The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(9)

When he came back, he offered it to me. I shrank from him and shook my head.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Go on. Take it.”

The shovel was heavier than I’d expected, or maybe I wasn’t as strong. It weighted my arm and I had to grasp it with both hands.

“Follow me,” he said.

He led me behind the shed, just short of the six-foot wooden fence that lined the rear and sides of the property. He searched the ground for a moment, considering, as if he were picking out a likely spot to plant rosebushes. Then he pointed.

“There,” he said.

“Jim . . . I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand, idiot? You got a shovel. Use it.”

His voice was mild, his mouth quirked in what might have passed for a smile. But his stare was like a knife. Like a spear-headed steel blade that would have gladly cut me in two if only it could.

I didn’t dare disobey. I took a deep breath and stabbed the shovel in the dirt. I set my foot on the shoulder of the blade and kicked. I began to dig.

The tool was built for plowing through rough ground with the least resistance. Spear it in, kick the blade deep, carve out wedge after wedge of red earth. It was easier work than I would have thought, except for one thing: I wasn’t sure what I was digging.

But I had an idea.

A ragged hole was getting carved out, the pile of fresh dirt along the edge growing bigger, when Jim dragged his foot along the ground, drawing invisible lines.

“Here to here,” he said.

I straightened and wiped the sweat from my face with my forearm. I leaned on the shovel handle, panting, and considered the perimeter he’d just marked off.

A rectangle. Just big enough to hold a grown woman, maybe, if her arms and legs were tucked tight.

A grave.

One wedge of earth at a time.

Jim had pulled a bare stem from the bougainvillea bush near the fence and was twirling it aimlessly in his fingers.

“You aren’t done yet,” he said.

I could hear scratching coming from inside the shed. Tinkerbell was pawing at the door, anxious to escape. I turned in desperation toward the wood fence that was boxing me in. With Jim. With no way out. I knew how the dog felt.

“That goddamn hole won’t dig itself,” Jim said mildly. “Ticktock. You want Laurel to see?”

Instinctively, I glanced at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing my watch. My mind reeled. I could try to stall until the school bus came. A busload of children, a driver—I could dash out and scream for help. Jim wouldn’t dare do anything then, would he? Not in front of witnesses?

No, of course he wouldn’t.

But what he would do was take no chances. The second we heard the rumble of the bus engine, he’d do exactly what he’d come here to do, before I had a chance to run away or make a peep. Before the bus ever got close.

And after the bus had dropped Laurel off, after it had rumbled away again, Jim would still be here, with blood on his hands. And what would happen to her then?

I picked up the shovel and stabbed it back in the dirt. I had a hole to dig, and now there was a deadline.

By the time I’d finished to Jim’s specifications, I was queasy from the effort. I stepped back, leaning against the fence to catch my breath, still grasping the shovel. Jim walked to the edge of the hole and peered in, cocking his head and pursing his lips. It wasn’t awfully deep, but apparently deep enough.

He walked over and wrested the shovel from my grip. I cringed.

“Stay put,” he said.

Then he turned and headed to the front of the shed.

I heard the shed door unlatch, heard it open, heard him mutter to Tinkerbell to stay put, just as he’d ordered me. I heard the door close.

It wasn’t but a few seconds until I heard the whine again . . .

Then nothing.

I pushed myself off the fence and stood frozen in place, still trying to catch my breath. Straining hard to listen.

I heard the shed door again, this time opening. Then Jim rounded the corner, the shovel in one hand, Tinkerbell in the other, toted by the scruff of her neck.

The dog was limp, her head lolling. As I stared at her broken body, an incongruent thought raced through my mind: When a regular shovel won’t do the job.

It wasn’t my grave I’d been digging, but hers.

Jim halted in front of me, the corners of his mouth working like a tic, his eyes bright. “Take it,” he said, holding the body out.