Rockabilly Hell
Page 9
“But we can put him to rest forever!” Katti blurted. “We can let him go ... home, I guess is the word.”
Sheriff Pickens held out his hands. “How? Sheriff Speakman tried to figure out a way to destroy those damn things, when they first popped out around here. We both tried to come up with something. Listen to me, I’ve been haunted about your brother’s death for a decade. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about that night. Every time I look at my son, I think about that night. I’ve laid in bed trying to come up with some plan to rid this county of those damn . . . spirits ... whatever the hell you want to call them. It can’t be done. It isn’t me you have to fear. I don’t want to hurt anybody. But there are some powerful and ruthless people involved in this matter. You have all the names. I know you do. Senators and federal judges and millionaires. You think they’re going to allow themselves to be ruined by this thing? Think again. But you’re right about one thing for sure: Ray Sharp is dead. And there is nothing or no one on the face of this earth that is going to prevent that. Because what’s going to kill him is not of this earth. And if I tried to help you, I’d be dead. It’s just that simple, people. That’s the bottom line. Those of us who have knowledge of those ghosts are trapped just as surely as they are. And I don’t know how to free myself of that trap.”
“Would you, if you could?” Jim asked.
“If it would mean turning my son in?” The sheriff shook his head. “No. No, I won’t do that. But I won’t have to. I told you: it isn’t me you have to fear. It’s mainly the others. And I’ve got to go along with whatever they decide to do. If not, I’m a dead man. Period.”
“You have to have a spark of good in you, Sheriff,” Katti said. “Or you wouldn’t be telling us this.”
That remark got to the man. His face changed, and his eyes took on a haunted look. “A spark of good,” he whispered. “God, I hope so. Ms. Baylor,” he raised his eyes to hers, “most of us who belonged to that club are good people, I think. Well,” he amended that, “some of us, anyway. We were wild as bucks in our youth, then we grew up and married and had families and careers and mortgages and all the rest of it. Gerald Wilson is a good man. So is Elmo Douglas and Jack King. Betty Harris is a good person. And there are others. But we got caught up in this . . . trap. When we finally figured out what was happening, it was just too late. We didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. It was just too late for us all.” He swiveled his chair and put his back to them. “I believe this interview is over, people. You’ve been warned. I simply can’t do no more than that.”
Cole, Jim, and Katti rose and left the office. At the door, Cole looked back. The sheriff was still sitting in his chair, his back to them.
Cole said, “We’re going to expose this whole awful mess, Sheriff.”
“You’ll try,” the sheriff said. “Just leave instructions with someone as to where you want the bodies sent.”
Ten
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Jim Deaton whispered, as the sounds of rockabilly music suddenly filled the night.
The three of them were in Cole’s Bronco, parked in a turn row in a field of soybeans across from the site of the old club.
A four-piece band was shaking the walls of the old joint with their rendition of the Carl Perkins’s classic “Matchbox.”
“I’d always heard how pure that music was,” Katti said. “I never believed it. But that was real rock and roll back then. No gimmicks, just raw passion and sound.”
“Oh, my god,” Jim whispered, as the club began to materialize in the night, misty at first, then taking shape. The weeds in the parking lot were replaced with hard-packed gravel, as the cars and trucks began appearing. A neon sign flashed over the door, but to those across the blacktop, the sign was not a welcoming light in the night. It was evil. Blood red. An invitation to step through the gates of hell.
“No one comes outside,” Katti observed after a few moments of watching.
“That we can see,” Cole said.
Jim stirred in the back seat. “I feel bad about Ray Sharp refusing our offer to stay with him tonight.”
“He was adamant about it,” Cole said. “But I don’t know the reasoning behind it.”
“He wanted to face these things alone,” Katti said. “They were his friends at one time.”
“Still doesn’t make any sense to me,” Jim groused.
“Nothing has made any sense to me for several weeks,” Cole said. “I spent nearly forty-five years scoffing at the very idea of ghosts.” He pointed a finger at the honky-tonk across the road. “But there they are. I ...” He paused as headlights cut the night.
A late model car drove past the lighted joint just as an old pickup truck in the drive revved up, backed out of the line, and began cutting doughnuts in the gravel, rocks and dirt flying in all directions from the spinning back wheels. Wild, mad laughter rang out from the cab of the truck. A huge cloud of dust hung over the road. The man and woman in the front seat did not turn their heads toward the club.
“They didn’t even notice it,” Katti said. She sniffed the air. “There is no odor of dust.”
“None settling on us either,” Cole said. He got out of the Bronco and ran his hand over a section of the hood. The hand came away clean.
Katti and Jim climbed out to stand in the darkness. The music from the club pounded the night air. The lyrics to an old Hank Williams song drifted around them: “Mind Your Own Business.”
“I wonder if they’re trying to tell us something?” Jim said drily.
Cole glanced at the luminous hands of his watch. It was nine-thirty.
Katti cut her eyes to him and said, “If you think I’m leaving here without seeing my brother, think again.”
“Oh, I think those . . . things in the club over there want you to see him, Katti. I think they want you to become so angry, you’ll do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like step through that door over there, maybe.”
Katti remembered the touch of those terribly cold hands on her flesh, and she shuddered. “No way, Cole. No way.”
The music from the club had softened, the band quietly playing and the singer singing a ballad: “Faded Love.”
“That’s an old Bob Wills song,” Jim said. “My dad used to play his records.”
The door to the night club suddenly slammed open, banging against the side of the building. A man stumbled out, his face bloody, the blood dripping down onto his white dress shirt. He fell to his hands and knees on the gravel and cried out in pain.
“Tommy!” Katti called, and started across the road.
Cole grabbed her. “Steady, Katti. Don’t go over there. I told you, that’s what they want. There is nothing you can do for him now. He’s dead, honey. Dead. Just hang on.”
She struggled briefly against his strong hands, then relaxed. “I’m all right now, Cole. I just lost it for a few seconds. I won’t try to go over there.”
Cole released his grip, but stood very close to her, ready for a grab, if she tried to cross the road.
That which was once Tommy Baylor struggled to his feet. Cole noticed that he was wearing penny loafers. He wondered if there was a penny in each shoe, like people used to do several decades past. He shook his head to clear it, wondering why he would think of such a trivial thing at a time like this.
A half dozen men and women stepped out of the club. One man balled a hand into a big fist and stuck Tommy, knocking him down. The others laughed.
“Sheriff Pickens’s kid is not among the crowd,” Jim said. “I saw a picture of him in the office today.”
“Of course, he isn’t,” Cole said. “He’s not dead.”
“Yet,” Katti said grimly. “But I’ll see him dead before this is over. One way or the other.”
Neither man doubted her words.
Tommy got to his feet and was knocked down again. He once more crawled to his feet, and again he was knocked down. By now, his face was a mask of blood.
“Tommy never was a fighter.” The words seemed to be forced out of her mouth. “Never was good at athletics. I don’t think he ever had more than two fights in his entire life. Everybody liked him.” She lowered her head from the sight and started crying.
Cole felt helpless. Hell, he was helpless. The scene before them had occurred a decade past. He put his arms around her and turned her away from the terrible sight.
“I wonder if he is experiencing any pain from this?” Katti asked, her voice muffled against his chest. Cole could feel the wetness of her tears through his shirt.
“I don’t think so, Katti. How could that be? He’s dead.”
She pulled away from him and looked up, tears streaking her cheeks. “How can any of this be possible, Cole?”
He had no answer for that.
Across the road, Tommy had painfully crawled to his hands and knees and paused there for a moment, then he jumped to his feet and ran from the parking lot. When he reached the blacktop, he looked wildly in both directions, then started running toward town. He vanished.
“The Pickens punk is not here to run him down,” Jim said. “This is as far as the story can go. It just keeps repeating itself up to this point.”
The area suddenly became very dark and silent. The old club had vanished; no lights and no sound filled the night. The cars and trucks had disappeared. The parking lot was once more weed-grown and trash-littered.
“Where do they . . . go?” Katti whispered.
Neither man had an immediate reply to that. After a moment, Cole said, “I guess there are only two entities in the world who could answer that, Katti.”
She looked up at him.
“God and the Devil.”
* * *
The next morning, while Cole, Katti, and Jim were having breakfast, Sheriff Pickens walked into the cafe by the side of the motel and took a seat at their table.
“Just coffee,” he called to the waitress. In a low tone, he said, “I just came from Ray Sharp’s house. My men are out there now, picking up what is left of the old man.”
“So when does all the killing stop, Sheriff?” Cole asked, as he buttered a biscuit.
Al Pickens waited until the waitress had filled his cup before replying. He sugared and creamed his coffee and then, without looking any of them in the eye, said, “When you people get the hell out of my county and let the dead alone.”
“That’s crap and you know it, Sheriff,” Cole bluntly told him, but in a low tone. “Those ... things have been killing for a quarter of a century, and they’ll continue to kill until some way can be found to stop them.”
“Can’t you people understand that these things are dead?” the sheriff hissed. “You can’t kill dead people, you hardheaded asshole.” He cut his eyes to Katti. “My apologies for that language, Miss.”
She nodded her head in acceptance.
“Just how interested are you in ridding this county of those ghosts, Sheriff?” Cole asked.
“Are you kidding? I’d jump at a way to free myself of those. . . devils. That’s what they are, you know? Devils. Straight from Hell. I really believe that. I really do.”
The cafe was rapidly clearing of the breakfast crowd, and the table where the four of them sat was in a corner, faraway from any customers who lingered over coffee before heading off to work.
“They haven’t been to Hell yet,” Cole said.
The sheriffs eyes widened.
“That’s just one of the many points that Billy Jordan and Ray Sharp agree on.”
“Go on,” the sheriff urged.
“We all agree that those men and women who linger on after death are so damn mean and so utterly worthless, the devil doesn’t want them in Hell. So to keep them out of his hair, so to speak, he allows them to remain behind after death.”
The sheriff sat speechless for a moment, then he blurted, “That’s the damnest theory I have ever heard.”
“Oh, there’s more,” Katti said. “We also think that they act as recruiters for the devil.”
Pickens stared at her for a moment. He shook his head as if to clear it of her words. “I beg your pardon, lady?”
“Some people, after having been subjected to the most hideous and painful of torture, would agree to anything, would they not?”
“I guess so. Sure. Sure, they would. That’s why it’s stupid for anyone to try and beat a confession out of a person. After a time, they’ll admit to anything in order to get the pain to stop. So?”
“Think about it,” Jim urged the lawman.
The sheriff looked down into the dark liquid in his cup. “Well, I’ll just be damned!” he whispered after a few seconds. “Those things entice people in from the road, beat and torture them into renouncing Christ, and they get sent to Hell.” He looked at the three. “You people figure this out all by yourselves?”
“No,” Cole said. “Ray Sharp did, in prison. But it’s just a theory. Personally, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Neither do I. But Cole has found a way to fight these things,” Katti said. “It’s been effective, so far.”
Sheriff Pickens looked at Cole.
Cole shook his head. “Not until I’m convinced what side you’re on, Sheriff. Only then.”
“That’s fair. I don’t blame you for that. I been thinking. It’s been ten years since Tommy Baylor was run over by my son. Maybe I could work out a deal with the DA. Ahhh!” He shook his head. “What am I saying? Albert would never agree to it. And besides, those things out at the club would never let it go that far.” He looked around the cafe. “They might be listening at this moment.”
“Are you serious?” Katti asked.
“Just as serious as an iron lung.” He sighed heavily. “All right. All right. I’ll level with you. My god, people, some of us have tried to free ourselves from these monsters. Some packed up in the middle of the night and moved to New York City, Los Angeles, Seattle, New Orleans—all over the United States. Some even moved to Mexico. You know what happened to them? They’re dead. Every one of them. Those goddamn things network with other things. They found you in Memphis, didn’t they? You damn mighty right they did.”
“Then those weren’t, ah, spirits from around here?” Jim asked.
Sheriff Pickens shook his head. “No. I told you: they network with each other. But I don’t know how they do it. And I don’t know how to find out.”
“We discussed that possibility,” Cole said.
“It’s more than a possibility, Cole. It’s fact.”
“Then you’ve just placed your life in danger,” Katti said.
“Not necessarily,” the sheriff replied. “Those of us in the club have discussed these spirits many, many times, and nothing has happened. It’s only when members tried to run away or go public with what they know that they were killed.”
“Have you done any background work on other old honky-tonks around the nation?” Cole asked.
“Oh, yes. A few sightings have been reported in spots around the nation. But for some reason, the majority of them are here in the South. I used to keep records of my findings. I stopped after the third time they disappeared from my safe.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah. Vanished.” The sheriff signaled for more coffee and waited until the waitress had left, before saying, “It was my men who tailed you two the other night.” He smiled. “You’re pretty good, Cole.”
“Who tossed my office?” Jim asked.
“That wasn’t me or any of my people,” Pickens said quickly. “I think it was done on the orders of Captain Wood. He’s in tight with Victoria Staples and Arlene Simmons, and those two are capable of doing anything. Both of them are vicious people. I’ve long suspected that Arlene killed one of her lovers and dumped his body. I know that Victoria has lured enemies to some of these old clubs and ... well, you know what happened. Fe
deral judges Warren Hayden and Jefferson Parks are in tight with the women and with Captain Wood.” He looked at Jim. “They could cause you a lot of trouble, Jim.”
The P.I. smiled. “I’ve done a few favors over the years for some federal judges. Those two don’t worry me.”
“State judge Silas Parnell is another ruthless one. All of you be very wary of him.”
“Why are you telling us all this, Al?” Cole asked.
The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t know. To help ease my conscience, maybe. I’ve been a cop ever since I got out of the army. Hell, I was a cop in the army! I’ve always tried to do right. I haven’t always succeeded, but I tried. When you’re the sheriff, you can’t always do what you know is right and just and moral. In every county in America there is a shadow government. You know that, Cole. People you give tickets to, and people you don’t. Not if you want to stay in office. I’ve made only one real mistake in all my years behind a badge, and that concerned my son. I panicked that night. I knew I was doing wrong. Did it anyway. And it’s preyed on my mind ever since. I thought I could set Albert’s feet on the right course.” He shook his head. “Didn’t work out that way, though. He’s no good. I finally forced myself to accept that a few days ago, sitting in my office. He’s married to a wonderful girl, and runs around on her. Every night you’ll find him at some goddamn honky-tonk, sloppin’ up booze and lookin’ for women. He was born with a bad seed in him. And he’ll come to no good end. I’ve already accepted that in my mind. If he had just shown some remorse for what he did that night, some little spark of...” He sighed. “But he didn’t. He didn’t care then. Doesn’t care now. So why should I worry about him?”