“Think about it, chica.” Freddy's accent grew stronger in accordance to his emotions as he spoke. “He’s back in town what, two, three days and somethin’ like this happens? I’m not saying he did it, but there’s a connection, you bet your last dollar on it.”
“A connection? What are you—”
“MARISOL SMITH, PHONE CALL LINE TWO.” The receptionist’s amplified voice echoed off the drab cement block walls. “MARISOL SMITH, PHONE CALL LINE TWO.”
“Smith? I thought you was Flores again.” Freddy raised an eyebrow at her.
“I am but some people are having a hard time getting used to the change. I’ll see you later.”
Freddy waved goodbye and continued down the hall as Marisol turned left into the laboratory, their conversation slipping from her mind as she picked up the phone and started reading preliminary results to the Medical Examiner. It would be several days before she remembered Freddy’s words.
By then, it would already be too late.
Chapter 3
“Don’t I know you?”
Cory looked up from signing in at the police station’s front desk. A tall, lanky police officer with a weather-beaten face was eying him, his eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. The eyes alone would have been enough for Cory to recognize him, but the long, drooping mustache - which looked like he’d stolen it from a face on an Old West Wanted poster - was a dead giveaway.
Nick Travers. I can’t believe he’s still here.
“I’m Cory Miles. I used to live here, back in high school.” Cory held out his hand.
“I knew you looked familiar.” Travers ignored Cory’s attempt at a handshake. “I busted you and your friends a bunch of times. What the hell brings you back to Rocky Point?”
“Pleasure to see you again too Officer.” Cory allowed a hint of sarcasm to color his tone. The drive down from Connecticut had taken longer than he’d expected, thanks to an overturned tractor-trailer on I95. Sitting in traffic on a hot day was not how he enjoyed spending his afternoon.
“It’s Chief Travers now Mister Miles. And I don’t like it when troublemakers come back to my town. What’s your business here?”
“I’m Todd Randolph’s lawyer. I’m here to get him released.”
Travers smiled, an unpleasant turning of his lips that narrowed his eyes even further. Cory remembered how he and his friends would always make fun of Officer Travers, calling him Clint Eastwood because of his squinting gaze and cowboy mustache. For his part, Travers had always been happy to catch them smoking behind the school or drinking beer in the cemetery. He’d take great pleasure in bringing them to the station so their parents would have to come pick them up.
“Randolph’s lawyer? Figures you’d be representing that scumbag. Well, you’re gonna have to cool your heels awhile. It’s already after six.” The Chief nodded at a nearby wall clock. “Ain’t no judges around on a Friday to arrange bail. You’re boy’s stuck in there ‘til Monday. And between you and me...” Travers leaned closer, his garlic breath filling the space between them, “...I doubt he’s gonna get out then either.”
“Why’s that?” Cory tried to breathe shallow breaths.
“The man murdered one, maybe two people, out in that cemetery you kids used to party in. It’s gonna be right back to the nut house for him on Monday. Do not pass Go, do not collect a hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred,” Cory said as he finished writing his name and address in the log book.
“What?” Travers’ eyes closed even further as he frowned.
“Two hundred. You collect two hundred dollars when you pass Go.”
“Still a smart ass, huh? Point is, you might as well go back to wherever you came from. Randolph’s never gonna get out this time.”
“Well, I think I’ll stick around anyway, reminisce a little. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a client to see.”
Cory followed the desk sergeant as the man led him towards the holding cells at the back of the jail. As he walked away, he heard Travers call out from behind him.
“I’m gonna have my eyes on you Miles.”
Great. Welcome home, Cory. No wonder you never missed this town.
The sergeant unlocked the cell and slid the door open. “You got thirty minutes. No more than that, understand?”
“Got it,” Cory said, stepping inside. He waited until the door clanged shut and the officer wandered down the hall before addressing the man seated on the single cot.
“Jesus, Todd. You look awful.”
He’d expected Todd Randolph to look different; hell, it’d been twenty years since they’d last seen each other. He knew he’d changed over the years, filling out in the chest and gut, losing an inch of hairline, adding some wrinkles around the eyes. No one looked the same at thirty-six as they did at sixteen. So Todd’s salt and pepper hair was no surprise. Nor was his skinny frame or the bags under his haunted eyes.
But the bruises and scrapes covering his face and arms weren’t part of getting older.
Todd managed a small smile. “Nice to see you too, Cory.”
“Sorry. But what the hell happened to you?”
“Apparently asking what I was being arrested for constitutes resisting arrest in this town, at least when you’re the resident psycho. A few of the officers decided they needed to subdue me.”
Cory gave a low whistle. “It looks like you went six rounds with Mike Tyson. Did you get the names of the officers?”
“Yes, I believe their names were billy club, fist and shoe. Does that help?” Todd leaned back against the wall with a moan and shook his head. “Sorry. I was too busy getting the shit beat out of me to check their badges.”
“That’s all right. The names of the arresting officers will be on the police report.” Cory sat down on the bunk. “Are you hurt? Anything broken? Have they brought in a doctor to see you?”
“No, no, and no, but it’s okay. Listen, I want to thank you for calling my mother and letting her know I’m all right. Goddamn cops did this right in front of her.”
“No problem. Now I’ve only got about twenty minutes left before they kick me out, so fill me in on everything that happened today. And then I’ll take some pictures of your face.”
“Cory, I wasn’t joking on the phone. It’s happening again. The cemetery—”
“Wait.” Cory held up his hand. “First things first. We’ll talk about...that...after I get you out of here.”
Todd nodded his head. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I went out this morning to get the newspaper...”
Nick Travers looked up as his office door opened and Cory Miles walked in without so much as a courtesy knock.
“What the hell’s your problem, Miles? I—”
“You’ll shut up and sit down if you want to keep your job, Travers,” the lawyer said.
“You better watch yourself sonny boy. I’ll put your ass in a cell next to your friend.”
Miles crossed his arms and smiled. “Go ahead. Then you’ll have two unlawful arrests to deal with, not to mention a whole shitload of bad press.”
“What’re you jabbering about?” Travers asked, but he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what Miles meant. He’d done a little research while Cory had been talking with Randolph. Apparently the man had made something of himself after leaving Rocky Point. He wasn’t the small-time ambulance chaser Travers had figured him for; instead, he was a big-shot criminal attorney.
“Well for starters, there’s police brutality. Three counts of it by my reckoning. Officers Foster, Harris and Cruz.” Cory tapped his briefcase. “I’ve got the pictures here to prove it. And I’ll bet I can find some witnesses who'll testify Todd did not resist arrest before he was beaten. This will make the Rodney King case look like pre-school. Then there’s the fact that you denied him medical care. And to top it off, you delayed the paperwork just long enough to make sure he couldn’t be arraigned until Monday. Now, are you ready to correct these incidents of gross misconduct by your staff or should
I start filing charges and talking to the press?”
“Go ahead, talk to the press. You think your friend’s gonna get a sympathetic ear in this town? I’m surprised people ain’t lining up outside already to buy tickets to his execution.”
“That’s probably true. So just think how they’ll feel when his case gets thrown out of court and he goes free, all because your department screwed up his arrest. This police department will be the laughing stock of the East Coast. And you’ve got an election coming up in November, don’t you?”
Travers took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. The asshole was right; Mayor Dawes would have his head on a platter if Randolph went free on a technicality. Putting on his best professional smile, he leaned back in his chair. “So, what kind of ‘corrections’ were you thinking of?”
Miles ticked off the items on his fingers as he answered. “Todd Randolph is released on his own recognizance. The department pays any medical bills relating to the injuries sustained during his arrest. And you issue a statement that Mr. Randolph was simply brought in for questioning regarding the murders, that he has not been charged with anything.”
Travers pretended to think about the offer. “I can take care of the last two but I can’t let Randolph go.” He held up his hand when Miles started to object. “It’s out of my hands. There are no judges available until Saturday afternoon. You come back here tomorrow after twelve and I’ll release your pal, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re responsible for him. He kills somebody or tries to run, and you’re going to jail with him. Got it?”
“That’s fine. Todd’s not a flight risk and he’s not a murderer. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Miles left the office before Travers could say anything else. The Chief waited until he saw the lawyer walking across the parking lot and then he picked up the phone. “Doris? Tell Foster, Harris and Cruz to get their goddamned asses in here, pronto.”
* * *
The Adams funeral was a somber affair, made worse by the drenching showers that rolled in during the priest’s graveside sermon. The dozens of black umbrellas that sprouted up like giant mushrooms were next to useless as the wind whipped around in powerful gusts. Father O’Malley brought the ceremony to a quick conclusion, skipping several paragraphs in his prepared speech as the unseasonably cold rain soaked the small gathering. One by one the mourners dropped roses on the casket and hurried through the deepening puddles to their waiting cars.
Lester Boone remained behind after the other mourners had hurried off. He’d told Aimee to meet him at the motel after the funeral but he could have sworn he’d caught a glimpse of her off in the distance as he walked from his car to the grave, a flash of black trench coat disappearing behind the very same mausoleum where they’d found Frank’s remains only a few days earlier. It would be just like her to show up here, thinking that doing it at a crime scene – and in a graveyard no less - would add even more spice to their illicit rendezvous. As soon as he was sure they were alone, he sloshed up the hill to where she’d been playing hide and seek.
“Aimee! C’mon, don’t play games. It’s too fucking cold and wet. Let’s just go to the motel like we planned.”
More movement, a flash of black against the dark gray of the crypt. Christ, what was it with her and cemeteries? They’d done it in every half-assed collection of graves from here to Albany. “Aimee! I’m not fooling. Let’s go.”
When there was still no answer he walked over to the mausoleum, his feet soaked, his body shivering from the cold water running from his hair and down inside his collar.
He reached the stone structure and stopped, overcome with a sudden desire to do anything except take another step forward. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold falling rain. His heart pounded hard and fast. He rested one hand against the stone wall of the crypt to steady himself.
What the hell’s going on? There’s nothing here to be scared of. Lester took a deep breath. Get a grip. You’re acting like a little girl. Purposely ignoring the voice inside his head that was begging him to turn around, he stepped forward and peered around the back of the building. “Aimee?”
It took a moment for him to recognize the shape on the ground as his mistress. Someone had pulled her black trench coat over her head, exposing her naked body to the elements. Only it no longer looked like a body; rainwater had filled in the giant hole extending from her chest to her pelvic region, turning it into a flesh bowl of cold, red soup.
Lester opened his mouth to scream just as the ghostly shadow emerged from the stone wall of the mausoleum. He recognized it instantly even though he’d never seen one before, unless you counted pictures on the Discovery Channel. Aliens! The roughly humanoid figure stood as tall as his waist, with an egg-shaped head framing two slanted eyes, eyes as red as if the fires of Mercury burned behind them. Instead of walking, it floated a few inches above the ground.
Lester had no time to react as the creature shot forward and entered his mouth in an icy wave. He gagged and clawed at his throat, fighting for air. Struggling to remain conscious, he fell to his knees next to Aimee’s body.
Then he heard the voice. It spoke quietly but forcefully inside his head, telling him what he needed to do.
No longer aware of the falling rain, Lester stood up and lifted Aimee’s corpse from the ground. He walked around to the front of the mausoleum. The door opened slowly and stiffly when he pushed on it, rusty metal hinges squealing like mechanical mice. Although only a hint of gray daylight entered through the doorway and the one small stained glass window, Lester had no trouble finding his way to the dark hole in the center of the floor.
Aimee’s bloody carcass balanced on his shoulder, he entered the pit, his steps sure and steady as he descended into darkness.
* * *
The door to Gus’s Bar and Grill opened, letting in a quick gust of damp wind that sped through the room, lifting collars and cutting channels through musty air permanently tainted by decades of smoke, urine and cheap beer.
“Shut the damn door!” Gus Mellonis shouted from behind the bar. His voice echoed off the walls, easily overpowering the Rolling Stones ballad playing on the jukebox. It was after midnight and only six stools supported customers; another half hour and they’d be gone, too, which was just the way Gus liked it.
The door slammed shut and two figures emerged from the shadows of the front alcove into the bar. One of them wore a black suit so wet from the rain that rivulets of water ran from the jacket onto the floor, where they formed puddles as soon as he stopped walking. Fresh mud stains covered both his knees. The second figure was just as wet. Mud and grime coated his faded green shirt and Dickies.
“Holy shit!” Chuck Passella, a long-time regular at Gus’s, slammed his hand on the bar. “Pete Webster? What the hell you doin’ here? Half the town’s lookin’ for you and the other half thinks you’re dead. Hey, you want a beer?”
Pete gave him a crooked smile, as if his mouth wasn’t working quite right and nodded.
Chuck turned to Gus. “Pour him a beer, on me.”
Gus poured the drink. As he set the mug down, he stared at the blotchy white marks on Pete’s face. “Christ, Pete. You don’t look good. What happened to you?”
Pete just stared at him.
When no explanation followed, Gus shrugged and turned to Pete’s companion, who had similar markings on his cheeks. “How ‘bout you, pal?”
The man shook his head but remained silent.
“Where the hell you been Pete?” asked Chuck. “And what happened to Frankie?”
Pete leaned on the bar and motioned for Chuck to lean closer. The other patrons slid their chairs over as well.
Without warning Pete smashed his beer mug against Chuck’s head. As the old man’s unconscious body toppled to the floor, Lester Boone vaulted over the bar and punched Gus in the nose, knocking him into the liquor bottles on the shelf next to the cash register. Gus grabbed a bottle and
swung it at his attacker but Lester paid no mind as it bounced off his temple. Before Gus could swing again, Lester shoved his thumbs into Gus’s eyes. The bartender screamed high and loud as blood and fluids spurted from his ruined orbs.
The remaining five men seated at the bar reacted quickly, despite their varying degrees of sobriety. Four of them ran towards Pete while the fifth climbed over the counter to help Gus.
Pete picked up a barstool and swung it by one leg, baseball style, catching two men and sending them stumbling backwards. Shards of wood flew in all directions as the stool splintered, leaving Pete with a two-foot section in his hands.
Nick Pacinino charged forward and swung his fist into Pete’s face. The brittle crunch of bones breaking filled the bar and Nick howled in pain as his knuckles snapped. Then he had to step backwards when Pete, his jaw hanging to one side, swung the stool leg at him. Nick took another step and tripped on some debris. The pain of landing on his injured hand caused him to cry out again. A moment later, Pete stood over him, gripping the wooden leg with both hands.
“No, Pete, don’t!” Nick raised his arms to ward off the blow he knew was coming.
Pete brought his arms down in a vicious arc, driving the broken end through Nick’s throat. The older man managed a final gurgling, blood-filled gasp before his life pumped out in a red geyser.
“Fuckin’ bastard!” Rory Calbert wrapped his arms around Pete’s chest and brought him down to the floor, executing the tackle exactly the way his old football coach had taught him to do. Kneeling on the smaller man’s chest, Rory raised his fist. “Say your prayers asshole,” he shouted.
Before Rory could throw the punch, Pete grabbed his other arm with both hands and pulled it forward towards his mouth. Suddenly off balance, Rory could only watch as Pete bit a chunk of meat from his forearm.
“Aaah!” Rory screamed and fell to the side, cradling the torn fleshy hole. Pete got to his hands and knees, swallowed the piece of meat and dove forward, this time closing his teeth on the soft skin of Rory’s throat.
Cemetery Club Page 4
