Darkly The Thunder (7 page)

“All right. I'll get my bag out of the car, and call for a nurse to meet me here.”

OH, GOODY! MORE PUSSY ON THE WAY.

That stopped the doctor cold. He looked back at Gordie. The sheriff spread his hands in an I-told-you-so gesture.

Gordie looked around for Howie and Angel. He found them sitting together in a corner of the room. He smiled at Angel and winked at Howie.

They both grinned at him.

I DO HOPE THE DOCTOR IS CALLING FOR THAT GOOD-LOOKING NURSE AND NOT THAT OLD BAT. HE'S GOT ONE OVER THERE THAT WOULD STOP A P-38 IN A POWER DIVE.

Howie jerked his head up at that, his eyes narrowing. Gordie watched the boy, wondering why the sudden interest.

DID YOU LIKE MY LITTLE SURPRISE, GREASEBALL?

“If you're speaking of the destruction, yes, it got my attention.”

GOOD. THEN I TRUST YOU WILL DO NOTHING MORE ABOUT YOUR ABSURD PLAN TO EVACUATE THE TOWN?

“We have no plans to do so at the moment.”

GOOD. VERY GOOD. WELL, TA-TA, ALL. I MUST BE OFF TO SPREAD MORE GOOD CHEER.

Craig sat down heavily in a chair. His tanned face was shiny with sweat. When he spoke, his voice was shaky. “Any chance that it's being done by human hands? You know what I mean.”

“I think you know the answer to that as well as I do, Craig.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, I do.”

“Cars coming in with the kids, Sheriff,” Mack said, standing up behind the console. “They look like they've had a bad time of it.”

“Take their statements, Rich.” He walked over to Howie and Angel. “Howie, you seemed awfully interested in what the voice had to say.”

“Oh, not really,” the boy said with a smile. He held up a piece of paper. He had written: Nothing important to be said aloud, Sheriff.

Gordie grinned and patted the boy on the shoulder. He took the note and handed it to Watts, who read it, shook his head in agreement, and began passing it around.

The others read the note and grinned at Howie.

“Now he's a star,” Angel said. “I always knew you'd make it, Howie. Just remember me when you're rich and famous.”

Gordie laughed and then sobered as he looked at the gang of young men and women walking wearily through the front door. They did indeed appear to have had a rough time of it. He checked his watch, wishing the mayor and the town council would get their butts in gear.

 

 

Events were flying past Sunny's eyes so fast she could hardly catalog them in her mind. She did not know whether she was actually, physically, going backward in time, or whether it was all in her mind. She suspected the latter.

Time – or whatever it was—slowed.

She saw a football game in progress. She watched a tall, rugged-looking and handsome young man remove his helmet and stand in the middle of the snowy playing field as play was stopped. Someone was hurt on the field.

There was a look of disgust on the young man's face.

The old-fashioned – to her – scoreboard read: Willowdale 49, Monte Rio 7. The locals had given the other side a real pasting. A band was playing “Twelfth Street Rag” as the cheerleaders danced and waved their pompoms.

One cheerleader in particular held Sunny's attention. It was Robin. She looked closer. It was Robin, but not Richard and Linda's Robin. This was the original.

Sunny felt slightly sick at her stomach. Had she actually traveled thirty years back in time?

The handsome and well-built football player walked off the field, ignoring the shouts from his coach. The young man's hair was very thick, and worn much longer than the 1950s dictated.

Sunny got the accurate impression that this young man didn't give a damn what style demanded. It had to be Sand.

She was suddenly so close to the young man that she felt she could reach out and touch him. And as a woman, she certainly would do that, if she could.

Sunny was embarrassed by her sexual thoughts. The young man turned his head to seemingly look straight at her. He had very pale gray eyes.

At the sidelines, he was met by a stocky, good-looking young man.

Joey, Sunny thought, and wondered how she knew that.

“Last game, Sand,” Joey said.

“Yeah, and I'm glad of it.”

“Did all your bruises and contusions accomplish what you thought they would?”

Sand smiled. “You know they didn't.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps Blasco Ibañez was right.”

“Yeah. The real beast is in the stands. I'm going to shower and get out of this clown suit. I'll see you later.”

“Andrews!” the coach hollered. “Get your butt in there.”

“How can Sand just walk off, Coach? It's his last game. He scored six of the seven touchdowns.”

“Who the hell knows why Sand does anything. Move!”

Sunny smiled as a slender young man stopped Sand. She had seen his picture in California. Dan Thompson.

“Great game, Sand.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

Hero worship if there ever was a case of it, Sunny thought.

She looked at the date on a program that had been tossed to the ground. November, 1957.

Events began unraveling so fast she could not keep up with them. Once she picked out Sand's Mercury; just like she had seen it in the Jennings' shed. Then there was Sand, in street clothes: jeans, boots, black leather jacket. She had to smile for somehow she knew he wore it just to irritate other people.

Custom cars were parked around the Mercury. Thirty-four and ‘36 model street rods, all the way up to '49 and '50 model Fords, Mercurys, and Olds, all chrome and customized.

A man and woman walked by. Sand spoke. The woman smiled, and the man gave him a dirty look.

Sand laughed at him.

The scene shifted. The den of a home. A very angry man stood pointing a finger at Sand. “As long as you're in this house, you'll do as I say, young man. Jesus, why can't you be more like your brother, Harry? You'll never amount to a hill of beans.”

Sunny opened her eyes. She was back in her chair, looking at Richard Jennings. She cleared her dry throat. She had a slight headache. “I don't know what happened, Mr. Jennings. I don't know if this is some sort of trick or not. But I'll play your game. Who or what is the Force?”

“You. Me. All things in all people. Old loves, old fears. Old hates, and everything good and bad. Part of the Force is present in all of us. It becomes very vocal when death is imminent. The Force is the Fury's nemesis. They are longtime enemies. The Force is the God of retributive justice – vengeance.”

“Then . . . that isn't just mythology?”

“No. The Force is very real. And very close to us right now.”

“As is Sand.”

“Yes.”

“How much of what you're telling me is truth, and how much is pure crap, Mr. Jennings?”

Thunder cracked so loudly, it rattled the windows in the house.

“What in the hell do you mean: you can't evacuate the town?” Mayor Adams yelled at Gordie. “What the hell are these soldier boys – and girls – doing here then? Didn't you call for them?”

Gordie tossed the months-old letter on the table. “That's why they're here.”

The mayor grabbed up the letter and scanned it. “Well, I'll be damned! I remember this. 'Deed, I do. Nell forgot to remind me of it.”

“Have you spoken with your secretary today?” Gordie asked.

“Eh? Ah, yes. Briefly. I called her. Acted like she was drunk or something. 'Course, that's ridiculous. The woman doesn't drink. Stop changing the subject, Sheriff.” He turned to the chief deputy. “And why aren't you dressed out, Lee? You have gym in ten minutes. You'd better get cracking, young man.”

“Yeah,” Councilman Fulbright said. “And it's my turn to pitch.”

“It is not!” Councilman Brady shouted. “You get to pitch all the time. You're just a big fatso, fatso! Tubby Toby, that's you!”

“I'm gonna tell Mr. Emerson that I seen you all peekin' into the girls' dressing room!” Councilwoman Edith Wilson yelled.

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

Neither the mayor nor any of the squabbling city council members showed any signs of hearing the singing.

Shaking his head, Gordie motioned for the others to follow him out of the county courtroom. He shut the door behind him and looked at Al Watts.

“I'll tell Sand on you, you big bully!” could be heard from the other room.

“Toby Fulbright,” Al said. “Sand used to take up for him at school.”

“Tubby Toby! Tubby Toby!”

Capt. Hishon said, “Sand? Why does that name ring a bell?”

“Ten years or so back, there was a record out called
Good-bye
Sand
.
”

Hishon snapped his fingers. Anything to get their minds off this damn crazy town. “I remember that. It was a hit. Sand is from here?”

“Right here,” the sheriff said.

“What happened to Sand?”

Watts had started to walk away. He stopped and turned around. “I killed him. Thirty fucking years ago!”

Hishon grimaced. “Sorry, Mr. Watts.”

“For what? You didn't do anything.”

Gordie said, “What about the college kids?”

“They're all right,” Hishon said. “Scared, bruised up some. That . . . thing really gave them a good working over. Mentally and physically. Sheriff, ah, what are we going to do?”

“First thing we're going to do is get the Ingram kids back home. See to that, will you, Judy?”

She nodded.

“Then we're going to seal off the town. We don't let anyone in here, for any reason. Pass the word, Lee, and get cracking on that.” He smiled. “After you get through with gym, that is.”

Lee grimaced and walked away.

Gordie looked up. “Does my sealing off the town meet with your approval?”

I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE INCLUDING ME IN YOUR DECISION-MAKING, RIVIERA.

“Rivera!”

WHATEVER. OH, GO AHEAD AND SEAL IT OFF. NOBODY EVER COMES IN HERE ANYWAY. IT'S SUCH A DUMP.

Gordie took a chance. He winked at Watts, and said, “Sand didn't think so.”

The voice screamed in rage, and Gordie was picked up and thrown across the hallway, to crash against a wall. Stunned, he slumped to the floor.

NEVER, EVER, MENTION THAT VILE ARROGANT UPSTART TO ME AGAIN. NOT EVER AGAIN, SPIC. YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?

Gordie got to his knees, crawled to his boots. “I get the message. Ah, do you have a name?”

YES. BUT AS FAR AS YOU ARE CONCERNED, YOU MAY ADDRESS ME AS ... YOUR MAJESTY.

Gordie rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Fine. Your majesty. At the risk of getting tossed around again . . . what do you have against the, ah, person I just mentioned?”

The hallway pulsed with invisible anger. HE HAS FOUND A FRIEND. A ... SOMEONE I DESPISE. THEY CONSPIRE AGAINST ME. THEY INTERFERE.

The pulsing ceased before Gordie could ask anything else. Majesty was gone. Gordie brushed himself off. His elbow hurt and he rubbed it, stretching his stocky frame and groaning as he discovered new bruises from his impact with the wall.

“You took a chance, Gordie,” Watts said.

“But I found out something we didn't know for sure.”

“That Sand is fighting this thing?” Watts said.

“Yes.”

“But who is his friend?” Jackson asked. “This conspirator that thing spoke of?”

The door to the courtroom opened and a very red-faced and angry mayor stalked out, followed by the city council. “I demand to know why you left us in there, Sheriff!”

Gordie just looked at him briefly, and walked outside. He needed some air.

 

 

The sheriff drove through town, window down, his sore elbow hanging out. The cool fresh air felt good. Then he realized that he had not given any further orders for sealing off the town.

He radioed in and told dispatch that no one – absolutely no one – was to be allowed inside the city limits.

Damnest location he'd ever seen for a county seat. One of the smallest towns in the county, and surely the hardest to get to. Especially when it snowed.

So there is life after death. There really is. And somewhere . . . out there – Gordie cut his eyes to the sky – a man who has been dead for thirty years is fighting some sort of being. Some sort of ... Gordie didn't know what to call it; didn't know what it was. A creature, a monster. Whatever.

“What does it want?” he muttered. “And why did it pick this town?”

And what the hell am I going to do? he silently questioned.

The press must not get wind of this. They will eventually, but, Lord, give me a little time before they fall in on us. I don't have enough people to handle a major crowd. Crowd! If news of what is happening ever leaked out, it wouldn't be a crowd . . . it would be a mob!

Maybe that's what
it
wants. But why?

Driving the deserted streets, he muttered, “People sure took my orders to heart. Nothing and nobody is moving.”

Something struck the side of his car hard. Gordie braked and got out. A gaggle of Willowdale's hard-core punks stood by the curb, laughing and drinking whiskey. Gordie knew them all by name. High school dropouts, thieves, and minor dope-pushers. He looked at the side of his car and cussed under his breath. A dent in the rear quarter panel. The thrown brick that put it there lay in the street.

Gordie picked up the brick with his left hand and walked up to the group of young men. “Who threw it and why?”

A big gangly young man laughed and said, “Fuck you, ping!”

Gordie grinned at the would-be tough boy. Then a thought came to him: there was a good possibility that none of them would come out of this mess alive. So to hell with social workers and sob-sister bleeding hearts and mumbling judges and out-of-touch-with-reality shrinks.

Gordie knocked the big punk on his ass.

The others sprang at him. One fell as Gordie swung the brick and hit him smack in the mouth, pulping his lips and knocking out teeth. Another went down as Gordie kicked him in the balls, going down puking and gagging on it.

The melee ended when Gordie stuck the muzzle of his pistol, the hammer jacked back, into a young man's mouth. “Freeze as still as ice, asshole!”

He froze.

Gordie removed the muzzle from the punk's mouth and said, “Out in the middle of the street – all of you! And lay flat on your bellies.” He glanced down at the thug he'd flattened with his fist. “You drag the crud with the busted balls. Do it!”

When they were all spread-eagled on the pavement, Gordie called in.

In less than two minutes, two units showed up. One of them driven by Lee Evans.

“You remember these crap-heads, Lee?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Don't they live around here?”

Lee pointed out the houses.

Gordie told the other deputies, “Take them to jail and lock them up. Have a guard outside the cells at all times. Keep Hubbard in mind.”

They got the message.

“Come on, Lee. I want to talk with some parents.”

One of the young thugs laughed and said, “Good luck, pig.”

“Whatever that means,” Lee muttered. “And I hope it doesn't mean what I think it does.”

“I heard that.”

They knocked on the doors of five houses and got no response from any of them. Gordie checked his watch. Almost five. Somebody should be home. He tried the doorknob of the fifth house. Unlocked. With a glance at Lee, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The odor hit them hard. Both of them had smelled it many times in their careers. Death. Stinking, bloated, maggot-covered bodies were the only thing that would produce such an odor.

And dead rotting animals have a different odor than dead rotting humans.

“Damn!” Lee said, pointing to the body.

A naked girl was lying on the living room floor, bloated in death.

They quickly searched the house. No more bodies. Gordie motioned Lee outside, and both men left quickly. That smell will get to you in a hurry. And it lingers on one's clothing.

“Let's check the other houses, and get it over with, Lee.”

All they had to do was open the front doors and take a whiff. A short one.

“All right,” Gordie said. “It's coming to a head, I think. Get some people out here, including Dr. Anderson and Watts. And tell the coroner to bring lots of body bags.”

 

 

“Beaten to death, tortured,” Bergman said, looking at Watts. The retired cop nodded his head in agreement. “All of them. Three or four days ago, I'd guess.” He pointed to the dried blood on the girl's buttocks. “Raped for sure, probably sodomized.”

They moved on to another house. An entire family: man, woman, girl, boy. All had been tortured. The woman's head was missing.

“The teenage girl you found lived here,” Watts said.

“She was going steady – or whatever they call it now – with one of the punks you locked up. She was a pretty good kid, but had lousy taste in men.”

The other homes were simply a repeat of the first two: stinking death houses filled with mutilated bodies.

“Are you responsible for all this?” Gordie asked the voice.

HEAVENS NO.

“But you knew it was going on?”

CERTAINLY.

“So the boys I arrested did it?”

I AIN'T NO STOOLIE, COPPER.

The heavy laughter rocked the dying afternoon, then gradually faded.

“Bastard,” Gordie said.

“You know what I think, Gordie?” Bergman said.

The sheriff looked at him.

“I think that creature is planning on killing us all. One by one, taking his, or her, or its, own sweet time in doing it.”

“Yes,” Gordie said, adding for the voice's benefit, hoping to buy a little more time. “And we're powerless to do anything about it.”

DO BOP DE DO BOP DE DO BOP, DE DO, came the dark reply.

Sunny had accepted the fact that she was involved in some sort of supernatural happening. There was simply no other suitable explanation. Logical was totally out the window. What she didn't know was how deeply she was involved.

She wasn't far from finding out.

With a sigh and a deep breath to try to calm shaky nerves, she forced herself to once more fall back into her role as writer/reporter. “Sand was a rebel?” she asked. She was becoming accustomed to the sweet funeral-home smell in the house. Some sort of disagreeable room deodorizer, she guessed. The charred wood odor puzzled her.

“Tb a degree,” Richard said. “He didn't like unfairness. His father was always throwing his brother, Harry, up to him, and telling Sand that he, Sand, would never amount to a hill of beans. And Harry was a total jerk.”

“I ... saw the older man tell him that. Tell me about Harry.”

“Harry was a coward, a tattletale, a twerp. He ran with the rich, snobby crew over at Monte Rio. Sand's dad was always telling Harry that his brother, Sand, was a shame and a disgrace to the family. He thought Harry was the perfect son.”

“Then it would be an understatement to say that Sand and his father did not get along.”

“That's putting it mildly.” Richard glanced out the window. “It's growing late, Sunny. Did you bring along a change of clothing?”