Darkly The Thunder (2 page)

Doyle remembered.

“This is going to be fun!” Pat Irwin said. She paused, cocking her head to one side, frowning. “Did any of you just hear someone chuckling – kind of a deep voice?”

“Yeah,” Leon said. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

Faint singing drifted to them. “Do bop de do bop de do bop, de do.”

 

 

Coffee poured and the men seated, Gordie said, “Gomez finally got around to telling me, yesterday, about a missing cowboy of his. Of course, that's not unusual. Last week, Lowman had a man disappear and never come back. Several ranchers and farmers have told me that their dogs just flat refuse to leave the house at night. Just simply refuse to leave the porch. They whine and whimper, until someone lets them inside.”

“What are you saying, Gordie? A bear on the prowl? No bear did that to Carol Ann.”

“Cowboys have a habit of drifting, Al. No damn grizzly wandered up to that drive-in and tore that girl apart. No grizzly tied that goddamn bow of guts on the mirror, and placed her hands on the wheel perfectly at ten and two. With that much blood loss, Carol Ann was ripped apart. There are bits of flesh all over the car, which indicates to me that she was eaten right there at that drive-in.”

Watts grimaced at the thought. “Which leads us . . . ?” He let it trail off.

Gordie smiled at the us. The old warhoss wasn't about to be excluded from this case, and Gordie – no publicity hound, and with not an ounce of professional jealousy in him – welcomed his help. “I don't know, Al. Yet. Al? What's with this thunder that only a few of us seem to notice?”

Watts's eyes were bright and sharp and alert. “You think some distant thunder has anything to do with cowboys disappearing and Carol Ann's death?”

“Do you?” the sheriff tossed it back to him.

Watts shrugged his still muscular shoulders. He looked and acted more like fifty than sixty-five. “I'll reserve comment on that for a time. Have you notified Carol's parents?”

“They're out of town. Visiting relatives somewhere. We haven't been able to locate them.”

“The press?”

“Just our little paper. And I haven't exactly leveled with them. That's the main reason why the drive-in was cordoned off and closed.”

“The car hops? Or whatever the hell they're called now.”

Gordie laughed. “That dates you, Al. Yeah, I think I put the fear of the law in them. But it'll eventually leak out; you know that.”

Watts nodded and met the sheriff's eyes. “You believe in the supernatural?”

“I believe in God and Satan and the hereafter.”

“That isn't exactly what I meant.”

“You mean like spooks and hobgoblins and werewolves and things like that?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell do you mean, and what are you getting at, Al?”

Watts rose from his chair and walked to a window. Getting dark. “More and more thunder occurring. It's like . . . he's trying to tell us something.”

“Who?”

“Sand.”

“Sand?”

“Long story, Gordie.”

“I got the time.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“About what?”

“Maybe it is time.”

Gordie shifted in his chair. “This conversation is getting just a little strange, Al. I've got a dead girl foremost on my mind.”

“You're the one who asked about the thunder, Gordie.”

“Who is Sand?”

“A young man I killed thirty years ago. Almost to the day.”

“I was five years old,” Gordie said drily.

“If I remember correctly, Sand was twenty-one. Right after his death, I started hearing the thunder.” Watts moved toward the door. “Let's see what this night brings, Gordie. Then we'll talk.”

Without another word, Watts opened the door and walked outside. He looked up at the sounds of distant thunder.

The sheriff called for an inside deputy. “Dig through the files, Mack. See what you can find on somebody named Sand. It might be interesting reading.”

“Sand was his nickname, Sheriff,” the old deputy said. “You're from Logantown; you wouldn't have any reason to know anything about the Saunders boy.”

“You know the story?”

“Oh, yeah. There's still a few of us around who remember what went on.”

“Get some coffee and have a seat, Mack. Talk to me. Who was he? We don't have any Saunders in this valley. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”

“The family moved away shortly after the boy was killed. I don't know where they went. Sand said he'd be back. Told Captain Watts that right before he died. I know; I was there.”

“Where is there?”

“On that flat just below the ghost town.”

That's the direction the thunder seems to be coming from, Gordie thought. Oh, come on! he silently berated himself. Next thing you know, you'll start looking under the bed at night.

“And Sand said something else, too,” Mack broke into his thoughts. “He said that we couldn't see ... something. He never did say what it was. But he said he could see it. And someday we'd need him. I'm gonna admit something to you, Sheriff: I felt, that night, standing over that broken, bloody, dying, but still unforgiving young man, I felt like, well, that his soul didn't really leave. Me and Watts talked about it – just one time. We never spoke of it again. But we both saw misty shapes all around us that night. You see, a lot of Sand's friends – and his wife – had been killed before Sand got killed. I ain't never been back to that mountain. Never. And I'm not goin' back, either.”

Some invisible
thing
, slimy and greasy and fear-producing, crawled lightly over Sheriff Gordie Rivera's flesh. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling.

The sky rumbled with thunder.

 

He was sitting in the Roxanne Theater, watching the previews of coming attractions, when he suddenly jumped up and began screaming that he couldn't stand the pain. Holding his head, he ran down the aisle, his screaming almost drowning out the sounds of dialogue from the huge lips on the screen. He jumped up on the stage, just as the theater manager was yelling for someone to turn on the house lights. The lights popped on, flooding the stage with brightness.

Then the young man's head exploded.

The little kids sitting on the front row were showered and splattered with blood and brains; eyeballs rolled around on the dusty floor of the stage, and then silently slipped off, to land with a soft plop on the floor of the building.

Later, some would swear they heard someone humming some do-bop stuff. Fifties music.

“Do bop de do bop de do bop, de do.”

Those seated around the front went into a blind panic, screaming and yelling and running away. Some of them were injured, trampled in their terror-stricken rush to get out, to get away from the awfulness.

The sheriffs department was called.

Sitting in his den, the lights turned down low, listening to a scanner, Watts got out of his chair and slipped on a light windbreaker. He was reaching for a pistol, when a voice popped into his head.

“That won't do you any good.”

Watts felt the strength leave his legs. Afraid he might collapse, he leaned against a wall for support, waiting for the shock to leave him. He knew that voice well. Sand.

When he was sure his legs would once more function, Watts walked out of the house to his car. He left his pistol on the table by the scanner.

He arrived at the Roxanne Theater just a few seconds behind Sheriff Rivera.

“Don't ask,” Gordie said. “I don't know what's going on.”

“Then we'll find out together.”

Gordie ordered some of his people to start working the crowds that were milling around the outside. Try to find out something.

“Somebody must have blowed his head off with a shotgun!” the theater manager said. “Goddamn, it was awful. I never seen anything like it.”

Both Gordie and Watts had seen enough shotgun deaths to discount the manager's theory almost immediately. At point-blank range, brains and blood and bone and teeth and eyeballs might splatter left and right, certainly following the rearward path of the blast. They would not splatter all to the front, certainly not in a neat semicircle.

Gordie ordered the theater closed for the night.

“Do bop de do bop de do bop, de do!” the singing sprang out of the cavernous interior.

“Turn off that damn music,” Gordie ordered.

“There's nothing on,” the manager said.

The law personnel exchanged curious looks. Watts said, “The head had to have exploded from the inside.”

“You know what you're saying is virtually impossible, don't you?”

Watts shrugged.

Pictures were taken of the headless body, and the body was bagged and hauled off.

“It started out to be such a pretty spring,” Deputy Jane Owens said.

“It's going to get worse,” the voice sprang hollow and eerie from the air.

Jane jumped about a foot off the floor and looked around her. “Who said that?”

Gordie looked at Watts. “Don't tell me. Let me guess. Sand.”

“Yeah. In spirit, if not in the flesh.”

 

 

The night was cold and the fire was crackling. The group of college students sat just a few yards from the beginning of the old ghost town's main street, lined with crumbling buildings, built of stone and mortar and wood. Leon produced a bottle of booze. It was quickly consumed, the wine warming them. The Ouija board was brought out and set up.

“Tell us about that huge circle down below us,” Sandy said, turning to Paul Morris. “That's a weird-looking thing.”

“It's where then-captain Al Watts killed a young man named Saunders. Everybody called him Sand.”

“Who is Captain Watts?” Hillary asked.

“He retired as head of the state police. I've known him all my life,” Paul said.

“You knew this Saunders person?” Bos asked, producing another jug of wine.

“Oh, no. I wasn't even born when he died. It happened thirty years ago.”

“Back in the marvelous fifties,” Lynn said wistfully. “I wish I'd lived back then.”

“Jesus, Lynn,” Doyle said, giving her a strange look. “Why?”

“Because everything was so laid-back and cool and easy, that's why.”

Nobody had anything to add to that, for none among them really knew anything about the fifties, except for the bullshit that Hollywood has produced, with not one film in a hundred portraying that time period accurately.

They drank more wine; all were getting a slight buzz on. Doyle said, “Let's get the Ouija board.”

But when he went to get it, it was not where he had put it.

“Come on, people! Where'd you hide it?”

Sandy started making little funny noises in her throat. They all turned to look at her. She was on her knees by the fire, pointing into the air.

The Ouija board had levitated off the ground, about five feet, and was hovering, trembling slightly. The planchette was balanced on the board.

“Holy shit!” Pat said, and took a slug of wine from another bottle.

The Ouija board settled slowly back to the ground.

“Ask it a question,” Leon suggested.

“
You
ask it a question!” Doyle said.

“Oh, come on!” Leon laughed at the group. “It was a wind gust, that's all. None of you people believe in that spook crap, do you?”

The Ouija board began vibrating on the ground, the planchette bouncing around on the board, but never slipping off.

“This is just too weird,” Hillary said. “And I don't like it.”

Paul laughed at her, and walked to the board and picked it up, moving closer to the fire. He knelt down and spelled out: What is going on?

With Paul's fingers resting lightly on the planchette, the three-cornered wooden device spelled out: Death.

Paul moved the planchette, spelling out: Whose death?

All of you was the reply.

Hillary scrambled to her feet. “I'm getting out of here!”

Bos pulled her back down to the ground. “Don't be a jerk. This is just a game, Hillary. Paul is just trying to scare us, that's all.”

Only Paul knew that wasn't true. But he couldn't resist just one more try at the mysterious board. He spelled out: Why us?

The planchette moved: Why not, asshole!

Paul jerked his fingers away.

Lynn frowned at him from across the fire. “This isn't one bit funny, Paul.”

DO BOP DE DO BOP DE DO BOP, DE DO.

“Now what?” Leon asked, looking around him, trying to pinpoint the source of the singing.

“Now this,” Paul said. He picked up the Ouija board and threw it into the fire.

The board and planchette popped out of the flames, unsinged.

“Now, damnit!” Paul yelled. “You all try to blame that on me.” He pointed at the board.

The others could but sit or stand in silence and stare.

The board spelled out: Play with me! Play with me!

“Doyle,” Pat said, forcing a calmness into her voice that she did not feel. “I want to get out of this place, and I mean like right now!”

The board spelled out: Stupid cunt!

“Screw you!” Pat screamed at the board.

Chuckling, deep and dark-tinged, sprang out of the rotting and crumbling and boarded-up buildings of the old town.

“That's it!” Paul said. “Come on, gang. We're getting the hell out of here.”

No one argued with that.

Only problem was, none of the cars would start.

“I've got a bad feeling about this,” Leon said.

“You're not alone,” Hillary assured him.

“I'm for walking out,” Bos said.

A voice sprang out of the darkened town. IT'S PARTY TIME. Then it sang, TURN YOUR RADIOS ON, TURN THE VOLUME UP. WHEN YOU GET TIRED OF DANCING, YOU CAN ALWAYS FUCK!

“Paul,” Hillary said, disgust in her voice, “this is a very sick joke.”

“I got news for all of you people,” Paul said. “I don't know what the hell is going on around here. I don't have anything to do with any of this.”

“I believe you, Paul,” Sandy said. “I just wish I knew what was going on.”

TURN ON YOUR GODDAMNED RADIOS! the voice screamed from the darkness.

Feeling somewhat like a fool, but not knowing what else to do, Leon turned toward the town. “How can we turn on the radios, if the cars are as dead as a hammer?”

OH, YE OF LITTLE FAITH, the voice crooned soothingly.

“Well, let's try it,” Paul said. He walked back to his car and clicked on the radio. Music from the fifties filled the air. Patti Page singing “Doggie in the Window.”

Arf-arf.

The radios in the other car and van were tried. Same results. No matter how the dial was spun, or what button was pushed, the same music played on all.

“Now maybe one of you would like to tell me just how I could manage to do that?” Paul challenged, still irritated about his friends blaming him.

“No one's blaming you anymore, Paul,” Bos said. “Back off some. Hell, we're all in this together.”

“That's right, Paul,” Hillary said. “Cool down. I think we're all going to have to work together before this – ”

BOOGIE! BOOGIE! BOOGIE! the voice yelled.

The rhythmic sounds of Bo Diddley filled the cool night.

The voice laughed.

“It's gonna be a long night,” Bos said.

 

 

In his office, Sheriff Rivera picked up the phone, stuck it to his ear, and started to punch out the number. His finger stopped when a deep voice said, WHAT DO YOU WANT NOW, YOU STUPID SPIC?

Gordie held the phone away from him and looked at it as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“What's the matter?” Watts asked.

“Goddamn thing just called me a stupid spic.”

Watts stared at him for a moment. “It wasn't Sand. Sand never used racist language.”

Gordie shook his head in exasperation. “Al, have you lost your mind? Dead people don't talk on the damn phone.”

“Don't bet on it.” He took the phone from Gordie. “Who were you going to call?”

“State police.

Watts punched out the number and stuck the phone to his ear.

STUPID OLD COPPER!

Without hesitation, Watts asked, “Who is this? What kind of sick game are you playing?”

DO BOP DE DO BOP DE DO BOP, DE DO.

Watts held the phone out so Gordie could hear the singing.

“I grew up with the Beatles and the Stones and the Supremes, Al. That's some kind of fifties' stuff, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Do-bop.”

The singing stopped, and Watts again punched out the number to the state police HQ nearest to Willowdale. It was answered promptly.

“This is Al Watts over in Willowdale. Let me speak to the watch commander, please.”

“Al? Lieutenant James here. What's the problem? I know you must have one, 'cause you damn sure never call to let us know how you're getting on.”

“I promise to do better, Shel. Look, we, ah, have a situation here in Willowdale, and we – the sheriff and I – would like to keep a press lid on it for as long as possible. And I would really rather not discuss too much of it on the horn.”

“Just sketch for me, Al. Give me something.”

“Two rather bizarre homicides do?”

“Sure will. I'll – ”

THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MARKET, AND ANY PIGGIES WHO STICK THEIR SNOUTS IN HERE WILL END UP AS PORK CHOPS AND CHITTERLINGS.

“What the hell was that?” Lieutenant James shouted.

“Part of the problem.”

“You been having many phone disruptions by some nut, Al?”

SCREW YOU, COPPER!

The watch commander contained his temper. Barely. “I'll roll a team as quickly as possible, Al.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I – ”

The phone went dead.

“Troops coming in?” Gordie asked.

“Yes. For whatever good they'll be.” He handed the receiver back to the sheriff. “Line's dead.”

Gordie listened, nodded his head in agreement. “Like a hammer. Judy!” he called. “Check your phones, please.”

A few seconds later the dispatcher buzzed him. “They're working, Sheriff.”

Gordie jerked up the phone on his desk. It hummed in his ear. He replaced the phone and shook his head. “I don't understand any of this, Al. I can't get a fix in my head on what we're dealing with.”

“You want a guess from me? Something from off the top of my head?”

“Why not.”

“I think we're dealing with . . . well, something beyond our realm of understanding.”

Gordie blinked and stared at the man for a moment. He sighed and drummed his fingertips on the desk. “Ghosts?” he asked softly.

“No. Well, in a sense, yes.”

Gordie fixed him with a jaundiced look.

“Let me explain that.”

“Please do.”

“Sand is dead. But Sand's . . . soul, I guess, did not leave this area.”

Gordie groaned softly.

“So in that respect, yes, we have ghosts.”