Peter reached inside the trunk and hauled out polyethylene waterproof sheeting, rolls of duct tape, a five-gallon bucket, two large bottles of water, and a large bag of quick-drying cement.
Jack McNeal retched.
“You know what I’m saying?”
McNeal had worked a case a few years back when a gang member had washed up several years after being killed in New York. The cement shoes method of body disposal. “We’re really doing this?”
“Yes or no, are you in?” Peter said.
McNeal shook his head at his pig-headed, stubborn, and fiercely loyal younger brother. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
Peter stared down at the body. “Grab the feet.”
McNeal taped up the body and tied Graff’s hands behind his back as Peter tied the feet together. Peter poured the cement into the bucket, then the water.
Peter stirred the contents of the bucket with a stick as it thickened. “We need to do this right. Slowly.”
McNeal reached under Graff’s arms as his brother took the feet. He held the dead body upright as his brother carefully placed the feet into the bucket. “Nice and easy. It needs time to set.”
The sound of their breathing and the smell of gun smoke lingered in the dank air. Forty-five long minutes later, they stood in the middle of a soy field as the cement had solidly encased Graff’s feet and shoes.
The brothers wrapped more sheeting around Graff’s upright body, like he was a mummy. Then they duct taped it all up.
Jack was breathing hard. “You okay?” Peter asked.
“I’m fine.”
The brothers lifted the weighty Graff and the extra cement into the trunk carefully.
Jack slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s move.”
They both checked over the road again, the flashlight showing what looked like a pile of dirt and salt. It would be dry in a few hours. The wind would blow it all out of sight.
“Did you get Graff’s car out of the way?”
“Like you asked, I put it behind the gas station. I found an old tarp and covered it up.”
“It will be discovered eventually.”
“Not for weeks, months . . . who knows.”
“Which should hopefully have degraded any fingerprints or DNA trace.”
“We’ve got to take the chance.”
“Agreed.” Jack decided: “We need to get this fucking shitshow on the road.” Jack hugged his brother. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Shit happens. We’ll deal with it.”
Jack got into his car, the body wrapped up in the trunk. He took out his cell phone and checked for any major lakes nearby. He saw there was a major reservoir about forty-five minutes away, Liberty Reservoir. The average depth was fifty-nine feet. He checked Google Maps. He put down his window and Peter did the same. “We head back east and then head up to Liberty Reservoir.”
“There?”
“You got any better suggestions?”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but we need to act. Let’s head there. There’s a bridge over the reservoir, according to the map. And there’s a road that crosses it. We stop, as if we’ve broken down, and dump the body.”
Peter reached out his window and handed him what looked like a fob. “Remove the cigarette lighter in the car and plug this GPS blocker into the power socket.”
“You’re crazier than I thought.”
Forty-Eight
The red taillights of Peter’s car pierced the darkness on the road up ahead.
Jack stared at the lights as his dark thoughts and fears ricocheted around his head. They could be stopped at any moment, and the body in his trunk would be found.
He wondered if it could all have been different. Maybe he should have engaged the services of an attorney to investigate his wife’s death. Instead, he had plunged into the depths of depravity. He had succumbed.
He tried to rationalize his actions. Graff had engaged him in a fight to the death. He needed to kill or be killed. To bring him to that point, the bastards had been toying with him. Lights on and off. The dead dog. The blowback for reaching out to Bone at the FBI.
The more he thought about it, the more amazed he was at the lengths Graff and his people were prepared to go. He thought it telling that an FBI agent had gotten transferred back to the Hoover Building after he handed over damning documents. And then, when McNeal reached out again to Bone, he had been met by a wall of silence. Maybe Graff knew the documents would never see the light of day. Maybe his reach extended to the upper echelons of the FBI.