In the Still of the Night--The Supernaturals II

by David L. Golemon

  For the longest time, Kennedy remained silent, even when Jennifer got up and went to the bar and poured a drink and then returned with the glass and placed it in front of John.

  “Explain why we have to help, John,” she said as she kissed the top of his head and sat back down. “Take us on a journey to Moreno.”

  Lonetree looked at Gabriel, who pursed his lips and nodded.

  “My firm belief is,” John said, stopping long enough to drain his glass, “that Moreno was never a town in a real sense. I believe it was like a movie set and the people on that set didn’t know they were even in a movie. It was window dressing. It was real, but all of it was a cover up, and when I say that, I mean a cover up that makes others seem feeble by comparison.”

  * * *

  An hour, one full decanter of whiskey, and another of vodka later, John had completed his tale of time travel to a place they all now feared even more than the haunting at Summer Place. It wasn’t until the knock on the door that Gabe’s mind was made up.

  Julie Reilly, feeling a little tipsy, walked to the door and opened it. Catherine Hadley was standing there as if she were posing for a photo op inside the White House. One of her delicate hands was placed in the other at her waist, and she was smiling. Her hair and makeup were perfect for that time of night.

  “A chartered 737 will be waiting at Andrews in three hours.” She stepped aside just as the gurney carrying President Hadley made it to the bottom of the stairs. “My husband, if he is to die, will die in what he considers his home. I am taking him there.”

  “You know that will kill him?” Gabriel said as he remained seated as a point to his denial to continue the investigation.

  “That is the opinion of many, but not my husband. He wants to go home.” She smiled again and then started to turn away, and then stopped, with the smile still in place. “There is a rumor about that you and your team are discontinuing your investigation. Even after so much work toward your blackmailing of me. What a shame. Good luck, Professor. I’m sorry you fell short in … well … everything.”

  Gabriel Kennedy stood and walked calmly to the door. After John’s take about his visit with the young Gloria, he had decided to take this thing to its inevitable conclusion with the help of the arrogant woman who had just left.

  “Madam First Lady?” Gabriel called out as he poured another drink.

  They could see through the open door that Catherine had stopped but not turned. “Yes?” she said.

  “What terminal at Andrews?”

  “Very good, Professor, very good. Private concourse thirteen.” She moved off, Gabriel watching her back as she followed her husband and doctors from the house.

  “The bitch needs her scapegoats along for the ride,” Julie said as she watched Gabriel from behind.

  “Terminal thirteen. Lucky number,” Leonard said with an uncomfortable chuckle.

  Kennedy finished his drink and then shook his head in wonder at the woman who wanted to control everything. This time, they could all see it was his turn to smile.

  “Little does she know that it’s not scapegoats traveling to Moreno. Just us.”

  Damian raised his glass and surprised everyone with his belated enthusiasm.

  “Just us! The goddamn getting-drunk-on-their-asses-and-on-their-way-to-California Supernaturals!”

  * * *

  Two thousand, five hundred and thirty-five miles away, laughter sounded from two different locations within the city limits of a small town that officially died fifty-five years before.

  The Supernaturals would make a stand at Moreno.

  PART III

  HOMECOMING

  I’d like to thank the guy who wrote the song … that made my baby fall in love with me … yeah …

  —BARRY MANN,

  “Who Put the Bomp (in the Bomp, Bomp, Bomp),”

  Billboard Top 100, 1961

  14

  MORENO, CALIFORNIA

  The mudslide began at 3:20 a.m. and coursed down a small dry-wash area high above the Santa Maria Delarosa mission and winery. The slide was caused by rain that refused to soak in, in certain hardpan areas, and in combination with the softer dried dirt of the region, the wall of mud turned itself into a living thing. It picked up boulders that had been buried in the hillside for a millennium, and that was enough force to speed up the wall of mud and water as it cascaded down the small hills surrounding Moreno.

  The crest of liquefied earth slammed into the north wall of ancient adobe and disintegrated it as the wave moved on. The small walnut grove beside the old mission was inundated and swallowed. Then the mud slammed into the rear wall of the mission and the winery. Since the state had reinforced the walls of the mission with the takeover of the property, the slide was pretty much contained. It was in the winery where the world came crashing in. The slide hit the north wall, collapsing it under the onslaught. The wave continued until the old flooring couldn’t withstand the tremendous weight any longer. The ancient wood gave way, and it and the boulder-filled mud slammed into the basement, the rafters of steel and aluminum coming down atop the remains of a laboratory that was never supposed to be.

  The old and rusted tanks atop the vault ruptured and spilled out their last remaining fluid. Then the crack in the steel made in Yugoslavia almost eighty years before split and collapsed in on itself. The gases and a thousand pounds of mercury were free to soak into the wet earth of the slide.

  Darkness was content to stay isolated while the world outside exploded in thunder and lightning. They knew they were free and would once more have designs on the invasion of Moreno, California. This time, they would remain free by killing anything that threatened them. Even with requests for calm emanating from the bowels of the old Grenada Theater and the vault there, the entity ignored it, grew in power, and waited.

  * * *

  Bob had been up all night, obsessed with the old DJ’s booth. He had pulled his favorite TV-watching chair over toward the middle of the room, moving several of the half-empty record racks out of the way, and sat, waiting. He was placed in the approximate position the receptionist had occupied many years before. He had a blanket pulled up to his chin as the drumming of the rain on the roof of K-Rave lulled him to only half-wakefulness. The company-issued .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver was tucked firmly between his left leg and the seat cushion. His eyes were fixed on the triple-paned glass of the booth.

  Linda shuffled by, lacking for sleep as much as her husband. She had spent the night huddled in the old cast-iron tub in her bathroom, and her mood was witness to the fact it had not been a very comfortable night.

  “I’ll ask again, Bob—what are you going to do if it does show up again? Shoot it?” She laughed, but it was without mirth. She slapped the back of the chair but leaned over and kissed his cheek anyway. “We have never once in the years that we have been here had cause to even get those damn guns out of the boxes they were issued in.” She patted the top of his head and then moved to the front window. “Eleven in the morning and it looks like near dark out there.”

  It had been raining steadily since the night before. The television reports were saying that the Inland Empire and most of San Bernardino County were under flash flood watch. It was a warning that anyone near the hills had to take most seriously. There had already been reports of massive mudslides near Big Bear and flooding in Los Angeles.

  “I’m just hopin’ old Drunk Monk’s Road doesn’t come sliding down in our laps, which it will if the damn rain doesn’t stop.” Linda spied Harvey Leach across the street as he poked his head out of the double glass doors of Newberry’s. He was undoubtedly checking to see if the rainwater was ready to breach the sidewalk and come into the alcove of the old department store. Linda didn’t want to see that happen because they would more than likely be called upon to assist in sandbagging the doors and alcove. Linda waved, and Harvey shook his head and then went back inside. She suspected she, Bob, and Harvey were the last people in Moreno, an unsettling predicament
to dwell on. All that was left outside of the townies, as they were now calling themselves, was Casper Worthington.

  “Do you want some lunch?” she asked as she finally turned away from the dismal morning. She strolled into the kitchen. She cracked two eggs and put them in the butter she had melted. She again looked up, but Bob still sat motionless.

  The sound of movement stopped her speculation. She leaned over the small counter and looked into the reception area. She saw Bob’s head. His hair was splayed out on the top of the easy chair and was undone from its usual ponytail. She then looked toward the booth, and her heart skipped at least five beats that were, at that moment, badly needed.

  The light was dim but very visible through the triple-paned glass. She saw the microphone stand that she knew wasn’t there. She saw the rows upon rows of 45 records stacked into wooden shelves behind the console with its two turntables. One was spinning, its arm and needle scratching through the small black disc. Linda swallowed.

  “Bob?” she said, but her voice had failed somewhere around the back of her teeth. Then another six or seven heartbeats came up missing when she heard a toilet flush from a small bathroom at the very back of the DJ’s booth that hadn’t been in operable condition since Nixon first took office. “Bob?” she said once more. This time, she could almost see the words exit her mouth. Then she realized that there had been a reason for that. The weather wasn’t that uncomfortably cold for this time of year in Southern California, just a chill that came with bad weather. Today had been no different, but now she saw her breath as she said that one word. She tested it again by blowing through her mouth, and her suspicion was confirmed. The temperature had dropped by at least thirty degrees in the last minute inside the K-Rave radio station.

  Linda tried to move her feet but found that her muscles had become frozen. She even smelled burning eggs and butter but still couldn’t move. Her mind was protecting her from a stupid action. Then her face flushed free of blood as she saw the door to the old bathroom open and the same man from the night before came out drying his hands on a paper towel that he then tossed into a wire basket. The light from the small bathroom lit up the booth, and she saw all the detail in horrid clarity. The stacks of records. The turntables and the mic stand. The rolling chair the DJ used, and the mug of coffee that was now steaming on the console. Then she heard the music playing. It was an old rock and country crossover song she remembered from her very early childhood. She couldn’t remember the artist. She knew the song—“Sea of Heartbreak.” It was an Elvis-style song that became very popular. As she watched, the bearded man looked through the glass. Linda thought for sure he would react to Bob’s presence in the chair only feet away from the glass, but he acted as though there was nothing there. The man reached out and hit a switch.

  “Roberta, you out there?” he asked, and Linda heard it through an intercom system that had never worked in her entire tenure in Moreno. She looked around just as the DJ was doing for this Roberta. Whoever she was, she was nowhere in sight. Linda turned back in time to see the man reach for something out of view, and then the bottle of J&B whiskey appeared. He poured the amber liquor into his coffee mug. He again looked through the window as if afraid of being observed and then smiled as he sat down in his chair and placed a set of headphones on. The music coming from speakers inside the old reception area was scratching out the song and was winding down.

  “That was Don Gibson, ‘Sea of Heartbreak.’ The time here in Moreno is eleven o’clock. You’re listening to Freekin’ Rowdy Rhoads here at K-Rave on this dark and stormy Halloween Wednesday, an appropriate setting for tonight’s festivities planned by the good folks at Hadley Corp Gauge and Meter Company. Remember, if it’s raining, Newberry’s has plenty for the kids to do, so parents, don’t go throwing yourselves into Lytle Creek—there’s still hope! So, drop off the teens at the Monster Mash Bash at the Grenada Theater for a night full of frights, and then mosey over to Newberry’s. I’ll be there live and in all my remote glory, so come by and see old Freekin’ Rowdy on this most ghoulish of nights. Now here’s Pat Boone and ‘Moody River.’”

  Linda could not move, even as the eggs in the frying pan began smoking. She watched as the DJ swirled in his chair and then downed a good portion of the coffee-and-whiskey mixture. She was terrified thinking that the motionless Bob must have had a heart attack or a stroke at the very least. She saw the man lower the cup and a look of exasperation came over his features. He put the mug down and then hit his intercom switch, automatically lowering the volume of Pat Boone. She even heard the feedback from the interruption.

  “Damn persistent, aren’t you?” he said as he leaned forward with his hands on the console. His eyes moved from the spot she knew Bob was sitting at and then over to her. She froze solid. He hit the switch again, obviously frustrated because he wasn’t being answered. “Look, she wasn’t pissed when I tried to warn you before, but there has been a lot of interference from others since then. She won’t be too forgiving after this. You need to leave this place.” He hit the intercom switch again, and the music turned up. He was still taking turns looking from Bob to Linda, who shook her head, still unable to call out Bob’s name. Again, the frustration showed as he hit his infernal switch. “Damn, would it help you if I said the Others are out, and they won’t allow her to have any mercy? Are you two beatniks braindead or something? What will it take to get you to beat feet?”

  Linda had hope when the DJ looked down at the soon-to-end Pat Boone hit, when again he looked up angrily.

  “I died trying to save those kids in the theater. That’s why I am still here. The Others keep me imprisoned simply because I interfered, as did others. Now get out of here before all hell breaks loose!” Rowdy Rhoads leaned toward the glass, and his appearance changed in seconds.

  He burst into bright flames, and his skin crisped and peeled away. His head was smashed in on the left side and looked as if his brains were leaking out of the other. He took a stance as if he were about to hurl himself out of the booth and into Bob’s lap, who still hadn’t moved an inch in the easy chair.

  Linda finally managed a horror-movie-type scream as the immolated and partially crushed man launched himself at the glass.

  The gunshots echoed in the confines of the radio station. Four shots shattered the triple panes of glass just as Freekin’ Rowdy became airborne. The glass blew inward as Linda’s scream overshadowed even the gunfire.

  Then there was nothing. Bob was standing up with the blanket at his feet and the smoking Smith & Wesson pointed at the empty space where the glass had been. The booth was empty and dark. None of the things she had seen earlier were there. No records, no turntables, and most assuredly no Freekin’ Rowdy Rhoads.

  “Why didn’t you answer me, you son of a bitch?” she screamed as the eggs in the frying pan burst into flames. The smell immediately got her attention, and she retrieved the flaming pan and then slammed it into the small sink, running water on it.

  Bob started shaking, and Linda felt horrible. He had been there, watching everything all along, and she supposed with both of them looking like deer caught in the headlights of a car, it pissed Freekin’ Rowdy off enough for him to show his true form.

  Linda ran from the kitchen area and then slowed as she approached her husband. She saw him shaking. The gun hadn’t moved from his aiming spot right behind the glass. She easily removed the .38 from his trembling hand, and then his paralysis vanished. He looked at her and shook his head.

  “Forget the clothes and other things. Get your purse. We are so outta here!” Bob said as he turned and they both made for the door, he in his pajamas and her in a robe and slippers.

  They ran into the pouring rain and started for their beat-up Plymouth Horizon that sat hubcap deep in the rushing water.

  “What’s the company going to say?” Linda asked as they neared the car and safety.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what they say. It would take an army to keep me here!”

  At precis
ely that moment, a caravan of black Chevy SUVs with blue flashing lights in their grilles turned the corner from Jefferson onto Main Street. Bob stopped, and the keys to the car fell into the rain-swollen gutter. Linda placed a hand over her mouth as fifteen vehicles and one very large motor home came at them. Several of the black Blazers went down the street, and the others started pulling to the curb. Three of these even blocked the street at Jefferson and Wilks Avenues, placing their vehicles sideways in the road. They watched as men dressed in raincoats and black windbreakers took up station on the sidewalk on both sides of the street while the expensive motor home pulled into a vacant lot near the old Texaco station. That then was surrounded by four California Highway Patrol cars. Men piled out of all the vehicles, and they all were armed. The final blow was the black step van that pulled to the front of Newberry’s, and fifteen FBI hostage rescue team members hopped out and took up station near the flooding sidewalk. Their eyes were roving everywhere and even took in Bob and Linda.

  “I think that army you mentioned has just arrived,” Linda said hopelessly.

  * * *

  After Bob and Linda had been questioned, they were escorted to the radio station, where three FBI agents checked the inside for anyone else. Bob even saw several of them go into Newberry’s to question Harvey. Then they saw a black sedan pull up and two men escorted the very angry walnut farmer, Casper Worthington, and his Yorkie named Peckerwood inside Newberry’s.

  Bob was handed back his driver’s license and his contract for Sacramento Security Systems. The agent seemed amused at the state of the so-called security for the town but was polite enough not to say anything to the very harried-looking hippie couple. Overall, the federal authorities found the state of security in the town laughable.

  “Now can you tell us what in the hell is going on?” Linda asked as she came from the bedroom with fresh clothes on. She found her bravery again with so many men and women around, but she still sent a nervous glance toward the DJ booth and its windowless frame.