I could tell when we left the road; the car turned, and I slid—as much as I could—along the bottom of the trunk.Instead of the smooth, thrumming progress, now we began to bounce and rock back and forth.A dirt road.Or maybe no road at all.It was hard to gauge how far we’d gone because I’d lost track of time, but we were outside the city limits.There were a lot of empty places in the middle of Missouri.A lot of places you could dump somebody, and they’d never be found.Not anytime soon, anyway.
When the car stopped and the engine died, ambient noises began to filter in.Air moving against the body of the car.Birdsong.Somebody would have known what kind of bird it was.Hell, Emery would have known its name and address.It was just another bird to me, and it didn’t tell me anything.
A door clunked shut.Steps moved toward me, then past me, growing more distant.What felt like a long span of time opened in that sweaty, claustrophobic darkness, and all I could do was pant, trying to get enough air to stay conscious.Then another sound cut through the haze of my panic.
It was metallic, a kind ofshiiiingand thenclink.It took several long, disoriented seconds before I recognized what I was hearing.
A shovel.
He was going to bury me.Alive.
I thrashed inside the rolled-up comforter, trying to unroll it enough to give me room to use my arms.But the confined space of the trunk kept me from making any progress.I heard my own shallow breaths, tasted my own breath and blood.It was getting harder to breathe.Or maybe that was just the terror, clamping down on my chest.Finally, I worked myself up enough that the black spots whirred faster and faster in my vision, and I was gone again.
When I came back, a trace of cooler air met me, and the light had changed.The trunk lid was open; that made its way through my muzzy thoughts.And then hands grabbed me and dragged me, still wrapped in the comforter, over the lip of the trunk.
It was slow going.Rory was struggling—I was a full-grown man, and he was trying to lift me out of the trunk without Eddie’s help.His breathing sounded labored, and I remembered, that night at Sunny’s, how quickly he’d gotten winded.Fucking kids and their fucking glamor muscles, I thought, fighting a laugh.Run a fucking mile.It was hysteria more than humor, but in the moment, it felt like a lifeline.
He readjusted me, lifting the lower portion of my body, and a fresh jolt of pain ran through me.I cried out.Rory dropped me with a shouted “Fuck!”He beat a retreat, his steps heavy and uneven.Silence.And then “What the fuck?”
It was outrage more than surprise the second time.Because I hadn’t had the decency to die during the drive.
“Rory,” I said.Or tried to say.It was harder than I’d expected, and I couldn’t tell if it was because I couldn’t get a full breath or if it was my head or maybe everything.“You don’t have to do this.”
But I wasn’t sure how much of it he could understand.I was vaguely aware that the words had come out mushier than even I’d expected.
Then he was back, grabbing my legs again, hauling me forward.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up.”
“Rory.”
“Stop talking.Stop saying my name!”
He gave a big heave, and this time, he staggered backward, carrying me with him.I slid free of the trunk, and Rory and I must have realized at the same time what was going to happen: enough of my body passed the tipping point, and gravity pulled me the rest of the way.Rory let out a startled noise, and then I hit the ground.
The comforter provided some padding, but not enough to make a difference.Pain exploded through me, and I was gone again.
Later, he was dragging me.The ground was uneven, and grass whispered against the comforter.Rory’s ragged breathing was interrupted by snuffling and sniffling, and through the fog in my head, I thought, He’s crying.
“Stop making those noises,” he said.“You have to be quiet.Why won’t you just be quiet?”
I tried to say, “Rory,” again.
“Stop saying my name!”he screamed.“Stop!Stop it!Stop!”
He jerked the comforter back and forth, like I was a child and he was shaking me by the arm.
“Please,” I mumbled.
With another scream, he dropped the end of the comforter he’d been holding.Then he shoved me.It jarred the gunshot wound, and the pain flared up, but I stayed with it this time.I rolled once inside the comforter, then again, tumbling down the rough grade of a slope.When I hit the bottom of the trench or pit or whatever the fuck he’d dug, the pain burst into life again, but I rode it out.
Not far, I thought through the daze.Not deep.
And then something else came to me—when he’d rolled me down the hill, the comforter had started to come unwrapped.I could move my arms.And my legs.Not much, but enough that, after a moment of agony, I managed to roll myself over again, and another fold of the comforter came loose.I had enough room to get my hands under me.I drew my knees up.A wave of nausea washed over me, and I braced myself like that, fighting the dizziness, the urge to lie down again.Everything was wet, and a clinical voice inside me said it was a lot of blood.How much, I wanted to know.How bad?
Rory’s sudden, disbelieving inhalation told me he’d noticed me.That was bad.I hadn’t thought about that.I should have waited.But I couldn’t wait because he was going to bury me alive.I should have—it was hard to finish that thought.Hard to do anything but hold myself on my hands and knees and try not to collapse.
