“Do we need to dig a hole?” Grayson asked. “Can’t we just dump him and get going?” He bit at his already bloody fingers.
“We don’t want anyone to find him.”
“Yeah, but if they did, they can’t link him to us. You did the thing with the phone and we cleaned up.”
“How do you explain a guy in the woods who drowned?”
Grayson’s anxiety turned angry. “Just come on, let’s get it done.”
They took turns digging. After twenty minutes and sore palms, they had the shallowest of shallow graves.
“That’s good enough,” Grayson said.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Randy, come on. I can’t do this anymore.”
Randall knew Grayson wanted to get home, get drunk, maybe high, and forget this ever happened. He wasn’t fool enough to think Grayson had fallen for the houseguest. Not in the two days he’d been there. It was sexual, and that’s all. Grayson was the hookup king of the desert. How the guy stayed disease-free was beyond him.
Randall dragged the body, still soggy and flexible to the point that it seemed like the bones had vanished, and rolled it into the hole. It would just be deep enough to cover him and probably leave a small mound. Good enough. Randall wanted this to be done too. He needed his own drink, or three.
He let Grayson weep quietly against the hood of the car while he covered the body in loose, sandy soil.
They drove down the mountain without speaking. Grayson broke the silence with a single sob that made Randall turn to him. Grayson’s head leaned against the cool glass of the window but his eyes were shut tight to the lights of Palm Springs at night as they returned to the neighborhood.
It was too late for Randall to drive back to LA, plus he was exhausted beyond anything he could remember. He and Grayson said good night, then retreated to their bedrooms. For Randall, sleep was as hard to hold onto as water from the pool.
Back in LA, a week of fitful sleep went by. Randall called Grayson to find out if anyone had been around asking about Mickey. Each time he called he could tell Grayson was drunk, or otherwise impaired. He felt a little jealous. He could have done with a week of being numb himself but work beckoned.
He went to the desert the following weekend. He and Grayson barely spoke. The pool house loomed in the backyard like a monument to their crime. Randall couldn’t look at the pool.
“Did the guy come and clean it?” he asked.
“Not until next week,” Grayson said. The smell of weed followed him around like a cologne.
“Call him. Have him come tomorrow or Monday.”
Randall saw the floating body whenever he glanced at the water. He understood how the myth of ghosts came to be. He couldn’t stop seeing the dead man whenever he closed his eyes and if that wasn’t a haunting, he didn’t know what was.
He retreated back to LA Monday morning and considered selling the Palm Springs house.
The cleaning crew had been out, and Randall gave them an extra hundred to do a deep clean. Randall contemplated draining the pool or restricting access, but he knew it was one of the house’s biggest selling points.
Another week went by and with each passing day Randall felt more confident that they’d gotten away with hiding Mickey’s death. He’d never escape his own conscience, but avoiding the police was a cold comfort at least.
The following weekend they had another guest in the pool house who arrived on Friday evening. Randall felt nervous to have anyone stay there, but life went on. For some.
The new guest was a man, arriving alone. Randall, over the phone, reminded Grayson to keep it in his pants.
“How could you even say that?” Grayson responded.
“I wish I didn’t have to.”
Randall arrived late Friday night and found Grayson and the new guest arguing in the doorway to the pool house. Grayson was obviously high.
“I just don’t know why it’s such a big deal?” the guest was saying.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Grayson whined, his voice loud and slurry.
Randall dropped his bag and edged around the pool toward the two men. Fear gripped his chest and he tried to remember the symptoms of a heart attack.
“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”
The guest turned to him. “Are you the owner?”
“Is there a problem with the room?”
“My name is Karl Donlevy and my son stayed here two weeks ago. No one has seen him since and I just want to find out what happened to my boy. This man isn’t answering any of my questions.”
Randall felt the blood rush from his head. His vision went dark at the edges, but he fought to keep it together.
“Your son?”
“My son, yes. Mickey.”
Randall did his best to compose himself, to seem natural when his guts were tangled in knots of fear. He reached for a lie, felt beads of sweat on his upper lip. He turned to Grayson. “Did a Mickey Donlevy stay here?”
Grayson began to weep. No help at all.
“Grayson, why don’t you go inside. I’ll help Mr. Donlevy.”
Karl stepped out of the doorway. “No, no, no. I want him to stay. I think he knows something.”
Grayson turned to Randall, tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“What do I say?”
Randall put a hand on his shoulder and showed all the terror on his face to Grayson to try to make him understand he needed to shut up. With a deep, composing breath he turned to Karl. “I’m so sorry. He drinks. Sometimes too much.” He’s going to fuck this up, Randall thought.
Karl drilled into Randall with eyes hard as stones. “My son was here. You were the last ones to see him. Tell me what happened. Where did he go? What did he say?”
“Look,” Randall said, then had to swallow before any more words would come out. A lie would never fit through the tight constriction of his throat. “He was here. I remember the reservation. Grayson said he stayed the two days and then left. I never even saw him. I don’t know where he went after here, or who he might have gone to see. All I know is he checked out, left us a good rating, and that was that.”
He gasped for breath as if he’d just swam ten laps in the pool. He tried for a casual smile as if this was all a misunderstanding. He studied Karl’s eyes to see if the lie had worked but he could read nothing.
The man turned away from Randall and back toward Grayson. He stepped forward and put a hand on Grayson’s arm and spun him. “You were with him. What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing!” Grayson said.
Randall tried to wedge himself between the new guest and Grayson. “Sir, please.”
Karl wouldn’t let go. “All I want is an answer.”
“I told you,” Randall said. “He drinks.”
“This isn’t just alcohol. He knows something.”
Grayson ripped his arm away. “Let me go.”
“You’ve got to tell me.”
“What do you want from me?”
Randall could see the situation getting out of control. He felt the same stomach-knotting sensation from two weeks before. He tried to move between the two men again, but Grayson was out of his mind and Karl was too consumed with grief and wanting answers.
“I want you to tell me the truth!” Karl screamed.
Grayson straightened and looked at Randall. “I have to tell him.”
A panicked No pushed against Randall’s lips, but he held it in. He pleaded with Grayson through his eyes.
“Tell me what?” Karl said.
Grayson’s bloodshot eyes turned away from Randall. He looked down, his head hanging into his chest.
“Your boy isn’t coming back.”