Lockdown

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Nobody guards the dead. Once that occurred to Cody, the plan had come together in no time. Drive to the cemetery, dig her up, sling the coffin into the back of the truck, and disappear into the night. Easy. Apart from one tiny hitch.

‘Man, this ground is like concrete.’

Cody glanced over at his companion, the moonlight splitting his face in two. ‘Quit bitching.’

Usually he liked to work alone. But moving a body was a twoman job. No way round it.

‘I ain’t bitching. I’m making an observation.’

‘Well, observations ain’t gonna get this done.’

‘Neither’s digging. We’re gonna need dynamite to get this old witch out of the ground.’

Don was right. They’d picked the worst time of the year. November on the Eastern Seaboard. A bitter winter with the wind coming off a slate grey Atlantic. Freezing the living, as well as the dead.

Spring would have been better. The nights would still have been long, but the ground would have been softer. Thing was, though, they didn’t have a choice. Not as far as Cody was concerned.

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