Blood Alley th-1

by David Wisehart

  Blood Alley

  ( The Highwayman - 1 )

  David Wisehart

  Buckle up for a high-octane, pulse-pounding thrill ride…

  Could you survive a haunted highway?

  Blood Alley is the deadliest road in America.

  Some call it a death trap. Others say it’s haunted. Only the locals know the truth…

  Blood Alley belongs to the Highwayman, a vengeful phantom who drives his ghost car at night to claim the souls of all who cross him.

  A group of teens on their way to a funeral get delayed by engine trouble and ignore the warnings:

  Don’t drive Blood Alley at night!

  Four teenagers hit the road at sunset.

  Will any survive to see the dawn?

  “…gasp, gasp, gimme a sec, let me catch my breath… WHAT. A. THRILLER!!! I read a lot and I mean A LOT… and I can honestly say that I have never, never read a more thrilling thriller than David Wisehart’s Blood Alley.”

  ~Linda L. Roy, Amazon customer review

  David Wisehart

  BLOOD ALLEY

  The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

  The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

  And the highwayman came riding—

  Riding—riding—

  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

  — “The Highwayman,” Alfred Noyes

  1

  Mojave Desert, California

  Saturday, November 17, 1956

  The Highwayman cast no shadow on the mountain.

  He stood on the summit of a cragged peak beneath the blood-red crescent of a lunar eclipse. A fierce wind whipped along the ridge but hardly disturbed the brim of his slouch hat or the black duster that cloaked him from shoulders to knees.

  Below him stretched his road, Blood Alley, a narrow two-lane blacktop that cut across the desert like a naked scar. It itched and festered in his mind. The Highwayman had felt it gnawing at his slumber. Sometimes he slept for years, longing to forget, hoping to heal. But then, as always, the strangers came. They came spinning tires and belching fumes. And the old wound reopened.

  Go away! Go back! You do not belong here!

  It was an old curse meant for all who came this way. He cursed them and he killed them. For a time they would fear him, and for a time he would rest. But time drove on, and the legends of the Highwayman were lost—old stories and tall tales dying on the desert wind—and the strangers in the living world forgot once more to fear him.

  They will fear me tonight.

  The Highwayman saw a yellow automobile on the road. Smooth curves and polished steel. The car cruised toward a roadside diner where other trespassers gathered. Even from this distance the Highwayman could read the flashing letters of the neon sign: LAST STOP CAR HOP.

  The building had not been there before.

  How long have I slept?

  Cars filled the parking lot. The place was crowded with teenagers. The Highwayman felt their gaiety and the sharp sting of their smiles. The intruders were happy. He wanted none of it. Laughter and joy had no place on his road. These people were mocking him, and he would not be mocked.

  Not tonight.

  They had not asked his permission, but they would pay his price.

  As the Highwayman stepped down from the mountain, lizards and scorpions scurried from his path.

  2

  Frankie LaMarque sat in the corner booth of the roadside diner, checking out the girls. He’d broken up with Julie last night, and needed a new conquest. Julie was his third girlfriend in as many months.

  There was a moment—when he first saw her at the recording studio, with her receptionist smile and sexy green eyes—that he thought Julie might be the right girl for him, the one who would last. But Frankie understood now that girls weren’t built to last. Even the pretty girls had a shelf life.

  The diner was filled with pretty girls, bobby-soxers in short skirts and big smiles.

  They all had eyes for Frankie.

  A plain Jane put a dime in the jukebox, turned to him with a face full of freckles, and said, “Frankie! I love this one.”

  He knew what would come next. They played the same song all night. His song. The song that had made Frankie a celebrity on two continents, lined his pockets with hundred dollar bills, and filled his bed with little darlings. It was the song that gave this snazzy new diner its name: “Last Stop Car Hop.”

  Frankie hated that song.

  He couldn’t escape it, and there it was again:

  Polish the chrome

  Put down the top

  We’re leaving home

  Drive till we drop

  To the Last Stop Car Hop

  Last Stop Car Hop

  Girls stood up from their tables and began to dance in singles and pairs. Then in jittery groups of giggles and curls. The boys joined in, and sure as sunset the place was hopping.

  The song grated on Frankie. He didn’t like his voice. He’d recorded “Last Stop Car Hop” almost a year ago. He was a much better singer now.

  They didn’t even use his best take. The guitarist, Tommy-something, had messed up a lick in the bridge section. The producers went with another take, a version that was way too squeaky. But the girls liked it that way.

  God, do they ever.

  Frankie wanted to puke. He wanted to leave. He wanted to drive—but not alone.

  Who would be the lucky girl?

  Frankie scanned the room. He could have any girl in the joint. They were all here for him. Most had written him fan letters. Frankie eyed a few chicklets he’d already bedded. He dismissed them. No sense returning to old wells. He needed fresh water.

  Yes, he could have any girl here, except…

  Samantha.

  She was Darren’s girl. Samantha and Darren had been going steady for, what, six months now? A little more? A lifetime, to Frankie’s way of thinking.

  Darren was the drummer in Frankie’s band, and had confided to Frankie last week that he was thinking of popping the question. Frankie had laughed, but it was no joke to Darren. He was serious about her, real serious.

  Poor Darren. He could have most of the girls here, too. Girls liked drummers almost as much as they liked singers. Once Frankie took his pick of the litter, Darren could clean up with one of the others, or maybe more than one, if that’s what Darren liked. But it wasn’t.

  Frankie didn’t understand why Darren wanted to settle down with just one girl. That was just song-talk.

  And why Samantha? he wondered.

  The question intrigued him.

  What was it about her, anyway? She was cute enough. Maybe a little plump for Frankie’s taste, but the tits were nice. Those were very much to Frankie’s taste, round and full and firm. A bright red sweater stretched tight across her man-catchers, revealing two little buttons where there were no buttons.

  Darren swore that Samantha’s blessings were everything they seemed to be. No help from the costuming department.

  Frankie smiled.

  What he wouldn’t give to hold those tits tonight, suck on them, squeeze them till she squealed. Maybe slap her ass a little if she liked it. If not, he could teach her to like it. She seemed the type. Frankie had learned a few bedtime tricks since hitting the big time.

  But Samantha was Darren’s girl. And that meant she was strictly off-limits.

  Or is she?

  Frankie wondered if he could get her into the sheets, then realized something. He didn’t know what Samantha felt for Darren. Frankie only knew one side of the story—Darren’s side. Sure, Darren was sweet on her, but what if Samantha didn’t feel the same?

  What i
f Darren pops the question, and she says no?

  A rejection from Samantha would crush poor Darren. What would the little drummer boy do then? Sulk in a corner? Lock himself in his room for months?

  Probably.

  It would hurt the band, that’s for sure. Darren and his miserable sulking.

  Poor Darren. Such a sap. Letting a girl get in the way of the music.

  A new realization hit Frankie like two cars smashed together. Samantha, that cunning little bitch, was just using Darren to break up the band.

  Of course she is. Girls need attention, and once they get a little, they take a lot.

  Samantha had gotten Darren’s attention, all right. Now she wanted it all. Marriage, kids, the works. She was going to lock that drummer boy away and swallow the key. That crazy bitch had already taken poor Darren’s heart, and now she’d take his career, too.

  And mine, thought Frankie. She has to be stopped.

  Frankie rubbed his eyes to cover his thoughts. He was tense. His shirt felt damp at the small of his back.

  Easy now, Frankie. Just cool it.

  He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He felt the tension ease in his shoulders and neck.

  Of course, Frankie thought, she might be everything Darren says.

  Samantha might be sweet and faithful and true. Frankie had never met a girl like that—and probably never would—but he sang songs about them.

  If you can write a song about that kind of girl, she must be out there somewhere, right?

  But was it Samantha?

  Only one way to know.

  She had to be tested. Tempted.

  By Frankie.

  He knew what he had to do. He had get Samantha in the sack. Or at least try.

  If she turned Frankie down, then Darren was right, and she was everything he said she was. The perfect girl. The perfect little bride. Sure, if Samantha turned Frankie down, then she could resist anyone, and Darren was right to marry her.

  But what if she went with Frankie?

  Then she’s just like every other girl.

  Darren would lose her one day—if not to Frankie, then to some other sweet-talking, soft-singing lothario with greasy hair, a black leather jacket, and a cheesy smile. But by then it would be too late for poor Darren. By then, Darren and Samantha would have a house and five kids and a mortgage and all that family crap, and one day Darren would stagger home drunk from some late-night gig to find the sheets cold and the wife gone.

  Yes, Samantha had to be tested.

  Tonight.

  3

  Frankie stared at Samantha across the diner. A couple of chicklets sat down beside Frankie and started talking about how great he was, how he was supercool and supercute and all that crap, but he paid them no attention. His eyes were on Samantha.

  She was smiling at her boyfriend Darren, nuzzling up to him in their booth. They seemed to really love each other.

  Frankie wasn’t so sure.

  Samantha pulled back from Darren to sip her soda. Something changed in her expression. She seemed to feel the weight of Frankie’s stare. Samantha turned her cute face to Frankie and gave him a quick smile, then turned back to Darren and let the smile melt.

  Frankie kept on staring as the teenie-boppers beside him pawed at him for attention, whispering endearments and promises and teases.

  They meant nothing to Frankie.

  He watched Samantha play with the ends of her own hair, twirling a blonde lock around her middle finger. He didn’t know if the gesture was intentional, if it was meant for Frankie, but it didn’t matter. It was a sign. She would look back at him if he kept on staring.

  So he did.

  A few moments later Samantha turned her head and caught his look again. The smile was bigger this time and more genuine.

  Frankie knew he had her.

  It was all so easy.

  Samantha whispered something in her boyfriend’s ear, stood up alone, gave poor Darren a quick peck on the cheek, and went to the girls room.

  Darren sat all by himself, looking pathetic. He gave Frankie a puzzled expression.

  Frankie raised his glass to Darren, who raised his own, then came to join Frankie in the corner booth.

  “Scram,” Frankie said to the girls in his booth, and the teenie-boppers withdrew with sulks and whimpers.

  Darren said, “Hey, Frankie.”

  “Where did Samantha go?”

  “Girls room.”

  “Keep an eye on that one,” Frankie said.

  Darren chuckled. “Oh, she’s okay.”

  “I know, but you gotta be sure, right?”

  The chuckle died. “I’m sure.”

  “How?”

  “I just am.” Darren sat down in the booth with Frankie. “She loves me something fierce.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Says it all the time.”

  “Maybe too much?” Frankie wondered aloud.

  “No such thing.”

  “Maybe she protested too much,” Frankie said, faking some Shakespeare.

  He’d learned that in school last year, before he dropped out for the music scene. He liked quoting Shakespeare. It reminded people Frankie was not just a pretty face on a billboard, but smart, too.

  Darren laughed. “You don’t know her, Frankie.”

  “I could.”

  The drummer’s look turned serious. “She’s my girl.”

  Frankie shrugged.

  He’d already won, but didn’t care to rub it in. Poor Darren.

  “Oh, I know that,” Frankie said. “She’s your girl. Of course she’s your girl. But admit it, Darren. You’re worried about her.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, kid, she’s a great girl. One of the best. A real keeper, you ask me.” He poked a finger at Darren’s black leather jacket. “But she’s still a girl. And you know what that means.”

  Darren shifted in his seat. “Keep your hands off her, Frankie.”

  Frankie raised his hands in a gesture of peace, laced his fingers together behind his head, and leaned back in his seat. “Tell her to keep her eyes off me.”

  Darren clammed up.

  Frankie said, “Yeah, you saw that, right? The look she gave me?”

  “Go to hell, Frankie.”

  It was time to put an end to this. “Race you for her.”

  Darren looked confused. “What?”

  The room grew silent.

  Frankie looked around. All eyes were on him and Darren. Frankie raised his voice a little. “You heard me. Drag race. Let’s go.”

  Some other guy muttered, “Drag race,” and the phrase spread like polio around the room.

  Darren stood up. “This is stupid.”

  “Here to the Devil’s Tunnel,” said Frankie.

  “You’re nuts, man.” Fear sparked in Darren’s eyes. “That’s forty miles.”

  Frankie knew it wasn’t the miles or the tunnel that pumped fear into Darren’s veins. It was the road itself—and the legends of that road.

  “Blood Alley,” they called it.

  But Frankie wasn’t scared. He was top cat, and everyone knew it.

  Frankie took the last sip from his glass, letting the sound of air and soda rattle in the straw. He paused for effect, then set the glass down with a hard, ice-chattering thunk.

  “Winner gets to take Samantha home.”

  “No way,” Darren protested. “That’s my girl, Frankie. That’s my girl.”

  “Didn’t say she wasn’t. But if I win, I’ll drive her home for you. I’d be doing you favor.”

  “I’ll drive her myself.”

  Darren started to walk back to his own table, but when he saw that his girl wasn’t there, he stopped.

  Frankie knew the crowd was itching for a fight. But it wasn’t a fight that Frankie wanted. Not with knuckles and elbows. Frankie fought with steel and rubber and an iron will. He fought with the smell of burning gasoline and the roar of a fine-tuned engine.

  “Then race me,�
� he said.

  He waited for an answer that didn’t come. The room was quiet, except for the wind outside and the howl of a coyote.

  Frankie taunted his friend some more. “What’s the matter, buddy? You worried?”

  Darren turned back around. The boy’s jaw was clenched. He lowered his voice. “I’d beat you in a fair race.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  Frankie stood and stretched.

  Darren threw some quarters on the table to tip the waitress. “You’re on.”

  Samantha returned from the girls room. She looked around at the crowd, glanced at Frankie, then went to Darren’s side. “What’s happening?”

  “Drag race!” someone shouted.

  Samantha beamed. “Really? Who’s racing?”

  Darren’s reply was low and surly. “Me and Frankie.”

  “What’s the prize?” she asked.

  Frankie smiled. “You are.”

  4

  Frankie was first to his machine, a spanking-new, matador-red, two-door, four-speed 1957 Chevy Bel Air hardtop. He’d bought the hot rod six weeks ago—next year’s model, first off the lot—and paid for her out of his royalty jackpot. Then he hired a race mechanic to tune, tighten, and tweak her to within an inch of perfection.

  Everyone was jealous.

  Frankie’s red-metal demon may not have been the fastest speedster on the open road, but in Frankie’s capable hands she handled like a dream. With that Chevy he could hug a curve like Don Juan at a bordello.

  Darren had a different approach to racing. He did his own engine work, and he was one of the best. He’d retrofitted a Red Ram hemi engine into an old three-window Deuce Coupe with the suicide doors.

  He knew how to work under a hood like Frankie under a skirt.

  The two band mates hadn’t raced each other since Frankie smashed up his old wheels six weeks back. Darren’s lemon-yellow Deuce Coupe was probably faster than Frankie’s Chevy on the straightaways, and Darren had an expert touch on the downshift, but he was far too cautious on the curves. Darren didn’t have the guts to gamble, didn’t have the balls to push his machine hard when the time was right.