Chuckling flowed out of the darkness, deep and evil.
The priest pointed a finger at the night. “That, folks, is going to piss me off very quickly.” He stepped away from the group, extended his right hand, and gave the chuckling the middle finger. “Up yours!” Hank shouted to the night.
The chuckling stopped.
“Are you sure he’s really an Episcopal priest?” Harry asked anybody who would answer his question.
“Oh, yes,” Bev said. “Very well liked, too. But as I told the others, Hank is something of a character.”
Charles looked at the stocky priest. Hank was now giving the night two rigid digits. “I will certainly agree with that.”
“What about Gerald?” Cole asked.
The sheriff shrugged. Sighed. “How ’bout if we say he’s still missing? I mean, technically, he is.”
“That’s fine with us,” Harry said. “I can assure you, the Bureau is certainly not going to make my report public.” He smiled. “Although I would like to see the Alabama dickhead’s face when he reads it.” He quickly added, “Excuse my language, ladies.”
“You’re a dickhead!” the voice jumped out of the darkness.
Harry turned around slowly, doing a full three hundred and sixty.
“Yeah, you,” the voice said. “Here’s a present for you and the rest of the group. I hope you enjoy it . . . once you find it. Enjoy the search.”
A long ugly belch erupted from the night. A very foul odor assailed their nostrils, then was gone.
“Something tells me Gerald is no longer missing,” Cole said, shining the beam from his flashlight all around the weed-grown parking lot. The others clicked on their flashlights. Charles turned on the headlights of the car. There was nothing in the parking lot.
Hank Milam was only halfheartedly searching. The priest was deep in thought. “Voices from the other side,” he muttered. “But from the other side of what? Why didn’t they die? Did they make a pact with Satan while still on this earth? And why here? Why here right on this particular parcel of land?”
Cole broke into his thoughts. “None of us are that interested in how they got here, Hank. Just in how to get rid of them.”
“We might not be able to solve the latter, until we figure out the former,” the priest replied. “But that’s just a theory. I’m shooting in the dark on this one.”
“We, Hank?” Bev asked.
“Yeah, kid,” Hank said. “We. I’m in.”
“There is something to be said about strength in numbers,” Harry spoke the words softly.
A loud and long and very wet fart cut the night.
A terrible odor caused them all to wrinkle their noses and fan the air in front of them.
“You are one thoroughly disgusting son of a bitch!” Hank called out.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me!” the voice taunted.
“Ormeormeormeormeormeorme!” a dozen voices chanted in unison, male and female.
“I feel sort of sorry for you,” Katti spoke softly. “All of you.”
Everyone in the group looked at her.
“What’d you say, bitch?” the heavy voice asked.
“I said, I feel sort of sorry for you,” Katti repeated.
“Fuck you!”
“You wish,” Katti taunted the unseen. A heartbeat later she was knocked flat on her back, and cold hands were tearing at her clothing.
Cole stepped up and jammed his stun gun around until he hit a solid but invisible object. He hit the juice. The night exploded in a shower of sparkling dots and a wild scream of agony. A dozen small sparkling shapes bounced around on the parking lot, seemingly seeking each other out. They came together, and a rotting corpse began to materialize on the ground.
“The director of the funeral home is not going to be happy with me when I bring in another one of these,” Al said.
Bev and Gary were helping Katti to her feet. Her blouse was hanging in tatters, and she worked frantically to hold her torn jeans together and on. They led her off to the Bronco, parked across the blacktop.
“And stay with her,” Jim told his operatives.
Burton and Fremont opened the trunk of their car and got their shotguns, just in case this corpse decided to get up and take a stroll around the area.
“You know this one?” Cole asked.
Al shook his head. “I don’t think so. But look at that suit. Or what’s left of it. That’s 1940’s style. Look at those shoes.”
“There’s a car coming up the road,” Bob said.
“I have an idea,” Cole said. “When the car gets close, we’ll all turn on our flashlights and wave our arms and shout at it. I want to see what happens.”
Nothing happened. The car drove right on past them, the driver not even turning his head.
“You’re becoming a real pain in the ass,” the voice popped out of the darkness. “And dangerous with that damned contraption you carry around. But don’t get too smart for your own good.”
Cole held out the stun gun. “You don’t know what this is called?”
The voice did not respond.
“Interesting,” Cole whispered. “The bartender in that club I stopped at had never heard of Bud Lite. So they’re locked into the era in which they died.”
“How does that help us?” Fremont asked.
Everybody picked up on the “us.” Harry and Charles were with them.
“I don’t know. It’s just another piece to the puzzle.”
“Hey, Al,” Gary called from across the road. “Your radio is squawking.”
“Answer it,” Al yelled.
A few second later, “There is some sort of emergency out at the Staples mansion. Victoria specifically wanted you to come out.”
“Tell dispatch we’re on the way.”
“What about this corpse?” Charles asked.
“Oh, hell, stick it in the trunk of my car,” Jim said. “We’ll drop it off at the funeral home on the way back.”
“We’ll have to ride with you guys,” Scott said to Fremont. “Our car’s 10–7.”
“You want us all to go out to the mansion?” George asked the sheriff.
“Why not? It might spook Victoria into doing something stupid, if she sees all of us in force. But I wouldn’t count on it. That is one cold bitch.”
* * *
“Get that disgusting lump of whatever it is out of my bed, goddammit!” Victoria shrieked at Al before he could even open his mouth to ask what was wrong.
“What lump?” Al asked.
“I think I know,” Cole muttered.
Katti had been dropped off at the motel, Bev staying with her.
“I was in bed reading, when all of a sudden this . . . thing appeared! It’s horrible. Disgusting. It stinks so bad, I vomited. Get it out of my bedroom!” she roared. She looked at Fremont and Burton. “Who the hell are you?”
“FBI,” Fremont said, as they produced their credentials.
“Federal Bureau of Incompetence,” Victoria sneered.
“Where is your bedroom?” Al asked.
Victoria pointed. “Down that hall and to your right. I’m not going back in there.”
It was Gerald Wilson. Or what was left of him. The stiffening lump was burned so badly, it was difficult to tell exactly what it was. But they all knew it was Gerald.
“You!” Victoria commanded, standing in the hall and pointing a finger at Fremont. “Go outside and see if there is a hole in my roof, where that asteroid came crashing through.”
“It isn’t from space, Victoria,” Al called. “It’s Gerald Wilson.”
Victoria turned deathly pale, clamped a hand to her mouth, and went whooping and barfing and hollering up the hall, moving very well, considering the stitches up her butt.
Al used the phone on the nightstand to call it in. “Get the coroner out here,” he said, then hung up. He turned to the FBI. “Maybe we can’t charge Victoria or her friends with anything—yet—but it’s goi
ng to be real interesting listening to her try to explain how Gerald ended up in her bed, burned almost beyond recognition.”
“Have you taken into consideration how we are going to explain it?” George asked.
Al smiled. “That’s the beauty of if. We don’t have to.”
* * *
The story spread all over the county early the next morning, and by noon, newspaper and TV reporters and their camera crews from Memphis, Little Rock, St Louis, Nashville, and a dozen other smaller towns and cities were in the area. Then the story about the ghostly appearance of the old roadhouse, the rockabilly music of the fifties and early sixties playing in the night, and all the strange disappearances over the years, was told to the press.
By dark, all the motels in town were filled to capacity, and the late arrivals were spread out in nearby towns.
Victoria had ordered the gates to her estate closed, and had hired guards from a security agency in Memphis to protect her privacy.
But that wasn’t shielding her from investigation. The FBI was working quietly and skillfully (which they can do extremely well, if they so desire) on the suspected, or alleged, snuff and kiddie porn aspect of her life. Victoria was about to have her life investigated all the way back to the moment of conception.
But when it came to Victoria’s friends, the Bureau was having to walk very light looking into the personal lives of US senators and representatives and federal judges who—on the surface at least—had done nothing wrong.
A few other noteworthy events had taken place: Carlos “Brother Long Dong” Washington had dropped out of sight. Rumor had it he was somewhere in Los Angeles. A nationwide search was on for Luddy’s cousin (on his mama’s side), Floyd Mason. But nobody held out any real hope there. Floyd had been very careful not to leave any paper trail. No money had been paid under his social security number for several years, and it was assumed Floyd had taken another SS number . . . which is very easy to do. Albert Pickens and Nick Pullen were model citizens, rarely leaving their homes to do anything other than go to work. Arlene Simmons suddenly became a doting wife, which surprised the hell out of her long-suffering husband. Ex-chief deputy Win Bryan went to work for Victoria, overseeing some of her many farming operations. Like the others, he, too, became a model citizen.
All in all, it was just downright boring in northeast Arkansas and southeast Missouri . . .
Until a group of reporters, print and broadcast, decided to have a beer bust out at the old roadhouse site . . .
Everybody concerned thought that would be a really neat thing to do ...
Party while waiting for the ghosts to make an appearance ...
And they wouldn’t need any recorded music, since the ghosts would provide that . . .
Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle . . .
Anything to break the monotony of this hick town . . .
Yeah. Right.
* * *
“They’re going to do what?” Sheriff Pickens asked.
“Have a barbecue and beer bust out where that old club used to stand,” Deputy Frank Bruce repeated. “They’re going to have it at night.”
“You have got to be kidding!”
“No, sir. They’re planning it for tomorrow night. That’s a Saturday. And, ah, you, ah, know that’s when most of the past sightings have occurred.”
A redneck, good ol’ boy, Bubba and Mary Lou party night.
Yee-haw!
The sheriff called his legal counsel.
“Can’t stop them,” the lawyer said. “I checked it out as soon as I heard about it. They got permission from the guy who owns that land. Guy Lansing.”
“Shit!” Al said.
“That’s right. One and the same. The man who ran against you three times and lost big-time each time. Guy doesn’t like you very much, Al. Anything he can do to make you look bad, he will.” The lawyer paused. “About all these so-called sightings.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, Al, you, ah, don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
Al didn’t hesitate in replying. He was, after all, a politician. “Of course not, David. Don’t be ridiculous.” The sheriff struggled to contain a very deep sigh.
“That’s good, Al. Something like that could really hurt your reelection bid.”
Al didn’t tell his friend, but after this term was over, he was through with it. Pulling the pin. Hanging up his badge. He’d had it.
“Yeah, David. Right. Talk to you later.”
Al leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “There’s gonna be hell to pay tomorrow night,” he muttered. “And there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop it. Not one damn thing.”
Nine
“It doesn’t surprise me a bit,” Cole said, when Al broke the news of the beer bust and barbecue to him.
Al smiled. “I take it you are not a big fan of many members of the press?”
“Oh, a lot of them, probably most of them, are all right. For a pack of liberals, that is. For the most part, your locals are okay. It’s the national’s that give me a pain in the ass.”
“Have you heard the news in the past hour or so?”
“No. Katti and I laid down for a nap and slept for over two hours. What’s going on?”
“The FBI just arrested two punks. Both of them broke down and confessed to the rape and murder of the sisters. Most of the Bureau people are getting ready to pull out.”
“Did they say why they did it?”
“Said the sisters refused to give them some pussy. So they decided to take it. Said they didn’t mean to kill them. All that was an accident.”
“Sure it was.”
“Right.”
The two career lawmen sat in silence for a moment, both of them wondering what in the hell was wrong with this nation. Crime stats in all categories were up. The country had taken a moral nosedive. And it appeared to be getting worse, not better.
Cole broke the short silence. “What about the reporters and their beer bust?”
Al shrugged his shoulders. “There is nothing I can do. Except hope for the best.”
His secretary buzzed him. “FBI to see you, Sheriff.”
“Send them in.”
It was Fremont and Burton. “We’re out of here, Sheriff.” Burton said. “Something’s come up. George and Scott will be at the Memphis office for a few days, in case you need them.”
The men shook hands. Fremont said, “Good luck to you all. I really want to know how this turns out.” He gave Al his card. “You can reach me there.”
Al nodded. “How about Victoria Staples?”
“Oh, we’re still on that. Very quietly. But that investigation might take months. Don’t worry. If she’d dirty—and we know she is—we’ll get her. It’s just going to take some time.”
Neither man asked if the Bureau was leaving some people behind, undercover. They knew the agents wouldn’t tell them if they did ask. It wasn’t that the agents didn’t trust the locals, they were just staying on the safe side.
After the Bureau men had gone, Cole said, “Have you made any statements to the press yet? About the roadhouse, I mean.”
“I told them there have been reported sightings along that stretch of county road for years. Nothing confirmed. And that is going to blow up in my face, and I know it.” Again, he shrugged his shoulders. “But this time around, I don’t care. I’m hanging it up after this term. I’m tired of the hassle.”
Al was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and Cole knew it. If he told the reporters they were in grave danger by going out to the roadhouse site, he would be publicly ridiculed, on the air, by the very people he was trying to help. And when some of them did get hurt, or killed, by events at the roadhouse—and Cole felt sure that was going to happen—Al would be blamed for not warning those involved.
All in all, Al was in a lousy situation.
The phone rang, and Al listened for a moment. He hung up and sighed, then cussed for a moment. “Somehow it leaked that we had a couple of bodies over at the fune
ral home,” he said wearily. “The families of Hensley and Chambers went over there and demanded to see the bodies. There was a young attendant on duty. He let them in, and the families went ballistic. The press is all over the goddamn place. They’ll be here in a few minutes, wanting an explanation and a statement.”
“Hell, just tell them you found the bodies and were holding them, pending an ID.”
“Unfortunately, the young attendant showed the families the ID tags. I’ll just tell the press the family had not been notified, because the investigation was still on-going. If they don’t like that, they can go to hell. The Hensleys and the Chambers are a bunch of goddamn trash anyway. They’ve been inbreeding for a hundred years. Half of the kids they have are idiots.”
Cole chuckled at the expression on the sheriffs face. “We have an area like that, where I come from. We used to refer to it as the land that time forgot.”
“That’s it exactly—”
A babble of voices from the reception area cut him off. Al stood up. “Well, wish me luck.”
Cole slipped out the back way and returned to the motel. Katti and Bev were out doing something. Jim and Gary had gone roaming around out in the country. Cole found the Episcopal priest in the coffee shop, sitting with Bob Jordan, and joined them, bringing the priest and the cop up to date.
“I don’t blame the sheriff for wanting to keep it quiet,” Hank said. “Nobody likes to be laughed at, and that is exactly what the press would do.”
“Screw the press,” Bob said, summing up what a lot of cops felt about the media. “Liberal bunch of sobbing sisters and hanky-stompers.”
Hank chuckled. “Well, that much hasn’t changed since my days behind a badge.”
Both men looked at the priest. Cole said, “You were a cop?”
“For eight years. Eight long years. Dallas PD. I’d been on the force for only a few months, when Kennedy got shot. I got my degree by going to school at night, then left the force and went to the seminary. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to wear a collar, so I bummed around for a year. Finding myself, you might call it. Met a wonderful lady and she convinced me to take the big step, marriage and the church. We had a very good life together. I miss her terribly. Beverly has convinced me that life goes on.” He smiled. “And yes, we are seeing each other socially. Not often, and nothing serious yet, but we see each other.”
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