Bone Orchard

by Doug Johnson

  “And why’s that?”

  She smiled. Perfect little white teeth sparkled in a frame of blood red lips.

  “You’re lonely,” she said with a demure condescension that actually elicited some agitation in Lazarus. He laughed it off.

  “And what gave you that idea? Was it the large lock on the front gate? Or all the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?” He stormed over to the Krell stereo amplifier and saw that his iPhone was docked into it. Lazarus had no idea it even had an iPhone dock.

  “Perhaps the ‘Beware of Dog’ sign is just a cry for help?” he added sardonically. With a tap of the mute switch on the Krell’s brushed aluminum face, the musical assault ceased. He yanked the phone from the dock.

  “And where is that dog?” she asked.

  Lazarus shrugged. “He kept digging up my garden. I had to give him away.”

  The girl leaped up off the sofa so quickly that Lazarus flinched. She slinked across the room and fished a pack of cigarettes from a skull-emblazoned duffel that proclaimed, “Fuck the World” in frilly pink script.

  Real goodwill ambassador this one, Lazarus thought. He watched her draw a cigarette between her lips and before he even realized he was doing it, his eyes were rolling down the rest of her. She lit the cigarette and Lazarus snatched it out of her mouth.

  “Those things’ll kill you,” he said, taking a deep drag himself.

  The grandfather clock boomed behind them and the girl nearly jumped out of her skin, the first of eight chimes to mark the hour. She let out a nervous little laugh.

  “Jeez, that scared the crap outta me.” The laugh faded but the smile remained and she stepped past Lazarus, sliding her body across his as she did. Lazarus felt his pulse quicken. She smoothly popped the iPhone from his hand and walked back over to the stereo.

  “Why do you have a cell phone if you can’t get a signal out here?” she asked.

  Lazarus tried to grab it back, but she slapped his hand away playfully.

  “Why do you care?” he asked. It came out more forcefully than he’d intended.

  “God, it must be so boring out here. Don’t you have Internet or satellite TV?”

  “Look at you, Nosey Posey.”

  “Just making conversation,” she backtracked, feigning offense. Her fingers scrolled through his tune selection. She grinned and docked the phone back into the stereo. Music poured from the speakers again, a less aggressive track this time, “Astral Oasis.” It was one of his personal favorites.

  The girl danced away from him, pretending to lose herself in the music. Or perhaps actually doing so. There was no way to tell. Lazarus watched, wary.

  “You’re a bit young for a Black Ryder fan.”

  “I’m older than I look,” she shot back.

  “And how old would that be?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder and pouted. “Eighteen.”

  Lazarus laughed. “How old are you really?”

  She circled around him. “Still eighteen.”

  He watched her dance her way to the skull bag and pull a Canadian passport from a side pocket. She handed it to him and spun away, mini-skirt twirling dangerously. He flipped it open. A photo of a clean-cut version of the vixen in his parlor smiled back at him.

  Kathleen Van Winkle.

  “My sister was a huge fan of yours. She knew all the words to all of your songs.” She swayed to the music, her movements becoming more and more suggestive with each passing second. “She saw you in concert every time you played Calgary.”

  “Well, Kath—”

  “Kitty,” she interrupted, inching closer. “I go by Kitty.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Lazarus said curtly as he pushed past her. “I’m flattered, really, but you need to leave.”

  He reached for her bag, but Kitty raced over and wrenched it from his hands.

  “Don’t touch my stuff,” she snarled. The coy charm had vanished in a heartbeat. It had been instantaneous.

  Lazarus recoiled and she softened.

  “Sorry,” she said with a disarming smile, returning seamlessly to her dancing. “My sister got backstage once.”

  She gazed intensely into his eyes. “She told me crazy stories about the things you guys did to the girls that got past security.”

  He felt a flush warm his face. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  Kitty fell back into the sofa and struck a provocative pose.

  “She told me you picked up some pretty kinky habits on the road.”

  Someone’s daughter, Lazarus thought. Somebody’s little girl. He felt the scales of conscience ebb inside him. Why did they do it? Why did they have to come looking? A single word pushed itself through his clouded thoughts like a ray of clarity.

  Dangerous.

  “I’m phoning the police,” he said, making his way to the cordless. Kitty sprung from the sofa and stepped in front of him to block his path.

  “Don’t do that,” she pleaded. Lazarus stepped around her.

  “Aww… Don’t ruin all the fun.”

  He picked up the phone despite her protests. Kitty leaned forward, a tempting flash of young cleavage visible through her torn t-shirt.

  “Put down the phone and I’ll do anything you want.”

  Lazarus paused, phone in hand. His eyes lifted back to her face.

  “Anything?”

  Her red lips curled wickedly. She turned to the sofa and sat back down.

  “Anything.”

  An equally sly smile crossed his face now. He set the phone back onto its base as she extended one fishnet-clad leg above her head, then back down.

  “I used to be a gymnast.”

  Lazarus crossed the room. “How nice for you,” he said.

  Kitty stretched out on the sofa. She arched her back, daring him to resist. Lazarus leaned down, resting his hands on the cushions to either side of her pretty face.

  He could see that look in her eyes already. This was too easy. She had no idea how far out of her league she was. Candy for the taking. He lowered his body as close to hers as he possibly could without touching. Her breath raced. His lips hovered centimeters from her ear.

  “Do you know what I want?” he whispered. She trembled. His lips brushed her ear. She shivered. His breath caressed her neck… her cheek. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “I want you… to get the fuck out of my house.”

  He pushed himself away from the sofa and tossed Kitty’s duffel into her lap. She gaped in shock as he stormed back to the phone and snatched it up. He pressed the “talk” button and jerked the handset to his ear.

  Silence.

  He pulled it away and just looked at it for one confused, indecisive second. Then he remembered the loose plug. He bent down to give the cord another jiggle, but froze. It lay neatly severed on the floor alongside the power cable. It had been slashed as well.

  “What the hell?”

  He felt the floor vibrate but couldn’t quite process what was going on. He spun on a pivot to find himself face to face with Kitty. She wore a cold stare that was utterly, frighteningly detached.

  A dazzling light flickered sapphire between them, and with an electric crack that burned his very bones, the world went black.

  CHAPTER 5

  Black Ry-ders!... Black Ry-ders!... Black Ry-ders!

  A cavernous echo. It’s a million miles away.

  Lazarus moves through a dim tunnel.

  The ground vibrates beneath his feet.

  Waves of faceless minions cloaked in virgin white undulate around him.

  Black Ry-ders!... Black Ry-ders!... Black Ry-ders!

  A lone girl in black stands perfectly still at the end of the tunnel.

  Long dark hair covers her face. There are no eyes to see.

  He feels their hands on him now, clawing and prodding him toward her.

  BLACK RY-DERS!... BLACK RY-DERS!

  Camera flashes converge to a blinding whiteburst...

  CHAPTER 6

  “Wakey, wakey.�
��

  It was the soothing, distant voice of a seraph. Lazarus blinked his eyes. The stadium was gone. He was in the garden now, beneath the drooping boughs of the Worcester Pearmain.

  His eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunlight, its white blaze receding to a crisp blue sky. The gently swaying branches of the tree were now heavy with ripe fruit. Summer had come and gone in the blink of an eye.

  He spotted a flawless apple. It wore a crown of green blushed with crimson flames from beneath as if dipped in blood. He tried to reach for it, but his arms would not move.

  A shadow passed over him in the sky. He looked up, but couldn’t shield his eyes from the sun. The shadow passed again. Now the sun was behind him. Now he could see it.

  The kite.

  It was circling. Circling and closing in. Lazarus tried to walk, but his legs would not move, either. The kite flew closer. Lazarus struggled, but his muscles betrayed him. The bird dived over his head and a razor flash of talons blurred past his face.

  With mounting horror, he realized that the garden around him was strewn with the rotting carcasses of mutilated sheep. He tried to cry out, but found his vocal cords dead with paralysis as well.

  In the distance, the shadow appeared again in the sky, no longer circling but soaring straight toward him. Its massive wings thrusting as it fanned its long, curved talons in preparation to strike. Lazarus could do nothing but clench his eyes shut in terror as the raptor swooped.

  Grrrkkk!

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  Lazarus tried to open his eyes, but the pull of the darkness was still greater than the light. He bobbed back and forth between blackout and consciousness like a buoy on the waves.

  His head rolled as he came to. He squinted, trying to focus on the blurry shape in front of him. The image of Kitty’s face distilled before him. She sat in a chair, knees pulled to her chest and holding a black stun gun the size and shape of a cigarette pack. Her thumb pressed the trigger and a crackling blue charge arced across its vampiric electrodes. Lazarus tried to raise his hands but found them tied to the arms of a chair.

  “You know, the guy I got this from told me there was no way it could render an ‘attacker’ unconscious.” She smiled a little at her implied finger quotes. “I guess you’re just kind of a pussy.”

  Lazarus searched the whirlpool in his head for the last thing he could remember.

  The piano. He was playing the piano, wasn’t he?

  He slowly began to absorb the information his senses were taking in. They were in the basement. He wasn’t sure what room. He was tied up. Kitty was a crazy bitch.

  “I mean, five million volts is a lot, but—”

  “The piano bench,” he interrupted.

  “Huh?”

  He was beginning to regain the strength in his neck, but his upper left thigh burned like a son-of-bitch. He tried to focus on Kitty.

  “The cash. It’s in the piano bench.”

  She snickered. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I don’t have any drugs.”

  “Now that’s a surprise.”

  He locked eyes with her and spoke firmly, composure regained. “My apologies.”

  “Oh, baby,” she patronized. “This isn’t a robbery.”

  “Just dropped by for a cup of tea, did you?”

  She batted her eyelashes. He looked down at the binds that held him to the chair. “Got a bit overexcited with these, I’d say.”

  “Honey, you haven’t seen me excited.”

  Lazarus snorted. “Can’t wait.”

  Kitty slipped from her chair and thrust the crackling stun gun toward his crotch. He recoiled, struggling in vain to turn away.

  “Not so mister jokey-joke now, huh?”

  “What do you want?”

  Kitty sat back in her chair and let the question dangle unanswered in the air. Lazarus squirmed.

  “Tell me about the girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “Your fans. The ones that get backstage.”

  Kitty’s boot kicked a three-ring binder that slid spinning across the floor. Lazarus didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking at it. His eyes burned into hers. It was his turn to withhold whatever answer it was she wanted.

  “Oh sorry,” she said, acknowledging the wrist ties. “Let me help you with that.”

  She walked over to him and bent down to open the binder. Lazarus kicked at her face, but she dodged it easily.

  “Not nice!”

  Kitty stormed to the door, but her tone shifted back to sugary perk without missing a beat.

  “Look over the evidence. I’ll be right back.” She turned and bounced out the door as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on at all.

  Lazarus didn’t consider looking at the binder. He was fairly certain it wasn’t filled with pressed flowers. Admittedly, as far as Black Ryder stalkers were concerned, Kitty was unquestionably raising the bar, but Lazarus still felt he could contain the situation. She was practically a kid, for God’s sake. If he could just free himself and get her out of the damn house.

  His eyes scanned the room. No windows. Two chairs, including the one he was in. One small table. And the missing chef’s knife from the kitchen on top of it.

  Using his feet, he began to scoot his chair toward it.

  Kitty stepped out from a narrow passage into the main basement corridor. The ceiling was oppressively low, even for her. There were a dozen doors, maybe more. The end of the corridor disappeared into darkness, giving the impression that it continued on forever.

  “Shit.”

  She wandered through the dimly lit hallway, its blistered walls a fresco of mold and water stains. The damp was chilling, but it wasn’t something she was capable of feeling now. All she knew now was the rush.

  Her hand slid along an electrical conduit. She’d discovered that not every room down here had power, but for those that did, the wiring was entirely surface mounted. The conduit banked at an elbow, disappearing through the wall beside a door, and she reached to open it.

  She found a light switch on the inside wall and flipped it on. The space was filled with decrepit wooden bins and crates blanketed in dust. Storage.

  “Nope.”

  With a sigh, she killed the light and shut the door.

  She tried another. A dangling bulb sputtered up to a dim yellow glow illuminating two twin-sized frames squeezed into a cramped cell of a bedroom. The mattresses that once graced the frames had long-since been hauled off to the incinerator.

  Kitty stepped into the room and plucked at the metal grid that spanned one of them. It made a tinny, buzzing plink like the strings of a guitar between the nut and tuning keys.

  “Could be useful.”

  She ran her fingers along the bed rails, mind lost in the reeling cyclone of its own turbulent reality.

  Lazarus was dripping with sweat. Despite the grating squeal of the chair legs across the floor for each few inches gained, he’d managed to get within reach of the table without Kitty returning.

  Where was she? What the hell was she doing?

  This was not the time to get inquisitive. For whatever reason, he’d been given a window, and Lazarus got the feeling that if he hesitated, things could get very bad, very quickly.

  He tried to lift his hands from the arms of the chair, but couldn’t reach. He tried again, straining against the ropes to the point of friction burn, but the tabletop was just too high. The knife was beyond his reach. His muscles ached. He felt weak. Defeated.

  Christ, had she actually said five million volts?

  He whimpered in frustration and started dragging the chair back toward where she’d left him. Inching his way across the room, the mystery of the binder began to take hold inside his head. Some part of him realized that if he’d been sucked into some kind of bizarre psychological battle, Sun Tzu had a little nugget of advice that might prove germane.

  Know your enemy.

  When he reached it, the binder was open but facing the wrong way.
He turned it with his foot, scratching as it spun on the gritty basement floor. It was a journal of sorts, some type of scrapbook. Newspaper clippings. Pages and pages of them. Computer printouts. Handwritten notes and sketches. Scores of them. Hundreds.

  “What the hell?” Lazarus muttered under his breath.

  Kitty stood in the basement kitchen. It required more than a little willing suspension of disbelief to accept that food was ever prepared here. Unlike its sun-drenched counterpart upstairs, the lighting was poor, the condition worse and the furnishings and fixtures downright primitive.

  “Holy crap.”

  The focal point of the room was a long, central prep table that ran a good two-thirds the length of the stone-floored room. Its thick, old-growth pine top bore the battle scars of tens of thousands of meals prepared there, square edges worn round from the constant, repetitive contact with the bodies of those whose calling was to serve the master of the house.

  Kitty ran her hand along the table, fingers tracing the gouges in the wood. The thick sole of her boot caught on a drainage grate in the floor and she tripped, but the quick reflexes of youth saved her from a fall. She grabbed the edge of the tabletop and regained her balance.

  “Dammit!”

  She limped in a circle briefly before deciding it hadn’t actually hurt anything but her pride. Her eyes fell back to the grate. It had sparked a thought, and she filed it away like the contents of the binder.

  Most of the cupboard drawers were empty, she discovered. All but one, in fact, the largest. It was stubborn, and resisted her repeated attempts to rifle it. But the rattling of its contents was too tempting to abandon, and with one last primal grunt, she managed to yank it open.

  It was a cutlery drawer. Inside were chef knives, butcher knives, paring knives, fillet knives, sharpening steels, carving forks and the pièce de résistance… an evil looking twelve-inch cleaver with a pointed blade. To be precise, it was a lamb splitter, and it brought a smile to Kitty’s red lips.