"Fine.I'll search the body. You keep an eye out for anybody who might be coming to investigate."
I took another deep breath,then jumped down into the foot of the coffin. I tried to avoid looking at Michael's ruined face, but I didn't have anything to cover it with except dirt, and throwing dirt on the poor guy's face just seemed wrong.
The first thing I did waspick up the revolver and set it outside of the grave. What possible reason could he have for holding a gun? I tried to envision a scenario in which he'd been trying to kill somebody, who'd buried him alive in self-defense, but couldn't.
Okay, that wasn't important now. I needed to find that key, if it existed. I knelt down, knees wobbling a bit, and began to pat Michael's jeans pockets. The left pocket felt empty. The right pocket had something in it. It didn't feel like a key, but it could be a clue.
I slipped my fingers inside the pocket, still unable to shake the eerie feeling that Michael could lurch at me at any moment. With my other hand I checked his pulse again to be sure.Still dead.
I got a hold of what was inside his pocket.A piece of paper. I pulled it out and saw that it was the best kind of paper: Cash.A twenty dollar bill.A perfectly normal thing to have in his pocket. I shoved it back inside, not wanting to steal anything from the dead that wasn't absolutely necessary. Yeah, yeah, I know that defiling a grave is much worse for theol ' karma than stealing twenty bucks, but I didn't want to push it.
Slowly, I unzipped his jacket, thankful that no blood had spilled anywhere I needed to touch. I opened it and checked each of the inside pockets, finding a stack of about ten business cards held together with a brass clip. In oozing red letters were the words "Ghoulish Delights.Michael Ashcraft, director," along with an address and phone number. I pocketed the cards, and then closed his jacket.
I grabbed hold of Michael by the waist and rolled him over. His neck made a sickening sort of cracking sound as something twisted that shouldn't have.
Once Michael was on his stomach, I patted his back pockets and found nothing, not even a wallet. Damn. With all the pockets searched, I was going to have to move on to less appealing possibilities.
But not his mouth yet.
I stood up. "I need your help," I told Roger. "I'm going to lift him up, and you look to see if the key is lying underneath him."
Roger walked over and crouched down next to the edge of the grave. I grabbed the top of Michael's jeans and grunted as I lifted him up, his body doubling over at the waist.
"Nothing there," said Roger.
I gently lowered Michael, and then sighed. "I don't know what to do. I'm not going to strip the guy naked to find this stupid key."
"Good. Let's get out of here," Roger suggested.
"Not quite yet." I bent down again and pulled up the left leg of Michael's jeans, exposing his white tube sock.Nothing hidden there. I untied his tennis shoe, set it aside, and removed his sock.Still nothing except for some blatant evidence that toenail hygiene had not been a major part of Michael's life.
I removed his other shoe, and something dropped out.
A tiny silver key.
"All right!"I said, picking it up. "Now let's rebury him and get out of here."
I shoved the key into my pocket and climbed out of the grave. With my foot I shut the lid of the coffin. It didn't close all the way, but Michael was just going to have to deal with it. Silently, Roger and I began to shovel the dirt back into the grave.
JENNIFER'S CAR was waiting at the gate, and she hurriedly got out as we approached. "Did you get it?" she called out.
"We'll tell you all about it after we put this stuff back in your trunk," I said.
"Yes or no, did you get it?"
"Hey, we're just a pair ofgraverobbers trying to relax after a hard night at the office, give us a break. Do you have the money?"
"Of course.Do you have the key?"
"By `the key,' you would be referring to a small silver object, maybe an inch and a half long, three triangular serrations on the end, smells heavily of foot odor, right?"
"That's the one," said Jennifer, obviously starting to lose her patience.
"I've got it, but I want some answers first," I told her. "How did your husband die?"
"I told you.Suicide. He blew his brains out, or did you not notice?"
"Is that so? Then why was his head lacking a bullet hole for the aforementioned brains to exit from?"
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying that he wasn't shot."
"That's ridiculous. Of course he was!"
"Jennifer, sweetie, we just dug up his coffin. I saw his body. His head was intact. He didn't shoot himself. Now why don't you explain to me what really happened, and I'll decide if you deserve the key."
Jennifer chuckled without humor. "I have to say, you're a much better human being than I expected. I did plenty of research, and the impression I got was that you'd do anything for money except get a real job."
"What? Who told you that?"
"None of your business."
"Well, that's wrong," I insisted. "I didn't dig up your husband because I'm some money-grubbing jerk! I did it to keep my wife from finding out that I had to pay off the guy I hit without insurance! That's not greed, that's an honorable motive!"
"What did they say about me?" asked Roger.
"Quiet, both of you," said Jennifer. "Now what do you mean, there was no bullet hole? Then how did he die?"
I folded my arms in front of my chest and spoke slowly, milking every bit of dramatic impact I could. "Until shortly after midnight, he wasn't dead. Your husband was buried alive."
Jennifer's expression of shock certainly looked genuine. "Hewhat? "
"He was alive, he'd gone completely insane, and he had a gun. He didn't kill himself with a bullet to the head; he ripped his eyes out and probably had a heart attack. So I'd like a teeny, tiny, little bit of explanation."
Jennifer looked as if she were going to be sick. "Oh, God...I need my inhaler." She opened her purse and fished around inside it for a moment.
But she didn't take out an inhaler. She took out a pistol.
"I don't have time for this," she said. "Give me the key so I can give you your money!"
It was the first time I'd ever had a gun pointed at me, if you don't count Michael firing through the coffin lid, and I'm pleased to report that I handled myself very bravely, in that I didn't wet or soil myself. But the feeling rushed out of my legs and for a second I thought I was going to keel over.
"Drop it!" shouted Roger, taking out Michael's revolver and aiming it at Jennifer. Her eyes darted toward him, but she kept her own gun pointed at me.
"Oh, give it up," said Jennifer. "I don't believe for a second that you'll kill me."
Roger shrugged."Probably not. But I might try and shoot the gun out of your hand, and my aim sucks."
"He's not kidding," I said. Actually, Michael had used up the last of the bullets during his little shooting spree, but I certainly wasn't going to tell that to Jennifer.
Suddenly Jennifer gasped as a bit of blood spattered onto her face. An arrow protruded from her left shoulder. She let her purse fall to the ground and stumbled forward a couple of steps as Roger and I spun around to see where the arrow had come from. Whoever had fired it was hiding amid some trees near the gate.
Another arrow shot out of the darkness, striking Roger in the upper thigh and plunging deep. He let out a cry of pain and tried to make it to the sedan, but within a few seconds another arrow got him in the back. He went down.