Jonathan Nasaw - Twenty-Seven Bones

Transferring the money into freezer bags took only a few minutes. The hands took longer-he had to pry the lid off each can to make sure there were twenty-seven bones in each (offering an incomplete hand would have been an unforgivable insult to the ancestors waiting on the other side of the abyss), before transferring them, one set of bones at a time, into freezer bags, which he then vacuum-sealed by sucking the air out before closing the little plastic zipper.

There was, however, no need to count the bones in the last can-after spending only five days wrapped in the poultice of turpentine tree leaves Bennie used to loosen the skin from the flesh and the flesh from the bones, Mrs. Apgard’s hand was still intact. Bennie unwrapped the poultice and slipped this most recent trophy into a bag; when he sucked out the air, the shape of the plastic conformed to the shape of the hand, as if it were a second, transparent skin.

The sheep pasture was a quagmire, threatening to suck the rubber boots off their feet at every step. Phil’s glasses kept fogging up. The waterproof hooded ponchos were heavy and unbreathing-by the time they reached the stile they were nearly as wet inside as out from trapped perspiration. Their boots were heavy with clinging mud as they entered the rain forest.

Under the trees there was some measure of relief from the pelting rain. It dripped steadily, but the violence of its fall was broken by the forest canopy. The climbing was hard going, though. They trudged up the steep muddy trail, Emily in the lead with the light from her helmet lamp set to LED white, Bennie bringing up the rear. Phil’s breath was ragged when they reached the ruins at the top of the ridge. They had to wait for Bennie to catch up-the weight of his knapsack was obviously a burden for the slender old man.

By then Emily’s own back was killing her. It had been giving her trouble ever since her boobs blossomed at age fourteen. Breast reduction surgery had been recommended by more than one doctor, but she’d as soon have cut off her nose. As would Phil. She agreed to a short rest.

The rain was drumming hard again, up above the forest canopy. They ducked into the mill tower, shucked off their packs, and rested for a few minutes in what little protection was provided by the conical walls before starting off again on the downhill leg of their journey.

Headlights. Coming down the long drive leading from the Great House. Pender grabbed the binoculars from the passenger seat, focused in as best he could through the rain and the windshield wipers. Land Rover. Apgard at the wheel. No passengers visible, but three people could easily have been hunkered down in the back.

Pender slumped in his seat as Apgard reached the end of the driveway, then sat up again when the Rover turned in the opposite direction, toward town. With no backup for the tail, he couldn’t afford to be spotted, but neither could he afford to lose Apgard. He counted to one thousand three, then pulled out without turning on his headlights.

Fortunately that section of the Circle Road was relatively straight, and there was no other traffic. He gave the Rover a long lead, close enough to keep the subject’s taillights in view, too far back to be spotted in the subject’s rearview mirror.

The Rover’s right turn signal flashed (how very law-abiding, thought Pender), then the brake lights. Pender hit the accelerator, caught up just in time to see the red taillights disappearing up the Core Road. When they were out of sight he switched on his parking lights-the reflection from the rain-shiny black tar surface provided just enough illumination to keep him from drifting into the boggy cane piece.

The Crown Vic followed the Rover at a distance of a few hundred yards. Just before he reached the Core gate, Pender shut off his parking lights again, steered the car off the road to the right, into the drainage ditch by the side of the lane, switched off the engine. Most of the cabins down by the lane were dark. There were a few lights up on the hillside to his right. One of them was Dawson’s. He pictured her sitting up on her narrow foam pallet, reading Mrs. Dalloway by the soft glow of the oil lamp.

The bright yellow slicker was not made for a foot tail at night. Pender splashed through the muddy gully by the side of the lane, using the tamarind trunks to shield him from the parking lot-the junkyard, everybody called it-at the far end. He circled behind the A-frame across from his, then followed the path leading down from the Crapaud, approaching the junkyard from the side. He saw the Land Rover parked under the flamboyant tree, facing the lane for a quick getaway.

Apgard was behind the wheel. A lighter flared, illuminating his face; the bowl of his corncob pipe glowed red for a moment. Pender stepped sideways, off the open path, and crept closer, keeping to the side of the A-frame for cover.

Phil groaned. The three were crouched in the brush at the top of the clearing, trying to get their bearings.

Emily: “Sshh. What?”

“I just remembered, I left my manuscript next to the typewriter.”

“I know. I found it-it’s in my pack.”

“Whew, thanks. I swear, sometimes I think I’m getting senile.”

“What about Bennie, leaving that fingerprint behind? Whatever would you boys do without me?”

“I wouldn’t even want to-”

Bennie shushed both of them, pointed to a light bobbing up the hill toward them. They ducked deeper into the undergrowth. The light angled away from them. They saw a little girl in a shiny red slicker and red rain boots, holding an umbrella in one hand and a powerful flashlight in the other, disappearing down a path leading into the woods below them to their right.

“That must be the path Lewis meant,” said Emily. They left the cover of the undergrowth, trotted around the periphery of the clearing and followed the girl up the path, which forked at a tin-roofed building with a bare lightbulb burning over the door.

Phil pointed Bennie toward the left fork, leading downhill, told him to go on ahead, see if the Land Rover was there yet. “We’ll be along in a sec.”

Moving silently as always, even under the crushing weight of his knapsack, Bennie disappeared down the path. Phil turned to Emily. “I-”

“Don’t even ask.”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling you. I want her-I want to take her with us.”

“It’s insane.”

“Why? We’re already blown. Peached. Screwed. If they catch us, how many times can they hang us? And if they don’t, if we’re going to have a chance to get away, I’m going to need the strength. I need that girl, Zeppo-I’ll turn into an old man, waiting in that cave.”

“It’s too risky. If she screams, we’re done for.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure she doesn’t scream, won’t we? Not that anybody’s going to hear her over this storm.”

When she was little, Dawn used to be afraid to go to the Crapaud at night. It wasn’t on account of silly Roger the Dodger’s shit eel joke that he told all the newbies: she knew there was no such of a thing. But around the time Mommy got sick, Dawn started having nightmares with one thing in common: they all happened in the Crapaud. Sometimes it was bigger and more echoey, with a high distant ceiling like the airport, sometimes it was more like a cave. Some dreams there’d be a monster hiding in one of the stalls-something she never saw for the whole nightmare, but she knew it was there.

After Mommy died, Dawn used to dream she was still alive, calling to Dawn from one of the stalls. But when Dawn opened the door, the stall would be empty, and she’d hear her mother calling for help from deep down in the dark stinky pit, only the dream-Dawn would be too scared to look over the edge.