“Okay then. I see you on Monday. I leave dinner in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks Abigail. Have a good weekend.”
Todd waited until she left and then opened the Tupperware bowl on the top shelf of the ‘fridge. Soup of some kind; thick and full of a brown meat he assumed was beef, although with Abigail you could never be sure. He’d come home one day and found her boiling a big pot of pig’s feet. From then on he’d never been entirely comfortable eating the meals she prepared. Luckily, his mother never complained.
She’d always been good at keeping her feelings hidden though. Maybe if she’d been different...
Todd sighed and pushed away unhappy childhood memories before they could take a firm grip on him. A metallic squeal from upstairs announced the shower faucets shutting off. His cue to get dinner started. He put the soup back and instead grabbed a package of ground beef from the freezer. He’d be feeding four adults tonight, so it had to be something fast but filling, and something he knew how to cook.
Which meant either hamburgers or meatloaf.
“Meatloaf it is,” he said to the package of dead, minced frozen cow. “Nothing but the best for old friends.” He placed it in the microwave and hit defrost. While the machine hummed and buzzed, Todd gathered the rest of the ingredients he’d need: breadcrumbs, eggs, an onion, salt, pepper and A1 Sauce. He allowed himself a little smile. Who’d have thought the hospital’s kitchen training program would actually come in handy for entertaining?
He was browning the onion in olive oil when John’s voice came from the entrance to the kitchen.
“Damn, that smells good. I don’t suppose you’ve got something to hold me over until dinner? All I've had today is McDonalds.”
“Sure. Grab a chair and I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches.” Todd turned away from the stove and had to pause; it took a moment for him to register that the man sitting down at the table was the same person he’d brought home.
Washed, shaved and wrapped in Todd’s bathrobe, John Boyd looked a lot more like the friend Todd remembered, albeit with some changes. He’d been skinny in high school. Now he was practically emaciated. His limp, sandy hair had faded to mostly gray thanks to malnutrition, and a web of red capillaries created mystical patterns on a nose that leaned slightly to the left.
His nose was straight in high school, Todd thought. He must have broken it after I got locked away.
One thing hadn’t changed: John’s lips still avoided smiling the way a religious man avoided swearing. You could occasionally tease or surprise one out of him but more often than not he maintained a stoic expression that would make a poker player jealous.
“So.” Todd opened the ‘fridge and checked the meat compartment. “Bologna and American cheese okay?” He hoped so. It was either that or peanut butter and jelly.
One of John’s eyebrow’s went up, a typical Boyd expression of self-deprecating humor. “Hell. Half my meals come from dumpsters. Anything where you don't have to scrape the mold off is a treat.”
Todd cringed internally. How easy it was to forget the man had been living on the street for years. He made two sandwiches for John and one for himself, opened two more cans of soda and set everything on the table. After giving the onions another stir, he turned the burner off and sat down.
“What happened, John?”
John took a big gulp of soda, washing his mouth clean of white bread and lunch meat, and let out a soft belch. “You mean at the cemetery or to me in general?”
“Both, but hold off on the cemetery story until the others get here.”
“I guess that just leaves the rise and fall of John Boyd. You sure you want to hear it?”
Todd shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich. “I spent the last two decades in a mental institution. Any conversation with another sane person is welcome.”
“I don’t know how many people would classify me as sane, but okay. I’ll do us both a favor and give you the summation. After high school, I did the college thing, got my degree in marketing. Opened an insurance business. Did well too. Got married. You remember Susie Mellick?”
Todd nodded. “Cute girl, lived over on Balsam Street.”
“That’s her. We had a son, Kyle. A great kid.”
“Sounds nice.” Todd smiled but he was already regretting his insistence that John talk. Something bad had to be lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
“It was. In the beginning. But then business started getting crazy. Meetings, conferences, training programs, wining and dining clients. The more money I made, the less I was home to enjoy it. To enjoy my family.”
Oh shit. Here it comes.
John chugged more soda. “I started gambling to relieve the stress. It was easy. I didn’t even have to go to Atlantic City or Connecticut. Maybe if I had...instead, I just hit the local OTB. Betting a few races on a Friday afternoon turned into four or five nights a week. I lost more than I won but I didn’t care. The money was rolling in and I was only twenty-nine. And then...”
“Then what?” The words came out before Todd could stop them.
“I lost ten grand in one week. The same week Susie wrote some checks, big ones. New washing machine. Mortgage. The usual home owner shit. They bounced before I could transfer money from another account. That’s how she caught me. We had a fight, I stormed out. I’d never been a big drinker but I went to Gus’s and really tied one on. And on the way home, I fell asleep. Or maybe I passed out. I honestly don't remember and it doesn't make a difference anyhow. Next thing I knew I woke up in the hospital. I had a broken rib and a concussion.”
“You were lucky.”
“No, I wasn’t. And neither was the kid I killed. Sixteen years old. Found out from the cops that I ran him over as he crossed the road.”
“Oh Christ.” There it was. The turning point in John’s life. Mine was getting locked away. Do all of us have one? Are they all just as bad?
Was that the ultimate curse of the Cemetery Club?
“I did six months in jail. Would’ve been more but my lawyer pulled some strings and I called in all my favors. Plus, it turned out the kid had been just as drunk as I was. The judge lowered the charges to negligent homicide. Susie divorced me. Took Kyle and left town before I got out. When I did, I had nothing. No family, no money, no house. I threw myself into Lake Alcohol and I’ve been drowning my sorrows ever since.”
John reached for his soda with a shaking hand. The trembling grew worse as he brought the drink to his mouth.
“Are you all right?” Todd asked, thinking his old friend overcome with emotion.
“I got the shakes, real bad.” He held out his hands which were doing a good imitation of Parkinson’s disease. “I haven’t had a drink since yesterday afternoon.”
“I don’t have anything here,” Todd said.
“Good.” John’s face hardened, his previously morose expression transforming into solid determination. “If the creatures really are back, I need to be sober.”
Rather than get started on a track he wasn’t ready for, Todd opted to avoid it completely. “Why don’t you lie down and rest for a few hours? I have to get dinner finished and take care of my mother. You can use my room. Help yourself to clothes too. I’ll wake you up in a couple hours.”
The tiniest of smiles touched John’s lips, a rare flower blossoming in a desolate landscape. “Thanks. I haven’t slept on a real bed in...I don’t know how long.” Soda in hand, he headed for the stairs.
Todd watched him climb the steps like an old man, arms and legs quivering, planting each foot solidly before lifting the other.
Dear God. Twenty years and the curse I initiated is still hurting people.
Chapter 8
Nick Travers watched the tow truck lower the squad car to the ground. As soon as the winch unhooked, he motioned towards the waiting lab techs. “Hop to it. I want every inch of this car dusted, tested and photographed. And I want it done yesterday.”
The forensic team moved in like jackals
approaching a corpse. A blue glow filled the interior of the car as ultraviolet lights danced across the seats and console.
“What do you think Chief?” Lieutenant Bobby Mallory asked.
“I think the Mayor’s gonna have my ass for having two cops go missing, that’s what I think,” Travers said, his voice rougher than usual. “I—”
“Chief!” One of the techs stood up. “I’ve got positive traces of blood.”
“Here too,” said the woman examining the inside of the trunk. “And fingerprints all over.”
“Get ‘em to the lab, quick. I don’t care if they have to work overtime.”
“Chief, do you think—”
“Shut up Mallory. Right now I don’t feel like thinking.”
“Marisol!” Denny Rankin burst into the lab just as Marisol Flores was unbuttoning her lab coat.
“What?”
“Priority samples. From the police car that belonged to the missing cops. Chief Travers wants the results ASAP.”
“Give ‘em to Carlson. My shift is over.”
Rankin shook his head, his long hair flipping back and forth. “OT baby. Carlson’s running fiber samples. Chief said no one goes home ‘til the tests are run.”
“Fuck.” Marisol took the sample tray. “Are they all blood?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. There’s enough here for multiple tests. All right. Tell him I’ll have the results in about...two and a half hours.”
Rankin nodded and exited in the same frantic fashion as he’d entered, which had more to do with his four-can-a-day energy drink habit than the sudden emergency assignments. Marisol turned on the DNA analyzer and quickly prepared the samples, purposely doing two of each. Once the tests were running, she went to the phone and dialed Cory Miles’ cell.
“Hello?”
“Cory? It’s Marisol. Where are you?”
“County records room,” came the tinny reply. “What’s up?”
“I’m stuck here in the lab for at least three more hours. We’re gonna have to skip lunch.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. They’d had plans to grab a late lunch and continue their ‘catching up’ before going to Todd’s house for dinner.
“That’s okay, I’m knee deep in files right now anyway. I’ll swing by your house on my way to Todd’s, how’s that sound?”
“No, you go ahead without me. I’ll meet you at Todd’s.”
“You sure?” He sounded concerned.
Or maybe worried I won’t show? Is he that eager to see me?
“Crosses.” The word came out unexpectedly; it was what they’d said back in high school, short for ‘cross my heart.’
She thought he might make fun of her for using their old slang but Cory just laughed and said goodbye.
Marisol hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. Only four minutes had passed.
It’s gonna be a long afternoon.
The soft beep of the DNA analyzer finishing its run startled Marisol from her crossword puzzle. She hurried to grab the report as it printed out.
One glance brought her completely awake.
“Hol-ly shit.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Chief Travers looked from Marisol to Dr. Edwin Corish, the County Medical Examiner, who also doubled as Rocky Point’s coroner. “What kind of bullshit is this?”
Marisol clenched her jaw to keep an angry retort from slipping out. They were standing in the Chief’s office. She’d expected him to question her results. After all, she was the new girl. It was the reason she’d run the samples twice. Of course she hadn’t expected these particular results. She’d just wanted to be extra thorough. However, as soon as she’d seen them, she’d gone straight to her boss.
Corish hadn’t believed her at first either. But at least he’d been diplomatic enough not to chew her out in front of other people. And after careful review of her work he was ready to back her up.
“There’s no doubt Nick,” Corish said. “Five different DNA donors. Foster and Harris, plus Pete Webster and two unidentified contributors.”
“And the two unidentified samples came from inside the trunk?”
“According to the labels on the samples sir,” Marisol answered the police chief. “Foster and Harris came from the front seat, Webster from the back and the other two from the trunk.”
“You’re sure you didn’t screw up the order when you loaded them into the machine?”
“I didn’t screw anything up. As long as they were labeled correctly...” She let the implication hang.
“My fucking guys didn’t fuck this up!” Travers shouted. Then he took a deep breath before continuing in a more normal tone. “All right. So we’ve got something weird going on. We knew that already. At least now we know Foster and Harris drove out of the cemetery. Maybe...maybe Webster attacked them and they subdued him. They put him in the back seat, and—”
“And what?” a new voice interrupted.
Marisol and the others turned as Deputy Mayor Jack Smith entered the Chief’s office. Marisol gave a silent groan. Oh great. This day just keeps getting better.
“The Mayor doesn’t want maybes Chief. He wants answers. Now.” Smith glanced at Marisol, his handsome face twisting into a sneer. “Hello, Ms. Flores. I should have guessed you’d be involved in this mess somehow.”
Marisol felt her face flush. “This isn’t the time Jack.”
“Marisol performed the tests correctly Mr. Smith,” Corish said.
Jack turned towards the Coroner. “Tell it to the Mayor, Doctor. He wants to see you and Chief Travers right now.”
“I’ll go too,” Marisol said. If someone was going to question her work, she wanted to be there to defend herself.
Jack gave her one of his oozing, fake smiles, the same one he used when schmoozing potential campaign contributors. It’d taken Marisol years to see the supercilious attitude hiding behind it. “I don’t think that’s necessary. If the ME vouches for your work, that’s good enough for us. I believe the Mayor is more interested in discussing the...ramifications of your findings. Of course, if it turns out there were any problems with the tests, well...Wal-Mart is always hiring.”
Her ex-husband turned and exited the office, putting his back to her before she could respond.
“Don’t worry Marisol,” Corish said. “We both know the data is correct. He’s just being an ass. Go home and get some rest.”
“If you want I can go back to the lab and—”
“Go home.” Corish escorted her to the door. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. “This is a situation that calls for diplomacy Marisol. You’re great in the lab. That’s why I hired you. But when it comes to placating an irate mayor...”
Marisol sighed. “Yeah. I’d probably end up getting us both fired. Thanks Chief.”
He nodded and went back inside Travers’ office. As the door shut, she heard the police chief say, “I sure hope that techie of yours didn’t fuck this up.”
Asshole. She walked away, not wanting to hear any more. Each insult, each insinuation that her skills weren’t up to par, was a knife in her stomach. She’d worked her ass off to be the best at what she did. In the short time she’d been at the ME’s office she’d already earned two promotions. But a life of being told she was worthless, first by her father and then by her shitbag of a husband, had succeeded in eroding her self-esteem until only a thin crust remained. A dangerously thin layer of ice over a seemingly bottomless lake of insecurity.
Fuck them all. She looked at her watch. She had an hour to get home, shower and drive over to Todd’s house.
I’m going to forget about work and enjoy my night. Catch up with old friends, especially one in particular.
Then she remembered Cory’s odd, serious tone when he’d asked her to join them.
I hope this doesn’t turn out to be worse than staying at the lab.
Chapter 9
John Boyd tossed and turned on the bed in Todd’s guest room. At one poin
t, he cried out and opened his eyes, dimly aware of clanking pans downstairs and someone humming a gentle tune.
Then the nightmare took hold again, another variation on the same theme that had haunted him for twenty years.
They were hanging out inside that old crypt, like always. John, Cory and Marisol. And then Todd showed up...
With it.
Gates of Heaven Cemetery, 20 years ago
“You guys wanna smoke a doob while we wait?”
John pulled the joint from his shirt pocket and waved it in the air like a man offering his dog a treat.
“Nah, let's wait,” Cory said. “Todd’ll be here in a minute.” Next to him, Marisol nodded her head, her dark hair brushing against Cory’s shoulder. He seemed unaware of her proximity, his eyes focused on the copy of Rolling Stone he’d brought to the mausoleum with him.
How can he not know she likes him? John thought. It’s obvious to everyone else. “I got plenty more where this one came from.” He patted his pocket. “My brother has like, six ounces stashed in his closet. I snuck almost a whole dime bag out of it. He'll never know.”
Before anyone could answer, a shadow appeared at the crypt’s entrance. The door swung open with a grating squeal and Todd entered, a large cardboard box in his hands.
“Sorry I’m late.” He set the box down. White speckles dotted his summer-tanned arms. “I had to help my father paint the church doors.”
“Whatcha got?” Marisol asked, pointing at the box.
In the three weeks since school let out, they’d turned the dank mausoleum into their own private hideaway. Several sleeping bags and pillows made a makeshift sitting area, offering a soft seat and protection from the cold, damp floor. Cory had supplied two Coleman lanterns and two folding snack trays that served as end tables. Marisol had contributed a heavy-duty hasp and padlock so they could lock the door when they weren’t there. When asked where she’d gotten it, she’d shrugged off the question, leading John to believe she’d stolen it from the hardware store. Not that he cared; Mr. Fleming, the man who owned the store, was kind of an asshole anyway, always yelling at kids to stay away from the spray paint or he'd call their parents.
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