“Oh,” I say, finally understanding. “Do you think that’s true?”
“No,” he mumbles. “…Yes.”
I nod, waiting.
“I’m an idiot, I know…” He throws all his weight into digging, like he wants to bury himself down there. “I love my dad, but…he was a journo, too, you know? He broke the Lawyer F story. Made his career. And I…” He frowns, digging harder, sweat breaking out on his brow. “Well, I’m still making mine.”
“If it helps,” I offer, “I have no idea what the Lawyer F story is.”
“Police corruption, Sydney-wide.” He raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“Lucky you,” he says, grunting as he digs deeper. “Sometimes when I talk to my dad, he doesn’tquiteseem to be listening. Like every time I speak, he’s hearing something else from far away. Something more important than me.” He hesitates. “Sometimes when I finish talking, he gives me a distracted nod, like,Oh, you’ve stopped talking then? Good.”
“I do that with you, too.”
He cracks a small smile.
“You’ve still got time, Chris. We both do.”
“You sure about that?” He stares down at the dirt, grim-faced and silent, like something’s been taken from him and he doesn’t know how to get it back. I squint and see him, the real Chris Cooper, wondering why it’s taken me this long. He’s haunted by past failures, still trying, desperately, to prove he’s worth something. Why do I get the feeling that he just needs someone,anyone,to say, “You did good. You matter.”
“Yeah,” I lie, “I am.”
Chapter 11
I’ve spent whole summers on Dad’s boat, hacking up slimy pilchards for tourists who couldn’t stand getting their hands dirty. I liked it.
By midafternoon, your forearms ached, your back burned, and the sun pressed down like a weight. Heath and I would hit a point where we were so tired, everything felt hilarious. We used to call it the Tired Crazies.
One time, after hacking the heads off a dozen pilchards, I turned around, and Heath was slow dancing with an angry squid who kept inking him. I laughed so hard and for so long that Dad stormed over and screamed at me.
The Tired Crazies. I dig and dig until finally I’m on my knees, peering down into a black hole. “He’s notfucking here.”
Donny Granger. Where are you? I know I saw my father lead you into these woods. I watched him slit your throat right at the base of this blackwood tree. I saw the blood spill from your neck and splash onto the earth.
You were buried here, Donny. I watched it all and I did nothing to stop it.
Now where the hell are you?
I lower my shovel into the earth, too tired even to scoop it off to the side.
“I’m hungry,” Chris mutters. “Don’t s’pose you brought anything to eat?”
“No, Chris, I didn’t exactly think about packing a lunch.”
“Maybe it’s time to call it a day, then,” he says flatly. He’s sprawled on his back at a weird angle, staring up at the sky. It’sfunny to see him lying in the dirt.Everythingis funny when you’re bone-tired, hungry, and digging up some dead guy’s grave.
“No,” I tell him soberly, “I’m going todigmy way out of this mess.”
He misses the joke. Damn, it was a good one. He shrugs, stretches out his legs, rubbing at his knee. “Do you really think we’ll find him?”
“No,” I say, “I think we’velost the plot.”
He stares blankly at me, but I’m not finished. “Do you know what you call a man who’s finished digging?”
He raises an eyebrow.
