Neil stopped halfway between the gravesite and the car, hands on his knees, wheezing. His breath clouded the crisp night air. Gotta cut down on smoking, he thought. After a few seconds he straightened, and that’s when he saw it: a thin beam of light sweeping the cemetery. Flashlight. Night watchman. Shit. He gauged the distance of the watchman, trying to decide what to do with the body–leave it where it lay, or drag it with him. He knew that if he didn’t do this, he would soon be in a cold sweat, shaking, doubled over, puking. It had happened before. The flashlight was getting closer. Fuck it. He grabbed the cold ankles again, moving as fast as he could. It was like trying to run in waist-high water.
By the time he made it to the Suburban, his thighs were screaming. He opened the back door and heaved the lifeless body inside. He nudged the door with his hip until he heard it latch–snick–then ran around to the driver’s door. Hands slick with mud, he fumbled for his keys and jumped in. He found the keyhole easily in the dark–a practiced routine–and fired up the engine. There was no point in being quiet now. He punched the gas pedal and the tires chirped.
A few minutes later he was on the freeway. The adrenaline was still going, blood thundering in his ears. He forced himself to keep the vehicle under the speed limit, kept checking the rear-view mirror for flashing blue lights. Then he remembered the shovel. Fingerprints. Dammit! He pounded the steering wheel with his palm.
He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. The stench was awful. Even when there wasn’t a body in the back, the Suburban smelled of formaldehyde and rotting meat. He rubbed eucalyptus balm under his nose and lit a cigarette.
This wasn’t the life he’d imagined for himself. By now, he should be a doctor-in-residence with a fat paycheck and a posh downtown loft–but in his sophomore year he’d met the White Nurse, and fell hard. He dropped out of college, moved back in with his parents, got kicked out. Now he was just another junkie loser, twenty-seven years old, broke, trying to make a buck any way he could.
He took the James Street exit and found his way to the alley behind the shops. His nerves were a little less jangly now. He would score soon. It was three o’clock in the morning and everything was closed. This was a new customer and he’d never been there in the dark, so he cruised slowly through the alley, reading the signs on the metal doors. He found it, fifth door down: Living Ink Tattoo School.
- Copyright: © 2007 Jeff Alan