So they waited. It was cool and damp standing in the grave. Surprisingly, it wasn’t unpleasant. A bit of light filtered in through the tarp, the fabric tinting it a lush shade of green. Being off the horse gave Tricia the opportunity to flex her legs, strained from straddling the animal’s shoulders. She hadn’t ridden like that in years and her thighs had taken a pounding. She saw Erin doing the same, bending her knees in the limited space the grave afforded and massaging her lower back with one hand.
When a few minutes had passed without any further voices or tumult overhead (it felt like more than a few minutes, but Tricia figured everything felt longer when you were standing in a grave), Erin knelt and put her hands out in a cupped position. Tricia set one foot into them and Erin hefted her toward the tarp.
Tricia yanked the fabric to one side and popped her head out of the grave. Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath.
She pulled herself out of the hole and scrambled to her feet. A small man in a surplice stood at graveside, a prayer book open in his hands; beside him, an old woman in black, a veil lowered over her face, dipped a gloved hand below the veil to bring a handkerchief to her eyes. Beside her was a slightly younger woman. Her eyes, prominent to begin with, looked positively ready to leave their sockets.
Tricia bent down, extended an arm, and helped Erin out of the hole.
“Inspection,” Tricia said, by way of explanation, and Erin nodded. They both wiped their palms off on their sides.
“Everything’s in order,” Erin said.
“Good drainage,” Tricia said.
“Solid foundation,” Erin said.
“Up to code,” Tricia said.
“Carry on,” Erin said, nodding to the priest.
“Thank you so much,” the old woman said, “for taking the trouble. Calvin would be so grateful.”
Feeling like a heel, Tricia led the way past a wheeled gurney holding a coffin and off into the graveyard’s crowded interior.
37.
Dead Street
As soon as they were out of sight of the hilltop, Tricia said, “We have to go back.”
“Back? What are you talking about? Back where?”
“Wherever they were holding you,” Tricia said. “And Coral. Colleen. My sister—the fighter?” Erin’s face showed no sign of recognition. “The Colorado Kid, remember?”
“That’s your sister?”
“It’s a long story,” Tricia said. “But yes, she’s my sister. And we’ve got to—”
“All we’ve got to do is get out of here. There’s no point in going back. I’m sure they’re not there anymore. They hustled us out of the other place as soon as Charley got out—now that I’ve escaped, you can bet they’re gone from this one.”
She was right, of course. But Tricia’s heart fell at the prospect of having to figure out where Nicolazzo might hole up next. Would Coral have been able to leave her another message, scratched on another wall in another basement cell? It was too much to hope for.
“How did you escape?” Tricia asked.
“That’s kind of a long story, too,” Erin said. She kept walking swiftly, picking a path between gravestones and along the edges of the tree-lined lawns.
“You got a gun somehow,” Tricia said.
“That’s right. I got a gun somehow.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No,” Erin said, “and you don’t want to hear about it. It’d turn your hair white, Wyoming. Better than that bleach we used.”
“That bad?”
Erin nodded. Looking her over, Tricia couldn’t see any particular signs—no marks on her face, for instance. But what did that mean? Tricia let the subject drop, tried not to think about what Nicolazzo’s men might be doing to Coral right now. At least there were two fewer of them now. That was something.
“Is Charley okay?” Erin asked.
“So-so,” Tricia said. And when Erin looked alarmed, “Oh, he’s safe. He just had a...run-in, with someone who works for this mobster we met.”
“For Nicolazzo?”
“No, Barrone.”
“Barrone?”
“Long story.”
They were making their way now through a rough, untamed bit of wilderness, the border between two abutting cemeteries. It felt a little like one of those black-and-white spy movies, crossing from Hungary into Austria under cover of darkness, only without the darkness, and without the zither music.
“Where are we going?” Tricia said.
“Best chance of catching a ride around here’s on Dead Street,” Erin said, and Tricia gave her a blank look. “Never heard it called that?” Tricia shook her head. “The Inter-borough Parkway—between Cypress and Forest Parkway it runs right through the cemetery. Blame Robert Moses. Twenty-some years ago he came along and said, ‘What we need here’s a highway, a nice four-lane highway.’ ”
“In the middle of a cemetery?”
“This is Robert Moses we’re talking about. Where he wants a highway, he gets a highway,” Erin said. “They had to dig up hundreds of graves, move the bodies...you really never heard about this? What do they teach you in Wyoming, anyway?”
“South Dakota.”
“South Dakota,” Erin conceded. She looked around. “Not too much farther.”
“Good,” Tricia said.
“When we were kids,” Erin said, “the story was they didn’t move all the bodies, just paved over some of them. If your parents drove along Dead Street, you wouldn’t roll down your window. You ever walked it or rode a bike, you held your breath.”
“You grew up in this area?”
“Oh, yeah,” Erin said. “Woodhaven born and bred. Me and George Gershwin.”
“Is he buried here?”
Erin sneered. “This place is for the working classes, honey. I’m sure he’s got a fine plot upstate somewhere, or maybe in Hollywood, with a lovely view, and not of a highway, either.”
Up ahead, a steep embankment led to a low concrete wall. The sound of cars rushing by came through from the other side.
“What if the cops are waiting for us?” Tricia asked in a low voice.
“Then we find another grave to go stand in till they go away.”
They crept up to the wall, keeping their heads down as they went. Erin peeked over the top and Tricia felt a sudden wave of anxiety. She reached toward her pocket, where the gun lay. But before she could get to it, Erin stood, waved Tricia up. “We’re alone.”
Tricia let her hand drop. Her fingers, she noticed, were trembling.
They made their way onto the shoulder of the highway. Traffic was light, just a car every thirty seconds or so, drivers zooming from west to east at top speed. Maybe trying to cover the length of Dead Street without taking a breath.
In one of the lulls, they crossed to the other side.
“Now what?” Tricia said.
“You never hitchhiked, Trixie? Back in that small town of yours?”
“Sure, but it’s different in a small town—”
“It’s no different,” Erin said. “Just show a little leg.” She gave Tricia a nudge toward the traffic. “You showed plenty when we were on that horse.”
Tricia felt foolish standing on the side of the road, one hip cocked, thumb extended in imitation of countless stranded movie heroines; but she did it. After the third car passed them by, Erin joined her, unbuttoning a few buttons on the front of her dress and throwing back her shoulders.
The next car that passed slowed down and tootled its horn as it went by, but it didn’t stop.
“Thanks a lot,” Erin shouted. She opened a few more buttons, bent forward so more of her bosom spilled out.