‘Don’t you need something more to be able to do that?’

‘The gun Bruce shot himself with. Do you know where he

got it?’

“I always wondered.’

‘It belonged to his father. I mean it belonged to Sidney

Alderman.’

‘And?’

‘And Alderman bought that gun years ago. He bought it the

same week his wife died. About two days before she suddenly

jumped out in front of a car by accident. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘You think he bought the gun to kill his wife and pushed her

in front of a car instead?’

“I’m not saying anything. But you remember what happened

last time we started digging up bodies? I’m telling you, Tate, it’s going to be a long week. And take some advice — get yourself

a good lawyer, man. These drink driving charges aren’t going to disappear, friends in the department or not. You’re going to be doing some time. Get yourself sorted, start jogging — you’ve put on what, three, four kilos in the last month? Get your life back on track. Do anything else but this case, man. I know we could have made a difference two years ago, but you have to let it go and let the rest of us take care of it.’

His cellphone starts to ring.

“Hang on, Tate.’ He talks quickly into it, then hangs up. ‘Jesus, I gotta go,’ he says, and rushes to his car.

All I can do is watch him as he speeds out of the street, and all I can think about is what they are going to find buried in the dirt when they exhume Sidney Alderman’s wife on Monday.

chapter forty-one

For the longest time I can’t move. My breathing becomes

shallow and I start to sweat. The house is cold and the air slightly damp because of the busted window in the lounge. There is a

restricting pain in my chest. On Monday they are going to find Sidney Alderman buried on top of the coffin of his wife. He’s

going to look like he died hard. There are going to be contusions and gashes and deep cuts. Realistically there shouldn’t be any evidence pointing directly at me, not that I can think of, but there might be something. Regardless of that, they’ll know I did it. It won’t be like Quentin James, where they knew I did it but didn’t try looking too hard to prove anything. This time they’ll make an effort because the man I killed was innocent.

I walk outside to the garage and find a piece of plywood and

some nails; of course, I have no hammer. I use a drill and some screws to hold the plywood over the busted window. The work helps to calm me, at least for a few minutes. When the last screw is buried, I start to go through my options, and the one that keeps coming up is that I ought to call Carl Schroder and tell him to come back here. We could sit down and he could listen to my sins.

I sit down at the table and eat some more pizza. I need to

start making the most of good food, since I won’t be seeing any for another ten years. On the other hand, Schroder was right.

I should be joining a gym. Or at least running. Doing something.

I reach down and grab a handful of stomach. A month ago I was

lean. Now I’m not. I reach up and find extra padding around my neck and jaw that shouldn’t be there either. I hope Schroder’s estimate of my added three or four kilos wasn’t conservative.

I finish off the pizza and drink the rest of the Coke. Daxter

comes wandering down the hall, probably hoping I kept him

some pizza. I give him his usual and he seems placated by it.

I head to bed and set my alarm clock. I slide it to the far end of the bedside table to kill the risk of my reaching out and slapping the snooze button while still in some dreamlike state.

I end up dreaming about my wife, about Emily, and in my

dream they are both alive. They talk to me, but what they say

makes little sense, because in the dream I seem to be burying

my family while they’re still alive. Rachel Tyler appears — she’s a younger version, one of the Rachel Tylers on display in the

hallway of her parents’ house. She accuses me of murder, and in this world of dreams as well as outside of it it’s exactly what I am.

When the alarm goes off it’s two o’clock in the morning and

it’s raining. Daxter is curled up next to me, the first time he has done that in two years. I wonder if this means something. My

house is cold and my mind is full of bad ideas. I get dressed and step out into the night.

chapter forty-two

I thrrow a shovel into the back of my dad’s car, and park outside my house. I look up and down the street, searching for a tail, then drive off in the direction of the cemetery, taking random lefts and rights to make sure no one is following. I need to get Alderman out of the ground before the others go digging for his wife.

At the cemetery everything looks different, as though I’m still in the dream. The night is about as dark and wet as it can get in this city. There is an occasional sliver of pale light that breaks through and reflects off the windscreen. It is completely still out here, and cold. I suspect if I tried digging deep into the ground to remove Sidney Alderman, it’d be like digging through quicksand.

I park out on the street two blocks away and walk back to the

cemetery. Naked branches that look like skeletal remains reach out overhead and lock fingers above me as I enter the grounds. I slow down and stay hidden in the shadows of several oak trees along the sides of the road in case there are any police around. There doesn’t seem to be anybody, but I go further into the grounds

before going back for the shovel, knowing I could only offer bad answers to questions about why I was carrying one.

Satisfied I’m alone, at least in the cemetery, I start to make my

way to the church. I stay in the trees, getting close enough finally to see a patrol car parked outside with a sole officer inside. He’s probably got the heater running to stay warm, and got a thermos of coffee as well. It’s standard protocol to protect a crime scene this early on. I bet he’s as bored as hell. I stay in the same position, low to the ground, the cold making my knees and fingers hurt, and I spend ten minutes just watching. The rain beats on my jacket loudly, but not as loudly as it beats against the car. Occasionally a light comes on in the car from what I think might be a cellphone opening and closing. The guy’s probably sending text messages

to his wife or girlfriend, or both. Probably complaining about what a waste of time it is out here.

I need to return to the car, grab the shovel and dig Alderman

up. But now that I’m this close to the church, suddenly I have another, even stronger need — I have to know what’s inside. I need to know if there are answers in there. And anyway, Alderman won’t mind waiting another half an hour for the feel of the

shovel.

I pass behind the trees and some graves, and circumnavigate

my way to the back of the church. I hide for another five minutes, just watching and waiting to see if there is anybody else around.

There isn’t. The rain stays heavy and I’m pretty sure it’s the reason the cop keeping an eye on the church is staying in his car and not patrolling around the perimeter every few minutes like he’s been instructed to do.

The church is darker and colder-looking than normal, as

though God has moved out and some malevolent presence has

moved in. There are no lights on inside. The man who devoted

his life to this place is lying on a slab in the morgue, maybe with his God, maybe alone.

I quickly make my way to the side door and I pause, waiting

for either Schroder or Landry to step out of the darkness, or

even Casey Horwell with her cameraman. Nobody does. There