They work together like a well-oiled machine. Dirt flies in all directions. All parts of this team are laser-focused. Leroux steals a glance at the timer, and the tip of the spade hits something solid. He slams it down again to make sure. Metal on wood. He glances again at the time. Four minutes left.
“We hit something!” he yells, moving a bit to the side to clear more dirt away from the wooden casket slowly becoming unearthed in the soil.
Wren scrapes her shovel head across the top of the casket to clear the dirt away, and others gather to scoop the bulk away from the end. The grave was loosely dug. He wanted them to find and open it, but he also wanted them to struggle a little first. Anticipation permeates the air as a handle on the end of the coffin is exposed.
“Let’s try to pull it from one end,” Will suggests, gesturing toward the exposed handle. “We can try to tip it to get the lid off without dumping more dirt inside.”
Wren nods. “You three pull up, and we will guide you from this end. When I say stop, stop. I don’t want you to tip it too vertical.”
They nod and grab the handle tight. They place their free hands on the sides of the casket to steady themselves. The officers pull forcefully while Wren and the paramedics push from the other end. With a great creaking sound, the casket frees itself from the surrounding earth.
“Stop!” Wren yells and puts her hand up.
They pause and gingerly release their grip on the end, leaving it propped up on the heap of displaced dirt beside it. Wren starts prying the lid and Leroux rushes to help. It comes free after a quick jerk from both of them, and they raise the lid to the waiting hands above.
Time stands still. The slow tick of the timer is the only thing that cuts through the silence.
“Oh god!” a paramedic exclaims, clapping his hand over his mouth in horror.
The woman inside the coffin looks to be in her late twenties. She has auburn hair, matted with mud, fanned out around her head. Her eyes are closed. Her face is peaceful though coated in grime. Dried vomit clings to her cheek and the lining of the coffin. Her feet are bare. They are scraped raw and crusted with dried blood and soil. Her white T-shirt shows ample signs of wear. A deeply set stain creeps down her left side and around her back. The officers know without Wren’s help that it’s blood. A lot of blood. The woman in the coffin is still, and she’s silent.
The timer goes off.
CHAPTER 21
JEREMY OPENS HIS EYES, FEELING rested even though he’s only had two hours of sleep. He sits up in bed, peeking behind the shades in his room, letting the warm light dribble in to greet him. His eyes sweep over the wide expanse of trees and green that stretch out in front of him like an ocean. It’s his own version of Aokigahara, the so-called Suicide Forest, in Japan, where lost souls go to die.
He left Emily in that forest last night, paralyzed from the waist down with nowhere to go. After he pulled the knife from her back, her eyes went wild. They bored into his own and almost pulsated with shock. He crouched there for a moment next to her, just watching as she gasped in pain. In her delirium, she even grasped for him like a lifeline.
When he at last left her in the cold blanket of darkness, she had called out to him. She had called for “Cal” to come back. She had begged him not to leave her there alone. Her wails had been his lullaby for a deep, if brief, sleep.
Now, he pulls on a clean shirt. It’s white and crisp. He stops to brush his teeth and carefully coifs his blond hair into place. As he makes his way out back, he listens to the sound the wooden planks make beneath his feet. His black boots pound heavily against them. He wonders then if she can hear him approaching. Did sleep find her exhausted, terrorized body at all?
“Emily!” he calls out into the distance.
He waits for a sound. Nothing but cicadas and birds answer him.
“You’re not dead, are you?” he yells again, only half joking. The only thing to answer him is his beloved bayou.