to his dead wife.

He had to get out of the coffin. He didn’t care if it botched the arrest, which should have taken place by that point.

He lowered his thumb, the pager smooth against it.

He opened his mouth, inhaling a deep gulp of air.

Then, as panic took control of his body, Henry pressed the button.

Nick stared at his watch impatiently. When five minutes passed, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. It was now or never.

Stuffing the recorder and headset in his back pocket, he moved through the fog-shrouded cemetery, stepping around oak trees and edging past headstones. When he saw the glow of Lucas’s lantern in the mist, he swerved left, sweeping in a wide arc around the grave and keeping himself just out of the light’s reach.

Unholstering his Glock, he kept low to ground, approaching the light in a predatory crouch. He moved in fits and starts, hurrying behind one headstone, pausing, then proceeding to the next.

As he got closer, he saw Lucas silhouetted against the lantern light. The grave digger held a shovel, heaving as he threw a clump of dirt into the hole at his feet. When he turned to get another scoop, Nick sprang from the fog.

“Lucas Hatcher, this is the state police! Put your hands up!”

It took a moment for Lucas to understand what was happening. When he did, the grave digger froze, still gripping the shovel.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” Nick said. “Just drop the shovel, put your hands in the air, and I’ll be a happy man.”

Lucas considered it, his eyes shifting back and forth while he pondered his options. To Nick, it was a no-brainer—drop the shovel or get shot.

The grave digger thought otherwise. He released the shovel, letting it fall into the dirt. Then he began to shuffle backward.

“Stop right there!”

Lucas ignored the order. He kept going backward, twisting his body as he moved. Once his back was turned toward Nick, he broke into a full-out run.

Nick ran, too, barreling toward Lucas and tackling him. Lucas howled, madly trying to push him away. Nick refused to let go, rolling until he was on top of Lucas.

“I asked you to make this easy,” Nick said, flipping Lucas onto his stomach and cuffing his hands behind his back. “Why couldn’t you just listen?”

Clicking the handcuffs tight, Nick saw a pager hooked onto the belt loop of Lucas’s jeans. Pulsing steadily, it glowed an urgent green.

Nick hadn’t forgotten about Henry. Running ceaselessly in the back of his mind was the knowledge that he had to get him out of the coffin as soon as possible. Only soon hadn’t come as fast as it should have, and poor Henry was still trapped.

He reached for the shovel, which in hindsight was a bad move. Lucas realized he had one last chance at freedom, and he took it.

Rolling onto his stomach, he used both legs to kick at Nick’s back. When Nick toppled forward, Lucas moved into a kneeling position. Two seconds later, he was on his feet, scrambling away.

Nick was up in a flash, sprinting toward the grave digger. When he was close enough, he made a rough leap and tackled Lucas once more. Arms and legs tangled in battle, they seemed
to linger in midair a moment. When they fell, it was hard and fast, the two of them crashing down into the dirt-covered grave.

Inside the coffin, it sounded like a car crash right above Henry’s head. He heard the groan of metal caving in, giving way.

Then the coffin lid crumpled in front of him. He couldn’t see it, but he felt it lurching suddenly closer, stopping in front of his nose.

Something light and gritty slid onto his cheek. Startled, Henry yelped, allowing some of it to slip into his mouth. It softened on his tongue, forming a foul-tasting paste.

Dirt. It spilled into the coffin, onto his face, into his mouth.

Henry tried to spit it out, but more fell in. A steady line of it trickled in from above, unceasing. He turned his head to the left to keep any more from getting into his nose and mouth. The stream of dirt landed on his cheek and slid onto his right ear. Henry felt it gather in his earlobe. When it overflowed, it slid
into
his ear, tumbling inside, covering his eardrum until everything sounded distant and muffled.