J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

He grunted. “Used gum. Help yourself if you want some, but I chewed all the flavor out.”

“This jar is similar to another jar we found, full of human toes. Do you know anything about that?”

Another faraway looked crossed Kork’s face.

“Mr. Kork? Did you hear me?”

“Niblets,” he breathed.

“Speak up, Mr. Kork.”

“Sweet.”

“What’s sweet?”

His focus came back, and he looked at me, a thin line of drool sliding down the corner of his mouth.

“The toes of babes. Sweet, like corn Niblets.”

Alarms went off in my head. I noticed Herb’s hand had returned to the butt of his gun.

“Did you own a jar of human toes, Mr. Kork? Some of them from children?”

“ ‘And they were bringing children to him, that he might touch them.’ Mark 10:13.”

“Mr. Kork, may we search your premises?”

“Two Peter 2:14. ‘They have eyes full of adultery, insatiable for sin. They entice unsteady souls. They have hearts trained in greed. Accursed children!’ ”

Herb came up to Bud, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Kork, do we have your permission to search your house?”

Bud blinked, then looked at Herb.

“What did you say?”

“Your house, Mr. Kork. We’d like to search it.”

He grunted, nodding. “Go ahead. Help yourself.”

I began sorting through the cabinets. Herb tried the drawers.

“You might want to start in the root cellar.”

I stopped, stared at the old man. “What’s in the cellar, Mr. Kork?”

Bud Kork peered down at his bare feet, then put the rosary against his lips.

“That’s where I buried the bodies.”

BUD KORK LED us out of the kitchen. He had a slow, bow-legged gait that seemed to cause him pain with every step. He took us past several cluttered, dirty rooms and through a closed door at the end of the hall.

A soiled bare mattress sat on the floor, pointy springs jutting out through the fabric. As in the first room, the walls were bare, save for a giant black crucifix hanging crookedly over the bed.

“This is the devil’s room. Unclean.”

Kork pointed to the closet, open to reveal a dozen empty wire hangers hanging from a rope nailed lengthwise inside.

“Under the board.”

The bottom of the closet had a four-by-four piece of plywood on its floor, three pairs of worn shoes on top. Herb kept watch on Bud, and I knelt by the board and lifted the corner, dragging back the wood to reveal a squarish hole.

The smell rose up like a ghost, catching in my throat and forcing me to gag.

I covered my mouth and nose. “Something dead.”

Herb’s nostrils curled back. “Many somethings. Call the GPD?”

I glanced at Kork, who was gnawing on a dirty fingernail. I could smell the schizo on him like I could smell his stale sweat. He was completely unreliable. Maybe there were indeed corpses under the house. Or maybe there were dead dogs, or a pig, or he simply used this hole to dump leftover cooking grease.

“We need to confirm first. Got a flashlight in the car?”

Herb told me no.

“I have a lantern,” Kork said. “In my room.”

I nodded at Benedict, and he whisked Kork away to locate the lantern. Holding my nose, I took another look into the hole.

It seemed to be very deep. Ancient wood was laid into the dirt floor, making a kind of staircase that led down into blackness. The smell was so bad it penetrated my tongue. The smell of decay. The smell of rot. The smell of old death.

Herb returned, Kork in tow. He held an old-fashioned gas lamp, the wick burning bright inside the glass.

He cleared his throat and asked, “You or me?”

I had no idea how big the space was down there, and Herb was almost double my size. I held out my hand for the lamp.

“Want me to hold your shoes?”

Wrong day to wear Dior.

“No. They only cost me eight bucks. But I could use your handkerchief, if it’s clean.”

He pulled it from his jacket pocket. “Snot free.”

I pressed it over my nose and mouth, held the lamp before me like a talisman, and began my descent.

The stairs canted at a steeper angle than normal. I took them slow, careful of my footing. The walls were cut directly into the earth, like the sides of a freshly dug grave, and the black dirt absorbed the lantern light. The dirt also absorbed sound, and my climb was eerily quiet.

I counted thirteen steps before reaching the bottom. It had a dirt floor, bumpy and uneven, and the lamp revealed an area of roughly twenty feet by forty feet. The ceiling was low, brushing the top of my head. This made the space seem small and tight, and I felt a spark of panic that the ceiling would collapse on my head, burying me alive. I controlled my fear and moved on.

Three steps into the room I saw the first mound. A raised pile, no more than six inches higher than the surrounding earth.

The length and width of a child.

“Herb!” I yelled through the handkerchief – the smell was abominable. “I need a shovel!”

“Just a minute!” He sounded very far away.

I went deeper into the room, illuminating more burial mounds.

I counted eighteen.

“Shovel coming down!”

With four clangs and a thud, a spade hit the cellar floor. Long-handled, with a rusty blade. I set down the lantern and was forced to tuck the handkerchief into my pocket – I couldn’t dig with only one hand.

I picked the nearest mound. The spade dug easily into the earth, biting deep with each swing.

Every breath provoked a gag.

I badly wanted to spit the taste of rot out of my mouth, or to vomit, but I kept swallowing it back, unwilling to contaminate the scene. The lamp cast wild flickering shadows along the walls and ceiling, and I knew I was getting close to the end of my reserves. I had two minutes, tops, before I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.

I dug faster, my back muscles screaming, my jaw set tight. The smell made my eyes tear up. The ceiling pressed down, as if I were sinking.

That was enough. I couldn’t do it. I was going to barf all over, and no force of will could stop it.

My blade hit something.

Hurrying, no longer caring about getting dirty, I dropped to my knees and scooped away handfuls of earth, inch by terrible inch, until the child’s head appeared, a pink barrette still clipped in the muddy blond ponytail.

I jerked my hand back, pulling out several strands and part of the scalp. The flesh had taken on the consistency of soap.

Game over. The smell had become a living thing, so potent, so pungent, I could feel it even though I held my breath. It dug into my pores, penetrating my skin, infecting me with its corruption.

I pressed my lips together and made it up the stairs before the vomit burst forth, spewing onto the stained mattress.

Herb approached me, concerned, but stayed back when the stench of me hit him.

“Call the Gary police,” I managed to get out between expulsions. “Tell them to bring digging equipment, HazMat suits, the county coroner, and at least twenty body bags.”

Herb fussed with his cell phone. “No signal. Where’s your phone, Kork?”

Bud Kork eyed Herb, an odd expression on his face. He didn’t seem nervous, or upset. More like curious.

“In the kitchen,” he answered.

“I’ll watch him,” I told Herb. He waddled off.

I coughed, spit. The smell was in my clothes, in my hair, on my skin. I knew from experience it would be hell to get rid of. I stared hard at Bud Kork, anger slowly replacing my revulsion.

“How many are down there, Bud? How many kids?”

He spoke softly. “ ‘He must manage his own household well, keeping his children submissive and respectful in every way.’ That’s 1 Timothy 3:4.”