Rockabilly Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  “Win Bryan!”

  “Win Bryan what?”

  “Win paid us to ambush them folks out to where that old roadhouse used to be.”

  “Now why would Win want to go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want to stand up so I can put these cuffs on you? Or do you want to answer my question?”

  “Aw, Sheriff!”

  “Get up and put your hands behind your back.”

  “ ’Cause Miss Victoria tole him to have us ambush them folks, that’s why!” Neely shouted. “I ain’t kilt nobody, Sheriff.”

  “Why would Victoria want to harm these folks, Neely?”

  “I don’t know,” Neely mumbled.

  “You’re lying, Neely.”

  “Sheriff, I just work for her in the fields. I done some work for Captain Wood ever’ now and then, too. I don’t know what goes on in that big house.”

  “Did Curtis Wood tell Win to hire you boys to rough up these folks?”

  Neely sighed. “Yeah. Captain Wood pretty much run things on the rough side. For a long time. Ever’ since I been workin’ for her anyways.”

  “You ever go to, ah, parties in the big house, Neely?”

  “Parties? Me? Hell, no! I never even been in that mansion.”

  “But you’ve heard talk about what goes on in that house.” It was not posed in question form, and the sheriff’s tone warned Neely he’d better tell the truth.

  “Yeah,” Neely said with another sigh. “I’ve heard all sorts of wild talk. But I swear to you, I don’t know for a fact that any of it’s true. I don’t.”

  “What kind of talk, Neely?”

  “Aw, shit, Sheriff! It’s just talk amongst the hands.”

  “Get up and face me, Neely. Get up and look me in the eyes, boy. Do it! Get up, goddammit, or I’ll kick you to your feet.”

  Neely’s defiance was gone. Cole could see that in the way the man got to his booted feet. His shoulders slumped, and there was defeat in his face and in his eyes. Neely had come from the white underclass, and had never risen above it—had never made any real attempt. Cole had been dealing with the Neelys of this world for years, and while Al’s method of getting information from the man might violate every big city police policy, that was the way it worked out in the country.

  “Now we’re going to go into your house and have us a nice long talk, aren’t we, Neely?”

  “If you say so, Sheriff.”

  “I say so. Move.”

  Cole got the tape recorder from the car, and the three of them went into the house. It was going to be a long and very productive afternoon.

  * * *

  The two FBI top guns from Washington were Harry Fremont and Charles Burton. They were waiting in Al’s office, when he and Cole returned from interviewing Neely. Al called for a fresh pot of coffee, and the men all relaxed and sat down and eyeballed each other for a moment. Burton shifted his gaze to Cole.

  “Cole Younger. I bet you take some kidding over that name.”

  “Some.”

  Fremont took it. “You and Ms. Baylor stirred up a hornet’s nest around here, didn’t you?”

  “We did our best.”

  Fremont nodded in agreement, while Burton said, “Sheriff? You think Victoria Staples had anything to do with the killing of those two girls?”

  “No. Nothing at all to do with it.”

  “Tell me all you can about this Gerald Wilson person,” Burton said.

  Fremont clicked on a small, but very expensive cassette recorder.

  Al leaned forward and started from the beginning, way back when he first learned of the ghosts at the old roadhouses up and down the highway. Neither Burton nor Fremont ever changed expression during the entire relating. He told about the loosely knit club of people, of his suspicions about what was going on out at the Staples mansion, of the involvement of many prominent people, about the videotapes they had all viewed, about Gerald Wilson being basically a good person that had been, probably, pushed over the line. By whom? He could only guess. He told of his own son’s involvement, of his son coming to him the night he killed Katti’s brother, his own part in covering it up. He left nothing out.

  When he finished, Fremont said, “Are you fully aware of just how much Victoria Staples is worth?”

  “Millions.”

  “Something like half a billion dollars. Why would a woman worth that much money get involved in some crappy little two-bit porn operation?”

  Al shrugged his shoulders. “You want a guess?” He tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Because she’s crazy. She’s evil and cruel to the bone. I’ve known her all my life. Played with her as a kid.” He pointed to the recorder. “Turn that thing off, please.”

  Fremont clicked off the recorder without hesitation.

  “I know where this is going,” Al said. “I can see the writing on the wall. You’re not going to nail Victoria for anything. Now or ever. You won’t, and I won’t. She’s got too many people in her pocket. I know that. Judges—local, state, and federal. Senators and representatives—state and federal level. Oh, we’ll get the little people sooner or later. We’ll break up the snuff film business. But we won’t touch Victoria Staples. Equal justice is for everybody in this country—everybody who can afford to hire an expensive lawyer, that is. All Victoria has to do is pick up a phone and Spence, Belqi, Bailey, and a dozen more top gun, million-dollar attorneys in thousand-dollar suits and hand-sewn Italian shoes would be in here on the next flight. There are no bodies, no witnesses to tie her in with any killing. Bail would have to be set. So it’s set at five million. Big deal. That’s pocket change to her. And even if we could produce a witness, by the time she finally came to trial, perhaps a year or so, or longer, down the line, that witness would suddenly have an acute loss of memory. Hell, boys, I’ve been a cop all my adult life. I know exactly how the system works. In a word, it sucks! I broke a man today. Cole was there. He’s done the same thing in his time. Took me about five minutes to break him down to nothing. I can’t tell you how proud that makes me feel. I feel like I want to go home and take a long hot soapy bath and then get drunk. The man wasn’t much good, but he was a human being.” Al spat into his wastebasket. “I got a real bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Try some Listerine,” Burton suggested coldly.

  Al stared at the Bureau people for a long moment. When he spoke, the heat behind his words surprised Cole. “Get the fuck out of my office!”

  * * *

  The group gathered in a far corner of the restaurant for supper. Burton and Fremont sat across the room, occasionally glancing over at them, but unable to hear anything that was said.

  To their credit, the Bureau was working fast on the kidnapping and deaths of the sisters. They produced a couple of witnesses, who had seen the girls get into a car with two young men. The car, which witnesses described perfectly, had Arkansas plates. One of the witnesses remembered the first part of the plate. Working with Arkansas DMV, the Bureau began a search.

  It appeared that Scott Frey and George Steckler had been welcomed back into the fold . . . after their brief transgression into the world of the afterlife. Which the other agents tactfully did not mention.

  The girls’ parents had driven down and identified the bodies. Both the mother and the father had to be briefly hospitalized after that ordeal.

  After a long lull in the suppertime conversation, Katti broke the silence. “Does anyone have any ideas on how we can free my brother and let him ... well, you know?”

  “I’ve had a few thoughts about that ever since I saw those... things out in the country,” Bob Jordan said. “But I don’t think any of you will like it.”

  “Try us,” Cole urged.

  “Get some experts on the afterlife in on this. Let’s face it: we’re in over our heads on this thing.”

  “Who?” Katti asked. “How do we get in touch with them?”

  “I can contact one,” Bob said. “We�
�ve used this team before to help us locate, or try to locate missing persons, find bodies, so forth.” He grimaced. “We, ah, don’t generally go public with that information.”

  “Do they, I mean . . .” Cole asked. “Are they effective?”

  “About fifty percent of the time, yes. I used to think it was pure blind luck on their part. Now,” he said with a sigh and a slow shake of his head, “now, I just don’t know. Those . . . things out there in the country, well, they’ve shaken up my beliefs on the afterlife.”

  “It might not be a bad idea to bring some religious person in on this,” Al said.

  “I’ve given that some thought, too,” Bob admitted. “But I’m not especially religious. I mean, well, hell, you know what I mean. I don’t go to church. Not after the wife and I split and she took the kids and moved away.”

  “I haven’t been to church in years,” Cole said.

  Jim shrugged his shoulders. “Me neither.”

  “I go occasionally,” Bev said. “I was raised in the Episcopal church.”

  “Are you friends with your preacher, priest, whatever they’re called?” Jim asked her.

  “Oh, yeah.” She smiled. “Hank Milam is, ah, sort of a character. His wife died some months back, and he stepped down from the pulpit for a time to get his life back in order. He’s about ready to go back, but I think he’d help us. He’s got a few weeks before he resumes a full-time ministry.”

  “Will you call him in the morning?”

  “Oh, I’ll call him right now. He can be here in ninety minutes, if he’s interested. We can go out to the club tonight.”

  “You said he was a character,” Katti said. “What did you mean by that?”

  Bev smiled. “Oh, you’ll see.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ll go call him now. If he’ll come, he’ll be here before it gets dark.”

  Bob looked at the sheriff. “What about the body of that . . . well, thing that appeared out at the club? Paul something-or-another.”

  “Hensley,” Al said. “He’s still in storage. Hell, I don’t know what to do with it ... him.”

  “How about these, uh, psychics you mentioned, Bob?” Jim asked.

  The Memphis cop nodded his head. “I’ll go give them a call right now. But they live in Nashville. Actually, just outside of the city. And they may not be home. They travel a lot.”

  “Assisting police around the country?” Gary asked.

  “Yeah,” the cop admitted reluctantly. “That’s what they do.” He left the table.

  “Fremont and Burton are sure interested in us,” Katti observed, stealing another look at the pair of FBI agents. “Why? You’d think they’d be out in the field with the others.”

  “Not those two,” Cole told her. “I’ve got a strong suspicion they were sent here just to keep an eye on us.”

  “Why?” Katti insisted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe to see that we don’t interfere in the Bureau’s business.”

  “Maybe Victoria has more stroke than we give her credit for?” Al suggested.

  Cole arched an eyebrow. “That’s something to think about. But if she’s got enough stroke to stop an FBI investigation, she is one powerful woman.” He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think she has that much power.” He paused for a moment. “Still no word on Gerald Wilson?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “The man has simply dropped out of sight. I’ve had people out with dogs. I’ve done aerial searches. But I can’t tie up my entire department looking for Gerald.”

  Al didn’t put it into words, but those around the table got the strong impression that he wished Gerald had succeeded in killing Nick and Victoria. If that were true, his feelings matched what the others felt.

  Conversation stopped, as the waitress cleared the table and then poured them coffee. Cole cut his eyes to the two Bureau men. They were also having an after-dinner cup of coffee. Waiting. And watching.

  A smile suddenly creased Cole’s face.

  “You find something amusing about all this?” Al asked him.

  “Maybe.” He pushed back his chair. “Excuse me for a moment.” Cole walked over to Fremont and Burton and sat down.

  “Please join us,” Fremont said.

  “Thank you. I believe I will. Are you guys going to follow us around when we leave here?”

  “Now, why in the world would we want to do that?” Burton asked.

  “I don’t know. But if you are, there are a few things you both need to know.”

  “Oh?” Fremont asked.

  “We’re waiting here for a fellow from Memphis to show up. When—or if—he shows, then we’re going to drive out to the old roadhouse site. If you’re going to tag along behind us, let me give you some advice—some friendly advice.”

  “About ghosts?” Burton asked, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

  “Yes. About ghosts.”

  “This is going to be good,” Fremont said.

  “I can hardly wait,” his partner said, struggling to hide a smile.

  Cole studied them both for a moment, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think I will. If you want to be smart-asses about it, I can play that game too.”

  “Mr. Younger,” Fremont said. “Just calm down. We’re not your enemy.”

  “Oh? I suppose you’re here to help us?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Burton said.

  Cole smiled. “You ever heard that old joke about the biggest lies in the world?”

  Both men looked blank.

  “I’m from the government and I’m here to help you, and the check’s in the mail.”

  “Very amusing, I’m sure,” Fremont said.

  “I’ll be sure and remember that one,” Burton said, with about as much enthusiasm as a visitor to a proctologist . . . with fat fingers.

  “All right. I can’t let you go out there without some warning. When the club materializes, don’t cross that road. I mean that. Stay out of that parking lot.”

  “This is getting ridiculous!” Fremont said.

  “Absurd,” Burton said.

  “Suit yourselves,” Cole told them, then pushed back his chair and returned to his table. Smiling, he sat down and let the others in on what he’d said to the men.

  “Why the smile?” Al said. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, Cole. Give.”

  “I saw George and Scott return from the field, just as I was sitting down over there. I think they—especially George—would just love to see those two hotshots get some comeuppance. What do you think?”

  Katti put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. She didn’t quite make it. Tom Starr chuckled, and so did Bob. “Cole, you’re awful!” Katti said. “But those two might get hurt.”

  “We can prevent that,” Bob said. “We’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “Al?” Cole asked the sheriff.

  “I think you have a truly dirty little devious mind.” Al smiled. “But I love it. Let’s go find George.”

  Seven

  “Horseshit!” the Episcopal priest said, after listening intently to the story about the ghosts in the roadhouse that materialized along the old country road.

  Cole blinked. “I beg your pardon, Hank?”

  “I told you he was a character,” Bev said.

  “I said horseshit,” Hank repeated. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I came up here as a favor to Beverly. But don’t insult me with wild tales of out-of-date music, spooky ghosts, and other things that go bump in the night.”

  “Will you at least ride out there with us?” Al asked. “I’ve got you a room here at the motel. Everything is paid for. Just ride out there with us, and then make up your mind.”

  The priest slowly nodded his head. “All right. I can do that. Sure. Why not? I need a good laugh.”

  “It’s full dark out,” Cole said. “Let’s go.”

  “Waste of time,” Hank muttered, getting to his feet.

  The others smiled.

  The last car to pull out of the m
otel parking lot was one driven by Scott; George was in the passenger seat. They were following Burton and Fremont, who were talking about this wild ghost chase, and about how silly this was, grown people actually believing in ghosts.

  Burton and Fremont did not park across the road from the concrete slab. They parked in the old weed-grown parking lot.

  “I’m sure that’s Scott and George behind us,” Burton said. “They’ve pulled over about a hundred yards or so back.”

  Cole had been right about Burton and Fremont being from another division of the Bureau. They were from Internal Affairs. And they were here to observe and work up a report on George Steckler and Scott Frey.

  They both agreed it was going to be a very interesting report on the two agents who turned in field reports about seeing ghosts. A very interesting report.

  Damn sure was.

  Very interesting indeed.

  Of the two men, Burton had a sense of humor. Fremont didn’t. It was said of Fremont that he had been born with a serious expression on his face. It was also rumored around the Bureau that Fremont was an insufferable prick.

  “They were warned not to park over there,” Cole said to the group.

  “Well, you can’t hardly blame them for thinking this is some sort of joke,” Bob said. “But they could have taken it just a little bit more seriously.”

  Al nodded his head in the darkness of the summer night. “George said Fremont is a horse’s ass. He added that he ought to know, ’cause up until a few weeks ago, he was the world’s biggest horse’s ass.”

  “That’s them parked a hundred yards or so down there,” Jim said, pointing. “They’re in a turn row.”

  “George said they both were bringing night binoculars,” Cole reported with a grin. “Scott said he wouldn’t miss this for a month’s paid vacation.”

  Across the road from the group, Fremont was bitching to Burton. “This is ridiculous, Charles. They’re playing games with us. That’s all this is. They’re sitting over there drinking beer or something, and laughing at us.”

  They weren’t laughing yet. But they soon would be. They would laugh until the situation started turning deadly on the two IAD men. And that wouldn’t take long.

  “They didn’t act like it was a joke, Harry. I didn’t see anyone laughing.”