Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (life books to read txt) 📗

sleeping well, Mr. Gordon?”

“I am not.”

“Because you have a guess about what happened to Craig Lewis. And what happened to Daisy Hathaway and to Peter Lynch’s beard and what happened to me.”

“As I said, I’m… I gathered the information—”

“Gathering is the easy part."

"Do you have anything else to add that isn’t in the police report?” said Gordon.

“You have a big problem on your hands. It isn’t me. I’m just a guy easy to get rid of.”

“Be that as it may, I have a substitute teacher secured to teach your class today and tomorrow. Ms. Pierce will handle your after-school responsibilities. And we’ll talk soon about long-term plans. Do you understand?”

“I understand more than you wish I did, Gordon.”

Jennings hung up.

The SafeSide Tactical shooting range was monitored by security cameras Jennings wanted to avoid. Instead he browsed the internet and found Potts Slope Shooting Range in Craig County. The drive took him forty minutes and he found it vacant. Early December was a lull between hunting seasons.

He limped to the first bay with the shotgun bag, knee still sore. Unzipped the bag and took out the Browning, ridiculous in appearance now; even with the silencer it was shorter than before.

He chose a 00 buckshot shell. They were subsonic, a quieter load, purchased to reduce noise inside the confines of a firing range. Perfect for his purposes.

Jennings pressed the top lever to break open the action. Inserted a buckshot cartridge. Closed it, the lever snapping back into place. Raised the gun, pulled the recoil pad hard against his shoulder. Didn’t bother resting his face on the cheek piece to aim. Held his breath, the fog from his mouth vanishing upward. Squeezed the trigger.

A shotgun blast shatters the air and hurts your ears. The Browning, however, merely startled the range. Much of the pop was swallowed up in the suppressor baffles. It was loud but Jennings’ naked ears felt okay. The echoes came and went, came and went. Oddly he missed the heavy boom, a familiar childhood memory of the gun fired in sport. The new sound was foreign, sinister.

Jennings stood a long time, glaring down the range at piles of earthen backstops and lamella traps. He broke open the action and the shell ejected. Made a hollow thunk landing at his feet, hot, spent, empty. Ready for the garbage.

He didn’t fire another round. Didn’t need to.

50

That evening Jennings was sitting on his floor again. His prosthesis lay beside him so his throbbing leg could heal.

He’d cut the shotgun barrel again and still he thought it was too long. He’d already removed the takedown lever. If he cut anymore, the suppressor would be flush against the chamber and the shell exposed.

If he owned an unregistered pistol, that would’ve saved a lot of work. On the bright side, with a shotgun there was no chance of Lynch’s survival. The man was a bear and bears required stopping power.

What if he cut…

What if he cut off the stock?

Of course! Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He wouldn’t be holding the gun to his cheek.

The shotgun was short enough now that pinning it between the mattress and bedspring was awkward. He sat on top to provide stability and sawed downward with the hacksaw. The teeth were growing dull and his arm burned, the gunsmith surgery requiring fifteen minutes.

When he finished, the stubby gun lay on the carpet and looked obscene. Once beautiful, now deformed and stunted. He stood up, grabbed his crutches, and leaned on them. Looking straight down.

It was short enough now. Right…?

He’d been in the position, vision blurring from exhaustion, for two minutes when the idea struck him. It hit him hard enough that he fell backward onto the bed.

“Oh man,” he whispered. “Oh man, ohmanohman.”

It might work.

It might work.

If the maintenance shed had the right tools…

Jennings was racing on crutches across the campus, billowing steam. Blind with exhaustion.

He returned and the apartment telephone was ringing. In his delirium he didn’t understand the noise. He swatted at the device to make it stop, knocking the receiver off the wall. A man’s voice buzzed from it.

“Jennings? Yo? You there?”

He picked the receiver up. “Lynch?”

“No, man. It’s Coach. Coach Murray. Where the hell you been?”

“My cell phone is dead.” Hopping on one leg, Jennings maneuvered himself into a chair before falling.

“Daisy said you went to kill Lynch Monday night. That true?” said Murray.

“It’s true.”

“Jennings, you can’t go all lone wolf like that shit.”

“I found graves in his field.”

“Like a cemetery?”

“We fought and he told me he buries the bodies deep to avoid detection but the deeper the grave, the deeper the ground depression afterward.”

“Oh damn. He confessed,” said Murray.

“Yes.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know yet.” Jennings heard the words, but wasn’t confident he’d uttered them.

“The chief of police is corrupt. He’ll just arrest your ass, right?”

“So I’ll just kill Lynch.”

“Nope. You’re not thinking straight, Jennings.”

“Everything changed. I thought he hit his kids. I thought he bullied reporters and bribed his way out of trouble. But it’s only grown worse. He killed Craig. Tried to rape Daisy. Admitted he buries women on his property. Everything’s changed.”

“Daniel—”

“Lynch told me he strings people up with fish hooks and buries them after.”

“What the hell does that mean?” said Murray.

“It means he needs to die.”

“All serial killers are white dudes, you ever notice that? What is wrong with y’all.”

“No one cares. Everyone is too busy. So I’ll do it. I’ll handle this like I should have last year.”

“What’s that mean? Last year? You were across the world last year.”

“The gunshot will be quiet.”

“No, man. You’ll go to jail. Forever jail, you get it?”

“He’s after Daisy, Coach.”

“Here’s an idea. You two go hide. Go hide and call cops until you find one who’ll dig those bodies up,” said Murray.

“I’ll kill him and I won’t get caught. But I need your help.”

“Bullshit my help. You’re talking like—”

“I know.” Like I’m insane too.

“You need a doctor, Jennings.”

“There’s no time. It has to be me. I need to do this.”

“This is