For the most part, Jones does look somber, and Schroder knows that’s a combination of practice and the fact that coming here has cost him a lot of money. The talent Schroder is most impressed by is how Jonas keeps the excitement out of his features.
The cameraman shoots footage of them dressing in warmer jackets before doing the same thing, then he hoists the camera back up and filming continues. Jonas tilts his head—another Lassie impression—then starts nodding, agreeing with the message Detective Calhoun is sending him.
“It’s this way,” he says.
The first obstacle is the fence, which Jonas climbs with ease. Then he leads them up a path made up of mud and stones and tree roots, the camera taking it all in. To his credit, Jonas doesn’t pick up a forked branch and use it as a divining rod. The psychic moves forward. Goes left, pauses, goes right, carries on. They walk a hundred yards. Two hundred. Then they’re there, the grave ahead of them, the director and camera crew having no idea that both Schroder and Jones were out here this morning, having no idea about the money Jonas paid for the information. To them, this is the real deal. There are a few footprints left from their earlier visit, and from Joe’s visit yesterday, but either nobody notices them or they choose not to mention it. Certainly he and Jones did a better job hiding them around the grave than they did on the path.
“Here,” Jonas says. “I believe Detective Inspector Calhoun is buried here,” he says, “somewhere within a ten-yard diameter. Perhaps . . .” he says, then tilts his head a little more, “yes, yes, it’s quite strong now. I can hear him. He wants to be found. Perhaps just over here,” he says, and then he’s standing next to the grave. “A lost soul crying out to be found. He’s very sad, but relieved now,” Jonas says. “We need a shovel. Quickly now,” he says, then more urgently to the camera and to everybody else around, he says, “we must help him.”
“Perhaps we should call the police,” Schroder says, injecting no enthusiasm into the line.
“The police,” Jonas scoffs. “If we just call them they won’t come. They need a reason to. They need a body.”
Schroder has been carrying the shovel. He points it at the ground. “Here?” he asks.
“A few feet to your left,” Jonas says, and when this has gone through editing, when haunting music has been added, this is going to be a powerful moment. Hairs on necks all around the country will be bristling.
“Not too deep,” Jonas says.
Schroder carefully puts the blade of the shovel into the earth. He scoops it away slowly and creates a low mountain of wet earth behind him. A minute later he steps back.
“We have something,” he says, and the crew all move in. “It looks like human remains. Okay, look,” he says, turning toward Jonas and the camera crew and sounding like the policeman he used to be, he says “I know what you just said, but we have to shut this down. There’s enough here now to call the police. This is now officially a crime scene,” he says, and he puts his hand up to cover the lens just like they spoke about. “Don’t go wandering off,” he says, “don’t risk disturbing the area. And stop filming this.”
They stop filming.
“This is incredibly good shit,” the director says. “I gotta say, I had my doubts, but you’re the real deal, man,” she says, looking at Jonas.
Jonas smiles back at her, but Schroder can tell he’s looking a little offended by the fact that the director may have suspected he wasn’t on the level. “I’m just glad I can help,” he says.
Schroder gets his cell phone out and calls Detective Kent.
Chapter Forty-Four
I wake up with a queasy stomach and I’m a little unsure of where I am. For the first week in prison I woke up like that every morning. Somewhat sick, somewhat forgetful of where I was, only the sickness would hang about all morning and the forgetfulness would last two seconds at the most, maybe three, before the reality would come crashing back in. The second week was easier, and since then it’s only happened a handful of times—certainly never as bad as that first morning. This morning my stomach is clenched tight, and the room is just a dark room and not a cell in solitary confinement until the memories start filling in the gaps left by the seconds ticking by and leaving. I climb off my cot and hover in front of the toilet for a few minutes thinking I’m going to throw up, but it doesn’t happen, and then it almost does again, but still doesn’t. The only moisture coming out of my body is in the form of sweat. It turns out the room isn’t as dark as I first thought. I have no idea what the time is. I know I’m going to be taken out of here soon—I have to be. Still, there is that nagging sense of doubt, that small voice telling me that this is it, that these four walls and the cave-dwelling light are going to make up my future. No trial, no lawyer, no more guards—just this.
I move away from the toilet and lie back on my bed. My knees are sore and starting to bruise from when I fell on them in the van yesterday to start retching. In fact, I’ve fallen on them a lot over the last few days—when being force-fed a sandwich or when being punched by Caleb Cole. What I think is probably an hour goes by before there’s a buzzing noise and the door unlocks and swings open, a prison guard I’ve never seen before standing on the other side of it.
“Let’s go, Middleton,” he says.
So we go. The guard has the height of a basketball player and the girth of a truck driver and leads me toward the breakfast hall, one big hand on my shoulder the entire way. All the guys I’ve come to know and love and wish were dead are already eating breakfast. I’m given my share and sip at the water and look at the food, but can’t eat it. I sit uncomfortably, focusing on keeping what’s inside me still inside me, focusing on winning the battle—which I’m managing to do. Then we’re taken outside. I look at people exercising and don’t join in. My stomach still feels like a meat grinder, which is better than it felt yesterday. It’s looking like it’s going to be a pretty nice day, though cold, but good following-women-home weather, though the reality is I’m kind of like the mailman in that regard—I deliver no matter what the season. After an hour we’re led back inside. Nobody mentions the broken phone, but I know it’s only a matter of time. Maybe the message will be delivered in the form of another shit sandwich.
When I’m back in my cell I divide my time between staring at the books and staring at the toilet, but my thoughts are divided between Melissa not saving me and Calhoun being found. I’m waiting for twelve o’clock to roll around. When it does we’re allowed out into the common area. My stomach isn’t feeling great, but it’s certainly feeling better. Things down there are on the mend. I find a good position where I can see the TV. The news has already started. There’s a special report. An exciting report. A body has been found in Canterbury farmland. Yes! The reporter is live at the scene. She’s attractive. Yes! Female reporters in their twenties often are. I wish she was reporting live from my cell. It would be an exclusive for her. This just in.
Over her shoulder are police cars and trees and a piece of land that is having its fifteen minutes of fame. The land belongs to a guy by the name of Mark Hampton. Hampton is a farmer. He grows wheat and paints barns and fucks cattle and is helping police with their inquiries. The identity of the body has not been confirmed. However, the circumstances in which the body were found strongly suggest it’s Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun, who went missing a year ago.
“We can’t confirm exactly how he did it,” the reporter with her lush lips and beautiful eyes says, “but Jonas Jones led a film crew here shooting next week’s episode of Finding the Dead, which revolves around the disappearance of the policeman. It’s been well-known that the policeman was murdered last year by Melissa X, who so far has continued to evade police capture. According to the producers of the show, Jonas Jones was experiencing a psychic link with the deceased detective.”