Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Fuck, those were fingers.
“Yeah,” he managed. “I think so.”
“Fuck,” Boris said. The beam of the flashlight shook. “Fuck, there really is somebody buried here.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, staring hopelessly. “Do you think—should we look at the face?”
“No way,” said Boris, wide-eyed and horrified. “Why the fuck would we do that?”
“So we can find out who it is!”
“I dunno, man. If they’ve been dead a few days, they probably aren’t looking their best. Or smelling it.”
That was a good point. Jack knew next to nothing about the decomposition process. What if the eyes were already crawling with maggots?
But if he was going to end the time loop, then he needed to know who to help. “I think we should.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I have to know,” said Jack. “You can just… look away, or something.”
“You think I’m a coward?” said Boris, voice shaking like the beam of the flashlight.
“No. I think you’re a person with legitimate feelings, and that you shouldn’t have to look if you don’t want to.
I’m not going to hold it against you,” said Jack.
It was exactly the sort of thing he would’ve told his younger brother.
That regardless of whatever Dad said, it wasn’t weak to close your eyes during a scary movie, or to skip visiting the casket at a funeral.
Jack was definitely going to cry tonight. Already, tears of terror and remorse prickled at the corners of his eyes as he stared down into the grave. What happened to this person? Why were they out here? Who the fuck put them out here?
Every time he slammed the shovel into the ground, he fought the urge to vomit. Standing off to the side, Boris chewed his lip, eyes shining, gaze downcast.
Whoever was down there had suffered enough. Jack shouldn’t desecrate the grave further.
But he had to know who it was. Had to identify any features that he possibly could.
When he’d uncovered enough, Jack dropped to his hands and knees.
Boris made a strange little moaning noise and looked away.
Jack pawed at the dirt, scooped it with his hands, wished desperately that he’d thought to wear gloves. A terrible smell seeped from the earth.
A loud retch. A splashing sound. “Fuck,” Boris groaned.
“Alright?” Jack called, desperate to think of anything other than the earth beneath his hands, crusting under his nails. He’d carry it back to the hotel with him, this dirt that coated a corpse. A corpse he’d dug up with his bare hands.
Even when he’d washed the evidence away, would it truly leave him?
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Boris moaned.
“I’m almost done,” said Jack, even though he had no idea what he was doing or how long it would take. “Here, I’m gonna borrow the flashlight, OK?”
“Yeah,” said Boris, wiping his eyes and wincing as Jack approached him. “Yeah, OK.”
“It’s gonna be OK,” Jack told him, because he didn’t know what else to say. Boris’s eyes were wet. He stank of vomit.
“I don’t think so,” said Boris, shaking his head. “I—this is really, really bad.”
“I’ll stop,” said Jack. There was no need to put Boris through this. He could come back tomorrow, in the light of day, and use his hands. It would be miserable, but better than forcing Boris to endure anymore. “It’s OK. Let’s just go back.”
Boris shook his head. “Do what you gotta do. Don’t worry about me. I’m just—” He bent in half and clutched his stomach, retching again.
“Shit,” said Jack, feeling like a proper asshole now. He went to pat Boris on the shoulder and thought better of it. “Look, I don’t—”
“Fucking look at his face, asswipe!” Boris growled, rubbing his sleeve over his mouth. “I don’t throw up for nothing. Do it!”
Shame oozing from every inch of him, Jack returned to the grave.
An awful stench met him there, burned his eyes, made his nose run. It was unlike anything he’d ever encountered, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit right onto the body. Then the nausea passed, and he forced himself onto his hands and knees, fighting the urge to gag.
He had to see. Boris wanted him to see. Boris wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. It would be OK.
It would be OK.
His hands quivered treacherously as he scraped at the dirt. Something solid brushed against his palm. Jack startled, yelped.
“Find it?” Boris called. His voice was small, far away. But when Jack looked up, he was exactly where he’d left him, only a few feet back.
“I think so,” Jack croaked. Using his forearm and sleeve, he pushed away the earth, unveiling a pointed chin and lips tinged an unnatural grey. Again, he rallied against bile. It would be disrespectful to vomit on a corpse, he reminded himself sternly. He couldn’t, wouldn’t.
He swiped with his sleeve, revealing the tip of a pointed nose and nostrils stuffed full of dirt.
Fucking hell. They hadn’t even bothered to roll the corpse into a carpet. Just stuck it out here in the woods. Was this the mark of an amateur? Did the killer simply not care? What the fuck had happened here?
Holding his breath, heart pounding in his chest, Jack brushed away the last of the soil.
A woman’s face. Mascara clung to her eyelashes. Earth crusted in her dark hair and the tiny, gold hoops that pierced her ears.
On her right temple was a hole smaller than the tip of Jack’s finger. Something dark scuttled from it.
He yelped, jumped to his feet, and shot over to Boris before he even quite realized what had happened.
“What? What?” Boris demanded, snatching the flashlight from Jack. He shined it through the trees like he expected something huge and monstrous to come thundering through.
“Bugs. There were bugs,” Jack gasped.
“Bugs,” Boris repeated, deadpan. “Yeah, of course there were bugs. He’s in the damn dirt. Where the bugs live.”
“I—She got shot, I think,” Jack explained, pointing at his temple. “Right here.”
Boris winced. “Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, alright. You got everything you need?”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Just… Let me cover her face, alright?”
Maybe he should dig further. Maybe there was a buried wallet, or some other form of identification. But when he reached the grave, his hands trembled so badly that the flashlight threatened to rattle free from his grip, and he knew he couldn’t do it. Didn’t have the stamina.
So, he grasped the shovel instead and began piling the earth over the corpse’s face.
When the mound was restored, he turned to find Boris standing behind him, gaze haunted.
“Should we say something? Before we leave?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack miserably. Was it only yesterday that he sat beside the grave and talked to it? It could’ve been seconds, centuries, anything in between.
But it was only yesterday.
“Sorry,” said Boris, looking at the mound. “I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll do what I can to help.” He sighed. “It was the mob, huh?”
“Sorry,” said Jack to the mound. “I won’t dig you up again.” He probably should say more, but he couldn’t find the words. Felt as if that part of his brain had been blocked off. Instead, he stared at the grave, a bubble of regret building in his throat.
“Rest easy,” said Boris with one final glance, and Jack teared up.
They returned to the car. A light drizzle had started at some point, and Jack hadn’t even noticed. Though the night was warm, he was already shaking, and the rain only made things worse.
The smell of vomit accompanied them. Boris must’ve gotten some on his clothes.
The bubble in Jack’s throat became one of regret and guilt.
Boris tossed the shovel into the trunk with a thud, slammed the lid, and leaned against the car. “We just exhumed a fucking corpse.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, voice thick.
“That was a fucking mafia hit.”
“How do you know? Wouldn’t they throw the body in the ocean?”
“This place has a mob problem,” said Boris.
“Look, my dad lived here most of his life, except for when I was really little. I know all about it. Nobody talks about it, but this shit happens all the time. Not everyone gets thrown in the ocean. She’s probably from the city.
Somebody who saw something she shouldn’t have, or something. I dunno. Maybe she owed them money.”
“She was wearing mascara,” said Jack. Numbness settled over him. The fog from the road must have invaded his brain, because he couldn’t think.
“That’s so fucking sad,” said Boris, staring out into the trees. “Fuck. I-I shouldn’t have done this.”
“It’s my fault,” said Jack. “Don’t blame yourself—”
But Boris shook his head. “It was my idea. I wanted to know what you were banging on about. I should’ve known better.”
“It sounds pretty ridiculous,” Jack admitted.
The dead woman’s face floated before him every time he so much as blinked.
He saw her in the silver moon, in the puddles on the road, in the bright lights of the streetlamps.
The hole in her head taunted him, kept expanding until there was nothing but a massive cavern that engulfed her forehead, exposing brain and bone.
But the mascara clinging to her eyelashes…
That was the worst detail. Worse than the tiny mole by her right nostril, the creases in her lips, the dirt in her hair. She’d gotten up and put on mascara like it was just another day, and then she’d fucking died.
And someone stuffed her in the ground without so much as a burlap sack. Somewhere police, her family, her friends would never find her.
Then Jack came along and desecrated her grave.
What did he learn from this? That someone shot a woman, buried her like literal shit on a hiking trail?
But now he knew there was someone there. Knew where to start, at least, in trying to identify her.
His guilt intensified. What if he couldn’t help? What if he’d dug her up for nothing? It didn’t matter if things would reset tomorrow, that her grave would be undisturbed once more. It had still happened, and it was wrong.
Silence permeated the car like a stench. Boris turned on the radio again. Accompanied by intermittent static, they wound down the misty road. Trees twisted in the wind, branches reaching out like desperate, grasping arms.