The Gravedigger - Chapter One

What follows is from my work-in-progress novel - it is a first draft so any editing or content suggestions are greatly appreciated:

Steven Banks knew he needed a new tire. He’d been telling himself for more than a month the tire was going to blow at any time. However, as it happens in life, there always seems to be that one thing that takes precedence at the time and he continually puts off what needs to be done until, well, until it’s pushed to its breaking point.

Breaking point? More like exploding point, and it did sound like an explosion. In fact, if he had still been driving through the deserts of Afghanistan, he would have assumed that his vehicle had just run over an improvised explosive device. But he’s not in Afghanistan—and hasn’t been for more than four years—he’s in a National Forest 20 miles south of Roseland, Texas on a one-lane blacktop county road that cuts back and forth through the trees with no rhyme or reason.

Of course, he knew the tire was in desperate need of replacement—but since there were no internal threads showing, he thought he could squeeze a few more miles out of it.

It had to be the weight of the trailer, he thinks, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and checking the display...

...and, of course—there’s no cellular service out here in the woods.

He scans the road ahead for a place to pull over. If he stops where he is, he’ll block any traffic that might happen to pass by. The steering wheel pulls to the right and he struggles against it to keep the truck from veering into the ditch.

At least it’s a beautiful day. He enjoys his job and really doesn’t mind any weather condition, but digging a grave and changing a tire in the rain in the same day would have been too much. Oh, he’d do it, but he wouldn’t like it.

A soft thump, thump, thump comes from the right side of the vehicle now as the tire shreds apart beneath the weight of the pickup and the heavy load of the trailer.

Finally, he spots a private access road about a hundred yards ahead of him on the left. “Thank God,” he says as he draws nearer. It looks like it’s barely used. Tall weeds and grass have taken over and the parallel dirt tracks are barely discernible from the rugged surroundings. There’s a locked gate blocking entrance to the field beyond, but he’s certain there’s enough room between the road and the gate for both the truck and the trailer. And if not, maybe the trailer won’t stick out too far.

He can hear the tire rim scraping the road now. The rubber must be almost entirely gone. Another doubtful thought creeps up on him—what if the spare is bad too? He can’t remember the last time he checked the spare tire. Can’t even remember if he ever has checked the spare.

As he approaches the access road, he wrenches tightly to the wheel and strains to turn the truck into the drive. The size of the drive isn’t as wide as he’d like it to be under the circumstances, but he’ll just have to make due—and maybe he won’t put the truck in the ditch.

The wheel fights against him—he pulls it to the left, but it wants to cut to the right as if it has a mind of its own. Physically, he’s no slouch, but he really has to fight to keep the truck pointed in the right direction. Finally, he brings the nose of the truck right up the metal gate and throws the transmission into park. Now for the decisive moment—he slides out of the driver’s seat to check the spare.

As he steps to the ground, his weight comes down painfully on his right hip. He massages the old injury through his jeans and then limps to the rear of the truck where he sits on the ground by the back bumper and swings his head underneath.

“Well, this just gets better and better,” he says.

There is no spare tire.

“You’ve certainly gotten yourself up the creek without a paddle didn’t you?”

Up the creek without a paddle was a phrase that his dad had always used and despite the situation, he smiles at the pleasing memory.

Pushing himself up to his feet, he ducks back into the cab and checks the mileage. His contract location is Backer Cemetery and if his directions are correct, based on the mileage, the cemetery is less than a mile further on down the county road. He grabs the keys from the ignition, snatches the plastic cooler from the far side of the bench seat, and fishes another set of keys from the side pocket of the driver’s door. Under the cooler is a plastic folder with the cemetery information he needs for the grave—such as the name of the deceased and the plot location within the cemetery. Heaven forbid he digs a hole in the wrong spot.

Steve shuffles to the back of the trailer and drops the gate. Now that he’s out of the pickup and moving around a bit, the hip is beginning to loosen up. He unfolds the portable ramps and locks them in place. Now he can drive the Backhoe off. He eyes the metal tracks that drive the heavy machine and then glanced down at the soft, black asphalt county road. He has a feeling that he’s about to leave some scars on the soft road surface.

He fires up the engine and backs off the trailer. He checks the blacktop surface and is pleased that the metal tracks are not breaking the surface of the road—all its doing is leaving narrow, chalky indentation. He unlocks the ramps and throws them back into the trailer, climbs back into the bucket seat of the Backhoe, and takes off toward the cemetery.

A half-hour later, he pulls onto the dirt track that leads to Baker Cemetery. Obscured by a heavy layer of trees and underbrush, the cemetery sits a hundred yards off the road. With the exception of the bright green sign announcing its existence, most people would never know that it exists.

Unlike the county road, the path leading to the cemetery isn’t paved—but covered with tightly packed crushed white rock. It’s a wide track and easily accommodates the large backhoe. Freshly mowed lanes allow for sufficient parking on either side while still leaving the main road open for traffic.

He rounds a slight bend and there to his right lies the small cemetery. It’s not the largest cemetery he’s ever seen—but it’s not the smallest either. The clearing is about half the size of a football field. The white rock road bisects the clearing from the east to west and almost cuts it in half. The tombstones stand haphazardly about to the north side of the track, leaving the southern clearing open for future expansion.

He checks his watch even though he’s afraid to know the time of day. He left town late that morning, and now this mishap with the tire has left him worried that he’ll still be digging the grave when the funeral attendees arrived. The viewing ceremony in town starts at one o’clock and the graveside services start two hours later. He breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not quite noon. He still has plenty of time; he’ll have to start digging now though, and forgo eating lunch till later.

To Steve’s left, nestled against the south fence, is a small tool shed. He parks the backhoe next to it, retrieves the smaller set of keys from his pocket, and unlocks the padlock securing the door. On a shelf to the right is a small plastic binder. Inside are laminated sheets of paper with information and areal photographs of Baker Cemetery. He thumbs through and finds the pages concerning empty plots and the names of the individuals who have purchased them. He finds the one he’s looking for, removes the page from the binder, grabs a handful of marking flags, and heads over toward the tombstones to find the plot he needs.

The cemetery is small and it doesn’t take him long to find the plot and set the flags into the ground, marking a rectangular area where he’ll use the backhoe to dig the grave. He checks his watch again then rushes to the backhoe, fires it up, and drives it over to plot.

He’s ready to dig.

* * *

The road through Baker Cemetery does not extend all the way to the extreme western edge of the clearing. Instead, it ends in a large circle about twenty yards before the tree line. However, just beyond the edge of the white rock road, at the western edge of the clearing, is an opening in the trees and underbrush. The opening extends into the trees and underbrush and cuts immediately to the right around a hundred-year-old oak tree, then swings back to the left and heads almost due west. A casual observer would never know it’s there.

The trail, barely wide enough to accommodate a mid-sized pickup truck, meanders through the trees, up and down hills, and passes through three shallow creek beds before ending in a large clearing, a shallow valley that easily measures a hundred square acres. In the center of the clearing sits a large estate surrounded by ten-foot high concrete walls. A well-worn, manicured dirt track, devoid of grass, surrounds the compound. It’s unused during the day; however, a two-man, heavily armed patrol walks that path every night from dusk to dawn.

To the south of the house lay a long dirt landing strip. Like the path around the complex, the landing strip is manicured, has no trace of weed nor grass, and any stones or rocks have been removed, leaving a perfectly level strip of dirt.

The buzz of a twin-engine prop echoes across the valley. Suddenly, the plane appears over the tops of the pine trees and descends rapidly to the edge of the dirt runway. There is no hint of wind and the plane glides steadily to the packed strip where it makes a perfect landing - first the two back wheels in unison, then the front. Puffs of dust stir from the wind generated by the propellers and two vertical cyclones twist outward.

A gate in the southern wall of the compound creaks open and a lone figure steps out onto a dirt path that leads to the landing strip. He watches the plane land and come to a stop near the end of the path. By the time the engines shut down, the man is across the open area and standing by the rear door of the plane, waiting for it to open from within.

A section of the plane folds outward. Powered by hydraulic pistons the combination door and stairs slowly lowers to the ground. Two men exit the plane. Despite the heat, both are dressed in black suits with sweat-stained white dress shirts. Each of them holds a semi-automatic sub-machine gun close to their chests. Behind them, another figure appears at the top of the stairs. This man is dressed in blue jeans, a striped pale blue-collared golf shirt, and a black hood over his head. His feet are bare.

Pushed from behind, the hooded man tumbles down the stairs and lands in a dusty heap at the feet of the man from the compound. A fourth man, dressed in a charcoal gray business suit and is as wide as he is tall, appears in the doorway of the plane. He clenches a large, unlit cigar tightly between his teeth. Dark brown drool leaks from his mouth, leaving tiny brown stains down the sides of his chin. As if by magic, a handkerchief appears in his thick fingers and he wipes the thick, stringy saliva away.

He stands in the doorway and briefly scans his surroundings. With a voice as loud as he is fat, he says, “Hombre, no me gusta de Texas!”

The man from the compound laughs. “Well maybe you’d like it better down in Mexico?”

The fat man turns sideways, wedges his bulk through the door, and heavily descends the staircase. Switching to English but with a heavy Spanish accent, he says, “No. I hate Mexico even more.” By the time he reaches the ground, sweat covers his forehead and he is gasping for breath. When he reaches the ground, he kicks the hooded man in the side and he rolls away toward the two men with the sub-machine guns. They reach down, grab him by the armpits, and haul him to his feet.

The fat man waddles over to the man from the compound and they embrace, clapping each other on the back. “Juan-Pablo! It’s good to see you again, my brother.”

Juan grimaces. He despises the fat man. He hates it even more when the slob refers to him as his brother. The only comparison between the two of them is their heritage and that’s where Juan draws the line. He only sucks up to the fat man because of the fat man’s rank in the organization. He smiles slyly as thoughts of taking the fat man’s place fill his head. At the rate the man is expanding his waist line, Juan figures that time will come sooner rather than later.

Turning serious, the fat man wraps his fingers around his cigar, removes the soggy mass from his mouth, and uses it to gesture toward the man in the black hood. “Are we ready to deal with this guindon?”

Juan nods and they begin walking toward the compound. “Every thing’s set. The grave is being dug this morning.”

“Good,” says the fat man. “I’m ready to get this over with and get back north where the weather doesn’t melt my skin.”

“The Jeeps are ready to go. We can head to the cemetery as soon as you’re ready.”

The fat man laughs and sticks the cigar back into his mouth. His bulbous tongue shifts it from one corner of his mouth to the other. Juan catches a glimpse of the fat man’s yellow teeth and almost throws up in his mouth. He asks, “Do you think I’m going with you?” His head swivels side to side on a near-nonexistent neck. “Juan, Juan, Juan. This show is all yours today.” He nods toward the big house. “I’m going to fix me a cold glass of Jack and park this lard in the coolest room in the house.”

Juan pulls at the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry sir, but the only alcohol we have is tequila.”

The fat man stops. All humor leaves his eyes and his voice drops an octave. “Well that’s something I think you need to remedy. Pronto!”

“I’ll send one of my men to town immediately.”

The fat man smiles again, but his lips, still wrapped around the cigar, make it look more like an evil grimace than anything resembling a good humored disposition. He slaps Juan on the shoulder again. “Now that’s a good subordinado.”

* * *

Steve finishes digging the grave with plenty of time to spare. He re-parks the backhoe by the shed, and then retrieves a roll of green Astroturf from the shed. He tucks it under one arm and hauls it across to the grave. He neatly covers the mound of dirt; taking care to lay it as smooth as possible and reduce the number of wrinkles and buckles in the thick material. He never really understood why funeral homes use the fake grass to disguise the huge mound of dirt lying next to an open grave. There’s probably some statistic written down somewhere that states people would rather not have a visualization of the earth that will soon bury their loved ones.

Returning to the shed, he removes several polished steel tubes and corner fittings. The tubes interlock to form a sturdy, standing frame about six inches above and around the open grave. Three woven fabric straps connect the longest sections of pipe and run across the width of the grave. He stretches them tight between the pipes and tests the tension. They should be tight enough to hold the casket. He then attaches the other end of the straps to a pulley system—used to lower the casket into the ground. Once the casket is in the ground, the ends of the straps are disconnected from the pipes and pulled out of the grave. He would usually use the wench on his truck to pull the straps out but since his truck in incapacitated a half-mile down the road, he’ll have to use the backhoe.

His stomach growls.

He retrieves his cooler and scans the cemetery for a place to sit and eat—somewhere shady and out of the sun. The north-west end of the cemetery has several large oak trees scattered about among the tombstones. One of the oaks has to be well over a hundred years old—one of the largest trees he’s ever seen. Clumps of stringy, olive-colored moss hang from the tree, some so long they nearly touch the ground. The shade beneath it looks inviting.

Under the circumstances, the old oak tree looks like his best bet for some relief from the sun—which is almost directly overhead. He sits beneath the oaks massive branches, his back to a cool marble tombstone, then opens his cooler and settles in to wait for the graveside service to begin. He intends to stay hidden and out of the way until the service is over, and then try to bum a ride back to town with one of the funeral home representatives. Then he can call a roadside service technician to come put a new tire on his truck. How to get back to his truck is something he’ll have to work out later. Maybe the roadside tech will be accommodating and give him a ride back from town.

He thought he had it all worked out, but the arrival of the two Jeep Grand Cherokees puts a huge kink in those plans.