Page 19 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

Logan

The Manhattan skyline, in winter, set behind a huge moon, is one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

Logan stood in one of the best spots to take in this view.

It wasn’t from the top of the Rockefeller Center.

It wasn’t from the viewing platform of the Empire State Building.

Logan stood, in total darkness, surrounded by three million dead.

On a hill, among the tombstones of Calvary Cemetery in Maspeth, Queens, his breath misted as he took in the island of Manhattan.

The electric glow from the city towers stretched and rippled upon the surface of the East River, like starlight trapped deep beneath tinted glass.

Gravestones, mausoleums and commemorative statues surrounded Logan and occasionally caught fragments of light here and there, and appeared to him, for a moment, as a miniature reflection of the city – as if the tombstones were tiny buildings, and Logan a dark giant among them.

New York’s necropolis had first opened in 1848, a Catholic burial ground with its inaugural internment, reportedly, a woman named Esther Ennis, Irish and poor, who is said to have died of a broken heart.

The cholera, influenza and tuberculosis epidemics quickly filled what would become the first section of the cemetery.

Half of those who were buried here during those periods were poor Irish children.

It is one of the largest cemeteries in the world, with burials still taking place in different sections.

It is the resting place of entertainers, military heroes, mobsters and ordinary citizens of New York.

Before he got back to his work, Logan quietened his breath, listened hard and silently turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in this corner of the cemetery, watchful for anything that might look like the traces of a flashlight.

Due to some recent vandalism, and the usual problem of kids drinking six-packs and getting high, the security patrol had stepped up its game.

Three weeks ago, the security guard would sit in his little booth at the cemetery gate and watch YouTube until sun-up.

Relatives had complained about the levels of vandalism and the mess the kids left behind, which prompted the guards into regular patrols.

Logan had taken some time to get to know the security patrol schedule and routes.

Few people came to this part of the cemetery at any time, and Logan had yet to see the patrolman anywhere near this section after eleven at night.

During his scouting walks, he’d come across numerous empty beer cans a quarter mile to the east, gathered around a collection of large, flat stone tombs and ornate statutes in a wealthy family plot.

An ideal spot for underage drinking. That’s the hot spot the guards focused on.

Far away from Logan and his business in the cemetery.

He was a cautious man. He gathered data, planned, tested. He knew he could work undisturbed, but he took no chances.

The area was silent and dark, and Logan was all alone with the dead.

He lifted the black iron-head military folding spade from the ground with both hands and arced it overhead, leaned forward, folding at the waist until the shaft touched his ankles.

Breathed.

Stretched up and backward, contracting his spine.

Breathed.

Logan had already been in the cemetery for an hour, first hauling all his equipment and gear over the iron fence, then preparing for the dig.

Three tarps had been laid out beside the grave, and he had used a pick and an edging tool to measure out his excavation – forty inches, by fifty-five inches.

This was a gamble. He wasn’t digging out the entire length of the burial plot because the metal casket below was a half-couch – the lid was split into two parts to allow only the top half of the body to be visible for the memorial service.

He’d seen some pictures from mourners on social media, and recognized the half-couch lid.

He switched on the LED head flashlight stretched over his black beanie, and thrust the spade downwards, biting into the cold earth. He stood on the edge of the spade until it sank into the soil, then levered down, lifting a chunk of topsoil free, and then dumped it on the first tarp.

This grave sat below the branches of a tall tree, it’s trunk perhaps ten feet away. Still, the branches overhead were a welcome shelter for the dead below.

One thirty in the morning.

He had calculated it would take him three hours for the dig.

Logan worked the spade and occasionally took up the pick, making sure to keep the edges and wall of the grave intact.

He found that he couldn’t work with the headlight lit, he was having to stop and swat moths fluttering for the light above his face.

So he worked in the dark. The first hour passed quickly, and he had a mound on the nearest tarp of about four hundred pounds of topsoil.

He drank from his water bottle, stretched his shoulders. Sweat drenched his back, like a sheet of ice with the nighttime temperatures, making his scars itch.

Some wounds don’t heal.

The darker soil would be next, separated into another layer on the second tarp. This soil gave just as easily as the first layer, with roots spread throughout. Another hour, and the cushioned protective gloves were still not enough to prevent his callused palms from bleeding.

Logan liked the calluses that sat on the ridge of his palm, below each finger.

He had earned them, with thousands of hours lifting iron dumb bells, barbells and kettlebells.

This and the calisthenic exercises he practiced daily had built a powerful body.

Supple, flexible and incredibly strong. He had a gymnast’s physique and an endurance athlete’s conditioning.

Every morning, he took an ice bath. Three minutes of immersion. He was so used to it now that he didn’t even feel the shock from the cold. Then ninety minutes of training. It paid off.

The second layer of soil covered the second tarp.

More water. He needed to stay hydrated.

The final layer was the toughest, mostly clay. By the time the third tarp was filled it was almost three a.m. and Logan’s shoulders and back were aching gloriously, the muscles filled with blood.

Not all graves are six feet deep. This one, about four feet. The ordinance and regulations for the depth of graves varies from state to state. At three feet deep, most carrion and wild animals cannot smell a cadaver, and will leave it undisturbed.

As he got closer to the casket lid, he switched to a large plastic shovel scoop. The kind used for snow. He didn’t want to damage the coffin lid. It was imperative that his work go unnoticed.

Using his gloves to clear away the final thin layer of dirt from the chrome-colored casket, he reached to the left side, his fingers searching for the latch.

Most steel caskets are latched. If it didn’t have one, he would need to use a coffin key.

If he couldn’t find a keyhole on that side, he would need to abandon the dig, and return another night to dig up the entire coffin.

His fingers probed, tight against the side of the casket lid and the wall of earth.

And there it was, a latch.

He climbed out of the grave, retrieved his leather bag, which he had hung on the tombstone, and opened it. Inside was a bum bag that Logan attached to his waist. He took off his gloves, opened the bag.

Dealing with a decomposing body is not like it is in the movies.

He’d watched scenes where coroners smear Vicks Vapor Rub on their top lip, to mask the odors.

Logan had tried this once before. It didn’t work.

In fact, he was reasonably sure it had made the smell worse.

The Vicks had opened his sinuses – so he could smell the decomp gases better.

He tore the seal on a medical mask. He still had a box of these at home, the leftovers from the Covid pandemic.

Removing the plastic packaging, he slung the mask over his wrist then retrieved a small bottle from his bag.

He then unscrewed a cap on the vial of peppermint oil and tipped half a dozen drops onto the mask before sealing the bottle, placing it back in his bag and putting on the mask.

He dropped back down. Instead of putting on his soiled work gloves, he put on latex gloves with thick, ridged sections on the palm and the fingers for extra grip.

He went back into his bum bag, retrieved the syringe and slid it into his wristband.

The cap still covered the eight-inch-long hypodermic needle.

His fingers found the latch again. He took a deep breath and unlocked the upper half of the casket.

The smell hit him immediately, despite the peppermint oil soaking the mask on his face. The oil helped dull it, a little, but there was no combatting the stench of decay. It got into the very fibers of clothing and could remain there for days even after a laundry cycle.

Logan would be dumping everything he was wearing, anyway.

He needed to see clearly for this part of the job, and he flicked on his headlight.

The beam fell on the face of the corpse.

Hollow cheeks, sunken eyeballs – the lids stitched shut as well as the lips. Teeth were visible through the decayed, paper-thin skin.

Logan worked quickly, first unbuttoning the jacket, then lifting up the shirt. The ribs were visible through the skin. This helped Logan. No point in injecting anything into a vein. There was no blood flow. For all he knew, there was no blood at all, just embalming fluid.

The air was thick with the smell of the dead. He didn’t know if it was the odor or the light from his flashlight, maybe both, but moths gathered and swooped around him, the beam catching their wings – some were pale and some bright colors.

Logan ignored them and concentrated.