by Ronald Kelly
Or die trying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
When Keith returned to the McLeod farm after a day of messing around at the Adkins residence, he was surprised to find the house empty. Usually, Grandpa had already cooked and ate supper, saving him a plate to heat up when he came in from his ramblings with Rusty and the gang. But as he opened the kitchen door at seven that evening, he found himself completely alone.
“Grandpa?” he called. When the elderly man failed to answer, he checked the bottom rack of the refrigerator. Oddly enough, there was no china plate of food covered with aluminum foil waiting for him as usual. That scared him a little. Where is he? Keith wondered. Did something happen to him?
A sensation of dread joined his uneasiness as he quickly went from one room of the house to the next. His grandfather was in terrific shape for his age, but he was in his mid-nineties and that was positively ancient in Keith’s opinion. Grim scenarios began to play in the boy’s mind. What if he had suffered a heart attack or a stroke? Or what if he had gone down to the cellar for some canned vegetables and fallen and broken his hip… or his neck?
Keith checked every inch of the house, including the basement, but could find no sign of his grandfather. He was near panic and heading outside to check the barn, when the phone rang. Keith ran over and snatched it up quickly, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Keith, this is Grandpa,” came the old man’s voice.
A wave of relief flowed through the boy. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“Sorry if it upset you coming home and finding me gone, but I’ve been at Coffee County Medical Center in Manchester since early this morning. I know I should’ve called sooner, but it’s been touch and go all day.”
A jolt of alarm shot through the boy. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son,” Jasper assured, sensing the boy’s concern. “It’s Edwin Hill who’s ailing. He had a bad heart attack and I’ve been waiting to see if he was going to make it. The doctors have him in intensive care right now.”
Keith was happy that it wasn’t his grandfather who was sick, but he was still sad to hear about what had happened to Mr. Hill. “Will he be alright?” he asked, feeling a twinge of guilt at the thought of the baseball cards he had shoplifted from the candy shelf of the general store.
“I don’t know yet,” Jasper told him honestly. “But they’ve got him stabilized.” The elderly farmer paused for a second. “I know it ain’t politically correct these days, but would you be okay staying by yourself tonight? I’d really like to be here when Edwin wakes up… if he wakes up. The doctors won’t let me in to see him until he regains consciousness.”
Keith didn’t have to give it a second thought. “Sure, that’d be fine. I’ll be okay.” He had had a lot of practice taking care of himself during those long hours of overtime his parents put in at their individual careers.
“Are you sure?” asked his grandfather, sounding a little worried.
“Hey, no problem. I’ll fix me something to eat, watch a little TV, then go to bed.”
“Okay, but I ought to be home first thing in the morning,” said Jasper. “Be sure to lock all the doors and keep the porch light on, okay?”
“Sure,” said Keith. “And don’t sweat it. I’ll be just fine.”
“Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Grandpa,” he replied, then hung up the phone.
Keith walked to the kitchen pantry and checked out the shelves. He found a can of chili and decided that would satisfy him well enough. He opened it, dumped the contents into a pot and heated it on the eye of the gas stove. His grandfather was too old-fashioned to own something as modern as a microwave oven.
When the chili was hot enough, he poured it in a bowl, fetched some saltine crackers and a glass of sweet tea, then sat down at the table to eat. When he was finished, he left his bowl and glass in the kitchen sink, and gave Rusty a quick call. He told his cousin of Edwin Hill’s heart attack and their grandfather’s desire to spend the night at the hospital, waiting for bad news, but praying for good.
“You can come over and stay the night here if you want,” suggested Rusty. “Mama wouldn’t mind a bit.”
“I think I’ll just hang around here,” said Keith. “I was gonna watch some TV, but I’m beat. I think I’ll just go on to bed instead.”
“Yeah, me, too,” agreed Rusty. “I’m itching to get back to my dream and see how it turns out.”
“So am I,” Keith had to admit. “What about Chuck and Maggie?”
“I just called ‘em a few minutes ago. Chuck’s already getting ready for bed and Maggie was about to. Maggie’s folks are out of town on a trip for the next few days. She’s having to stay at home with her brother. I don’t think he likes her very much. He is a colossal dork… and a mean one, too. Especially to Maggie.”
Keith felt his temper rise at the thought of anyone giving the blond-haired girl a hard time. But he didn’t say anything to Rusty. If he did, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his rambunctious cousin.
“Well, have a good one, bud,” said Rusty. “Remember, we meet back at seven sharp, just like this morning.”
“See you then, dude,” Keith said before hanging up.
He did as his grandfather had requested, locking both the front and back door, and leaving the porch light on. Then he went to his room, changed into his t-shirt and pajama pants, and prepared for bed.
Keith dug through his backpack until he found the oversized card he had stashed there before leaving that morning. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the drawing of the police detective standing amid towering skyscrapers. A part of him couldn’t wait to get back to that urban dreamscape, while another was a little hesitant about returning. He thought again about the mysterious stranger they had come across in the wooded wilderness of Hell Hollow. Doctor Augustus Leech and the wondrous gift he had given them had seemed too good to be true, and Keith suspected that his instincts were right. But, so far, he had absolutely no evidence to support his skepticism.
“Maybe Chuck’s right,” he told himself. “Maybe I am being too paranoid.”
Keith looked at the card one last time, then tucked it beneath his pillow and turned off the light. A short while later, he was asleep and on his way.
~ * ~
It was different this time.
He stepped out of the doorway to the stench of week-old garbage, chemical smog, and urine. The street that ran next to the station house was choked with traffic. Car horns blared loudly, the drivers waving their fists angrily at their fellow commuters and shooting them the bird. Down the street, a woman screamed. He looked over to see a skinny hooker in a tiger skin tank top, leather mini-skirt, and fishnet stockings being manhandled into a long, white pimpmobile.
Confused, Keith looked around to see if he was at the right place. The precinct station was the same, except that the gray brick was nearly black with soot and the globes of the outdoor lamps had been shattered by the rocks of vandals.
He descended the steps, dodging a puddle of puke some wino had left as a calling card. As he reached the sidewalk, a rattletrap black sedan with a cracked windshield and numerous dents in the fenders pulled up to the curb with a squeal of faulty brakes. A lanky beat cop left the vehicle and glared contemptuously at Keith. He could tell it was Officer Muldoon, but not exactly the same one who had cheerfully retrieved his car the last time. This one was surly and subordinate, his lean face pocked with acne scars and his yellowed teeth gnawing the stub of a toothpick.
“Next time get your own damn car!” he spat, then stomped up the steps and entered the station house, slamming the door behind him.
What’s going on here? wondered Keith. Before walking to the sputtering heap of his car, he looked down at his apparel. His trench coat and the suit underneath it were shiny and threadbare; more like something from a thrift store than clothes bought on a detective’s salary. He checked his hat. It was stained from
acid rain and its crown bore a bullet hole that was precariously close to the top of his head. He checked his gun and badge. The .45 automatic showed evidence of rust, due to poor maintenance and his detective’s badge was tarnished an ugly green color.
Discouraged, he climbed into his car and shut the door. The car no longer possessed a smooth, powerful engine. Instead, it shuddered and backfired as he pulled away from the curb and merged with the oppressive wave of traffic. He had to pump the gas pedal continuously to keep the engine from dying.
This time, Keith took a different route than the one he had taken in his previous dream. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. Scrawled on it in black ink was a message: TONIGHT – CASSANDRA – PURPLE PASSION LOUNGE – NINE O’CLOCK. The way to the nightclub was no mystery to him. He navigated the congested streets with more difficulty than he had before, but soon arrived at his destination.
He parked his sedan in a back alley and walked around to the front of the Purple Passion. The lounge was a two-bit dive with a garish purple canopy over the doorway and a blank door with a small window set in its upper panel. Keith checked the loads in his gun. The parts of the pistol rattled loosely as he jacked the slide, and the bullets inside the breech and clip were tarnished and moldy, as if they had been there for years.
Feeling less sure of himself than he had during his last dream, Keith swallowed nervously and rapped his knuckles on the door. A moment later, the tiny door slid open, showing two beady black eyes beneath a gorilla-like brow. “Who the hell are you?” growled the man on the other side.
“Name’s Bishop,” Keith told him. “I’m here to see Cassandra.”
The man on the opposite side of the door grumbled, then reluctantly disengaged a bolt. As Keith stepped inside, he found the doorman to be a grotesquely muscular bouncer who looked like he had been weaned on steroids as a baby. The brute scowled at the police detective and spat at the floor in disgust.
“The table in the far corner,” he growled. “Sit tight. I’ll get Cassandra.”
Keith did as he was told. He crossed a dark lounge choked with cigarette smoke and the stench of hard liquor. A gathering of bums and losers sat at the bar, while the other customers occupied tables, enjoying the show that was taking place on a stage across the room. In the glittering light of a disco ball, three middle-aged women with sagging breasts, multiple stretch marks, and plenty of cauliflower celluloid did an obscene striptease to lurid catcalls and peals of drunken laughter.
Feeling kind of sick to his stomach, Keith took a seat at the table in the far corner. He attempted to avoid looking at the naked women on stage, but found their bouncing boobs and shimmering fat to hold some sort of unwholesome fascination for him. He had only seen nude women in the few Playboy magazines he had lifted from convenience stores from time to time, but these hags looked nothing like the nubile, airbrushed beauties he was accustomed to fantasizing over.
“Enjoying the show, dick?” came a sultry voice from over his shoulder.
Keith turned to find a tall, leggy dame in a slinky silk dress and stiletto heels standing there. His eyes scanned her hourglass waist and perky breasts, finally settling on her face. It was the countenance of a goddess, albeit a naughty one. Her eyes sparkled with a dangerous light and her bee-stung lips were pouty and sensual. A thick mane of flowing copper red hair wreathed her face and spilled down across her milky shoulders, catching the spiraling lights of the mirrored globe like streamers of liquid fire.
“Are you Cassandra?” he asked, feeling a little warm under the collar.
“The one and only,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Mind if I join you?”
Before Keith could answer, she took the chair opposite him. He watched as she snapped her fingers. Out of the darkness, two waiters appeared. One served her a dry martini on a small tray, while the other inserted a cigarette in a long holder between two of her outstretched fingers and lit it with a Zippo lighter.
“I have them eating from my hand,” she cooed. “As well as other places.”
Keith shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I was told that you could tell me some things,” he said. “About the Big Man.”
Cassandra laughed. “All in good time, flatfoot,” she said. “First let’s get better acquainted.” The woman extended a long, shapely leg underneath the table and rested her high-heeled foot in the detective’s lap.
Keith felt himself stir immediately. Soon, he found himself even more aroused than when Maggie had gone skinny-dipping in Goose Creek with him and Rusty.
“My, my, Detective,” she whispered, a sliver of pink tongue coasting across the edge of her upper lip. “What a big nightstick you carry.”
Keith pushed her active foot from his lap and stared her square in the eyes. “I didn’t come here to play footsy with some horny broad,” he said, trying to sound tough. “Now are we going to talk about the Big Man or not?”
“Of course,” she said, “but not out here in the open. Not with so many people around.”
“Where then?”
“The back room,” she suggested. “We’ll have some privacy there.”
“Okay,” said Keith. “But no funny business.”
“Sure,” agreed Cassandra. She left her chair and led him toward a door at the back of the club. “But don’t say that I never offered.”
Keith had no idea that he was walking into a trap until the swinging door shut behind him and he found himself blinded by the beam of a bright light. It’s a set-up! he thought.
He pulled the .45 from its shoulder holster and aimed it toward the light. But, unlike his last escapade, he didn’t even receive the chance to fire.
The boom of a revolver rang throughout the back room. Keith yelled in pain as a bullet slammed into his hand, knocking the automatic from his grasp. In the brilliant light, he looked down and was shocked to find that two of his fingers had been blown away. Blood gushed from the ragged stumps of his knuckles, while white-hot pain coursed up his wrist, filling his right arm with agony.
Okay, that’s enough! his mind screamed. Time to wake up!
Suddenly, a form slipped up from behind and brained him with the blunt end of a blackjack. His head exploded with darting white dots and a jolt of pain so severe that it drained all the strength from him. His legs betrayed him, dumping him in a heap on the cold concrete floor.
Dazed, he stared up to see that the light had been shifted. He saw Cassandra sitting on a whiskey keg, her luscious legs crossed, and an expression of disgust on her lovely face. “A piss-poor excuse for a copper, if you ask me,” she said, drawing smoke from her cigarette.
Then, from out of the darkness between two wine racks, emerged three figures. The one on the left was a tall, dark Jamaican complete with dreadlocks and a single gold earring. He wore a long overcoat and held a sawed-off pump shotgun in one long-nailed hand. The form on the right was a broad-shouldered Columbian with skin the shade of burnt umber and raven black hair pulled tightly into ponytail. He wore a gray Armani suit and cradled an Uzi submachine gun in his gold-ringed hands. Both men smiled cruelly, although no humor whatsoever shown in their dark and merciless eyes.
Although the two henchmen were threatening, they couldn’t hold a candle to the man they served. His thoughts swimming from the blow to the head, Keith stared up at the last one to emerge from the gloom.
“You wanted to find the Big Man,” he said. “Well, now you’ve found him.”
A jolt of terror gripped Keith. For, standing before him, dressed in a pinstriped suit and gangster hat reminiscent of Al Capone or Bugsy Segal, was a tall, lean man with jet black hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee. He smiled fiendishly as he stepped forward and lowered the muzzle of a Thompson machine gun square at the police detective’s forehead.
Keith couldn’t believe his eyes. The crime lord he had gone in search of – the notorious Big Man – was none other than Doctor Augustus Leech.
As the mobster’s laughter filled the room, K
eith struggled to do what he had attempted before. Wake up, Bishop! he told himself. Wake up, dammit!
But no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not escape the nightmare that his perfect dream had unexpectedly become.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rusty stepped onto the porch of the western hotel, surprised by the heat that radiated from the air around him. It had to be a good one hundred and twenty degrees. As he left the shade of the covered walkway, something else hit him as well. The putrid stench of a dead animal.
Crossing the sunbaked street, he saw the source of the odor lying in the dirt a few yards away. It was the bloated body of a mangy yellow dog. Its eyes were glazed and sunken, its four legs jutting stiffly into the air, as if attempting to ward off the grisly fate that had befallen it. Apparently, someone had killed the poor mutt on purpose. Its brains leaked through a neat, round hole in the center of its forehead; a bullet hole from the size of it. A slew of scavengers had already arrived, preparing to take their share of the carcass. A swarm of green-tailed flies buzzed around the bloated dog, while high in the blazing Arizona sky above sailed the dark silhouettes of buzzards, cutting lazy circles and figure eights in the scalding air.
Rusty spat in disgust and looked around. The town he had called home during his last dream didn’t seem so inviting this time around. The false-fronted buildings were weathered and peeling paint, the glass of their windowpanes shattered in places and the gingerbread trim of the eaves hanging in disrepair. Bullet holes were plentiful everywhere; in porch posts, slatted walls, and the closed doors of the shops. Dark brown splotches stained the boards of the walkways and in the air lingered the coppery smell of old blood.
He turned and regarded the building he had just left. The sign over the doorway was different than it had been before. Instead of reading CANTON CITY HOTEL, it read CARNAGE CITY HOTEL. As he turned toward the drinking establishment across the street, he found that its name had also changed. Instead of the Wagon Wheel Saloon, it was now the Whipping Post Saloon.