The Bone Yard and Other Stories

by John Moralee

  “He let you win,” Newton said to grate her nerves, “because you’re a woman.”

  “Want to play me?” she countered.

  “No,” he said, laughing. “You’d only get upset.”

  Angel wandered over to the bar, spoke to some guys and returned with some hand-rolled cigarettes. “Want some grass, Ben?”

  “Now? Are you crazy? With the cops coming?”

  “Aw, we just helped convict the Midnight Murderer.” She lit one up, inhaled. “I just need one to relax. Nobody’s going to bust us around here.” She offered him the cigarette. The marijuana smoke was sweet.

  “Not now,” he said, though he was tempted.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, drawing a second drag.

  *

  “Deputy Rawlins,” the cop said, taking a seat at their table.

  Newton’s stomach churned, he could see Angel’s eyes were dilated and she was far too mellow.

  Deputy Rawlins did not notice because he seemed too interested in her breasts.

  Angel giggled the whole way through her statement, taking six tries to get the license number right.

  “She’s had a long day,” Newton said.

  “As long as you are driving, sir.” The cop touched his mirrored sunglasses and tipped his cowboy hat. “Folks, you be careful, okay? Remember the Midnight Murderer is out there. Don’t be a victim, be a survivor.”

  “We won’t,” Newton said. “So you don’t think this Wayne Kenson is the killer?”

  “We’re investigating him, but it looks like he’d got an alibi for at least two of the murders - his wife. She could be lying, of course. We’ll investigate that and keep him in custody for the crimes we can already get him for. Anyway, there’s no harm in being extra cautious, sir. The Midnight Murderer could still be out there.” Rawlins left, his white shoes squeaking on the sawdust floor.

  Newton listened for the siren but was disappointed by the silence. The cop had managed successfully to put him in a bad mood, leering at Angel.

  Angel lit another cigarette, holding it in front of his face. “You look like you need this.”

  *

  Nicely buzzing, Newton half-carried Angel outside, where she was sick on the bonnet of a green Bronco.

  “Ben ... I love you. I really, really do.”

  “Just don’t vomit in our car, babe.”

  They stumbled to the Cadillac. Newton checked the rear seats before he lifted Angel in, then he got in the front. He was edgy for some reason. Maybe it was the cop’s warning. Maybe it was because he was dog tired, like Dennis Weaver was after tricking the bad guy over a ravine. Maybe it was the grass. Newton hoped the owner of the green Bronco would understand about the vomit, but right then he needed to find a hotel and crash out for the night. While Angel lolled drunkenly in her sleep, he had time to consider things. If he were writing a script, the Midnight Murderer would not be someone as obvious as Scar Man. A thought sneaked up on him like Jaws chasing Roy Schneider. He almost steered him off the road.

  Deputy Rawlins had been wearing trainers.

  “Angel, wake up!”

  She moaned in her sleep, but stayed unconscious even after he shook her.

  He ran the encounter with the cop back in his mind. Yes, the white shoes had been trainers. No real cop wore trainers. So, he was a fake cop. A fake cop could move around just like the real ones. Newton thought about going back to the bar and calling the real police. But what if the fake cop was waiting? No, better to continue. He checked the rear-view mirror, saw nothing behind.

  Maybe the fake cop was driving with the lights off.

  After all, hadn’t the trucker managed to follow them all day?

  He hit the accelerator.

  *

  The motel glowed purple as though it were radioactive. A neon sign advertised vacancies. There had to be a phone inside, Newton told himself. He just hoped Norman Bates wasn’t the owner. He parked as close as he could to the office and rocked Angel awake. Her eyes were unfocussed; he couldn’t get any sense out of her. “Stay in the car, Angel.”

  She nodded, trying to pull herself together.

  He ran to the office and found the screen door locked. He rapped his fist on the glass. A light switched on and the owner peered out, holding a shotgun. He was an old man with a post-cancerous voice that rattled in his throat like Jack Palance’s. “What you want?”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “All the rooms have phones. You want a room?”

  “No -” The man turned away. “- yes, a room would be good.”

  The man unlocked the screen door. He kept the shotgun on him. “Can’t be too careful with the Midnight Murderer loose. Take the money out real slow.” He accepted cash. “There’s an extra fee for towels and I expect you out by ten tomorrow morning or I charge for two days. You want the porn channel it’s five dollars extra.”

  “I think we’ll make it up ourselves.”

  The owner winked as Newton went back to the car, coming outside to watch Newton help Angel out of the car. She had sobered up a little more, but her blouse was a mess and stunk of vomit. The old man stared at her with his groin. “You want help with her?”

  “No.” Newton guided Angel towards the motel room. The motel owner got bored, slung the shotgun over his shoulder and went back to his place.

  The door opened into a small bedroom with another door leading to a presumably smaller bathroom. There were flowers on the dresser - plastic orchids - and next to them the phone.

  Newton dragged Angel to the bed and sat her down. Then he grabbed the phone and stabbed nine-nine-nine. He waited for it to connect. A recorded voice told him the number did not exist. Of course, he was in America not Britain.

  Angel sat on the bed stripping off her blouse while he tried again, this time hitting nine-one-one. He listened to it ringing, six, seven times. He suddenly remembered he had not locked the door. Stretching the cord to its maximum, he crossed the room. He bolted the door, secured the chain and pushed a chair under the door handle. He closed the curtains, just to be sure. No need to advertise their location. Angel staggered into the bathroom where he could hear her gagging in the sink.

  “County Sheriff’s office, can I help you?”

  “Hello, I believe I may have seen the Midnight Murderer.”

  The dispatch officer sounded bored when she asked him to describe the incident. Evidently, he was not the first call of the night. He told her what had happened at the bar. She said she would investigate the matter by contacting Sheriff Morton as soon as he got back from an incident. She took the address. Then she hung up on him.

  *

  Newton heard Angel in the shower, screaming that it was too cold, then too hot, too cold. He closed the bathroom door so he could listen for the phone. He paced the room and checked the windows and doors a dozen times. He heard the shower stop and a deep thud.

  “Angel?”

  There was no reply. Steam billowed under the door like the fog in John Carpenter’s horror movie. For once, Newton wished he had not seen so many films. He did not want to open the door. Did the bathroom have a window the Midnight Murderer could have entered through? He didn’t know. What if the Midnight Murderer was in there, in there with a knife to Angel’s throat?

  “Angel?”

  “Ben ...”

  He pushed open the door and saw Angel on the floor, naked, blood in her hair ... his heart pounded and he twisted to face the door, expecting someone behind it. There was no one. He turned back to Angel and walked across the soapy floor. Angel opened her eyes.

  “Ben, I slipped.”

  “Thank God,” he said. “I mean ... thank God you’re all right.”

  He had trouble getting her to her feet. She had bruised her head on the shower stall, but it was a minor cut to her scalp, just below above her ear. She sat on the toilet lid and touched her scalp. “Ow! Jesus H Christ! There are some Band-Aids in my handbag.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I br
ought it in with me. Under my clothes.”

  He went to the bedroom and found the handbag. He rooted inside blindly, touching lipsticks, tissues, Tampax, a spare toilet roll ... eventually he felt something cold and metallic which cut his fingers. Angry, he emptied the handbag on the bed.

  His eyes widened.

  It was a knife.

  A knife with an extremely sharp blade.

  “Ben?”

  He spun around. Angel stood at the doorway wrapped in towels, steam billowing around her. She was looking at him oddly.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “My head is bleeding, remember? And bring my toothbrush and the Colgate.”

  “Of course ...” He gathered the Band-Aids and dental junk and walked to the bathroom, sticking a plaster on his own wound as he did so. “Babe, can I ask you something?”

  She grabbed the plasters and stripped the cover off one. “Yes, but first put this on.”

  When he pressed the plaster on the wound, she gave a little wince and pulled away. “What do you want to ask?”

  He wanted to ask why there was a knife in her handbag, but he thought of the blitz attacks. “Nothing.”

  “You’re a strange one,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” He returned to the bedroom. After making sure Angel wasn’t looking, he picked up the knife, turned it over in his hands. It could easily cut a throat, or worse. He looked at the phone and thought about using it again. What if it was just protection? What if it wasn’t? What if she had not called the police when she said she had, but had called the fake deputy, her accomplice in crime? That would explain why she was so desperate to get him to smoke grass before the cop arrived, then afterwards. Maybe she’d not been inhaling, and had just put her fingers down her throat to make herself vomit. What if? What if? He put his hand on the phone and hesitated. There was paranoia and there was paranoia.

  “You need proof,” he said, watching the bathroom door. Nevertheless, he put the knife in his jacket for safekeeping. He switched on the television, looking for news on the Midnight Murderer, or on the trucker supposedly caught earlier. All three - Angel, the cop and Scar Man could be in collusion. He could hear Angel running water into the sink as she brushed her teeth. He wondered if there were razors in the bathroom.

  The wall clock read 11.55 p.m..

  His watch read 23.55.59. Now 23.56.00. Four minutes.

  “Phone, ring damn you.”

  He stared at the phone.

  He stared at the bathroom door.

  And at the entrance.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  The Midnight Hour

  Newton peered through a gap in the curtains. He could see the headlights of the Cadillac were on. He could not remember if he had left them like that. Had someone had switched them on? He could see no one outside - though the quadrangle was mostly in shadow, so that didn’t mean much. The car battery would be dead in the morning unless he went outside.

  He felt the knife in his pocket. It offered little comfort. “Angel, I’ve got to go out to turn the headlights off. You’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said from the bathroom.

  Cautiously, he unlocked the door and looked out. He could see nobody around. He stepped out and locked the door after him. Then he dashed towards the car. As he got closer, he realised there was something wrong. There was something out of place. He approached slowly, taking time to look under the wheels in case the Midnight Murderer was hiding beneath, telling himself as he did so it was ridiculous. There was no one there. He checked the interior - no one - and deactivated the headlights, then he circled the car. He studied the trunk from a distance with the flashlight. There was damage where Scar Man had rammed it.

  And it looked as if someone had levered the catch. The way the metal was marked it had to be someone who had been hiding inside.

  Hiding inside.

  The man in the forest.

  Waiting for midnight.

  With the knife in his right hand, he popped the trunk open with his left.

  It was empty.

  Now it was empty. Which meant -

  “Angel! Get out of there now!”

  He ran back to the motel room. He found the door open and the lights off. He stopped outside, breathing hard. He shone the beam through the door. The room looked empty. He entered, flashing the light on the bed, curtains, phone. The phone was making a strange undulating noise. It had been taken off the hook. There was a tool bag on the carpet.

  Newton shone light on the bathroom door. There was blood on the handle. He kicked the door aside and saw Angel.

  “No,” he whispered.

  She came towards him clutching her throat, blood bubbling between her fingers, spattering her chest and the floor. She stepped forward and tumbled into his arms. Her blood was hot, soaking him. There was nothing he could do to stop the flow. There was just too much. Her lips moved silently, blood dribbling from the corners, then her eyes became fixed, lifeless, and she stopped moving and was a weight dragging him down. He held her, hoping against hope he could save her. But she died in his arms.

  The bathroom light came on.

  The Midnight Murderer stood in the doorway, calmly wiping the killing blade clean with a towel.

  Newton had never seen the man before. He was a muscular man, very hairy. He was naked from the waist up. A beard soaked crimson hid his face, but his brown eyes shone.

  Angel slid out of Newton’s grip.

  The Midnight Murder looked at Angel’s body and then at Newton. Newton stepped back, raising the knife.

  “Touché,” said the Midnight Murderer raising his knife, advancing.

  Newton’s rage exploded. He launched himself at the Midnight Murderer, his momentum carrying them into the bathroom. The Midnight Murderer brought his knife down, down into Newton’s shoulder, tearing the muscle and skin and causing him to cry out. The Midnight Murderer yanked the blade free and plunged it again, going deep, striking bone. They collided with the wall so hard the tiles cracked behind the Midnight Murderer. Newton hacked his own knife across the Midnight Murderer’s arm. The killer lost the knife as blood spurted from his wrist.

  Newton started to feel his own pain.

  Roaring, the Midnight Murderer scratched at his eyes, clawing rents in his cheeks. Then they were fighting for control over the knife in Newton’s hand.

  Newton grabbed the Midnight Murderer’s head by the chin and rammed it against the wall. He repeated it while the Midnight Murderer flayed wildly, desperately clawing with his dirty fingernails for something vital. One final thrust whacked the killer’s head into the tiles. Newton heard the Midnight Murderer’s skull crack, smearing the wall deep red. He continued pounding the killer’s head against the wall until his strength ran out.

  Newton dropped the Midnight Murderer to the floor.

  The Midnight Murderer did not move.

  He heard the wail of sirens.

  Too late, he thought. Angel’s dead.

  Newton kicked the Midnight Murderer’s face to a pulp to make sure the killer was dead, then he picked up Angel’s body and carried her out into bright, flashing blue and white lights.

  *

  There were five police cars and twenty police officers outside with their guns trained on him. A TV van pulled up and its crew started filming. A helicopter hovered over the motel, casting a circle of bright light on the lot as powerful as the summer sun. Deputy Rawlins aimed his gun at him. Newton rested Angel on the ground and held up his wet hands.

  “The Midnight Murderer’s dead.”

  “Not until after your trial, you sicko.”

  Newton protested his innocence, but his words were drowned by a swarm of police. Deputy Rawlins handcuffed him and forced into a police car. Cops squeezed in beside him, and two jumped in the front.

  “There’s another body in here,” someone said from the motel. “Must be the girl’s boyfriend.”

  “I’m her boyfriend,” Newton said.

  �
�Shut up,” Rawlins said. “Tell your lies to the jury.”

  “I am telling -”

  “You kept the boyfriend in the trunk,” Rawlins growled. “You then played a sick game with us, taunting us with the girl. Making her call the cops. The FBI told us all about the sick games you guys play with victims. We already have someone who saw you go back to the Redwood Inn. And I bet there are other witnesses.”

  Newton sat grimly as the car passed the TV cameras. Tomorrow his face would be in every American home. In a week, someone would have written a screenplay about him and got the interest of a major Hollywood producer. His own screenplay would be used as evidence for the prosecution.

  He could see photographers taking pictures of Angel.

  He turned away.

  “What about forensic evidence? Check the guy’s hair, fingerprints and DNA against any found at the crime scenes. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. He’s the Midnight Murderer, not me.”

  “You know you didn’t leave any,” Rawlins said. “You scrubbed the crime scenes clean after each murder.”

  Newton looked at the deputy’s trainers. He laughed because there was nothing else he could do.

  “Don’t tell me your usual boots have a hole in them?”

  “Yes. What’s it to you? Keep your eyes looking straight ahead or I’ll mace you in the face.”

  Newton looked at his stark reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  There was blood on him. The blood was scarlet. Or was it vermilion?

  Did it matter? Red was dead.

  He wondered what Mike Ryman would do in this situation.

  A sarcastic one-liner.

  But in real life, there was nothing he could say.

  The Faintest Echo

  The day after Billy died I went insane.

  Leaving Abby with her mother, I drove back to the farmhouse. The farmhouse squatted beneath the brooding Highland peaks, waiting. Our home for the last few years, it now looked ugly and sinister, as though its true nature had finally been uncovered. I entered the kitchen with a hammer. Hunching down under the sink, I felt around in the darkness until I was touching cold metal. I burst the water pipe with one blow, hitting the pipe again and again until I was knee-deep in water. I loathed the pipe; I wanted to destroy it totally. It had lurked in the farmhouse for ninety years, pumping lead into the drinking water. That lead had killed my boy.