Tim had checked his inbox every hour since he sent that message shortly after supper, and checked it again briefly before leaving the house to meet Gordon. So far he’d received no response.
The Bradfield estate came into view and Gordon slowed the car down. “Here we are,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Tim. Gordon pulled up to the side of the road and turned off the lights. He turned the engine off and they sat in the vehicle for a moment, looking at the house.
Tim didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Gordon nudged him gently. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Tim said. His mouth was suddenly dry, his limbs heavy, as he exited the vehicle.
With Gordon leading the way, they headed across the road and down the driveway that led past the six car garage. Tim had never been to Scott’s place before, had never even driven past it. Looking at the sprawling house — mansion was a more accurate word to describe the structure — Tim was struck by the fact that Scott lived in such an immense place with only two other people: his parents. It had to be at least four thousand square feet. For the first time, Tim wondered why Scott attended public school when it was obvious his parents were wealthy enough to send him to private school.
And with that thought came something out of memory lane, something Tim had nearly forgotten. The day Scott, Dave, and Steve had set on him in that field had occurred at the tail end of the school year, shortly before he was set to graduate from Spring Valley Elementary School. The year had started, however, with Scott’s introduction to his sixth grade class as a new student to Spring Valley Elementary. In the days to follow, Tim learned Scott had previously attended a series of private schools and had lived in Spring Valley all his life.
His parents did send him to private school, Tim thought as they approached the guest house. But he was kicked out. This thought came to him unbidden, and the more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made sense. Scott Bradfield had been out of control and a total psycho since day one and had been kicked out of every private school his parents sent him to. Public school had been their last resort, and the attack on Tim had almost been the end of that. Tim wondered if Scott’s parents had tried suing the private schools that expelled Scott; his guess was they had and were unsuccessful.
His thoughts were interrupted by Gordon creeping up to the front door of the guesthouse. It resembled a little cottage, with tan trim and little windows that flanked the lone door. Gordon turned to Tim. “Okay,” he whispered. He bent down, felt under a doormat and retrieved a key. He fitted the key in the lock while Tim stood nervously behind him, looking beyond at the vast estate, which was dark and brooding. He hoped Scott didn’t change his mind and decide to come home early from Rebecca’s.
Gordon opened the door and stood aside. He reached inside, looking at Tim. “You’ve got five seconds to get your look and then we’re getting the hell out of here. You got me?”
Tim nodded, relieved that this wasn’t going to be the trap he’d worried about.
Gordon turned on the light.
Standing just outside the front door of the guesthouse, Tim had a direct line of sight. What he saw almost knocked the wind out of him.
Sitting on the floor at the far end of what was obviously the living room were two men who were very dead.
In the five seconds Tim saw them, several things became quickly apparent. The dozens of air fresheners that were hanging from the ceiling gave the interior of the guesthouse a scent of pine that masked a sweet scent of rotting meat. The buzzing of flies gave way to their appearance, both outside the guesthouse and inside, where they buzzed and landed on the two corpses. The faint stains on the floor and walls that could have been dried blood, and the men themselves — both wearing dirty, threadbare clothes, their faces and bodies stained with gore, their skin turning a blue-black color in spots, white in others. They looked blankly at Tim with those dead eyes, fixing him in their stare, holding Tim rooted to his spot at the front door, unable to tear his gaze away until–
Gordon flicked off the light and shut the door with one fluid motion.
Tim could hardly breathe. His fear had returned tenfold now, blossoming through him to create an undeniable urge to make trails and get the hell out of there.
Gordon quickly replaced the key and was at Tim’s side. “Let’s go.” Gordon lightly but firmly urged Tim to turn around and, together, they made their way back the way they came, down the driveway and around to the front of the house. They made it to the car and Tim hunkered down in the front seat as Gordon started the car and did a U turn, heading back down the street and out of the development.
Gordon turned on the headlights as he exited the street and he cast a glance at Tim, who was still trying to get over his shock at what he’d seen. “Believe me now?”
Tim could only nod, still trying to calm himself down. His heart was beating hard, his stomach was doing slow flips in his belly. Trying to calm down was not very easy. What did I just see in there? his mind kept repeating.
“Well?” Gordon asked.
“Well, what?” Tim managed.
“You believe me. You saw the zombies. So now what are we going to do?”
Tim was at a loss for words. What he wanted to do was go to the police, but he knew if he voiced that opinion now, Gordon would do something. If Gordon was capable of participating in murder, even if he never laid a hand on the guys in that guest house but merely aided and abetted, he would be capable of keeping this a secret at all costs.
“You’ve got to have some kind of idea on how to stop this,” Gordon said. They were heading out of the development, making their way toward Route 501, which would take them to Broad Street.
“I don’t,” Tim said.
“You saw them, though. You believe me now, don’t you?”
“Oh, I believe you all right,” Tim said. Gordon sounded nervous and he had to placate him, assure him he was trying to think of a solution. “I just…let me think about it for a minute.”
They drove in silence for a while. Tim looked out the window, his mind racing, turning everything over. He had no idea what to do short of going to the police. He didn’t know a thing about black magic or Wicca other than what he’d read in a few books. He wasn’t a practicing witch or warlock despite what Gordon and his moron friends thought, and he was half tempted to simply not do anything but let Gordon suffer for his actions. If he was stupid enough to go messing around with things he didn’t know about, he deserved what was happening to him.
At the same time he couldn’t allow Scott, Dave, and Steve to continue kidnapping and murdering homeless people, much less turn them into zombies. Gordon was right…this had to stop. But at the same time, Gordon and his friends had to pay for what they’d done.
As if he’d read Tim’s thoughts, Gordon issued another threat. “No police. If you tell the police, I’ll not only make things worse for you, I’ll make things worse for Chelsea.”
Tim looked at Gordon, his heart lodged in his throat. “What?”
Gordon cocked a grin at Tim. “Didn’t realize I knew about the two of you, huh? I saw you guys sniffing around each other the last few weeks of school. I heard you went out with her last week, too.”
“Just…take me home,” Tim said, turning away from Gordon. “I’ll figure something out.”
“You better. Because if you don’t, Chelsea might end up as meat for the zombies.”
Tim glared at Gordon. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
The anger Tim felt at the threat directed to Chelsea was enormous. It almost eclipsed his rational side, making him want to lash out and bash Gordon’s face in. He reined it in, turned away and looked out the window as Gordon drove north on 501.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning to hear your plan,” Gordon said. The street was deserted as they passed the Red Rose Shopping center on the left and went up the hill that would take them down into Spring Valley. “I can keep Scott and the guys occupied tomorrow. That shoul
d give you time to come up with a spell to make all this stop.”
Damn, he’s stupid, Tim thought. It was obvious Gordon wasn’t taking no for an answer, that he either didn’t care that Tim’s knowledge of the occult was limited or didn’t want to believe it. He’s depending on me to get him out of the mess he created. And if I don’t do it he’s going to hurt Chelsea.
“If those zombies aren’t dead — as in reduced back to the corpses they once were — by the next day, the police will be getting that anonymous call,” Gordon said. “Don’t bother digging up that garden for the rest of those bones, either. I hid them real well. You won’t find them. And if you call the cops I’ll not only deny everything and tell them where those other remains are, I’ll feed your girlfriend to the zombies.” Gordon regarded Tim calmly. “Are we clear?”
“Yeah,” Tim said.
“Good. Because — ”
From behind them came the brief whoop of a police siren, accompanied by swirling blue and red lights.
“Shit!” Gordon cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror, then turned to Tim. “If you so much as say one word about this to that cop, I’ll make sure Steve and Dave get Chelsea. You got me?”
Tim nodded, his brief fear over the sudden arrival of the police car giving way to momentary relief.
The police car whooped again behind them and Gordon pulled to the curb. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said to Tim. “Don’t say anything about what we were doing tonight. If they ask you, just tell them you and I were driving around talking.”
“We were trying to air out our differences,” Tim said, the ruse coming quickly.
“Right! We were just trying to air out our differences. They’ll believe that.” Gordon glanced in the rearview mirror, straightened up in the driver’s seat. He reached for his wallet and rolled his window down. “Remember what I said would happen to Chelsea if you tell them anything.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, his heart racing, not knowing what to do now that the cop was approaching the vehicle from the driver’s side, only knowing that he had to do something to stop this madness and do whatever he could to protect Chelsea and his family.
Chapter Eighteen
When the police officer approached the vehicle, Gordon put on his best smile. “Hey officer.”
A flashlight shined in the interior of the car. When its beam hit Tim’s eyes, he squinted at the sudden intrusion of light. He didn’t recognize the officer at first. It wasn’t until he spoke that Tim placed him. It was Officer Frank Clapton. “Mr. Gaines! What are you doing with Mr. Smith at 2:30 in the morning?”
“I can explain,” Gordon said.
“I think I’d rather hear this from Mr. Gaines, if you don’t mind.” Officer Clapton stepped toward the front of the vehicle and motioned for the boys to step out of the car by wiggling his fingers. “Exit the vehicle, boys. Let’s talk.”
Gordon cast one last look at Tim that said, don’t try anything you and Chelsea are going to regret. Then they stepped out of the car and joined Officer Clapton on the sidewalk.
“Care to tell me what you’re doing driving around town past curfew?” Officer Clapton asked.
“We were just talking,” Gordon said.
“Talking?” Officer Clapton looked at Tim. “What were you talking about, Mr. Gaines?”
Tim shrugged, trying not to let his nervousness show. “Nothing much. We were just…trying to air out our differences.”
“At two-thirty in the morning?”
“It was the only time we could talk without getting hassled by Tim’s parents,” Gordon said. “They haven’t been entirely courteous to me.”
“I can’t say that I blame them,” Officer Clapton said. He looked from Gordon to Tim and when a voice cracked forth on his shoulder-mounted radio, he picked it up and spoke into it. “That’s affirmative. I’ve got both suspects out of the car and on the sidewalk.”
Suspects? Tim felt his stomach twist at the word. Was he suspected in some other wrong-doing now? Something Gordon hadn’t told him about yet?
“This is serious business, boys,” Officer Clapton said. “Not only is it four hours past curfew, but Mr. Gaines is the suspect in the Reamstown Cemetery desecration. I find it hard to believe he would be out with you, Mr. Smith, just to air out your differences.”
“It’s true,” Tim murmured softly.
Another police car pulled up behind Officer Clapton’s car, its dome lights swirling blue and red. The officer exited his vehicle and took his time joining them on the sidewalk. Tim looked down at the sidewalk, the thought of being in some kind of trouble the least of his problems. If this were any other time he would have been nervous. He would have been frightened at the thought of being in trouble. Despite the seeming severity of the situation, he was more nervous about what Gordon was going to do and how much of an influence he might wield with the police.
“So what’s it going to be?” Officer Clapton said. “You guys going to tell me the truth or do I have to call your parents, maybe take you to Brendan Hall?”
Tim looked up quickly, his stomach doing another cartwheel. Gordon only shrugged. Tim’s voice quavered as he spoke. “I’m sorry we violated curfew, but really, we were just talking. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
The second officer approached and Tim noticed Officer Clapton nod at him. “Take Mr. Smith home. I’ll escort Mr. Gaines to Brendan Hall.”
Now Tim did begin to get scared at the implications. “Brendan Hall? Officer Clapton, please, I didn’t do anything, just take me home to my parents — ”
Officer Clapton took Tim by the elbow and gently guided him to his squad car. “Can’t do that, Tim. You’re the main suspect in the Reamstown Cemetery desecration and you’re out past curfew with the kid you tried to blame for it. I’m sorry, but I have no choice. I have to transport you to Brendan Hall Juvenile facility.”
Tim cast a glance back at Gordon, who was being led to the second squad car by the other officer. Gordon looked back at Tim and said, “Sorry, Tim. Everything will turn out okay.” The message in his eyes was completely different, though: don’t tell that cop what you saw at Scott’s house or Chelsea will be zombie meat.
Tim heard the other officer tell Gordon, “Your folks aren’t going to appreciate being woken up so late at night, Mr. Smith.”
“I guess not,” was Gordon’s reply and that was all he heard as Officer Clapton opened the rear door of the squad car and ushered him inside.
* * *
Tim’s thoughts were such a jumbled chaotic mess that he couldn’t get things straight as he sat in the rear of the squad car. Officer Clapton was talking to the other cop outside. Gordon was sitting in the back of the second squad car, his own vehicle still parked at the curb in front of them. He wondered what the officers were talking about. Were they comparing notes? Had new evidence been found that would perhaps exonerate Tim? If that was the case, why was he being taken to Brendan Hall?
The thought of spending the rest of the evening in Brendan Hall brought a heavy feeling of dread to Tim. He knew Brendan Hall was the Lancaster County Juvenile facility, and the idea of spending even an hour within its walls was unthinkable. Images of prison rape fluttered through his mind, of being beaten and tortured by seasoned juvenile criminals while his parents frantically tried to secure his release. Juvenile Hall was just another name for jail for kids, right?
Would his parents get a phone call to come immediately to Brendan Hall or would they have to wait until after eight A.M. to get him? Would he be able to call Chelsea and warn her? What happened if criminal charges were filed while he was waiting for his parents to pick him up and they weren’t allowed to get him? Suppose he had to remain incarcerated until his trial? That could take weeks, even months!
The fear and frustration welled to the surface and tears sprang to his eyes. Tim tried to quell them, but his frustration and fear only succeeded in making them flow faster. His breathing was growing rapid as his sobs took over and he fought to control thos
e, too. If he wasn’t such a fuck up, wasn’t such an outcast, none of this would be happening!
Officer Clapton and the other cop stopped talking and Clapton crossed over to his squad car and got in. Tim forced himself to stop crying and wiped his eyes as Officer Clapton started the vehicle. “Do your parents know you’re out, Tim?”
“No.” Tim’s voice was on the verge of breaking down.
“We’ll call them when we get to Brendan Hall.”
“Okay.”
Officer Clapton pulled away from the curb and made a right down Main Street. The streets were deserted this late at night. Tim sat in the back seat behind the wire-mesh divider, trying to figure out what he could tell Officer Clapton. He’d seen enough cop shows and read enough crime fiction to know they always separated you during questioning to see who tripped up. Gordon was going to stick to his story, that they were just driving around, trying to talk through their differences. If he was smart, that’s all he would say. If Tim acted accordingly, they might get out of this. However, if Tim told the truth he wouldn’t be believed, plain and simple. They’d also check with Gordon, who would not only deny the allegations, but find a way for Scott and the other guys to get Chelsea, get his parents maybe, and then —
What adult in their right mind would believe Scott Bradfield and his friends were making zombies?
Officer Clapton made another right hand turn down Cedar Street, which ran parallel to Broad Street. He was probably going to make a right on Mill Town Road and then a left on Broad Street, which would then take them straight to Lancaster. He was finally getting some semblence of control of his thoughts and emotions when Officer Clapton spoke to him. “So can you tell me what you were doing riding around with Gordon?”
Tim shrugged. “We were just…talking. It was no big deal.”
Back From The Dead Page 17