The Bone Yard and Other Stories

by John Moralee

  “Aren’t you going to read the paper, then?” she asked.

  “Later,” he said.

  She did not press the subject.

  “Where we going today?” she said.

  He took his guidebook off the dashboard and read it with shaking hands. According to The Great TV and Movie Location Book ‘99 the diner they’d visited that morning featured in the David Lynch TV Classic. Obviously, the guidebook had serious mistakes. Newton flicked through the pages to the letter T and down to the Twin Peaks reference just to check.

  “Well?” Angel said.

  The location was different from what he remembered. “Damn. It looked like the right place. I think I read this wrong last night.”

  “Face it, you were stoned last night. I told you were we lost.”

  “I know exactly where I’m not.” He stared at the verdant landscape of evergreens and snow-capped ridges. A white RV rushed past in the opposite direction, sending up a plume of water. “Twin Peaks was filmed around here somewhere.”

  Angel grabbed the book, ripped out the page, wound down the window and threw it into the rain. The sheet flew away and glued to the road. It was squashed under the wheels of a dirt-brown sixteen-wheeler. “There. Forget Twin Peaks. Now let’s have a real good time.”

  “That book cost twenty quid.”

  “So what?”

  “You’ve ruined it. It was good research material.”

  “I’ve told you to give it a break, Ben. I gave up my job for you.”

  “But you hated your job.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. Let’s just have fun.” She pouted deliberately and blew out a mocking kiss. “Boop-boop-bee-boop, as Marilyn would say.”

  “Okay, you choose somewhere.”

  “I will,” she said.

  Newton removed the Seattle Star with a rustle. He watched Angel’s reaction to the headline. Her mouth opened in surprise.

  “What’s that about? The Midnight Murderer.”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “I’ll read it out.” He had to turn the second page for the details. “The FBI and Washington State police forces are seeking an unidentified serial killer. The victims have been men and women, of a wide age range and racial groups. No attempt at hiding the bodies was made. The victims were brutally mutilated in a ‘blitz attack’ that rendered them unable to fight back in a matter of moments. The FBI believe the killer is a disorganised psychopath.”

  “What’s a disorganised psychopath?”

  “It means he doesn’t think through his crimes. He just does them - compulsively, without premeditation. Maybe he doesn’t remember them afterwards either.”

  “Yuck, he sounds sick.”

  “Very.”

  “Does it say where the bodies were found?”

  Newton scanned the article. He listed the places, none of which they had been in at the time the murderers happened.

  “It’s scary knowing he’s out there,” Angel said.

  It stopped raining.

  Angel stopped the car. Turned off the engine.

  The sixteen-wheeler passed them, and then they were alone.

  “Where are we?” Newton said.

  Angel opened her door. “You said choose somewhere. This is it.”

  “Angel -”

  But she was out of the car and heading for the trees. Spinning around, she beckoned him to follow.

  He wanted to stay in the car.

  But she was unbuttoning her blouse.

  She danced into the undergrowth. “Catch me and you can have me!”

  He was out of the Cadillac in an instant.

  *

  Angel did not make his search too hard. She was about four hundred yards into the forest. As he approached, he could hear her splashing in water. He stumbled through ferns and brackens, almost falling down a slope of black earth into the clearing below. A small waterfall gushed crystal clear water into a rock pool. Angel’s clothes were on the rocks.

  “Angel?”

  He climbed down the rocks.

  Angel surfaced as he arrived, her naked body shining with fresh water. “You found me!”

  “You knew this was here?”

  “Of course,” she said. Her voice echoed. “When I was fifteen I lost my virginity to Bobby Masters right here. Bobby was useless, but I kind of remember how good the water felt all around me, like cold silk.”

  The rocks were slippery. Some soft, green moss was growing on them. Though the sight of Angel in the water was enticingly - hypnotically so - he was reluctant to enter the water. It looked so cold and deep. He wasn’t a good swimmer.

  Now she was swimming on her back with long languid strokes that sent ripples towards the bank and arched her breasts towards the sky.

  Newton reached the edge.

  “Come in,” she urged.

  He kicked off his shoes. As he removed his shirt, he sucked in the cold air. This was the craziest thing he had ever done. He looked all around before slipping off his jeans and boxer shorts.

  Carefully, he entered the water. He gasped at the startling coldness. But when he started moving towards Angel the chill faded. She stood up, with just her head showing above the water. The rest of her shimmered in mirrored distortion. Her arms reached for him, and he accepted her embrace.

  *

  Newton lifted himself out of the pool, feeling as heavy as an astronaut returning to Earth. He lay back on the rocks, folding his arms behind his head. The sun was out, baking the rocks and drying out the rainwater. He had never felt so at one with the universe. Had the pioneers of this great wilderness made love in such romantic surroundings? Probably not. He could hear Angel shaking her arms and legs, feel the water flying off her in tiny projectiles. He rolled over to watch her. It was an erotic Indian raindance.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Warming myself up. Try it.”

  He did.

  Once they were dry, they ended up making love on the rocks.

  “Let’s get married,” he said, suddenly, surprising himself.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  They kissed and held each other.

  As they dressed, Newton thought he saw something move, above in the trees.

  A man.

  Gone as soon as he looked.

  “What’s up?”

  “Get dressed. Fast. I think there’s something watching.” He could no longer see anything moving, but he trusted his senses. There had been something watching.

  The Midnight Murderer.

  *

  “Must have been a hunter or something,” Angel said. “There are bears in the woods. Maybe it was a bear. Have you thought of that?”

  Newton started the car, hitting the accelerator. He was jerked back into his seat. He swept his eyes over the trees, seeing shapes in the shadows that could have been a man, could have been anything. “Let’s get back to civilisation.”

  “You think it’s the Midnight Murderer, don’t you?”

  His hands crushed the wheel. “Maybe.”

  There was a sign up ahead.

  REDWOOD 3 MILES

  It was one of the places there had been a murder.

  *

  Redwood was ten minutes from the I-90, in an area between places, not even on his AAA map. There was no police presence in Redwood, and the people he did see were old and sleeping on park benches. The town consisted of a trailer park, a 7-Eleven, a Shell gas station and a motel called the Redwood Inn. The motel was shrouded by trees that practically hid it from the road.. There were no vehicles in the lot. Just the sort of place a man killer would pick. Eight days ago the Midnight Murderer had picked an insurance salesman sleeping in room 105 as his third victim. Newton slowed the Cadillac as he passed it, then did a U-turn at the first opportunity.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me,” he said. He rolled the car into the lot. There were no l
ights on in the motel and it looked deserted. A sheet of paper was nailed to the door.

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  Newton rubbed his afternoon’s stubble. “I’m going in.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s something Mike Ryman would do. He’d try to understand the killer, not wait for him to strike.”

  Angel shook her head. “Ryman’s a fictional character, Ben. Your fictional hero. Real people don’t look for trouble. If you really did see someone in the forest - and I think it’s your over-active imagination - then we should contact the cops.”

  “Come on, let’s go.” He stepped out and waited for Angel. She did not move. “Not scared are you?”

  “Yes, I’m scared. Of you. This is insane. You can’t break in to a murder scene.”

  “I’m not going to. If there’s no way in, I’ll forget it. But I have to try - even if it’s just for my screenplay, I have to understand.” And if he’s following us, he thought, it’s the best chance we have. He stepped out of the car and walked to the door. He tested the handle.

  It was unlocked.

  The owner must have forgotten to lock up.

  He pushed the door open. A swollen darkness greeted him.

  A car door slammed. Muttering, Angel joined him at the door. “I’m not staying outside alone. I’ve brought the flashlight. Call me Nancy Drew, why don’t you.”

  Newton edged inside. Angel snapped on the flashlight, waving a shaky beam across the reception desk. Newton saw there was no one there. There was a sign on the desk. WELCOME. Newton didn’t wait around; he leaned over the desk and took the key for 105 from the hook. Angel nudged him in the ribs.

  “Don’t say a word,” Newton said, “just follow.” He headed along the hall to a stairway. The top was in darkness. His knowledge of movie trivia compared it with the scene from Psycho, when the detective climbed the stairs, only to be attacked at the top. “Give me the torch. Thanks.”

  The beam flashed over the wallpaper. He hurried up the stairs. Room 105 was at the end of the first corridor. Yellow police tape blocked the door.

  Angel pulled at his belt, stopping him. “Ben, you’re not thinking of going in there?”

  The rational part of him said no, but the writer part, the part that needed experiences for his screenplays, had to. “This is where the Midnight Murderer’s third victim was found. I have to take a peek. Just a sec.”

  “Jesus H Christ,” Angel said.

  Newton carefully moved the tape so he could put it back just how he found it. Then he opened the door. A smell lingered. Faeces and detergent. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the threshold. The flashlight sent dust motes scattering.

  The room had been stripped of everything except the bed and mattress. There was the hint of a stain on the mattress. A patch of floor looked as if it had been scrubbed.

  Angel grabbed him from behind. “This isn’t funny, Ben.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  He was closing the door when he heard footsteps.

  *

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Angel ignored him and played with the radio.

  “We weren’t the first people to have a look, the guy said so. Besides, the money sorted it out.”

  Between country music and Christian Talk Radio, Angel found a news channel and turned up the volume.

  “ ... the police have issued a state wide warning that the Midnight Murderer could strike again. FBI roadblocks have been set up in an effort to find the serial killer, but so far their efforts have failed. Residents are asked to lock their doors and windows and be on the look-out for anyone suspicious. If possible, people should stay in large groups until the midnight hour is over ...”

  Angel nudged Newton in the ribs. “Are you suspicious, Ben?”

  “Very. I’m an Australian transvestite, remember?”

  “What do you think the Midnight Murderer looks like?”

  “I reckon he’s a guy my size, with a girlfriend who talks too much.”

  “Very funny.” She paused, thinking. “Anyway, Mr Sexist, you don’t know he is a man.”

  “The Midnight Murderer’s a man, I think.” Up ahead, there was a set of traffic lights on red.

  “The FBI think he’s a man. He could equally be a woman.”

  Newton raised an eyebrow. “How could a ‘he’ be a women?”

  “Don’t be pedantic. You know what I mean. It’s possible. I read that fifty percent of serial killers are women, it’s just they are smart enough to avoid detection.”

  “Is that comment aimed at me?”

  “Yes.”

  Newton slowed at the intersection. The red light was taking an interminably long time to change and there didn’t seem to be any traffic going the other way. In fact, the road was empty of vehicles for as far as he could see.

  He heard the squeal of brakes and turned to see a brown sixteen-wheeler pull up behind him, so close the cab was practically in the back seats. The same brown sixteen-wheeler he’d seen earlier. Its engine revved ominously. The driver’s features were obscured by the glare of the headlights, but he guessed who it was. The truck’s engine revved to a crescendo. Angel turned round on her knees and swore at the driver. The truck’s horn blasted painfully loud -

  and the sixteen-wheeler shunted them into the intersection.

  Angel fell over into the back seats as Newton struggled to start the car.

  The lights changed green. The truck pushed them forward, catching the edge of the fender. It turned the Cadillac a full 180 degrees, scraping all the paint off one side. Newton saw the scarred man behind the wheel, flipping a single digit up, then the truck hurtled out of sight.

  “Angel, are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh, I think so. Hurt my head a bit.”

  “I don’t believe that guy. He must have followed us from the diner. He’s something out of Spielberg’s Duel.” He stepped out and examined the rear lights, which were broken. “I hope these are covered by the insurance.”

  “You know what I think? I think he’s the Midnight Murderer. Nobody else would follow us all day.”

  Newton chilled. He didn’t want to think about it. But he had to agree. A trucker would know every route by heart, could have chased them on a parallel road without them knowing a thing. A pink Cadillac was an easy object to spot, too. Newton started the engine, but in his haste he caused a stall. Then he got it going.

  “Damn, now what? Go back to Redwood?”

  “No. Turn left. We know the creep will take time to turn around. He won’t know which way we’ve gone.”

  “We have to report this now.”

  “Don’t worry,” Angel said. “I got his licence plate. Find a pay phone and I’ll report the him.”

  *

  But there was no phone box on the road. Endless trees lined a road little more than a dirt track in places. He could drive little faster than forty, and only then for short stretches. There were pits and fallen spruce in their path. “Maybe we should turn around?”

  “And have him waiting for us?” Angel said. “There has to be somewhere if we keep going.”

  *

  But there wasn’t somewhere. There were no side roads. It was as if the road had been designed to take the unwary driver to an excursion to No Where and keep them there until they ran out of gas.

  The sky turned purple, and then night was upon them. The car snaked along the edge of a ravine at under thirty, its headlights sweeping over the edge and into blackness. The gas tank was in the low to empty. Newton was reminded of Dennis Weaver being chased by an anonymous petrol tanker along lonely stretches of desert highway, suddenly appearing just when he thought he was safe. The comparison made his grip on the wheel tighten.

  DAUNTON POP 348

  Newton was pleased to see the lights of civilisation sparkling between the trees. A fuzzy yellow glow grew larger. It was a bar, a garage and a few cabins. Angel pointed out the phone booth outside the bar. He pulled over into the garage lot an
d parked facing the bar. He looked for signs of the sixteen-wheeler among the pick-ups and trucks, but he could not see it.

  Angel searched her purse and located some change in her handbag. “Watch me in case some maniac comes along.”

  Newton nodded and watched. She was safely inside the booth before he leant into the back and pulled the top up, securing it fast. With the Midnight Murderer still loose, he didn’t want somebody creeping into the back seats. He’d seen too many horror films to be suckered like that. By the time he had finished and filled up the gas tank, Angel emerged from the phone booth and was smiling. She crossed the road. “I’ve just talked to the sheriff.”

  “And?”

  “He caught the guy doing eighty miles an hour. He’s in custody. His name’s Wayne Kenson. Apparently, he’s got list of convictions a mile long for dangerous driving. The sheriff is going to send a deputy out to take photos of our car so he can charge him with it and maybe get him for the Midnight Murderer as well, if there’s any proof. He says we should stay here and he’ll have a car sent out which should get here in an hour or so. Meanwhile, I want a drink. You’re buying.”

  Newton had wanted to visit a real American bar to soak up the ambience for his screenplay, so it was with trepidation he entered the bar. It was loud and crowded and just the way Mike Ryman would have liked it. It looked as if all 348 of Daunton’s people were inside. They picked a couple of stools at the counter. Angel wanted a white wine spritzer, Newton drank coke. Secretly, Newton took out his notes and observed the people and their culture. Culture consisted of people sitting on stools watching MTV, drinking Buds and shorts. They got talking to some Microsoft workers based in Seattle, young executives spending the weekend on a drinking and fishing binge in the mountains. Jocks played nine-ball pool and talked about the kind of football you needed shoulder pads to play. Newton challenged a cocky jock to a game of pool and lost. Angel challenged the same man and won with four balls left on the table.