Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

“Same as I told him,” I say, nodding toward the driver.

“Well consider this your chance to tell me too.”

“A few minutes’ walk,” I tell her. “And bring the shovel.”

The driver reaches in and grabs it. I finally recognize him. It’s Jack, the man in black who put the boot of his heel into my eyelid and squished it into the ground. He sees me staring at him and he figures out I’ve just figured out who he is.

He smiles at me.

“How’s the eye?” he asks.

“Still good enough to see me fucking your wife when all this is over,” I tell him.

He jumps forward at me, but two of his colleagues are quicker and they grab hold of him.

“Enough,” Kent shouts, but it’s not enough because Jack keeps struggling. “Damn it, guys, I said enough.”

The message gets through. Jack stops struggling and the others let him go. Then we’re all standing in a circle and I’m the odd one out.

“Now, Joe, stop jerking us around and lead us to Detective Calhoun,” Kent says.

I head up to the gate. There’s a chain and a padlock that took me only a few seconds last year to pick. The gate is just below chest height. A wire fence heads out from each direction and along the edge of the property.

“Cut the lock?” Jack asks. “Or climb it?”

“Nobody can know we were here,” Kent says.

So we climb the fence, which is pretty awkward for a guy chained up. Two go over first, then they half drag me while the other two half push. When we’re all on the other side we start walking. The road is in rougher condition than when I was last here, the winter months treating it the same way death treats a newcomer-parts of it black, parts of it lumpy in areas, parts of it dissolving. My prison shoes are not up to the task and a few steps further my right shoe is sucked off by mud. Tree roots and rocks are covered in moss. All these guns pointing at me. People all around me. I’m the center of attention. I crouch down to pull out my shoe, then I flick it to clear as much off it as I can and put it back on. We keep walking. More trees and no gunshot. I keep getting ready to duck. When somebody stands on a branch and it cracks loudly, I drop to the ground.

“Stop fucking around,” Jack says, and drags me back to my feet, the cuffs digging painfully into my wrists.

A warm glow is starting to burn deep in the side of my stomach. We keep walking. A hundred yards. Two hundred. I can remember clearly driving out here last year. The weather was similar, though we’d just come off the back of a very long summer. The glow in my stomach is making its way into a sharp pain, an appendix-bursting pain if you had two appendixes. I bury my thumb into the area and it helps a little.

Another hundred yards.

Then I slow down. I start studying the trees. The open clearing ahead is full of dirt that a year ago was also full of dirt. It’s all coming back, sure, but it’s also all looking a little different. The leaves have fallen from the trees and formed a brown paste with the earth. There is moss on the stones and rocks. Last year the same trees were hanging onto life a little better.

“He’s here,” I say to nobody in particular. I point at one patch of dirt that looks like any other while keeping my other thumb buried into my side. “I think,” I add. “If not here, then close to here.”

“That’s not too specific,” Kent says.

“A lot better than what you had before, don’t you think?”

The body is going to be a mess. These people hate me now, and what I did to Calhoun isn’t going to win me any admirers. Unless people admire those who cut off fingertips and pull teeth. Maybe it’s possible. If people can admire midget porn, they can admire anything. I dumped Calhoun’s parts into a plastic bag along with his identification to dispose of later. As hard as I try, I can’t remember what I did with that bag. It wasn’t found on me when I was arrested. I must have dumped it somewhere. If I told that to Ali, she wouldn’t believe me. But I was distracted that night. With blackmail and violence and love. Under the circumstances anybody could be forgiven for misplacing a bag of fingertips.

Jack begins to dig. Calhoun isn’t deep, maybe only a few feet. It doesn’t take Jack long to find evidence of it. The shovel hits a bone and Jack stops digging.

“We’ve got something,” he says, then uses the tip of the shovel to carefully scoop away the dirt covering Calhoun, creating a funnel into which dirt starts to sprinkle back inside. “Remains,” he says.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Cover him back up. We’re done here.”

“You’re kidding,” Jack says.

“You knew the deal coming into this,” Kent says. “You know we’re leaving him here.” Then she looks at all of them. “You all know the deal here. You’re not expected to like it, but it’s your job to shut up about it.”

“This is fucked-up,” Officer Dick says.

“No, this is the job,” Kent says. “And it is what it is. Put the dirt into place and pat it down,” she says, and she gets her cell phone out and starts playing with a GPS feature, marking the location of the grave.

Jack doesn’t start covering the grave. He’s leaning on the handle with both hands and he’s deep in thought. Then that thought makes its way out into the open. “There’s nothing to stop us from shooting him,” he says, and if I remember rightly he brought that subject up during the drive from my apartment to the hospital on the day I was arrested. It’s time to move on. “We shoot him and say he made a break for it. Then there’s no deal left to be made, right? We shoot him and we bring Calhoun back home.”

Kent lowers her phone. I start to raise my arms, but they don’t get far because the chain makes a clanking sound and brings any movement to a halt. “That’s not the deal,” I say.

“But it’s a good deal,” Jack says. “I say we vote on it.”

Nobody else says anything. They all look like they’re thinking about it. Really, really thinking about it. The air is so still that any sound could travel a mile, but right now nobody within a mile is making any kind of noise. I look from one face to the next, there are some poker faces in there and some faces with thoughts written all over them.

“Can’t we all just get along?” I ask.

Nobody answers. In fact only Jack is looking at me. The others are looking past me or through me. They’re still playing various scenarios in their heads. They’re playing out all the possibilities. Except Jack, who has played them out already. This is one of those moments that comes along in life that can change the direction of a man. A turning point. It’s a Big Bang moment all over again.

“Everybody needs to take a deep breath,” I say.

“The same kind of deep breath women would take when they found you in their homes?” Officer Nose asks.

Exactly! But I don’t say it. I look at Kent. I get the sense if she agrees with the idea then in the next few seconds I’ll be one part human and twelve parts bullet. Melissa is taking her sweet time about opening fire.

“I deserve a trial,” I tell them, but I don’t finish it up by saying I’m innocent. I think that would put them over the edge.

“We should take a vote,” Jack says again.

“It needs to be unanimous,” Officer Dick says.

“I agree,” Officer Nose says.

Suddenly we’re all looking at Kent. She is now the center of attention the way I was earlier. My life is in her hands. My heart is racing and my legs feel a little weak and I’m actually close to throwing up. A year ago I tried to shoot myself when the police found me, but that was impulsive and stupid. I don’t want to die. Not here, not now. Not ever. Not at the hands of these assholes.