Convalescence by Maynard Sims Page A

he’s buried in the ground there. Amy, your boyfriend’s a gardener. He must have spades and a pickaxe. We need tools to dig with.”
    â€œI know he does,” she said. “I’ve been in his workshop. I’ve seen them.”
    â€œBorrow them,” I said. “We’ll go down to the summerhouse once it gets dark. My penlight’s smashed so we’re going to need light.”
    â€œHe has a couple of hurricane lamps too. Will they do?”
    â€œBring them with you. We’ll meet there after dinner, agreed?”
    â€œAgreed,” they said.
    Uncle Thomas took dinner in his rooms that evening, which was just as well because I wasn’t sure I would have been able to hide my feelings. Thinking about him and his vile acts made me feel physically sick. I ate my meal quickly and avoided conversation with Mrs. Rogers.
    I again made the excuse that I wanted to read in the library, so I went there until it got dark.
    Amy and Hughie were waiting for me when I finally made it to the summerhouse.
    Getting out of the house hadn’t been easy. I’d tried a couple of times, but Mrs. Rogers seemed to be patrolling that night, almost as if she knew what we had planned to do. I managed to sneak out through the kitchen when I knew she’d gone to the bathroom.
    â€œWe have to look out for my uncle,” I said as I joined them. “He was watching from an upstairs window the last time I came here.”
    â€œIt’s Wednesday,” Amy said. “He’s out. The Rotary Club meets once a week on a Wednesday and he doesn’t miss the meetings.”
    â€œPillar of the community,” Hughie said with heavy sarcasm.
    â€œRight, then, let’s get started,” I said and lifted the trapdoor.
    Hughie went down first, followed by Amy, and I handed her down the tools and the lamps. By the time I made it down the ladder, Hughie had lit the two hurricane lamps and was attacking the beaten earth floor with the pickaxe. For some reason, he seemed jittery and was swinging the pickaxe with something close to blind rage.
    â€œTake it easy,” I said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
    He wheeled on me. “Look, this isn’t one of your bloody Boy’s Own adventures,” he snapped. “This is serious business. We’re attempting to dig up a body here.”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I know.” I picked up a shovel and started to clear some of the earth, piling it in the corner, where it was slowly forming a small mound.
    Amy stood in the middle of the room, holding one of the lamps aloft to give us light as we worked. Soon the hole was more than two feet deep, but we had uncovered nothing.
    Hughie stopped digging and leaned on his spade. “This is bloody useless,” he said. “Are you sure this was where he was standing when he appeared you?”
    â€œIt’s close enough,” I said with a conviction I didn’t really feel.
    I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake. Was it, as Hughie had said, nothing more than a Boy’s Own adventure? A desire to experience the type of adventures I’d read about in Bannermere and other books of that ilk?
    I pressed on, lifting spadeful after spadeful of earth out of the hole and dumping it at the side.
    â€œWait!” Amy’s cry stopped me, my spade poised to dig again.
    â€œLook.” She moved the lamp so we could see clearly.
    I crouched down and peered into the hole. I brushed away a small mound of earth and saw what she was looking at. Material—dirty blue denim. It looked like the leg of a pair of jeans.
    Hughie squatted down beside me and together we worked, clearing the earth away until we had exposed two denim-sheathed legs.
    Amy started to cry. “Oh my God. Poor Michael, all alone down here,” she said softly and began to pray.
    â€œKeep that light steady,” Hughie snapped at her.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you’re doing?