Even if she’d visited Jerusalem more, she’d not have bothered with the farm. They’d had the root cellar, the well, the abandoned mine shaft on the property, and the empty coffins of Carrows’ past.
Waste not, want not.
Jonah had vaguely assumed the farm had modernized all of that. He’d been wrong.
They followed Deborah down the hill to the walled-off Haddon family graveyard. The grass was sparse and yellow here, and there were bumpy nubs of old walls from when they’d had to expand the original plot. Everyone spent longer in the ground than they did on it, but from the dates carved onto the worn gray headstones, the Haddons had made that easy to accomplish.
Deborah unlocked the padlock on the gate and swung it open. She stepped over the threshold and grabbed a muddy spade from the wheelbarrow tucked against the wall.
“What the fuck…” Luke muttered. He took Jonah’s hand, their fingers laced together, and stuck close to him as they followed Deborah through the gate. One of her guards, heavy torches held loosely in their hands, brought up the rear.
Shiloh crossed himself first. It was prudent. The ground probably wasn’t hallowed anymore, but the dead could still be prickly. Jonah’s own fingers twitched, but he resisted. Not his dead, not his problem.
“Crossroad Crows,” Deborah said. She consulted her phone. Her thumb swiped angrily over the screen as she checked the records. “Plot thirty-two. Stillborn, Isiah.”
She held the shovel out to Shiloh and waited.
He took it and hefted it thoughtfully in one hand.
“Roll of the dice?” he asked. “Or did my dad pick that one himself?”
Deborah checked her phone again. “Before my time,” she said. “Usually we assign them, but we do… entertain… special requests. Why?”
He just shrugged and swung the shovel up onto his shoulder. “No reason. Where is Isiah?”
Deborah pointed.
Shiloh headed that way and started to dig through the thin turf.
After a second, Deborah reached into her coat and pulled out a flask. She popped the lid and took a quick, hard swig, followed by a sigh of satisfaction as she swallowed.
“That’s six months,” Luke said. “If you were telling the truth about that. About anything.”
“What?” Deborah asked as she tucked the flask away.
“Six months sober,” Luke said. “That’s how long you had. I gave you the chip.”
Deborah shook her head and crossed her arms. “I don’t know who you think I am,” she said. “But I’m not in AA. I’m not an alcoholic.”
There was a flash of contempt in her voice. It was familiar. Jonah had heard it from his granddad enough times. It felt genuine.
“Do you have a Glock in your car?” Jonah asked.
She looked taken aback. “I… how do you know that? I have a permit.”
Jonah laughed, a strangled bark of bleak humor. He’d been away from this world too long. There had been a time it wouldn’t have seemed all that strange to talk about paperwork while you waited for someone to dig up a grave.
“You know—”
Before he could finish the thought, Shiloh hit something heavy with the blade of the shovel. He scraped the dirt away, crouched down, and reached into the hole.
“Is this a fucking joke?” he said. “What the fuck is this?”
He pulled a small, filthy body from the grave. It dangled from his grip, illuminated in the light of a torch.
“Christ,” one of the guards said raggedly. Luke gagged and looked away.
Jonah felt the same knee-jerk flash of disgust and revulsion, but it faded quickly. Whoever had gone in that grave originally would be nothing but bones and leather now, if that. It was a filthy, ragged doll, stitched of old flannel and decorated with a wig of dry, matted blond hair.
