Johnny Gruesome

by Gregory Lamberson

  Walt stared at Matt. “Don’t waste what little time I have left on such nonsense. The only way I’m leaving this room is on a stretcher.”

  Matt grasped Walt’s wrist. His mentor’s wife had died two years earlier, and he had no children. The job was all that remained for him. “What can I do for you? Anything?”

  Walt made slight movements with his head.

  “I hate like hell to bother you with this, but I need your advice.”

  Walt’s eyes seemed to darken. “The murders.”

  Matt should have known. Of course Walt had paid attention to the news, even in this condition. “They’re bad. Real bad. I’d hoped the Kumler kid was killed by a drifter or the school janitor, but that’s obviously not the case.”

  “Two more kids last night, I hear.”

  “And maybe one before Kumler. I’m not sure.”

  Walt raised his eyebrows. “Charlie Grissom’s boy?”

  Matt nodded. “Beelock did a half-assed autopsy.”

  “That drunken fool. He ought to be lying here instead of me.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. I’m going to request a second autopsy. Exhume the grave and call in the chief ME.”

  “What else are you doing?”

  “I called Sam Crothers with the state police. They’ve stepped up patrols at the highway ramps, and they’re loaning us two manned cars around the clock. I’ve got the FBI on standby: one more homicide and they’ll classify the perp as a serial killer and step in and take over. That’s why I want Grissom reexamined.”

  Walt stared straight ahead, his eyes unblinking, and for a moment Matt thought he’d fallen asleep again, or worse. “What else?”

  “Anzello’s scheduled a town-hall meeting this evening. We’re implementing a curfew for anyone under eighteen. If that doesn’t help, I’m shooting for martial law. I need to let everyone know I’m on top of this.”

  Walt stared, waiting.

  “But I’m not. I’m in way over my head. Three, possibly four murdered teenage boys. Who am I kidding? We don’t even have a detective on the force.”

  Walt grimaced. “Don’t give me that crap. I chose you to replace me, and I know it was the right decision. Step up to the goddamned plate. You’ve got no other choice. Everyone in Red Hill is depending on you.”

  Matt bowed his head. “This town is dying around me, Walt. And I don’t know how to stop it. People who live here are leaving town until this blows over. The inn and motels are packed with TV crews from Buffalo, Jamestown, and Erie, and the networks are looking for houses to rent. Suddenly, we’re in the spotlight and under a microscope. We’re going to have a real legacy on our hands, and it won’t be pretty.”

  “Don’t give those media whores the time of day. Don’t fall for any of their—”

  Matt’s cell rang and he took the call in front of Walt, his stomach clenching. What had Carol said? Every time the phone rings, someone else is dead. “Yeah, Ben?” Matt’s eyes locked onto Walt’s. “Ah, shit …”

  Matt stared through the windshield wipers as he sped along Central Avenue, the siren on his vehicle screaming. He hated to run out on Walt, especially since he hadn’t visited him all week, but duty called, literally. The snowfall had intensified, flurries slicing the air. He had little difficulty driving, despite the weather, due to the limited traffic. Large Victorian homes on the tree-lined street blurred by him, many of them serving as fraternity houses for the college.

  He saw a figure walking toward him on his right-hand side. Leaning forward, he narrowed his eyes. Tall and lanky, dressed all in black, with a matching ski mask pulled down over his face, long hair protruding from the back. Something familiar there. A high school student playing hooky, or a college student between classes? No time to worry about it now.

  He saw strobe lights flashing in the distance, beneath tree limbs and telephone wires, and the fire engines came into view, surrounded by the vehicles of volunteer firemen. Then he saw black smoke billowing through the trees and flames angling in the wind. He slowed down and pulled over to the curb, watching the firemen scurry around the Lawson Funeral Home, blasting it with their pressure hoses. As he got out of the Pathfinder, he saw that most of the structure had already been consumed. A dozen people lined the sidewalk across the street, shivering as they witnessed the spectacle. He joined Dan Heller at the driveway.

  “Place went up like a torch,” Dan said. “Red Hill’s bravest say it looks like arson, just like that Mazda last night. Fire started in the cellar and worked its way up. Looks sort of like hell on earth, doesn’t it?”

  Matt watched the roof collapse, engulfed in flames, smoke and burning embers blowing out in all directions. “Anyone inside?”

  Heller shrugged. “Four vehicles are parked out back and in the garage.” He counted on his fingers. “Harold’s Beamer, Lawrence’s caddy, the hearse, and the truck Willard drove. Looks like the family business is toast, and the family with it.”

  Gazing at the flames, Matt imagined the thick smoke coalescing into the shape of a dark figure. “Send Ben out to Harold’s house. His wife’s name is Kitty.” He turned and ran to his vehicle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look for someone.” Matt leapt behind the wheel, backed up, and took off in the same direction he had come from. His eyes scanned the sidewalk on the left, but he saw no sign of the skimasked figure he’d seen only minutes earlier. He turned around and drove back, checking out the other side of the street, then circled the block, his heartbeat racing.

  Nothing.

  He expanded the perimeter of his search, driving in ever-widening squares until deciding that the man in black must have escaped in a car, or ducked into a house. His gut told him that the mystery figure was in some way responsible for the blaze, and he wondered if this instinct was what big city cops called “perp fever.”

  Chapter 36

  Johnny chuckled when he saw Matt Crane’s SUV racing down Main Street toward the funeral parlor, its siren blaring. He didn’t laugh a few minutes later, though, when he looked over his shoulder and saw the vehicle in the distance, coming his way again. Stepping behind an oak tree, he hid as Matt passed him. Johnny waited twenty seconds, then dashed around the corner of Morgan Street to a bright blue Victorian house with clean white trim, his knees and ankles clicking. The wooden sign on the front lawn said CHANDLER’S HOBBY STORE.

  Johnny took the wooden steps two at a time and bolted across the wraparound porch. Hurrying inside, he froze when he triggered a motion detector. As he closed the door, he glimpsed the empty counter on the other side of the aisle. A country-and-western tune drifted out from the room behind it. Seconds later, Matt turned onto Morgan, no doubt driving around the block.

  Flattening his back against the wall beside the door, Johnny faced boxes bearing dynamic illustrations of battleships, fighter jets, and racing cars. He imagined the odors of modeling glue and Testor’s paint that he knew lingered in the air. He had been in the store many times and it felt good to see it again. He purchased all his monster models and action figures from Bill Chandler, the owner.

  Old Bill had served as an infantryman in Vietnam, where he’d lost most of his eyesight in a fire fight. The town council arranged for him to purchase the two-family house at a bargain, and Red Hill citizens took up a collection to cover the closing costs. Old Bill had owned and operated Chandler’s Hobby Store for forty years. He ran it alone, though his children and grandchildren sometimes helped out.

  Johnny had applied for a job at the store when he turned thirteen, but Old Bill had turned him down flat. Johnny had shoplifted from the blind shopkeeper for several years to get even. But he’d grown to like the old man, who regaled him with war stories, and he reserved his larceny for people and businesses he despised.

  Peering through the glass panes in the door, Johnny saw that Matt’s SUV was out of sight. As he reached for the doorknob he heard footsteps coming from the back room. Turning, he actually felt an old emotion: fear. Old B
ill emerged behind the counter. If Johnny’s heart had still been pumping, it would have skipped a beat. Old Bill wore a sweatshirt with its sleeves cut off, bearing a skull wearing a green beret, with rifles replacing crossbones beneath it. Above the graphic, bold letters declared, KILL THEM ALL, LET GOD SORT EM OUT! Bill wore his trademark sunglasses, his long gray hair tied in a ponytail.

  “Hello?” he said.

  A crazy thought crossed Johnny’s rotting brain: he hadn’t held a normal conversation with anyone since his murder. Bill couldn’t see him, right? Maybe they could enjoy each other’s company for a few minutes. Hadn’t Frankenstein’s monster befriended an old blind man in the movies? True, that friendship ended badly, but Johnny didn’t intend to stick around long. Of course, he’d have preferred a blind girl, but Old Bill would do.

  “Who goes there?” Bill said.

  With no time to debate the merits of his plan, Johnny cleared his throat. “Uh … hi, Bill.”

  Bill stepped behind the cash register. His facial muscles slackened as he aimed his sunglasses straight ahead. For a moment, Johnny thought the old man actually saw him.

  “Johnny—?” Bill’s voice trembled with fear and incredulity.

  Johnny froze. What the hell?

  “Johnny Grissom, is that you?” Bill’s voice grew louder and more forceful.

  Johnny constricted his vocal cords, making his voice deeper. “Uh, no. My name is … Sam.”

  “Bullshit!” Bill whipped out a polished .38 revolver from beneath the cash register. “I know your voice and I know what a rotting corpse smells like!”

  “Bill, wait a—”

  Bill squeezed the trigger and a gunshot rang out with deafening precision. The first round tore through Johnny’s ski mask and right cheek, snapping his head back. He felt no pain, but the wind went out of his sails.

  The second shot splintered wood beside his head as he raised his left hand to his shattered cheek. He jerked his body as if playing dodge ball, uncertain which way to turn.

  The third shot burrowed through his throat, exited the back of his neck, and shattered a pane in the door.

  I’ve gotta get the fuck outta here!

  The fourth shot hit him dead center in the chest. Wide-eyed and speechless, he spun on one heel and jerked the door open, triggering the motion detector again. Bill fired the .38 again, and the round bore through Johnny’s back, between his shoulder blades. Johnny fled outside, leaving the door open.

  Bill raced around the counter and up the aisle. He slammed the front door, the .38 in his hand poised for action. His ears rang from the gunfire, depriving him of another one of his senses. He’d save the last bullet just in case Johnny came back. In country, he’d heard stories about the angry dead from Vietnamese villagers who had believed in such things. He’d seen things that made a believer out of him. But he never expected to encounter one of the creatures stateside, especially not in Red Hill. Why would Johnny Grissom return from the grave and come for him? It made no sense! They’d always gotten along. Before he came up with an answer, he thought he heard a scream; it was hard to tell over the ringing in his ears.

  Johnny ran across the snowy front yard. Damn, Old Bill was crazy! Passing the thick trunk of a tree, he charged into the street, straight into the path of an oncoming SUV. He glimpsed the driver—a chunky woman with sculpted blond hair, a cell phone pressed against her ear, her eyes wide and her mouth frozen open—just as the vehicle slammed into him.

  Shit!

  The impact pitched him into the air. Without intending to, he executed a perfect cartwheel over the SUV’s windshield and roof. Christ, he hated SUVs and the people who drove them. An instant later, he crashed to the pavement, shattering his left shoulder. His body rolled several times before coming to a stop in slush. Lying on his back, he gazed at the sky. The initial impact had smashed his right hip, and now his shoulder felt useless. He heard a car door open, followed by a stutter of footsteps. His mind raced: what the hell was he going to do?

  Despite running late for her hair appointment, Nancy Anzello obeyed the speed limit as she drove her new Escalade along Morgan Street. She had washed and blow-dried her hair before leaving home. After all, she had to look good before she could look her best, and she had to look her best for the emergency town-hall meeting her husband, Mayor Anthony Anzello, had called for that evening. She disliked making public appearances on such short notice, but she had no choice in this case: embroiled in a real estate scandal, Anthony’s popularity had decreased in recent polls.

  Goddamn Ed Holder for running that expose in the Red Hill Gazette! And goddamn Tom Kennedy, Anthony’s political opponent, for running such a strong campaign. But these murders provided Anthony with a golden solution to his troubles: he had always been strong on crime, and he would appeal to the town’s sense of security. Tom Kennedy was nothing but a do-gooder, and the voters would see they were safer with her Anthony in office. Taking her cell phone from her purse, she called the salon.

  “Hi, Sarah, it’s Nancy. I’m running just a little behind. I’m on Morgan Sreet right n—Oh, shit!”

  A figure dressed in black had run into the street, right in front of her vehicle. She stomped on the brake pedal and the Escalade screeched to a halt, but it struck the figure, which disappeared over her windshield. She heard a thump on her roof, and as she looked over her shoulder at the rear window, she saw a dark shape strike the ground like a guided missile.

  “Oh, my God!” She looked in horror at her cell phone. “Sarah? I’ll call you right back.” Shutting the phone off, she opened her door and ran around to the still figure lying on the ground. From his outfit, she gathered he was a young man. Through the eyeholes in the ski mask, she saw closed eyelids. Crouching down—but careful not to get her outfit wet—she peeled off the ski mask and gasped.

  The teenage boy’s skin had turned blue, his lips black, the right side of his face a mass of carnage. She’d killed him! But it wasn’t her fault—the idiot had run in front of her. Regardless, she knew this would have dire repercussions for Anthony’s reelection campaign. And he would blame her. Everyone would blame her. What would Father Webb think? She’d never be able to show her face in church again.

  Turning her head from side to side, she saw no other cars driving on the street and no witnesses standing outside. Gazing in the direction from which the figure had come, she saw Old Bill staring out from behind the door of his hobby store. Panic stilled her heart until she remembered Old Bill was blind. Pulling the ski mask back over the dead teenager’s mangled face, she ran back to her Escalade, climbed in, and sped away.

  Opening his eyes, Johnny focused on the receding SUV’s bumper sticker: REELECT ANTHONY MANZELLO FOR MAYOR! He thought he’d recognized the driver; he’d seen her phony smile in the Red Hill Gazette countless times. You fat bitch!

  He had to act fast, before another vehicle came along. Maybe a Hummer would run over him. Concentrating on the inside of his body, he willed the muscles around his left hip and shoulder to rearrange themselves, crawling like snakes, to give his damaged bones additional support. Between the dogs, Old Bill’s gunfire, and the mayor’s wife, he felt much worse for wear. He’d been tempted to open his eyes and scare the hell out of Mrs. Anzello, but had opted to show discretion and play possum instead. At this rate, his body wouldn’t survive long enough to confront Eric, Karen, and Gary.

  Gary …

  His husk filled with rage and determination at the thought of his killer. Maybe he should have started with the people responsible for his current situation. No, he wanted them jumping at the shadows when he took care of them. Getting to his feet, he looked over his shoulder at the hobby store. Bill had pulled down the window shade and turned over the CLOSED sign. He took an awkward step forward and heard a sloshing sound inside his body. Shaking his head, he hobbled off.

  This town sucks.

  Chapter 37

  Limping through the grape vineyard that led to his house, Johnny reflected on his morning. It had s
tarted so well at the funeral home, then had quickly gone to hell. He regretted not killing Mayor Anzello’s wife; he could have stolen her Escalade and tooled around town in it. That would have been cool; he could have led Matt Crane on a high-speed chase. Instead, he had to waste valuable time hobbling around like a cripple.

  Emerging from the rows of frozen vines, he cast his eyes at the expansive gray sky above his home. He had lived almost his entire life in that house. The wind blew and he heard a strange whistling sound. Stopping, he looked down at his chest. He placed one hand over the bullet hole in the center of his leather jacket and the whistling stopped. He removed his hand and the whistling resumed. Unzipping his jacket, he stared at the hole in his chest. Now he covered that hole and the whistling stopped again.

  Son of a bitch.

  Something exploded against his head, and he heard his brain sloshing around inside his skull.

  Fuck!

  Crouching, he raised his arms in a defensive posture. At first he thought someone had shot him again. Then he heard high-pitched squealing and laughter. Turning in a half circle, he saw two boys, perhaps twelve years old, run off down parallel rows of vines. They reminded him of himself and Eric at that age. They also left behind a small girl who couldn’t have been more than eight. Dressed in a pink parka, with blond hair visible beneath her woolen hat, she stared at him with bright blue eyes. Standing erect, he shook the remnants of the icy snowball from his hair. Then he advanced on the girl.

  “I didn’t do it,” the moppet said, remaining still.

  He stopped a half-dozen feet from her. Through the eyeholes in his ski mask, he watched the boys shrink in the distance behind her. “What’s your name?”

  “Tammy.” She had a slight lisp. “What’s yours?”

  “Johnny.”

  “You sound sick.”

  “I am sick.”

  Tammy looked concerned. “What’s wrong with you?”