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"3.7."

"The second it turns over to 4.8, you stop."

"Quit telling me the same…"

"I'll tell you as many times as I think it's necessary. You feel like digging another hole? It's a different ballgame when the dead people are with you."

4.8 miles north of the coffee shop in downtown Middlebury, Walter eased across the road, onto the wide shoulder of 116. He parked the car as close to the forest's edge as he could get, using the pine shadows to obscure the white Cadillac from moonlight. We stepped out and slammed the car doors, their echoes racing down the empty highway.

I buried my hands in the pockets of my suit before they could go numb. The air stung my cheeks, and I could only be thankful that the night was without wind or snow. The moon, rising now above the Green Mountains in the east, was as bright and full as I'd ever seen it. It turned the sky navy instead of black and kept the most luminous stars from showing.

"I see it!" Walter yelled, running through the stiff grass. He pointed to the large, flaking trunk of a pine, ten yards ahead, and I saw the shovel, too, it's head stabbed in the frozen earth.

"Get the flashlight," I said, running ahead of him.

The brilliance of the sky did not extend down into the trees. The stand of pines remained black and gloomy, and it was harder than hell finding our way back to the gravesite. I counted twenty-nine steps, walking straight back into the woods, before we began walking parallel to the highway again, in search of the hole.

Twenty yards beyond the car, we stumbled upon it. I smelled the organic, smoky scent of freshly turned dirt, and on my knees, I reached into the hole, unsure if it could hold two. I looked back over my shoulder at Walter and shook my head.

"I don't know if it's deep enough for both of them," I said. "In a few days, the animals will smell them if there isn't a foot of dirt between the surface and the bodies." I rose to my feet. "Make it deeper while I bring the woman," I said, motioning to the shovel in Walter's hand.

I took the flashlight and scrambled back through the woods towards the car. There wasn't much undergrowth to make foot travel especially difficult, so in no time, I'd emerged from the trees and was standing under the blinding light of the moon.

A car screamed by, heading towards Middlebury, and a sharp current of fear coursed through me. But the car continued on, becoming nothing more than a pair of red taillights as it faded from sight and sound.

When I was certain there were no cars in the distance, I took out the Glock and approached the trunk. I inserted the key, opened it, and stepped back, pointing the gun at Mary. She let out a short gasp and then a high, piercing scream that ended when I indicated the gun and stepped towards her. Slowly, she sat up, pushing an unconscious Orson off her body.

"Get out," I said aloud, not masking my voice in a whisper. "You scream, I shoot."

"What did you do to him?" She motioned to Orson.

"He's just unconscious," I lied. "Come on." She shoved her feet out first and slid over the bumper, her high heels touching the grass. Then she was standing, wobbling a little from the large knot on her head and the hours spent cramped in the small confines of the trunk. The moon shined on her face, swollen and teary. I hoped she was too emotionally spent now to fight me.

"Close the trunk," I said, and she slammed it. I pointed to the trees. "Start walking."

She looked nervously at the woods and then back at me. "Why?" she asked.

I aimed the gun at the ground near her feet and squeezed the trigger. The muffled blast tore through the dirt, and Mary jumped back, fear and respect aroused again in her eyes.

"Because I'll just shoot you and drag you back there if you don't," I said, and she began walking. A sob burst into the night air, but she fought it down into her throat.

As we walked towards her grave, surrounded by the pines, I heard a car approaching. Mary slowed and turned her head back towards the highway, a look of longing in her eyes.

"Don't even