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Return of the Night Owl

Not All Things Stay Buried: By Laura Marie

By L. O'SheaPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 14 min read
1
Image: Erik Karits from Pexels

His son is an idiot.

This is not the first time - and he’s certain it won’t be the last - that this thought has crossed his mind. The body is sprawled out between them across plastic linoleum, mouth agape, eyes wide and empty. Blood soaks through the cheap shirt, crimson drops glisten on the police badge: dead, very dead. Which is very bad.

His son is animatedly saying something undoubtedly useless when he softly asks: “what the fuck did you do?”

The silence is sudden and although nobody moves, the tension is palpable.

After a moment, surprised, his son replies “I just did what you asked!”

“What do you mean, ‘what I asked’?”

“I took care of it! You told me to take care of the rookie and I took care of it!” Frankie Jr. shrugs, chuckling nervously, looking around at the handful of other men in the room. None make eye contact.

“Mm-hmm. So you, in all you’re infinite wisdom, thought that ‘take care of it’ meant to start a war with the police while we’re in the middle of a turf war with the Russians?” Frank Sr does not blink, staring into the man who shares his name, his blood.

His son pauses; he knows there is no right answer, no way out of the trap, but he has to say something. “I just did what you asked…” His quavering voice is small and unsure.

“I also tell you to take care of your fuckin’ sister are ya gonna kill her, too?” Frank Sr steps over the body, Frankie Jr shrinks back.

“No!” Frank is now so close Frankie can smell the whisky on his breath.

“OH ARE YOU FUCKIN SURE ABOUT THAT?” He roars, bits of spittle bubbling at the sides of his mouth. Despite himself Frankie flinches, but he does not retreat, salvaging some semblance of pride. The room falls silent again. The other men are suddenly very interested in the walls, the roof, their own shoes; anything but the two of them. Frank sighs heavily, closing his eyes and clasping Frankie’s shoulders. His grip is a little too hard but Frankie says nothing.

When he opens his eyes again, he calmly says: “You are going to fix this.”

---

'Fixing this' means Frankie and his cousin Marco borrow a beat-up old Volvo from their uncle's used car lot, stuff the dead cop in the boot, and head to the family-owned cemetery. Frankie doesn't know how many bodies lie beneath the legitimate grave sites; but he does know that exhuming human remains requires permission from the next-of-kin or a warrant. Most "residents" and their families have problematic relationships with the law, and without probable cause, the dead stay buried.

Still, Frankie considers grave-digging a menial task that's beneath him, but his father had insisted. “Insult to fucking injury,” Frankie mutters under his breath; as if he hasn’t been humiliated enough. Marco doesn’t hear him over the engine or his story about some girl – Frankie isn’t quite sure, he isn’t listening. He twists his grandfather’s ring around his finger, morose and frustrated: his father is never grateful for anything Frankie does for this family.

“Alright, we’re here.” Marco says, parking the ancient Volvo alongside an empty plot.

“Let’s get this over with.” Frankie grumbles. The two men climb out of the rusting car, shovels in hand. Neither say a word as they pull off their bomber jackets and roll up expensive, silken sleeves.

They dig. Together, at first, but now in shifts. Frankie leans against the car, staring up at the night sky, muscles aching. Sweat glues his shirt to his chest. They have to dig down six feet, deep enough for a normal grave, and then even further, to hide the body beneath that. It is not a fast process.

“GAH FUCK – “ Marco yells loudly, startling Frankie. Frankie sees Marco manically waving his shovel, a large barn owl flapping its wings in a wild panic before flying away.

“What the fuck just happened?” Frankie asks.

“A fucking barn owl! Just jumped right in!”

“A barn owl?”

“Yeah!”

Frankie stars at his cousin for a moment. “You got scared of a fucking barn owl?”

Marco blinks. “Well… it snuck up on me! I got startled!”

Frankie sighs, then frowns. “How do *you* know what kinda owl it was?”

“What… wait, aren’t they all just barn owls?”

“No, you dumb fuck.” He says, gesturing for Marco to get out of the grave for his turn to rest.

“Oh. Well, what kinda owl was it, then?”

“How should I know?” Frankie says, jumping down into the cool earth. He starts to dig.

---

They finish burying the body before dawn. They only fill the site to six feet, in preparation for a burial later in the morning. Frankie is confident the problem has been fixed.

Showered and dressed, Frankie walks into one of his family's restaurants. The smell of garlic and spices reminds him of his hunger but he pushes that aside. He walks through to the cordoned off VIP area, where his father sits over a plate of spaghetti. Large men stand behind him, hands clasped in front of them. To Frankie, they look bored. He takes a seat across from his father. The chairs are plush and comfortable.

"Is it done?" Frank asks. He doesn't look up.

"It's done." Frankie replies.

"Good! Good." His father nods. Something catches his eye behind Frankie. Frankie turns around.

It's a woman, somewhere in her mid-30s. Her face is serious and her eyes are sharp. Her suit is cheap and her detective badge is displayed prominently on her belt. The thugs behind Frank Sr move to block her, but Frank raises his hand - "she's okay."

"Hey Frank", she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Lola! What can I do for ya?" Frank Sr says with fake cheer. It reminds Frankie of two heavyweights sizing each other up before they jump in the ring. Lola has been after Frank and the family for as long as Frankie can remember.

She stops at their table. "Well, you know, it's just the strangest thing!" There is a soft southern flavour to her accent.

"Oh? What's that?" Frank asks, before directing his attention back to his plate.

"Do you remember my rookie, the one I introduced to ya the other day?" The question is more rhetorical than anything else. She places one hand on her hip and the other on the table, leaning in closer.

Frank frowns, almost like he's in thought. "Do you mean that baby-faced asshole who kept stalking my family?"

"Yep, that'd be the one." She mentally notes down his use of past-tense.

"What about him?"

"Well, he didn't show up for his shift today." She pauses. Frank takes another bite of pasta and sauce.

"Ok, and?" He asks.

"Well, a young-blood like that, ambitious, believes in the badge... He's never been so much as late." Her face is stony and intense, looking for the hint of a lie.

"Oh. Maybe he realised the badge ain't all it's cracked up to be." He responds. Another pause. She doesn't move. He continues his meal. Frank knows she’s fishing, which means she has nothing.

After another moment, she pushes herself off the table: "Hell, maybe you're right." The fake smile returns. "Hi Junior, nice to see you again!" Frankie nods stiffly. Nobody calls him Junior: he hates it. Her eyes drift to his hands entangled in front of him. "Oh! Where's your ring?"

"My what?" Frankie frowns, not understanding.

"Your ring. I haven't seen you without it since you were in seventh grade." Her voice is curious and laden with insincere concern. For the first time, Frank Sr shifts in his seat. Frankie looks down at his bare fingers. He didn't notice it was gone. His mind reels - did he leave it in the shitty Volvo? His penthouse? The grave?

"Well?" She prompts.

"I took it to get it cleaned." He responds smoothly.

"Oh! Where did you take it?"

"Nowhere. You know you can buy these little jewellery cleaning machines online now?"

"Sorry, just the way you said that made me think you had taken it somewhere."

"Mm, no." Frankie shrugs. She nods thoughtfully, satisfied. It makes him nervous.

"Well, thank you for your time, gentlemen. Enjoy the rest of your day," she says, not meaning a single word.

"Not at all, always a pleasure to see you, Lola," Frank replies, not meaning a single word either.

She leaves. Frank puts down his fork. "So where is it? Is it in that fuckin’ grave?" His voice is already edged with impatience.

"It's at home, dad, chill." Frankie is a practiced liar, so long as he doesn’t need to keep track of too many at once.

"It'd better be. That was your mother's father’s ring. I'd better see it on you at church."

"Yeah, of course." Frankie replies, remembering services are tomorrow morning. Frankie can't afford yet another embarrassing disappointment; he needs to find that ring.

---

It has been hours. They sit, defeated, on Frankie’s leather couch, his worldly possessions strewn across the penthouse floor. They’d all but stripped the upholstery off the rickety Volvo. Nothing.

“Maybe we missed somethin' in the Volvo?” Marco offers hopefully; he desperately doesn’t want to go grave digging again.

“Nah, it ain’t here. We have to go back.” They look at each other with dread.

After sunset they drive the struggling Volvo back to the cemetery. Neither notice the white, nondescript sedan trailing behind. They drive into the graveyard. The white sedan peels away towards a small hill that overlooks the dead.

Anxiety sits like a stone in Frankie’s stomach. The grave is packed earth covered in flowers, with no headstone. Marco gruffly pushes the flowers away. Before they can dig, Marco gasps: “look!”

Frankie turns and sees the barn owl on the Volvo’s bonnet. It's heavy gaze is wild and unblinking.

“Ya know, the Indians, like the American-Indians, thought barn owls were a bad omen.” Marco whispers. The stone in Frankie’s stomach turns suddenly. “They thought they were omens of death”.

“How do you know that?”

“Wikipedia.”

The owl’s unrelenting stare is beginning to scare Frankie. “What is it with you and these damn owls?” Frankie grumbles, walking over to the Volvo. “Shoo! Shoo!” He waves his arms. The owl doesn’t move.

“Aw come on! He’s not doin’ nothin’! Leave him alone!” Marco pleads.

“I thought you said this thing is a bad omen! I don’t want bad juju while I’m digging up a friggin’ grave.”

Marco doesn’t argue. Frankie steps closer. “Come on! Fuck off, will ya?” The owl turns its head to the side. “Jesus do these things fuckin’ blink?” He mutters. He’s close enough now to touch it. “Fuck off!” He swings his arm, aiming directly at the owl. His fingers brush silky soft feathers as it skitters back, before soundlessly flying away. A shiver trickles down his spine, as if he’s just done something terribly wrong. Frankie freezes in place. It isn’t like him to feel regret over his actions. The alien feeling disturbs him.

“Hey, are we doing this or not?” Marco’s voice shocks him back to reality.

They dig until the heads of their shovels strike the casket. At first they try to lift it out of the grave with rope. When that doesn't work, they pry it open with a crow bar. They peer inside. An ancient, shrivelled man lies in silk, hands resting on his stomach. He looks like he's sleeping, except there's a stillness, an absence; a pale imitation of slumber. At first, Frankie is surprised by the lack of smell, until he remembers the dead bodies he normally deals with aren't embalmed.

"Nice digs!" Marco chuckles.

The tiny man is much easier to remove from the grave than the entire coffin. They smash their shovels into the bottom of the casket until the cheap plywood gives way. They tear at silk and pieces of wood and start to dig again.

They don't get far.

A blinding light falls on Frankie and Marco.

"Ya know, when I said followin' in your father's footsteps is like diggin' your own grave, I didn't mean it quite so literally," says Lola.

---

Frankie has been in this interrogation room before, as a weedy and arrogant seventh grader. Something about a vandalism charge. He remembers a young Lola, still stern and severe; although her eyes were softer and her accent thicker. He remembers her sincerity, pleading with him not to be like his father. But he idolized the man – he remembers Frank Sr collecting him, gleeful pride in his smile.

It’s been a long time since Frankie has seen that smile.

The door creaks open and Lola saunters in. “Well, welcome back Frankie Jr!” She drops a manila folder on the stainless-steel table between them and sits down.

“I’m not sayin’ nothin’.” Frankie defiantly folds his arms and leans back in his plastic chair.

Lola turns her head to the side. “Oh. Well now, that’s a double negative, you see? So… you’re sayin' somethin'?”

Frankie doesn’t quite follow but he doesn’t want to look completely stupid. “Yeah, this.” He raises both his fists and extends his middle fingers.

“Ah. Very clever.” She places worn reading glasses over the bridge of her nose and opens the manila folder. “But that’s okay. I wanna tell you a story anyway.” She pulls out a series of photographs and slides them across the table. “This is you, and your genius friend, diggin' up the grave of one Mr. Giovanni Esposito." She taps her finger on the top of a high-resolution image, clearly showing both of their faces. "This is you and your friend pullin' Mr. Esposito from his grave." She taps the next photo, a tiny corpse splayed across the dirt. "And then, this is you and your friend, continuin' to dig." She folds her arms on the table and leans forward.

"I want my lawyer." Frankie says flatly.

"Oh yeah we're gettin' right on that, don't worry. I'm just tellin' you a story here." She waves him off. Frankie puts his head back and groans.

"Anyway, so as I was sayin'," Lola continues. "Who the heck digs, finds a body, but then *keeps going*?" Frankie continues to stare at the ambiguous stains on the roof. "The only reason I can think of, is because there's somethin' underneath that body. What do you think?"

"No comment."

"Hmm. Well, I'll tell you what I think. I think there is somethin' down there. And it isn't just somethin'. I think it's a body."

"No comment."

"Yeah. I think it's rookie James Miller." Undeterred, she watches him carefully. Frankie feels like a bug caught under a magnifying glass.

"No comment."

"And since you two geniuses have already exhumed - rather unceremoniously, I might add - Mr. Esposito from his final restin' place, we don't need to seek permission from his next of kin for disinterment." Frankie swallows, hard. "Yeah. And you know what I'd call two people diggin' somethin' up underneath a body?" She pauses. Frankie says nothing. "Probable cause."

Frankie looks back at Lola, a knowing smile on her face. He resists the urge to launch himself across the table. "No. Fucking. Comment."

"And who knows? Maybe we'll get a nice judge. A judge that thinks maybe, in a cemetery owned by known members of the mob, there are other bodies underneath other burial sites, hmm? How many dirty little secrets do you think we will dig up then?"

Frankie says nothing. Her smile widens. "Imagine that. The son of the boss bringin' down the entire family because he lost his ring while buryin' a cop."

Frankie clenches his jaw. Anger and anxiety are eating him alive.

"Yeah. That's about the sum of it, then. But let's make sure we get you that lawyer." She collects the photographs back into the manila folder, but hesitates. "You wanna know the weirdest part about all of this?"

Frankie doesn't respond.

"If you just hadn't gone back for that ring, we wouldn't be sittin' here right now." She absent-mindedly taps the table with her finger. "But the thing is, you didn't bury it with Miller."


Frankie frowns.

"Yeah. When the uniforms took you away, there was this barn owl standin' on my bonnet, starin' at me. He wasn't afraid of me or anythin'. I got closer and noticed he had somethin' shiny in his feet. When I got so close I could touch him, do you know what I saw, clutched in those talons?" Frankie closes his eyes. "Your grandfather's ring."

fiction
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About the Creator

L. O'Shea

If you like science, mobsters, fantasy novellas, and ancient humans, then this is probably the profile for you.

Call of the Crow series: New chapters released fortnightly!

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