The Supernaturals

by David L. Golemon

The speakers, hidden in the corners of the ostentatious lobby bar, played a muzak version of Dirty Deeds by AC/DC. That irritated George even further. Good society could screw up the simplest of pleasures. Cordero shook his head. It was a good way to assist his departure out of the city.

  As he took a drink of his milk, he felt the eyes on him from the back of the room. He knew who it was without turning around, only because he and the man watching him were as close as two men could get in ability. He also sensed the woman with him, so he just waited.

  As John Lonetree started into the lobby lounge, Jennifer Tilden stopped him. She gently tugged on his coat and then shook her head when he glanced down. She pointed to her own chest, indicating that she would be the one to talk to George. She pointed John to an empty table and went to ease herself onto the barstool next to George’s.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the bartender asked. He looked as though he was expecting another strange request from the tired and worn-looking little woman who had chosen to sit next to the milk drinker.

  “Double Wild Turkey, please.” She placed both hands on the bar and laced her fingers together. She looked at the mirror above the bar. George continued to stare into his glass of milk.

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” he said, giving her a sideways glance.

  “No. Bobby Lee McKinnon didn’t drink. I do.”

  “A musician who didn’t drink? That’s a little hard to believe,” George said, turning to face her.

  She smiled at the bartender when he placed the crystal glass of Wild Turkey in front of her. Jennifer impressed both George and the server, downing the drink. She placed it on the bar and slid it toward the large man. “Another—with ice this time.”

  When the bartender left, Jenny turned and smiled at Cordero. “We want you to stay, George.”

  Cordero smiled and then turned away. He raised the glass of milk and paused with it in front of his face. Its pure white seemed to mesmerize him for a moment. Then he suddenly set the glass down.

  “Do you know what it’s like to just simply touch someone and know—I mean, really know—what is going to happen to them? To see what was in their past, to know who they are in an instant, far better than anyone’s ever known them before?”

  “Only with Bobby Lee. Only, I think that I cheated a little. Your ability is what’s called, at least in theory, Electrical Symbiosis Exchange; the exchange of thought and memory through touch.” She accepted the second drink from the bartender, and this time she sipped the cold whiskey. She then looked at George and smiled. “I wasn’t under the whole time Bobby Lee was in possession of me. I was able to continue some of my work. Electrical Memory and Thought Exchange was a pet theory I developed in between assaults.”

  George glanced at Jenny and shook his head.

  “So,” she said as she raised her glass again, “you touched one of us in the room during the attack and got a bad vibe? Or maybe a sordid vision of one of our futures?”

  George watched as Jenny slowly took a drink from her glass. She looked at him with the gentle eyes of someone who knew what true torment was. He also felt he could tell her the truth—the truth about a lot of things.

  “When I was twelve years old, after my mother passed away after a long battle with cancer, my father put me on tour. You know, the daytime television circuit, Art Linkletter, Mike Douglass, shows like that. They would bring people out of the audience and I would take their hand and tell them the light side of where they had been, and sometimes where they were going. My father would insist, drill it into me, that under no circumstances was I to delve into the darker side of people and their nature. You know, marital affairs, things like that. He insisted it was all for fun.” He looked at Jenny and then just as quickly looked away. “Fun when we were on stage. Off stage, he was a driven man. Money was everything to him. On stage, loving and the pillar of fatherhood; off, he was cold as ice.”

  “Is your father still alive?” Jenny asked, pushing her drink away.

  “No, he died...alone and unloved.”

  Jenny lowered her eyes. George wanted to tell the story, so she just let him venture forth without pushing him.

  “I never really questioned my father,” he continued, “as to why there was never any physical contact between us. Oh, he would ruffle my hair on stage and act the part of the proud parent, but every time I tried to get close off the stage, he would be, like I said, cold. He would pat me on my head, at the most. That was as loving as the man ever got.”

  Jennifer looked up and into the mirror over the bar. John Lonetree watched them as he sipped a glass of beer. He was watching with curious eyes, it was if he knew Jenny was there to witness George become completed, as if there was a cleansing going on. Jenny thought that maybe a little bit of John—and maybe even a bit of George—had rubbed off on her in the short time she had known them.

  “One time, I had flubbed up pretty bad on a morning show in Minneapolis. Afterwards, he drank most of the day. When he came back to the hotel, I really saw who my father was for the first time. He slapped me around pretty good and told me that after my failure on the morning show, three other shows down the line had cancelled.” George drained the glass of milk and then shoved the glass away from him as if it was the bad memory. He rubbed a hand across his face.

  “What happened, George?” she asked, draining her own glass.

  “After he passed out, I went into his room and watched him sleep for the longest time. I saw his eyes moving underneath his lids, and that fascinated me like no other sight ever has—even to this day. He was dreaming and I knew it, even before I ever heard the theory of rapid eye movement. I knew that son of a bitch was having a nightmare. I couldn’t fathom what could scare this man who so terrified me. I was so curious that, for the first time I could ever remember, I placed my hands on him; one on top of his head, one on his face. I could feel his eyelids moving underneath my touch. The feeling continued to fascinate me beyond reason, even when I was shown what he was dreaming. I closed my eyes and I became him. I was inside of him when he went to visit my mother in the hospital. I was inside when she spoke her last words to him. I heard them with his ears, I saw myself with his memory of me. I heard her say to my father, ‘Love George, he needs you so.’ I wanted to cry, which at the time was at cross-purposes to invading my father.”

  George closed his eyes, reliving the memory. Jenny saw the sadness, the terror, and the love for his mother in his eyes as they welled up with tears.

  “I watched my father. He slowly took a white pillow from underneath my mother’s head and raised it up. I felt his hands as he placed the pillow over my mother’s face and pushed. It was like while I was inside of him, I was adding my weight to his bulk. We both pushed that pillow as hard as we could. I remember fighting inwardly against the despicable way my father felt as he murdered my mother. There was no peaceful decision to allow her to leave this life with what little dignity she had left. It was a selfish, cold blooded act to rid himself of a drain on time and resources. I screamed for him to stop. Then I could feel him, beneath my hands, becoming aware that I was invading his memories. I remember when his eyes popped open, but I still kept my hands where they were. I pressed as hard as the memory of my father pushing on that pillow—harder, and harder. I saw the panic in my father’s eyes as he realized that I knew. It was a trapped, animal look.”

  Jennifer swallowed. She could not imagine what George had gone through, witnessing his mother’s murder at the hands of his very own father. She looked up with tears in her own eyes and saw the concern on Lonetree’s face in the bar’s mirror.

  “My father gathered the strength to throw me off. He jumped from his bed and vomited. It was like pure evil was spewing forth from the man. It wasn’t guilt, it was that someone else knew what a coward he truly was.”

  “What happened?” Jenny asked. George wiped his eyes with the palm of his right hand, as if he wanted to gouge out the vision from his memory.

  “My father killed himself th
e next day without ever saying a word to me. He stepped off the street in Minneapolis into the path of a car. He died hating me for what I knew.”

  “It wasn’t you who killed your mother, George, it was him. You need not feel guilty about anything.”

  George laughed, and then slapped the bar with his open hand. He swiped the last of his tears away.

  “My mother? No, I didn’t kill my mother. But I wished my father dead, and when I took his hand on that street that day, he didn’t even realize what I was doing. I thought about that small little step off the sidewalk, and that small push of thought ended up being just as physical as actually pushing him in front of that car. No, I didn’t kill my mother, but I killed that man who was my father. And you know what?”

  Jenny sat silently, waiting.

  “I wanted to do it. I had thought all night and all morning on just how it could be done, but I couldn’t find the answer, or the bravery. Not until the opportunity presented itself. Then I pushed my father with my thoughts as I reached out and took his hand that final time.”

  They sat at the bar without speaking, George with his eyes heavy and Jenny with hers locked on the mirror, as if drawing strength from John, who still watched them from his table.

  “I am sick and tired of death.” George looked at Jenny. “Do you understand?”

  “George, I apologize for bothering you. I know what it’s like to have an ability you hate absolutely having. Whether you stay or go, we will respect any decision you make.”

  Jenny slid off the barstool and squeezed George’s shoulder. She turned to leave him to think things through, but he quickly reached out and grabbed Jenny’s hand. John Lonetree stood and started forward, but she shook her head no. John, observant as ever, stopped and watched from the distance. George squeezed Jenny’s hand without looking at her.

  “Don’t go into Summer Place. Leave the east coast and go anywhere but Pennsylvania. Hell, come away with me. Just don’t go into that fucking house.”

  Jennifer reached up with her free hand and placed it over his.

  “I have to go. I have to help my friend, just like he would help me. I know you’re scared. You go, George, and no one will think worse of you for it, please believe me. I think you need to—”

  “It’s you, goddamn it.” He turned and faced her, his bloodshot eyes bearing down on her. A fire had grown in him and he was allowing it air to breathe. “I had a vision that you would be killed. You’ll walk in to Summer Place and you will never walk out. It wasn’t clear, but I saw a part of you staying in that house and never leaving. Don’t go!”

  John Lonetree started forward and pried George’s hand from Jenny. As he moved her behind him, Cordero deflated. He tossed a large bill on the bar and then got up and left without looking back. John started to go after him but Jenny stopped him.

  “Let him go. He needs to go, John.”

  “What did he say to you?” Lonetree watched George Cordero disappear out the front doors of the Waldorf.

  “Nothing.” Jenny looked away. “Can we go? I need to sleep some more.” She looped her thin hand through John’s thick arm. “And I need you to watch over me, so I hope you like the floor.”

  “No place I would rather be,” John answered. He knew Jenny was holding back the truth, but he didn’t press about it.

  As for Jenny, she suddenly wished that more than just John was with her. She also wished in a small way for Bobby Lee McKinnon—he would have understood what they were facing far better than any of the rest of them could.

  Maybe Bobby would know what was stalking Summer Place.

  At seven o’clock, not long after the city of New York came alive, seven large tractor-trailers pulled out of the old Brooklyn Navy Yard where UBC had leased space for its production facility maintenance and technical field support. The trucks carried all the elements that would make the live broadcast from Summer Place possible. Cameras, sound systems, production vans, back-up generators and even a portable commissary for the production crew. This was to be the largest live production in the history of UBC and it would only fall short of the Super Bowl for total coverage.

  Several of the early risers who worked inside the Brooklyn Navy Yard watched the seven large trucks pull out with mild curiosity. Never had they seen such activity from the UBC buildings before. It was almost as if the network were mobilizing for war. As the string of trucks pulled out and onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, they were followed closely by twenty UBC field vehicles, all starting their journey to a single place.

  Tomorrow was Halloween, and their destination was Summer Place.

  fifteen

  Bright Waters, Pennsylvania

  Detective Damian Jackson walked out of his room at the “Come As You Are” motel. The day was bright and the weather mild after the heavy thunderstorm the night before, as if the small town had been cleansed of the sordid events of the late night. Jackson was freshly shaven and wore his newest suit. He was in an exceptional mood because of the phone call he had just received from his contact at the NYPD. A convoy of UBC vehicles had just left Brooklyn on their way to Pennsylvania, and that meant Kennedy would be coming with them. It seemed that UBC was attempting to take possession of the summer retreat before the contracted date. He was curious to see how Wallace Lindemann took the news.

  He stopped just outside of his door, slowly placed his hat on his head and whistled an enthusiastic tune. His quest to nail Professor Gabriel Kennedy to the proverbial wall was close to an end; one that he had foreseen many years before. He decided he would pay a visit to his guest at the constable’s office—Kyle Pritchard might have thought things over during the night and come to the decision to throw his fellow conspirators under the bus. Jackson would take Kennedy, the Delaphoy woman and everyone involved in the hoax the night of the test broadcast, tie it all into the disappearance seven years ago, and package things up with a nice little bow. Then he could finally move on with his life—a life that had been on hold since the cold case labeled “Summer Place” had stalled out his career.

  Hands in his pockets, he stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street, careful to avoid the large puddles of water from the rain the night before. He hopped the puddles with a lightness to his step, as if he could just as easily have floated over them—yes, things were starting to come together since the reappearance of Kyle Pritchard. Jackson couldn’t imagine what the Delaphoy woman was thinking and feeling since her little scheme had taken the unexpected turn. He knew his arrival and the murder of her co-host had not been part of the plan, she had just chosen to bring in the wrong schizoid to be a part of it. Still, it was a good day to be in Bright Waters.

  The small town and its people were just starting their day. At the diner, he could see the curious faces as he strolled by the very spot where the murder had occurred. He could still see the outline of the blood stain and made no effort to skip out of the way of it. He knew the townspeople were frightened of him, and that was all well and good to him. He turned to the large window, catching those watching him off guard. He winked and smiled.

  Half a block down the street, he stopped in front of the small office of the township’s constable. He paused, straightened his coat and hat, and then opened the door.

  “Good morning,” he said to the heavyset man at the desk. It was obvious that the old man had not gotten as much as a wink of sleep. These kinds of things didn’t happen all that much in small towns, and most people were not used to the reality of murder.

  “I don’t know what’s so good about it,” the constable said, removing his feet from his desk.

  “No sleep?” Jackson asked. He sat on the edge of the constable’s desk, a move the heavy set man didn’t seem to appreciate.

  “If you had to hear that maniac back there—crying one minute, screaming the next—I’d like to see how much sleep you’d get.”

  “Our young houseguest was in distress all night, then?”

  “Distress, yeah. Being terrorized by any sound h
e heard, or screaming every time thunder clapped in the distance...I guess you could call it distress.” The constable stood with a ring of keys in his hand. “I suppose you want to say good morning to your boy?”

  “You bet,” Jackson said. “Now may be a good time to get some truth out of him.”

  “Well, good luck. He’s been quiet for the last half hour. And I hope he stays that way until your state boys come to collect him an hour from now.”

  Jackson frowned, concerned.

  “Have you checked on him since he calmed down?” He took the key ring from the slow-moving constable and inserted the key in the lock.

  “Why, so he could start up again?”

  “Goddamn it.” Jackson turned the large key and pushed the door open. He took the three steps toward the double cell setup and then he saw it. The key ring slipped from his fingers as he turned away, fixing the constable with a glare.

  “Oh my god,” the constable said.

  Inside cell number two, Kyle Pritchard had slammed his head so hard through the six inch gap between the bars that it had pushed through to the other side, ripping off both of his ears and scraping the hair on the sides of his head clean away. The body hung limp inside the cell, with his head on the outside. It was like he had been shoved through with superhuman strength. Jackson flipped on the overhead fluorescents. Examining Pritchard, he came to the quick conclusion that the man had done it to himself. There were bloody footprints on the cell floor, showing the running starts he had made to slam his head through the bars. Jackson could visualize maybe three or four attempts, running from the far wall to the bars, until finally he hit it with enough force to push his entire head through. Damian felt for a pulse. The bones of Pritchard’s neck crunched under his fingers. Then he looked down to the man’s wrists. It looked as though he had tried to chew through the skin and into his veins. Putting his head through the bars hadn’t been the first suicide method he’d attempted.