Combustible (A Boone Childress Novel) (17 page)

Empty.

This was no robbery. They were looking for something.

Boone had decided to ta
ke a closer look for clues in the kitchen area when Chigger yapped a warning bark. Peeking through the blinds, Boone looked out a grimy window and saw Cedar a few yards away holding onto Chigger’s lease. It was stretched taut, and the dog was growling. When Boone stepped outside onto the porch, he saw why.

A
two-ton diesel truck drove across the overgrown yard toward the big barn. It was hauling a trench digger behind it, equipped with a scoop shovel. That answered his questions about what had made the holes. When two men got out of the front of the truck, it also answered the question of who.

They were
Honeycutt and Semmes, independent contractors specializing in site clean up and debris removal.

What kind of debris, Boone wondered, where they removing this time?

“What business have you got being here, anyhow?” Semmes shouted as he approached them. He directed his question at Cedar, who was holding a very protective Chigger in her arms.

“You two’re trespassing on private property,” Honeycutt said, stabbing the air in front of Boone’s face with a meaty finger. “We ought to call the law and have you arrested.”

Though she wasn’t fond
of burgled trailers, Cedar wasn't one to be intimidated by an enemy she could see, especially two middle-aged men who were obviously bluffing. Boone noticed older adults slipped easily into threats when they confronted young people. He wondered if they thought it was effective, because it never seemed to work.

“That’s our business,” Cedar said. “Call the sheriff if you want. There aren’t any
No Trespassing
signs posted, and we have a legitimate reason to be here.”

Semmes
spat tobacco on the ground. “What would that be?”

“We’re visiting a friend.”

“Stumpy,” Boone said. “Have you gentlemen seen him recently?”

There! The thing he had hoped for. A look passed between the two men, a brief non
-verbal communication that told him everything he wanted to know.

“Stumpy who?”
Honeycutt said.

“What do we look like, the missing person department?
” Semmes added. “You’re wasting our time, so beat it.”

Boone and Cedar agreed that they had places to be, as well.
When they walked away, Boone thought of one more bit of information he wanted. “Who would that be?”

“Who would
what
be?” Semmes said.

“The company paying you to clean up their mess. Who’s that?”

Semmes laughed. “The man who owns it, dumbass.”

When they got in the car, Boone rolled down the window so that Chigger could stick his head out. Across the way,
Semmes and Honeycutt were unloading the bobcat from its trailer. The bobcat was designed for moving a small amount of dirt very quickly. Not massive like a bulldozer or dresser, its lightweight and small relatively light bucket made it perfect for maneuvering through tight spaces. Like the spaces that separated one grave from another.

“You think t
hey know something about Stumpy?” Cedar said as she drove turned in a wide arc and slowly drove below the outstretched arms of crepes myrtles.

“I think I know what they’re digging for, too.”
The flatbed truck also held a pile of what looked like empty garment bags. One of the bags, however, was full. Boone suspected that it contained the object that had hit the side of Stumpy's trailer, an object that was missing a finger. Goose pimples formed on his forearms. In trying to solve one mystery, they had stumbled on another.

He smacked his forehead.
How dense could he be?

“Well?”
Cedar said when Boone didn’t continue immediately.

“From the size, shape, and pattern of the larger holes,” he said, “they’re looking for the same thing we are.”

"And that would be?"

"Bones."

“They are moving graves.”
Cedar took a deep breath. “Illegally.”

She
sat at the round oak table in the kitchen, next to Boone and across from Mom. Lamar leaned against the counters as he smiled at Chigger lapping up the bowl of milk he had given him.

Boone had decided on the way home to let Cedar tell Mom the news. She would believ
e it if it came from Cedar, who she considered far more levelheaded and trustworthy.

“Say that again,” Mom said, almost rising out of her chair.

Cedar repeated the whole story about Semmes and Honeycutt. She left out the information about the finger in the fish sticks. While she talked, Boone watched for Lamar’s reaction. He was listening, too, because he shook his head slightly when Cedar mentioned the part about Boone falling in the hole. But he kept a poker face the whole time and only moved when Chigger finished the milk. He picked up the bowl and rinsed it in the sink.

“Th
e whole field is full of graves,” Boone said. “It’s not only a family plot, it’s an organized cemetery. From the pattern of the holes, the guys knew exactly where to dig.”

“Are you
saying that the owners knew about the graves beforehand?” Mom said.

Boone shrugged. “I wouldn’t testify to that in court, but that’s what it looked like to me.”

“You’re sure?”

“
The field looked like dominos.” If he closed his eyes, Boone could imagine row after row of graves and the footpaths that separated them.

“What about--
” Mom wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “What about the headstones?”

Boone caught Cedar’s eye, and she shook her head once. “None,” he said and exhaled. “We didn’t see a single one.”

“That’s outrageous!” Mom stood straight up. Her chair flipped over behind her, and she threw her arms wide. “That is like spitting in the face of the loved ones who buried those people. And the law! They have absolutely violated state law! They can’t do this!”

“Sounds like they already did,
” Lamar said.

“Call the sheriff!” she told him. When Lamar didn’t move fast enough, she grabbed the
handset from the wall. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Some help you are.”

The call connected, and Mom stepped out on
the porch for privacy.

Lamar swept Chigger up and car
ried him to Cedar. “Did either one of these men threaten you?”

Boone and Cedar shook their heads
.

“They ordered us off the property,
” Boone added, “and we left.”

Lamar sigh
ed heavily. “You’ve got your mama wound up, that’s for sure. But I don’t know what can be done if the rightful owner asked them to do the work. It’s not illegal to move bodies in this state, just to do it without permission. Since those old boys let y’all walk around without a fuss, I’m thinking that they’re not too worried about being found out.”

"But these are graves," Cedar said. "There are people buried there. They can’t just, just
move
them."

Lamar scrubbed the top of his head with his hand.
"Human remains are property like a house or land. They belong to the heirs of the deceased. That's the law."

Cedar looked at Boone, asking him is Lamar was right. He shrugged, meaning that, yes, he probably was.

"It's time for me to go.” Cedar excused herself. “I'm going to use the little girl's room first."

When she was out of earshot,
Boone tried another tack with Lamar. "There are too many graves for a family cemetery."

Lamar waved the argument
away. “Follow Cedar back to her house, just to be sure. No arguing now, not after what happened to that Japanese boy. Folks around here are acting funny. It’s smart to be careful.”

"Funny how?"
Boone said. "You mean funny strange, not funny ha-ha, correct?"

"Some
migrant workers ended up in the emergency room last weekend, all beat up. They wouldn't say what happened."

"Ready,"
Cedar called down the hall as she returned. Boone walked her out to the car. “Before I go, remember that we’re meeting with Dr. K tomorrow to put the final touches on my research project.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, right?”
Boone said.

“Doesn’t matter what day it is.” She
gave a kiss on the cheek. “You made a promise, and you’re sticking to it.”

After escorting Cedar home, Boone decided that it was crucial to tell Abner about the graves. Since the old man wouldn’t answer his phones, Boone decided to make the drive to his house. But when Boone arrived, the house was dark, and the computer and television were off. Since his grandfather was an information junky of the highest order, Boone knew he was probably out for the evening. Abner still didn't answer his cellphone, so he left a message that the finger was safely stored and that there was more news to share.

It
was well after dark when Boone left the driveway. He was traveling Highway 12 at sixty-five. There were no streetlights in this part of the county, which was still farmland due to frequent flooding, making the night even darker. It was so dark that he didn’t see a huge branch in the middle of his lane.

Whump!

The branch slammed against his undercarriage, and there was a metallic clank, followed by a clacking noise. On the dash the oil pressure needle dropped like the second hand on a watch.

"Don't do this to me,
girl."

B
oone pulled back on the highway toward Stanford, praying some place would still be open. By his estimate, the truck had less than a quart of oil left. He wasn't going to win the race. Then he remembered a small store on the left somewhere ahead, though. In the dark, he wasn't precisely sure where he was, so he had no idea if the store was just around the corner or miles away.

After cresting a hill, Boone stuck the transmission in neutral and shut the engine off to keep it from seizing. He rolled through a stop sign without stopping and rounded a bend.

A light shone ahead above a small, hand
lettered sign.

“Yes!” he said
.

He
guided the wounded truck into the store's gravel lot. After parking, Boone opened the hood to let light in and the peered underneath the engine. The branch had punctured the line, and oil was dripping from the hole.

Okay,
he thought. Nothing a little duct tape couldn't fix.

Inside the store, Boone
stepped into a time capsule: It was crowded with an assortment of dry goods, hunting supplies, hardware, clothes, cleaning supplies, and groceries. They had the usual bread and milk, along with a cooler in the corner and a display of cigarettes behind the cashier.

A cardboard sign was taped to the register:
No Spanish Spoke Here
.

Boone flinched like
he had been popped with a rubber band. What kind of racist jerk ran this place? If he hadn’t been desperate, he would have turned heel and walked out.

The
guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.

H
e didn't have a care in the world, until Boone walked over.

“I need
some oil,” Boone said. “I’ve got a leak.”

"We ain't got none," he said, licking his fingers and turning the
page. "You'd have to ask Red."

"Who's
Red?"

"My
cousin."

"Where is he?"

"He…ain't here right now."

"I
noticed that."

"I’m just
minding the store for him."

Boone picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display
shelf and set them in front of the register. He added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.

"
Can't sell you no oil," the clerk said.

"This is a store, right?"

He started picking at the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. "Red won't let me take no money."

"Is that right?"

“That’s right.”

Boone’s eyes narrowed. “If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”

He dropped the card onto the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out Childress.

“
Red!” The clerk shot around the counter and disappeared behind a dingy curtain.

Boone heard voices, and when the curtain opened again,
Eugene Childress stepped out.