Dangerous Undertaking by Mark de Castrique

carried a layer of summer tan beneath the dirt. A shock of coarse brown hair spread over his forehead while an untamed cowlick sent strands in a rooster tail against the polished wood of the pedestal. The twist of the mouth and the colorless lips drawn back over his teeth were chilling signs of the child’s final moments of pain and fear. I reached out and turned his face toward me. Two puncture wounds marred the taut skin just below the right ear. The purple swollen neck rose up like a demon’s brand, claiming the child in sadistic triumph.
    “What happened?” I spoke to the room, cutting through the voices and sobs, demanding an answer. “What happened to this child?”
    My eyes darted to each of them. Reverend Pace stepped closer to see for himself. The neighbor looked from me to the boy’s mother and father. He gave a slight nod.
    “Snakebite,” replied the father. He steadied himself by resting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. She stared at the floor. “Rattlesnake. Jimmy was playing on some rocks near the house. Musta crawled up under a ledge. We heard him screaming.” The man’s voice faltered. He looked at Leroy Jackson.
    “I was just driving up to their house when it happened,” said Jackson. “The boy was gone in a matter of minutes. I was the one killed the snake. It’s out in the truck.”
    “Did you call a doctor?” I asked. “There should have been more time.”
    “No phone. And I couldn’t put no tourniquet round the kid’s neck, now could I.”
    “Call Ezra Clark,” I told my mother. “It’s required procedure,” I explained to the others. “He’ll need to sign a coroner’s statement.”
    “I don’t want him cuttin’ on my Jimmy,” said Luke Coleman. His wife started sobbing again.
    Mother started for the telephone, then hesitated. “Barry, we should get Travis McCauley.”
    “Who’s that?” asked Leroy Jackson. “We don’t need a lot of people in here gawkin’.”
    “Mr. McCauley runs a furniture store,” I said. “He also makes a few caskets. We don’t have one appropriate for this child.”
    The father cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid we’re kinda short on cash money.”
    “That can wait, Mr. Coleman. I’ll make the calls to the coroner and Mr. McCauley. This boy deserves a decent burial.”
    “My wife and I’ll be carrying him back to Kentucky,” said Luke Coleman. “It’s where my wife’s people are buried.”
    “Certainly,” I said. “But first there are necessary things we have to do regardless of where he’s going to be interred. I suggest you and your wife follow my mother back to the kitchen for a cup of tea. We can talk about those arrangements there.”
    Then my mother said something that made me want to hug her. “And Mr. Jackson, I suggest you either be of comfort to these good people or you be quiet.”

    “Sorry, I’ve done it again.” I made the apology as soon as Susan opened her front door. “I really couldn’t say much on the telephone. I was standing in Mom’s kitchen.”
    She nodded. “I hope you didn’t look as pitiful as you do now. Well, our dinner reservations are beyond salvaging, and I expect you’re in no mood for a night on the town. You may as well stay awhile.”
    I went to my customary spot, an overstuffed armchair across from the sofa.
    Fifteen minutes later, I still sat in the armchair, but my clothes sloshed in the washing machine, and a beer sloshed down my throat. Susan convinced me of the wisdom in spending the night in Gainesboro and then going straight to the sheriff’s office at dawn to rejoin the search for Dallas. I pulled the terry-cloth bathrobe tighter around my waist so that I could rest the ice-cold beer bottle on my lap without singing soprano.
    “I just couldn’t leave those people,” I began.
    Susan stretched out on the sofa opposite me. She had changed into a silk dressing gown and wrapped her delicate surgeon’s hands around a long-stemmed glass of white wine. Her dark brown