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“Whoops,” Lula said, disappearing from view, landing with a loud whump.
“Help!” she yelled. “The mummy got me.”
I looked down at her. “Are you okay?”
“I think I broke my ass.”
She was about six feet down in a coffin-sized hole. The sides were steep and the surrounding dirt was fast turning into mud.
“We have to get her out of here,” I said to Binkie.
“Yes, ma'am. How?”
“Do you have anything in the car? Rope?”
Binkie looked around. “Where's the car?”
I had no idea.
I flipped my cell phone open and called Ranger.
“We're in the cemetery and we're lost,” I said to him. “Its raining and its dark and I'm cramping. I've got the transmitter thingy in my pocket. Can you get a bead on us?” There were a couple beats of silence. “Are you laughing?” I asked him. “You'd better not be laughing.”
“I'll be right there,” Ranger said.
“Bring a ladder.”
We were a ragtag group, standing in the rain at the cemetery gates. Ranger and two of his men fading into the night in their black rain gear, Lula head-to-toe mud, and Binkie and me soaked to the skin.
“I feel funky,” Lula said. “I got graveyard mud on me.” She had her car keys in her hand. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked me.
“I'm good,” I said to her.
Lula got into her car and drove off. Binkie left and Rangers men got into their SUV and left.
“Just you and me,” Ranger said. “What's the plan?”
“I want to go to Morelli s house. I want to be there when Dickie starts talking.”
Thirty minutes later, Ranger walked me to Morelli s back door and handed me over.
“Good luck,” Ranger said to Morelli. “You might want to hide your gun.”
And Ranger left.
Morelli brought me into the kitchen. “Diggery?” he asked.
“Never saw him. We got lost in the cemetery and had to get Ranger to track us down. I need a shower.”
I slogged upstairs to the bathroom, locked myself in, and stripped. I stood in the shower until I was all warmed up and squeaky clean. I ran a comb through my hair, wrapped a towel around myself, and shuffled into Morelli s bedroom.
Morelli was in the middle of the room looking like he wanted to do something but wasn't sure where to begin. Bed linens and clothes were in a crumpled mess on the floor, and there were empty beer bottles, plates, and silverware on all surfaces.
“This isn't good,” I said to him.
“You have no idea what this has been like. I hate this guy. I hide in my room. I'd like to hit him, but it isn't allowed. He eats all my food. He controls the television. And he's always talking, talking, talking. He's everywhere. If I don't lock my door, he just walks in.”
“Is he still drugged?”
