Graveyard Games

by Sheri Leigh

  There was life after Nick.

  Dusty moved down aisle toward the back wall where the magazine and book racks were. Cougar tried to keep up on his shipments. Her eyes scanned the book titles, drawn to the word Horror written in red letters. Underneath were the latest. Cougar used to stock the horror section just for them. She and Nick would split the cost of books and share them when they were kids, and they never really stopped. He’d buy one and send it to her and vice versa.

  She was about to go up to the register when a name caught her eye. STEPHEN KING in bold black letters, and below that, the title The Dark Tower VII. It was the very last in the gunslinger series! She had been waiting for this book to come out forever! A familiar thrill went through her and she thought, I wonder if Nick knows—

  She bit her tongue, closing her eyes. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth, but it cut the thought off. She’d been doing that, having thoughts about Nick and what he might do in the future, things he would never do again. It caused a sharp stab of pain slicing through her middle when she realized she and Nick would never, could never, because Dominick William Chandler had been made a graveyard meal of by god-knows-what—someone knows—yum, yum, wasn't that the most delicious joke you ever heard?

  She felt, for one terrifying moment, that she was going to be sick. She was going to barf Julia’s special brown-sugar-and-pecan oatmeal up, right onto old Cougar's floor...

  And then she was okay again.

  She took the book off the shelf. It was soft cover, so it must have been out for a while. She’d been so busy she hadn’t read much lately. That was before the suspension and the investigation. Before she found out Nick was dead. Now she had nothing but time. She tucked the book under her arm, deciding to buy it. If it took her mind off of the horror—the real horror of her life—it was worth it.

  "I knew I had them, Mike." Dusty looked up at the sound of Will's voice. He came out of the back room, followed by Mike White, Sarah's father. They moved toward the front of the store up the last aisle, toward the register, she assumed.

  "It was just a question of finding them. I don't like keeping these kinds of things up front. I don't want any of the kids getting their hands on them."

  "Yep, true ’nuff," Mike drawled. They were from somewhere down south, Dusty remembered. Sarah had come into third grade with the most laughable accent. Her nickname had become "y'all" because it was all that came out of her mouth, especially, "Y’all talk funny, not me!"

  "I don’t sell much ammo outside of deer season," Will told him. She heard the old cash register totaling things up. “Although, with what’s been happening around here lately, I should probably start advertising in the window."

  "I ain't takin’ no chances," Mike said. “After that Summers boy…”

  Sarah lost her accent, Dusty thought. I wonder why he didn't?

  "And poor Nicky Chandler,” Mike continued. “What the hell was he doin’ in the boneyard?"

  Good question. Dusty had been planning on going up front and paying for her things, maybe talking to Will for a minute or two. The mention of Nick's name had started to change her mind.

  "What a thing." Will sighed. “A horrible, horrible thing.” Tears pricked Dusty’s eyes at the sadness in his voice. "I know that family real well. He was such a good boy."

  "Hotshot lawyer, wasn’t he?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah,” Will replied. “Home for a visit with his folks, they said. I’m really gonna miss him. When he was a kid, he used to come help me clean up, do inventory, whatever else needed doing. Him and his sister—they never asked for nothing, just came and kept me company."

  Dusty leaned against the shelf. Tears, unbidden, welled up. She and Nick had once thought old Mr. Cougar was the best thing to come along since Kool-Aid. His word was God's back then.

  “It’s a real shame,” Mike agreed. There was a pause, and then he asked, “So what do you think it is, Will?"

  The old man didn’t seem confused by the question. He knew exactly what Mike was asking, and so did Dusty. "Well," Will started. "I can't rightly say. Newspaper says it's a big cat of some kind, but the Sheriff's setting traps left and right up there by Clinton Grove and all he's catching is rabbits."

  "Do you think it's an animal?" Mike asked.

  Dusty's ears pricked up. She felt awful, her stomach churning, knowing she shouldn’t be listening, but she couldn’t stop herself. Julia wouldn’t approve—but her instincts told her to stay put.

  "Mike, I just don’t know. I’ll tell you something—I saw the Summers kid when they brought him in. I was jawwing with Matt down at the station, after I reported the break-in here. And we both know who did that and who isn't going to get caught for it," Will said wryly. Shane, Dusty thought, reading his thoughts as she knew Mike would. In Larkspur, trouble was always spelled S-H-A-N-E.

  Will continued: "They brought the body in, just a couple of kids carryin’ him, not knowing any better, not even knowing who he was. Couldn’t tell who he was anymore.” Will’s voice dropped. “Kid looked like he'd got himself caught up in a meat grinder. I nearly lost my dinner, I can tell you."

  "So there were bite marks, like it says in the paper?" Mike asked.

  "Bite marks? Feh!” Will snorted. “Mike, the kid was shredded. The only way they would've been able to identify him, if his friends hadn't come out of hiding long enough to find out what happened to him, that is, would've been dental records or that new DNA technology they got on that CSI program."

  “Really?” Mike’s voice sounded faint.

  "I ain’t kidding,” Will replied. “Mike, I knew Scott Summers. Real well. But I didn’t know him when they brought that body in. He looked...inside out."

  Remembering her dream, Dusty's stomach tightened.

  "So you do think it's a cat of some sort?"

  "Cat, bear, hell, I don't know.” Will sighed. Dusty could smell the distinct odor of his pipe. “But I wonder if maybe, just maybe…it's neither one.”

  "Yeah? Me, too."

  "Whole town is wondering, my friend.” She heard Will pausing to puff on his pipe. “The whole world gets turned upside down when stuff like this happens and nobody seems to have any explanations.”

  It was quiet for a moment and Dusty contemplated just putting her stuff down and going quietly out the door. Then Cougar started talking again.

  "Mike, I’ll tell you something…”

  Dusty smiled. That’s what Cougar always said when he was about to pontificate.

  “I've lived in this town all my life, and I've never seen anything like this. A bear won't usually attack unless it's threatened. It's possible to have an isolated incident of bear attack, say, after disturbing one from sleep, but they're really not very smart. They would've caught a bear by now, with all the traps they've set up.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mike agreed.

  Dusty nodded, listening, and waited.

  “A cat, on the other hand—a cat’s pretty sharp. And they're predators, there's no doubt about that. I could see one coming across Joe Wilson passed out in the train station and thinking he’d found himself the feline version of a McDonalds Happy Meal just waiting for him."

  “Sure,” Mike replied.

  “And overpowering a twelve-year-old wouldn’t be too hard for a big cat,” Will went on. “And from what Deputy Matt says, Nick Chandler was pretty wasted that night. A bobcat sounds like a plausible explanation in all those cases, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Mike actually sounded a little relieved.

  Dusty knew better. She was too used to Cougar’s set-ups. She held her breath.

  “But I still don't think it was a cat."

  “Why?” Mike asked, walking just the path Cougar wanted him to.

  “Did you know that Joe was found hidden under a porch in the train station, covered up with boards?” Will puffed on his pipe again and the smell wafted toward Dusty. “Can bobcats do that, Mike? Even smart ones?"

  Dusty didn’t hear any answer. Her own mind was raci
ng.

  "If we didn't have kids who like to play out there and explore the great unknown, we never would've missed old Joe. Probably would've even forgotten him. What do you think about that, Mike?"

  “The papers didn’t mention that.” Mike sounded angry, and Dusty knew how he felt.

  Will chuckled. “Come on, now. Buck Thompson is up for re-election this year, and we’ve got that new mall going in near the south end of town. Supposed to be as good as the Second Coming, right? Bad publicity, Mike. No one wants that, do they?”

  Dusty was cold. She was beginning to feel sick again, and it was getting worse. Part of it was cramps, but most of it was just all the bells and whistles going off again.

  "And what about Nicky Chandler?” Will asked.

  “What about him?”

  “You know where they found him?”

  “Cemetery,” Mike replied, stating the obvious and taking another step down Cougar’s well-lit path.

  “Uh huh.” He puffed on his pipe again. “But they might not have found him at all, you know, if the Clinton Grove boneyard didn’t have such a tidy caretaker.”

  “What do you mean?” Mike sounded impatient now, growing tired of Cougar’s game.

  “John Evans told Deputy Matt he found Nick while he was sweeping out one of the mausoleums,” Will said. “Those doors are shut tight, Mike. You know a bobcat who can open doors?”

  "Well.” Mike cleared his throat. “Maybe Nick ran from it? Opened the mausoleum door himself, went in there to hide?”

  “Could be,” Cougar agreed, puffing on his pipe again. “Sure could be.”

  For some reason, Dusty found herself thinking about Shane.

  It was quiet for a moment, and then Mike said, "Well, thanks for the ammo, Will. I appreciate it."

  "No problem," Will replied. "Just remember— sometimes it’s better to be safe than sorry."

  "I get you," Mike said. "Take care, Will."

  Will responded, "You take care, too—living all the way out there on Arcada road. Whatever it is, it's got an awful big appetite."

  Dusty heard the door shut. It took a few moments for her to move, but when she’d made up her mind, she went up the back aisle toward the cash register.

  "Hey, Cougar." She set her things on the counter. He turned around, startled.

  "Dusty! I didn't hear you come in." Will’s eyes pierced hers. "How long have you been hanging around?"

  "Oh, I don't know.” She let her eyes fall to her purchases. “I was back by the books and I got into this one. Lost track of time, I guess."

  He picked up the book and then snorted. "Stephen King, huh?" He looked on the sleeve and rang up the price. "It's a shame when a man can make millions writing this kind of garbage, isn’t it?"

  "I suppose."

  "You know," he said, bagging the book and the Tampax. "If you want real horror, Dusty, all you have to do is look around you at the rest of the world."

  She took the bag and looked at him. His hair was beginning to thin and grow gray at the temples. The beard he always grew for winter even had a bit of gray in it. The laugh lines around his eyes were more defined than she remembered, but his deep blue eyes were as sharp as ever. She loved him—he was the kind of father she’d always longed for, kind and caring. He would grieve, she thought. If Nick had been his son, he would have taken the time out of his schedule to cry.

  "I know." Dusty didn’t hide the tears.

  Looking at her, his eyes softened. “Oh hon…I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded and opened her mouth to say the perfunctory, “Thank you,” but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let her. When he held his arms out, she fell into them and finally gave herself over to the grief.

  * * * *

  "What can I get you, Dusty?"

  "Hmm?" Dusty looked up at Nellie standing behind the counter with her pen poised above her note pad.

  "What can I get you?" she repeated.

  "Root beer and..." She glanced up at the list of prices written in chalk on a big black board and added, "Fries."

  "Up in a few, but I'm a bit short-handed today," Nellie told her, bustling toward the kitchen to place the order. Nellie was always short-handed, but it was worse in the summer. Winter inevitably saw a drop in the tourist traffic because of the cold and snow, but business at Nellie's was always booming—she owned the one and only restaurant in Larkspur.

  Dusty turned her swivel stool around. It was the lunch time crowd, all regulars, sitting in booths and at tables. Most were over from Adison, a small town to the west of Larkspur where there were limestone and iron ore mines.

  Dusty hoped her eyes and nose weren’t too red from crying. Cougar had let her go on and on, just holding and rocking her, and although she flushed now in embarrassment at the memory, it had been good, just exactly what she’d needed. After that, she couldn’t ask him what she’d planned, couldn’t delve into his conversation with Mike and his speculations about the alleged “animal attacks.”

  But now Cougar's words kept coming back to her, and the fear clutched and groped at her belly. It went nicely with cramps. Tom had touched upon her suspicions when she was in the florist, but Cougar, he’d added something she’d been looking for all along, opening up a new dimension. Cougar had presented proof—you know a bobcat who can open doors?

  She shuddered. The thought of Nick lying on the floor of the mausoleum—like he got himself caught in a meat grinder—was too gruesome and painful to imagine, but it was worse than that—he looked inside out—it was deplorable. He didn't deserve to die—not that way, in the middle of nowhere at the hands of—of what? The violation of it heated her chest and filled her throat. She recognized the desire, burning thick and almost comforting—it was a lust for vengeance. She wanted retribution.

  “Dusty.”

  Startled, she turned toward the voice. “Billy…hi.” She remembered seeing him at the funeral, his dark head bent next to Shane’s, so out of place in a suit and tie. Today he was back in jeans, ripped and tattered as usual, and looked more like she remembered him from high school, although the “Coldplay” t-shirt was new.

  “Sorry I didn’t come by after the funeral,” he apologized. “I had to work.”

  That makes one of us, Dusty thought. Although her career was dangling over the edge of a deep ravine, it was actually the least of her worries, and that irony didn’t escape her.

  “That’s okay. Where are you working?”

  Billy looked down at the front of his t-shirt. “I’m a walking advertisement.”

  “Guitar lessons?” she guessed, remembering that he’d had the typical high-school rock star aspirations of any young male guitar player.

  “Guitar, piano, whatever pays the bills,” he agreed, waving to Nellie and calling, “Pick up!” She gave him an acknowledging nod, slipping behind the counter and heading back toward the kitchen.

  “You still play?” she asked. She’d only heard him on the few occasions Nick had allowed her to tag along with them, but she remembering being impressed with his talent. “I mean, for yourself…”

  “Don’t do much for myself anymore.” He snorted. “Hey…I’m really sorry about Nick. Really sorry.”

  “Thanks.” She nodded, trying to ignore the pain blossoming in her chest at the mention of his name. Part of her understood Julia’s need or desire to put everything away. If people would just stop talking about it…

  “I only just saw him the week before, when I went to see my mom in the hospital.” Billy gave Nellie a five when she set a brown paper bag stapled shut across the top on the counter. “Thanks, Nell, keep the change.”

  “Oh the generosity,” Nellie replied, rolling her eyes but pocketing the cash.

  “That was the last time you saw him?” Dusty asked, remembering Chris’ denial that he hadn’t seen Nick the night before he’d—been killed—died.

  “I think so.” Billy stood, frowning. “Days run together for me nowadays. My mom’s got lung cancer and has been in and out of the ho
spital for the past few months.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Dusty squeezed his arm, wishing there was some other way to express sympathy besides that pat phrase. She was tired of hearing it herself.

  “Thanks.” He gave her a small smile, his eyes veiled, and she’d given it to others enough to recognize the look. He glanced at his watch and then said, “I’ve got to run. Good seeing you. How long will you be in town?”

  She hesitated. It was a good question. How long was she going to be in town exactly?

  When she didn’t answer, Billy went on. “Maybe I’ll see you around before you go?”

  “Sure,” she agreed as he moved away, heading toward the door with a short wave. She blinked after him, surprised how much he had changed. He wasn’t the Billy she remembered at all, the extrovert, the flirt, the one who had at least two girls hanging on him at all times. This Billy was a more somber version.

  Maybe Nick was right, she thought, turning back toward the counter and taking a sip of the drink Nellie had left for her. Maybe people do change. Or maybe we never really know as much as we think we do about who they are…

  "Hey, came in ’cuz I saw the Jeep outside.” Shane took a seat on the stool next to her, the one Billy had vacated just moments before. “Gave me quite a start for a minute there."

  Dusty faced him, startled herself, not ready for another trip down memory lane quite yet. Instead, she just looked at him, and when she didn’t reply, he asked, "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? No pun intended, of course."

  She didn’t bother to answer him, and she knew he didn’t really expect one. He looked pale, as if he’d seen a ghost. The Jeep really had given him quite a shock and she was glad. The burning in her chest was worse now with him sitting so near.

  "Here you go, Dusty," Nellie said, and Dusty turned back to the counter where her French fries now sat. "Can I get you anything, Shane?"

  He grinned. "Not unless you recently started selling alcohol."