Deeper Than The Dead (2 page)

Farman and Roache were catching up to them, their eyes bugging out of their heads like a gargoyle’s. Their mouths were wide-open. They were still yelling, but Tommy could only hear the pounding of his heart and the crashing sound they made as they bounded through the woods.

“This way!” he yelled, veering off the trail.

Wendy looked back, yelling, “FART-MAN!!”

“JUMP!!” Tommy shouted.

They went over the edge of an embankment and flew through the air. Farman and Roache came flying after them. They landed like so many stones, hitting the ground and tumbling.

All the colors of the forest whirled past Tommy’s eyes like a kaleidoscope as he rolled, until he finally came to a stop on a soft mound of dirt.

He lay still for a moment, holding his breath, waiting for Dennis Farman to jump on him. But he could hear Dennis moaning loudly somewhere behind him.

Slowly Tommy pushed himself up on his hands and knees. The ground he was on had been turned over recently. It smelled like earth and wet leaves, and something else he couldn’t name. It was soft and damp and crumbly like someone had dug it up with a shovel. Like someone had buried something . . . or somebody.

His heart jumped into the back of his throat as he raised his head . . . and came face-to-face with death.

At first, all Tommy could see was that the woman was pretty. She looked peaceful, like in
The Lady of the Lake.
Her skin was pale and kind of blue. Her eyes were closed.

Then slowly other things came into focus: blood that had drizzled down her chin and dried, a slash mark across one cheek, ants marching into and out of her nostrils.

Tommy’s stomach flipped over.

“Holy shit!” Dennis exclaimed as he came to stand beside the grave.

Cody Roache, dirt on his face, glasses askew, screamed like a girl, bolted, and ran back the way they had come.

Wendy was as white as a sheet as she stared at the dead woman, but, as always, she had her wits about her. She turned to Dennis and said, “You have to go call your dad.”

Dennis wasn’t listening to her. He got down on his hands and knees for a closer look. “Is she really dead?”

“Don’t touch her!” Tommy snapped as Dennis reached out a grubby finger to poke at the woman’s face.

He had only ever seen one dead person in his whole life—his grand-mother on his father’s side—and she was in a coffin. But he knew it just wasn’t right to touch this woman. It was disrespectful or something.

“What if she’s just asleep?” Dennis said. “What if she was buried alive and she’s in a coma?”

He tried to push up one of the woman’s eyelids, but it wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the woman’s face.

To Tommy it looked as if something had been digging at the grave. One of the woman’s hands was out of the dirt, as if she had been trying to reach out for help. The hand was mangled, like maybe some animal had chewed on her fingers, tearing flesh and exposing bones.

He had fallen right on top of a dead woman. His head swam. He felt like someone had just poured cold water over him.

As Dennis reached out to touch the woman again, a dog stepped out of some bushes on the other side of the body and growled deep in its throat.

None of them moved then. The dog was mean-looking, white with a big black spot around one beady eye and over the small ear. The dog moved forward. The kids moved backward.

“He’s protecting her,” Tommy said.

“Maybe he killed her,” Dennis said. “Maybe he killed her and buried her like a bone, and now he’s back to eat the body.”

He said it as if he hoped that was the case, and he couldn’t wait to watch the next gruesome scene.

Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the dog stepped back into the bushes and was gone.

In the next second, a man in a sheriff’s deputy’s uniform appeared at the top of the bank the kids had tumbled over. He looked like a giant looking down at them, his hair buzzed flat on top, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. He was Dennis Farman’s father.

Tommy stood well back from the deputies who had come with yellow crime-scene tape to mark off the area around the shallow grave. He should have been home by now. His mother was going to be really mad. He had a piano lesson at five. But he couldn’t seem to make himself leave, and he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

The light was fading in the thick woods. Somewhere out there was a mad dog, and maybe even a murderer. He didn’t want to walk home anymore.

The adults on the other side of the tape weren’t paying any attention to him or Wendy. Dennis hung around just outside the tape, trying to get a better look as the deputies did their jobs.

Cody Roache had run all the way back to the street and nearly got himself run over by Dennis’s father in his squad car. Tommy had heard the deputies telling each other. Mr. Farman had come straight to the scene, but Cody had not come back.

“I wonder who she is,” Wendy said quietly. She sat on the stump of a tree that had been cut down over the summer. “I wonder how she died.”

“Somebody killed her,” Tommy said.

“I think I want to go home now,” Wendy said. “Don’t you?”

Tommy didn’t answer her. He felt like he was inside of a bubble, and if he tried to move the bubble would burst and all sorts of feelings would wash over him and drown him.

People had come into the park to see what was going on. They stood up on the bank—teenagers, a mailman, one of the janitors from school.

As he watched them, Miss Navarre appeared at the edge of the group. She spotted him and Wendy right away and made her way down to them.

“Are you guys all right?” she asked.

“Tommy fell on a dead person!” Wendy said.

Tommy said nothing. He had started to shake all over. Inside his head all he could see was the dead woman’s face—the blood, the gash in her cheek, the ants crawling on her.

“A deputy came into the school and said something had happened,” Miss Navarre said, looking over at the place where the dead lady was. She turned back then and touched Tommy’s forehead and brushed some dead leaves out of his hair. “You’re really pale, Tommy. You should sit down.”

Dutifully he sat down on the stump beside Wendy. Miss Navarre looked as pale as either of them, but there was no more room on the stump.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

The tale spilled out of Wendy like rushing water. When she came to the part where Tommy fell on the grave, Miss Navarre closed her eyes and said, “Oh my God.”

She bent down to Tommy’s level and looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you all right?”

Tommy gave the smallest nod. “I’m okay.”

His voice sounded like it came from far away.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’m going to ask the deputies if I can take you home.”

She walked over to the yellow tape stretched between the trees and tried to get the attention of Dennis Farman’s dad, who seemed to be the big shot on the scene.

The two exchanged words. Miss Navarre gestured toward Dennis. Farman’s father shook his head. They were arguing. Tommy could tell by the way they were standing—Miss Navarre with her hands on her hips, Mr. Farman puffing himself up and leaning over her. Then Miss Navarre raised a hand and ended the discussion.

She was angry when she came back, although she did her best to hide it. Tommy could feel it all around her like frozen air.

“Come on,” she said, reaching out her hands to them. “I’m taking you home.”

At ten Tommy generally considered himself too old to hold hands with an adult. He couldn’t remember the last time his mother had held his hand. Kindergarten, maybe. But he didn’t feel so grown-up now, and he took Miss Navarre’s soft, smooth hand and held on tight as she led them away from the terrible scene and out of the woods.

But the scene came with Tommy, stuck in his head; he felt sick at the idea that it might never go away.

Anne Navarre felt herself shaking inside as she walked away from Frank Farman and the crime scene her students had stumbled upon—shaking from the shock of what she had just seen, shaking with anger at Frank Farman. He was too busy to deal with her. He would take care of his own kid in his own time—as if he thought letting his son watch the exhumation of a corpse would be good for him. Asshole.

She had already encountered Farman at a parent-teacher conference. He was the kind of man who only heard the sound of his own voice and would likely have gone to his grave swearing the sun rose in the west rather than agree with a woman.

Just like her father.

For the moment she couldn’t examine the deeper cause of the trembling: seeing a murder victim—a woman killed and discarded like a broken doll—and knowing her students had seen it too.

She led Wendy and Tommy out of the park and back to the school, where she sat them down in the office and used a phone to call their parents.

Anne told Wendy’s mother as little as possible, just that there had been an incident in the park and that she was bringing Wendy home.

The Cranes’ phone was answered by a machine. She left the same message with as little detail as possible.

The children were quiet as Anne drove. She didn’t know what to say to them. That everything would be all right? Their lives had just been changed. That was the truth. They would be seeing a dead woman’s face in their dreams for years to come.

Anne scrambled through her memory for some kind of guidance. Her studies in child psychology seemed gone from her head now. She had never finished her graduate work, had never worked in a clinical setting. She had no frame of reference for this situation. Five years of teaching fifth grade hadn’t prepared her for this.

Maybe she should have been asking them questions, drawing them out, encouraging them to release their emotions. Maybe she was too busy holding on to her own.

Sara Morgan was waiting on the front step when Anne pulled into the driveway. Wendy’s mother was a tall and athletic adult version of her daughter, with cornflower blue eyes and a thick mane of wavy blonde hair. She was in a blue T-shirt and faded denim overalls with the legs rolled up to reveal white socks with lace cuffs. There were tears in her eyes and uncertainty in her expression.

“Oh my God,” she said as Anne and Wendy got out of the car. “My neighbor told me there was a murder in the park. He’s eighty-five and he’s in a wheelchair, and he listens to a police scanner,” she rambled. “Was Wendy there? Did she see what happened? Wendy!”

Wendy trotted into her mother’s arms as Sara Morgan dropped down on one knee.

“Are you all right, baby?” She scanned her daughter for any sign of damage.

“We were running, and then we fell down a hill, and then—and then—” Wendy gulped for air. “Tommy fell right on her! He fell right on a dead lady! It was so gross!”

“Oh my God!”

“And Dennis kept trying to touch her. He’s so sick!”

Sara Morgan looked up at Anne. “Who was it? How did she—Was she shot or—or what?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said. “I’m sure they won’t release any details for a while.”

“And there was this dog,” Wendy went on. “Like a wild dog. And he growled at us, and Dennis said maybe the dog killed the lady—”

“A dog?” her mother said. “What kind of a dog? Was it foaming at the mouth? Did you touch it?”

“No! It ran away.”

“It could have had rabies! Are you sure you didn’t touch it?”

“I didn’t touch it!” Wendy insisted.

Sara Morgan raked a handful of blonde mane back from her face and looked at Anne. “What’s going to happen? Will the police come?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said. “Dennis Farman’s father is a deputy. He said I could take Wendy and Tommy home. Maybe the sheriff’s office will call later. He didn’t say.”

“This is just awful. We moved here to get away from crime. And smog and traffic. I never think twice about letting Wendy walk home from school. Do you think the dog could have killed the woman?”

“That doesn’t seem very likely,” Anne said.

Sara Morgan turned to her daughter again. “If you touched that dog—”

“I didn’t touch the dog!” Wendy insisted, irritated.

“Should I take her to see someone?” she asked Anne. “My husband’s uncle’s ex-wife’s sister is a therapist in Beverly Hills.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “There’s no chapter for this in the parenting manual.”

“No,” Anne said. “It’s not in the How to Be a Kid manual either.”

“No. God, I’ve never seen a dead person myself. When I have to go to funerals, I won’t look in the casket. The whole idea creeps me out.”

“I should get Tommy home,” Anne said. “I wasn’t able to reach his mother by phone.”

“I can call Peter at his office,” Sara offered. “He’s our dentist. He and my husband golf together.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. And thank you for bringing Wendy home.”

Anne got back in her car and looked into the backseat where Tommy sat looking at his hands in his lap.

“Do you think your mom will be home by now, Tommy?”

He consulted his wristwatch. “Yes.”

“She’ll be worried about you.”

“I’m supposed to have a piano lesson,” he said looking worried. “Maybe we should go there instead.”

“I think your piano teacher will forgive your absence when he hears what you’ve been through.”

The boy said nothing.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Anne asked as they drove.

“No, thank you.”

Why would he share his feelings with her? She had been his teacher all of two months. From what she had observed of Tommy, he was by nature reserved. He was very bright but did nothing to call attention to himself. If anything he seemed to do his best to be invisible.

Anne wondered why. She had met his parents. His father, the dentist, was charming and outgoing. His mother was a little intense but had seemed nice enough at conference time. She was proud of her son’s talents and academic abilities. She sold real estate and served on charity committees. The Cranes were the All-American Yuppie Family.

They lived four blocks from the Morgans in a beautiful two-story Spanish-style stucco house with lush landscaping and a big spreading oak tree in the side yard. As daylight faded, lights glowed invitingly in the front windows and along the sidewalk.