Brian Freeman - The Burying Place

He took the overpass over Interstate 35 and continued through Canal Park to the lift bridge that led to the ribbon of land known as the Point. He followed the road toward his cottage and found that he was having trouble breathing. His chest felt heavy. As he reached his driveway at 33rd Street, he slowed to a stop and inhaled deeply with his mouth open, until his lungs relaxed. He lowered the window and could hear the thunder of lake waves on the beach on the other side of the sand dune. He was home.

He pulled into his driveway, but rather than go inside, he hiked over the dune to the lake, where it was wild and blustery. A seagull hung motionless over the beach, lofted by the gusty currents. The sand was littered with driftwood rubbed smooth by the water. The wispy rye grass quaked, and the pines swayed with casual elegance. He continued down the slope to the long stretch of sandy beach. The surging waves rose out of the lake in long, silent shadows and then fell back in a fury of thunder, surf, and mud. In the calm between waves, he heard the hiss of bubbles breaking and saw thousands of exposed silver flecks skittering down the beach like frightened stars, as if they were running for cover.

Stride couldn't put it off any longer. He climbed back across the dune and up the rear steps of the cottage and let himself inside. Everything was as he had left it, except for the dust on the surfaces and the musty smell of air that had been shut up for weeks. The house had a funereal quiet. The only noise was his footsteps on the uneven floorboards. He went like a visitor from room to room, reacquainting himself with his possessions. When he went into the master bathroom, he detected a trace of the floral soap that Serena used and a lingering hint of her perfume. She had been here, but she was gone now. Just like himself. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, but no one stared back at him.

It happened again. The constriction in his chest. The sensation that his lungs were struggling for air. He held on to the sink as lightheadedness washed over him and made him dizzy. A vise tightened around his skull. When he looked in the mirror again, his skin was pasty and damp with sweat. His eyelids were dark hoods over his eyes. He ran water in the sink and splashed it on his face.

He needed something to drink. Slowly, he made his way through the cottage's great space into the kitchen and found a can of Coke in the refrigerator. He opened it and set it on the counter and then reached up to the top shelf of a cabinet for a large glass. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing. His hands were wet. He took the glass between his fingers, but it slipped from his grasp.

It fell.

He fell with it.

Goddamn.

He was high above the water again. His body shot like a bullet from the bridge, knifing toward the harbor. The night air became a searing whistle in his ears. Three seconds, that was all it took. Three seconds to realize he was about to die, three seconds to hammer into the bay. His nerve ends erupted with agony. The hard, cold water became his tomb. His mind drove him into the deep jaws of the bay, over and over, and each time his body rocketed through the air, he wished that the impact would kill him once and for all. He could almost hear the words forming in his chest.

Kill me .

Stride was on the kitchen floor when he awakened. Broken glass surrounded him, some shards as pretty as diamonds, some large and deadly like arrowheads. Crimson trails oozed from the cuts on his arms. His shirt was dyed with stains from the blood that dripped down his cheek and neck, where the eruption of glass had sprayed his face. He spread his hands wide and watched the smears as if the blood were coming from a stranger's body. The cuts didn't sting. His leg, the leg he had broken in the fall, didn't throb. He was numb.

On the floor, he saw a pointed shard with edges as sharp as a razor. So sharp they could slice through tissue like a surgeon's knife. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers. The glass glinted in the light. He squeezed his fist and saw the veins in his wrist bulge like twin lengths of rope. If only the fragments had cut him there, opening him up like a fountain. If only he hadn't awakened at all. He didn't want to live like this.

'Where did you go last night, Valerie?' Serena asked.

They sat in front of the fireplace in the lobby of the Sawmill Inn in Grand Rapids. Valerie wore a conservative gray suit, with her blonde hair pinned up. She stared at the fire with an uncomfortable expression and refused to meet Serena's eyes.

'Go? What do you mean?'

'Don't play dumb. Do you think we're not watching your house? You left last night at eleven thirty, and you got back shortly before one in the morning.'

Valerie rubbed her fingers along the smooth oak on the arm of the sofa. 'Oh, that. I couldn't sleep. I went for a drive.'

'Where?'

'Around town. I do that sometimes. I'll sit in a park by the river at night. I like to be by myself when I'm sad.'

Serena put a hand on Valerie's shoulder. 'It doesn’t help when you lie to me.'

'I'm not lying.'

Valerie glanced at the hotel door. Serena had stopped her as she emerged from a breakfast meeting in the hotel's restaurant. Valerie's friends lingered, watching them. 'I've been part of this prayer group for almost five years,' she added, changing the subject. 'Are you a religious person, Serena?'

'No.'

'I try to be.'

Serena said nothing.

'One of the older women asked me if I had sinned,' Valerie continued. 'She thinks I'm being punished.'

'That's a load of crap,' Serena said.

'Who knows? Maybe she's right. Then again, when you're a sixty-six-year-old virgin, it's easy to be pious. It's a little harder for the rest of us.'

Serena sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup. 'Were you meeting someone?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Last night.'

'I told you, I went for a drive.'

Serena shook her head. 'I understand that you don't want to tell me, but when the mother of a missing child starts lying to me, I wonder why.'

'Why are you so sure I'm lying?' Valerie asked.

'Because your lower lip is trembling, your smile is fake, you keep changing the subject, and you won't look at me. Is that enough?'

Valerie didn't say anything.

'Was it about Callie?' Serena asked. 'Did they tell you not to talk to the police? I realize you're scared, but if a kidnapper made contact with you, you have to tell me. I need to know.'

'It wasn't that.'

'Then what was it?'

'It was just someone playing head games with me.'

'Who?'

'Regan Conrad.'

Serena leaned closer, her voice low. 'What did she want?'

'She said she knew what happened to Callie, but that was a lie.'

'Did she tell you not to talk to the police?'

Valerie nodded.

'What exactly did she say?'

'It doesn’t matter. She didn't know anything.'

'Tell me what she said, Valerie. Why did she want to see you? What did she say about Callie?'

'I don't want to play her game,' Valerie replied. 'If I tell you, I'm giving her what she wants.'

'I'm going to talk to her anyway. You know that. I don't care if you think she was lying. If she told you she knows what happened to Callie, she's a suspect.'

'She was just trying to get under my skin. She wanted me to believe Marcus was involved in Callie's disappearance. This is about her getting revenge on the two of us. That's all.'

'Did she have new information?' Serena asked.

'No.'

'Then why did she think Marcus was involved?'

A flush rose on Valerie's face. 'She said — she said he told her things. About him not wanting me to have a baby. Like he told that stripper in Vegas. I don't believe her. I think she made it up to torture me.'