Dirty Secrets

Part 80

The sun simmered low in the sky, riding a ridge of half-naked treetops. Gray streaky clouds began stacking like insubstantial dinner plates.

Lyla started up the hill with the shovels over her shoulder and the gasoline can in her hand, but the terrain was so challenging, she couldn't balance the tools. She resorted to dragging the shovels behind her, their blades bump-bump-bumping over the stones and hardened clods of soil.

She heard footsteps behind her, then someone tried to pull the shovel from her hand.

"I got this, Jack," she said, looking over her shoulder. Jack was thirty-five feet away, removing the pick from the trunk.

A putrid stench enveloped her. She dropped the shovels, covering her nose and mouth.

"Hey, Lyla," Jack called. "Wait up." He loped up the hill carrying the pick. "You okay?" Then it hit him. "Holy shit. That smell. God. Lemme take those."

She handed him one of the shovels, her nervous eyes darting back and forth, scanning.

"Is that somebody?" Jack shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting toward the summit.

Lyla snapped around. "Where?"

"Standing by that tree," he said. "He's gone now."

They remained in place, their eyes fixed on the summit. Lyla's heart pounded, a tension, building and building, crying for release.

"So," she said, taking a small step forward. 

"Yeah," Jack replied. "Let's kill the camera first then check out that fence. Before I lug all the salt up there."

At that moment, she wasn't concerned about the salt or the fence. Her only worry, what awaited them at the top of the hill? She could think of nothing else.

Neither spoke of it but Lyla was sure Jack could feel it, too. A rumbling dark energy intensified as they climbed to the hilltop. She didn't recall the overwhelming sensation the last time she was onsite. Something was different.

What she did remember was that the final measure of the hike to the summit was steep. They wheezed from exertion as the fence came into view beneath the boughs of an old oak. As she approached, Lyla happened upon the stiff bodies of several blackbirds lying amongst the roots of the tree, their eyes closed, their wiry feet drawn up to their bellies.

"What happened?" said Jack, looking up into the branches.

Lyla shrugged off the unnerving discovery. Taking visual inventory, she pointed to a second tree.

"There's the camera," she said.

Jack squinted. "Where? I don't see it."

She continued pointing to the camouflaged camera as she approached. "There. Stand back so it doesn't see you."

Jack sneaked up below it and swung his shovel but the camera was out of reach. Following a thoughtful pause, he suggested, "How about you get on my shoulders?" 

She raised her gaze to meet his eyes. "What?"

He squatted. "Get on my shoulders."

"You're serious?"

"Do it," he replied.

She threw one leg over, but their height difference made slinging her second leg more difficult. He held her thigh against his chest then squatted lower. He guided her other leg onto his shoulder. With Jack gripping her thighs, his head between her legs, he rose to a standing position. His shoulders felt rock-hard. Lyla knew she needed to concentrate on taking down the camera but she was having trouble focusing. She loved the smell of his shampoo and the scent of Jack.

He handed the shovel up to her. "Go for it," he said.

She swung but missed the camera, the blade of the shovel banging the tree trunk and nearly striking Jack when it bounced back.

"Sorry," she said.

He inched a little closer to the trunk. "Go again," he said.

With her eyes tightly focused on the camera, she made another attempt, this time hitting her target. The camera split then fell to the ground in pieces.

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner," she said triumphantly, tossing the shovel to the ground.

He squatted, signaling an end to her brief indulgence. She dismounted. There was business to attend to.

"Somebody probably just got a notification," Lyla said. "Lost signal or something like that."

Jack sighed. "Like we need more pressure."

She surveyed the hillside. Long shadows had softened in the diffused light of dusk. She turned toward the steel fence that enclosed the gravestones. From her position, she was able to see the newest marker designating Keenan's grave.

Jack paced around the corner of the fence to the gate, which was secured with a heavy-duty iron chain and a durable padlock. He swung the pick. It clanged loudly when he made contact. He attacked over and over again, the pick sparking against the metal. The lock and chain seemed indestructible.

He wrapped his hand around the corner post and attempted to shake it. The fencepost held fast. He swung the pick into its mooring. His forceful blow barely chipped the rocky base.

"Damn, these things are really cemented in here." He wiped his brow while pacing to the far corner of the enclosure. He gripped the pick handle then threw three chopping blows in rapid succession at the concrete footing. He straightened with a disappointed groan.

"So we're gonna need to climb the fence," Lyla said, accepting that the chasm between reality and her aspirations had widened.

He rubbed his aching shoulder. "I don't see any other way. And looks like somebody sharpened those tips."

She glanced up and, sure enough, it appeared that someone had ground the fence points into spears. She wrinkled her brow. "I'm 98% freaked out but 2% impressed."

"Yeah, somebody has way too much time on their hands."

"I don't think these people have jobs." 

"Lemme go get the salt," Jack said, dropping the pick. 

"I'll come with you," she said as an icy autumn breeze skipped across the terrain to the summit

They stepped over the carcasses of the blackbirds then began their descent.

Halfway to Jack's car, Lyla's heart seized when the gray Cadillac chugged to a stop at the bottom of the hill. She shrank back, sucking in her breath. She and Jack took cover, crouching behind an outcropping of rocks and tall field grass.

"Did Wes... did you get a gun?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Jack shook his head. "He's totally full of shit."

As she cowered in the shadows, Lyla hated to admit it, but a gun would have definitely come in handy. Without their phones, there was no way to call for help.