The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [92]
Step one: Start with the basics.
Step two: Try not to make the same mistake twice.
I dropped to my knees in the hole and cleared the surface of the crate. I exposed the corners and dug my fingers into the cool, compacted soil, then rocked it back and forth. It started to come loose and then, suddenly, jerked up toward me. As I scrambled to catch myself, my brain noted that the crate felt far too light. The lid was cockeyed, and only half attached with rusty nails. When I landed on my butt, the box on my lap, it opened all the way—revealing only a bit of deflated black fabric.
My heart sank.
I rummaged through every corner of the box, finding nothing but three of Emer’s capes, damp and full of small brown beetles.
I flung the box and capes to the side and explored the hole’s walls for a sign of the second crate, but couldn’t find one. Had Emer buried it next to the first? Or had she buried it on top? I closed my eyes and ran the old film in my head. I saw Seanie digging the hole, then lying dead. I saw Emer shooting the Frenchman and taking his eye out. I heard the rustling of leaves—but then I realized that this rustling was not in my memory. It was right above me. I looked up just as Fred Livingstone appeared through the foliage.
“Looking for something?”
He was out of breath and sweating. His thin, greased-back hair fell in a straight line on his forehead, and his foot was wrapped in several layers of bloody terrycloth. He smelled vaguely like Listerine.
“I said—are you looking for something, you stupid little bitch? Answer me!” He held out a thick hunting knife and shook it.
Stupid little bitch? What happened to the guy who invited me to dinner? And why did he have a knife? I was so scared that my hands and feet went numb. My heart was jumping in my chest and I could feel my sinuses clear.
Fred moved to the edge of the hole and squatted down to eye me closely. He had a look I can’t quite explain on his face. A mix of surprise and glee. He even leaned above me and sniffed the air. Almost seeming amused, he muttered to himself, “My God. It’s her.” Then he said, “Shut up!”
He stood up again, still muttering a little, and looking at me as if he’d just realized who I was and why I was here. “Answer me!” he barked.
I moved my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Where the hell was Emer Morrisey now? Couldn’t she see I needed her? He stood, waiting for an answer. Since I couldn’t find one, I continued to dig out handfuls of dirt, in search of the second crate.
As I did, my index finger bashed against something solid, and I pried the second crate from the grip of damp earth. Fred circled me, limping, mumbling, and laughing. When I finally freed it, it too was lighter than it should have been. And when I opened it, I found the rest of Emer’s capes, but not one dagger. Not one gem. The Emer within snarled.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Where’s what?”
“You know.” Did he? Could he?
He put his finger to his lips and feigned deep thought. “Oh! You mean your puny little collection of worthless shit?”
I stared at him, incredulous. He knew?
“It was garbage,” he said. “Didn’t get me more than a few hundred thousand.”
“You’re lying.” Emer was hopping around inside my skin. I looked down at the capes, now strewn across the bottom of the hole. “You spent all of it? All of it?”
“It was rightfully mine, wasn’t it? Just like you?”
I stared at him, my head cocked.
“Don’t you remember our nights in Tortuga? How we loved each other, my sweet Irish girl?”
I blinked. Was it really him?
I snatched my two woven bags from the edge of the hole while Fred continued to limp around, muttering under his breath. He seemed insane, like he was arguing with himself. Was he cursed too? From the dust that night on the beach? Had he just lived the lives