Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

Duty, Honor, Hammett by Stacy Woodson

Stacy Woodson is a U.S. Army veteran, and she’s made use of her firsthand knowledge of the military in this debut story. In 2017, she won the Daphne du Maurier Award for best romantic suspense, in the single-title, unpublished category, and one of her (unpublished) stories was a 2016 Killer Nashville Claymore finalist. She contributes nonfiction to Publishers Weekly and DIY MFA.

In Arlington Cemetery, under the steps of the Memorial Amphitheater, the clock in Tomb Guard Quarters chimed.

“Bells. Bells.” Tuck, my trainer, echoed the time warning.

But I remained at attention — chin up, chest out, shoulders back — while he inspected my uniform. My brass shone. My medals were exact. And my shoes sparkled like a Mop & Glo ad.

Tuck still made another pass, his success tied to mine. This time, he attacked my jacket with a lint roller. The tape crinkled back and forth as he wheeled it across my shoulders.

“Looking good, Jimmy.” He finally gave his approval, even though he still hovered like a parent on the first day of preschool.

I loosened my shoulders and tried to relax, but all I could think about was the performance test that loomed ahead.

My standard is perfection.

Line six of the Sentinel’s Creed echoed in my head, a reminder of what I needed to achieve. My uniform. My movements. Everything I did was cataloged and graded. With a ninety-percent attrition rate, few Tomb guards rose to the level of sentinel. If I made one mistake, one misstep...

My family’s sentinel legacy ended with me.

I swallowed and tried to push the thought away. Instead, my chest tightened, and the coat belted against me suddenly felt like a straitjacket.

“You okay, Specialist Reilly?” I looked up. Sergeant Spanelli, my relief commander, stood in the doorway. His uniform shone like mine. Medals filled his chest and gleamed like armor against the blue backdrop of his wool coat. He donned his service cap and pushed against the sides to adjust the fit rather than smudge the shiny brim. He checked himself in the mirror and then his dark eyes met mine. “Specialist Reilly...”

“Sergeant?”

“Are. You. Okay?”

“Roger that, Sergeant,” I responded quickly, even though my heart still slammed back and forth against my rib cage.

Spanelli’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t buy it. A second passed. Then two. “All right,” he finally said. His baritone voice tweaked my frayed nerves. “I’m headed up.” He slipped on his polarized sunglasses, and my wide eyes reflected back at me. “Have a good walk.”

“See you topside,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

Spanelli’s hulking hand smacked at the exit button to the exterior door. The lock disengaged and the door yawned open. He ascended the stairs, and the door eased shut behind him.

My gaze returned to the Ready Room and all its spit-shined glory: polished uniform accessories perched on wide wooden shelves, varnished leather furniture arranged in a perfect square, and aged photographs that chronicled a ninety-year sentinel legacy.

I glanced back in the mirror. My brother, in his army combat uniform, sat behind me.

Just like you.

Just like Dad.

Today, I walk the mat.

I turned to face him, but the chair was empty. My shoulders sagged.

Tuck disappeared down the hallway. When he returned, he handed me a spray bottle filled with water. I spritzed the palms of my gloves and hoped the moisture was enough to keep my M14 rifle from slipping against the fabric.

Tuck took the bottle. “It’s GO time.”

I swallowed hard. I needed to nail this.

For my dad.

For my brother.

For the Reilly family.

I grabbed my M14 from the rifle rack, pulled the charging handle, and inspected the chamber. It was clear. I brought the weapon to port arms, pressed the exit button, and took the stairs. The metal cheaters on my shoes click-clacked against the risers like some kind of clicking time bomb. I wondered if it was possible to explode from anxiety.

I made it to the top and stepped onto the walkway. The sun glared off the marble. I squinted, despite the sunglasses, and worked my way to the plaza — the Memorial Amphitheater at my left and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at my right. I stopped at the inspection block and blew out a breath.

Here we go.

I dropped my M14 to port arms and unlocked the bolt — the signal to Sergeant Spanelli that I was ready to begin.

Spanelli’s shoes click-clacked against the ground before I saw him. He marched past me to the black mat and continued until he was in front of the Tomb. He executed a right face, rendered a salute, and then turned toward the crowd of spectators behind the rails and chains.

“Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? I am Sergeant Spanelli of the Third Infantry Division, U.S. Army. Guard of Honor, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The ceremony you are about to witness is the Changing of the Guard. In keeping with the dignity of the ceremony, it’s requested everyone remain silent and standing.”

The crowd lulled to a whisper. I wondered how many were there. But I didn’t look. My eyes remained fixed forward.

My standard is perfection.

Spanelli marched toward me. His movements were fluid, nearly elegant. He grabbed my weapon and snapped it back and forth between his hands as he worked through the white-glove inspection.

Satisfied, he returned my rifle, and I moved it to shoulder arms. We marched in unison to the retiring guard at the center of the Tomb and saluted the Unknown. Orders were passed, and I took my place on the mat.

Twenty-one steps. Turn. Face the Tomb. Hold for twenty-one seconds. Turn. Move rifle to outside shoulder. Repeat.

Again and again.

Each sequence choreographed, each movement flawless.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Soon, my relief took his place on the inspection block, and I was at the end of my perfect shift, until a strangled sound shattered the silence:

CACAW. CACAW.

My teeth clenched, and my fingers wrapped tight around the butt of my weapon.

I exhaled sharply and forced my focus on the sequence:

Face tomb.

Count: One. Two. Three—

CACAW. CACAW.

Three... Crap.

I sucked in a breath and tried to find my place in the count.

Nine. Ten—

CACAW. CACAW.

Son of a...

Then it hit me. I knew that sound and the person who delivered it.

I had to do something...

I stepped off the mat, dropped to port arms, and sounded off. “It is requested that everyone maintain a level of silence and respect.”

I stared down the crowd and waited for the sound again, but the Falconer was gone.

I brought my weapon to shoulder arms and returned to the end of the mat. This time, I didn’t march alone.

Dread marched with me.

“The way you handled it was textbook.” Tuck tried to reassure me back in the Ready Room. “Can’t control the crazies.”

Unfortunately, Tuck’s assessment wasn’t the one that mattered. Sergeant Spanelli was the decider, and he saw everything.

I placed my M14 back in the rack and unbuckled my belt, but it provided little relief. Dread still pulled tight at my insides.

The Quarters’ door swung open and yanked through a burst of crisp air. It smacked my face, slipped over my shaved head, and dragged goose bumps down my neck.

Sergeant Spanelli lumbered inside. His head just cleared the ceiling. He peeled off his sunglasses, and his eyes drilled into me like heat-seeking missiles.

I waited for him to say something trite: Thank you for your service; you’ve been reassigned — some professional phrase that meant, You’re fired.

But he didn’t speak. Instead he inched off his white gloves. Each tug jerked my nerves until all I could think about was disappearing into a bottle of Jack.

Fingers free, Spanelli looked at Tuck and said, “Tomorrow.”

Tuck nodded.

I started to speak, but Tuck shook his head. So I waited. Each second that passed was more excruciating than the last.

Spanelli took off his service hat, deposited his gloves and sunglasses inside, and finally walked toward his office. His footfalls echoed down the hall long after he disappeared from view.

I stared at Tuck wide-eyed. “What just happened?”

“You passed. Your badge test is tomorrow.”

“Seriously?”

Tuck grinned.

Not fired.

Relief flooded through me. Excitement soon followed. Nine months of training, nine months of tests — all culminated in the Tomb Guard Identification Badge exam. And I’d made it here.

It was my turn to grin.

“Don’t celebrate yet. You still have to pass the final.” Tuck thumbed down the hall. “PTs. Day room. Fifteen.”

I followed Tuck’s orders and walked toward the locker room, my head still spinning. I passed Sergeant Spanelli’s office and detoured over to a wall-sized plaque that listed the names of every permanent badge holder — nearly seventy years of Tomb guards. I read through the rows of etched brass plates, each badge number sequentially placed above each name. I saw my father, my brother, and an empty brass plate. I imagined my name there. And my chest swelled with pride.

Spanelli’s door widened. Face tight, he walked past me to the wall plaque. His eyes skimmed across the brass plates. He scowled. “Dumb son-of-a bitch.” He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and began on one of the plates until the screws wiggled free and the plate clattered against the floor.

I leaned over to pick it up, but he kicked it aside before I could grab it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a new brass plate, and lined up the replacement. He slipped in the screws, first tightening by hand, then with the screwdriver.

He wiped the plate with a rag, stepped back, and I saw the new plate. The same badge number remained. But where the sentinel’s name was once etched, something new filled the space:

REVOKED.

My breath caught. I felt the sting, as if somehow it had happened to me.

Spanelli looked at me, as if he saw me there for the first time. Disappointment still hung on his face, giving his eyes a sunken look. He folded his arms, and we stood in silence, both of us grieving for a man we didn’t know.

“What did he do?” I finally whispered.

“DUI,” he said. His voice was almost as low as mine. He cleared his throat, and his face hardened. “Nine badges have been revoked over the years. Sentinel standards are high, Reilly. Standards that must be kept over a lifetime, not just this assignment.” He bent over, picked up the old brass plate, and waved it at me like a scolding finger. “Pass the test. Don’t embarrass the regiment and you won’t end up like Sergeant Jones here.” He tossed the plate into a wastebasket and returned to his office.

I thought of my family, how things changed, how things disappeared. A lump grew in my throat.

My watch beeped and yanked me back. I glanced down at my wrist. Crap. I was late for Tuck.

I jogged the length of the hall, made a hard right, and pushed through until I reached my wall locker. A few flips of the dial and the lock popped open. I slipped off my jacket and hung up my uniform. I opened a drawer to pull out my PTs, but something rattled. I looked around, and my phone danced on one of the shelves. I reached for it, but stopped short, my mind on Tuck.

I left the phone and focused on my clothes: black shorts, black T-shirt — the army’s standard-issue physicalfitness uniform. I leaned forward to lace up my running shoes and saw who’d messaged me. My stomach tightened. I stood slowly.

It can wait, I told myself. But I knew that wasn’t true.

The Falconer waited for no one.

I grabbed my phone, punched in the security code, and the message appeared:

If you want to protect your sentinel legacy, you’d best remember our deal.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in the day room: beige walls, beige carpet, beige furniture — a typical army common area. Tomb guards sometimes caught a game here between shifts. But the television was off today, and the room was empty, except for Tuck. He sat at a table in the corner. Next to him was a thick stack of index cards.

I walked over, grabbed a chair, settled into the seat, and tried to shake off the message I’d read.

Tuck glanced at his watch. “Dude...”

“I know. Sergeant Spanelli cornered me.” I offered the half truth as a reason for being late because I knew Tuck wouldn’t question it.

“You know the deal with the test, Jimmy?” Tuck picked up the index cards and tapped the stack against the table like a Vegas card dealer.

“One hundred random questions about the Cemetery and the Tomb,” I responded.

Tuck nodded and fanned the deck. “In my hand, there are three hundred possible test questions. You nail these, you nail the test.”

I lean my forearms against the table and fold my hands. “Bring it.”

For the next three hours, Tuck quizzed me: Who was the Cemetery’s original property owner? (Robert E. Lee’s wife); When was the first burial? (1864); How many people were buried there? (400,000 from the U.S. and eleven other countries; 5,000 are unknown service members). And the list went on. And so did my answers: each one precise, each one correct. Until Tuck’s stack dwindled away.

“Not bad, Reilly. Not bad,” Tuck said, after he turned the last card.

I leaned back in my seat, cracked my knuckles, and smiled.

“Don’t celebrate yet.” Tuck reached under the table and produced another set of cards. “We still have the lightning round.”

“Lightning round?”

“Seventy cards, each contains a section of the cemetery. I will read the number. You will tell me if anyone notable is buried there.”

I frowned. “This is on the test?”

“A sentinel is an ambassador for the fallen, Jimmy. It’s our duty to know the notables and where they’re buried. If we don’t remember, who will?”

“I get that...” I said, slowly. Part of it, anyway. There was an aspect, however, to Tuck’s logic that was flawed.

“Section One,” Tuck began.

“Anita Newcomb McGee, first woman army surgeon and founder of the U.S. Army Nurse Corps.” I arched a brow. “These cards in order? Because I can work my way through to Section Seventy and save you some trouble.”

“No, smartass.” Tuck shuffled the cards anyway.

I smirked.

Tuck narrowed his eyes and pulled the next card. “Section Twelve...”

“Samuel Dashiell Hammett, author of The Maltese Falcon, among other hardboiled detective novels. Army veteran. World War One and World War Two.” I paused while I debated whether or not to ask a question, the answer tied to my family’s fate. It was probably not a good idea, but I decided to do it anyway.

“Think there’s any truth to it?”

Tuck looked up, his next card mid flip. “Truth to what?”

“The Maltese Falcon thing. You know... that it’s buried with that Hammett guy.”

“The movie prop?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

Tuck returned the cards to the table. “You saw that news story from a few months ago?”

“Who hasn’t? Something worth that much, it’s America’s version of buried treasure.”

“We did catch someone digging,” Tuck offered.

“And?”

“Park Police grabbed the guy before he reached the casket.” Tuck shrugged. “So it’s still a mystery, I guess.”

“Have there been more patrols since then?”

Tuck shook his head. “Park Police are short on money just like every other government agency.”

Tuck shrugged and then went back to the cards. More sections. More notables: Presidents, Senators, Supreme Court Justices, astronauts, civil-rights activists, and the list continued.

Finally, Tuck reached the last card. “Section Sixty.”

I knew the question was coming, but it didn’t dull the ache that twisted inside my chest. I folded my arms and pulled them close like this would smother the pain.

Tuck frowned. “Jimmy?”

“Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.” I rushed the answer, not sure how long I could trust my voice. “No famous poets or Presidents. No admirals or generals.”

“Great!” Tuck slapped his hand against the table. “Well done.” He started to gather his cards.

“Wait.” I held up my hand. “There’s one... Hell, Tuck, every service member in this cemetery is notable.”

“I didn’t mean to imply...” Tuck stammered. His face flushed. “It’s just a term they use for the exam. That’s all.”

“I know.” My voice slid to a whisper. “Are we done here?” I pushed back from the table and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for Tuck to respond.

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?” I looked back. Tuck was on his feet now.

“Who’s buried in Section Sixty?”

“Staff Sergeant Henry ‘Hank’ Reilly. My brother.”

I passed the exam. A week later, I stood at attention in the Memorial Amphitheater for the badge ceremony. The marble walls shone almost as bright as my dress uniform.

To my right, at a podium, was our regimental commander. To my front was the sentinel fraternity — badge holders from past and present, including Tuck and Sergeant Spanelli. A photographer, from the regiment’s public-affairs section, was there with a camera.

“Gentlemen...” Our commander cleared his throat. “Thank you all for being here today to honor Specialist Reilly and the Tomb guards who have come before him. Specialist Reilly has earned badge number six hundred and twenty-seven. He comes from a family of Tomb guards. His father and his brother served before him. And today he continues his family’s legacy.”

The room erupted in applause. I stared at the sentinels in front of me, people I admired and respected, and today I became one of them. I was nearly floating. A man stepped away from the crowd, looked at me with pride-filled eyes, and nodded.

Hank.

My throat grew thick.

I got you, brother.

“... As you know, a sentinel’s badge is the second-least awarded badge in the military,” my commander continued. “The award is difficult to achieve. The standards are high and must be kept long after this assignment. Throughout their lives, Specialist Reilly’s family served with honor and dignity. He will undoubtedly do the same. Today it is my privilege to award Specialist Reilly the Tomb Guard Identification Badge.”

More applause. My commander stepped away from the podium, pinned the silver badge on my right breast pocket, and the applause crested to a roar. He handed me the framed citation and shook my hand. “Congratulations.”

My eyes burned. “Thank you, sir.”

I looked for Hank, but he had disappeared. The fraternity converged, and each member congratulated me. Tuck and Sergeant Spanelli were last in line.

Tuck shook my hand. “Congrats, Jimmy.”

“Thanks, Tuck.” I pumped his hand again. “For everything.”

“Looking good,” Spanelli said.

“If you would stand together, please.” The photographer perched his glasses on top of his head and waved his hand as if the gesture somehow would make us move more quickly.

Tuck and Spanelli stood with me, one on either side. I held up my framed citation. The photographer glanced at the camera. “Closer, gentlemen.”

They turned rigid, but inched closer.

The photographer took a picture. Then another. He dropped his glasses down and peered at the camera’s screen. “Good,” he said. “Now, one with just Specialist Reilly, at the plaque.”

Sergeant Spanelli broke away. I walked back to Tomb Guard Quarters, the photographer and Tuck in trail. I saw the pictures on the wall, the same pictures I’d seen each day since I was assigned here. And I no longer felt like a stranger peering through the window at this fraternity of men.

Today, I was one of them.

I stopped at the plaque, and the empty brass plate, the one I’d looked at only a week ago, now had my name engraved on it.

Another Reilly etched in history.

I pointed to my father’s name and then to my brother’s. The photographer took more pictures.

“Cake in the day room.” Tuck thumbed down the hall. “You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I turned to follow Tuck, but my phone vibrated. I pulled it from my pocket.

The Falconer.

And the joy I felt burst like a balloon.

“I’ll catch up with you,” I called to Tuck.

I put the phone to my ear.

“It’s time.”

“I’m on shift,” I said, somehow hoping this would matter.

“We had a deal, Jimmy.”

“Why now?”

“You’re a sentinel now. Stakes are higher for you, which makes it better for me.”

I swallowed.

“Midnight. You know the spot.” A pop of static burst through the phone. “And Jimmy... Stand me up and I’ll tell your commander about Hank.”

I glanced back at the wall plaque, and my eyes landed on my brother’s brass plate. But now instead of his name, it said: REVOKED.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

No.

When I opened my eyes, Hank’s name reappeared.

I blew out a breath. I glanced at my phone and then at the sentinels who milled around the day room. I knew where I had to go and hated what lay ahead.

It was nearly midnight. I avoided the Ready Room, leaving through a door on the other side of the Amphitheater. I took a wide loop, bypassed the Tomb, and continued to walk down Roosevelt Drive. Moonlight bounced against the headstones and cast distorted shadows across the narrow path. I sidestepped their reach, as if somehow this mattered, and continued to walk. The air grew thick and heavy; not humid. More like the weight of four hundred thousand souls waited to see what I’d do.

My mind went to the phone call, the one I received a few months ago that started this madness. The day I had to choose between duty to my family and honor to the fallen.

I cut over to Grant Street. A light danced in front of me.

“Late night?” the voice with the flashlight asked.

He walked closer. I squinted and shielded my eyes. The light swung away, and I saw the Park Police officer. Crap. Only a few patrolled the 624 acres, and this one had found me.

He edged up his ball cap. “What brings you out here?”

“Came off shift,” I lied. “Need to clear my head.”

“When is your next one?”

“Shift?”

He nodded.

“Zero six.”

He glanced at my army combat uniform, the uniform we wear after hours. His eyes traveled to my left shoulder, where my unit patch resided. He nodded, seeming to recognize our insignia. “Have a good one, then.”

I waited until the policeman was swallowed into the darkness, and then I picked up my stride. At Section 12, I worked my way through each headstone until I reached site 508. I pulled a red headlamp from my cargo pocket, slipped it on, and clicked on the light:

I turned off the light, eased back into the shadows, and waited. Minutes passed. I felt Hank hovering with me.

A no-show? “Could we be that lucky?” I whispered.

CACAW. CACAW.

I clenched my hands, swung around, and looked. But instead of dread this time, anger grinded my gut. “Cut the crap, Sylvia.”

“You don’t like my calling card?” My sister-in-law emerged, dressed in black. She dropped a duffel bag and shovel. They landed with a thud in a heap near her feet. I caught a whiff of her drugstore perfume, and it instantly gave me a headache.

“You look good, Jimmy.” Her tone was playful. “A little thin, but...”

“You can’t see me, not like that out here.”

“Oh, I’ve seen you...” Her voice slithered around me like a snake. “Walking the mat. Celebrating your badge. Sidestepping the Park Police...” Her finger trailed down my arm. “You know the cemetery. You know the schedule. You belong here.”

I swatted her hand away.

She recoiled as if I’d given her a body blow. She gripped her wrist and waited as if she expected some kind of sympathy from me. When I did nothing, she dropped her hands and said, “Let’s get on with it, then. You know the deal. Hank’s letter for the Falcon.”

“How do I know the letter is real?”

“The friendly-fire incident Hank witnessed? The guilt he felt for not reporting it?” She tapped her pocket. “It’s real, and it’s written here.”

“You want me to dig up a man based on your word. Forget it. I’m not doing anything until you show me the letter.” I moved toward her.

“Another step and it’s going to get ugly.” The moonlight reflected the gun in Sylvia’s hand.

My breath caught. “Get ugly?” My eyes remained on the gun. “It’s already ugly.”

You can take her, I heard Hank whisper.

But I hesitated. If the gun went off, the Park Police would find me at Hammett’s grave with a shovel, and I would trade my brother’s dishonor for mine.

“Hank was your husband. How can you do this to him?” I whispered, desperate to find something that would reach her.

“How can I do this to him?” She sneered. “How can he do this to me?” She shook her head. “Your brother would come home at night, talk about the Tomb, the cemetery, like it was his mistress. He’d go on and on about the history of this god-awful place. And I listened, like a good wife, while he blathered. Then he deploys to Iraq and gets himself killed. And what do I get?”

She paused.

But I already knew the punch line.

“Nothing. That’s right. He leaves his life insurance to the damn sentinel fraternity.”

“Well, if you hadn’t cheated on him...” I cringed, the words out of my mouth before I realized what I’d said.

“Screw you, Jimmy. This place took from me. Now I take from it.” She picked up the shovel and slung it at me. “Start digging.”

My eyes went to the shovel and then to Hammett’s grave. Am I really going to do this? What other choice did I have? Sylvia would report my brother to the command if I didn’t. And then Hank wouldn’t be remembered as a soldier who defended his country or as a protector of the Tomb. Instead, he would be cast aside like Sergeant Jones — another sentinel whose badge was revoked, another man who dishonored the fraternity.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I unbuttoned my uniform top, tossed it aside, and then untucked my brown T-shirt. I grabbed the shovel and plunged it into the ground. The dirt slid against the metal, the sound like a mother shushing a small child. I dumped it and started over again.

Shush. Dump.

Shush. Dump.

I continued that way through the night, while Sylvia loomed over me with her gun and Hank’s letter.

Finally, the shovel struck something hard.

My stomach tightened.

You don’t have to do this, Hank whispered in my ear. You can still walk away.

I shook my head.

“What are you waiting for?” Sylvia demanded.

I tossed the shovel aside, removed the headlamp from my cargo pocket, and clicked on the light. I continued to push the soil away until the coffin was fully exposed.

“Here,” Sylvia said, her voice nearly giddy. She dropped something into the hole. It thudded next to me. I groped around until my fingers found an object that was cold and smooth. I picked up the crowbar and worked the lid off the coffin. The wood splintered.

“Sorry,” I whispered before I eased open the lid. The smell knocked me back. My hand flew to my mouth. I wanted to retch.

“Is it there?” Sylvia demanded.

I adjusted my headlamp and focused the light back on the coffin. But the red beam made details difficult to distinguish. “I don’t know...”

The zipper on Sylvia’s duffel squealed. Clink. Thud. A symphony of sounds played overhead, and I suddenly wondered if it was loud enough for the Park Police to hear.

“Get out of my way.” Sylvia tossed a rope ladder into the hole. She climbed down, bringing with her a rain of dirt. I turned my head and shielded my eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her focus was on the coffin.

She clicked on a flashlight. A white beam splashed against Hammett’s remains: a collection of bones and...

Sylvia’s breath caught. She reached inside the coffin and lifted out a leather bag.

“Hank’s letter,” I demanded.

“You’re just like your brother. Obsessed with your family’s legacy and that damn fraternity.” She laughed. “You can all go to hell.”

There was something about her voice... I don’t know if it was her maniacal laugh, or just the bitter tone. But suddenly I realized, Falcon or not, this wasn’t going to end today. Not with Sylvia. For her, this wasn’t about money. It was about revenge: revenge against me, revenge against my brother, revenge against the sentinels and all that the fraternity represented.

And I hated her for it.

A deep, twisted kind of hate, the kind of hate that drove a man to do unspeakable things, the kind of hate...

I tightened my grip on the shovel. Blood rushed to my ears. And...

I swung.

Crack.

Sylvia collapsed like a rag doll. The leather pouch fell with her.

I sucked in a breath and waited for the regret, but I felt nothing.

I scrambled forward and reached for Hank’s letter. But stopped short. If the letter is real then Hank’s guilt becomes mine.

And I didn’t know if I could live with that.

I picked up the shovel and tossed it topside. I considered the leather bag and the fortune that may lie inside, but decided to leave it untouched. I started to climb the ladder and glanced back toward Hammett’s coffin. Light from my headlamp bobbed against Sylvia’s form crumpled inside — her eyes open, lifeless. I dropped back into the hole, pushed her eyes closed, straightened her body, and then shut the lid.

My standard is perfection.

I climbed back up the ladder, removed the stakes, and pushed everything into the hole, including the rest of Sylvia’s gear. I grabbed the shovel and started filling the grave.

Shush. Dump.

Shush. Dump.

Shush. Dump.

Some secrets needed to stay buried.

© 2018 by Stacy Woodson