Neely Tucker - The Ways of the Dead

He flicked on the switch.

Sully blinked rapidly and closed his eyes for a second in the sudden brightness of the bulbs that dangled overhead.

His first thought was that Doyle had closed off the garage years ago and converted the back part of the basement into living space. The floor was packed dirt with large rectangular planks of wood set over it, covered by cheap brown carpet.

The carpet had been pulled back, though, and one of the planks partially pulled to the side. The smooth, packed dirt beneath it was loose.

“I walked in, nearly tripped over the planks,” Sly said. “So I pulled it back to see.”

Only then did Sully look at the walls, at the dozens of photographs, at the shelves with their neatly packaged rows of mementos. The pictures and talismans were grouped by each woman.

It was some sort of shrine, an altar. He recognized pictures of Rebekah Bolin, Michelle Williams, Lana Escobar, and other women he did not know. Items of clothing were neatly set out-a T-shirt, bras, panties, shoes. The photographs of Michelle featured a picture of her at the front door of Goodwin’s house, taken by some sort of overhead camera in the center. Others had similar pictures. Then there were the death pictures, the women nude, dead, posed as if in erotica.

“Christ, he got half of them to come here,” Sully said. “For what? Cleaning? Washing the dishes? But what did he do with them all?”

“You ain’t looking,” Sly said, tapping his foot.

Sully looked down again. With a toe, he pushed the plank all the way to the side. The dirt beneath it had been freshly disturbed.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

On instinct, the buzzing in his ears now, he went to the laundry room at the back, turned on the light, and there, in the back corner, was a shovel. A pick was next to it. Hurrying now, carrying both, he came back to the main room.

“The hell you are,” Sly said.

“You said five minutes. Won’t take that if you get off your ass.”

The shovel pitched into the earth with ease-it was not settled earth-and he was digging hard, attacking the loosened soil, throwing spades of earth back without regard for the grit or the noise of it or the damp clumps spraying everywhere. Sly sighed and worked the top end of the dirt with the pick.

After a minute, Sly said, “Shit.”

He did not remove the pick, but moved the dirt around it with his foot. Sully worked his shovel a foot or so from the pick until it met resistance. Sly pulled up the pick, gingerly. A rotted leg appeared. Sully, dropping to his knees, was digging at the dirt with his gloved hands now, moving it aside, until the corpse’s chest and neck and, finally, decomposed face came into view.

The clothes were rotting, most of the skin gone, but there was still hair and fingernails and a blouse. Sully stood upright, looking down at the corpse.

“Michelle,” he said.

Sly picked up the shovel and pick, moving them back to the laundry room.

“You got to go,” he said. “Get on out the back, walk to your bike-do not fucking run, you hear me, I said walk-and get home. Call somebody. Get an alibi. I got work here.”

“Work? What work?” There was an electric air to the room, a static charge that seemed to set everything atilt and lit from within, as if the whole room were wired to explode. “All we got to do is get out of here and call the police. This shit is over.”

Sly was already in the doorway of the laundry room, looking back at him.

“Leave, and leave quick,” he said. “You not listening. I ain’t far behind. But get. Don’t you fucking call the cops until you hear from me.”

“When is that going to be?” a harsh whisper, his voice feeling strangled.

“After daybreak.”

“Fuck that.”

“What?”

“Fuck that, Sly. You not telling me to get lost till the sun comes up. We walk out, make an anonymous call, game over. We got all we need. Ballgame.”

“Yeah?” The pistol in Sly’s right sleeve dropped down into his hand. Sully looked at it and rolled his eyes but did not move forward.

“’s what I thought,” Sly hissed. “Now. I’m respecting you, right? I ain’t starting no shit with you, right? Gimme a minute and I’ll see you on the block.”

Sly disappeared into the back, conversation over. Sully took another look around the room, the sickness of it, and turned, ready to be outside, ready to be somewhere else, fuck Sly and fuck this nonsense, it just wasn’t worth all this shit. It was not his best moment, but he didn’t care anymore, he just wanted out, and he hurried up the steps as fast as his gimp leg would allow, feeling claustrophobic and sick, the smell of death getting to him, the eyeless skull. The stairs creaked beneath his weight. Once in the hall, he turned to the back of the house, making his way by the streetlight from the alley out back.

The hallway light clicked on.

He wheeled around to whisper at Sly to turn the goddamn thing off and Doyle Goodwin stood in the foyer, jacket still on, closing the front door behind him.

It was still misting rain. That was the first thing that shot through Sully’s mind.

Doyle was looking at him, his hair dotted with raindrops, the jacket damp. He must have walked home from the Show Bar, his evening stroll past the houses where he buried his victims, back home to the nest. His hands were in his jacket pockets and his right hand moved this way and that. Sully, keeping his eyes locked on Doyle’s, knew he was getting a grip on his gun, clicking off the safety. The movement, a thumb moving from right to left, made him remember that he’d left his own gun in his cycle jacket at Sly’s.

He backed up involuntarily. Never back up never back up. You want a dog to chase you? Run. But he didn’t have any choice now, he had to give ground to gain time. The kitchen, he was backing into the middle of the kitchen, furiously trying to recall the layout and what cover or weapons he might find. The back door was perhaps twenty feet away, a fatal distance.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for sisters and hookers, Doyle,” he said, stalling, oh sweet Jesus, stalling.

“I tried to help you,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “I tried . I gave you the judge. And you just wouldn’t take it and go.” A high-pitched giggle.

He’s drunk. Drunk off his ass. Stall him, stall him till you get to the door .

“You got a real bad problem, Doyle.”

“No,” Doyle said, bringing the gun out and up now, smiling, drunk out of his mind. “ You got a problem. My problem ends with you.”

“How come you don’t got the pictures of Sarah up yet?” Sully said, gesturing toward the basement, desperate to retrack Doyle’s mind. “You did her to get back at Reese, yeah? You saw Noel every day. You wanted to fuck her so bad you could taste it. And she ignored your ass and gave it up to the judge. Left you with fat, ugly hookers.”

“Sarah?” Doyle laughed, a mirthless rattle in the chest, still walking forward, passing the basement door, cutting him off there. “ Sarah? What makes you think-?”

A shadow burst out of the basement, a blur that slammed into Doyle and catapulted him into the wall. Doyle dropped his gun. It fired on impact with the floor, blowing a hole in the wall. Sully leapt forward to get the gun and Sly pinned Doyle, whipped his Glock out and against Doyle’s temple, hammering it against the wall, and then there was an explosion of noise and blood and brains and shattered skull.

Doyle’s body slid down the wall, mouth open, eyes open, half his head gone, his blood and gore painting the wall, until he reached a splayed sitting position. Then he slumped forward.