The Tomb

  Uneasy now, Gia started down the stairs.

  “Where’re you going, Mommy?” Vicky asked with a frightened voice from the bed.

  “Just down to Aunt Nellie’s room for a second. I’ll be right back.”

  Poor Vicky, she thought. She really got a scare.

  Gia stood at Nellie’s door. All was dark and still within. Nothing out of the ordinary except an odor … a faint whiff of putrefaction. Nothing to fear, yet she was afraid. Hesitantly, she tapped on the doorjamb.

  “Nellie?”

  No answer.

  “Nellie, are you all right?”

  When only silence answered, she reached inside the door, found the light switch, but hesitated, afraid of what she might find. Nellie wasn’t young. What if she’d died in her sleep? She seemed to be in good health, but you never knew. And that odor, faint as it was, made her think of death. Finally she could wait no longer. She flipped the switch.

  The bed was empty. It obviously had been slept in—the pillow was rumpled, the covers pulled down—but no sign of Nellie. Gia stepped around to the far side, walking as if she expected something to rise out of the rug and attack her. No Nellie lying on the floor. Gia turned to the bathroom. It stood open and empty.

  Frightened now, she ran downstairs, going from room to room, turning on all the lights in each, calling Nellie’s name over and over. She headed back upstairs, checking Grace’s empty room on the second floor, and the other guest room on the third.

  Empty. All empty.

  Nellie was gone—just like Grace!

  Gia stood in the hall, shivering, fighting panic, unsure of what to do. She and Vicky were alone in a house from which people disappeared without a sound or a trace.

  Vicky!

  Gia rushed to their bedroom. The light was still on. Vicky lay curled up under the sheet, sound asleep. Thank God! She sagged against the door frame, relieved yet still afraid. What to do now? She went out to the phone on the hall table. She had Jack’s number and he’d said to call if she needed him. But he was in South Jersey and couldn’t be here for hours. Gia wanted somebody here now. She didn’t want to stay alone with Vicky in this house for a minute longer than she had to.

  With a trembling finger she dialed 911 for the police.

  12

  “You still renting in the city?”

  Jack nodded. “Yep.”

  His father grimaced and shook his head. “That’s like throwing your money away.”

  Jack had changed into the shirt and slacks he’d brought along, and now they were back at the house after a late, leisurely dinner at a Mount Holly seafood restaurant. They sat in the living room sipping Jack Daniel’s in near-total darkness, the only light washing in from the adjoining dining room.

  “You’re right, Dad. No argument there.”

  “I know houses are ridiculously expensive these days, and a guy in your position really doesn’t need one, but how about a condo? Get hold of something you can build up equity in.”

  Not a new subject. Dad would go on about the tax benefits of owning your own home while Jack lied and hedged, unable to say that tax deductions were irrelevant to a man who didn’t pay them.

  “I don’t know why you stay in that city, Jack. Not only have you got federal and state taxes, but the goddamn city sticks its hand in your pocket, too.”

  “My business is there.”

  His father stood up and took both glasses into the dining room for refills.

  When they’d returned to the house after dinner, he hadn’t asked Jack what he wanted; he’d simply poured a couple of fingers on the rocks and handed him one. Jack didn’t know how many glasses they’d had since the first.

  Jack closed his eyes and absorbed the feel of the house. He’d grown up here. He knew every crack in the walls, every squeaky step, every hiding place. This living room had been so big then; now it seemed tiny. He could still remember that man in the next room carrying him around the house on his shoulders when he was five. And when he was older they’d played catch out in the backyard. Jack had been the youngest of the three kids. There’d been something special between his father and him. They used to go everywhere together on weekends, and whenever he had the chance, Dad would float a little propaganda toward him. Not lectures really, but a pitch on getting into a profession when he grew up. He worked on all the kids that way, telling them how much better it was to be your own boss rather than be like him and have to work for somebody else. They’d been close then. Not any more. Now they were like acquaintances … near-friends … almost-relatives.

  His father handed him the glass of fresh ice and sour mash, then returned to his seat.

  “Why don’t you move down here?”

  “Dad—”

  “Hear me out. I’m doing better than I ever dreamed. I could take you in with me and show you how it’s done. You could take some business courses and learn the ropes. And while you’re going to school I could manage a portfolio for you to pay your expenses. ‘Earn while you learn,’ as the saying goes.”

  Jack was silent. His body felt leaden, his mind sluggish. Too much Jack Daniel’s? Or the weight of all those years of lying? He knew Dad’s bottom line: He wanted his youngest to finish college and establish himself in some sort of respectable field. Jack’s brother was a judge in Philly, his sister a pediatrician in Trenton. What was Jack? In his father’s eyes he was a college dropout with no drive, no goals, no ambition, no wife, no children; someone who was going to drift through life putting very little in and getting very little out, leaving no trace or evidence that he’d even passed through.

  In short: a failure.

  That hurt. Like most sons, he wanted his father to be proud of him. Dad’s disappointment was like a festering sore that tainted their already attenuated relationship, making Jack want to avoid a man he’d always loved and respected.

  He was tempted to lay it out for him—put all the lies aside and tell him what his son really did for a living.

  Alarmed at the trend of his thoughts, Jack straightened in his chair and got a grip on himself. That was the Jack Daniel’s talking. Leveling with his father would accomplish nothing. First off, he wouldn’t believe it; and if he did, he wouldn’t understand; and if he believed and understood, he’d be horrified … just like Gia.

  “You like what you’re doing, don’t you, Dad?” he said finally.

  “Yes. Very much. And you would, too, if—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  After all, what was his father making besides money? He was buying and selling, but he wasn’t producing anything. Jack didn’t mention this—it would only start an argument. The guy was happy, and the only thing that kept him from being completely at peace with himself was his youngest son. If Jack could have helped him there he would have. But he couldn’t.

  “I like what I’m doing. Can’t we leave it at that?”

  Dad said nothing.

  The phone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. A moment later he came out again.

  “It’s for you. A woman. She sounds upset.”

  The lethargy that had been slipping over Jack suddenly dropped away. Only Gia had this number. He pushed himself out of the chair and hurried to the phone.

  “Nellie’s gone, Jack!”

  “Where?”

  “Gone! Disappeared! Just like Grace! Remember Grace? She was the one you were supposed to find instead of going to diplomatic receptions with your Indian lady friend.”

  “Calm down will you? Did you call the cops?”

  “They’re on their way.”

  “I’ll see you after they leave.”

  “Don’t bother. I just wanted you to know what a good job you’ve done!”

  She hung up.

  “Something the matter?” his father asked.

  “Yeah. A friend’s been hurt.” Another lie. But what was one more added to the mountain he’d told over the years? “Gotta get back to the city.” They shook hands. “Thanks. It’s been great. Let’s d
o it again soon.”

  He had his racquet and was out to his car before Dad could warn him about driving after all those drinks. He was fully alert now. Gia’s call had evaporated all effects of the alcohol.

  Jack was in a foul mood as he drove up the turnpike. He’d really blown this one. It hadn’t even occurred to him that if one sister disappeared, the other might do the same. He wanted to push the car to eighty but didn’t dare.

  At least the traffic was light. No trucks. The night was clear. The near-full moon hanging over the road was flat on one edge, like a grapefruit someone had dropped and left on the floor too long.

  As he passed Exit 6 and approached the spot where his mother had been killed, his thoughts began to flow backward in time. He rarely permitted that. He preferred to keep them focused on the present and the future; the past was dead and gone. But in his present state of mind he allowed himself to remember a snowy winter night almost a month after his mother’s death …

  13

  He’d been watching the fatal overpass every night, sometimes in the open, sometimes in the bushes. The January wind had frosted his face, chapped his lips, numbed his fingers and toes. Still he waited. Cars passed, people passed, time passed, but no one threw anything off.

  February came. A few days after the official groundhog had supposedly seen its shadow and returned to its burrow for another six weeks of winter, it snowed. An inch lay on the ground already and at least half a dozen more predicted. Jack stood on the overpass looking at the thinning southbound traffic slushing along beneath him. He was cold, tired, and ready to call it a night.

  As he turned to go he saw a figure hesitantly approaching through the snow. Continuing his turning motion, Jack bent, scooped up some wet snow, packed it into a ball, and lobbed it over the cyclone fencing to drop on a car below. After two more snowballs, he glanced again at the figure and saw it was approaching more confidently now. Jack stopped his bombardment and stared at the traffic as if waiting for the newcomer to pass. But he didn’t. He stopped next to Jack.

  “Whatcha putting in them?”

  Jack looked at him. “Putting in what?”

  “The snowballs.”

  “Get lost.”

  The guy laughed. “Hey, it’s all right. Help yourself.” He held out a handful of walnut-sized rocks.

  Jack sneered. “If I wanted to throw rocks, I could sure as hell do better’n those.”

  “This is just for starters.”

  The newcomer, who said his name was Ed, laid his stones atop the guardrail and together they formed new snowballs with rocky cores. Then Ed showed him a spot where the fencing could be stretched out over the road to allow room for a more direct shot … a space big enough to slip a cinder block through. Jack managed to hit the tops of trucks with his rock-centered snowballs or miss completely. But Ed landed a good share of his dead center on oncoming windshields.

  Jack watched his face as he threw. Not much was visible under the knitted cap pulled down to pale eyebrows, or above the navy peacoat collar turned up around his fuzzy cheeks, but a wild light flared in Ed’s eyes as he threw his snowballs. And he smiled as he saw them smash against the windshields. He was getting a real thrill out of this.

  That didn’t mean Ed was the one who’d dropped that cinder block. He could be just another one of a million petty terrorists who got their jollies destroying or disfiguring something that belonged to someone else. But what he was doing was potentially deadly. The impact of one of his special snowballs—even if it didn’t shatter the windshield—could cause a driver to swerve or slam on his brakes. And that could be lethal on the slippery asphalt.

  Either that had never crossed Ed’s mind, or it was what had brought him out tonight.

  Could be him.

  Jack fought to think clearly. Had to find out. Had to be absolutely sure.

  Jack made a disgusted noise. “Fucking waste of time. I don’t think we cracked even one.” He turned to go. “See ya.”

  “Hey!” Ed said, grabbing his arm. “I said we’re just getting started.”

  “This is diddley-shit.”

  “Follow me. I’m a pro at this.”

  Ed led him down the road to where a 280-Z was parked. He opened the trunk and pointed to an icy cinder block wedged up against the spare tire.

  “You call that diddley-shit?”

  It took all of Jack’s will to keep from leaping on Ed and tearing out his throat with his teeth. Had to be sure. Jack’s plan left no room for error. No going back later and apologizing for making a mistake.

  “I call that big trouble,” Jack managed to say. “You’ll get the heat down on you somethin’ awful.”

  “Naw! I dropped one of these bombs last month. You shoulda seen it—perfect shot! Right in somebody’s lap!”

  Jack felt himself begin to shake. “Hurt bad?”

  Ed shrugged. “Who knows? I didn’t hang around to find out.” He barked a laugh. “I just wish I coulda been there to see the look on their faces when that thing came through the windshield. Blam! Can you see it?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I can see it.”

  As Ed leaned over to grab the block, Jack slammed the trunk lid down on his head. Ed yelled and tried to straighten up but Jack slammed him again. And again. He kept on slamming it until Ed stopped moving. Then he ran to the bushes where twenty feet of heavy-duty rope had lain hidden for the past month.

  * * *

  “Wake up!”

  Jack had tied Ed’s hands behind his back. He’d cut a large opening in the cyclone wire. He now held him seated on the top rung of the guardrail over the south side of the overpass. A rope ran from Ed’s ankles to the base of one of the guard rail supports. Ed’s legs dangled over the southbound lanes.

  Jack rubbed snow in Ed’s face.

  “Wake up!”

  Ed sputtered and shook his head. His eyes opened. He looked dully at Jack, then around him. He looked down and stiffened. Panic flashed in his eyes.

  “Hey! What—?”

  “You’re dead, Ed. Ed is dead. It rhymes, Ed. That’s ’cause it’s meant to be.”

  Jack was barely in control. He would look back in later years and know what he was doing was crazy. A car could have come down the road and along the overpass at any time, or someone in the northbound lanes could have looked up and spotted them through the heavy snow. But good sense had fled along with mercy, compassion, and forgiveness.

  This man had to die.

  Jack had decided that after talking to the State Police after his mother’s funeral. It had been clear then that even if they learned the name of whoever had dropped the cinder block, without an eyewitness to the incident or a full confession freely given in the presence of the defendant’s attorney, he’d walk.

  Jack refused to accept that. The killer had to die—not just any way, but Jack’s way. He had to know he was going to die. And why.

  Jack’s voice sounded flat in his ears, and as cold as the snow drifting out of the featureless night sky.

  “You know whose lap your ‘bomb’ landed in last month, Ed? My mother’s. You know what? She’s dead. A lady who never hurt anyone in her whole life was riding along minding her own business and you killed her. Now she’s dead and you’re alive. What’s wrong with that picture, Ed?”

  He took bleak satisfaction from the growing horror in Ed’s face.

  “Hey, look! It wasn’t me! Wasn’t me, I swear!”

  “Too late, Ed. You already told me it was.”

  Ed let out a scream as he slid off the guardrail, but Jack held him by the back of his coat until his tied feet found purchase on the ledge.

  “Please don’t do this! I’m sorry! It was an accident! I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt! I’ll do anything to make it up! Anything!”

  “Anything? Good. Don’t move.”

  Together they stood over the right southbound lane, Jack inside the guardrail, Ed outside. Both watched the traffic roar out from beneath the overpass and flee down the turnpike.
With his hand gripping the collar of Ed’s peacoat to steady him, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming traffic.

  With the continuing snowfall, the traffic had slowed and thinned. The left lane had built up an accumulation of slush and no one was using it, but plenty of cars and trucks remained in the middle and right lanes, most doing forty-five or fifty. Jack saw the headlights and clearance lights of a tractor-semitrailer approaching down the right lane. As it neared the overpass he gave a gentle shove.

  Ed toppled forward slowly, gracefully, his bleat of terror rising briefly above the noise of the traffic echoing from below. Jack had measured the rope carefully. Ed fell feet first until the rope ran out of slack, then his body snapped downward. Ed’s head and upper torso swung over the cab of the oncoming truck and smashed against the leading edge of the trailer with a solid thunk! His body bounced and dragged limply along the length of the trailer top, then swung into the air, a piñata spinning and swaying crazily on its string.

  The truck kept going, its driver probably blaming the noise on a clump of wet snow that had shaken loose from the overpass. Another truck came rolling down the lane but Jack didn’t wait for the second impact.

  He walked to Ed’s car and removed the cinder block from the trunk. He threw it into a field as he walked the mile farther down the road to his own car.

  No connection to his mother’s death, no connection to him.

  Over.

  Done.

  He went home and put himself to bed, secure in the belief that starting tomorrow he could pick up his life again where he’d left off.

  He was wrong.

  He slept into the afternoon of the following day. When he awoke, the enormity of what he’d done descended with the weight of the earth itself. He’d killed. More than killed: He’d executed another man.

  He was tempted to cop an insanity plea, say it hadn’t been him up there on the overpass but a monster wearing his skin. Someone else had been in control.