Anne Frasier - Play Dead

"Who says it's hard to get good help nowadays?" Gould turned back to bis computer and finished off his sandwich while continuing to search. "Here's an interesting tidbit," he said. "Some people think the mysterious deaths surrounding the curse of King Tut were due to a poison similar to TTX. They suggest the poison was sprinkled in places where grave robbers could come in contact with it. If they had a cut finger or hand, it would enter the bloodstream."

"Transdermal delivery," Elise said. "Just like Wade Davis' zombies."

"Apparently."

She swung toward him. "Did you know that mandrake was used in the time of Christ as an anesthetic, but also to simulate death?"

He nodded. "I've heard that."

"Some historians even say it was hidden in the vinegar given to Jesus."

"Hence, the resurrection?"

"It's a theory. Not a popular one, but a theory."

"But then, who cares about being popular?"

An interesting comment, considering the source. "It's human nature to want to be liked," Elise told him. "To seek the approval of our peers."

"That kind of mind-set is a weakness, especially for a detective, who should be focusing on the truth."

There was no middle ground with him. If he was looking for an argument, she refused to participate.

He unscrewed the cap from a bottle of water and took a swallow. "This little history lesson has been very enlightening, but I don't think it has anything to do with us or Truman Harrison."

"Let's hope not."

He sized her up. "That didn't sound convincing or heartfelt."

He was right, Elise realized with a gnawing deep in her stomach, afraid that the case wouldn't be resolved as easily as she'd hoped. Just hours in, it already seemed to be plunging her into the murky waters she'd spent the last thirteen years trying to leave behind.

He was beginning to smell like the poisoned rats that died inside the walls. That's how I knew he was dead.

I've always hated that smell.

I love death, but hate the smell of it. How can that be? And how terribly unfair. To be so drawn to something, yet so repulsed by it at the same time.

He'd been a good boy. Sweet and unresponsive, just the way I liked them.

Soft skin.

Soft hair.

But now he smelled like a dead fucking rat.

Walking backward, I grasped the corners of the blanket and dragged the wrapped body down the grassy incline. It was hard to get a good grip because the leather gloves kept slipping. I had to repeatedly reposition my fingers and hands.

Darkness had fallen over Savannah hours ago, and everyone was safe in bed. Even the crickets were asleep.

I paused and straightened to pull in a deep breath, my face turned away from the stench.

Night air.

A heavy, mysterious mixture of salt marsh, vegetation, and rich earth.

I bent and resumed my task.

The narrow, worn path led directly to the boat dock. The terrain became steeper, making my job easier. At one point, Jordan almost got away from me.

The johnboat with its metal hull was moored under the dock, half of it visible from where I stood. It was the easiest thing to shove the body over the edge.

It dropped into the boat with a heavy thud. I untied the thick rope and joined the dead man, taking a position near the back.

I grabbed the oars.

They made a hollow sound as they knocked against the boat before dipping into the smooth, black water.

I'm a good rower. I can row with very little noise. Just a few soft splashes that could be frogs.

Above me, a sliver of moon watched from the sky.

I remembered that moon. That moon had been my friend before.

Death is a seductive, erotic thing.

The night air was heavy. In the darkness, in the marshy swamplands, I could see balls of undulating, drifting light, floating among the trees and low-growing vegetation.

Some people think the eerie glow is caused by slip-skin hags, the kind of evil night creatures that leave their shed skin on the bedpost and take on a cloak of invisibility. But I know the light for what it is.

Trapped phosphorus, caused by rotting tree stumps.

No magic. Just science.

Now that I was away from the shore and houses, I rested the oars in their holders and started the outboard. I was strong, but not a fucking rowing champ.

The motor was quiet. Soothing almost.

I was in no hurry. I let the motor push the boat through the inky water. Trees bent over the waterway, and occasionally Spanish moss brushed my cheek.

Death is a seductive, erotic thing.

I was hyperaware of my dead friend in the blanket. I would like to look at him one more time in the moonlight, but I was getting small whiffs of his stench, even though he was wrapped and immobile.

Better to leave him alone.

The journey took less than an hour.

The johnboat had a flat bow that could slide right up to the water's edge and over the ground, giving me a level surface to work.

I tied off to a tree, then dragged the body from the boat.

I could have just attached cement blocks to his feet and dumped him somewhere deep where fish would nibble until there was nothing left but bone.

That would have been the best thing to do. But for some reason, I couldn't make myself do it. I don't know why. Maybe it seemed too easy. Or maybe it was because dead bodies belong in the ground.

Didn't need a flashlight.

I could make out the darker shapes of trees. And on the ground, bushes and small shrubs. Gravestones.

A cemetery.

A good place for Jordan.

There wasn't much of a slope, which was why I'd chosen this particular resting place. I dragged Jordan up the incline, across a flat, grassy area, into a stand of dense trees. Then I returned to the boat for a shovel.

The ground was harder than I'd thought it would be. I dug for a long time, then sat down on a log and had a smoke.

Should have just dumped him in the river. Why hadn't I just dumped him in the river?

I knew the answer.

I get these ideas in my head, and I can't get rid of them. They won't go away. They never go away until I see them through. Doesn't matter what they are. It can be as simple as something telling me to go touch a particular railing. Or brush my teeth. Wash my hands.

When I got in that mode, I had to do it. No questions.

Just do it.

That's how it was with the cemetery. Bury Jordan in a cemetery. Seemed like a good idea. But the fucking ground. And the fucking shovel. It was dull. Like trying to dig with a board.

I took a couple more quick puffs, dropped the filter-less cigarette, and ground it out with the toe of my boot. Even though the place was littered with butts, I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket.

Leave no clues. No solid ones, anyway.

Back to work.

I dragged the body into the shallow trench. I tossed dirt until the entire thing was covered with at least a good six inches. Then, with my gloved hands, I raked leaves over that.

I carried the crappy shovel back to the boat, then pulled out a backpack. At the burial site, I removed some items and arranged them nicely on the grave.

A silver dollar. A bottle of whiskey. Things a dead guy would need. Then I pulled a small flannel bag from my pocket, opened the drawstring, and reached inside.

"Watch the road," Eric Kaufman warned.

Amy jerked her mom's van off the shoulder and back between the white lines. The windshield wipers were going full blast, but they couldn't keep up with the condensation. "It's so foggy." She put the headlights on high and they both recoiled from the glare. She switched back to low beam.

"There," Eric said, pointing.

Amy exited the two-lane to a gravel road with dense vegetation on both sides. Five minutes later they arrived at their spot-an old plantation cemetery on the edge of Savannah, overgrown and forgotten.