by phuc
Milano cocked his head toward the ceiling. “Sounds like the rest of your family is up now.”
“Huh?” Mike said. He had multiple files open in Adobe Premiere. Let me just finish this and we can catch some sleep. We can take a look again tomorrow and if it still works, we’re done. If it doesn’t work, we’ll just do a few more edits. No problem.
“Your family,” Milano said. He yawned again, took off his glasses and began polishing the lenses with his T-shirt. “Your dad was outside yelling about something, then he came in the house. Then Mary started yelling about something. I figured they were arguing.”
That stopped Mike cold. He looked at Milano. “Mary never argues with my parents.”
“I know. That’s why I thought it was weird.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“You’ve been too focused on trying to finish this.” Milano gestured at the PC.
“Seriously man, it’s late, and we’ve been at this for over twelve hours. Let’s call it a night and–”
The door to the basement opened and they turned toward the sound. Mike immediately moved to save the last edit. Milano scooted out of the way and Mike could hear the fumbling footsteps of several people trumping down the stairs. Probably both his parents wanting to talk to him about Mary. What the hell was going on?
Milano’s scream came just as Mike caught his first glimpse of what had entered his basement digs, and he screamed in surprise too.
His first thought was that his folks had been badly injured in some kind of fight.
They were bloody, their clothing ripped, but then he saw the dead eyes in his father, saw the gaping wound in his mother’s throat, saw that his sister’s stomach had been ripped open and they weren’t complaining at all, they were heading straight for them like some kind of goddamn–
— zombies—
And before he and Milano could collect their wits and yell out a warning to a slumbering Bob, Mike Lombardo’s family swarmed in like attack dogs.
* * *
By the time Naomi and Jim made it to Brendan Hall at five minutes till four it was already too late. Their drive to the Juvenile facility had been made in vain.
They weren’t going to release Tim to their custody after all.
The bastards were really going to press criminal charges against him.
A Lancaster city detective explained the charges as he led them into a small conference room. Despite being awaken from a sound sleep, Naomi and Jeff were wide awake upon hearing their son had been caught driving around with Gordon Smith after curfew (Naomi was more surprised by Tim sneaking out of the house than the curfew violation). He wasn’t being charged with curfew violation, however. As the Lancaster City detective explained, when Tim Gaines was picked up they ran a computer check (standard procedure) and got a hit.
There was a warrant out for Tim’s arrest.
The detective had explained that the decision had been made late last night to file charges of criminal mischief, vandalism, desecration of a cemetery and theft of a corpse due to the Reamstown incident. “The arrest warrant was signed by Judge Wilkes,” the detective said. “That’s why your son was brought directly to Brendan Hall instead of returned home.”
“Who was the arresting officer?” Naomi asked.
“Officer Frank Clapton.”
“Did he tell Tim why he was being taken here instead of being brought home?”
“Office Clapton didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was,” the detective said.
“So you can’t release him to us?” Naomi asked. Jeff was standing beside her, wide-eyed and shuffling to and fro with nervous agitation.
“I’m afraid not,” the detective said. The detective they were speaking to was in his late thirties, slim, with sandy hair and a slight mustache. “He has to be arraigned and the judge has to set bail.”
“I can’t believe this,” Jeff muttered. Naomi felt Jeff’s frustration and it took all her will power to avoid snapping at the detective.
“I’m sorry,” the detective said. He was calm, soothing. It was obvious he’d been through hundreds of similar conversations with worried parents. “Your son will be okay.
He’s got his own holding cell, so he isn’t in any danger. We don’t put violent youth offenders in the same cells as other youth offenders.”
“You damn well better not,” Naomi muttered.
“When will they set his bail?” Jeff asked. “And how much do you think it will be?”
“I don’t know. It could be as early as nine this morning, could be as late as this afternoon.”
“Can we see him?”
“Yes, but not until visiting hours.”
“When the hell is that?” Naomi was seething.
The detective sighed. “I apologize. I realize you’re under a lot of strain and–”
“You don’t know the least of it!” Naomi snapped.
“Honey,” Jeff said. He took her lightly by the elbow in an attempt to calm her down.
Naomi held up her hands to stop him. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She looked at the detective, trying her best to keep herself under control. “When are visiting hours?”
“Ten A.M.,” the detective said. “It’s possible he’ll be transported to the courthouse before then. If you’d like I can have you alerted to when he’s transported so you can arrange to be there.”
“That will be great.”
And as the detective explained the procedure of the Pennsylvania Juvenile Justice system to them, Naomi was stricken with such a sudden onslaught of helplessness that she almost broke down in tears.
* * *
Tim had been sitting on a sturdy wooden bench in the bare room of his cell for the past hour. The longer he sat there, the more worried he was getting.
They’d only allowed him to make the one phone call to his parents. Despite his sense of urgency in talking to them, he felt guilty when he told his mom where he was and what had happened. Mom had been surprised, yes; angry at sneaking out of the house, of course (he hadn’t detected anger during that phone call, but of course she had to be pissed off–if he were in her shoes he’d be mad). She’d also told him that she and Dad would come to pick him up immediately. Before they got off the phone she told him not to worry and that she and Dad loved him.
Officer Clapton had finished processing his paperwork, then turned him over to a detective named Warren Allen. Detective Allen had escorted Tim to what he supposed was his cell. It didn’t look like a traditional jail cell, but was rather more like a locked room with a long wooden bench that lined one wall and a toilet and sink on the other side.
A thin mattress and pillow sat on the bench. The door to the room had no windows.
Thirty minutes after sitting down on the bench, Detective Warren came in. “Your parents are coming to pick you up but I’ve got some bad news. Turns out we have a warrant for your arrest.”
“What?” Tim’s stomach curled in on itself at the news. And as Detective Warren read off the list of charges he felt a sense of dismay and despair come over him. That bastard lied to me, he thought. Gordon thinks he has connections, thinks he can make it all better if I cooperate. Well fuck him. The gloves come off. I’m telling the police everything I know.
But first he had to ensure the safety of his loved ones.
Detective Warren finished reading him the list of charges, told him he was now formally arrested and that he would be arraigned later in the morning and that he would explain the situation to his parents when they arrived. Tim nodded, feeling strangely calm now that he knew where things stood. He asked Detective Warren if he could see his parents when they arrived. Detective Warren told him he could see them during visiting hours at ten, but it was possible that he would be transported to the courthouse by then. If that were the case, he’d see them in court. They’d probably have an attorney for him by then. Tim had nodded, his mind on auto-drive now.
That had been two hours ago. He’d stayed awake, feeding off the adrenaline that was still running through his system.
And he’d considered his options.
Mom and Dad were probably going to retain the services of Doug Fenner, the attorney George’s dad had gotten. It would make sense if they did since Fenner was already familiar with their case. This latest incident was going to push Mom right over the edge regardless of Tim sneaking out of the house and getting picked up by the police.
He was pretty sure he could count on Mom (and Dad) to be angry enough to not only go to their lawyer, but press him to sue the city.
Fenner would probably advise him to plead not guilty for his arraignment. After the arraignment, Tim was going to request a closed-door meeting with him and his parents.
And then he was going to tell them everything.
It would sound crazy, but Tim was confident he could at least get the police out to the Bradfield estate to question Scott’s parents. Mr. Bradfield probably had no idea what his son was up to, not to mention having any knowledge of the zombies in his guesthouse.
If he could get the police out there as quickly as possible, they’d have the element of surprise. Mr. Bradfield would probably sic his own lawyer on the city, probably even on his folks and if that was the case let him have at it. Either way, Tim was going to expose Scott and his friends for the monsters they were. That guesthouse was going to be investigated even if Scott and his friends got rid of the zombies and cleaned the place up before a proper search could be conducted. There was still DNA, forensics…surely a proper search warrant would ensure a search of that magnitude would be undertaken. He also had Gordon’s own confession, which the bastard would deny, but Tim would insist the police follow through with the allegations that Scott and his friends murdered John Elfman. Scott couldn’t buy the silence of every kid that was at Susan Zimmerman’s party the night John had gone missing. Somebody would have seen something.
And as for Chelsea, he would make it clear that she was in danger, that Gordon had threatened her specifically. Surely they had to take threats like that seriously.
Of course the police, and possibly his attorney and parents, were less likely to believe that Gordon and his friends had killed those homeless people for the purpose of raising them from the dead, but he didn’t need to tell them that. All he had to reveal was that they’d kidnapped and imprisoned them in the guesthouse and tortured them until they died. He could say that Gordon was trying to extract himself from Scott, that he knew what was happening was wrong and wanted to avoid legal trouble and that’s why he’d sought Tim’s help. He’d dug up the grave at the Reamstown Cemetery to blackmail Tim into helping him come up with a scheme to get out of everything without going to the police. Tim had been appalled by the allegations of murder and wasn’t sure if he was going to help Gordon, was still thinking of what to do, in fact, when Officer Clapton pulled them over.
And that was pretty much the truth.
Tim sat down on the cot, fatigue suddenly coming over him. They’d taken his watch along with the rest of his possessions when he was processed, and last time he’d checked it was 2:30 A.M. It was hard to keep track of time in this room, but he guessed he’d been locked up for the past two hours. That sounded about right because now he was dead tired. He needed to lie down and get a few hours sleep, recharge his batteries for the day ahead of him.
Tim rested his head on the small pillow on the far side of the cot and turned over on his left side. He closed his eyes. He had it all planned out. He was going to remain silent until he could see his lawyer and his parents. Only then was he going to confess to what was happening, leaving out the part about the zombies. But first, he was going to reveal Gordon’s threat against Chelsea and ask that she be protected.
Then he was going to tell them that Scott, David, Steve, and Gordon had been up to no good.
With that decision firmly in place, Tim Gaines fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.
* * *
Gordon Smith waited a good thirty minutes before he called Steve Downing.
He waited with bated breath as the phone rang, sitting in his darkened bedroom.
Down the hall, his parents slept, their anger at him having diminished as quickly as it had arisen. They’d been furious when Gordon was escorted home by the cop, and had made a good show of displaying that anger by yelling at him in front of the officer, threatening to ground him for the rest of the summer, but the moment the officer left Mom had muttered, “I’m tired and going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”
Gordon had experienced many of these proclamations in the past. What this meant was she was going to forget about it come morning. Dad might bring it up in passing, and it was possible the idea of grounding him would be floated between them, but it would never happen. It never happened before.
Steve picked up on the fifth ring. “Yeah?” His voice was groggy.
“It’s me,” Gordon said. “We need to talk.”
“Gord?”
“Yeah.” Gordon spoke in as low a tone as possible. “I’m sorry for waking you up.
Your folks didn’t hear, did they?”
“Fuck no, they’re on the other end of the house. What’s up?”
“We might have trouble,” Gordon began. “It’s about Count.” Gordon told an abbreviated version of what happened that evening, leaving out any notion that he’d gone to Count for help in the first place, as well as leaving out the part where he’d showed the zombies to him. He might have been dumb enough to get mixed up with Steve, Dave, and Scott, but he wasn’t dumb enough to admit that he was planning on ending everything.
“So you were driving around with Count Gaines because the little shit tried to blackmail you?” Steve asked.
“Yeah,” Gordon said, repeating the story to Steve again. “Like I said, he called me earlier in the day. Said if I didn’t go to the police and confess I robbed that grave that he would furnish them with proof. He said he’d snuck over to my place and planted evidence, but wouldn’t tell me where. He said he wanted to make a deal with me. For us to leave him alone, so I told him I’d talk to him.”
“That little fucker.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. That’s when we got picked up by the cops for violating curfew.”
“Violating curfew? There’s a curfew?”
“Yeah. If you’re under eighteen you’re not supposed to be out after eleven P.M., or some shit.”
“You aren’t? When’d that law go into effect?”
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, changing the subject quickly. “The point is, we lucked out. Count Gaines got taken to Brendan Hall and—“
“Brendan Hall? Oh man, is he in deep shit!”
“Yeah. I don’t know what for, but maybe they got a hard-on to really bust him now.”
Steve laughed. “That’s great! Bet he’s finally going to take the fall for all that shit we blamed him for!”
“Maybe,” Gordon said. “But it’s not gonna be so great if Tim and his parents fight the allegations, get a lawyer and raise a big enough stink that the cops are forced to do a thorough investigation. They might not only come poking around my place, but Scott’s.
What do you think they’re gonna find there?”
“That’s not gonna happen,” Steve said adamantly. He sounded more awake now.
“The cops asked me if I’d heard about John going missing,” Gordon said. “I’m positive Count was asked the same thing.”
Steve went silent.
“I played dumb,” Gordon continued. “Count didn’t know shit, of course, but I played dumb. Suppose somebody at the party saw John leave with us?”
“Nobody saw us.”
“Suppose they did?”
“Even if somebody saw John leave with us, it means nothing.”
“It will if Count Gaines raises a stink and the cops decide to search Scott’s place and find those zombies in the guesthouse.”
“Shit!” Steve
sounded frustrated now. Gordon held his breath, hoping he’d conveyed his point. Of the four of them, Gordon had been the most reluctant to go along with the crimes they’d been committing. Scott had obviously noticed this, and Gordon wondered if Steve and Dave were aware of it and what Scott might have confided in them when Gordon wasn’t around. He had to tread carefully.
“When the cops pulled us over,” Gordon continued, “I told Count that if he started shit with me, his girlfriend Chelsea was toast.”
“Count Gaines has a girlfriend?”
“He’s been going out with Chelsea Brewer. You know, that little art chick from Mrs. Farner’s class.”
“That little thing?”
“I told Count Gaines that if the cops came around and questioned any of us, that we’d hurt her. I didn’t tell him how. I didn’t really have to. He’s afraid of us already.”
“You think that’ll work?”
Gordon thought about that for a moment. A month ago if he was asked that question, he would have said yes. Now he wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” he said. “He seemed pretty freaked out at the thought of any of us hurting Chelsea in any way. I’d like to think that put the scare into him.”
“How’d you like to see that bitch’s skinny little ass getting’ chomped by the zombies,” Steve said, the hint of a smile in his voice. “It would be even better if we made Count Gaines watch!”
“Yeah, it would,” Gordon said. No need to tell Steve that Tim had already seen the zombies. He’d explode if he knew. Gordon was counting on Gaines to keep that to himself, to not stir any trouble, which was why he’d threatened to have Chelsea hurt if he squealed.
“So what should we do?” Steve asked.
“You know where Chelsea lives?”
“Yeah. She lives near Danielle Sawyer, over on Fourth Street, just west of Cedar Street. In fact, she lives two doors down from Danielle. Right in the corner house.”
“You have any way to keep tabs on her?”
“Not really. I can drive by her house.”
“What about Scott or Dave? Do they know Chelsea’s friends? Even casually?”