Lone Star Lawless: 14 Texas Tales of Crime. Kaye George
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that after we’ve embalmed the client, we pop that little disc and suction the air right out of the interior.”
“But that would—”
“Mummify them,” he interrupts, that smirk on his face. “A thousand years from now, someone could be popping my caskets open and finding the people buried inside just as we laid them out.”
“They’d want to do that?”
“Of course! Explorers wet their pants when they find mummified bodies, don’t they?”
“I suppose.” I squirm, almost too comfortable, slotted into that casket as I am. He sees that.
“Lay down. Once our customers actually lay in this thing, they don’t go with anything else.”
“You mean the live or dead ones?”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke and to fill the awkward moment I ease myself onto my back. In the further recesses of my mind a worry is sharpening its edges on the possibility that he might try and scare me, shut me in or something. But people will be here soon, lots of them, and since he’s a serious (perhaps too serious) businessman, and not a prank-pulling teenager, I ignore that concern.
“A hundred thousand dollars and a free casket,” he says. “This very casket. That’s an incredible deal for your business. Final offer.”
“It’s not for sale,” I repeat, for what feels like the fiftieth time.
“But you could retire. When does social security kick in? You must be nearly there.”
“I’m forty-five.”
“Oh. Well, you look older, which tells me this business isn’t good for your health.”
“I’m perfectly healthy, thank you.” Which sounds strange considering I’m saying it while stretched out in a casket.
Davidson leans over me and I can feel the warmth of his breath, which smells slightly minty. “You’re absolutely sure it’s not for sale?”
“Yes. Positive. You’re not going to threaten me again, are you?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Anyway, we’re past that.”
Before I can react, he steps back and pulls the lid of the casket towards him, slamming it down on top of me. It’s pitch black but I’m seeing red because he said he wouldn’t threaten me, which clearly was a lie. And trapping me in a casket isn’t going to change my mind. He can leave me in here a full hour, if he wants, I’m not selling.
I shout for him to let me out but hear nothing in return. Nothing at all until, a minute later, the casket shakes a little and a point of light arrows in at my right knee. Then it goes dark again and I hear a whirring sound, one that confuses me until I realize he’s sucking the air from the casket. I try to wiggle, to move the damn thing, and I’m shouting because this is taking things too far. He could actually suffocate me in here. I’ll show him. My hands tear at the smooth silk above me, finally ripping into the cloth and I feel ribbons of it falling around my face, soft as snow. I wonder if he’ll have the nerve to try and charge me for repairing it. He almost certainly will.
Within a minute I feel myself gasping for breath and I’m beginning to panic because I’m sure he’s never done this with a live person in here and so how does he know when to—?
The whirring stops.
A square of light opens by my feet and I feel the air rushing into the vacuum so I breathe deeply, my chest filling with air, and it swells, too, with the knowledge I’ve won this little contest. But I’m angry at his attempt to bully and humiliate me.
I feel hands on my feet, tugging, and I wonder why he doesn’t just open the damn lid to let me out. He tells me why, his voice funneling up to my ears from the open end of the casket.
“Belle likes your boots. Same size she wears, can you believe that?”
The left boot slides off, and when his hands seize the right one I twist my foot and try to resist but I have no leverage, nowhere to twist to, and it comes off easily. I start to wriggle my way downwards, intending to slide out but strong hands push me back inside. The end of the casket swings shut and I’m enveloped in darkness again.
My thoughts make fun of me: So, you’re the life of the party. Not for much longer, at this rate. And you’re taking this lying down, after all!
Then I shout at my mind to be quiet, to do something useful like think of a way out of here but now my thoughts are scrambled, trying to calm my brain while letting it know how much danger it’s in. I thump at the lid of the casket as best I can and shout at Starr Davidson. Shout for him, maybe, to help me. For someone.
Anyone.
Then the whirring starts again.
I let out a scream, fear and anger fueling my body as I thrash up and down, side to side, knees and toes and fists pounding at the sides and the lid, but the soft silk and expensive padding literally cushion every blow, like a loving father palming his toddler’s flailing fists.
Once our customers actually lay in this thing, they don’t go with anything else.
The memory of his voice makes me angrier, makes me hit and kick harder, but after thirty seconds my energy is gone and I lie there, panting in the blackness, my body wet with sweat and the realization that if that whirring doesn’t stop soon, I’ll die.
* * * *
My breathing slows and I push my stockinged feet against the panel at the end, just in case. It’s soft but doesn’t give way, like the muddy bottom of a lake. I close my eyes and cup my hands over my gold tie pin.
The whirring doesn’t stop.
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