In the Still of the Night--The Supernaturals II

by David L. Golemon

  He turned from the mirror with the white shirt that obviously belonged to someone else and slowly made his way to the closet. He opened the antique doors and started rummaging around inside.

  The silver hair was askew, and the six-week-old growth of beard made Hadley look twenty years older than his seventy-two years.

  The two doctors were quickly followed inside by three hostage rescue members, and they too were not only stunned by the carnage inside the room but also by the sight of the former president as his ass wiggled in front of the dressing closet. Even more upsetting was that he was singing. Most of the older men knew the song immediately, only instead of the fast pace the music called for, Hadley was singing in a slow, beautiful harmonic of the original. Neil Sedaka had one of his largest hits in 1962 with “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,” and Hadley was now doing a credible imitation. The voice seemed to come from the throat of someone else as he sang with ever-increasing power.

  A doctor, a naval commander from Bethesda, took a step toward the president, and just as he reached his hand out to touch his back, Hadley suddenly turned and faced the shocked man. His eyes were frantic as the words to the song stopped.

  “I can’t find my letterman’s jacket!”

  The doctor flew backward and fell over one of the bodies that had been casually thrown to the floor. The other doctor and a hostage rescue team man tried to help him up, but Hadley was there first and stood over the fallen doctor.

  “I can’t be late!” Hadley screamed with spittle flying from his mouth. “I was late before and look what happened!”

  “Jesus!” the other hostage rescue member said as he took a step away from the three men and the seemingly possessed man they faced.

  “I can’t be late; I can’t let her down!”

  The syringe caught Hadley in midsentence, and his mouth worked, but no more words came free of it.

  A doctor from downstairs had finally arrived with a powerful sedative. He held Dean until he relaxed, and then the strength in Dean’s legs gave out and he collapsed into the doctor’s arms.

  “God … please … please, she’s out there, I … I … have to … go.”

  The words trailed away along with the consciousness of a very disturbed man.

  As doctors and other staff ran up the stairs to face the aftermath of this new attack, Catherine Hadley fought to get down those same stairs. She finally hit the bottom step when she was almost knocked from her feet. Just as several nurses started forward to assist her, she quickly feigned illness and then just as quickly stumbled toward her office.

  She paused at the door for effect and then waved the concerned medical people away as she opened the door and entered. As she closed it behind her, she had an inward smile. Her eyes immediately went to the last, unsigned legal document on the desk.

  She shocked herself when a small, girlish giggle escaped her mouth.

  “You did earn your percentage, didn’t you, Herb?”

  PART II

  ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY

  So Mr.… Mr. DJ, keep those records playin’,

  ’Cause I’m a-havin’ such a good time dancin’ with my baby …

  —SAM COOKE,

  “Having a Party,”

  #20 Billboard Top Hits, 1962

  6

  MORENO, CALIFORNIA

  It was two thirty in the morning when the last of the California Highway Patrol, San Bernardino Sheriff’s, and the Chino, Ontario, and Pomona fire departments and rescue services left the town of Moreno. Bob and Linda Culbertson stood watching as the last of the official vehicles left with all of them heading toward the interstate. Both private security people saw old man Leach watching from the third floor of Newberry’s, where Harvey kept his private quarters.

  Linda lowered her cell phone and shook her head. “Cell service is even worse than it was before. It took four hours, but I finally got through to the home office.”

  Bob’s eyes lingered on Harvey across the street until he saw the light go out on the third floor. He finally turned and, with a yawn, waited for Linda to finish.

  “Evidently, there are some sort of legal arguments going on about the ownership of the land that the town sits on. Something about a freeze on all properties pertaining to a certain real estate firm. They say to hang tight and they will be in touch.”

  “They didn’t say anything about our request? It’s only a few days we’re talking about here. This place has stood for seventy years; a week or two won’t make any difference.”

  “They said remain until the contract expires, or until the legal entanglements are finished. Either way, I think we’re screwed.”

  Bob shook his head and turned back to the darkness beyond the window. “Something is going on here, babe, I feel it.” He turned toward the cherub face of his wife. “You feel it too. So does Harvey.” He looked toward the department store once more through the last light of the dying moon. “Missing teenagers. People dying on Main Street. Private investigator up and vanishing. We’ve been here for ten years, and in all that time, nothing like this has happened. And now we have three incidents in less than a week. And there’s other things going on also.”

  Linda placed the cell phone down just as the bars indicating cell service availability went to zero. She shook her head and looked at Bob. “You saw it too, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “The lights of the theater marquee? Phones ringing in houses that haven’t had power to them in over fifty years? Music playing where it shouldn’t be playing? Hell, even the radio station is starting to give me the creeps. I even heard—”

  “The DJ and music coming from the back?”

  “You heard it too, then?” Bob said, finally turning away from the window. He felt the relief flood into his thoughts, knowing he hadn’t started going insane—at least not alone.

  “I hear things lately that are impossible. School bells ringing. Cars hot-rodding up and down the street when there isn’t a vehicle anywhere near Moreno. I thought I was finally losing it being alone in this place. It used to be peaceful and tranquil in a cemetery sort of way, but now it has the opposite feel. It’s turned oppressive and dark.”

  Bob saw the way Linda turned and stared off into the darkness beyond the glass and noticed that his wife, a woman not fearful of anything in the world outside of running low on coffee, was scared.

  “The next incident that happens, they can take the last pay cycle and completion bonus and shove it up their asses. We’ll take the loss as long as we get to someplace where there are people”—he gestured at the street beyond the protection of the glass—“not this powder keg.”

  “Powder keg?” Linda asked as she turned back to face Bob.

  “Can’t you feel it? It’s like this place is building toward a detonation of … of … something, and I don’t think I want to be here when it goes off. A week, and we’re gone, no matter what.”

  “Deal.”

  As both Bob and Linda turned away from the window, they froze as the sound hit their ears. Through the coldness of the glass, the vibration had started. Then the music was as discernable as if it were coming through the speakers of their own stereo system. They both jumped when the old neon sign in the window flashed to blinking life as if a switch had been thrown. K-Rave—Fifteen Thousand Watts of Music Power came to its full bright red illumination with a humming that comes with neon lighting. And in the back of the radio station, through the triple-pane glass of the DJ booth, they heard the music and knew exactly what it was. Then the voice of the disc jockey came through the air, and it froze both security people in their tracks. The opening refrains of the instrumental intro were covered by the voice that sent chills down their spines.

  “And now a slight blast from the past, from 1957, Mr. Buddy Holly and his gargantuan hit, ‘Everyday’ … bring it back home to Lubbock, Buddy.”

  Every day, it’s a-getting closer, going faster than a roller coaster, love like yours will surely come my way … a-hey, a-hey, hey … hey …


  The neon light blinked three times and then went dark once again as the music faded away to nothing. Of the gravelly voiced DJ, there was silence as the music, along with Buddy Holly, left the building.

  Bob and Linda reached for the cell phone at the same time. They had to get someone to listen to their tale so they could leave this place. They soon gave up when they failed to adequately reach a distant cell tower. They even tried the landline from the wall-mounted pay phone, but it too was on the fritz—not an unusual circumstance, as the lines in and out of Moreno were seventy-year-old technology.

  They didn’t know it, but the fuse to that powder keg about which Bob was so worried had already had been lit … it had been burning since that night back in 1962, and that fuse was growing ever shorter.

  It was five days until Halloween.

  TEN MILES EAST OF QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  None of the eight frightened people had ever been in a military transport before. The UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter swept low over the Virginia countryside, and most of its passengers were happy that it was still predawn so the imminently close ground wasn’t visible. John, who was deathly afraid of heights and flying in general, held Jenny’s hand as a reminder not to scream like a schoolgirl every time the Black Hawk dipped and rose over the trees. The U.S. Army crew chief watched the civilians with a smirk on his face, as they all looked as if they had boarded the world’s riskiest roller coaster ride. The young specialist had seen these people on television and thought they lacked the necessary demeanor to be ghost hunters. The intrepid investigators were all frightened of a simple helicopter ride.

  Gabriel saw the lights of the compound and its illuminated circular landing pad, and then he saw the cordon of U.S. military personnel waiting below.

  The crew chief unplugged his helmet from the comm system and sprang for the door as it was slid open from the outside. He hopped out and assisted the three women first and then let the men stumble out for themselves. It was the first time the helicopter crew had provided transport to a shipload of nerds.

  “Professor Kennedy?” a man said, the blades of the helicopter spoiling his finely coifed hair.

  “I’m Kennedy.”

  “Sir, I’m Special Agent Jim Lipscomb, FBI. The director asked that I make sure you have everything you need.”

  Kennedy followed the agent and had to stop and turn when everyone else hesitated, and then they reluctantly fell in line. The group approached the large manor house that had been utilized by the FBI many times but never for anything remotely resembling what was happening now.

  As the beating rotors of the Black Hawk helicopter became nothing more than background noise as it lifted back into the air, Gabriel managed to stop the agent before they reached the backyard and pool area of the house.

  “Isn’t the director going to join us?” he asked as the others caught up with them. The agent looked as if he were not going to answer at first. Then he leaned in closer to Gabriel.

  “The director posted his resignation while in the air from California, sir.”

  “He quit?” Damian asked, worry crossing his features.

  The agent said nothing, but turned and went into the house.

  “I guess not having any answers drives some to the extreme,” Gabriel said to no one. “Someone should have welcomed him to our world.” He followed the agent inside.

  * * *

  The back entryway was filled with men and women. Some were dressed in black Nomex commando gear and others in dark suits. They all looked tired and haggard from whatever it was that was killing the former commander in chief. They were drinking coffee or standing in a small line in the kitchen with plates in their hands, getting ready to eat breakfast. They all eyed the motley group that came in the back way. The newcomers, in turn, studied a group of people that looked to be in a war zone—that forever tired and weary look a soldier gets after months of hard combat.

  As the Supernaturals looked at the faces around them, there was one they all recognized. The First Lady—or former, if you like—stood in the kitchen doorway. She was looking straight at them. She also looked tired, but not like the others in the large space and in the kitchen. She was more focused on the group. Her eyes didn’t hold hope; they looked as if they held contempt. With an upturn of her upper lip, one that could have been considered a sneer in most circles, she abruptly turned and left. Her assistant was right behind her.

  “How is she taking all of this?” Jennifer asked as she watched the swinging door to the kitchen and pantry as it came to a stop after the departure of the First Lady.

  “That’s not my place to say, ma’am,” the agent said. They could see in the way he spoke and the seriousness in his eyes that he had a very low opinion of the former First Lady. “We have the main library set up for your team, Professor. Every inch of video, disc, written eyewitness reports, and the sum of our investigations has been provided.”

  Gabriel looked from the agent to Leonard and nodded. The diminutive black man took the agent by the arm as Kennedy led the others out of the crowded room and to the large hallway.

  “Look, I know that lady has a lot on her plate, but there are certain things I need from her.”

  “Such as?” the agent asked, not liking the fact that it involved Catherine Hadley.

  “Such as family records—health, financial, legal, and other things that were placed into a blind trust when Hadley came into office.”

  “President Hadley.”

  “Excuse me?” Leonard said.

  “He’s still called the president.”

  Leonard smiled, and then he laughed and slapped the FBI agent on the shoulder as he started to follow Gabriel and the others. “Whatever you say, chief, but the man is an asshat that deserves everything he gets.” Sickles stopped and momentarily lost his smirk. “Well, maybe not everything, but don’t look to me to have respect for a man that ruined the economy, ruined the office, and is a cheating bastard. You worked for him; I did not. Now get with the queen and explain to her what I need. Provide it so I don’t have to start digging into closets they don’t want opened.”

  The special agent watched the black man vanish through the door and shook his head.

  * * *

  The library was large—enough so that George and Damian whistled simultaneously. Books from floor to ceiling lined the walls. Long tables had been set up with no fewer than ten computers. Printers, large-screen monitors, and phones were abundant.

  Leonard entered the room and with Agent Lipscomb close behind. The agent closed the large sliding doors behind him as the noise and murmuring were cut off from the hallway and the rest of the house. Sickles didn’t wait. He removed his jacket and tossed it on an antique couch and went directly to one of the four PCs. Leonard became angry but held that anger in check when he saw two of his personal laptops sitting in the table. He gave Kennedy an “I told you so” look but sat down nonetheless. He immediately started tapping commands on the keyboard. Gabriel nodded, as Leonard was now in his element—one of gigabytes and specialty programs of the criminal world. Yes, Leonard was at home.

  “Professor, we have a team of researchers from Quantico standing by to assist you in—”

  “I think for those of us not too tired from our travels and our prison breakout, we would like to see the president and his current condition.”

  The agent looked at Kennedy and nodded as he turned for the doors.

  “We also need most of these people cleared out of the house. Send them outside or wherever, but get them out, all except for security for the president; I’ll leave that up to you how many that is.”

  “If I had my way, it would be a battalion of marines.” The agent finally nodded. “Hell, as nothing seems to be able to stop whatever it is, it really doesn’t matter; most will be happy to get out.”

  Gabriel he reached for the aluminum case that had been delivered from Joint Base Andrews ahead of them. He opened it and then presented the agent with a stapled grouping of papers
. “I also need the attorney general, the head of the FBI, and the Secret Service to sign these within the next hour, or I gather my people and we’ll head back to face justice in Los Angeles.”

  “What are these?” Lipscomb asked as he looked at the differing pages.

  “Release forms. They were drawn up while we were in the air and faxed to the plane. No matter the outcome of this investigation, we cannot be held responsible for any harm that may befall that man up there,” Gabriel said as he pointed at the ceiling and the bedrooms. Kennedy produced one more set of papers and handed them to the agent. “This is for the general accounting office.”

  “And this is?”

  “Our terms of service.” Gabriel smiled at the others. “Since this is our final investigation as a team, we need to get paid.”

  “And rather handsomely too,” Lipscomb said as his eyes found the numbers Kennedy was demanding. “One million apiece?”

  “Nonnegotiable.”

  “That means you deal, or we walk,” John Lonetree said as he stepped up to the agent.

  “And if you just happen to prove this is a farce, that he is nothing more than insane and incompetent, you’ll receive a one-million-dollar bonus per person. That’s in addition to your fee.”

  They all turned to see that a back door had been opened and Catherine Hadley stood in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She stepped into the room, closing the door on her female assistant before she could follow. She walked in and eyed the Supernaturals one at a time, and that look said she was not impressed. She paused in front of Kennedy. She did not offer her manicured hand for shaking.

  “A farce?” Kennedy asked as he exchanged curious looks with Lonetree.

  “You and the FBI are not the only ones capable of theorizing and doing research, Professor. My belief is that this is happening through Dean and Dean alone.” She said this last with a look of disdain for the people she was meeting with. “It is highly possible he is doing this himself. Surely through your books and your reporting, you know it is far more likely that his brain is conjuring up all of this. You say it yourself, Professor—hauntings are mostly wishful thinking. This is nothing more than a child going through puberty, as your theory would suggest. Only instead of puberty, it’s just plain old senility and brain trauma from his war years in Vietnam. He’s insane. Nothing more. It’s the president that is causing this, not ghosts.”