Nightblood

Home > Other > Nightblood > Page 10
Nightblood Page 10

by T. Chris Martindale


  “Yeah, but until then I’m sleeping at the jail.” He looked around him, then into the darkened drugstore. He snapped his fingers. “A gift! I’ll take her a gift. You got something around here she’d like? Something cheap?”

  Billie shook her head and chuckled. “You’re a real romantic, you know that?”

  He brushed her off with a sly grin. “Oh, it’s romance you women like, huh? Like that character I saw you fawnin’ over this morning?” She feigned ignorance. “Oh come off it, Billie. I saw you batting your eyes at him and giggling like a schoolgirl”—her face blushed at her own analogy—“and him being a stranger and all. Hell, you don’t know a thing about him.”

  “Says you.”

  “Oh, you do? Such as?”

  She reached across the counter as if to punch him. “The cops on TV do that a whole lot better. If you want information on the guy, why don’t you run a check on him.”

  He finished savoring a mouthful of soup and saltines. “I already did. I want to know what he told you.” She made no move to answer. “You’re really after this guy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not after anybody.”

  “Okay, let’s trade. Yours for mine.”

  She considered that and agreed. “His name is Chris,” she said, calling up information that hadn’t strayed far from her mind all day long. “He’s a writer—”

  “But he told me—”

  “—who does handyman work to get by and would you please not interrupt. He heard the ghost stories about the Danner place and thought there might be a book there. He’s staying at the Tri-Lakes Inn for a few days. Maybe longer.” She held back from saying, “if I have anything to do with it.”

  The slack look on Bean’s face told her it was nothing new. “A writer, huh? Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Well, coming from a man who can’t finish a TV Guide, that doesn’t surprise me. Now cough up, Charlie. He checked out clean, didn’t he?”

  The deputy bowed his head in defeat. “Nothing good,” changed to, “Nothing major.” He looked her straight in the eye. “You really are smitten, aren’t you?”

  She blushed and took a swipe at him with a menu. “Would you stop? I just think he’s . . . interesting, that’s all. Stop making more of it than there is.” She looked back toward the door expectantly. “Hell, it’s academic anyhow. He’s probably heard all about the Black Widow of Isherwood by now, an’ how she marries ’em and buries ’em.”

  Bean winced at that and almost gagged on his coffee. “Aw c’mon, Billie. No one thinks of you that way,” he assured her, hoping he wasn’t blushing too badly. Her “Black Widow” moniker was, after all, his invention—a drunken remark made years ago during a game of darts at the tavern. He’d never meant for it to get back to her, and had been regretting it ever since. “You’re still a damn fine . . . well, you know what I mean.”

  “Here, here!”

  “Drink your coffee, Frank.”

  Ted Cooper pulled his eyes away from his date just then as a sudden chill swept the diner. “Damn,” he said, reaching for his jacket, “I feel a draft.” He looked across the store. “Hey, dude. Close the door, okay?”

  Billie looked up. The bell hadn’t sounded but the door stood open nonetheless. Chris Stiles held it propped with his foot. Everyone turned to stare at the mystery man, silhouetted in the doorway by the street lamps outside. Billie started to wave hello but hesitated, her anxiousness giving way to apprehension. Why hadn’t the bell rung?

  “Hi,” he said. “Is that chili I smell?”

  “Of course,” Lou snapped, “so get in here and shut the door. You’re letting the warm air out.”

  “I’ll buy that,” he nodded, “but do you have enough for three?” He motioned outside. Two figures shuffled along the display window and stepped past him. Stiles closed the door behind them, and this time the bell sounded.

  Billie’s mouth went slack as Del and Bart managed a weak “Hi, Mom.” There was no argument: they looked awful. Both wore jackets smeared with dirt and leaking wispy down from half a dozen rips. The bandages on Bart’s neck had absorbed a spot of blood, and that single spot seemed to magnify the severity of the wound fives times at least. He just gave them a lopsided grin and tried not to move his swollen, discolored jaw any more than he had to.

  “How’re you all doin’?” Del said to break the silence. Then everyone came rushing over to see to them, or almost everyone. Frank Sipes looked concerned but didn’t stray from his stool. George Bailey didn’t move a muscle, not even to turn and look.

  Billie ushered the boys to the nearest table, ignoring their assurances that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Everyone hovered around them. Sharon Lou brought a first-aid kit from under the counter, though their wounds appeared already well tended. Ted offered to take his Slugger to the perpetrators, several times if necessary. Charlie Bean just stood nearby, listening, watching Stiles. “Are you all right?” Billie asked, touching their bandages and flinching for them.

  “We’re fine, Mom.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe we should call Dr. Collins. . . .”

  “I said we’re okay, Mom! Jeez, don’t make such a federal case out of it!”

  Stiles spoke up. “I think they’re all right, Billie.”

  “Oh?” Bean raised an eyebrow. “You done much doctoring, Mr. Stiles?”

  “Just the battlefield variety. Vietnam.” Bean nodded and fell silent once again. “Billie, I’d feel better if you get them a checkup in the morning.”

  The pretty young mother suddenly turned stern and grabbed her youngest son by the shoulders. “All right, young man,” she demanded. “What the hell happened?!”

  “Yeah,” echoed Frank, “what the hell happened?!”

  “We got into a fight.”

  “That’s obvious. With who?”

  “I don’t know. Can I have something to eat?”

  “The whole story this time. Did Jay Simpson have something to do with this? I knew that kid was trouble—”

  “Cut it out, Mom.” Bart was defensive. “Jay had nothing to do with it. We didn’t even stay at his house. His mom didn’t know anything about his inviting us over, so we just went out jackin’ around.”

  “Jacking around?”

  “We went out to the Tunnel,” Del said, glancing at Stiles for support, “to play a practical joke. And then these guys jumped us, beat Bart up pretty good. Pretty straightforward if you ask me. What about that chili?”

  “A fight at the Tunnel?” Ted stomped his foot, disgusted. “We were just out there a little while ago. Damn, I miss everything!”

  “We didn’t recognize them, Charlie,” Bart said. “Probably out-of-town guys. We didn’t even get a good look at their car, the Tunnel was so dark. It’s just a good thing Mr. Stiles came along when he did.”

  “Did you get a look at the car?” Bean asked Stiles. The latter shook his head.

  “I was more concerned with these two, to tell you the truth. Sorry. I guess I should’ve been a little more observant.”

  “I’m just glad you were there when you were,” Billie took his hand, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. The boys exchanged bemused expressions. Charlie Bean just looked bored.

  “I didn’t know you ’uns knew each other,” Bart grinned, still lopsided. Billie suddenly became aware of the eyes on her and drew away from Stiles, busying herself with the boys instead.

  “How about something to eat?”

  “It’s about time,” Del sighed.

  Sharon started for the counter ahead of Billie. “Three bowls of chili, on the house.” Stiles smiled at that, and so did his empty pockets.

  The furor over the boys’ condition finally subsided as the three of them sat down to their late meal. Ted and Doreen left; knowing Ted, probably to cruise the Tunnel with his bat close at hand. Frank quieted down as he sobere
d up. Mr. Bailey just sat.

  Billie perched herself between Stiles and the boys and gravitated between casting him smiles and continuously rechecking Bart’s wounds or scolding Delbert. Charlie Bean sat astraddle a chair at the next table, finishing his coffee and watching the boys. “You sure you’re all right?” he finally asked. They nodded, for the fourteenth time. “Well, it sure is lucky you came along, Mr. Stiles.”

  “Chris, please.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Tell me, just what were you doing out there?”

  Stiles gave him an open, innocent expression. “Ghost-hunting. I went out to look at the Danner House. But you can’t see it from the road, and the gate’s chained shut. So, I came back toward town and that’s when I spotted these guys. You think you’ll catch the ones that did this?”

  Del and Bart exchanged glances.

  “With no description of them or the car?” Bean snorted. “Not likely. Like a needle in a haystack, that’s what it’d be. I’d just consider it a lesson learned the hard way and forget about it. You boys are going to stay away from the Tunnel from now on, aren’t you?”

  Billie was shocked. “That’s it? A lesson learned? What kind of police force is this?”

  “Goddamn it, Billie, what do you want me to do?”

  “Calm down, Mom,” Bart shushed her, embarrassed. “He’s already said there’s nothing he can do. Leave it alone.” He looked around the diner. “Hey, has anyone seen the paper today?” He went over to George Bailey’s table and asked for the folded Herald on the chair beside him. The old man slapped the paper into the boy’s middle without looking up. Bart returned to their table, whispering, “What’s up that old guy’s ass?”

  “He’s just old, honey,” Billie said, looking at the stick-thin man with sympathy. “He lives up on the hill. I don’t think he has anyone.” The thought made her impulsively hug Del, much to the boy’s embarrassment.

  “Well,” Bean said with a raucous sigh as if to announce something important, “I’m going home.” He ground his ninth butt into the ashtray and laid a bill beside it. “If she doesn’t open up this time, I’ll kick the door down.”

  “You mean you’ll sleep at the jail?”

  He broke into his patented shit-eating grin. “More than likely. Boys, you take care of yourselves.” He turned to Stiles. “Still interested in that work?”

  “I’ll be over first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, I won’t. Late shift again tomorrow night. But I told the marshal you’d be by sooner or later. Well, g’night, all.” As he went out, he opened and closed the door several times but couldn’t keep the bell from clanking. He finally gave up and left, shaking his head.

  “I’d better get back to work,” Billie said. “We’ll be closing pretty soon. Chris, how’d you like to come by for a drink after I get off?” She realized immediately how serious she’d sounded and thought to add, “Wouldn’t we like that, boys?”

  He shook his head. “It’s getting kinda late. . . .”

  Del reached over and touched his hand. “Please, Mr. Stiles?” The fear was still there in his eyes.

  He smiled. “Sure, why not?” Billie beamed radiantly and, straightening her apron, went back to the counter where Frank Sipes had fallen sleep on folded arms.

  Del looked over at his silent brother. “Hey, Bart,” Del wondered, “what are you working on?”

  The older boy had spread the front page of the Friday paper on the table and was doctoring the photo on it with an ink pen. He finished and offered it to Stiles. “Look familiar?”

  The face in the grainy photograph had been withered with blue ink, the cheeks hollowed and a scar added, the brows darkened, the hair grown long and wild. In fact, the photo no longer looked like Sebastian Danner at all. It looked like something altogether different, something monstrous. Something from beyond the grave . . . or beyond a cellar wall.

  Chapter Six

  At a little past two in the morning, the Tunnel wasn’t nearly as busy as it had been earlier. Only a few cars remained, their drivers either those too drunk to make it home, or waiting each other out to see just how scary the Tunnel could be in the wee hours of the morn. Most were parked near the Isherwood end.

  Headlights appeared in the mouth of the Tunnel and moved slowly past them. Most dismissed it as Charlie Bean on patrol again. A few noticed the yellow T-Bird, didn’t recognize it, and prepared themselves for some out-of-town trouble. But the car didn’t stop. It drove on into the blackness of the Tunnel, until it was swallowed up.

  Only when it reached the far end did it cut its lights and ease itself into the brush alongside the road. The motor grumbled and went silent.

  “Well, fuck me!” Fat Larry wheezed, looking around as he took another drag off the joint Doug Baugh had just passed him. “What the hell are we doing back out here?” He shivered. “I don’t like it. It’s goddamn spooky’s what it is.”

  Tommy climbed out from behind the wheel and crawled atop the car’s hood, reclining against the windshield with his hands behind his head. “I don’t know, I kinda like it out here. Any reason why I shouldn’t? Huh?” In the front Doug just shrugged stupidly, drained his beer can, and crushed it against his forehead. “What about you, Fatso?”

  Larry climbed out the back window and staggered threateningly around the side of the car. “Don’t call me fatso,” he warned.

  “That’s right, Tommy,” Doug corrected, lighting another joint and grafting it to his lower lip. “He doesn’t like fatso. Now lard-ass, that he doesn’t mind, but fatso . . .”

  “I don’t like that either.”

  “Then why did you let Miller get away with it?”

  “Well, I . . .” The fat kid mulled it over and kicked at the grass, then caught their questioning glares. “What, you think I’m scared of him? Bart Miller? Hell, that redheaded fart, I could feed him his ass for breakfast if I wanted to.”

  “You just didn’t want to, is that it?”

  Larry grated his teeth and looked as if smoke might puff from his ears. “Why don’t you get out of the goddamn car, Baugh, and I’ll show you how scared I am.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Doug smiled between hits on the joint as he put his feet up on the dash. “I’ll just stay in here. Thanks anyway.”

  “Chickenshit.”

  “I think I know why Larry held off,” Tommy decided. “He didn’t want to screw Miller up and make them chicken out of the bet. Isn’t that right, Larry?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “After all, fifty bucks is fifty bucks, right? Who knows, we may have enough left over to pay your brother back for the beer. Maybe.”

  “Hey, Tommy,” Doug wheezed through another drag. “What makes you think we’ll win the bet?”

  Tommy gave them a gap-toothed grin. “Old son, I’d just about say that money is in the bag.”

  “Uh oh,” Doug said, climbing out of the car and suddenly interested, “I’d say the boy’s got something up his sleeve.”

  Tommy opened his jacket sleeve and peered inside. “I don’t see anything. . . .”

  “Quit jackin’, Tommy. What’ve you got in mind?”

  The oily grin spread even further. He slid off the hood and sauntered to the back of the car, taking his time until the others followed behind. Then he popped the trunk open. “Who’s for big fun?” he asked, swinging it wide.

  Doug reached into the box of Halloween supplies there and pulled out a ghoulish rubber mask with one bloodshot eyeball bobbling loose over the cheek. “What the hell is this all about?”

  Tommy cocked the brim of his Daiwa cap and beamed. “They say that old Danner place is haunted. I just want to make sure, you know?”

  Larry stared blankly. “No, I don’t know.”

  “We’re gonna scare the shit out of the Millers, Goodyear,” he snapped, irritated. “Anybody ever confuse
you two with nuclear scientists? Never mind. Help me get this stuff out.”

  The box contained a little bit of everything: plastic glow-in-the-dark fangs, Vampire Blood, fluorescent makeup, rubber masks, and rubber hands and some rubbers that didn’t belong there at all and were quickly pocketed. There was an ax too. “That’s my coup de gracie,” Tommy said, hefting the “Red Chopper” camp hatchet with one hand. “They see me in my outfit with this thing and they’ll shit in their skivvies.”

  “This is gonna be great,” Larry agreed after claiming a pitted and bloody hockey mask for his own. “I just got one question. Why did we park all the way back here? Why didn’t we just park near the gate?”

  “Yeah, Tommy, how come?”

  “Didn’t you two see all the cars parked back there? If that deputy should come back on patrol, he’s not gonna ask any questions about one more car, is he? Besides, if we go over the wall just up the road we can come up on the house from a different angle than they did, so they won’t see us coming.”

  Fat Larry looked down the dark road and shook his head. “I don’t know, Tommy. Looks like a pretty good distance.”

  “What’s a matter,” Doug laughed, “afraid you’ll walk off a few pounds?”

  Tommy shot the heavy boy a withering glare. “You could always stay with the car. Is that what you want?”

  “Hell no,” he ruffled. “I was just thinkin’. . . .” but he trailed off and finally let the notion die. “Screw it,” he shrugged, dismissing the chill at the back of his neck. “Let’s go get those bastards. Nobody calls me Lard-ass.”

  Each of them stuffed a few Halloween goodies into their jackets; then they shut the trunk and fished the last few beers from the cooler in the backseat and started down Sykes Road on foot. Within fifty yards the T-Bird was gone, swallowed by the darkness behind them.

  Larry walked a few steps behind the others, unable to keep up with them or keep his eyes off the overgrowth all around them. The moon was a spotlight in the sky, so bright and clear he could almost see Jackie Gleason’s face in it, but a bank of clouds kept upstaging it and limiting their visibility to just the road before them. The fog seemed denser as well, and glowing.

 

‹ Prev