“What is that?” Freeman asked.
“It’s an old battery-powered record player. And look at these.” She held up two items with a paper sleeve covering them. “Old forty-five records too. Music’s a little tame for me.” She passed them over to Freeman, who gave them a cursory glance and then tossed the items back atop the portable record player.
“Tame? You mean lame, don’t you? I think ‘Johnny Angel’ and this stuff came out twenty-five years before my mother met my father.”
“This was the biggest mystery. It still is the talk of anyone who has ever seen it.” Garvey turned on another bank of bright lighting as he vanished around the L-shaped turn in the basement. Freeman saw the large vaultlike box standing against the far wall. He saw Garvey run his hand over the still-shiny stainless steel under the bright fluorescent lighting.
“It’s not a vault like we first thought. You can see vents, gauges, and dials. None of them mean much to any of us. Some of the older dials and gauges are written in German, the others in English. There are even viewing ports and an intercom system. We know the date of manufacture—1940—and it was built in the old Yugoslavia and shipped out here after the war. For what purpose, we have never found out. After all these years, the mystery of this thing has died away some, but it’s still a curiosity thing down at the offices.”
“What do you think is in it?” Freeman asked.
“We don’t know. Do you think the county would foot the bill for a safe company to come in here and open it? If you didn’t notice, the damn door is welded shut.”
Freeman had just noted that fact. His eyes went to a large sliding door that Garvey said was a vent. “What about that? Can you at least look inside?”
Music stopped Garvey from answering. Shelley Fabares was singing “Johnny Angel” as the old forty-five record spun on the player and the studio woman smiled.
Freeman was about to tell her that was enough when the vaultlike box shook. The movement was so fast and so furious that dirt and dust filtered down from the rafters and a crack formed in the floor. The metal and rubber lines running from the strange holding tanks atop the vault moved and swayed. Even Deerling stopped toe tapping and stared at the strange stainless steel box.
“What in the hell was that?” Freeman asked over Shelley Fabares. He walked over to the large vault door and looked it over. The handle that was used to open the thick steel door had long ago been welded to its frame. Freeman began reaching for it when the door was rammed from the opposite side with a force that moved the five-ton enclosure on its base. Freeman jumped back, and Garvey yelped. The movement caused so much vibration that the needle on the record player scraped straight across the record’s surface where it came off and the music stopped.
“I thought you said this area was safe!” Freeman said.
“That isn’t the structure—something moved in there!” Garvey said as he slowly backed away from the vault.
Ms. Deerling screamed as she felt something run up the inside of her pantsuit from the bottom. She jumped back and could have sworn she heard laughing. Then she screamed again when the arm on the player engaged and then lifted itself up and then over to the start of the grooves on the vinyl. “Johnny Angel” once more sprang forth from the small speaker on the side of the player.
Freeman looked from the record player to Garvey, who was still retreating toward the stairs. “Is this a joke? If it is, it’s in bad taste, my friend. I’m sure you and your buddies will have a big laugh back at the office about how scared the movie people were.”
The vault moved again. This time, it jumped and came down with a crushing sound of concrete being turned to powder beneath it. All three people stood frozen in shock.
* * *
Deep in the darkened bowels of the Grenada Theater in town, the vault there rocked on its frame. It started as a whisper that filtered through the old basement of the theater and then grew in power as if something inside became aware of the happening two miles away at the winery.
* * *
Freeman felt his bladder grow weak and useless as pee freely coursed down his leg and soaked through the expensive material of his suit. Garvey stumbled and fell to his back, and Ms. Deerling felt her vision tunnel as she came near to fainting. All thoughts of movie budgets and reality in general were not a part of her current repertoire. Then they all heard the booming voice from beyond reality as it smashed through the flooring above and burst into their ears seemingly from every direction.
“Get them out!”
They heard laughter, not from one but many, as they seemed to have been surrounded by energy. The vault shook and rumbled. Shelley Fabares’s voice went from low volume to concert-grade decibels, causing all three to cover their ears as the pain shot through their brains.
Before anyone knew what was happening, they were all three being slapped, kicked, and had their hair pulled to the point it looked as if they were fighting off a flock of very angry invisible birds. Garvey tried to stand and was kicked so hard in the seat of his pants that he went headfirst into the concrete floor, breaking his nose. He went to his back pocket and brought out the radio. Just as he clicked the transmit switch, the radio was pulled from his hand. Then the voice became clear as it resonated with more power than the small radio could produce.
“Get them out now!”
The radio was thrown so hard against the floor that Garvey felt the plastic shrapnel cut into his ankle.
Deerling and Freeman forgot all about their great Hollywood production as they broke and ran for the L-shaped bend and then for the door.
Garvey was left standing aghast as they left him. He was slapped again and again. He remembered the heavy-duty flashlight and brought it from his coat pocket. He swung it like a small billy club at something he couldn’t see. On his fourth swing, the flashlight connected solidly with something directly in front of him. The glass lens shattered, and Garvey could have sworn he heard a growl. The Maglite was wrenched from his grasp, and while he stared wide-eyed at the amazing scene of the light floating in midair, the steel housing of the expensive light was crushed by an unseen and very powerful hand. The damaged Maglite was tossed back to him, and he caught it in shock as the laughter filled the basement.
* * *
The two security guards waited patiently with the limo driver and smoked. They turned toward the old winery when the double doors burst open and the three visitors came running out. The woman was crying and screaming something they couldn’t understand as she literally fell down the last four steps fronting the doors. As for the large man, he was vomiting as he ran. Garvey was the third out the doors, and he managed to jump from the topmost step to the ground and was soon passing both Deerling and Freeman as they cut a retreat for the limo.
The tall, thin black man tried to say something as the driver alertly got inside the stretch limo. As Garvey ran by, he tossed the crushed flashlight. It flew through the air, and the security man caught it. The three people didn’t wait for anything as they brushed past the shocked twosome and entered the car. The limo screamed out of the parking area with the confused two-man security team standing in shock.
* * *
The limousine’s harried driver fishtailed around the bend, and instead of turning left to get back to the freeway, he mistakenly turned right, heading in the opposite direction.
“You’re going the wrong way!” Garvey said from his position half on and half off Ms. Deerling, who was trying desperately to remove the small man from her lap as the driver straightened the limo out and headed down Main Street past the derelict Texaco station, toward the town of Moreno.
“What happened back there?”
“Never you mind! Just get us the hell out of here and back to Ontario! The faster I get on that plane the better!” Freeman screamed.
The limo had already shot past the Texaco station and then past the half-burned feed store and the telephone exchange opposite it. They came to the dead cable-suspended traffic light and sped int
o the deserted town.
* * *
Bob Culbertson had just placed the Going Out of Business sign in the front of the radio station when he heard the scream of an overtaxed engine coming down the street. He was about to turn to see what the noise was all about when the dysfunctional neon sign that had hung in the window of the old K-Rave radio station, advertising fifteen thousand watts of listening power, sprang to life. It was bright enough that Bob stepped back from the window in shock and surprise as the sign illuminated the sidewalk and dispelled the dusk of the early evening. The sign hadn’t worked for the entire ten-year commitment of their contract. As the black car neared, Linda stepped out of the record store and saw the look on Bob’s face and then the scream of the limo coming down the street.
Across Main, Harvey Leach allowed Casper Worthington, a small-time walnut farmer, to step out of Newberry’s as he said his good-byes after the chicken-fried steak dinner had been served. Harvey and Casper both heard the approaching car, and with curiosity ruling the boring evening, they stepped out toward the broken sidewalk. Harvey saw Bob and Linda across the way, and they were also staring out at the speeding car.
“What in the Sam Hill are they doin’?” Casper said aloud.
“Son of a bitch must be doing eighty!” Harvey said as he saw the limo hit the dip at the corners of Main and Jefferson Streets. Sparks flew as the long limo scraped bottom and flew into the air and then back down again.
As the limo approached, all four witnesses saw the old streetlights suddenly spring to life and glow brightly as the black limo sped past, only to dim again after the lights were in the black limo’s rearview mirror.
“What the—” Harvey said but never got to finish.
* * *
After hitting the dip and slamming his passengers’ heads into the roof, the driver managed to straighten the limo out as the old and mostly boarded-up buildings flew past their darkened windows.
“Stop trying to kill us and turn this damn thing around!” Freeman yelled mercilessly at the frantic driver.
Before the driver could turn around, the radio flared to full volume for no apparent reason. The voice that came through the surround speaker system was a professional-sounding blast from the past.
“This is Freekin’ Rowdy Rhoads, and you’re listening to K-Rave 106.5, Moreno. Here’s something for the jelly bean crowd out there—the lovely Miss Shelley Fabares and ‘Johnny Angel.’” The voice died away in time for the first words of the song to be heard. As the three people in the back seat were tossed mercilessly about, the surreal adventure was themed by “Johnny Angel.”
The limo driver tried to shut off the satellite radio, but the illuminated lights refused to obey his orders. The music was deafening.
“Look out!” Garvey cried as the limousine came to the corner of Main and Park Streets directly across from the Moreno Baptist Church.
The streetlights flared brightly, and the driver looked up and saw the line of children and adults in the crosswalk, all within white lines that hadn’t existed since the paint wore away fifty years before. Young and old faces alike looked up in terror as the car sped toward them. The limo was aimed directly at the center of the crosswalk, and there was little hope that the driver could miss killing them all. Men with fedoras were trying to pull women and children dressed in their Sunday best out of the way of death that was screaming toward them at eighty miles per hour.
The driver hit the brakes and then swerved to try to limit the death that was coming quickly to so many. The long limo spun and then hit a pothole in the road that had gone unattended for decades, and then the car flipped and spun in the air twice. The Cadillac hit roof down and then sped into the right side of the street. The driver was immediately killed as the windshield hit the disabled fire hydrant on the corner and disintegrated, removing the man’s head completely. The limo careened onto the sidewalk, the hood hit the old pipe and tobacco shop, and then the gas tank ruptured.
* * *
Bob was the first one to the overturned and flaming limo. He tried to reach for the door but was pulled away by Harvey Leach and Casper Worthington.
“What are you trying to do, kill yourself?” Harvey said as the flames grew hotter and wilder. Casper helped in pulling Bob away and then started hitting him in the back of the head, and Bob recoiled.
“Your ponytail was afire there, son,” the old man said as the smell of burning hair almost overpowered the smell of burning flesh inside the car.
Linda came running up and started slapping Bob with her free hand for taking a chance like he had.
“You stupid bastard! The sheriff and highway patrol are on the way with fire and rescue.”
Bob completely smothered the smoldering hair and looked back at the overturned limo. “Tell them no hurry on the rescue part.”
As the four people moved away from the conflagration, it was Harvey who saw the overhead streetlights slowly fade to darkness. He knew those lights had not had elements in them for years. The others noticed the same thing, and then they all backed away to the sidewalk as the sounds of sirens came to their ears all the way from the hidden interstate ten miles distant.
Down the street, the K-Rave sign did as the streetlamps had. The neon slowly faded to nothing.
* * *
The multigenerational family of rats that had occupied the Grenada Theater for the past fifty-five years scrambled up the rickety wooden staircase from the basement. They scurried past the dead snack bar and out into the night, never to return to their luxurious surroundings.
Singing could be heard inside the abandoned bank vault, and that was what had sent the family of rats to seek new accommodations.
Johnny Angel, how I love him … he’s got something that I can’t resist … but he doesn’t even know that I … I … I exist.
The voice faded, and then the basement went quiet as four people burned to death only one hundred feet away. The thing inside its prison absorbed the power and then went to sleep, readying itself for the party yet to come.
5
BURBANK BOB HOPE AIRPORT
BURBANK, CALIFORNIA
Questions, there were many. Answers, there was none as Gabriel and the others waited in the uncomfortable plastic chairs at a private terminal. The men had been waiting for two hours before the three women had arrived. Thus far, the men and women watching them had no words to offer after their sudden freedom had started.
Through the darkness of the large window inside the terminal building, they saw a large Learjet as it taxied to their Jetway. They heard the twin engines slowly wind down as the white plane was quickly serviced by ground personnel. Gabriel watched one of the women wearing a black pantsuit with matching jacket open the Jetway’s door.
“If you folks will step this way, please, the director is on board, and we’ll take off very shortly.”
Looks were exchanged, and it was Gabriel who stepped forward. “Can I assume you have a warrant for our arrest?”
The dark-haired woman tilted her head to the right and looked confused. Then understanding dawned on her official-looking features.
“Professor Kennedy, I apologize for our secrecy; you are not under arrest, nor is any member of your group.” She reached into her small bag and produced a leather wallet and then opened it. “FBI, sir. Our director will explain the situation.” The woman replaced her badge and wallet and then fixed Kennedy with a serious look. “We could not expose our interest in you to the press at the courtroom for reasons that will become obvious. That’s why we used the sheriff’s office.”
Gabriel knew that was all they would get, and his team stepped past the agent and then onto the long Jetway.
Below, the jet belonging to the director of the FBI began spooling up her engines.
* * *
The pilots’ cabin door was closed, and the aircraft’s passenger compartment was empty. After standing for the briefest of moments, the eight confused men and women found seats. Gabriel and Julie sat next to eac
h other, and John and Jennifer took the seat directly across. They faced one another as they fastened their seat belts.
The door to the cockpit opened just as the Learjet was being pushed back by the ground crew. A tall and very thin man stepped out and smiled after closing the door. He walked down the aisle and shook hands with everyone. As the government-operated plane began taxiing the one mile to the runway, the man remained standing as he shook the hand of the last person he came to.
“Professor Kennedy,” the man in the white shirt and rolled-up sleeves said. He stood over the group and swayed back and forth as the jet moved. “I recognize you from television. My kids loved watching you and your team. It must be the natural policemen in them. They enjoyed your people exposing assholes to the world. They really got a kick out of it.”
Gabriel remained silent as the man released his hand.
The man smiled as he spied an empty seat across from the group of four. The Learjet picked up speed and then lifted into the dark skies of Southern California.
The Learjet climbed to altitude as no further discussion was offered to them. Director Hartnett finally unfastened his seat belt and nodded at the female agent sitting in the back. She stood and vanished behind a small partition.
“It’s against the law to have alcohol on board a federally operated plane, but I am the director of the FBI, so I can do what I want. For any of you that needs one, drinks are available.” No one moved as they heard the tinkling of ice striking glass. “I think after our discussion, you’ll find alcohol is a worthwhile escape measure.”
The female agent reappeared and handed the director a glass of ice and amber liquid. She looked at the others, and they all shook their heads. She returned to the hidden bar. The director downed half the double shot of bourbon, then quickly the other half. He smacked his lips and then the smile was gone. He placed it on the fake mahogany table to his front. He looked at the others as they turned their chairs to face him.
“Okay, you’ve had your drink to buttress the fort now—can we know what we are being abducted for?” Leonard asked, not hesitating to make his opinion on law enforcement readily known.
In the Still of the Night--The Supernaturals II Page 10