Rockabilly Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  He went to his desk and took out a sheet of good bond paper. He picked up a pen and wrote: My darling: This is something I must do, for you, and for our children. There is just too much evil in this county. I must do my part to erase that evil. Just remember that I love you.

  He read it over, signed it, and left it on the desk. He stood up, shoved the pistol behind his waistband, picked up the rifle, and went out to his pickup truck. He drove away into the night.

  “I don’t believe this!” Special Agent George Steckler said. “I cannot believe we are actually taking part in this nonsense!”

  “Well, we are. Whether you believe it or not,” Scott told him. “What don’t you put on some jeans and a sport shirt. Get comfortable. We’re going out into the boondocks, George. Not having dinner at the Ritz.”

  “A good agent should be presentable at all times.”

  Scott sighed and walked out of the motel room. “Come on, George. We’ve got an appointment to see some ghosts.”

  “Ridiculous!” George snorted. He straightened his expensive tie, slipped into his tailored summer weight jacket, and stepped out into the humid north Arkansas summer night. “Do you want me to drive?”

  “No. You just sit.”

  “You never let me do anything, Scott.”

  “I let you interview Mrs. Doggett, didn’t I?”

  “That woman is mentally unbalanced, Scott. She’s a fruitcake.”

  “Then you two found a lot in common,” Scott muttered.

  “What was that, Scott?”

  “Nothing, George. Nothing at all. Get in the car.”

  “Shouldn’t we get our shotguns out of the trunk, Scott?”

  Scott cranked the engine into life. “We’re going to see some ghosts, George. What the hell are you going to do, shoot a ghost?”

  “This is no such thing as a ghost, Scott.”

  “George?”

  “What, Scott?”

  “Shut the damned door.”

  Two

  Gerald drove out into the country, out past Victoria Staples’s mansion. About a mile past the sprawling grounds and the huge house, he pulled onto a dirt road, drove for a few hundred yards, and then drove the pickup into some brush and left it, taking only a blanket. He would no longer be needing the truck.

  At a convenience store, Gerald had bought several containers of bottled water and some snacks. He worked his way deeper into the woods, until he found a huge pile of brush. He walked off a few yards and urinated, then poked around in the brush to scare off any snakes. Gerald crawled in amid the bramble and made himself as comfortable as possible.

  He had been out to Victoria’s house enough times to know that she had a very elaborate security system that she turned on at night. But she turned it off during the day. Her servants kept kicking the alarms on. But unless she was planning a party, she had no servants at night, and none on the weekend. And tomorrow was Saturday. Nearly all of the field workers would be off, and then Gerald could make his move.

  He went to sleep smiling, thinking about killing Victoria Staples.

  * * *

  Captain Wood slowly turned off the phone in his car. Now he was really worried. Due to a reservation mix-up, Costa was not at the motel. No. They didn’t know where he was. But they did feel really really bad about the mix-up.

  “Not half as bad as I feel,” Wood muttered, breaking the connection.

  He had to find Costa. Costa was the only one who could call this off. And to make matters worse, Costa was under no obligation to stick with his timetable. If he saw a chance to make the hit sooner, that was his option.

  “Shit!” Wood said.

  * * *

  Gerald’s wife found the note and immediately called the sheriff’s office.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the deputy told her. “But we’ve got to wait for twenty-four hours. If he isn’t back by then, we can put a BOLO out for him.”

  “A what?”

  “Be On The Lookout. And all-points bulletin, if you like.”

  “I . . . see.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. But he’ll probably show up. They usually do.”

  “He’s been under a great deal of stress lately.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Maybe he just went out for a weekend toot. You know.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  A few minutes later, Win called in from his house. “Anything happening, Larry?”

  “Quiet as a church, Win. Oh. Mrs. Wilson did call. Seems her husband took off. Left some sort of ramblin’ note about evil and so forth.”

  Win was silent for a moment. “Have you logged it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t. Just forget you got it, Larry. And don’t tell anyone about her calling.”

  “I gotcha, Chief.”

  Win sat still for a moment after hanging up, deep in thought. So Gerald had flipped out and taken off. Win believed the first part, but not the second. Gerald had killing on his mind; he was sure of that. He slipped on a shirt and went out to his car. He had some people to see this night. And if possible, one man to stop.

  Win drove first to Albert Pickens’s house. He told them about Gerald, and warned Albert and Nick to be careful. Then he drove out to Victoria’s. She was not in a real peachy mood.

  “You idiot!” she shouted at him. “That was stupid, telling your dispatcher not to log the call. Call him and tell him to log the goddamn thing in. If anything happens—and it’s going to, bet on that—she’ll tell the sheriff she called it in. There has to be a record.”

  “Ah ... sure, Victoria. Anything you say.”

  Then Captain Wood showed up, telling his sad story of being unable to reach John Costa.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Victoria said acidly.

  “We’d better do something about those tapes down in the basement rooms,” Win said.

  “Only a handful of people even know about those rooms. Those rooms were dug more than a hundred years ago. My grandfather had them renovated, then my father did more work on them with a crew he brought in from out of state. That was fifty years ago. After father and mother died, I brought in a crew from Chicago to finish the work to my specifications. That was twenty-five years ago. That company has been out of business for years. Forget the basement rooms. Only a few of us know they even exist.”

  “You mean you had the work done after you killed your parents, don’t you?” Captain Wood reminded the woman that he had enough on her to put her in the electric chair.

  She glared daggers at him. “Don’t push me too far, Curtis,” she warned. “That would be very unwise on your part.”

  “We’re in this together, Vicky,” Wood said, calling her by her nickname, which he knew she despised. “Don’t you forget that.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Curtis. I assure you of that.”

  * * *

  As they had done before, Cole and the others parked in the turn-row across the county road from where the roadhouse used to sit. Scott had warned George to cool his bitching and just play along with the game. George was introduced all around. No one on either side was terribly impressed with the other. The group stood around for a few minutes, exchanging glances.

  “Any time now,” Sheriff Pickens said.

  “Nonsense!” George muttered.

  Then, very faintly, as full darkness began settling over the land, music drifted to the group. George and Scott looked all around them, doing a slow three hundred and sixty.

  “Kids parked somewhere with their radio turned up very loud,” George remarked.

  “Kids playing music from the 1950’s?” Cole asked. “I doubt it. I’ve done some research on oldies tunes. That one is called ’The Fool.’ Sanford Clark had a big hit with it.”

  “My dad used to sing that,” Scott said. “Drove my mother up the wall. Dad couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Faint laughter reached the group.

  Again, the Bureau men did a slow circle, looking
all around them.

  “Look across the road,” Katti told the FBI agents. “It’s appearing.”

  Scott and George stopped and stared. At first it was a misty, sparkly non-shape ...

  “My god!” Scott breathed.

  ... that slowly began taking on a firm outline. Then . . .

  “It’s some sort of illusion,” George said.

  ... the weeds and grass in the parking lot disappeared and hard-packed gravel took its place . . .

  “This is impossible,” Scott whispered.

  ... Cars and trucks began appearing in the parking lot . . .

  “Look at those old vehicles,” George said. “They’re thirty and forty years old!” He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  ... The music changed and grew louder. The guitarist was playing the old Duane Eddy hit: “Forty Miles of Bad Road” ...

  “Incredible!” Scott said.

  ... The neon light above the front door to the roadhouse was the first to take firm shape. It blinked off and on in bright red . . .

  ... The music stopped for a moment. Laughter filled the warm night air. A honky-tonk piano began playing, and a male voice began singing the Fats Domino hit: “Blueberry Hill” . . .

  “Still think it’s some sort of illusion, George?” Sheriff Pickens asked.

  George opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was mesmerized by the scene in front of him.

  ... The music changed, a hard-driving rockabilly version of the old Hank Williams hit: “My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It,” the drummer really pushing the beat . . .

  Without realizing it, Scott began tapping the toe of one shoe on the ground, in time with the music.

  No one noticed when George Steckler, who had been standing off to one side in the darkness, left the group and began walking across the road. Cole was the first to spot him.

  “No, George!” he shouted. “Don’t go over there.”

  George kept walking.

  ... The music abruptly changed, a female with a country twang to her voice was singing: “Come on-a My House” ...

  “Goddamnit, George!” Scott shouted. “Get your ass back over here.”

  George stepped onto the parking lot of the old roadhouse. He touched a ’49 Mercury on the trunk. It was real. He looked at his hand in disbelief.

  ... The music again changed. A male voice sang: “Endless Sleep” ...

  George put one foot on the first step leading to the front door of the roadhouse.

  “Shit!” Cole said, and ran across the road, Scott right behind him. “The rest of you stay put!” Cole shouted.

  ... The music changed. The singer was doing a pretty good job of the old country classic: “Hello, Walls” ...

  George put one hand on the doorknob.

  “George, don’t do it!” Cole shouted.

  ... The music changed again, fast as a heartbeat. The Ivory Joe Hunter hit: “I Almost Lost My Mind” ...

  George turned the doorknob.

  “Goddamnit, George!” Scott shouted. “Step back from that door. That’s an order, you hard-headed dipshit!”

  ... The music changed again: “I Hear You Knockin’ ” . . .

  George pushed open the door. The smell of death was very nearly overpowering. He stepped back, a grimace on his face as the odor of death hit him full blast. The smell of rotting flesh assaulted his nostrils. George stepped back further, both feet now off the steps.

  ... A man appeared in the brightly lighted doorway. He wore jeans, a shirt with pearl snaps, cowboy boots and hat. Inside the club, the singer began a country version of the Brook Benton hit: “It’s Just A Matter Of Time” ...

  Cole and Scott had come to a sliding stop in the gravel, a few yards behind George.

  ... A woman shoved the cowboy out of the way and stood in the doorway to the roadhouse. She smiled lewdly at George. “Hi, there, big boy. Come on in, baby. We’re havin’ a real good time.”

  “You are not real,” George said firmly. “This is some sort of trick.”

  ... The woman, dressed in tight jeans, put one hand down to her crotch and rubbed it. “You like to fuck, baby?”

  George straightened up and said very indignantly, “Madam, I am a federal officer on official business.”

  ... She laughed at him ...

  “Oh, shit!” Scott said. “He’s hopeless.”

  The music became wilder and louder. The band hammering out the Jerry Lee Lewis hit: “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Goin’ On.”

  ... The woman hunched her hips at George . . .

  ... The cowboy rudely shoved her out of the way, and his bulk filled the doorway. The smell of death had softened somewhat, becoming bearable . . .

  Across the road, Bev had lifted a minicam and was filming the scene taking place. At least, she hoped she was filming it.

  ... The cowboy stepped out of the doorway and down the steps. He was smiling . . .

  George flashed his ID. “Let me see some identification.”

  “Oh, good lord!” Scott said.

  ... The cowboy laughed at George. His breath stank of the grave. He stepped closer to George . . .

  George stood his ground.

  ... The cowboy suddenly reached out and grabbed George’s tie ...

  George slugged the cowboy. It was like hitting a solid block of ice.

  ... The cowboy laughed at him . . .

  George tried to break the grip on his tie. “Turn loose of my tie, you redneck apparition!”

  ... The cowboy began dragging George toward the doorway to the roadhouse. The tie came loose and was tossed to the woman . . .

  Cole moved swiftly, his souped-up stun gun in hand. He hit the cowboy with the stun gun, just under the chin. The head exploded into thousands of sparkling dots. A hideous scream cut the night. The music stopped. The dead hand released its grip on George’s tie. Off balance, George fell over backward, landing on his butt on the gravel.

  Headless, the cowboy began running wildly in the parking lot, slamming into cars and trucks. Cole ran after him, the stun gun cracking wickedly. He hit the cowboy in the center of his back, and the torso exploded into another mass of thousands of sparkling dots. The legs ran on, stumbling and smashing into parked cars and trucks.

  George was sitting up, on the gravel, his disbelieving eyes watching the strange pursuit. Scott seemed frozen where he stood.

  The sparkling dots began popping and cracking; with each pop and crack, several would disappear, leaving gaps in the night.

  ... Inside the club, the band cranked up again. But every instrument was badly out of tune. The drummer off the beat. The words out of the singer’s mouth were all jumbled . . .

  The now sparkling and running legs in the parking lot seemed to falter and stumble. The dots began to pop and explode, the sparkle leaving the legs as the dots died.

  The music stopped. The laughter died. The cars and trucks in the parking lot began to fade. The roadhouse became misty. The neon light over the door blinked rapidly several times and then winked out, plunging the area into darkness. What was left of the running legs fell to the now weed-grown and grassy parking lot. A stinking and rotting corpse slowly began to materialize. The fifties-style suit hung in tatters. Bits of rotting flesh and tufts of hair clung to the skull of the dead man. The smell of the grave grew stronger.

  “What the hell . . .?” Scott muttered.

  The roadhouse was no longer visible. Only the old and cracked concrete slab could be seen in the dim light.

  “I can’t believe it,” George mumbled, still sitting on the ground. “I saw it. I hit the guy. I heard the music. But I just can’t believe it.” He put his hand to his shirt. “That . . . thing, whatever it was, stole my tie. I paid thirty dollars for that tie!”

  “Better your tie than your ass, George,” Scott told him. “Didn’t you hear me yelling at you?”

  “Sort of,” George replied, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

  “Sort of, George?” his partner said. “What the hel
l kind of answer is that?”

  “There was a roaring in my head. I can’t explain it. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life. It was as if something was pulling me across that road. Some . . . force, I guess you’d have to call it.”

  Scott looked around at the others gathered in the grassy parking lot. He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? I have no answers.”

  “Maybe it was because George was such a nonbeliever,” Katti suggested. “Maybe the ghosts wanted to show him up close and personal.”

  “Well, they certainly did that!” George unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and began rubbing his sore neck. He abruptly stopped his rubbing and stood quite still for a moment. “What am I saying? Good lord, what am I saying? There are no such things as ghosts!”

  Scott pointed to the stinking, stiffened, and rotting corpse, lying in the weeds only a few feet away. “Then how do you explain that, George?”

  George opened his mouth, then closed it, and shook his head, refusing to speak.

  Sheriff Pickens knelt down beside the body and put the beam from his flashlight on the corpse. “Paul Hensley. Died in a car crash years and years ago. I was just a kid. He was drunk and running from the highway patrol. Left the road at about a hundred miles an hour, and slammed into a tree.”

  “But he was dressed like a cowboy, when he appeared in the doorway,” Scott said. “Now he’s wearing a suit.”

  “I know.” Al stood up and clicked off his flashlight. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  “What are we going to do with the body?” Bob asked.

  “What do you mean?” Scott said. “We don’t have a choice, do we?”

  “Look,” Cole said, facing Scott and George. “We show up in town with this corpse. Say we found it alongside the road. The family wants it re-buried. They go out to the grave site and the grave is undisturbed. Questions. The grave is opened and the casket exhumed. It’s empty. More questions. As soon as that hits the press, there’ll be thousands of curious people flooding into this area, with thousands more behind them. You’ll be polygraphed, and the examiner will detect you’re lying about where the body was found. Then what? Will you tell them about the ghosts you saw?”