“Let the good times roll,” he shouted, kicking wildflowers as he strolled along the edge of the road with his backpack strapped on tight.
Inside the trunk, spooned by a corpse, Beth cried. She tried to be strong but cried anyhow. This guy was going to be the death of her. Of this she had no doubt.
26
Officer Joel Kirkwood was sitting inside a police cruiser at Hopper’s Gas when the call came in. It was a 911 call, which meant a regional call center dispatched the information to the office before it was transferred to the car.
It had been three months since he had gotten a 911-dispatched call. The last one occurred when Mrs. Tally had a heart attack; her ten-year-old grandson phoned it in. As always, the police arrived before the ambulance. Cloven Rock had a modest Police Station but nothing that resembled a Hospital or a Fire Hall. Mrs. Tally survived, but her grandson cried long and hard before the ambulance arrived to take the woman away. The experience put Kirkwood in a bad mood for days. If there was one thing Joel Kirkwood didn’t like about 911 calls in Cloven Rock, arriving at the scene first was surely it.
Tony Costantino, the officer on duty with Joel, was standing across from Jay Hopper inside Hopper’s gas station. They were talking about football and how this team was better than that team and who would make it to the Super Bowl and all kinds of other stuff that had nothing to do with being a cop. He held a bag of ketchup-flavored chips in his hand and waved them in the air when he was making a point.
Jay was all ears; he could talk football for hours. His team was the Cowboys, mostly because he liked the Cowgirls that cheered them on. Sometimes he admitted this nugget of information with a smile that made the wrinkles in his face seem twice as long and three times as deep.
The siren came on.
Tony and Jay looked through a stack of peanuts and chips and out the dirty window. Joel gave Tony a wave, letting him know that shit shootin’ time was over.
“Got to go,” Tony said. His face changed from happy-go-lucky sports fan to officer of the law inside a blink. “Have a good night.”
“Hope everything’s okay,” Jay replied, scratching behind his ear like a dog.
“Me too,” Tony said.
Once outside, Tony got into the car, stuffed himself behind the wheel, and slammed the car door shut. He was a big man, an eighteen-year veteran of the force. He looked so textbook Italian he should have been running a mafia pizzeria. With slow, deep-sounding words, he said, “What do we got?”
If Tony Costantino had an opposite, Joel was it. He had a thin face, pale skin, and the small blue eyes of a university bookworm. Every time he spoke the words shot from his mouth like bullets spiked with a mild dose of helium. “Down by the waterfront. Stone Road, west side, away from everything.”
“How far west?”
“Ten minutes west of King.”
“Shit.” Tony dropped the chips onto his lap and pulled out of the parking lot like Rambo at war. He threw on the emergency lights and kept the siren off. “It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get there from here.”
“I know. But if we’re lucky we’ll be there in twelve.”
“What’s the situation?”
“A car accident. But there might be… get this… shotgun wounds.”
“Shotgun wounds?”
“Apparently Holbrook phoned it in.”
“Peter?”
“The one and only. Two cars were in some type of accident. One is in the ditch and the other is on the road. Three people are in need of medical attention but may be D. O. A. The wounds may or may not be the result of the accident they were in.”
The two men exchanged an awkward glance.
Tony said, “Was Holbrook in the accident?”
“I don’t think so.” Kirkwood said, “Do you want me to call ‘em back, dig around for more information?”
“Do they ever give us more information?”
“Nope. Those call center bitches only give us a hard time.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Me too. We’ll be there soon enough. We’ll straighten it out then.”
“With any luck the ambulance will be there first.”
Kirkwood considered the statement, dismissing it only because he was a realist. Knowing the truth, he added, “Or a fire truck.”
Tony nodded. “It’s a shame it’s not going to happen. It’ll be twenty minutes before those guys to show up. It always is.” He was a realist too.
“We’ll be there first.”
“Absolutely.”
After thirty seconds of high-speed driving Tony turned the siren on and passed a slow moving car that looked ready for retirement. Once the car was behind him he turned the siren off and kept his foot on the accelerator. He said, “I hope it’s not too messy.”
Kirkwood agreed. “I hope it’s not someone I know.”
Tony didn’t respond. Problem was, they knew everybody in town.
After eight minutes Tony turned the siren on again, sighing as he checked his features in the mirror, wondering what they were getting themselves into.
27
Nicolas Nehalem walked along the dark road alone, and it was dark. In towns like Cloven Rock most of the roads had no streetlamps. Oh, there were the exceptions. The area where the Yacht Club, Tabby’s Goodies, the Waterfront Café, Starbucks, and McDonald’s were all nestled together like a big happy family was lit up like New York City, day and night, and the two streets people jokingly called the downtown core had its fair share of light as well. This consisted of King Street, running north and south, and Queen Street, running east and west. Of course, downtown wasn’t much more than a couple of restaurants (the newest one being a Subway), a 7-11, a hardware store, Miller’s Gas Station, and a post office. So how much light did it really have? Not much, or to be more accurate, three streetlamps worth. Five if you counted the pair of posts a quarter mile south on King Street between Spooky’s Antique Palace and Cloven Rock Secondary. To be fair, the Rock’s eleven blocks of residential housing––sitting between downtown and the waterfront––had lampposts too. But along the back roads, where the buildings were sparse and cottages sat vacant most of the year, light was hard to come by. And that’s where Nicolas lived, in the area where light was a rarity. Stone Path Road and Stone Crescent had no streetlamps, not even to elucidate the intersections.
Nicolas’ eyes adjusted to the darkness. He turned off Stone Crescent and onto Stone Path Road. He didn’t hurry; he didn’t slow. He walked at a comfortable pace with his shoes scuffing the earth and his knees knocking together every few steps. He wasn’t worried but he was thoughtful. The way he played out these next few minutes would shape the days and weeks to come, of this he had no doubt.
Over the roll of a hill he could see a white haze that looked like a miniature sunset. There were no flashing lights, which he decided was a good thing. But there did seem to be a glow coming over the horizon larger than he expected, and with each step the forged sunset shone brighter still. As Nicolas moved beyond the arc of land the situation came into view.
There were four vehicles now, two more than he wanted to see.
Dan’s car was the way he expected: facedown in the ditch with its backlights shining up at the stars like a pair of red eyes. The minivan was still sitting in the center of the road with its motor running, home to the bloody mess inside. And there were two new vehicles. One was a Dodge Charger and the other was a Corvette. The Corvette was new. The Charger had its driver’s door open, causing the interior light to shine.
Looking into this light, Nicolas could see a twelve-year-old girl with dark hair tied up in pigtails. Two men stood next to the car, five feet from the girl. One was tall and lanky. He had a bald head and a thin face. Looked like an alien. The other was forty-something and quite handsome. His hair was cut short and his white t-shirt was tucked into his jeans. Nicolas recognized this man as Peter Holbrook.
Peter owned and operated the Waterfront Café, a Cloven Rock favorite.
His house, which sat next to the café, was luxurious, beautiful, and on a very large lot. Mr. Holbrook owned many acres of lakefront property and everyone in town knew it. He was the wealthiest man around; many considered him to be the only reason Cloven Rock didn’t expand too quickly and for this the town was grateful.
Holbrook noticed Nicolas walking towards them; he nudged the man Nicolas didn’t recognize, the man that looked like an alien.
The alien lifted his head.
Nicolas sensed that both men were on edge; he could see it in their eyes and the way their bodies were poised. Maybe they figured that he was the shotgun killer. Maybe anyone and everyone within a fifty-mile radius was a suspect.
Nicolas raised a hand and walked towards them with a curious look forged upon his face. His features morphed into a goofy smile. He was trying to get into the mind-frame of a character he knew nothing about. “Hi there!”
Peter Holbrook raised a hand in return.
The alien put a hand to his brow and looked at the ground, fighting back a river of tears.
Nicolas said, “What seems to be the… oh my! What happened? What in tar-nation is this?” He ran to the van with his mouth open and his eyes full of wonder. He considered throwing his hands against the vehicle and screaming in mock-terror but decided against it. He wanted to be dramatic but he didn’t want to leave any prints.
“Careful,” Peter said. “Don’t touch anything. Mr. Burton arrived first and touched a few things but I haven’t. You shouldn’t either.”
“This isn’t a car accident,” Nicolas said, acting surprised.
“Nope,” Peter shook his head solemnly. “It’s a triple murder.”
“Triple?”
“There’s a baby in the back seat.”
“Or what’s left of her,” Burton mumbled; turned out aliens could talk.
Nicolas stared into the backseat gore and placed a hand against his face, concealing his smile.
He loved this. Oh Silverman shit-dogs, these idiots had no idea. How wonderfully dreadful for them.
After a moment passed he looked Holbrook in the eye.
Holbrook was a stupid, ass-licking halfwit. He hated the man, truly hated him. Holbrook thought he was so goddamn good, so goddamn smart. He figured he was better than everyone else and he rubbed it in people’s faces. The way he lived, the way he acted. Oh corn-dog crapper––he was a bad seed, all right. He was the worst of the worst. He deserved death. He deserved to have his head crushed in a vice.
Nicolas pulled his backpack off, sat it on the ground, and crouched beside it. “Did anyone call the police?”
“Yeah,” Burton moaned. “I called 911.”
“911, huh? How long ago?”
“Dunno, maybe five minutes ago.”
Jesus, Nicolas thought. Five minutes? That’s bad. I better make this quick!
28
As Nicolas unzipped his backpack his mind drifted. He was thinking about shooting them––all of them, even the girl. But he was also cooking up an extra little something for Holbrook. He wondered if killing them was smart. It probably wasn’t but he didn’t care, so he stuffed his hand into his bag, yanked his gun free and took control of the situation.
“Don’t move, any of you.” Nicolas’ words were for everyone but the revolver was for Holbrook. It never wavered; the business end of the weapon was locked on the man’s face.
Burton lifted his head slightly. Then he pressed his body against his car, as if doing so would protect the girl inside.
Holbrook opened his mouth and lifted a hand.
“No, no,” Nicolas said, cutting into whatever debate may have been coming. “Don’t get excited gentlemen. Don’t yell and whatever you do, don’t start asking stupid questions. Get on your knees, both of you.”
He looked past the men, into the eyes of the girl with the pigtails. Her face carried an expression of confusion mixed with trauma.
“You too, toots… get out of the car and plunk your ass on the ground. No. Better yet, get out of the car and come to me.”
Returning his attention to Holbrook and Burton, he said, “What? Are you knuckleheads deaf or something? Hands behind your heads and drop to your knees––let’s go people. I haven’t got all day.”
Holbrook dropped to his knees first. Burton reluctantly followed. They put their hands behind their heads slowly and in unison.
As the girl climbed from one bucket seat to the next, Nicolas saw her for what she was: barely old enough to fart and scared half to death. She was wearing a pink dress with red flowers on it. Her shoes were shiny and white. Her teeth were nearly perfect.
“What’s your name?”
The girl flinched at the sound of Nicolas’ voice and responded nervously. “Mandy.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that short for?”
“Miranda.”
“That’s nice.”
“Please don’t hurt her.” It was Burton that said it; his voice sounded troubled and anxious.
Nicolas’ head snapped towards the voice.
Still inside the car, Mandy froze.
“There it is, I was wondering which one of you fuck-wads was the daddy… now I know. Perfect, just perfect.”
“Don’t––”
“I won’t hurt her if you do what I say, how I say, when I say. Can you do that?”
With his hands behind his head, Burton’s elbows began shaking. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“But will you? That’s what I’m wondering.” Nicolas looked at Holbrook. “How about you, tough guy? Do you know how to build dynamite? I do. Three parts nitroglycerin, one part diatomaceous earth, and a small admixture of sodium carbonate. That makes me the boss. Will you do what I say, or will you be the reason I shoot Mandy in the head?”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” Peter Holbrook said. “I’m not being a tough guy, just don’t hurt the girl.”
“Oh, but you are being a tough guy, you are. Everyday of your life you act like Mister Big Shot... Mister ‘I know everything and that’s why I’m rich.’ Driving around in a goddamn Corvette. Just looking at the two cars I know who owns what. Do you think people like you? Do you? Do you think anyone in this two-bit town doesn’t want to see you hang? You’re a fool it you think people like you or respect you, Mr. Holbrook. If I cut off your balls and stuff ‘em down your throat this town will throw a goddamn parade.”
“That’s not true,” Burton said.
Nicolas’ eyes slid from Holbrook to Burton like they were greased. “Do you want to stick up for this chunk of shit or keep your daughter in one piece?” Nicolas’ head slinked towards Mandy. “And what about you? What did I say? Get out of the car! Now! I’ll bury you in the swamp if you don’t get moving.”
Mandy pulled herself from the car with tears rolling down her face. She wasn’t crying full on, not yet. But she was close. She walked past the two kneeling men, past her father. She inched towards Nicolas.
Burton wanted to reach out and touch her, tell her everything was all right. He wanted to tell her not to worry but he didn’t chance it, because things weren’t all right. And there was reason to worry. The situation was getting worse all the time.
Nicolas grabbed Mandy by a pigtail and pulled her close, making her shriek, making her cry.
With one hand around her neck and the gun pointed at her temple, he said, “Okay assholes, ready to play a game? Yes or no? Say the wrong thing and I’ll put a bullet in the girl’s head.”
Burton said, “But the police are coming!” And as soon as the words escaped him, he knew––
It was the wrong thing to say.
29
They ran towards the ladder with dozens of crab-critters moving towards them. Some seemed to dance while others limped.
Dan stomped two.
Pat kicked one against the wall. It exploded like a watermelon in a microwave, splattering his face. He turned away, saying, “You first.”
“No, yo
u first.”
“No Dan, look at my hands! I’m going to be moving slower than cold shit and I don’t want you behind me. I want you in front. I mean it. I might need help near the top too, so get going.”
“But––”
“But nothing. You first. Go, and stop fucking around! We’re out of bullets, remember? This is no time to argue!” He stomped another crab, but eight more were moving in and getting close, too close.
Dan didn’t like it but Patrick was right, no point having them both climb slowly. “Okay,” he said, shaking his head as he mounted his first tread. A few rungs later he noticed that his shoes were gooey with critter guts, limiting his traction.
Pat followed; after two steps he stopped climbing and reassessed the situation. The pain in his hands was an issue, but not the main issue. With something as simple as pain he could have accepted the circumstances, climbed the ladder, and endured the discomfort. Yes, it would hurt but it wouldn’t last forever. Pain wasn’t the big problem. The big problem was the fact that his fingers were so bruised and swollen they couldn’t grip the rungs.
Dan was fifteen feet up when the first crab-critter climbed its long-stock body onto him, making its way up his left arm. It touched his neck with a claw. Wasting no time, Dan flicked it off.
Terror Town Page 20
