Baby Bones. Donan Ph.D. Berg
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constant exertion until the blade scraped a coffin, a grave-depth excavation five feet long and thirty inches wide existed next to the stone urn. The intruder, breathing hard, squatted in front of the hand truck, strained, and grunted. Two gloved hands reached and encircled the plastic bundle to adjust loose plastic and reattach bungee cords. The figure grappled with the bundle, a final rope tie released, and the unburdened hand truck thudded backward to the ground. Human groans and grunts escaped into the air to accompany the bundle’s twisted journey toward the awaiting hole. With a final deep breath and a push, the bundle flopped to the bottom of the thirty-inch grave.
A glance into the night revealed no returning headlights; the figure’s edgy emotions anticipated it would only be a matter of time. In the distance an animal’s mournful howl, closer, the flutter of an owl’s wings. The salty taste of forehead sweat trickling onto parted lips.
With a cotton cloth, the figure patted brow moisture and swiped sweat droplets from the nape of the neck. Exhaling a repeated heavy sigh, the figure hoisted a laden shovel and tossed previously dug dirt into the hole. Clay and small pebbles splattered across the plastic of the deposited bundle. Wherever the sound traveled in the all-encapsulating air, it didn’t bounce back. The figure kept flinging shovels of earth undeterred by any sound or silence.
For a final action, the shovel blade edge smoothed the dirt level. Hiking boots stomped dug out weed clumps back into the earth atop the buried bundle. The figure strode with an air of confidence out the cemetery entrance. Neither the heavens nor the prior law enforcement vehicle interrupted. In time no one would recognize the disturbed ground near the urn. The intruder slammed the Camry trunk lid closed with hand truck and shovel stowed. The car with a scrubbed license plate, minus tools, returned to the dealer’s lot. A successful overnight test drive completed.
First daily, then weekly, bypassing January and February, the unofficial gravedigger scanned the newspaper and listened to local television news for any cemetery happenings report. Nothing. Wintry snow swirls pirouetted until the faltering breeze deposited it as a powdery ground blanket.
The warming March sunrays regenerated new weeds and prairie grasses. Virgin growth, interlaced with last year’s weathered stalks, would hide the added remains. Envisioned snow patches beneath the sycamore shade evoked a memory sense of normalcy. The confident graveyard intruder, unafraid of discovery, bought bachelor’s button seeds to scatter in the urn for summer blooms.
* * *
Sheriff McHugh eased dripping cruiser into a visitor spot nearest the Jove Foods headquarters public entrance. Patrol buddy, Webster, had barked the three blocks since the car wash.
“Quiet, Webster.” At the command, the two-year-old German Shepard lowered haunches onto the front passenger seat. “There’s no person or rabbit outside. Good, boy.”
Jonas buttoned left shirtsleeve. A laundry pickup ticket for large short-sleeve summer uniform khaki shirts tossed yesterday into a console cup holder. He preferred thirty-five inch sleeves. The cloth hid the left forearm boyhood scar.
He gazed at his Plymouth’s grill reflection in the metallic glass finish of the double doors. Jonas paid attention to Jove Foods and its employees, an influential block of votes for the upcoming fall countywide election. No special vacancy election like he’d won six months previous.
Five minutes early, he’d canceled all morning commitments to respond to a telephone call from Jove Foods Human Resources Vice President Melanie Stark. He grabbed Webster’s lease and donned regulation wide-brimmed brown hat. Webster leaped past the steering wheel. The push of Jonas’s finger on the key fob locked the riot equipped, special edition Plymouth.
“C’mon, boy. Time for good behavior. Heel.”
VP Stark on the telephone mentioned an employee strike. He questioned the urgency with no visible picket signs of a confrontation within view. He bent sideways to pet Webster’s upright head at his right thigh. Jonas elevated gaze past vehicle’s hood, cleared the front fender, and marched four paces toward the headquarters door. He squinted at the dark blue hard-shell canopy.
“Good morning, Sheriff.” Melanie Stark stood in hazy canopy shadow two steps outside the tinted seven-foot glass entrance doors that allowed unadorned head a twenty-inch clearance.
Webster barked. Jonas tugged the leash taut. He heard an entrance door latch snap shut.
“Ms. Stark.” Fingers on the brim, he tipped hat forward. “Please excuse Webster. He didn’t appreciate our long nonstop patrol ride from Elba this morning.”
Breaking out of shadow, a creamy complexioned face gazed at Webster’s every twitch; arms along statuesque torso ended with flat hands pressed lightly against sides. They’d met two years previous and eight months ago attended a Kanosh Chamber of Commerce breakfast. Since then they’d not said more than hello when passing on a town street.
Ms. Stark bent forward at the waist, left hand, palm up, extended. She uttered an unenthusiastic “Nice boy, nice dog.” Her right hand shifted to press against lower stomach.
The gray-striped pantsuit with its unbuttoned jacket brought forth vivid Jonas memories of VP Stark at the chamber meeting. When she rose to speak, an unfastened tailored jacket allowed the frilly multi-hued bodice lace to explode forth in kaleidoscopic color. Each full cycle of inhales and exhales fluttered into a new heaven and earth design image. He lost track of words spoken. The county auditor seated to the left poked an elbow into his ribs, leaned next to left ear, and whispered, “Could be a nice conquest for a single guy like you.”
Jonas, no matter how attractive Ms. Stark, couldn’t have acted upon any romantic desire. The campaign for sheriff required constant full effort and not alienating unionized Jove Foods workers. Today, she wore a pantsuit without the eye-catching ruffles beneath a cloth coat. Red lips drew his gaze from the white blouse. Her dimples, then and now, intriguing, matched with a smile.
Webster growled.
Jonas jerked Webster’s leash, closed right fist hit tensed thigh. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him.”
She stood erect, rebalanced on short black heels. “How’ve you been since the breakfast?”
“Fine. Busy.” He gazed at Webster after feeling the leash tugs subside. Gripping the leash for a better hold, he scratched Webster’s head. Normally the dog would rub a lower jaw against Jonas’s leg in response, but Webster wasn’t that relaxed today.
If fate smiled on him, she’d replace Jove Foods President Barry Chesterton as his official contact. However, he couldn’t dare wish for an up tick in warehouse vandalism or theft complaints. Jonas gazed at the ground. After the awkward silence of repeated glances, her throat clearing followed by a whispered “yes” indicated she expected him to say more.
“Not much new. Could you explain what couldn’t be said on the telephone?”
“Let’s move away from the entrance,” Ms. Stark suggested in words clear and authoritative. “We can talk freer at the picnic table.” Her draped cloth coat fluttered.
Jonas spotted the picnic table. The west breeze a chilly March reminder buffeting left cheek as they walked twenty yards. He wasn’t surprised no individual sat on attached wood plank benches. Webster lagged. At the table, a standing Jonas gazed at Ms. Stark. “You were vague about this feared strike? There’s no strike activity I see except words ‘No Scabs’ painted at parking lot entry.”
“Not much except...” Ms. Stark’s right hand fingers touched a table bench. He heard the whispered word gross escape under her breath. As she stepped toward him, a right heel sunk into the grass that surrounded the picnic table. Her knees wobbled but she righted herself without his assistance. With balance and footing restored, a slight smile parted glossed lips. Jonas retained control of Webster. Ms. Stark glanced past shoulder, and paused as a sedan, forty yards away, entered the parking lot. Feminine blue-gray eyes returned their upward gaze at him. “The union’s rejected company proposals. If the strike’s going to happen, it should be in a week.”
“You