Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary) (4 page)

   A bullet fired upward through the lid of the coffin, nearly grazing my ear. With a surprised yelp I leapt out of the grave as two more gunshots were fired from within the coffin, splintering the lid.

   Roger dove for cover. "
Whatthehell
?
!? "

   Then there was a loud screaming. It sounded like attempts at words, but they were completely incoherent. As I scrambled out of the way of any more potential
shots
,whomever
was inside began to pound on the lid.

   
Another gunshot.

   
More screaming.

   And then I heard the lid fly open.

Chapter 3

    MICHAEL ASHCRAFT—if this was him—sat up with the loudest shriek yet. He looked about thirty, with black hair that stuck out like a fright wig. His eyes were open wide, as he swung the revolver around wildly. He squeezed off another shot, but was obviously just firing at random, not trying to hit anything.

   "Calm down! You're going to be all right!" I assured him, feeling oh-so incredibly stupid as I said it.

   Michael's screams stopped and he began writhing back and forth, whimpering. Being buried alive is obviously not conducive to good mental health. Roger and I remained motionless for a long moment, unable to do anything but watch.

   Finally I spoke up. "Michael, can you hear me?"

   His head began to jerk violently from side to side as he began babbling gibberish. He slammed the barrel of the revolver against the side of his head, but I couldn't tell if it was a suicidal impulse or an insane reflex.

   "Listen to me, Michael," I said. "We're here to help you."

   He continued bashing the revolver against his skull. I flinched with each blow, but kept my voice calm. "Michael, can you understand what I'm saying? Stop beating the shit out of yourself if you can understand what I'm saying."

   Michael dropped the revolver. Blood trickled from the lacerations he'd given himself. He began making a sound that was either laughter or sobbing—I couldn't tell.

   He looked at me. That is, he turned his head toward me, though his eyes remained wild and unfocused.

   "Who did this to you?" I demanded.

   He resumed shrieking.

   
"Michael, who did this to
you?"
I
repeated, even though I could barely hear myself over his screams. He continued like that for another thirty seconds or so, then died down and began whimpering again.

   "We need to get out of here," Roger whispered.

   "We can't just leave him like this," I insisted. "You go
getJennifer
,
I'll stay here and see if I can get through to him."

   "Think he has any more bullets in that gun?"

   Michael lifted his hands and began to rub his eyes. I could see that his fingers were raw and bloody, the nails cracked, and a quick glance at the bottom of the coffin lid revealed that it was covered with deep scratches that hadn't even come close to breaking through. Once again he started in with those nerve-shattering screams.

   Then, without warning, he curled his fingers into claws and ripped out his own eyes.

   "Jesus!" Roger gasped.

   My stomach gave a horrible lurch as I jumped up and rushed over to the grave. Michael's head lolled back, bloody sockets glistening, and he almost looked as if he were going to smile. Then he collapsed.

   I could barely bring myself to touch him for fear that he might spring back to life, grabbing for my throat, but I worked up the courage to reach down to his wrist and check for a pulse. There was none. His heart probably gave out.

   Roger's hand was pressed tightly over his mouth and I actually expected him to burst into tears. He just sat there, trembling.

   "He's dead," I told him.

   Roger gave an almost imperceptible nod.

   "What do you think we should do?" I asked.

   
"Kill Jennifer."

   "I'm serious." I really needed something to drink. I walked over to the cooler and grabbed a beer. My motor skills weren't at their best, and it took me three tries to open it. I took a long gulp, draining most of the can. "Should we ditch Jennifer and call the cops?"

   Roger shrugged.

   "We need to decide something. Now, if we call the police, we're going to have some big-time explaining to do. And if we tell them what really happened, even if they don't accuse us of trying to kill him we're still in serious trouble."

   "We'll have to lie to them."

   "And say what? That we just happened to be passing through the park with our digging supplies when we heard a lunatic screaming underground and decided to give him a helping hand?"

   "We could say...I don't know what we could say. Leave me to my nervous breakdown, okay?"

   I cracked my knuckles. "We need to cover this up, literally. We need to rebury him. And then find out for ourselves what the hell is going on."

   "We know what's going on! That freaky chick buried her husband alive!"

   "
Maybe.But
why would she have us
dig
him up?"

   "She probably thought he'd be dead by now."

   I shook my head. "Why would she need us to get the key if she was the one who buried him? It doesn't make any sense."

   "There may not even be a key! This whole thing could have been an assassination attempt on us!"

   "Oh,
sure.I
know
if I wanted to kill somebody there's no better way to do it than hire him to dig up a coffin holding an insane guy packing heat. C'mon, Roger, we have to be logical."

   "I'm sorry, it's just that my sense of logic gets messed up when I watch somebody rip out
hisfreakin
' eyeballs! Jesus Christ! Can you imagine what
it'sgotta
be
like to be buried alive like that?"

   I was trying not to. I closed my eyes for a few seconds to clear my thoughts, and then took a deep breath. Oxygen was usually beneficial in situations like these. "Okay, the first thing we have to do is search the body."

   
"
Yousearchthe
body."

   "
Fine.I'll
search the body. You keep an eye out for anybody who might be coming to investigate."

   I took another deep
breath
,then
jumped down into the foot of the coffin. I tried to avoid looking at Michael's ruined face, but I didn't have anything to cover it with except dirt, and throwing dirt on the poor guy's face just seemed wrong.

   The first thing I did
waspick
up the revolver and set it outside of the grave. What possible reason could he have for holding a gun? I tried to envision a scenario in which he'd been trying to kill somebody, who'd buried him alive in self-defense, but couldn't.

   Okay, that wasn't important now. I needed to find that key, if it existed. I knelt down, knees wobbling a bit, and began to pat Michael's jeans pockets. The left pocket felt empty. The right pocket had something in it. It didn't feel like a key, but it could be a clue.

   I slipped my fingers inside the pocket, still unable to shake the eerie feeling that Michael could lurch at me at any moment. With my other hand I checked his pulse again to be
sure.Still
dead.

   I got a hold of what was inside his
pocket.A
piece of paper. I pulled it out and saw that it was the best kind of paper:
Cash.A
twenty dollar
bill.A
perfectly normal thing to have in his pocket. I shoved it back inside, not wanting to steal anything from the dead that wasn't absolutely necessary. Yeah, yeah, I know that defiling a grave is much worse for
theol
' karma than stealing twenty bucks, but I didn't want to push it.

   Slowly, I unzipped his jacket, thankful that no blood had spilled anywhere I needed to touch. I opened it and checked each of the inside pockets, finding a stack of about ten business cards held together with a brass clip. In oozing red letters were the words "Ghoulish
Delights.Michael
Ashcraft, director," along with an address and phone number. I pocketed the cards, and then closed his jacket.

   I grabbed hold of Michael by the waist and rolled him over. His neck made a sickening sort of cracking sound as something twisted that shouldn't have.

   Once Michael was on his stomach, I patted his back pockets and found nothing, not even a wallet. Damn. With all the pockets searched, I was going to have to move on to less appealing possibilities.

   
But not his mouth yet.

   I stood up. "I need your help," I told Roger. "I'm going to lift him up, and you look to see if the key is lying underneath him."

   Roger walked over and crouched down next to the edge of the grave. I grabbed the top of Michael's jeans and grunted as I lifted him up, his body doubling over at the waist.

   "Nothing there," said Roger.

   I gently lowered Michael, and then sighed. "I don't know what to do. I'm not going to strip the guy naked to find this stupid key."

   "Good. Let's get out of here," Roger suggested.

   "Not quite yet." I bent down again and pulled up the left leg of Michael's jeans, exposing his white tube
sock.Nothing
hidden there. I untied his tennis shoe, set it aside, and removed his
sock.Still
nothing except for some blatant evidence that toenail hygiene had not been a major part of Michael's life.

   I removed his other shoe, and something dropped out.

   
A tiny silver key.

   
"All
right!"
I
said, picking it up. "Now let's rebury him and get out of here."

   I shoved the key into my pocket and climbed out of the grave. With my foot I shut the lid of the coffin. It didn't close all the way, but Michael was just going to have to deal with it. Silently, Roger and I began to shovel the dirt back into the grave.

        JENNIFER'S CAR was waiting at the gate, and she hurriedly got out as we approached. "Did you get it?" she called out.

   "We'll tell you all about it after we put this stuff back in your trunk," I said.

   "Yes or no, did you get it?"

   "Hey, we're just a pair
ofgraverobbers
trying to relax after a hard night at the office, give us a break. Do you have the money?"

   "Of
course.Do
you have the key?"

   "By `the key,' you would be referring to a small silver object, maybe an inch and a half long, three triangular serrations on the end, smells heavily of foot odor, right?"

   "That's the one," said Jennifer, obviously starting to lose her patience.

   "I've got it, but I want some answers first," I told her. "How did your husband die?"

   "I told
you.Suicide
. He blew his brains out, or did you not notice?"

   "Is that so? Then why was his head lacking a bullet hole for the aforementioned brains to exit from?"

   She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

   "I'm saying that he wasn't shot."

   "That's ridiculous. Of course he was!"

   "Jennifer, sweetie, we just dug up his coffin. I saw his body. His head was intact. He didn't shoot himself. Now why don't you explain to me what really happened, and I'll decide if you deserve the key."

   Jennifer chuckled without humor. "I have to say, you're a much better human being than I expected. I did plenty of research, and the impression I got was that you'd do anything for money except get a real job."

   "What? Who told you that?"

   
"None of your business."

   "Well, that's wrong," I insisted. "I didn't dig up your husband because I'm some money-grubbing jerk! I did it to keep my wife from finding out that I had to pay off the guy I hit without insurance! That's not greed, that's an honorable motive!"