The sound of rain falling on the roof fills the interior of the car. The natural rhythm of the raindrops does nothing to calm Will Sullivan’s nerves. He fingers the umbrella on the seat next to him and, for the sixth time in ten minutes, checks his watch for the time.
Twenty minutes past midnight and all is quiet, except for the sound of shovels plowing into wet earth forty feet away from the car.
He sits in the backseat of the rented Audi and gazes into the darkness. All he can see are wisps of light rising from the workers’ flashlights.
Leaning back against the headrest, he closes his slate-gray eyes and ponders the situation. I tried to do things the right way; this is the last thing I ever wanted to be doing. But it has to be done. For my parents—this has to be done. No one would listen before . . . after this night is over they’ll listen.
He opens his eyes at the sound of footsteps running towards the car. Even over the rain, he can hear the squish and plop of his driver’s size fourteen loafers.
The driver’s door opens and quickly closes again after Oliver climbs in behind the wheel—shaking himself in the process to remove the vestiges of the inclement weather.
“How are things coming along then?”
Removing his cap, Oliver Bruce looks in the rearview mirror at the man he’s watched grow up before his very eyes. He recognizes the familiar features not only belonging to young Will but also, once upon a time, to his father.
Will’s unkempt mess of dark brown hair has fallen limply on all sides. The humidity causes the longer strands to frizz. His face is in shadow, but Oliver knows Will’s calm eyes gaze expectantly.
At the tender age of twenty-four, his facial features still maintain much of their youthful expressions. He has a narrow face—like his father—with high cheekbones that dimple slightly when he smiles wide enough. Oliver has not seen that dimple for quite some time. His lips are thin, and the top one has an almost imperceptible scar.
“I should think that they’re about four-and-a-half to five feet down now young sir,” Oliver answers in his familiar British accent.
Silence from the backseat.
“Sir,” Oliver begins, “if I may, could I ask you a question?”
“You don’t have to ask Oliver. You’re practically the only family I’ve got. What’s troubling you?”
“All of this I suppose. Do you think that this is what your parents would’ve wanted?”
Will answers, his voice hard and defensive, “My parents would’ve wanted justice. This is the only way I can give them that.”
Solemnly shaking his head, Oliver reaches his hand back to Will.
It’s not taken.
“Young sir, your parents would’ve wanted only for you to be happy. It’s tragic what happened to them, but worse still is what it’s done to you.”
Silence returns to the interior of the car. The two men stare at each other through the dark. Outside, the rain continues to fall and the shovels continue to move dirt.
“Young sir,” Oliver asks, “If you will not listen to reason then might I request that I be allowed to leave? Your parents were good friends of mine, and I have no wish to see this done. You may call for me when it is time.”
Leaning forward out of the shadows, Will nods his approval. “I understand old friend. You should go. You don’t need to be here for this.”
Reaching over, he opens the car door. Mist sprays the interior. Turning the collar up on his black trench coat, he lifts the umbrella from the seat beside him and steps out into the night.
“Young sir,” Oliver waits until Will turns to face him before continuing “Do be careful.”
Will slowly nods before shutting the car door and opening his umbrella. He grips his coat and steps away from the Audi. The engine softly turns over.
Slowly, the car pulls away. Its headlights briefly cast across the black iron gate above the entrance to the cemetery.
Then it’s gone.
Moving up the slight rise Will walks towards the three men who are hurriedly excavating his parents’ grave. As he approaches, he can hear them voicing their complaints. The rain continues to fall at a steady pace.
Reaching the foot of the grave, he inhales deeply. The night air smells of cleansing rain coupled with the musk of disturbed dirt. Closing his eyes, he remembers the last time he stood in this exact spot.
Opening his eyes, he blinks away the tears.
Staring down into the chasm at his feet, vertigo threatens to overcome him, forcing him to look away.
Calming himself, he listens to the rain fall around him.
A shovel blade thuds against wood. “Light,” he snaps his fingers for a flashlight.
Shining it into the pit, he sees dirty faces looking back up at him as they stand around the top of a casket lid.
This is it!
“Listen up,” he reaches his free hand inside his trench coat and brings out three plain envelopes. “Your work here is done. Take your money and leave now.”
The three workers are clearly stunned by this announcement and look to each other for answers. Finally, a young man of no more than twenty speaks up for them all saying, “But the job is only half done.”
“Your job is complete. Take your money and leave.”
Dropping their shovels, the two men in the hole carefully climb out without collapsing the soggy sides around them. “Who’s going to fill this back in?”
“That’s not your concern.” Will finally frees his gaze from the casket lid and looks at each of them in turn. “In case the cover of night didn’t clue you in, let me enlighten you all.
“You’ve committed a crime here tonight. So my advice to you all is to take the thousand dollars each that I have here for you, and forget about everything that you’ve done here tonight.”
“Screw this then,” the twenty-year-old scoffs, “Let him fill it back in himself.”
Will hands an envelope to each of them and watches as they disappear behind a curtain of rain and darkness. Once he’s certain that they’ve left the cemetery, he focuses his attention back on the open grave at his feet.
Carefully, he puts one foot forward testing the sides of the pit. The rain has softened the earth and made traction near impossible. Lowering himself back onto his rear, he slides down the six feet into the grave.
Tossing his umbrella aside, he switches his flashlight on and concentrates on the task at hand. He sets the flashlight down, kneels on top of the casket, and begins to brush the dirt and mud away from the lid.
Slowly, he begins to reveal the edges of the coffin. The rain—now dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose—does little to slow him down.
With the lid clearly visible he takes a deep breath saying a silent prayer before gripping the edge with both hands.
With one pull, the lid opens. The rust covered hinges squealing loudly.
The rain comes down harder now.
He reaches for the flashlight and shines it into the casket to banish the darkness.
