Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

raised his mug in a pseudo toast. “Ingratitude is an ugly thing. I simply meant that his mother and father aren’t the mythical war heroes he wishes.”

“Well I didn’t do so bad, did I, Judge.”

“Perhaps we should turn our attention to safer topics.” Francis picked up his fork.

They ate in silence a moment, absorbed in memories of a two-bedroom cabin and the surrounding trees which rang with laughter and screams. Of the stream they fished and the animals they caught.

Gibbs slurped his coffee and set the mug down too hard. “My grandson is nearly grown and I have little to do with his life.”

“When Ethan was six, you suggested I beat him with a phonebook,” said Francis. “You offered to show me how.”

“He broke a window.”

“He raked leaves as recompense. That was one of your methods that I find constructive.”

Gibbs snorted some air from his nose. “The phonebook worked on you, didn’t it.”

“We were beaten senseless.”

“It helped you.”

“You taught us to hit when we’re mad. If Peter hadn’t learned that, perhaps he wouldn’t have beaten me with a pipe.”

“My boys. I got one son bleeding from the mouth and the other drools, both in their forties. Me, the proud papa.” A loud sip of coffee. “The phone book helped you. Not so sure about Peter.”

“I won’t aid him anymore, Chief.”

“Told you, he’s got a new girl. Prettiest one yet.”

“I won’t even attend the wedding, though we both know she won’t survive that long.”

Gibbs leaned back. Pressed one hand to his hip, the other across the top of the booth. “It gets worse. The girl Daisy, she’s sweet on Jennings.”

“Oh my.”

“Why’re you smiling? It’s not funny.”

“Everyone enjoys a love triangle, Chief.”

“Grow up.”

“It’s true. Someone’s bound to be left out. You’re sure, about Daisy?”

“She didn’t say it, but I could see it. It’s a triangle your brother isn’t welcome in.”

“He rarely is,” said Francis.

“He’ll kill her if he finds out.”

“I agree. But, as I said, I won’t help him.”

A statement heavy with memory. Francis and Gibbs had been helping Peter since middle school. Intervening with angry teachers had been simple enough, but as Peter’s sins grew, so did the required coverup. Ten years ago, Gibbs had flown to California without a suitcase and returned the next day—on the return flight, he’d noticed blood in the links of his watchband and tossed the thing into the lavatory trashcan. A recent summer, Francis had purchased a shovel and gloves and spent a sweltering night digging alongside his brother. Francis fretted his DNA was at the bottom, because he’d vomited into the pit as they tossed in reeking bags.

Gibbs said, “If we don’t, he’ll get caught.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Francis sipped his coffee without sound. “Maybe he’ll get killed.”

26

Valley Academy met Fishburne Military that night in Lynchburg, a neutral field. The Academy dressed twenty-two; they’d lost four players to injury last week. Fishburne dressed forty-one, many bound for college, including two blue chips.

All of Coach Murray’s ingenuity and crafty plays were buried in the mud by pumping knees and churning cleats. The Crusaders were trampled and demoralized by halftime and there was no relief in the third and fourth quarter. Benji played poorly.

Final score, 51-17. Fishburne fans rampaged onto the field to celebrate their state championship.

Craig Lewis joined Jennings at the cold rail as the Academy Crusaders filed for the locker room. They both had eyes only for Coach Murray. His team had surpassed all reasonable goals. His head should be held high.

And it was. But not in triumph. Murray looked like a man marching defiantly for the headsman’s ax.

Lewis and Jennings were two of the last to leave the stadium. Neither spoke but their despair and anger was communicated. Murray’s feud with Benji’s father was not a secret and the faculty knew Lynch wanted him gone. Lewis and Jennings felt Murray’s plight more acutely than most.

Lewis’ words crackled in the air from their last meeting.

I wish someone would kill Peter Lynch.

27

Chief of Police Buck Gibbs parked his cruiser at the general practitioner’s office on Peters Creek Road. He suffered a checkup once every five years; he saw no point in greater frequency. Unless something fell off, he didn’t need a doctor.

Gibbs had lied to his son, when he said he’d never allow Dr. Warner to perform a prostate exam. He’d been pissing blood since the summer and his bones ached enough to keep him awake at night, and that’s why he’d made the urgent appointment on a Saturday. Inside the office, he assumed the position, and afterward Dr. Warner immediately ushered him to the lab for blood work.

Ninety minutes later he emerged from the office. He’d walked in for a checkup but teetered out with a death sentence.

Dr. Warner said there was hope but Gibbs saw it in the man’s face—treatment should’ve started years ago. This late in the game, the cancer had metastasized to the lymph nodes and bones. He needed to undergo imaging, biopsies, hormone therapy, radiation, pain medication…the bastard even mentioned a support group at First Baptist Church. Like hell would he go to a support group.

Gibbs sat in his cruiser and let his own mortality crash through. He couldn’t catch his breath, eternity sitting on his chest. As all the years he thought he’d have were slipping through his quivering fingers.

$86,500. Gibbs had looked it up recently. It was time for him to retire and he would be collecting $86,500 every year until he died. He had assumed he had at least twenty good ones left. And now.

And now.

Looking back on it days later, he found that moment of grief and shock in the driver’s seat telling. His mind didn’t dwell on Ann or Junior or Benjamin or Ethan, his grandchildren. Nor on missing important events in the coming years.

Instead he settled on Francis’ face as they talked over Peter and his ability to break things. Francis had a life, a career, a family, and he had some control over it. He looked happy and content, except when