“Stop here,” Danny says.
The FBI agent driving the car pulls to a stop and puts the vehicle in park. They are in the sand hills outside of Kankakee. The sun is low in the sky, coating the clouds in red and casting a pink, bloody hue onto the sandy ground.
The driver and the agent in the passenger seat get out. The one with the glasses opens the back door of the sedan for Danny, who steps out. His hands are cuffed.
The irony is not lost on Danny that two days ago he was the one leading a handcuffed man down this same path.
This time, instead of just Danny and Stephen Small, Danny is joined by an entire contingent of FBI agents, police, paramedics. There are people all around him, waiting for him to take them to the place where he buried Stephen Small.
“This way,” Danny says.
He walks through the sandy soil.
Danny’s stomach is knotted, as if someone has taken his intestines and twisted them into a tight ball.
Off to his left, Danny hears a crunch. He pauses and looks over. One of the cops lifts his shoe and looks down. Beneath his foot is a crushed pair of eyeglasses.
The glasses that had fallen off Stephen Small’s face.
“Hurry up,” one of the agents says, shoving Danny forward.
Danny continues until he spots the PVC pipe sticking out of the ground.
“There,” he says.
From the tube sticking out of the ground, it’s easy to see the disturbed segment of ground where the rest of the pipe is located, leading to a large swath of disturbed earth.
“He’s buried down there,” Danny says, then adds, “I gave him food and water.”
Officers come in with shovels and get to work. One of the agents leans over the pipe and calls to Stephen Small.
“Mr. Small, it’s the police,” he shouts. “We’re almost there. Just wait a little while longer.”
There’s no answer.
Danny stands back. His heart hammers in his chest.
He remembers pointing the gun at Stephen Small and the fear he saw on the man’s face. Later, when Stephen didn’t want to get into the box, Danny had assured him he would live.
Danny had believed his own words.
The cops work furiously, throwing shovelfuls of dirt. Several of them are digging, but the work is slow.
Hurry up, Danny thinks. Hurry.
Finally, one of the shovels strikes wood. The officers double their efforts, trying to clear the lid.
“Hang in there, Mr. Small!” one of the agents shouts.
They get enough room around the edge of the box, and an officer kneels and wedges his fingers underneath the lid. He pulls up, and the still partially buried plywood groans under the weight.
Then he pries the lid open so everyone can see inside.