Buried (14 page)

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C
live lives in an area of expensive ranch homes where the
fencing is plastic and the horses are pedigreed. We park a few blocks away and start walking.

“What if someone sees us?” I ask when I spot a neighborhood watch sign and security lights glaring from driveways.

“We pretend to be lovers out for an evening walk.”

“Don't make me ill.”

Jay chuckles. “Pretend I'm the hottest guy you know and you're wild for my body.”

I roll my eyes. “I'm not that good an actress.”

“Then we should rehearse now. First step is holding my hand.” His words throw out a challenge.

I don't back down, reminding myself I'm doing this for K.C.

The callused touch of Jay's hand surprises me. I'd expected that a preppy guy who lettered in golf—not a rough sport like football—would have soft skin. Besides, as the Reaper, he wears gloves. His hands are tan, with long fingers with a firm grip. There's a ring on his left hand, a large smooth stone with multifaceted angles. It's too dark to see what kind of stone, but I'm guessing something expensive like a diamond or ruby; a ring easily identified, which explains why the Reaper wears gloves.

His voice breaks into my thoughts. “Are you going out with K.C.?”

I rock back on my heels as if thrown off balance. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curious. Is he your boyfriend?”

My cheeks warm. “Don't be stupid. K.C.'s just a friend.”

“A friend that lives with you,” he points out.

“Not with me—with my very large family. K.C. doesn't even sleep in the house. He has the room over the garage.”

“He's a boarder?”

“More like an adopted brother,” I say fondly. “When I met him, he was living out of his car. He's had some bad breaks but he's working hard to make something of himself. He helps my parents by fixing our car and doing occasional babysitting. He has a job after school and is saving for his own place, but it'll take a while because he sends money home to his sister.”

“Sounds like a saint.”

“He's just a nice guy,” I say defensively.

“And I'm not,” he says, in a way that could be an apology or a boast.

“Not much. When we first met you pushed me down, stole my backpack, and tossed it in a Dumpster.”

“I needed to hurry back to class so I could anonymously leave a note saying where to find Bruce Gibson. I only dumped the backpack to get rid of you. I felt bad about that.”

“I thought you weren't going to lie,” I accuse him.

“It's the truth. You might not believe it, but the Grin Reaper evens the score around here. Nice kids are an endangered species and need protecting.”

“But what makes you their protector?” I retort.

“I can't stand bullies winning and nice kids being victims. Like what happened to your friend.” Jay arrogantly lifts his chin. “Do you think what I do is wrong?”

“Well … not so much anymore. I understand wanting to help the underdog. But why sneak around in a mask? If you know who's guilty, why not go to a teacher, or to the sheriff for more serious things?”

“Knowing and proving aren't the same. Besides, have you met Sheriff Hart?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say ruefully. “I get the feeling he thinks all teens are guilty until proven innocent.”

“Yeah.” Jay nods. “If you're under age, you're under suspicion. He's not corrupt like a lot of officials around here, but he can be as dense as winter fog. You need to smack him with hard evidence to get his attention. Since I don't have proof that Clive tagged K.C.'s car, there's no point in telling the sheriff. I'll get my own justice.”

“Like your name.”

“Justice is my father's name.” He stops walking. My eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness, so when he stares at me, I can see every curve and edge of his face. “You know what my mom used to say?”

I shake my head.

“‘Don't expect life to be fair and you'll never be disappointed. But when a rare miracle of justice occurs, be grateful.'”

“I like that,” I tell him. “Your mom sounds cool.”

“She was.” He glances down at the ground, then back up at me. “I learned the hard way not to wait around for miracles. I create my own justice.”

The angry passion in his tone surprises me. Did something happen to his mother? Is that what drove him to become the Reaper? I want to ask, only there's an uneasy tension between us. Being so close, talking like old friends instead of … well, I'm not sure what we are now. Not friends, but no longer enemies.

“We're away from security lights.” I walk ahead of him. “If we stay in the shadows, no one will see us.”

“Yeah.” He points up a rolling hillside. “Clive lives up there.”

I look past the lush green lawn, which seems oddly out of place in this rural setting. I hear whinnies of horses from a pasture surrounded by pale white fencing that looms ghostlike in the dark. Golden lights twinkle from a sprawling two-story house—not a farmhouse, more like a mansion.

“Now what?” I ask.

“We hope there aren't any vicious guard dogs.”

“Comforting thought.” I listen carefully, hearing nothing except the wind and neighing from the horses.

“I didn't have much time to check things out,” Jay says almost apologetically. “Only a quick drive-by of the area and a trip to the hardware store.”

“Why the hardware store?”

“Supplies.”

“Where are they?” I gesture at his empty hands.

“In the car for later.”

He stops in front of a livestock gate and unhooks the latch. After holding the gate open for me to step through, he latches it behind us. We make our way cautiously along the fence line, creeping low until we reach the red barn.

“What are you planning?” I ask, suddenly nervous when it occurs to me that he might be an arsonist. “Nothing that hurts animals?”

“No animals will be harmed in the course of my actions tonight.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

He puts his finger to his lips. “No more talking.”

I hear squawking from chickens but no barking, which is a small relief. We move in the shadows, nearing the barn with its strong odor of manure and the low sound of mooing. We pass the barn and continue toward the house. Are we going to break into Clive's home?

But Jay stops in front of a large metal building, which I thought was another barn until he whispers it's a garage. “Clive's into big, expensive toys.” He reaches out for the large double doors and pulls the curved metal handle. But nothing happens.

“It's locked,” I say, both disappointed and relieved.

“I can handle it,” he assures me as he reaches into his coat pocket for a slim cloth case the size of a wallet. He slides it open to reveal tiny metal picks. I watch in fascination as he tries different picks, poking until there's a click and the door opens.

I'm hit with a strong grease-and-oil smell as I stare into a vast room that's more spacious and loaded with equipment than the auto shop K.C. works at. There are work tables covered in tools, a mechanical lift fixed to the ceiling, and in the center, like a prize on display, Clive's gleaming truck.

Even if Jay hadn't already told me, it's obvious that this truck is Clive's heart. Excitement rips through me as I anticipate Jay's next move. I'm puzzled, though, because he doesn't have any paint, knives, or bomb-making equipment with him. I follow him slowly, only able to make out vague shapes in the darkness.

“How strong are you?” Jay asks when he reaches the truck.

“Stronger than I look.”

“You'll need to be.”

He climbs up on the driver's side of the truck and swings open the door. A light flashes. I worry someone will see us, but Jay turns off the inner light and we're enveloped in blackness.

I can't see what he's doing, but he's done before I can ask. He jumps out of the truck and goes to the large entry doors, pushing them wide open.

“Jay!” I call out, alarmed. “Someone might see us!”

“The house is dark, and the porch light faces the other direction. Besides, we're going to be quiet. I've fixed the steering wheel and the truck ready to roll. All we have to do is push it out of here and once it's far enough away from the house, I'll start the engine.”

“Are you totally insane? Grand theft auto!”

“We're not stealing the truck, just borrowing it.”

“Of course. That makes it okay,” I say sarcastically.

“Chill. We won't get caught.”

Easy for him to say, with his rich daddy to bail him out and arrange to have all charges dropped with a magic-wand-wave of a checkbook—while I'd still be in jail. I'm ready to refuse until I remember K.C. and the sick slurs on his car. When Jay leads me to the back of the truck and says “Push,” I don't argue.

Every creak and groan of the truck sounds a thousand times louder. And I imagine sirens blaring on their way to arrest us. But I push on, the wheels rolling smoothly on concrete, then more slowly on hard dirt. I'm sweating now, too, pushing with all my might.

We pause when the truck starts to veer the wrong direction, and Jay jumps back inside (the light no longer flashes on). He's back out quickly and we push until the truck sinks into darker shadows. The ground dips and the truck rolls faster—much too fast! My hands slip and I half-stumble to the ground, then hurry to catch up. The truck levels out and we're closer to the livestock gate.

“This should be far enough,” Jay says, then he jumps inside the truck, gesturing for me to join him. He keeps the lights off but fiddles with some hanging wires and the engine starts up with a powerful purr, like a caged tiger released into the night. We're through the gate and out onto the main road.

We return to Jay's car and he tosses me the keys, then tells me to follow while he drives the truck to the high school.

The main part of town is quiet, with only a few cars on the road and most businesses shut up for the night. The high school parking lot is locked and has security lights. Jay flips a U-turn, directing me to park on the street near the school entrance. I climb up next to him in the truck and we leave his car behind.

We ride in silence for about a mile, questions about his plan screaming in my head. But I'm more curious about him. What turns a rich kid into a vigilante?

So I ask him.

I think he's going to pretend not to hear me, but then he says, “It just happened.”

“What exactly?” I persist. “How did it begin?”

He gnaws on his lower lips, staring out across the dashboard as if seeing into the past instead of the deserted road ahead. “I've never told anyone.”

“I've never committed grand larceny. But I'm here.”

The scar on the corner of his mouth deepens when he grins. “I find that really hot in a girl.”

“You know what I find hot in a guy?” I look him directly in his dark eyes. “Honesty.”

“Good luck with that,” he says bitterly.

“So don't tell me anything. I didn't think you would anyway.”

He stares ahead as if totally focused on driving. But his fingers grip the steering wheel, both hands tight in a strangle hold as if he's wrestling with himself.

“It's because of my father,” Jay blurts out.

I nod for him to continue.

“The Honorable Justice Blankenship was never very honorable, but my mother was like his conscience, and so he was a good judge until she died.”

I want to say “I'm sorry” only it doesn't seem like enough, so I say nothing.

“My father turned bitter and got sucked into the power of his position. I became just another asset to him, like black ink instead of red on his financial accounts. He gave me anything I asked for—private instructors in martial arts, guitar, golf, fencing, and more. I thought this was his way of showing he cared, and I pretended not to notice his dishonest dealings. But then that kid hurt the school dog.”

“Rune told me about that.”

“Everyone knew who did it, and he even got caught on a security camera. But his dad knew my dad and the charges were dropped. I went to my father and accused him of being bought. You know what he said?”

I shake my head.

“He bragged about it, saying it was easy money. When I called him corrupt, he told me this was a valuable lesson about how things worked in the adult world. ‘You're a spineless bleeding heart just like your mother,' he said. That night, the Grin Reaper struck for the first time. Martial arts training made it easy to overpower the little dog-abuser creep. I wanted to kill him—I really did. Lucky for him, I only wrote on his head.”

“And left a smiley face sticker.”

“About that sticker … ” Jay chuckles darkly. “I didn't leave it.”

“What? But then who did?”

“I don't know how it got there—probably dropped by a little kid. But when rumors spread and someone came up with the name the Grin Reaper, I started leaving the symbol on purpose.”

“Big bad Grin Reaper,” I say with a teasing shudder.

“You'd better believe it.” He flashes me an exaggerated grin. “Hold on, things are going to get interesting very soon.”

The truck jerks right as he makes a sudden turn onto a road that's familiar, although I don't place it at first. We're surrounded by rugged hills, dipping and curving along high desert. A faint moon peaks out from clouds, slicing a silvery trail across cactus, rocks, and weeds with mysterious beauty that touches something deep inside me. My gaze is drawn to a lone barn in the horizon, its steeply pitched roof sparking my memory. This is the same route I took a few days ago—when I found the grave.