SAFELY BURIED Chapter 33: A Handful of Stars

When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, I raised the top of my shirt and used it as a face mask. I breathed through my mouth in a futile effort to avoid smelling the chemicals. My eyes were on fire. I blinked constantly, trying to make tears to wash the fumes away.

I wondered if Wayne Garth had discovered the drums just as I had. Glenn Neidig had called him an environmentalist. The old man said Garth was concerned that runoff from the closed landfill might get into his well. But Glenn hadn’t said anything about drums of chemicals. He would have if he had known about them.

The wheels were turning.

Maybe Garth had threatened to report the leaking chemicals to the EPA. Maybe that’s why he and his wife were killed. Didn’t Paula say marijuana had nothing to do with it? But if the Garths were murdered to keep them from exposing the fact that the chemicals had been disposed of improperly, it meant the prime suspects were the owners of the landfill—the Brandons. So maybe the Garths had tried to blackmail the Brandons. Maybe that’s what got them killed.

I didn’t want to believe it. There had to be another explanation.

I let myself take a deep breath through the shirt. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that someone in the Brandon family was behind the murders. The PCBs were leaking into the ground. It was a mind-blowing situation. Cleanup costs could run into the millions—many, many millions. Lillian Brandon had said her father and her uncle were negotiating to sell MWM. If word got out that their company had hundreds of leaking barrels of PCBs stashed in a cave, no one in his right mind would buy their company. Even more damning, Lillian had said the former county dump was not one of the landfills that were up for sale. Why not? Perhaps because the Brandons did not want to take the chance that a new owner would discover the drums and come after them for the cleanup costs.

And what about Boofey and his wife—how did they fit in? They were the ones who were acting like killers. I did an about-face: maybe the Brandons had not killed the Garths; maybe the Garths told Boofey about the PCBs and he saw an opportunity to cash in; maybe he got rid of Wayne and Cheryl before they decided to expose the chemical cave; maybe the Boofeys, not the Garths, were blackmailing the Brandons. I had heard Edna Mae tell Walter the whole thing wasn’t worth it, no matter how much money they got. The blackmail plan might be going down right now.

Something else Paula said came back to me. “Don’t forget,” she had reminded Boofey, “it was me that told you about Wayne. You owe me for that.” Perhaps she wasn’t demanding credit for telling him about Wayne Garth as a possible tenant for the old house. Maybe she meant she had told him that Garth had been trying to blackmail the Brandons. Maybe she had somehow found out about the PCBs after disappearing from my car outside the Grapevines’ house.

The flashlight sent a pale yellow beam across the drums. A sickly hole spread through my chest—the light was beginning to fade.

The herd of drums ended around the bend at the upper end of the cavern. Perhaps because the slanted floor carried the leaking chemicals away from me, the odor was less acrid where I now stood. About fifty feet away, the tunnel was filled with trash. The pile tapered toward me like a tongue sticking out of an eyeless face. Gouges on the walls and ceiling indicated that the cavern had been enlarged, but I could not tell how far I’d have to dig to get out. Was the entrance only a few yards away, or would I have to slog through a mile-long tunnel of rotten garbage?

I leaned the flashlight on a rock, pulled a short board out of the trash, and waded into the heap. The top of the cave was about seven feet high at this point. I knelt in the trash near the top of the pile and dug into it with the board. It took about ten seconds for me to learn that this was not going to be easy. I was not dealing with a pile of loose, everyday kitchen trash. I was dealing with tons of junk. Half buried around me were a baby’s car seat, a grocery cart, a wading pool, a sofa, a box spring, a vacuum-cleaner bag, bricks, insulation, termite-riddled wood, rubber boots, a lawn mower, newspaper pages, dried-out garbage, brown diapers, a washing machine, an ironing board, an artificial Christmas tree, a woman’s wig—you name it. And worst of all, everything was crushed and mixed in with dirt. I had wanted to use my little board as an oar and paddle my way through the trash, but it was nearly impossible to make any headway.

By the time I cleared a space about three feet long, my arms were already giving out. I gave them a rest and caught my breath. I had sunk several inches into the pile. I wondered if there was another entrance to the cave. “If you want to find it, garbage man,” I said aloud again, “you’d better get going before the light goes out.” I knew it was going to die sooner or later. If I had to, I could work on the trash pile in the dark.

I hauled myself out of the pile. One of my socks felt wet. I pulled up my pants leg and saw a glob of black grease on my ankle. I used a can to scrape off as much as I could.

The roof of the cavern sloped into a low tunnel. I didn’t feel like crawling again, but I decided to give the tunnel a try, at least for a few minutes, in case a limousine was waiting for me at the other end.

I crawled into the tunnel. It did not look favorable. One more tight squeeze. I went about twenty feet and found another low passage on the right, which was the wrong way, back into the hill. I passed on it and came to a rocky drop, a slope I could get down on my behind. This tunnel angled toward the outer hillside, and my hopes began to rise. I climbed a low, craggy wall and entered another passage. The floor was rugged, stony, hard on the knees, but at least I was on my knees instead of my chest. The tunnel ended in a shallow pit shaped like a saucer.

I jerked back as the acid in my stomach rose to my throat. I felt hot and cold at the same time. My skin began to crawl.

In front of my face lay the skeletal remains of a child. Its head hung to the side at a ninety-degree angle. It was no more than four feet long. It wore a once-white T-shirt, ragged jeans, and black-and-white basketball shoes that looked like old-fashioned sneakers, the kind a boy would wear. A brown membrane of mummified skin clung to some of the bones in the hands and face. The eye sockets were empty, but a stretched tent of skin covered part of the skull, where a small patch of short, spindly hairs sprouted like dried-out grass.

The boy had died years ago, at least five, maybe even ten, but how the hell would I know? The cool temperature in the cave may have helped to preserve the remains, and evidently no animals, other than insects, had found the bones, even though they were exposed. The skeleton lay on its back. Perhaps the kid had been exploring the cave and had fallen and broken his neck. But there was nothing to climb in here—he could not have fallen very far. So how could he have broken his neck so severely? And if he was exploring, he must have had a flashlight or something. I scanned the area with mine. Unless the skeleton was lying on it, there was no flashlight, lantern, or any other kind of light on the ground. Maybe a second kid had been with him. Maybe that kid took the light and went for help but got lost in the cave. There might be another skeleton lying somewhere. Or maybe the other kid was responsible for the boy’s death and never reported it. Maybe they got in a fight. . . .

Come on, Larrison, how likely was that?

If a little kid disappeared, a massive search would have been launched. I remembered the Gleaner articles about the boy who had run away from the Good Shepherd Home and was never found. Maybe he had hidden in the cave. The entrance from the dump may not have been blocked by trash at the time. But he could not have gotten this far without a light. Again, of course, the skeleton might be covering it, but I wasn’t about to move the bones to find out. Besides, the other problem remained: how could he have broken his neck so badly?

There was a simpler explanation. Perhaps the boy had not been exploring the cave or hiding in it. Perhaps someone had killed him somewhere else and dumped the body here.

Simple was good, but it wasn’t quite that simple. If the entrance from the dump had not been blocked by trash, then all kinds of critters—dogs, rats, raccoons, coyotes, possums—would have found the body and ripped it apart. Everything but the clothing would be gone by now, and the clothing would be in shreds. Unless . . . unless the entrance had been blocked up with trash immediately after the body had been dumped.

My flashlight was now just a crinkly yellow glow. I had to get back to the trash heap before it died altogether. I wasn’t going to find another way out of the cave. My only hope was to dig my way out through the trash. I felt a new sense of urgency. I had to get out. I had to report what I had found to the police. I had stories to write.

I crawled as fast as I could. I felt as if the boy’s skeleton was nipping at my heels. Usually the return trip seems to go faster, but the trip back to the trash pile seemed to take me twice as long. When I finally got there, I had trouble finding the board I had been using as a scoop. I was in a panic until I spotted it at the bottom of the pile. I must have dropped it there without thinking.

I climbed back up to the tunnel I had started and tore into the trash again. I felt stronger. I was charged, driven. I found some plastic Wal-Mart bags and wrapped them around my hands to cut down on nicks and cuts. I raked the little board through the dirt and loose bits of junk. I pulled out the larger pieces and flung them behind me. I raked, dug, pulled, and dragged as fast as I could while I still had a glimmer of light. It was tedious, disgusting work, but I made some progress. I told myself it was not an endless pile of trash. If I kept at it long enough, eventually I would get through. It was not infinite. Assorted junk and filth piled up behind me in the tunnel I was digging. Soon I was closed in, surrounded by trash. My little space was like a capsule moving through the trash.

I began to worry about running out of air. I worried that I’d run into some immovable barrier such as buried trees or slabs of concrete. Just dig, I said to myself. Worry about it if and when you have to. Think about something else.

I thought about the children at the Good Shepherd Home who had been taken to some pervert’s house. I thought about Gary Fromm and the Professor. Did one of the kids get killed, accidentally or otherwise? Did one of them drown in the Professor’s pond? Did Chuck Martin dump the body in the cave? No. Dumb idea. It violated my working hypothesis that the entrance was blocked right after the body was dumped. Martin could not have arranged that. But one of the Brandons—or someone who had worked for them—could.

The flashlight went out. I shook it to get every last photon out of it that I could. Then I tossed it behind me. The darkness was as black as pitch. It felt impenetrable. I had psyched myself up for this moment, but even so I began to feel depressed. I worked more slowly, feeling for a spot where I could jab the board. Now that I was in the dark, I gouged my hands constantly despite the plastic bags. I struggled to pull larger items past me. Like a blind galley slave, I plunged my oar into the sea of trash and swept it behind me. My arms, my shoulders, the back of my neck began to ache. Every minute or so I stopped to flex them.

I had no idea how wide the entrance to the cave was. I couldn’t tell if I was digging in a straight line or if I had veered to one side or the other. I did know I was still at the top of the pile, because the roof of the cave was only an inch or two above my head. And I was nearly certain that my veer had not become a U-turn. In other words, I was not heading back where I had started. So I dug to the right until I reached the side of the tunnel, and then I made a left and hugged the wall. It meant extra digging, but at least I felt I was heading in the right direction.

One good thing happened: I found a curved piece of metal. It felt like a bicycle fender, and it penetrated the trash pile better than the board I’d been using. I went a little bit faster, but I had to stop and rest more often, and as I got more tired, I got more depressed. Sweat ran off me. My shirt stuck to my back, but I was afraid to take it off. It gave me a millimeter of protection against sharp-edged junk. At times I came to as if I had been digging in my sleep. My throat was dry and raw. If I had found a bottle with some liquid in it, I would have swallowed it no matter what it was.

You know, the voice said, you’re not going to dig your way out of here. The entrance is blocked. It has to be. Boulders. Railroad ties. Concrete. Whoever hauled in those drums and whoever got rid of the boy’s body didn’t want them to be found. The entrance is sealed. Your only way out is to go back the way you came, and without a flashlight, that’s impossible. You’re dead, Larrison. You’re dead.

Was I really dead? Maybe so. Maybe this was my hell. I’d dig on forever through light years of trash until I reached the barrier at the end of the tunnel and had to turn around and dig the other way. I should be grateful I wasn’t digging through a cesspool for all eternity. But at least then I’d have something to drink.

I couldn’t go any farther. I stuck the bike fender in the wall of trash so I’d know where to start digging again, and then I lay on a piece of linoleum and closed my eyes. I wondered why I closed my eyes. What did it matter if they were open or shut? Everything was black. But not solid black . . . shades of black . . . very slight gradations that seemed to pulse or jitter. . . .

I slept fitfully, waking often, always too tired to start digging again. I thought about Jodie, or rather half-thought, half-dreamed about her. Her feet splashed in the river. I kissed her again, but this time her face receded, becoming smaller and smaller, fading to an infinitely small point. I felt my arms moving, slashing through trash. Was I awake or asleep? I woke myself up to see if I had been asleep. I smelled like garbage, or thought I did—I wasn’t sure. I was part of the trash heap, indistinguishable from it, one with it. . . .

I pushed myself up. My back hurt from lying on something hard. I felt my way back into the hole I was carving out. I found the bicycle fender and began digging again. I chopped at the trash. I grabbed hunks of it and threw it behind me, over my shoulder, smack in my face. I started laughing. Don’t laugh, I warned myself. I dug fiercely, frantically. Slow down. Pace yourself. I began talking out loud. I sang the few songs I knew. The more I dug, the more I despaired.

In a trance, I began to pray: Blessed be God. Blessed be His holy name. . . . I snapped out of it. It was hypocritical to pray. If I died and went to hell, it was where I deserved to go. It was wrong to try to save my soul with a deathbed confession, a coward in a heap of trash, a piece of shit. Blessed be darkness. Blessed be nothingness.

I dug.

I slept.

I came to a fork in the trash. Both tunnels were crammed with trash. I picked the wrong one. It spiraled downward. . . .

I woke up drowning in sweat. I felt for the wall. It was still there. I dug in blind compulsion, neither awake nor asleep.

I was dying of thirst. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? It meant I was still alive.

I tried to gauge how far I had come. Fifty feet? A hundred? I had been digging for hours, maybe a day. It was impossible to tell. How long had I slept?

Don’t think. Just dig. Don’t think. Just dig. Don’t think. Just—

A ton of dirt fell on me. I pressed my face into a crushed cardboard box and sucked for air. My arms and shoulders were pinned, but my legs were free. I used them to work my hips and chest from side to side. Dirt flowed into my ears. I pressed my arms into the trash and wiggled them as hard as I could in an effort to open crevices for the dirt to fall through, off of me.

I could hardly breathe. I thought I was drowning in dirt. My lungs were bursting. I forced my head into the trash and dirt.

I heard a loud, raspy noise. Locusts. I raised my head and saw a handful of stars through a hole in the clouds.