Jan Burke - Nine

“Come here, Worm.”

“Yes, sir.” Kit quickly closed the book and hurried over to his stepfather.

Jerome had not only married Serenity, he had insisted that she collect her son from his despised mother-in-law. What Elizabeth Logan had ever done to him, Kit didn’t know. But he constantly made remarks to Serenity about how much Elizabeth had spoiled his stepson. The nickname “Bookworm” had been shortened for several months now.

“Your mother and I are getting tired of putting up with your nonsense.”

This was a favorite phrase of Jerome’s. He seldom explained what he meant by “nonsense.” It was not a question or a command, though, so Kit knew not to make an answer of any kind. This time, however, the cause of Jerome’s displeasure was soon made clear.

He held up a phone bill.

Kit went pale.

“You know anyone in Malibu, Serenity?”

“No one I give a shit about,” she said.

Jerome smiled. “Well, then. Since I don’t know anyone in Malibu, and you don’t know anyone in Malibu, I guess we know who called from this house.”

After a particularly bad day at Jerome’s hands last month, he had missed Grandmother Elizabeth so much, he had dialed her number. Her answering machine had answered, and he had hung up without leaving a message. At eleven, he was learning how little time is needed to incur a long-distance charge on a phone bill.

“Do you know what worms are good for, Worm?”

Trying not to let his uneasiness show, Kit answered, “No, sir.”

Serenity laughed. He didn’t know what she had taken. Some sort of downer. Jerome was stone cold sober, though.

“They eat dead things, for starters.”

Jerome stood and walked to the back porch. Kit knew better than to move.

When he returned, he held a shovel.

He thrust it toward Kit. “Take it, Worm.”

“Yes, sir.” Kit obeyed. The shovel suddenly seemed larger, heavier.

“Let’s go. Serenity, you come along, too.” Kit followed him into the dark backyard, fear constricting his muscles, so that his movements were awkward. He could hear his mother laughing behind him.

Jerome didn’t seem to notice his clumsiness or his mother’s laughter. He came to a halt near the far fence, in the darkest part of the yard.

“Lie down.”

Trembling, he obeyed.

Above his face, the shovel came down, its sharp edge veering away from him at the last second and piercing the earth so near to the top of his head, dirt sprayed over his face.

“I didn’t hear you say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be, you little asshole.”

He pulled the shovel free and moved so that he now straddled Kit’s waist. He was smiling. He lifted the shovel, held it just over Kit’s heart, letting it rest against his thin shirt, so that Kit could feel its cold blade against his chest. Jerome was staring down at him. Kit started to cry, and Jerome’s smile widened. “You worm.”

He lifted it high and brought it down-this time, just outside Kit’s right shoulder.

“Damn me, I missed. I’ll have to try a different target.”

Serenity laughed.

Jerome settled the blade on Kit’s throat. “That ought to do. Cut your fucking too-smart head off.”

Again the shovel came up, again furiously down. Just to the left of him.

Jerome moved so that he was over Kit’s knees, and the shovel touched down on the boy’s crotch. He used a little pressure this time, and Kit cried out in pain.

“Shut up. No one’s going to hear you out here, anyway.”

Kit squeezed his eyes closed, but Jerome did not see this as he negotiated the move of bringing the shovel down and stepping back at the same moment. The shovel was left planted near Kit’s feet.

“Stand up.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said, tears still falling. He was shaking so violently now, it was almost too difficult to obey this simple order.

“Now, you damned baby, you can start digging.”

“Yes, sir.” He struggled to pull the shovel free.

“You dig in between those four marks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know how deep it has to be?”

“No, sir.” Hardly able to breathe now, still he tried to make his muscles work.

“Six feet.”

Kit looked up.

“You look around you, Worm. This is the end of the line. You’re going to dig your own grave. I’m going to bury you right here. And the only choice you have right now depends on how well and how fast you dig, because that’s going to be what decides whether you are buried dead or alive.”

And so he had dug. He had dug and dug and dug, until his hands were as blistered and raw as any galley slave’s, his shoulders and back sore, and his skin and clothing covered with dirt. He dug because he wanted to be dead.

The ground became harder, but he worked and worked at it. He was only a boy, though, and the rim of the hole was barely above the level of his head when the sun began to rise.

Jerome walked up to the edge and said, “Stop.”

He leaned on the shovel, muscles shuddering in fear or exhaustion, he wasn’t sure which.

“Give me the shovel.”

He handed it up.

“Lie down.”

He stood swaying. Jerome kicked his shoulder, easily knocking him over.

A shovelful of dirt landed on him. He found he could not move, could not even bring himself to brush it away.

Go ahead, he thought. Bury me. I don’t care. I don’t care.

Jerome laughed. “Maybe I’ll let you live another day, Worm.”

Kit, too exhausted to crawl out, lay in the bottom of the grave and slept.

As almost always happened when he dreamed the digging dream, at the moment when he fell asleep in the dream, he awakened from it. He did so now in Denver, miles and years away from the events of the dream, but feeling the power of the memories press in on him all the same. He quickly reached for the light, then held on to a small Chinese soapstone carving of a tortoise. A lucky tortoise, he had been told. Before long, he was breathing more steadily.

Sometimes, the dream would last a little longer, and he buried Jerome. In reality, this had not happened. In reality, when the hot sun had awakened him early that afternoon, he was roughly pulled from the grave by Jerome, who told him to wash up, because they were moving that day, and he didn’t want worm dirt all over the car.

There would be more digging in days to come.

He told himself now that he could not rely on omens, on dreams to tell the future. He just barely resisted the impulse to call Meghan. Then he showered, awakened Spooky, and after promising fast food for breakfast and lunch, started for Albuquerque far earlier than he had planned.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Tuesday, May 20, 2:16 P.M.

“Place it on the counter, please.”

Spooky turned a wide-eyed look of innocence on him. When she saw that her acting skills were unappreciated, she sullenly reached into the pocket of her windbreaker and placed the object she had pilfered on the crowded sales counter.

Spooky calmly met the sales clerk’s startled look of dismay, returning a look that said, Doesn’t everyone shop by placing unpurchased items in their pockets before bringing them to the counter?

It was an unusual shop, but Kit doubted it was quite that unique. Primarily, it sold colorful tiles. But a great many objects of Mexican art were available, too, and it was these that had drawn Kit’s attention to the store. Today it was doing a great business in milagros.

The woman behind the counter had explained that the small, brass, gold, tin, and silver-plated charms were primarily used to petition for miracles. They might be worn as jewelry, or more traditionally, pinned to the robe of a statue of a saint-a Spanish tradition, one that continued in various forms in Central and South America.