He heard a popping sound.
"Where is she?" Alan said again, amazing himself with his own
calmness. Davey was crying now, genuinely scared, it seemed, and Alan
reveled in the feeling. "I'll kill you," he whispered in Davey's ear,
almost lovingly. "I'll kill you and put the body where no one will find
it, unless you tell me where she is."
Davey spat out a milk tooth, his right top incisor, and cried around the
blood that coursed down his face. "I'm -- I'm *sorry,* Alan," he
said. "But it was the *secret*." His sobs were louder and harsher than
Marci's father's had been.
"Where is she?" Alan said, knowing.
"With Caleb," Davey said. "I buried her in Caleb."
He found his brother the island midway down the mountain, sliding under
cover of winter for the seaway. He climbed the island's slope, making
for the ring of footprints in the snow, the snow peppered brown with
soil and green with grass, and he dug with his hands like a dog, tossing
snow soil grass through his legs, digging to loose soil, digging to a
cold hand.
A cold hand, protruding from the snow now, from the soil, some of the
snow red-brown with blood. A skinny, freckled hand, a fingernail
missing, torn off leaving behind an impression, an inverse fingernail. A
hand, an arm. Not attached to anything. He set it to one side, dug,
found another hand. Another arm.
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