near the back.
I grabbed the oars.
They made a hollow sound as they knocked against the boat before dipping into the smooth, black water.
I'm a good rower. I can row with very little noise. Just a few soft splashes that could be frogs.
Above me, a sliver of moon watched from the sky.
I remembered that moon. That moon had been my friend before.
Death is a seductive, erotic thing.
The night air was heavy. In the darkness, in the marshy swamplands, I could see balls of undulating, drifting light, floating among the trees and low-growing vegetation.
Some people think the eerie glow is caused by slip-skin hags, the kind of evil night creatures that leave their shed skin on the bedpost and take on a cloak of invisibility. But I know the light for what it is.
Trapped phosphorus, caused by rotting tree stumps.
No magic. Just science.
Now that I was away from the shore and houses, I rested the oars in their holders and started the outboard. I was strong, but not a fucking rowing champ.
The motor was quiet. Soothing almost.
I was in no hurry. I let the motor push the boat through the inky water. Trees bent over the waterway, and occasionally Spanish moss brushed my cheek.
Death is a seductive, erotic thing.
I was hyperaware of my dead friend in the blanket. I would like to look at him one more time in the moonlight, but I was getting small whiffs of his stench, even though he was wrapped and immobile.
Better to leave him alone.
The journey took less than an hour.
The johnboat had a flat bow that could slide right up to the water's edge and over the ground, giving me a level surface to work.
I tied off to a tree, then dragged the body from the boat.
I could have just attached cement blocks to his feet and dumped him somewhere deep where fish would nibble until there was nothing left but bone.
That would have been the best thing to do. But for some reason, I couldn't make myself do it. I don't know why. Maybe it seemed too easy. Or maybe it was because dead bodies belong in the ground.
Didn't need a flashlight.
I could make out the darker shapes of trees. And on the ground, bushes and small shrubs. Gravestones.
A cemetery.
A good place for Jordan.
There wasn't much of a slope, which was why I'd chosen this particular resting place. I dragged Jordan up the incline, across a flat, grassy area, into a stand of dense trees. Then I returned to the boat for a shovel.
The ground was harder than I'd thought it would be. I dug for a long time, then sat down on a log and had a smoke.
Should have just dumped him in the river. Why hadn't I just dumped him in the river?
I knew the answer.
I get these ideas in my head, and I can't get rid of them. They won't go away. They never go away until I see them through. Doesn't matter what they are. It can be as simple as something telling me to go touch a particular railing. Or brush my teeth. Wash my hands.
When I got in that mode, I had to do it. No questions.
Just do it.
That's how it was with the cemetery. Bury Jordan in a cemetery. Seemed like a good idea. But the fucking ground. And the fucking shovel. It was dull. Like trying to dig with a board.
I took a couple more quick puffs, dropped the filter-less cigarette, and ground it out with the toe of my boot. Even though the place was littered with butts, I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket.
Leave no clues. No solid ones, anyway.
Back to work.
I dragged the body into the shallow trench. I tossed dirt until the entire thing was covered with at least a good six inches. Then, with my gloved hands, I raked leaves over that.
I carried the crappy shovel back to the boat, then pulled out a backpack. At the burial site, I removed some items and arranged them nicely on the grave.
A silver dollar. A bottle of whiskey. Things a dead guy would need. Then I pulled a small flannel bag from my pocket, opened the drawstring, and reached inside.
Chapter 7
'Watch the road,' Eric Kaufman warned.
Amy jerked her mom's van off the shoulder and back between the white lines. The windshield wipers were going full blast, but they couldn't keep up with the condensation. 'It's so foggy.' She put the headlights on high and they both recoiled from the glare. She switched back to low beam.
'There,' Eric said, pointing.
Amy exited the two-lane to a gravel road with dense vegetation on both sides. Five minutes later they arrived at their spot-an old plantation cemetery on the edge of Savannah, overgrown and forgotten.
Eric dug into a paper bag and pulled out two beers. He popped one open and handed it to Amy before opening another for himself.
He took a long swallow, then contemplated a tombstone that was barely distinguishable in the yellow glow of the van's parking lights. 'Do you ever think about what it's like to be dead?'
'Don't say that!'
'Everybody dies,' he told her.
Eric knew it was mean, but he couldn't help himself. He liked to tease. 'It could be a car wreck. Or a virus. Cancer. Maybe a hockey puck to the chest. I knew a kid that happened to. Hit in the chest with a puck doing over ninety miles an hour. Killed him. Stopped his heart.' He snapped his fingers.
'Quit!'
She sounded like his little sister.
'People are walking cartoons, ignoring the iron beam when they bend to tie a shoe,' Eric said. 'Sometimes I feel like I should hook a loudspeaker to my car and drive down the street shouting warnings. 'Watch out, little kid. Don't ride that bike in the street. Watch out, old lady with the big purse. You may as well be wearing a sign that says beat me up and rob me.' '
Eric didn't know what was wrong with him. He had been in a weird mood all day. A weird mood ever since high school graduation. He didn't want to grow up. He didn't want to have to make big decisions. He didn't want to have to go to college, get a job, wear a suit.
'When I was in Girl Scouts, we had part of the highway we kept clean,' Amy announced as she finished off her beer and stuck the empty in the sack. 'You shoulda seen the stuff people threw out. I hated them for being such pigs. You wouldn't believe all the rubbers we found.'
'You picked up rubbers?' Eric asked, horrified. The image of Girl Scouts in their little green hats, sashes, and uniforms picking up rubbers-even if they wore gloves or used a stick-was disturbing.
There were a lot of things in the world innocent kids shouldn't have to see. 'That's disgusting!'
'Some were pretty fresh.'
'Stop it. Now you're scaring me. I've heard enough, so just stop it, okay?'
'Oh, it's fine for you to talk about dying and I can't talk about filthy rubbers?'
'I just hope to hell you wore gloves.' He finished off his beer. 'I don't want to talk anymore.' Maybe rolling around naked with Amy would make him feel better.
While a CD played, they climbed in back and began making out. Eric was surprised at how fast he forgot about
