Rockinghorse

by William W. Johnstone

“Let’s keep the press out of this, shall we? There is probably some logical explanation. And you know how the press loves to make public officials look bad.”

  “Yes, sir.” The colonel hung up. He glared at the phone. “I know how they like to make you look foolish, you ignorant, clod-hoppin’, cotton-chopper!”

  Colonel Rodman had used a state police helicopter to fly into Captain Denning’s HQ, after first landing at Captain Johnson’s HQ. He stalked out of the office after talking with the men who had been present when Denning took off to Palma. He got behind the wheel of a patrol car and jerked up the mike.

  Two dozen patrol cars were lined up along the side of the road, lights flashing.

  Colonel Rodman switched to a Tac frequency and said, “Turn off all those goddamned lights!” He glanced in his rearview. The lights went off. “Looked like a damned carnival,” he muttered. “Last car in the line switch on lights.”

  The patrol car in the rear cut on its lights.

  A trooper ran out of the HQ building and up to Rodman’s car. “Sir. Edmund County Sheriff Bill Pugh is missing, and so is the chief deputy. Deputy Burt Simmons is missing, and so is the constable of Palma. All communications into Palma are out. The local wrecker operator doesn’t answer on his radio. Governor Rovere was just on the phone. He says he’s calling out the National Guard.”

  “Will you go back in there and tell him not to do anything until I’ve had a chance to check this out?” Rodman yelled the words.

  Rodman dropped the gear selector into D and pulled out, the line of troopers right behind him.

  The young trooper watched the parade until it was out of sight. “All we need now,” he muttered, “is Goldie Hawn. Then we’d have the Sugarland Express in Georgia.”

  * * *

  B. C. let out a squall that startled everybody in the room. The chief deputy recoiled from the open window with a burst of energy that surprised even him.

  Jackie ran to the window and looked at Burt, who was grinning evilly at her. “I forgive you,” the girl said. “Now go away.”

  Tears began rolling down Burt’s pale face. The tears seemed to melt the flesh, misting the image of the man. The house shook with rage as Burt Simmons became no more.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Captain Johnson asked.

  No one replied because no one really knew the answer.

  “What did you mean, you forgave him?” Captain Denning asked. “Forgive him for what?”

  “He raped me,” Jackie said. “Uncle Ira was trying to hit Daddy with an axe; he hit Burt instead and cut off his arm.”

  “Jackie,” Carla called.

  The girl turned around. The rocking horse was awkwardly climbing the steps, slowly making its way upward. It disappeared into the attic. The door slammed behind it.

  “Now what does that mean?” Trooper Scott said.

  “I think it means we’ve won,” Lucas said, looking up at the closed door.

  “Not yet,” his daughter told him. She pointed to an open window. “Here they come.”

  The men of the Brotherhood were running toward the mansion, racing across the estate grounds, spears and clubs and homemade bows in their hands.

  The newly arrived troopers all reached for their pistols. To a man, they let their hands drop away from the butts of the sidearms as they realized the weapons were useless.

  Kyle turned to the captains of the highway patrol. “You were both in Korea, right?”

  “Both of us for two years,” Carl said.

  “Ever handled a Molotov cocktail?”

  The captains smiled. “Where are they?” they both replied.

  The thin line formed a widely separated ring around the mansion. Kyle lit the first cocktail. “Now!” he shouted.

  The gas bombs were lighted and hurled toward the shouting, cursing men. Both captains recognized the missing men from their command. The captains hurled the cocktails directly at their turncoat troopers.

  The exploding gasoline turned the wavering line of Brotherhood members into a screaming inferno. The oil in the hair of the men exploded like a lightning-struck pine tree. The stench of burning, bubbling human flesh filled the mid-morning summer air. The line broke apart, sending what remained of the Brotherhood running for the woods.

  “I recognized about half of those boys,” B. C. said. “We get out of this mess, I start fillin’ out warrants.”

  “Watson got away,” Denning said. “I’ll get him.”

  “I saw Gibson cut and run,” Johnson said. “I think we got the rest of them.”

  “Then it’s over,” George said.

  “Not yet,” Jackie said. She looked at Kyle. “You have more of those firebombs?”

  “All you want, honey,” the cop said. “The house has to burn, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. If it will let us, that is.”

  All of them heard the house take a deep, angry breath.

  The rocking horse whinnied. But this time there was no menace in the sound. It was a frightened whinny.

  B. C. caught a flickering flash of light in the morning. He turned and looked down the road. “Looks like the whole damn Georgia Patrol is here,” he said.

  33

  “What?” Colonel Rodman screamed the one-word question for at least the fifteenth time since arriving at the Bowers Plantation. “You have to do what?”

  “The evil has to be destroyed,” Captain Denning said. “The house has to burn.”

  Rodman sputtered and stuttered and stomped around the yard in a circle. He finally threw his hat on the ground in frustration and kicked it. A young Georgia Trooper retrieved the hat and gave it to his colonel. Rodman looked at the hat, contemplated tearing it to bits, then finally plopped it back on his head.

  “Now let me get this straight in my mind, gentlemen,” he said, his voice icy cold. “You have all been fighting ghosts and spooks and a haunted house, right?”

  “That is correct, sir,” Johnson said.

  Rodman looked at Kyle. “You killed Lancer with your bare hands?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rodman looked at Lucas. “You shot and killed Sheriff Bill Pugh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rodman glared at Johnson and Denning. “Both of you threw gasoline bombs on your missing men?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain replied.

  Rodman counted the troopers present. “Where is Trooper Hunt?”

  “The house ate him,” Johnson said.

  Rodman threw his hat on the ground and jumped up and down on it. “Goddamn it, boy!” he roared at Johnson. “Don’t you get up in my face and get smart-mouthed with me! Don’t you tell me some wild-assed shit about a house eating a person. I signed you in, boy. I can sign you out. And don’t you forget it.”

  A trooper walked up with a large evidence bag in his hands. The bag contained all that was left of Hunt’s personal effects. Rodman looked at the badge and sighed.

  “I’m going into that house,” Colonel Rodman said. “Jenson, Brice, Pagnett—come on.”

  The three Georgia Troopers visibly expressed severe reservations about entering the house.

  “I said, move, goddamn it!” Colonel Rodman roared.

  “Sir?” Jackie said to the head trooper.

  “Yes, child?” Rodman calmed himself.

  “It’s all true, sir,” she said. “But before you go into that house, I’d like you to do something for me.”

  “What is it, girl?”

  “Try to fire your pistol.”

  “Beg pardon, girl?” Rodman leaned down, staring at Jackie.

  “Your gun won’t work, sir.”

  “Child,” Rodman said. “Don’t try my patience at a time like this, please?”

  “Your pistol won’t work, sir,” Jackie repeated. “If you don’t believe me, try it.”

  Rodman straightened up, pulled his pistol from leather, pointed the muzzle into the air, and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Rodman looked confused for a secon
d. He checked the loads. Pointed the pistol into the air and once more pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Rodman jammed his pistol back into his holster. He cleared his throat. He looked around the lawn, littered with dead bodies. Dear God! he silently prayed. Don’t let the press show up now. Please!

  “Major Monfort!” Rodman shouted. “Get the men into formation.” That done, Rodman said, “First twelve troopers step forward and at my command, fire one round from your sidearm into the air. “Fire!”

  Click!

  Kyle held a spear out to the colonel. Rodman looked at the crude weapon. He scratched his head. “Where is my hat?”

  Major Monfort handed Rodman what remained of his hat. It looked like an elephant had been sleeping on it. Among other things.

  Rodman dropped the battered hat back to the ground. “Major,” he said. “I want every road leading into the town of Palma sealed off—tight. No one gets in or out. No one. I want State Police helicopters in the air over this area, at all times. Chase off any low-flying aircraft. Any trooper who allows any member of the press into this area can be forewarned that I will fry his ass until it is well-done. Have a helicopter pick up Governor Rovere and bring him to this . . . scene. I want him in on this, too. Move.”

  Major Monfort went to his unit and picked up his mike.

  “They won’t work,” Jackie said.

  Monfort keyed his mike. Silence greeted him. He tried again and again. Nothing. He looked at colonel Rodman and said, “They won’t work.”

  “Told you,” Jackie said. “And your cars won’t start either.”

  Rodman turned to the troopers, still in formation. “You men try your radios and units.”

  Nothing worked.

  Rodman looked toward the mansion. He smiled. “Martin and Baker. Step forward.”

  “Here, sir,” the two troopers said.

  “You men see those bicycles on the porch?” Rodman asked.

  The troopers looked. “Yes, sir.”

  “Start pedaling.”

  * * *

  Colonel Rodman, spear in hand, had entered the mansion. Three men armed with cameras had accompanied him. After only a short time, the four men had exited the house much faster than they had entered.

  “Something wrong, Colonel?” Kyle asked innocently.

  The colonel was badly shaken. He managed to say, “There are things in that house. Grotesque, impossible things.”

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “There is an arm in there, Cartier. Just an arm. It is . . . it is . . . well, alive.”

  “Yes, sir. It belongs, belonged, to Deputy Burt Simmons.”

  The colonel composed himself and put a hand on Kyle’s arm. “Kyle, do you realize we are going to have to write a report on this matter?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s going to be . . . interesting reading.”

  “To say the least,” Rodman replied. But he doubted an accurate report would ever be written.

  * * *

  “No goddamned way!” Governor Rovere said. “Oh, hell, no. Two or three dozen dead bodies? A town whose residents no one can wake up? Severed arms that go boogie-woogie around the house? Haunted houses and possessed rocking horses? Ghosts and goblins and Woods’ Children? Do you realize what this would do to the image of the State of Georgia? No way, Colonel Rodman. Oh, hell, no!”

  A team of Georgia Highway Patrolmen, all dressed in S.W.A.T.-like clothing, emerged from the timber and approached the governor.

  “Speak!” Colonel Rodman ordered.

  “Those . . . ah, troopers you mentioned, sir?” a lieutenant said.

  “Yes.”

  “They didn’t get far. Those woods back of the house are a real mess, sir. Lots of dead bodies. We’ve accounted for a dozen so far.”

  “The missing troopers are among the dead?” Rovere asked.

  The lieutenant looked at Rodman.

  “Look at me!” Governor Rovere shouted the command.

  The lieutenant shifted his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s better. How did they die?”

  “Badly, sir.”

  The governor flapped his arms like Big Bird. “Now, just what does that mean?”

  “Some . . . things with enormous strength killed them, sir. In some cases, the dead men were literally torn in half. Some were wedged twenty-five feet off the ground, in tree limbs. Some had arms and legs torn from them. One man’s face had been ripped off . . .”

  The man’s words became a sick roaring in the governor’s head. The governor waved him silent and trotted off to puke behind a bush. His aides stood around him, blithering and blathering and fanning him with handkerchiefs.

  “Goddamn it!” the governor shouted. “Will you men stop all that crap?” He walked back to Rodman and the lieutenant. “Sorry, people. Lieutenant, what. . . er, who killed the men?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “The Rejects,” David said.

  Rovere’s eyes shifted like ball bearings. “The what?”

  David explained.

  Rovere was silent for what seemed to be a very long time. He looked at his watch. “Too early,” he muttered.

  “Beg pardon, sir?” Rodman said.

  “I said it’s too early. Too early to take a drink. I’d like to go back to a little honky-tonk I remember down where I grew up. Play the jukebox, pat the waitress on the rear, shoot pool—and get drunk. Very, very drunk. But you can’t ever go back. Somebody famous wrote that. Pogo, or somebody.”

  The governor took a deep breath. He was thoughtful for a moment. “Have the team of doctors I ordered in finished examining the people of Palma?”

  “Quite a few of them,” Rodman said. “The doctors say they are just asleep, that’s all.”

  “They will wake up when the spell of evil over them is broken,” Jackie said.

  Rovere looked at the girl. “Child, do you ever intend to come back to this place?”

  “No, sir.”

  All those gathered around thought they heard the governor mutter, “Good.”

  Rovere said, “And you believe once the house is burned, the spell will be over.”

  “For you people,” the girl said solemnly.

  “Mr. Lucas Bowers,” the governor said. “You have no objection to the burning of this old mansion?”

  “None whatsoever,” Lucas said.

  “You will sign a statement to that effect?”

  “Yes.”

  Rovere turned to an aide. “Draw one up. Now!”

  “And my troopers who are dead?” Rodman asked, knowing full well what the governor was going to say.

  “They died in the line of duty,” Rovere replied. “Along with Sheriff Pugh and Deputy Simmons.” He looked around him. “No wind. That’s good. Colonel, send someone out of your command into Palma and get that old fire truck out here. Tell the rest of your people to start clearing all the brush from around the estate grounds. Right now.”

  The house sighed.

  “What the hell was that?” Rovere asked.

  Jackie told him.

  “Of course,” Rovere said drily. “I should have known.”

  * * *

  Jackie and Johnny tossed the firebombs into the house, front and back, and then through the windows on all sides. Neither the governor nor Rodman offered any objection when the kids said they had to do it.

  The governor informed Rodman that he, the governor, was going on a two-week vacation—at an undisclosed location. And he suggested that Colonel Rodman, Major Monfort, and anyone else directly connected with this incident—his words—had better make themselves scarce.

  Then the screaming started from the house.

  The stench of burning flesh quickly followed, driving the people back into the road. The smell of burning flesh penetrated and clung to their clothing, making several of even the road-hardened troopers sick.

  The house screamed as it burned. Its awful shrieking almost unbearable. The house bubbled and popped like burning fat.
A frying sound filled the summer air. Windows exploded out of their frames, and what appeared to be grease was flung high into the air.

  Then the house seemed to implode, collapsing within itself. The frying, popping, sizzling sounds continued.

  Many of the patrol cars around the home had the paint peeled off them from the intense heat. All the cars were splattered with what appeared to be grease.

  “You can start them now,” Jackie said.

  Lucas and the other civilians stood off to one side as the last of the house collapsed, leaving only the columns standing in front.

  “Despite everything,” Lucas said. “It’s ending too easily.”

  Rodman ordered several troopers in close to the ruins for a quick inspection.

  “We found what was left of a slender man by the side of the foundation,” a highway cop reported. “A piece of the roof fell off and crushed him. That prevented the body from being totally burned. His clothing was burned off him, but the face was shielded by the roof debris. Crushed, but not burned. The man had a beard. About forty to forty-five years old.”

  Chief Deputy Sheriff B. C. Williams walked up to the body as it was being bagged and came back to the group.

  “I can’t be sure, Mr. Bowers,” he said. “But I think it’s Jim Dooley.”

  34

  No one in the town of Palma seemed to be very upset over their unusually long sleep period.

  It did not surprise Lucas, Tracy, or the kids.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” one resident had said with a smile. “We won’t talk to no strangers about it.”

  “What about all those men who were killed?” Lucas asked Kyle, sitting in a motel room in Atlanta.

  “That’s the funny part, Lucas,” Kyle said. “Other than the sheriff and Burt Simmons, no one has been reported missing. In Palma, it’s just business as usual.”

  That didn’t surprise Lucas either.

  “We’ll have to keep in touch, Kyle,” Lucas said.

  “Yes,” the highway cop said. “Louisa says we won’t have any choice in the matter. She says you’ll have to come back someday.”

  And that didn’t surprise Lucas either.

  “Where are the professors?” Tracy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kyle said. “They just disappeared.”

  “What does Louisa have to say about that?”