Cemetery Club (6 page)

*  *  *

The door to Gus’s Bar and Grill opened, letting in a quick gust of damp wind that sped through the room, lifting collars and cutting channels through musty air permanently tainted by decades of smoke, urine and cheap beer.

“Shut the damn door!” Gus Mellonis shouted from behind the bar. His voice echoed off the walls, easily overpowering the Rolling Stones ballad playing on the jukebox. It was after midnight and only six stools supported customers; another half hour and they’d be gone, too, which was just the way Gus liked it.

The door slammed shut and two figures emerged from the shadows of the front alcove into the bar. One of them wore a black suit so wet from the rain that rivulets of water ran from the jacket onto the floor, where they formed puddles as soon as he stopped walking. Fresh mud stains covered both his knees. The second figure was just as wet. Mud and grime coated his faded green shirt and Dickies.

“Holy shit!” Chuck Passella, a long-time regular at Gus’s, slammed his hand on the bar. “Pete Webster? What the hell you doin’ here? Half the town’s lookin’ for you and the other half thinks you’re dead. Hey, you want a beer?”

Pete gave him a crooked smile, as if his mouth wasn’t working quite right and nodded.

Chuck turned to Gus. “Pour him a beer, on me.”

Gus poured the drink. As he set the mug down, he stared at the blotchy white marks on Pete’s face. “Christ, Pete. You don’t look good. What happened to you?”

Pete just stared at him.

When no explanation followed, Gus shrugged and turned to Pete’s companion, who had similar markings on his cheeks. “How ‘bout you, pal?”

The man shook his head but remained silent.

“Where the hell you been Pete?” asked Chuck. “And what happened to Frankie?”

Pete leaned on the bar and motioned for Chuck to lean closer. The other patrons slid their chairs over as well.

Without warning Pete smashed his beer mug against Chuck’s head. As the old man’s unconscious body toppled to the floor, Lester Boone vaulted over the bar and punched Gus in the nose, knocking him into the liquor bottles on the shelf next to the cash register. Gus grabbed a bottle and swung it at his attacker but Lester paid no mind as it bounced off his temple. Before Gus could swing again, Lester shoved his thumbs into Gus’s eyes. The bartender screamed high and loud as blood and fluids spurted from his ruined orbs.

The remaining five men seated at the bar reacted quickly, despite their varying degrees of sobriety. Four of them ran towards Pete while the fifth climbed over the counter to help Gus.

Pete picked up a barstool and swung it by one leg, baseball style, catching two men and sending them stumbling backwards. Shards of wood flew in all directions as the stool splintered, leaving Pete with a two-foot section in his hands.

Nick Pacinino charged forward and swung his fist into Pete’s face. The brittle crunch of bones breaking filled the bar and Nick howled in pain as his knuckles snapped. Then he had to step backwards when Pete, his jaw hanging to one side, swung the stool leg at him. Nick took another step and tripped on some debris. The pain of landing on his injured hand caused him to cry out again. A moment later, Pete stood over him, gripping the wooden leg with both hands.

“No, Pete, don’t!” Nick raised his arms to ward off the blow he knew was coming.

Pete brought his arms down in a vicious arc, driving the broken end through Nick’s throat. The older man managed a final gurgling, blood-filled gasp before his life pumped out in a red geyser.

“Fuckin’ bastard!” Rory Calbert wrapped his arms around Pete’s chest and brought him down to the floor, executing the tackle exactly the way his old football coach had taught him to do. Kneeling on the smaller man’s chest, Rory raised his fist. “Say your prayers asshole,” he shouted.

Before Rory could throw the punch, Pete grabbed his other arm with both hands and pulled it forward towards his mouth. Suddenly off balance, Rory could only watch as Pete bit a chunk of meat from his forearm.

“Aaah!” Rory screamed and fell to the side, cradling the torn fleshy hole. Pete got to his hands and knees, swallowed the piece of meat and dove forward, this time closing his teeth on the soft skin of Rory’s throat.

Rory’s cry for help turned into a gurgling, choking sound as the hole in his neck sprayed blood across Pete’s face and the front of the bar.

Behind the bar, Lester pushed Benny Jurgen’s face into the hot, soapy water of the glass washer. He held the man under until his screams stopped and then pulled him out. Jurgen vomited up beer and dishwater as he fell to the floor, his face red and blistered from the boiling liquid. Under the cash register, Gus howled and held his hands over his ruined eyes. Blood and other liquids painted jagged red and yellow trails through the gray stubble covering his cheeks. Lester ignored him as he delivered a series of violent kicks to Benny’s head.

Bud Grant, his fighting days more than thirty years behind him, darted around Pete and ran for the door as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him, a single thought buzzing through his beer-addled brain.

Gotta get away. Gotta get away.

He was ten feet from the door when Pete tackled him. The last thing he saw was the grimy, black stained wooden floor approaching his eyes.

Lester picked up Benny Jurgen and placed him on his shoulder, much as he’d done earlier with Aimee’s body. Pete hoisted the unconscious forms of Bud Grant and Chuck Passella and he and Lester carried their loads out of the bar.

On the jukebox the Rolling Stones song came to end. For several minutes, nothing moved, as if a magical force had turned the tavern into a 3D depiction of death. Then dark, smoky tendrils rose up from the two dead bodies on the floor. The grayish, insubstantial ropes wound themselves together over each corpse, growing vaguely humanoid in shape. As more ethereal matter emerged, the ghostly beings formed themselves into child-sized creatures. Circular mouths and burning red eyes appeared.

The two apparitions floated towards and passed through the ceiling, leaving the bar empty except for the corpses and Gus Mellonis, who saw nothing as he clutched the remains of his eyeballs and shrieked to the heavens for someone to stop the pain.

Cory Miles woke up just after ten, according to the digital clock radio next to his surprisingly comfortable king-size bed. The Holiday Inn on Route 9W hadn’t been there the last time he’d been to town; the fact that Rocky Point had grown large enough to even rate a hotel, let alone a four-story Holiday Inn, had surprised him.

Usually an early riser, Cory had allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in because he’d been up until two in the morning. Every time he’d tried to close his eyes, Todd’s words
– I think it’s happening again
- came back to haunt him. Cory was pretty sure he knew what
it
was. If he’d had any doubts, Todd’s mention of the cemetery had put them to rest, hard and painfully. A chorus of police and ambulance sirens just before midnight hadn’t helped either.

It can’t be happening again. Todd went down there, he ended it. No one died after that day.

Even after Cory had drifted off to sleep, dreams of strange creatures, black-skinned aliens with egg-shaped heads and glowing red eyes, tormented him through the night and into the morning, leaving him feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“What I need is coffee, lots of it, followed by a long, hot shower.”

His plan for the morning was to grab breakfast from the Dunkin’ Donuts next door, read the newspaper and then shower. Then he’d head back to the police station, hopefully to find a judge on duty who’d sign Todd’s release.

Everything changed when, on his way through the lobby with his breakfast, he picked up a copy of the local paper from the rack by the front desk.

‘Bloodbath shocks Rocky Point!’

Five minutes later he was on his way to the police station.

Cory squeezed between the photographers and reporters crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the sergeant’s desk, only to have a uniformed cop tell him he had to wait with the rest of the press.

“You don’t understand. I’m here on official business,” Cory said to the officer.

“Yeah, you and all these other jerks. Now move back.”

As he tried to find a way around the human obstacle, he spotted Chief Travers entering through a side door at the back of the station.

“Travers! Travers, it’s Cory Miles. Tell this guy to let me through.”

Travers looked over and frowned. For a moment Cory thought the man was going to ignore him. Then the Chief came over and tapped the desk sergeant on the shoulder.

“Let him through,” he said, raising his voice over the cries of “Chief! Chief! Give us a statement!” from the gathered press. “He’s Randolph’s attorney.”

Cory smiled and stepped forward but his victory was short-lived as the crowd of reporters immediately turned on him and shouted a barrage of questions.

“What’s Mr. Randolph’s status?”

“Is it true he ate the bodies after he killed them?”

“What kind of defense are you preparing?”

A series of flashes momentarily blinded him and when he opened his eyes, a bouquet of microphones had blossomed in front of his face.

“Um, no comment. Please, I’ll provide a statement later. Right now I have to see my client.” He turned away and found Chief Travers grinning in a decidedly evil fashion.

“You did that on purpose,” Cory said, as he and Travers entered the Chief’s office.

“First time I’ve smiled all day.” Travers shut the door and sat down behind his desk, motioning for Cory to take one of the other chairs. “Lemme guess. You’re here to get Randolph released. Well, too bad. Judge Beckett ain’t in yet.”

Cory took the morning newspaper from his briefcase and slammed it on the desk so that the headline faced Travers.

“I don’t have to wait for the judge anymore. According to this, you had five more murders last night. And unless one of your boys let my client out for a midnight stroll, he’s got a rock-solid alibi. Between that and the eyewitnesses that place him at the library on the afternoon of the first murder, you don’t have enough to hold my client another minute.”

Travers’ lips tightened until they almost disappeared. When he spoke, his tone carried a bitter edge. “It’s bullshit and you know it counselor. The time of death could be wrong for Frank Adams. Your buddy Randolph could have somebody else working for him, one of his nut house buddies. God knows they let enough loonies out of that place when it closed. And Randolph’s a convicted killer.”

Cory leaned back and allowed himself his own malicious smile. “Not good enough and we both know it. Now let him go, and you can get to work finding the real killer.”

“Fine.” Travers stood up so fast his chair rolled back, banging into a file cabinet. “But he’s still remanded into your custody Miles. One fuck-up and you’re both back here faster than you can say ‘
habus corpus
’.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my client out the back, rather than face the press. He’s been through enough.”

“Don’t push your luck, son.”

“Gee, and I figured you wouldn’t want Todd’s face all over the newspapers, what with those cuts and bruises and all.”

Travers glared at him and then called out to the desk sergeant. “Harris! Escort Mr. Miles to Randolph’s cell.”

“Thanks Chief.” Cory headed down the hall and then stopped, turning back. “Hey Chief!”

Travers paused by his office door.

“It’s
habeas corpus
. Not habus.”

Travers slammed the door without responding but even from twenty feet away Cory heard the man cursing.

“Have a good day Chief,” he said as he turned back to follow Sergeant Harris.

“I just want to say thanks again, Cory. I didn’t expect to be home so soon.” Todd Randolph stared at his house from inside Cory’s car, as if afraid he’d get beaten again if he got out.

“Don’t thank me,” Cory said. “Travers had no choice.”

“Anyway...” Todd’s voice trailed off into an awkward pause.

Cory cringed inside, knowing what was coming but dreading the words.
Please don’t say it...

“Listen. About the murders. We need to talk.”

Dammit!

“I know. But not today. You need to take a little time, let your mother know you’re all right and get a good night’s sleep. How ‘bout if we grab lunch tomorrow? My treat.”

Todd shook his head. “No, I’ve got some research to finish before we get together. Let’s make it dinner. But come over here. I’ll cook. I...well, I wasn’t getting such a good reception in town before all this happened. I’d hate to have someone spit in your food just because you’re eating with me.”

“Okay. I’m staying at the Holiday Inn, Room 306. Call me.”

“I will.” Todd paused again and then slowly exited the car, his stiff movements and prematurely graying hair making him look like an old man. Cory waited until Todd entered the house before driving away.

Twenty years,
Cory thought as he entered his hotel room. He tossed his key card on the desk and lay down on the bed.
All that time, locked up like a prisoner, just to protect us. God knows what it was like in there. I don’t think I could have handled it without going crazy.

Memories burst open inside Cory’s head, like infected boils unable to take the pressure of the diseased fluids building under the skin.

Todd. Marisol. John.

The Cemetery Club.

*  *  *

Rocky Point High School, 20 years ago

“All right. Everyone shut up and sit down.” Drexel Harrison slammed the door shut, officially beginning the day’s detention period. Harrison doubled as truant officer and detention monitor for the junior class of Rocky Point High School, a job he considered more important than teaching history or science or math. “Anyone can teach,” he liked to tell his friends and family. “But it takes someone with real dedication to make sure students obey the rules.”