Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  “We believe you, Jake.”

  Jake and the cop gone, Sheriff Sandry let his feelings show. “You . . . mean”—he was stuttering —“you mean . . . you want me to believe . . . that we got two zombies riding around naked, on horseback!”

  “It sure looks that way. It may sound funny, but I don’t think anyone who comes in contact with them is going to see the humor in it.”

  Sandry closed his tired eyes for a moment. Without opening them, he said to a deputy, “Get a team out to the ranch. Go over it. And please”—he opened his eyes—“be careful.”

  Mike’s phone buzzed. The chief answered it. Peter. He listened for a moment, then hung up. Turned to Sandry, Leo and Stanford who were sitting quietly in the office, waiting and watching and listening.

  “Some young punks just jumped Janis’s friends, Bing and Roy. The punks came out on the short end of the stick. Pete’s got them at the hospital. Come on. Let’s go pay them a visit.”

  “Always bearing in mind”—Stanford stood up—“that they are precious little juveniles and must be treated with kid gloves.”

  Sandry looked at the Inspector of Bahamian Police. Sometimes, he thought, this man is a real jerk. Accurate in his assessments, but a jerk. “Right, Inspector.”

  “Let’s go,” Stanford said cheerfully, then turned and walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Becky Matthews stepped out of the back door to stand on the stone patio. Her house was next to the Kellys’ on Mesa Drive.

  She thought she had seen something from her kitchen window. Something that shouldn’t have been there.

  Now she could see nothing. But she could sense something . . . intangible but still present. Something heavy and oppressive in the night air.

  Her eyes swept the dark forest. Nothing. She wished her husband, Sam, would hurry up and get back from the city. She looked at her watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

  It would be hours before he arrived on the red-eye from Los Angeles.

  The wind moaned and kicked up bits of sand around her, tickling her bare ankles.

  Becky rubbed one against the other as she stood in the near darkness behind the house. The only light was that which managed to filter through the glass doors leading to the patio.

  She glanced over at the Kelly house. Wondered how Mark was doing. She had spoken with Connie earlier. Connie Kelly had not sounded very optimistic.

  Becky turned to reenter the house. Heard a low grunting sound. She turned around, attempting to peer into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Nothing except that odd, almost dirty feeling that clung in the air.

  A slight odor. Like rotten eggs.

  Becky loved the desert. Had loved it from the moment she and her husband had deplaned from Pennsylvania, Sam having just been promoted by his company. The Matthews made lots of money. Were young. Had no kids. And Becky loved Tepehuanes. Loved the security of the neighborhood. Loved the quiet loneliness of the empty vastness behind their beautiful home.

  Until now.

  She had never been scared before.

  Now she was terrified.

  And she couldn’t understand why.

  There was nothing to be afraid of.

  Was there?

  She quickly stepped back into her house and closed the sliding doors, locking them. She pulled the drapes tightly together, then walked to the wet bar. Maybe a drink would help.

  She heard—or thought she heard—something bump against the outside of the house, in the rear, just as she was fixing a jug of martinis. Becky willed herself not to look around.

  It was a losing battle.

  She broke out into a chilling sweat as she saw—or thought she saw—a lumpy shadow on the patio, outlined against the drapes across the sliding doors.

  The shadow stopped, seemed to be trying to look into the den.

  The chiming of the front doorbell gently jarred her into welcome movement.

  She peeked through the eyehole, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Her neighbor, Jane Harvey. Becky jerked open the door and waved the older woman inside.

  “Jane! I’m so glad to see you. Something very strange . . .”

  She noticed the pistol in Jane’s hand. The muzzle was pointed at her belly.

  “Jane—”

  “Shut up!” the woman snapped. She stepped aside, motioning with her free hand toward the open door and the yawning darkness outside. It was pocked only by widely spaced street lamps. “Let’s go over to my house, Becky.” Jane Harvey grinned. “We’re having a party. You’re invited.”

  “A party?” Becky began to smile. “Oh, I get it. It’s a joke, right? Some sort of gangster party, and you’re Belle Starr, right? That’s funny, Jane. You really had me going there for a minute.” She frowned. “But if you’re Belle Starr, why aren’t you dressed Western?”

  Jane slapped her across the face, the blow reddening the smaller woman’s cheek, knocking her back on her heels. Becky felt the pain in her face spread, involuntary tears in her eyes.

  “Move!” Jane commanded. “Right now. And don’t open your mouth again unless I tell you to. Do you understand all that?”

  In his room, Paul Kelly sat on the bed and smiled. It was going to be such a fun night.

  For some. Not for others.

  Becky managed to nod her head in understanding. She was almost numb with fear. She moved through the door and into the night, walking across her yard toward her neighbor’s house.

  The two women entered through the back door, into the den. On their way, Becky discovered what she thought she’d imagined hearing and seeing had been reality.

  Several of her neighbors, in various stages of undress, entered the house behind her.

  The sliding doors closed. The drapes were pulled shut. Tightly.

  Becky stood in the well-appointed den and stared in shock and disbelief.

  There was Mr. Yardly, owner of a local real-estate office. He was sitting on the couch beside Mr. Simpson. They were both naked. They grinned at Becky.

  She didn’t really have to look to see what was causing the grunting sound coming from her left.

  But she looked anyway.

  Marie Operman was bent over a chair, the Reverend Nils Masterson on top of her.

  Becky noticed that Masterson’s socks were mismatched.

  Pure, raw, gutter profanity rolled, in shocking waves, out of Marie’s mouth.

  Jane’s husband, Todd, walked into the den. He, too, wore nothing. He grinned at Becky.

  “We’re having a party here tonight, Becky baby. We thought you might like to join us.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Becky managed to say. “I want to go back to my house.” Anger overrode her fear. “What is the matter with all of you? Have you lost your minds? I’ll call the police and have you arrested for kidnapping.”

  They laughed at her.

  Then, slowly, they came closer.

  “Goddamn you all!” Becky yelled, trying to fight off Betty Jordan’s hands as they roamed over her body, fondling this and that.

  She tried to run, to escape. But she was ridden down to the floor. Hands ripped her clothing from her. Air-conditioned coolness fanned her flesh. She tried to fight them off.

  “No!” Becky wailed. “Please, no!”

  The long night began.

  * * *

  “I could have sworn that was Jane Harvey walking over to Becky’s house,” Melissa said. “And I still say that was a pistol in her hand.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harvey are proponents of gun control, Melissa,” Linda reminded her. “They’re on the committee to ban handguns in Tepehuanes. Now come on! She probably had a cake or something.”

  “Some funny-looking cake.” Melissa was not convinced.

  With a sigh, Linda shook her head. She had allowed her own imagination to run rampant after listening to the kids’ stories. Some of their fear had been transmitted to her. Now it was time to calm down and think this thing out.r />
  That was a good idea. The problem was, Linda was still just about as scared as the kids.

  That odd smell was getting to her. And Paul’s voice . . . God! it was eerie.

  “Well”—Linda stood up—“I think I’ll just walk over to the Matthews’ house.”

  That statement was met by a loud and very determined chorus of “Oh, no!”

  The phone rang.

  Linda stilled it. Bing. She gave the phone to Janis.

  Janis listened for a moment, said a few OKs, then hung up. She turned to the group.

  They had agreed that since Lisa had a gang, they would have a group.

  It sounded better.

  “Lisa and her pals tried to ambush Bing and Roy.” Janis was aware that her brother was probably listening. “Lisa’s bunch didn’t do too good. Rex got cut pretty bad, and Clark—that must be the Clark over on Temple Street—got kicked in his parts. Bing and Roy are with Deputy Loneman. As soon as Rex gets stitched up, the cops are taking them in to be questioned.”

  “Did Bing call his mother and father?” Linda asked.

  “Yeah. They’re uptight. So are Roy’s mom and dad. And Bing says there’s some big doings over at the hospital. Something about some old cowboy seeing zombies.”

  “Zombies!” they all blurted out, including Linda.

  “Yeah. Bing didn’t know too much. But he overheard some cops talking.” She turned and punched out the Matthews’ phone number and let it ring and ring.

  No answer.

  “I don’t like that,” she said, placing the receiver on the cradle.

  She motioned for Linda to come closer. Held a finger to her lips. Whispered to her.

  “Get a poker from the fireplace. I made a club out of a broken table leg. We’re going over to the Harvey house. I’ve got a feeling something bad is going on there. You don’t wanna go—I’ll go myself.”

  Linda looked at Janis. She wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from children . . . still, something in the girl’s eyes and manner quieted any objections she might have wanted to voice.

  Linda nodded, walked to the fireplace, and picked up the poker.

  Janis took an old table leg from the closet, then whispered to the other girls. Carol nodded and turned on the stereo. Rock music filled the room.

  Janis moved toward the door at the rear of the den, Linda right behind her, holding the poker. Outside, the wind sighed gently, blowing over the dark desert.

  “Spooky,” Janis said.

  “Stinky! Phew.”

  It was all of that. And more. Neither girl could put her feelings into words, but the night was somehow different. They listened. The wind was different, too, not only the night murk.

  The desert was no longer friendly. Now it seemed ominous and dangerous. A place to be avoided and feared.

  Both girls tried to tell themselves that it was all in their imagination, that nothing was wrong. That the added murk of the night was not real. But the attempts stuck in their minds. Silent lies.

  Something was very wrong. And not just here. All over Tepehuanes.

  Janis stopped abruptly and Linda bumped into her. Both girls almost jumped out of their sneakers.

  Janis waited until her heart had slowed its frantic pounding, then whispered, “Getting to you, huh? I know the feeling. And it’s been getting worse, harder to deal with every day.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  The girls, speaking in whispers, stood in the yard between the Kelly house and the Matthews’ house. The murk seemed to surround them. But it was not protective.

  Its touch was somehow ugly, leaving both girls desperately wanting to take a long hot bath.

  They rubbed their bare arms.

  “Ever since we got back from our trip. It’s just . . . well, I don’t know . . . hard to explain. A feeling I have. It’s kind of like a pressure cooker, you know? I guess that’s the best way to describe it. It’s just been building and building. Never seems to stop.”

  “And when do you think this thing is going to reach the blowup point?”

  “Real soon,” Janis said, a dead quality in her voice. She moved forward, making her way through the stinking and unnatural darkness.

  Linda stayed close behind her. She no longer felt stupid carrying the poker.

  They passed the rear of the Matthews’ home. All was silent. Both could sense the house was unoccupied. They exchanged silent glances in the darkness, and slowly moved on.

  As they drew nearer to the Harvey house, they could hear music bulling through the stinking air. Hard rock music. Heavy metal. Its harshness surged at them, the undecipherable howlings and wailings containing messages of a most Satanic nature. Somewhere in the house, a man laughed. That was followed by a woman’s shuddering, Sybaritic cry of pleasure.

  Another woman screamed in pain.

  “That sounded like Becky Matthews,” Janis whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “And that music. That’s odd. The Harveys don’t listen to music like that. They have all those records from the old days. Sixties’ stuff.”

  Linda nodded her head. “That sure isn’t Elvis or Jerry Lee,” she agreed.

  They slipped on, making their way onto the Harvey property, through the open gate in the fence.

  Then a shadow seemed to rise directly out of the ground, in front of the girls.

  “Well, now.” The man spoke. They could see his hard grin; could smell his unwashed body despite the stink in the air. “Would you just take a look at who’s here? Come join our party!”

  Both girls reacted as if by reflex. They did not say a word, just swung their weapons; Janis on the left, Linda on the right of the man.

  And they were not a bit gentle.

  Janis’s heavy table leg conked the smelly man on one side of his head just as Linda’s poker bonked him on the other. The odious figure dropped to the ground without another sound.

  “Did we kill him?” Janis panted.

  “I don’t know. And I really don’t care.”

  “Me, neither.”

  The girls willed their hearts to stop racing. They took deep breaths, relaxed their grips on the poker and the table leg, and so eased the pressure on their whitened knuckles. And they silently requested their legs to stop trembling before their knees started knocking.

  They could hear the man breathing.

  “Guess not,” Janis said.

  “He’s gonna be out for five or ten minutes,” Linda guessed. Her voice was shaky. “And probably disoriented for that long when he wakes up.” Her breath came hard. “Come on. Let’s see what’s going on in that house and then get out of here.”

  “I’m with you.”

  They moved closer to the Harveys’, almost at a crawling pace. The night and the strange wind, the smell, and the crash and thud of the music wrapped around them like a shroud. Both girls felt dirty.

  They reached the house and pressed against it for a moment. Linda peeked through a crack in the drapes covering the den window. She could not contain a gasp of rage and fear and anger.

  “What is it?” Janis whispered.

  Linda shook her head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Janis tried to see inside, but Linda pushed her away. “Don’t look!” she said.

  Janis struggled free and peeked in.

  She felt sick to her stomach.

  “I warned you.”

  “So next time I’ll listen.” She fought away the nausea but could taste bile. “Come on. Let’s get back to Becky’s house and call the police.”

  They walked much faster now, on leaving.

  The smelly man was still unconscious as they passed him. Janis stopped. Raising the table leg, she gave him another knock on the head.

  “For luck,” she explained, the words containing a hardness that belied her age.

  The girls slipped into the Matthews’ house, through the garage door. Janis ran to the phone, punched out the number of the police department. Mike was not there, she was inf
ormed. Very quickly, she explained what was going on at the Harvey house.

  “You girls stay right where you are,” the dispatcher instructed them. “Don’t leave that house. A unit is on the way.”

  They left the house, of course. Both of them felt vulnerable in there. Trapped.

  They were standing in the shadows cast by the tall shrubbery at the front of the house when the police cars pulled up. They arrived silently: no lights and no sirens. The girls ran out to meet them.

  Peter Loneman was in the third car, riding with the city cop who had brought Janis her walkie-talkie.

  Linda said, “Becky Matthews is tied face down over a pool table in the den. She’s naked and she’s all bloody.”

  “Stay with them,” Loneman said to one of his men.

  Then he and a burly city cop carrying a sledge hammer ran to the front door. The doorknob was knocked out with one blow, the dead-bolt lock shattered with another. The door swung open. Several naked men and women tried to run out the back of the house, through the sliding doors.

  They ran right into several cops, waiting with night sticks. Hickory impacted heads.

  Janis and Linda watched as more police cars pulled up, Mike and Sheriff Sandry in the lead vehicle, Leo and Stanford right behind them. The girls hurried over to them.

  “Jesus, it stinks out here!” Sandry remarked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Makes your skin crawl,” Mike added.

  “Put in a call for an ambulance!” a cop shouted from the shattered doorway. “This woman’s been tortured as well as raped.”

  Neighbors began to gather on their front lawns, standing in tight, silent little groups, their presence highlighted by the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars that had pulled in last.

  Linda put her arm around Janis’s shoulders, held the younger, smaller girl close to her.

  Janis’s world began to spin in multicolored hues as metallic-sounding words spewed out of a unit’s radio that was set to broadcast out of the speaker set in the light bar.

  “Advise Chief Bambridge that Mark Kelly just died.”

  * * *

  Janis awakened on the couch in the den of her home. Linda was bathing her face with a wet cloth. A paramedic was standing over her, smiling down at her. Her group gathered around her, their faces solemn.