“Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I’m in.” She frowns. “Now stop yammering and lead the way.”
I can’t help but laugh at her display of spunk. I had wanted to save her the emotions this night might stir, but truth be told, I’m glad to have a companion on this mission. I’m happy it’s her.
We crank the bikes into gear and pedal to the cemetery. Stop in front of the entrance used earlier in the day. It’s locked.
Luna leans against the gate and takes hold of the metal bars. “Do you hear that?” She presses her ear to the opening. “It sounds like people talking and… and some sort of banging.”
All I hear is the heavy hum of the freeway nearby. The vibration of all the moving cars is rattling through my head like a box of tacks.
I move closer and listen. Listen for whatever it is Luna hears. She’s right. I jerk back and stare through the bars. There are definitely people inside, and they are up to something. But the gate is locked, and, I don’t know about Luna but, I am no acrobat. The chances of me scaling the outer wall are little to none.
“Look there.” She tugs on my handlebars and points down the center aisle. Two men are pushing open the gate on the far side. I yank her to the side, out of view. Her bike drops and she fumbles over the frame, tumbles into my arms. “What’d you do that for?”
“We don’t want them to see us,” I whisper.
“Right,” she says and peeks around the corner. Spins back toward me with eyes wide. “They’re pulling a car in. Backwards.”
My muscles tighten. Flying ugly bats. I don’t want to be right about Luna’s father, but it’s looking like I am. This day is really going to suck.
We both peek around the stone entrance. A green car is parked several yards from us and the three men—the two that opened the gate and the driver—are walking into the sea of tombs.
“Come on.” I ride past the locked entrance and head for the corner. She jumps on her bike and follows. We ride around the exterior of the cemetery to the opposite gate. The men are gone, but they left the gate unlocked.
In case a speedy departure is required, I think to myself.
Within the cemetery walls, the earth—damp from yesterday’s storm—is exceptionally pungent. Mixed with the fumes of the parallel freeway, the air is pushing nausea into my gut. I wrinkle my nose and think of something else. The scent of freshly washed hair.
Luna follows my lead every step of the way, and we hop off our bikes and walk them into the cemetery. We wrap around the corner in the opposite direction from where we saw the men go, following the wall and turning down the second row of tombs. A few markers in, we slip the bikes between two spots, the tombs snug against the bikes, both holding them and hiding them.
With our heads down and our hands clasped, we make our way across the cemetery. Spots of mud speckle the ground, forcing us to move at a measured pace. Our shoes slide on the slick surface, and our hands scratch against the harsh cement of crypts in search of purchase. We follow the sound of muffled words and loud cracks, and that leads us to the back wall of oven vaults. Directly to the location of Mr. Flores’ resting place.
“Daddy,” Luna whispers.
I press my finger to my lips and shake my head no. We don’t know what we are up against, so we need to be smart, and safe, like my grandma asked of me.
Of course, she would not approve of me sneaking into a cemetery after hours and spying on strange men up to no good. She would not consider such actions smart or safe. Not at all.
The row of tombs opposite the back wall of oven vaults is at full occupancy, leaving a nice barrier for cover. We crouch behind one of the lower tombs and peer through the open spaces. Four men work together… sort of. Two men are swinging pickaxes, breaking apart the newly constructed closure of Mr. Flores’ tomb. The other two are standing around shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes.
“What are they doing?” Luna asks, her question clearly reaches beyond the obvious of breaking open the vault. She wants to know why they are breaking it open. What could they possibly want with her father’s body?
I have the same question. Although, I fear I know the answer. Especially after my curious conversation with toothy girl this morning. They want to somehow use his body to channel his soul and use him as a supernatural battery.
Sick.
“Nothing good,” I say. “Nothing good.”
“We’re there,” one of the men with a pickaxe says. The two chatty men drop and snuff out their cigarettes. Move in. A couple of the guys pull free the last few bricks by hand and then pull the casket forward, free of the vault. Together, the four men extract and lower the coffin to the ground.
Luna gasps and I reach for her hand. Squeeze. I want to give her my attention, but I can’t afford to pull my gaze from the activity at her dad’s grave. I don’t want to miss anything the men are doing.
One man stands over the casket, and two men lift the lid. The man standing, gazing down at Mr. Flores’ still body, reaches his hand out to the other man, who drops some something into his open palm.
He kneels beside Luna’s dad, forces his mouth open, and drops the item into her dad’s mouth. Closes his mouth and holds it firm.
My entire body tenses. I feel Luna’s muscles do the same. We’re standing on wired dynamite ready to blow. Little is holding us from exploding forward. Exploding into shouts and yells and wild swings.
But nothing happens.
The guy rises, steps away, spins around,
