Buried A Man I Hated There

By Adam Pepper

Delusions drive them. Deceptions define them. Secrets consume them. BURIED A MAN I HATED THERE: A dark and unusual psychological thriller.

Jack Maddox is distraught after the mysterious deaths of his wife and young daughter. His head constantly aches and his memories are hazy and lost.

Heidi, his wife’s twin sister, does her best to help Jack cope. Ever reliable and dutiful, she encourages Jack to move on with his life.

Each Valentine’s Day, they meet in a field in rural Vermont for a picnic in the snow.

Jack has a secret that’s buried deep. Heidi has a secret of her own. Will they unravel their secrets, or will their secrets unravel them?

Salvation lies hidden in the snow, and in each other.

From a writer known for his unflinching, visceral works, BURIED A MAN I HATED THERE is a complex, beautifully-nuanced and--dare I say it?--surprisingly tender exploration of secrets, deceptions and the always elusive possibility of redemption. Adam Pepper is a writer at the top of his game--and his mastery of the subtle, literary novel is a welcome surprise.
- Bill Breedlove, Author of How to Die Well

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Pepper
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301061013

Adam Pepper

At times disturbing and grim, others raunchy and comical, Adam Pepper’s work is known for a unique blend of horror, suspense and speculative fiction. MEMORIA, Adam’s debut novel, reached #1 on the Dark Delicacies Best Seller list and received rave reviews from Cemetery Dance and Chronicle. "Super Fetus," his outrageous Bizarro novella was called "In-your-face, allegorical social commentary" by esteemed reviewer, Paul Goat Allen. His quick-hitting short work has appeared in genre magazines including THE BEST OF HORRORFIND, Vol. 2 and SPACE AND TIME. Adam’s non-fiction credits span from NEW WOMAN MAGAZINE to THE JOURNAL NEWS. Learn more about Adam at his website: www.AdamPepper.com.

Book preview

praise for ADAM PEPPER

Adam Pepper’s style has the spare elegance of a man who knows how to write.

—Sarah Langan, award-winning author of Audrey’s Door

Stellar prose, vivid characters.

—Dreadful Tales

The first book that I have read from Adam R. Pepper...definitely NOT the last.

—Marilou George, The Kindle Book Review

Powerful!

—Yvonne, Fiction Books

Adam Pepper writes with zeal, verve, and a steak knife to the throat.

—Scott Nicholson, author of Liquid Fear

BURIED A MAN

I HATED THERE

ADAM PEPPER

Copyright 2013 — Adam Pepper

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Innovation Haven

New York, NY

Cover Art by Clarissa Yeo

Ebook Formatting by Robert Swartwood

Contents

Also by Adam Pepper

Dedication

Buried A Man I Hated There

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Author’s Note

Also by Adam Pepper

Novels

Skin Games

Symphony of Blood

Memoria

Novellas

Super Fetus

Collections

Waiting for October

For CJ, and all who love the snow.

BURIED A MAN

I HATED THERE

ONE

The drive is always the best part. The anticipation. The tingling fingertips and sweaty palms. The clean mountain air, so much fresher than the stale city filth. The drive always makes Jack happy.

Jack Maddox taps along to the beat with one hand while waving his other in the air like he’s conducting a philharmonic. He balances the steering wheel in place with his knee. The music—a song about a brown-eyed girl—blasts out the open window. He doesn’t care how silly he looks to passing motorists and the balmy air feels nice as it blows through his hair. Jack peeks in the rearview to see a clean-shaven reflection. A picture on a string hangs from the mirror. The two females in the picture smile eternally, and Jack smiles back at them as they bob on their string along with the music.

Jack has a promise to keep to those two beautiful souls.

Melting snow drips from tall trees just to the side of the two-lane roadway. A green sign reading Last exit before Thruway appears, and Jack puts on his right-hand turn signal. He safely maneuvers the black Honda Civic off the exit and drives on a narrow, windy road for a bit. Then another sign, this one black and white and reading Route 9 to Brattleboro appears. He veers towards the sign, but the Honda doesn’t get on Route 9. Instead, he turns towards a third sign, this one a hand-carved wooden sign mounted on a wood post that reads, Cherry Hill Road and below it a diamond-shaped yellow sign reads, Private Road - Not A Through Street. That sign always makes Jack chuckle. Of course it’s a through street. Sticking up a yellow sign doesn’t change that.

Jack turns on to Cherry Hill Road—a dirt road barely wide enough for two cars to fit across—and then slows. His temples begin to throb, his teeth clench tightly. There is a lone telephone pole on Cherry Hill Road and Jack stops in front of it, a few yards behind a silver BMW already parked. His ears ring and he shuts his eyes tight and takes in a big inhale of the fresh air. The headache quickly subsides, and Jack shuts the windows and turns off the car.

There are only two houses on Cherry Hill Road, both just east of the roadway. A large field several acres across separates them. Jack walks towards a dirt path that leads up into the field, ignoring the No Trespassing sign that stands in front of it. Once on the path, Jack walks around puddles of melted snow, trying to avoid soiling his black dress shoes.

She stands alone in the middle of the wet field, a dead ringer for the woman in the picture that hangs from the rearview mirror. But not to Jack of course. He could tell his wife apart from her sister from the first day they’d met. Not from their looks necessarily. But there were quirks and gestures that gave them away: Heidi’s angry glare; Jessica’s voice just a hair higher; winks, twitches, laughs. The things that make up the individual seem subtle sometimes, other times they are quite glaring. These are the things that shouldn’t be taken for granted; they should be cherished.

A picnic basket hangs from her side held by one hand while a blanket is tucked underneath her other arm. She smiles widely as Jack approaches. Her unbuttoned beige overcoat veils a thin but shapely body. She has curly (but currently frizzy) brown hair and the sharpest hazel eyes one could imagine. She is wearing a good deal of makeup, but not enough to cover the bags underneath her eyes.

I knew you would be waiting for me, Jack says.

I always do.

You were always the dependable sister, Heidi.

Still am. Heidi’s stiff shoulders move up towards her ears as she forces out a laugh.

Jessica was always the wild one.

Ah, not that wild.

When we first met, she could be so impulsive. There was this one time we went to a midnight showing of...what was the movie? Dammit, I can’t remember.

Heidi giggles and shrugs again, this time more genuinely, then says, She told me about that.

She what?

Oh, come now. You know we had no secrets.

We were sitting in the back row, I was looking at the screen, but not paying attention, and she...

Okay, Jack! That’s enough. We both know what Jess was doing.

Jack flashes an evil grin, then says, It’s a good thing it was dark and the theatre wasn’t too crowded.

I guess so.

How was the drive? Jack asks.

Not bad. Almost four hours.

Barely three and a half for me.

You were probably driving too fast.

Not really. It’s my short cut. It saves a full fifteen minutes. I don’t know why you refuse to take it.

She quickly changes the subject. Not a bad day for a picnic. Just a little soggy.

Yeah, bit of a heat wave for February.

Oh, Jack. Look at your shoes. They’re soaked. She points down to her own feet, dry in a pair of furry, designer boots, You should wear some boots.

I like to dress nicely for the picnic.

I know, she says softly, still looking down at Jack’s muddy dress shoes. Heidi perks up, and says, I brought all your favorites.

Great! Jack shouts with way too much enthusiasm; they both know he doesn’t really mean it.

She hands Jack the picnic basket. Then, Heidi surveys the ground and picks out a relatively dry spot. She throws the blanket high into the air and it glides down perfectly in a soft breeze; not so much as a crease or wrinkle shows.

Heidi sits, and gestures for Jack to do the same, which he does. Then, she reaches into the picnic basket.

With the gusto of a game show hostess, she says, Look at what I have here... She pauses for dramatic effect. Turkey and Swiss. Light mayo. Dijon mustard, too. Even ketchup in case you want to whip up that special sauce you love to do.

Jack nods, then smirks, straining to look interested but doing a crummy job of it.

Fruit salad. Really ripe, too. She holds up a clear Tupperware and points, Melon. Pineapple. Grapes. Small slices of apple, peach and pear. The slices are long and thin, just how you like it. And I had a devil of a time finding ripe melon being out of season and all, but I pulled it off. She pauses and pushes the fruit towards Jack. Try. You’ll see. It’s really ripe.

Another nod. Another smirk. Jack takes a piece of cantaloupe and eats it. Umm. It is ripe. Despite the sweet taste of the fruit, he can’t get the sour expression off his face.

Again, she reaches into the basket and continues with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, And to drink I have iced tea. And soda. She pauses again trying to build the suspense while making goo-goo eyes at Jack, her hand now deep in the basket, then she pulls out a bottle and says, And merlot! Your favorite.

I don’t think so. I’m driving.

Oh, stop it. One glass with lunch won’t kill you.

Jack nods again. Smirks again.

And best of all, the dessert.

Finally, the smirk turns to a genuine smile, as Jack knows what’s coming.

My homemade rice pudding. Your favorite. She pulls out a large bowl with tinfoil covering it. She folds back the foil halfway and hands the bowl to Jack.

This looks great. Thanks, Heidi.

My pleasure.

They begin to eat the meal, and Jack keeps his eyes low. He eats a sandwich, then some fruit, and finally the pudding—three helpings of pudding—while silent the entire time.

Heidi tries to make eye contact. She smiles. She laughs. She coughs. She spills wine on her red and black checkered blanket.

Oh sugar, would you look at this mess.

Nothing works. Jack’s eyes stay focused directly on the food.

Finally, Heidi breaks the silence. I’ve been thinking about those problems you’ve been having. The headaches. The memory loss. She pauses to allow him to answer, but he doesn’t. I have a friend, he’s a neurologist. I think he can help you. She pauses again, this time for quite a bit longer. When he doesn’t answer, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a business card. She slides it into the side pocket of Jack’s suit jacket. Here’s his card. Please call him.

Once the rice pudding is finished, Jack stands up. Heidi stands with him.

Thank you, Heidi. That was delicious.

You are very welcome. She leans over, trying to kiss Jack’s cheek, but he pulls away.

Bye. See you next year.

I’ll be here, she says, and Jack knows she means it.

• • •

Jack emerges from the wooded path, walks around the telephone pole and gets back into his car. He drives south, back down the two-lane road in silence. There is no music and yet a kettledrum pounds a hole through his skull with vicious monotony that accompanies the knowledge that another year will pass. The face he sees in the rearview mirror is sullen. He massages his temples with one hand while holding the steering wheel with the other. The thumping in his head grows and grows. He reaches into his pocket and fingers the neurologist’s business card, but he doesn’t pull it out.

The picture hangs by a yellow string from the rearview mirror, banging the windshield, bouncing around with each bump.

Jack doesn’t look at it.

• • •

A man has certain expectations for his life. These expectations become more than potential hopes and dreams. They become our essence. Our identity. These expectations consume us. They make us what we are...

And what we’re not.

The apartment is dim. Jack lies back on the bed, arms clasped over his head as if about to do a sit-up—ignoring 2G who’s yelling at the Chinese delivery guy—thinking about these very expectations. Not hope for the future, but the expectations he once had, but can no longer see clearly.

You say white rice. Says right here.

Fried rice! I asked for fried rice. The girl on the phone can’t speak fuckin’ English.

Jack closes his eyes. His sinuses begin to swell. He sees an image. A man is mowing a lawn. The lawn is green. The grass is lush. There isn’t a weed to be seen.

Fine! I come back with your fried rice!

He opens his eyes. The image is gone. His life is nothing but weeds and crab grass. Bare patches of dirt where green life once grew. Who is the man in his mind’s eye?

I don’t remember, he mumbles aloud.

Jack rolls off the bed and walks towards the window, stepping over pizza boxes and ignoring the piled-up dishes in the sink. He sees a reflection in the window of a man in a soiled undershirt, his hair disheveled and five o’clock shadow quickly filling in.

He leans over and rests his arms on the metal security grate and looks out to the city street below. Two cabs and a produce truck drive by, splashing a dirty slush puddle as they pass. Behind them is a storefront row: dry cleaner, barbershop and pizzeria. In the foreground, Jack sees the Chinese delivery kid walk to his bike, which is chained to a street sign. The kid removes the chain, muttering to himself, then tosses the white box of rice into a basket fastened to the handlebars. He dumps the chain on top of it, hops on the bike, and pedals off towards Foo Chow up on Broadway.

Jack Maddox is dead. He died ten years ago. Jack Maddox is buried in a field on Cherry Hill Road just off Route 9 in Brattleboro.

I am what’s left.

TWO

She sits quietly behind a large mahogany desk, staring at a computer screen. A screen that hasn’t changed for an hour and a half, much like her mindset. She looks at the home page that appears each morning when she logs on. To her left is a large pile of papers. To her right is a big stack of files. Many items require attention, but none are receiving any. Her phone is ringing. The red light on her phone is lit, indicating messages are awaiting her.

The Roman numerals on the rectangular, antique clock that stands tall on her credenza read exactly nine o’clock. The office will fill up soon.

Heidi stands up and walks to the window. She looks down fifty-two floors to the busy street below. The ants are marching. The worker bees are buzzing. This queen bee is not quite ready for the day.

But the day doesn’t care. It has no sympathy. It will start anyway.

Two knocks to her office door draw her attention, and the door opens. Heidi sees nothing but red—a giant bouquet floats along; she can’t see who’s carrying it as the overflowing roses cover Samantha’s face. All Heidi can see, other than flowers, are black nylons and dark shoes to match.

Look at what you got! Samantha calls. She places the vase down on Heidi’s desk and Heidi can finally see her face and the giant smile that covers it from ear to ear. In a sing-song voice, she says, Someone has a valentine!

Oh, stop it, Sam.

Doesn’t he know Valentine’s Day was yesterday?

Yes. I’m sure he knows.

There’s a card. Aren’t you gonna read it?

Samantha pulls a giant white envelope out from the wax paper that wraps the bouquet and hands it to Heidi.

Heidi giggles and says, You are so nosy.

Well, excuse me for being happy for you.

Heidi thumbs open the envelope and pulls out an equally giant red card decorated fully but tastefully with hearts and bows. She looks at it quietly.

Come on. Come on. Read it. Please.

Heidi shakes her head while grinning. Then she reads it aloud. Dear Heidi. Thank you for the wonderful day. Jack.

That’s it? Sam asks with a sigh.

That’s enough.

Samantha’s posture tightens; is it curiosity or suspicion, Heidi isn’t quite sure. Who is this mysterious Jack? Sam asks.

A friend.

Her posture tighter still, she says, A friend, huh?

Yes. A friend.

Fine. If that’s all you want to tell me. I’ll just have to deal with it.

Indeed you will. Now if that will be all, I have the Booker account to look over.

Okay. I get the hint. Samantha starts towards the door, then turns around to say, Don’t forget, conference call with the Miami office at eleven and lunch with Gert from finance at noon.

Yup. I know.

’kay. Sam gets to the door, opens it, stops and looks back one last time.

Heidi sits down behind her desk and picks up the Booker file. She grabs a pen, sits back in her chair, then looks back at Sam. That will be all, Sam.

Sam smiles, shrugs, giggles, then says, Okay. Then she whispers, Congratulations. Good luck with Jack.

That will be all, Sam!

Okay. Okay. Finally, she leaves and softly closes the door.

Once the door is shut, Heidi leans forward in her chair, sticks her nose in the middle of the bouquet and sniffs loudly.

• • •

She doesn’t really mind lunching with Gert, but Gert always picks such horrible places. Today was no different. Classical music at a low volume. God-awful Mediterranean décor that surely cost a fortune but looks like some pathetic attempt to be trendy. More plates