Charlaine Harris - An Ice cold Grave

"No dead ones," I said. Then I said, "No dead ones…at least there weren't any…oh, shit. We got to get there." The feeling of dread that had blossomed in my head now bloomed in full. I didn't speak to anyone again.

We got into the patrol car and onto the road within five minutes. There wasn't much traffic and the roads were a hell of a lot clearer, but it was still a good twenty-minute drive into Doraville, then another ten minutes through the town to the street where the Almands lived.

Instead of creeping up to the barn from the rear of the property as we'd done yesterday, we pulled into the driveway by the aging frame house, and I got out as quickly as I could. My muscles were sorer today than they'd been the previous day, and I was skipping the pain medicine, so I was feeling everything I did.

Tolliver put his arm around my waist to help me along, and we stumbled down the remains of the drive that led beyond the house to the barn. I could catch a glimpse of Manfred's car on the track that ran behind the property.

And I felt the vibration, the stirring in my head. A very fresh body. "Oh, no," I said, "oh no no no." I began to run, and Tolliver had to grip me under my shoulder to keep me up. The sheriff caught fire when she saw my distress and she and the deputy pulled ahead of us easily. She drew her gun, and I don't even know if she realized she was doing it.

We all screeched to halt when we entered the dilapidated barn.

Tom Almand was standing in front of the stalls at the rear of the barn. He had a shovel in his hands. About three yards in front of him, Manfred was keeping to his feet with great effort. He was bleeding from the head. Manfred had his own weapon, a short-handled spade. It was so shiny and new I suspected Manfred had bought it that very morning, maybe on the way to the barn. He hadn't gotten in a lick yet.

"Tom, put the shovel down," the sheriff said.

"Tell him first," Tom Almand said. "He came in here to attack me."

"Not true," Manfred said.

"I mean, look at him, he's a freak," Tom said. There was a snarl on his narrow face. "I live here."

"Tom, put down the shovel. Now."

"There's a human body here," I said. "There's a body here now." I just wanted to be clear they understood. I just wanted them to get that asshole Tom Almand out of the way.

Manfred took two more steps back from Tom, and put his spade on the floor.

And Tom ran at Manfred with his shovel raised to strike.

The deputy shot him first, and missed. Sheriff Rockwell managed to get him in the arm, and he screamed and crumpled.

Tolliver and I stood against the wall while the deputy rushed forward to cover the bleeding counselor, and Manfred fell to his knees, his hands clasped to his head; not to indicate surrender, but because his head was injured.

We started forward to help our friend, but the sheriff said sharply, "Stay back! Stay out of the scene!" and we did. She was calling for ambulances on her radio, and when the shovel was beyond Tom Almand's reach, she handcuffed him despite his bleeding arm, and searched him very thoroughly. No weapons. She told Tom Almand about his rights, but he didn't respond. His face was as blank as it had been at the church the other night. The small man had gone somewhere else, mentally.

"Do you still feel a body?" she asked when that was done. It took me a second to realize she was talking to me, I was so wrapped up in the tension of what had just happened, the fear that Tom Almand would charge someone again, the possibility of Manfred being critically injured. I didn't worry about Tom's arm wound at all. He might bleed out before the ambulance arrived, and that would be fine with me.

"Yes," I said. "There's a very fresh body. Can I show you where?"

"How close do you have to come to this man?"

"I have to go to the first stall."

"Okay, go."

I very carefully worked my way around the tableau of bleeding men and law enforcement to get to the opening to the stall. I stepped inside on the old straw and began kicking it aside. It kept falling back into its original position, so I began picking up handfuls and tossing them over the side of the stall. "Tolliver," I said. He was at my side immediately, helping. The shovel or the spade would have come in handy, but I knew better than to suggest it. "Isn't this a latch?" I asked.

Tolliver said, "I wish we had a flashlight," and one landed on the floor beside us. Sheriff Rockwell had had one on her belt. Tolliver turned it on and aimed it at the boards at our feet.

"Trapdoor here," Tolliver said, and the deputy cursed. I guessed he'd been one of the ones who'd searched the barn.

Tom laughed, and I looked out at the tense group of people in the barn. For about a dime, the deputy would have kicked him in the head. His body language spoke loud and clear. I could hear emergency vehicles approaching, and I wanted to open the trapdoor before they got here and there was even more confusion.

Tolliver found the latch quickly. It was very strong, I guess to hold out against battering from below.

We did need a shovel to open it, and without asking Tolliver went across the barn to take Manfred's. We stuck the spade in the little opening and pried. After Tolliver got it up a little, I held the spade with my good hand while Tolliver grasped the edge and swung back the trapdoor. It was very heavy, and we found out why—there was insulation liberally tacked on the underside, which would muffle any sounds from below.

I looked down into a kind of pit, maybe six by six. Probably eight feet deep, it was reachable by a steep wooden ladder. The dead body of Chuck Almand lay at the foot of the ladder. He was staring up at us. The boy had shot himself in the head. What drew the eye first was the terrible damage to Chuck's head.

Behind the corpse there was a naked boy chained to the wall. His mouth was duct-taped shut. He was whimpering behind it, and he was looking over his shoulder and up at us with an expression I never want to see again. He was spattered with Chuck's blood and I suppose some of his own. There were cuts on his body, and the blood there was crusted and black. The cuts were swollen and red with infection. He had no blanket, no jacket, nothing, and he'd been in the pit with the corpse all night.

I ran out of the barn and vomited. One of the ambulance drivers rushing in stopped to check on me, and I just waved my arm to indicate the interior of the barn.

After a few minutes, Tolliver came out. I was leaning against the peeling wood, wishing I were anywhere but here.

"He killed himself so you'd find him," Tolliver said. "So you'd find out what his father was doing."

"So I'd have a corpse to find," I said. "Oh, Jesus, he took such a chance. What if I hadn't come back?"

"What if Manfred hadn't decided he had to check the barn again?"

"Do you think Tom Almand's known where Chuck was all this time, since he reported him missing?"

"No, but I guess he didn't have a chance to come out here to check. That other counselor asking to see Chuck made Tom report him missing." Tolliver shuddered. "I never want to see anything like that again."

"He sacrificed himself," I said. I couldn't get my thoughts together. "And it was almost—almost—for nothing."

"He wasn't thinking good," Tolliver said in a massive understatement. "And he was just thirteen."

The stretchers went by, Manfred's first, his face white as death and his eyes open and blank.

"Manfred!" I called, just wanting him to know that someone who knew him was near, knew what he had done. But his face didn't change.

Tom Almand came out next, his eyes closed, his lips in a strange smile. He was now handcuffed to the stretcher by his good arm, and there was a bandage on the arm that had been shot. I hoped he'd been shot good, and I wondered if Sheriff Rockwell had been truly trying to hit his arm. It had been an alarming moment, but then, that was what law enforcement people trained for, right?