Right to Life

Whether the Organization even existed or not really didn't matter.

Though she now thought that maybe it did. Was it so far-fetched after all? Cults existed. White slavery existed. Neo-nazis existed. In the end it didn't matter. Even if it was all in his mind, even if he was crazy, what mattered was his power over her. The power to extend her life or take it on a whim.

The back door opened and she saw the woman standing there on the landing in cutoff jeans and a baggy teeshirt. An ordinary-looking woman, in her early forties she guessed like the man appeared to be, neither homely nor pretty, braless, with long slim legs. She looked directly at Sara for a moment and then went into the kitchen. Turned on the water and began to wash her hands.

"It's ready," she said.

"Good. Sara?"

She turned to look at him. She heard the water go off in the kitchen and a paper towel ripped off the roll, sandals crossing the floor toward them and knew the woman was in the room with them but didn't she didn't take her eyes off him for an instant.

"You're going to help us bury Victor. By doing so you'll be helping us accomplish two important things. One, it'll look very good for you in the eyes of the Organization. In fact you're doing it at their direct request. Two… well, call it a kind of bonding factor. As far as the police go, should you ever decide you need to report this, you'll be an accomplice to murder.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're doing this under duress. So if you tell the police that, no problem. But the Organization has that covered too. We've done this before, you know. We've had practice. Once we finish with Victor here I'm going to sit you down with some pens and paper and you're going to write us a few letters, post-dated. They'll be friendly letters – I'll tell you what to say, don't worry – as though Kath and you and I are old buddies from way back. You'll write, among other things, about how much trouble you're having actually going through with the abortion. As though we've been advising you not to have one all along and you're slowly coming around to seeing things from our point of view. Know what I mean? Then in the final letter you'll ask us, if you do decide to keep the baby, if it's okay for you come out here to stay awhile. Y'see? You get the idea? It'll look like you're here because you want to be. Period."

"What about the envelopes?"

She almost bit her tongue for saying it. She knew damn well it was dangerous. But she had to try to shake him somehow. She felt trapped and resentful. She had to let him know that without defying him.

"Excuse me?"

"The envelopes. They'd be postmarked. Dated. You can't fake the postmarks."

He smiled. "Who keeps envelopes, Sara? You throw 'em in the garbage. But nobody'd think twice about people who keep letters from an old friend. Here's the finish. Finally, what we'll do is, we'll give you back your address book for a minute or two. Let you enter our names in. Like we've been in there all along. We figure that about covers it. Don't you?"

She supposed it did in some twisted way. Would the police really believe this? They might.

In any case she nodded.

"Good." He stood. "Let's get going. Kath's already dug the hole for us. You get the honor of covering him up. Kath, you and Sara get his legs."

She hesitated, warring inside.

I can't do this.

Yes you can. You've got to.

You can't just take a man out into the backyard and bury him. This isn 't happening.

Want to bet?

"I'd do it if I were you," the woman said.

Kath. Her name's Kath. One more revelation. Her voice sounded cold, distant. Almost rehearsed.

"Your father plays golf at the Fairview Country Club," she said. "Plays mostly Saturdays. Do you know how easy it is to shoot a man on a fairway? With a high-powered rifle? Remember what we told you, Sara. You're not in this alone. You're responsible for and to a lot of other people."

She paused to let this sink in. It did.

"So. You want the right leg or the left?"

And then the weight of the man, the stiffness of his body, the night air cool through the thin cotton dress and her own unwashed smell rising off her as they carried and dragged his body across the lawn, dew at her ankles, the one behind her the oy house visible, carried him back through the line of evergreen trees and into scrubby woods to a crude four-foot hole in the ground and dumped him in, the feel of the shovel in her hands which she might have used to crack their skulls but for the baseball bat he held tapping against his leg, the blisters rising hot and sore along her thumb and forefinger, the sound of earth falling first on black plastic and then more softly upon itself, the smell of damp heavy earth, of mold and decay seeming to enfold her, thinking I'm burying myself here, it's me, it's me I'm burying.

It's me.