The neighborhood was busy after that.
Cars drove up and down the street and a lot of them were police cars. Lots of people gathered outside the house with Mr. Miller. Missy’s mom and dad were there, too. By the time Mother came home, there were people everywhere and lots of policemen in uniforms. They tried to stop Mother, but she ran from them and came inside.
“What did you do?” she said to Emily. “What did you do?”
“I went outside,” Emily said.
Mother locked the doors as fists pounded on them, wanting to be let in. There was a lot of shouting and yelling as night came.
“We have to get out of here,” Mother said. “We have to go somewhere safe.”
“The cemetery,” Emily said.
“Yes, that’s where we’ll go.”
But then there was more pounding at the door and finally something kept ramming it until it came off its hinges. Then the police came charging in and Mother ran right at them, screaming and fighting.
“Run, Emily!” she called out. “Run!”
So Emily did.
She ran out the back way and almost made it to the vacant lot when she heard the barking of big dogs. Men were running through the neighborhood with flashlights. Emily went into the vacant lot and hid in the grass. She dug up Mrs. Lee’s baby where she had hidden it in the dirt under the big rock, brushed the crawly things off it. Then the men came and put flashlights on her, blinding her.
“Dear God in heaven,” one of the policemen said.
Emily shook her headless baby at them and hissed, showing her long teeth.
The dogs that were with them were howling and baying and snapping at their handlers. The men let them go. The dogs came right at Emily, sinking their teeth into her, tearing open her dress-up clothes and biting free flaps of flesh and crunching bones. Lots of people cried out, but they didn’t come any closer. The dogs chewed and rent and split Emily, yanking off her limbs which kicked and clawed in the grass, fingers looking for something to grab. The dogs did not stop. They were mad and frothing and snapping and biting.
Emily kept screaming until there was nothing left to scream with.
Then there was just silence and the growling of dogs and people whimpering.
So fifteen days after Emily came out of her grave, what was left of her was shoveled back in there again.
DIS-JOINTED
It was raining when they murdered Pauly Zaber.
And it was coming down in buckets and pails when they dragged his corpse from the trunk of Specks’ Buick. Zaber had been a big man and he made a big corpse. Wrapped in sackcloth, a lot of it, he was roped up like a steer. Getting him in the trunk was tough business and getting him out was something else again.
“Just grab hold,” Specks said. “He’s dead for godsake, he won’t bite you.”
But maybe Weams and Lyon didn’t quite believe that. Sure, they’d helped Specks murder Zaber and their hands were just as red as his, but now handling the body after it had been cooling an hour…there was just something obscene about that.
Lyon reached in there, taking hold of the ropes, started yanking along with Specks, drawing the dead man up. “I’m doing my bit,” he said, raindrops beading on his face. “Tell Weams to do his.”
Weams was going to tell him to go to hell, maybe tell both of them that, but instead he reached into the blackness of the trunk, started pulling, feeling that awful weight shifting under the tarp. He kept his lips pressed in a white line and he wasn’t sure if that was because of what he might say or to keep himself from screaming.
Because that was a real possibility.
“On the count of three, girls,” Specks said. “Up…and…out…”
It was nasty work.
The rain hammering down, the ground gone to sluicing gray mud. The trees rising up around them black and gnarled, ribboned with crawling shadows that were viscid and horribly alive.
Weams kept imagining that maybe Zaber was still alive, that three rounds from a 9mm hadn’t been enough to put that pig down dead. That under the tarp, maybe he was awake. Maybe he was thinking things.
Zaber made a big corpse, all right. A huge, porcine man whose idea of eating light had been a porterhouse smothered in clam linguine. He tipped the scales at 400 pounds. A big, meaty fellow with eyes just as black as coal dust and a vicious temper. People said he once ate a guy that didn’t pay up on a loan…but you couldn’t believe everything you heard. There was only one thing for sure about Pauly Zaber: he was a loanshark and if you didn’t make your payments, he would hurt you.
But now he was dead, cold, had eaten three slugs from a 9mm and that’s all she wrote.
Specks, Weams, and Lyon were grunting and puffing, swearing and groaning, but finally they got their sackcloth package up onto the lip of the trunk, balanced precariously. And that’s when one of Zaber’s huge arms slipped out of the canvas, his hand landing on Lyon’s own with a wet slapping sound.
Lyon screamed.
You could say it was shock or superstitious terror, but all that mattered was that Lyon screamed like a little girl with a high, shrill wailing sound. He let go of Zaber and the sudden weight of the corpse overwhelmed the other two and it fell to their feet, slopping in the mud…both arms out now.
“He touched me!” Lyon stammered, rubbing his hands on his wet pants. “Jesus, he touched me, he touched me!”
Specks took hold of him and shook him. “He’s dead, you idiot, he can’t hurt you now! He’s no more dangerous than a side of beef.”
“But cold…damn, he’s so cold…”
Weams wasn’t hearing any of it. He was just looking down at that lolling, grisly bundle, thinking how with those flabby white arms hanging out of the sackcloth Zaber looked like something being born, trying to pull itself free of a placenta.
“Lend a hand,” Specks said.
They took hold of Zaber’s legs under the canvas and dragged him through the muck down the trail. The undergrowth was wet and dripping, the trees tall and skeletal. The night was damp and cool and ominous. When they made the shack, Specks unlocked it and they dragged Zaber inside and deposited their burden on the plank flooring.
Specks found a lantern on a hook, lit it.
“Nobody uses this place,” he told them, the shadows crawling over his face in the flickering yellow illumination. “It’s perfect.”
And maybe it was. Just a desolate tumbledown shack far from the city nestled in a desolate stand of woods like a pea in a poke. The sort of place that stood for fifty winters and might stand for fifty more, or just fall to jackstraw ruin next month.
Specks said, “I’ll be back in a minute with the goodies. If he moves…just scream good and loud.” He thought that was funny. “But not loud enough to wake the dead.”
Then he went back to the Buick to get the tools, leaving Weams and Lyon alone with Big Pauly Zaber, the former syndicate shylock that had made all their lives hell. But he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything now.
“I think,” Lyon said, “I think we screwed up big here, I’m sure of it.”
Weams chuckled low in his throat. “Do you really think so?”
“Fuck you.”
Zaber’s corpse shifted in the sackcloth, one hand sliding free, knuckles rapping on the floor.
Lyon sucked in a sharp breath and did not seem to be able to exhale. Weams just stood there, filled with a gaping terror that was oddly blank and dreamlike. He couldn’t seem to get his mouth to close.
