“Yeah,” Benitez said. “That okay?”

  “Why are you so confrontational?” Faith asked. “Are you hiding something?”

  “No, I’m not hiding anything,” he said, “but you guys clearly think I am, and it makes me nervous. How do I know you guys haven’t already decided I did this? I mean, you know I got into trouble when I was younger. Maybe you think I’m still that same guy.”

  “Are you?” Michael asked.

  “No!” Benitez shouted. He frowned and took a defensive step backward. “You know what, maybe I do need a lawyer.”

  “Let’s back up a bit,” Faith said. “You recently accepted contracts with Hillside Memorial Cemetery and Humble Memorial Lawn. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So the victims—Barbara Ames and Marvin Prescott—were buried at those cemeteries,” Faith said. “I’d like to know if you saw anything suspicious while you were there.”

  Benitez’s eyes narrowed further, but if there was a trick in that question, he couldn’t find it. “No,” he said finally. “Nothing suspicious. I mean, I think I saw a drug deal go down across the street from the Humble cemetery, but I didn’t stop to ask.”

  “Got it,” Faith said. “No one else was working there digging graves?”

  “No,” he said. Then he frowned. “Wait a minute, you think I was like, digging graves to bury murder victims?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Faith replied.

  “Were you?” Michael asked.

  “No,” Benitez said.

  Oddly, he looked relieved. Faith knew why a second later.

  “I can prove it,” he said. “I have the contracts. They’re not with me right now, but if you give me your emails, I’ll send them to you. You can call the management of the cemeteries and confirm the names. Of the graves, I mean.”

  “They tell you the names of the deceased?” Michael asked.

  “Not me, no, but they tell me the plot and row number. You can talk to management and they can tell you it wasn’t those murder victims.”

  “How do you know you weren’t hired to dig their graves?” Faith asked.

  “Well, if I was, you wouldn’t be asking me if I murdered them, would you?”

  Faith wasn’t sure if that conclusion was as logical as it seemed to Benitez, but she allowed him to believe that for the moment. She gestured at the electric backhoe. “That thing’s pretty quiet, huh?”

  He chuckled. “No, not really.”

  “No?” Faith was genuinely stunned. “Quieter than a diesel engine, right?”

  “I mean, when you’re driving, yeah,” he said, “but the digger’s loud as hell. That’s why I gotta wear those.” He gestured at the pair of headphones sitting on the driver’s seat.

  Faith glanced at Michael. “How much noise are we talking about?” she asked.

  “I’ll show you if you want,” he said.

  Faith gestured for him to go ahead, then called Turk over.

  Benitez climbed up into the cockpit and put his headset on. He gave the two agents a thumbs-up and started the machine.

  The motors engaged with a soft whine, but it wasn’t the motors that threw a massive wrench into their working theory of the case. He positioned the shovel in front of the grave and as soon as the shovel began to move, a sharp, insistent buzzing whine started.

  Faith and Michael watched numbly as the noise attracted glances from across the cemetery. The streetlight at the corner turned red and a driver glanced out the window toward the noise.

  Benitez scooped a load of dirt and dropped it on top of the growing pile next to the grave. He shut the loader down and Faith realized glumly that her ears were ringing. There was no chance that someone could have dug that grave with a machine and not be heard, even at night.

  He stepped down, once more grimacing as he favored his hurt back, and set his headphones on the driver’s seat again. “See?” he said. “Can’t hear shit over it.”

  Either he knew he was off the hook as a suspect or he was just happy to gripe to someone about work, but his animosity was gone, and he wore a half-smile as he approached the two agents. “It’s no big deal to me,” he said, “I usually just listen to music while I work. I feel bad for everyone who has to hear it, though. I don’t get as much work as I used, to having to dig during the day, but I get enough to pay the bills, and since I’m not giving half of it to my boss anymore, it all works out.”

  “Could someone dig a grave without this equipment?” Michael asked. “In one night, I mean.”

  “Sure, they could,” Benitez said. “I used to do it. I mean, it was me and one other guy for liability reasons, but I could have done it myself when I was young and tough. You gotta be in real good shape, though, you know what I mean? You gotta lift, and you gotta run. You need a strong heart.”

  “But it’s conceivable that someone could bury a body in one night by themselves,” Faith asked.

  “Yeah, it’s possible. Between you and me, there are only a few guys who can do it, but it’s not unheard of.”

  “You know anyone else who can?” Michael asked.

  He shook his head. “I was the only one on my crew who could,” he said proudly, “but if I could do it, I’m sure someone else could. Not sure why you’d want to do it at a cemetery, though. If I were gonna kill someone, I wouldn’t bury them in a graveyard.” He cocked his head, considering. “I mean, I guess that’s not too crazy a plan if you don’t know that graveyards are usually secured, but still, I’d want to be as far from civilization as possible.” He blinked and suddenly remembered that he was talking to law enforcement. “Not that I’m planning to kill anyone. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t do it that way.”

  Faith and Michael shared a glance, then Faith sighed. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Benitez.”

  “So I’m free to go?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Faith said. “You’re free to go.”

  Benitez grinned. “Sweet. Hey, good luck, Agent. I hope you get this asshole, whoever he is.”

  Me too, Faith thought.

  Inwardly, she shivered. A man who could dig a grave, bury a body, and fill the grave in a single evening had to be an impressive physical specimen. A man who could do it between nightfall and midnight would be a monster.

  A monster like one Jethro Trammell, who once lifted a fully grown donkey over his head and another time killed one agent and nearly killed his K9 unit before paralyzing Faith from the waist down.

  ***

  Faith and Michael worked through the names on the list, but as the day wore on, they still hadn’t found a lead. As the sun settled low in the sky, Faith decided to try another angle. She called the fire department and after a few minutes managed to get through to Marvin Prescott’s supervisor. After a brief hesitation, he agreed to meet the two agents at their station to talk about Marvin.

  Gary Sawyer looked every bit the fire captain he was. He had the thick mustache (no beard), crew cut, and athletic figure that practically screamed I lift heavy things for work all day. He was possibly fifty, but looked in better shape than most men half his age.

  Faith wasn’t here to admire his physique, though. When they reached his office—Faith declining the obligatory coffee, Michael accepting—she asked, “Can you tell me about Marvin?”

  When she didn’t qualify the question, Gary asked, “In general? He was well-liked, hardworking, reliable. Kinda quiet, but not standoffish. The others called him Kid Brother because of his baby face.”

  “Did he ever have a conflict with anyone?” Michael asked.

  Gary shook his head. “No, never. Conflict really isn’t an issue here. Everyone gets along.” He cocked his head. “Well, in my division, at least. Some of the other stations have issues, but none of it comes over here.”

  “So you can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Marvin?” Michael pressed.

  Gary shook his head. “No, I really can’t. Everyone liked him. I know that a lot of people say that about a lot of guys, but it’s genuinely true in Marvin’s case. Here at work, at least. Maybe he had something going on outside, but I wouldn’t know if he did.”

  Faith moved on to the next subject. “Do you know a Dr. Barbara Ames?”

  “Ames?” He crossed his arms and thought for a minute. “The name sounds familiar. What hospital did she work at?”

  “Houston Regional.”

  “Ames,” he repeated. “Yeah, I think so. She was on duty for a recent case of ours. She was an ICU doctor, but she would rotate to ER every now and then.”

  “You said she was the ER doctor on a recent case,” Faith said. “Did Marvin respond to that case?”

  “He was part of the team, yes,” Gary said.

  “Who was the patient?” Faith asked.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Gary said, mildly surprised. “You guys should know that.”

  Faith sighed. “I realize that it’s typically a breach of HIPAA, but we need to know if the victims are connected, and if so, how.”

  “So Dr. Ames is dead too,” Gary deduced.

  “Yes,” Faith said, realizing she hadn’t said that yet. “Yes, both victims were killed, we believe by the same person.”

  “I see,” Gary said. He took a breath. “Well. I can tell you the name of the victim and their emergency contact information, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let on that you got it from me. It’s technically still illegal.”

  “We’ll keep it private,” Faith said. “Thank you.”

  “You got it.”

  Gary returned with a name, Joseph Campanelli, 19. He was survived by Daniel Campanelli, 44, his father. “I can’t imagine that Daniel killed anyone,” Gary said. “He was distraught, but he seemed the gentle type. Didn’t seem angry at us either. Even thanked Jackie, the team leader, when he dropped them off.”

  “Quite a few serial killers seem polite and softspoken,” Faith pointed out. “That’s part of how they avoid suspicion for so long.”

  Gary shrugged. “Well, you’re the detective. I hope you’re wrong about Mr. Campanelli, though. He seemed like a good guy.” He shook his head. “I have a boy about Joey’s age. He’s going to school at Arizona State. Football scholarship. I can’t imagine what I’d do if he got hurt.”

  Faith hoped that Daniel was their guy, if only because it meant that no one else had to get hurt, but she didn’t say that out loud. She stood, thanked Gary for the info, and handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, let us know, please.”

  In the car, Faith looked Daniel Campanelli up in the FBI database. His record was clean except for one count of vandalism and trespassing when he egged his high school football coach’s house after getting cut from the varsity team.

  She found something interesting, though. An article from five years ago. An obituary for a Constanza Campanelli, 89, deceased.

  And where was the late Mrs. Campanelli buried?

  Michael said it aloud. “Houston Hillside Memorial Cemetery.”

  He and Faith shared a look.

  “Looks like we have our second suspect,” Faith said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When he was sober, William Hucksley despised the nickname Billy Boy. No one would know that by the smile he wore in the television ads or the way he freely used the name when assuring clients that Billy Boy really was their boy, and they could toss their worries to the side, but he hated the childish name. Seven years of college and law school while the rest of his friends were losing their virginity and enjoying their lives just so he could spend his adult life sounding like a character from a 1920s pulp fiction gangster novel.

  He had never read a pulp fiction novel, and he had no idea if his assessment of the nickname was accurate, but in any case, it didn’t matter. The name made him money, and money, dear friends, was what made the world go round.

  For that reason, when William Hucksley was drunk, he found the nickname almost likable.

  He was drunk often—too often, the annoying little voice in his head would say when he woke up the morning after a bender with sand in his eyes and a railroad spike in his temples. He found that voice easy enough to silence, however. Besides, he only drank on his nights off, and he didn’t drive. Not anymore, anyway.

  You only get away with something like that once, he would think to himself whenever laziness caused him to consider driving the half-mile to the Rowdy Rooster instead of hoofing it. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.

  “Christ, what a stupid name,” he said with a chuckle.

  His words slurred a little, but not too bad. Either he was getting better at holding his liquor or worse at telling the difference.

  The little voice in his head mentioned that if it was the latter, that could turn out to be a serious problem for his career. Can’t be slurring your words when you’re trying to convince an accident victim to give you half of their judgment. He didn’t drink on his workdays, but he knew that late-stage alcoholics always remained in a state of slight inebriation. Wetbrain, they called it.

  He decided he would limit himself to two drinks a night on Friday and Saturday. He could make them strong drinks, but that would still represent an eighty percent cut in his typical weekend intake.

  He had little confidence that he would keep this commitment, but maybe if he kept telling himself he would stop, one of these times it would take. Maybe.

  He reached his house and reached for his keys, but they slipped out of his fingers. He bent over at the waist, steadying himself against the wall and nearly falling, but managing to keep his feet. His back creaked as he stood, and he grimaced and promised himself for the hundredth time that he was going to lose weight.

  As he straightened, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it, but a strong hand wrapped around his neck. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped around his mouth. He struggled, but his attacker was much stronger than he was, and he couldn’t move. He felt a prick in the side of his neck, and a few moments later, the world went black.

  ***

  That string is connected to a bell at the surface of the grave. If you sound the bell, there’s a chance the night watchman will hear it and know that you’ve been buried alive.

  William heard the words as though he was underwater. He felt as though he was underwater. His movements were slow, and his body felt heavy. He could still breathe, but it seemed to take more effort than it should. He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly from side to side. At least, he thought he did. The world remained black, and he didn’t know if that meant his eyes were still closed or if there was no light available.

  His head felt thick and furry, and his thoughts moved as slowly as his body. Where was he? He couldn’t remember anything that had happened. He was walking home from the bar, he reached his house but dropped his keys, and then… and then…

  He realized that the voice he had heard was still speaking. Time moves quickly in the dark.

  The voice stopped, and with it, the soft crackling sound he hadn’t realized was there until it stopped.

  Where was he?

  The question repeated itself with more insistence as the fog in his mind lessened. He tried to move, and this time he was certain he succeeded because when he lifted his hands, they knocked against something hard. Something wooden.

  Was he in a closet? Had someone trapped him in a closet to rob him? He could now recall the hand slipping around his mouth at his doorway and decided that must be the case. He had been knocked unconscious and was now being robbed. The voice he heard.

  Good evening, the voice began again.

  He shrieked and his voice sounded strange, amplified but at the same time muted. He couldn’t quite figure out what was—

  By now you’ve figured out that you’re in a coffin. The time is now midnight. You have perhaps four or five hours of air left before you asphyxiate to death.

  William froze, eyes wide. At least they felt like they were opened wide. He still couldn’t see, and now he knew why.

  He was in a coffin. He had been buried alive. Just like that movie where that one actor was buried in a coffin and had only a little while to get out before he ran out of air and…

  Asphyxiated to death.

  That’s what the voice had said. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God, he was in a fucking coffin!

  Panic started to set in, and he drew in a breath to scream, but never released it, because as though it could read his mind, the voice said, There’s still hope. There’s a string somewhere in the coffin. That string is connected to a bell at the surface of the grave. If you sound the bell, there’s a chance the night watchman will hear it and know that you’ve been buried alive. Don’t panic. The more you panic, the more you use your available oxygen and the less time you have to summon rescue. Keep in control and look for the string. It’s your only chance.

  Hope flooded him, buoyed by desperation.

  He could get out of this. He could survive. The actor in that movie had survived, after all. Whoever had done this was some crazy guy who wanted to see if he could figure it out, right? He had left Billy Boy one chance, and as long as he could take advantage of that chance, he would be okay.

  In his fear, he didn’t notice his use of the nickname. He began scrambling madly for the string, feeling along the sides and top of the oh my God, it’s a coffin, I’m in a goddamn coffin!

  Look carefully. Time moves quickly in the dark.

  Fear slithered up his navel and coiled tightly around his heart. His chest felt tight, and his breaths came in short, rapid gasps. He tried to calm himself, but when he took a breath, he couldn’t seem to draw in enough oxygen. He just gasped and gasped and—

  Good evening, the voice began again. By now, you’ve figured out that you’re in a coffin.

  William’s strength melted away. He listened numbly as the voice repeated its message.

  Its recorded message.

  You have perhaps four or five hours of air left before you asphyxiate to death.

  Four or five hours. How many of those hours had passed? As he gasped instinctively for air, the last clear thought he had was the realization that most of that time was likely gone.