A/N: The mysteries gather.

Big Swamp

Chapter Nineteen: Disinter

Sarah's gone.

Damn me.

For a writer, words desert me too often. It's like those lines of T. S. Eliot's from Four Quartets.

Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish

Sarah said she wasn't going to chase me all across the English language, but I couldn't master enough of it, muster enough courage to explain, to tell her what I need to tell her — that I love her — and that Bryce's assholery doesn't — didn't — change that.

It doesn't; it didn't. But it does make me worry about my love. — My love. Yeah, I know, that's ambiguous. I'll just live with it, for now, live with it until I get myself sorted.

Until then I have a case to work on. A plan, a suspicion.

I go back inside and extract my gun from my filing cabinet, my bullets from my desk. I check the gun and load it carefully. I go back into the front office, one last time to the narrow closet, and grab my shoulder holster. After a quick check to make sure no one's watching, I carry the gun and holster stealthily to my car and put them into the glove compartment, locking it.

I sit with the car running, the A/C pumping. My plan can't start until after dark.

I drive to Ed's. It's something to do.

It's cool inside, and Hannah's at work. She's standing at the end of a booth, talking, iced tea pitcher in one hand. She waves at me with the other. I don't see that it's Barry Ziff she's talking to until I get to my booth. He nods at me unhappily when he sees me.

He didn't waste time. I sneak a glance or two at them as they talk. Ziff thinks he's Hannah's second choice, her red ribbon, I guess, but I'm not sure that's true. I'm not sure it's false, either. She's never talked to me much about him. She likes him but I worry that he may rate that liking romantic when it's not. I can't get much from her body language. They're talking about the Atlanta Braves, the recent losing streak.

After a moment, Hannah walks over to my booth. I see Ziff watching in the background.

"Hey, Chuck, how's Morgan?"

News travels like lightning. "Hey, Hannah. He's doing okay. Home."

She smiles. "Good! Tell him I'm praying for him."

"Sure, Hannah. Thanks. How's business?"

She smiles and shrugs. "Good enough. Saturday's are unpredictable in the summer."

I'm not sure if that's a comment about Ziff showing up — or about my recent hiatus — or both — or neither. Unsureness is the order of my day.

But I order a cup of coffee and Hannah nods. "Be back with it in a minute."

She leaves and I automatically pick up the menu on the table. I look at it and then realize I can't eat. Hannah comes back with my coffee. She puts it on the table, then she slides into the booth with me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ziff stiffen.

"Chuck, can you come by the house tomorrow? Dad heard about Morgan and he told me to tell you — if I saw you — he'd like to talk to you."

"When?"

"Anytime in the afternoon should be okay."

"I'll be there — will you? I could use a buffer between Big Jim and myself."

She laughs. "I'll be there. Anything to eat?" She asks the question as she slides out of the booth.

"No, nothing. Stomach's bothering me."

She raises her eyebrows. "You? The Man With the Iron Stomach?"

"It's been touchy lately."

She nods, her eyes complicated: sympathetic, envious. She doesn't say anymore.

I sip at the coffee half-heartedly, taking my time.

The last two days have caught up with me. My hands feel shaky around the cup.

Ziff left with a goodbye to Hannah, and the dinner crowd's growing. I've just taken the last cold sip of my coffee and as I lower the cup, I see Father Casey standing at my booth.

"Can I join you?"

"Sure, Father." He sits. "What brings you to Opelika on a Saturday evening?" He's usually busy at St. Dunstan's on Saturdays.

"I came over to check on Morgan, Bolonia. They said you'd been by."

I nod. "Yeah, earlier in the afternoon."

He leans forward slightly, cocks his head. "You okay, Chuck? You look...off."

"It's been a long couple of days."

He considers me for a moment more. "So, did the other high heel drop?"

"Huh?"

"Walker. Something was bound to happen. The other shoe dropping. — She's a beautiful woman, Chuck, and beautiful women have baggage."

"Aren't the metaphors getting mixed up?"

Father Casey frowns. "Don't do your dance, Chuck. Talk straight to me. Does it involve her annoyingly present past boyfriend?"

I sigh. "Yes. He paid me a visit to...share some information."

He nods and leans back. "I see. Kind of him. You know better than to listen to him, right?"

Now I lean forward. "What do you mean, Father, haven't you been warning me about her?"

He puts both of his large hands on the table. Hannah makes it to us. He points to my cup then to himself. She grins and nods, looks a question at me. I put my hand on top of my cup.

"Yeah, Chuck, I have. My mistake. I watched her last night at the hospital, mulled what I saw over later. — I watched her with Bolonia, with Ellie, with Carina, with you. Mostly with you. Even when she was talking to someone else, she was watching over you, checking on you, keeping up with how you were doing. She has feelings, Chuck, for you. I'm sure of it. Whatever her ex had to say, just keep that in mind. She has real feelings for you."

This makes me feel worse, not better. I recollect the sadness in her eyes earlier and I sigh again.

Father Casey leans forward, laces his fingers, rests his chin on them, his elbows on the table. Hannah brings his coffee and he nods his thanks. He watches her leave without changing his posture.

"Lots of romantic mischance going around, eh?"

"I suppose." I take my empty cup in my hand, turn it and watch the last drip of coffee in the bottom run side to side. "How should a person think about his past, Father?"

"You asking me that — theologically?"

"Yeah, theologically."

He reflects for a moment. "You know me, Chuck. I'm a New Testament guy. A rebirth guy. The prodigal son — or daughter. No story's done until it's done. Life itself is a spiritual discipline — all of it, and there's no finishing early because the very ending can always surprise you, like the thief on the cross." He sips from his cup and looks at me from under his brow.

I chuckle as he sips. "That's some pretty telegraphic theology, Father. I'm supposed to unpack all that now?"

He joins my chuckle. "No, just bear it in mind, Chuck. Let it percolate through you."

Hannah shows up at just that moment and refills his cup. I shrug and push mine toward her too, gesturing to it.

I feel like maybe I can drink another.

I drive toward Noble Hall in the dark.

Before I get to the Hall, I slow and pull into a gravel road that leads back to a green metal gate. The folks who keep their horses at the Hall use the gate for loading and unloading horses and hay and so on.

I park with the nose of the Camry against the gate, turn off the lights. I sit for a little while, let the darkness thicken. Then I unlock the glove compartment, grab my holstered gun, stow my phone, get out of the car and close the door quietly. I put the holster on, securing it in place. I open the trunk and quickly grab the flashlight and the shovel, then shut the trunk. I pocket my keys. A car goes by but I am parked too far from the road for their headlights to reach me.

I put the flashlight in my pocket and, shovel in hand, I climb the fence. I walk through the grass toward the Hall but it takes a few minutes before I can make it out ahead of me. Only one light, one upstairs, is on.

I climb the fence that runs alongside the driveway. I crouch down when I've crossed it. The Hall is about a hundred feet from me. But the Hall itself is not my destination. My mind wanders to Sarah, but I'm not here to see her.

Keeping low, I move parallel to the fence. My intention is to pass by the Hall and to enter the woods using the path Sarah and I followed to the pond. As I near the house, I hear a door open. I look around but can't see any open door. But then I look up. The door to the second-floor balcony closes just after the light goes out.

I cross the driveway, get closer to the house, hiding behind a hedge. I look up but cannot see anyone. I'm panting a little and hear myself, so I try to calm down, slow my breathing. I listen.

I hear sobs. I look up and see Sarah. She's moved forward to the railing on the balcony and she's standing against it, her arms around herself. For a moment, it looks like she's naked.

And for a moment, I'm David Diamond and she's Jane Peterson, Romeo, and Juliet, and I half-expect her to begin to sing. But instead, she sobs again.

A car goes by and the headlight-glow shows her enough to reveal that she has on a short peach nightie and nothing else. I am staring up at her when I realize the headlight-glow revealed me to her. I hear her gasp.

"Chuck? Chuck, is that you?" Her voice is partly choked, thickened like the night.

I step forward in the dark, out from the hedge. "Yes, Sarah, it's me."

"What are you doing here? In the dark?" She wipes her eyes then tugs at the bottom of her nightie.

"Looking for someone," I say less than helpfully.

"Who? Me?"

"No, actually, not you, although I'm glad to find you, see you, and you look...great."

She pauses for a moment, looks down at herself, shakes her head as if to improve her bearings "What are you carrying?"

I hold the shovel up, brandish it. "It's a shovel." I feel like I'm in a Monty Python skit, but can't decide which one.

"Why are you beneath my balcony with a shovel, Chuck?" A hint of mockery dances in her tone, in and around the sadness.

"Because I don't expect the person I'm looking for to answer my knock."

She stares down at me. I can feel her eyes in the dark, blue and demanding.

"Don't move. I'll throw on some clothes and shoes and be right down."

A few minutes later, Sarah comes outside. She doesn't turn on any light but I hear the back door open and close and then see her approaching me. She has on a dark top — she's still buttoning it — and jeans and sneakers.

She stops a few feet from me and her curiosity radiates from her — and her anger and sadness. I had never imagined Sarah crying. It subtly changes my understanding of her, that elusive coolness that enters her eyes.

She's not crying now but she was before, and I hardly know what to do or say.

But I'm not going to spiral again. No. I'm not going to let words fail me.

"So, Chuck, what are you doing? Who are you looking for?" She sounds cautious, uncertain.

I look at her in the dark. "I'll get to that. Sarah, I'm sorry. I don't believe Bryce — I didn't believe him. I just got overwhelmed. I don't believe him. But that's not what really matters. What matters is what I do believe: I do believe that I'm falling in love with you." Fallen, full disclosure — but I can't quite say that yet. "And nothing about your past, nothing you tell me about it — when you tell me about it — is going to stop that."

We stand facing each other but unable to clearly see the other's face. I begin to fear words have failed me again, even though I managed to speak words this time. Under the burden, under the tension…

The moment seems to stretch on endlessly, eternal, but the darkness around us seems jumpy, restless.

And then Sarah's in my arms — or rather, I'm in hers. She's kissing me over and over. I can feel the tears on her cheeks. She pauses, laughs softly, wipes at them, and starts kissing me again. We hold each other tight.

Sarah steps back. She puts out her hand and cups my cheek.

"I'm sorry too. I was so afraid of what Bryce might do, and then so furious about what he did, that I didn't really listen to you — not that what you said was...um...crystalline. But I figured it out when I got here. And it wasn't fair for me to expect you to be wholly unaffected by what he told you. I like that you're soft-boiled." She rubs my cheek. "But I worried that Bryce and I had ruined everything, everything between you and me…"

I put my hand on her hand, pull her hand around to my lips and kiss her palm.

"Love, huh?" She asks gently, carefully — as if she's walking on ice.

God help me. "Yeah."

After more kisses, more hugs, Sarah reaches down and wraps her hand around my shovel. "So, Chuck, explain this, please."

I decide I'm all in. "I have a case — not the one you fired me from, another one. I've been investigating the death of Jane Peterson, the woman who used to own Noble Hall."

"Oh," Sarah says, nodding her head, taking that in. "But why are you here with a shovel?"

"Because I want to know something about her life."

I take Sarah's hand and lead her across the driveway, down the road to the path.

"Are we going to the pond?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so. — I take it no one is in the Hall but you?"

"Right, Wylie's at the Club, I think."

"Good," I nod and drop her hand, take out my flashlight.

Sarah watches me. "God, Chuck, between your shovel and your flashlight…"

I laugh softly. "And your peach nightie…"

"Good color vision. — You liked that?"

"Dear God, yes."

I click on the flashlight and shine it up the path. Sarah takes my hand, gives it a squeeze. We walk as if we were going to the pond, but I train the flashlight mainly on the edges of the path, looking and watching. About a quarter of the distance to the pond, I see a smaller path leading away from the main one. We follow for a time until it deadends.

A breeze starts to blow, welcome for its coolness, unwelcome for the whispers with which it fills the woods, the rustling, moving leaves.

We retrace our steps, and at about halfway to the pond, we find another, even smaller path, leading away from the main one. As we walk, I quietly tell Sarah the story of Jane Peterson and David Diamond, my hushed voice harmonizing with the rustling breeze.

Sarah stops and pulls me to her; I feel her shudder against me. "So you mean we replayed what happened to them, sort of, just a few minutes ago? The balcony scene?"

"Yeah, guess so. Weird, huh? Some kind of full circle."

"Definitely weird, Chuck."

We walk a long way, and the path winds uphill. We almost lose it a couple of times but manage to refind it. Vines and leaves have obscured it. It's clear no one has walked it in a long time.

Eventually, it comes to an end in a small circle of ground. On one side of it is a log, cut as if for firewood. It's not part of a fallen tree. It was placed there. It's on its side and is worn almost smooth on top. I hand Sarah the flashlight and sit down on the log.

I sing these words softly:

She walks these hills, in a long black veil
She visits my grave when the night winds wail

Sarah shines the flashlight into my face. "Jesus, Chuck, that's creepy."

"No," I say and feel the grimness of my smile, "it's Bill Monroe, his version, anyway. — Keep the flashlight on the ground for me, Sarah, please."

I start digging with my shovel. I'm not sure how I became sure about this, what I'm doing, digging, but I did. The stories about Jane Peterson and David Diamond, Jane's late-night lantern walks, Hannah's joke about her dad killing me and burying me in an unmarked grave, the Bill Monroe song, together they brought me here.

It takes a while but I finally strike something hard. I kneel down. Sarah comes closer. I use my hands to dig. Bone's visible — at least I take it to be bone. In a moment, I know it is. A skull. One side of it is caved in, badly. I hear Sarah inhale.

I look up at her. "We just found David Diamond."

I begin to shovel dirt back into the shallow hole.

"What are you doing, Chuck? Don't we need to...report this?" She sounds worried.

I keep shoveling, not looking up at her. She keeps the light on me. "Not yet, Sarah. I'd like to talk first. I'd like to know some things about your...uncle. I'm hoping you'll tell me. But it's your choice."

She's thinking so hard I can almost hear her. "About...Uncle Wylie? Here? Now?"

"Yeah, about Uncle Wylie."

"Do we need to dig this up now, Chuck? The past? My past."

I stop, shrug, holding a shovelful of dirt. "Seems like the night for it."