The Devil's Graveyard (2 page)

‘Okay, Neil, I gotcha. Just hurry up and take this sonofabitch down. Then let’s get the fuck outta here!’

‘You got it, buddy.’

The road stretched ahead endlessly towards the horizon, shimmering like a mirage in the early-morning heat. As far as the eye could see, there were no buildings, no other traffic. Again Neil leaned out of his open window and pointed his handgun at the Firebird’s blacked-out driver’s window. The wind blew his normally perfectly combed blond hair up high above his head.

‘Come to Daddy, you sonofabitch,’ he whispered.

A millisecond before Neil fired, the Firebird’s driver hit his brakes, bringing the cars level. Neil had already committed to squeezing the trigger. The bullet missed its mark, flying past the front of the other car. Johnny was also braking hard, but before he could process what was happening, the Firebird’s driver’s-side window lowered. The twin barrels of a sawn-off shotgun appeared. It was pointed at both of them. Johnny opened his mouth to yell at Neil to duck, but –

BOOM!

It happened so fast Johnny barely had time to blink, let alone get the words out to warn his partner. The heavy charge of buckshot blew off most of Neil’s head and splattered it all over the side of Johnny’s face. Blood, hair and chunks of brain flew into his open mouth as he squealed out an agonized ‘Oh, fuck!’ The shock of it caused him to lose control of the car. The Firebird swerved across him, its front wing knocking into the cruiser’s at high speed. Johnny hit the brakes again, but it was way too late. He had already lost control of the steering wheel, which spun wildly in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Firebird fishtail three or four times as its driver fought to control the skid, then straighten up and race off down the highway. Tyres screaming, the squad car careered off the road and into the rock-strewn desert wasteland. It hit a boulder and flipped over, rolling in the air, tossing Neil’s lifeless body out of its seat.

Johnny found himself upside down in mid-air. Instinctively, he crouched sideways and grabbed the base of his seat, pulling hard against it. It was the first thing he had been taught to do if his car overturned during a race. If the roof of the car was going to crash into the ground, Johnny had to be pulling himself away from the impact by gripping hold of the seat and holding on for all he was worth. He heard the roof crumple as it smashed down on to the desert ground. The dented metal missed his head by less than an inch. Three more times the car flipped over, each time leaving him more and more disoriented. Eventually it landed on its side with Johnny pinned against his window, staring at the sandy ground. The car wobbled a few times before finally settling to a stop.

What was left of Neil slumped on top of him. His dead friend’s remaining eye was staring blankly at him, and specks of blood were dripping down on him like early spots of rain. He heard the tick of cooling metal, and caught the acrid tang of escaping fuel.

A second before passing out, Johnny made a conscious decision to quit the force.

The morning of Halloween was unlike any other in the Devil’s Graveyard. Joe opened up the gas station at eight o’clock sharp as he always did, but everything else about the day was just a little bit different from the usual routine. He spent less than ten minutes out in the fresh air unlocking the padlocks on the two gas pumps and switching on the power. Even the lizards, snakes and assorted vermin that frequently slithered or crawled along the dusty wasteland were not in evidence. If they had anywhere to hibernate for a day or two, then it was a safe bet that’s where they were.

Sleepy Joe’s Diner was the only stop on the desert highway that led to the Hotel Pasadena. It doubled as a gas station, and since there were no other fuel stops within a hundred-mile radius, most people travelling that way stopped by for a refill. And on the days leading up to Halloween, sales were at their peak.

Joe looked forward to the festival almost as much as he dreaded it. All kinds of weird characters dropped by to fill their gas tanks and their stomachs. Ninety per cent of them were fruitcakes; the other ten per cent could be politely described as naive. So far, for the twelve years he had owned the gas station and diner, Halloween had delivered exactly what he had expected. This year was unlikely to be any different.

After making sure the pumps were primed and ready, he headed back inside to the sanctuary of the diner. He knew only too well that the peace and quiet outside was merely the calm before the storm. He knew from experience what was headed his way, and he was grateful for the fact that when things turned horrifically wrong later in the day – as they would – he had a tornado-proof cellar in which to tuck himself away.

In the kitchen area out back of the diner, he put on a pot of coffee in readiness for Jacko’s annual visit. Then he set about the early-morning chores while it brewed.

At about eight-thirty a van pulled up outside, as it did every morning, to deliver the papers. Most mornings Joe exchanged pleasantries with Pete the delivery guy and chatted briefly about the local news. On this morning, however, Pete didn’t even step out of his van. He simply wound down the driver’s-side window and threw a stack of newspapers bound together by a string out on to the forecourt. The bundle landed on the ground at Joe’s feet, blowing up a small cloud of sand and dust.

‘Mornin’, Pete,’ said Joe, tipping his cap.

‘Hey, Joe. Runnin’ late this mornin’. Gotta be goin’.’

‘Can I interest you in some coffee? Just put a pot on.’

‘Nah, thanks all the same. Gotta lot to do today.’

‘Well, I oughta settle up with you. Reckon I’m a week in arrears.’

In the van, Pete began winding the driver’s window back up. It wasn’t difficult to tell that he had no intention of staying around this morning.

‘’S okay, Joe, I know you’re good for it. You can settle tomorrow. Or later in the week, don’t matter.’

‘You sure ’bout that? I can go fetch the money outta the till.’ But he might just as well not have spoken.

‘See ya tomorrow, Joe. Have a good day.’

The van window closed completely and Pete pulled away with a quick wave to Joe. Soon he was out of sight, heading towards the Hotel Pasadena.

Most days, the banter between the two men would last for about five minutes. Pete was normally pretty friendly, as well as grateful for the mundane conversation, but on Halloween morning he was always eager to get on with his deliveries. In the Devil’s Graveyard, there were only two places to deliver to – Joe’s and the Hotel Pasadena – so Joe took no offence at Pete’s eagerness to get going that morning, even if he was a little disappointed.

By eight-forty-five, he had the diner up and running and ready for business. Feeling relaxed and ready to face the day, he poured himself his first mug of coffee and took a seat at one of the round wooden tables to look at the newspapers. There were only eight tables in the diner, each covered with a uniform red-and-white-checked tablecloth. To any new customer walking in for the first time, it wouldn’t have been obvious that Joe was the owner. He wore the same blue denim dungarees every day, washing them only once a week. His thinning grey hair was always concealed beneath a fifteen-year-old red baseball cap, save for a few tufts sticking out around the ears. Silvery-grey stubble prickled his haggard, sagging old face, and he looked as miserable as sin, regardless of his mood. Even as a young man it had been joked that he looked like the wind had changed when he was in the middle of a face-pulling contest.

The front-page headline on the first paper he picked up read ‘WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE – REWARD $100,000’. Beneath the bold black 72-point type was a grainy photo taken from some local CCTV footage of a man with greasy, shoulder-length dark hair dressed all in black and wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. According to the article that accompanied the headline, this man had committed a series of armed robberies in a nearby redneck town. In the course of these, he had killed a number of local law-enforcement officers as well as innocent members of the public. The death toll was up past thirty, but the cops expected to find more corpses over the next few days. The article also dared to suggest that the perpetrator might be the urban legend known as the Bourbon Kid. Everyone knew about the Bourbon Kid. But they also tended to lump him in with the likes of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster.

Joe, contentedly reading the paper, considered the possibilities of picking up the reward for catching the Bourbon Kid. Would he use the money to buy a new car? Or maybe go on a vacation? Move to a better town, even? Then again, would he even have the guts to capture the Kid? The answer was an emphatic
no
. But what about shooting him in the back if the opportunity presented itself? Yeah, that had potential. It was cowardly, certainly, but it was in the interests of the public. And the public would be eternally grateful for it. For that reason alone, he figured if he claimed the money, he wouldn’t move to another town. No sense in being a local legend if you’re not around to hear the applause.

He was taking a sip of black coffee from his favourite chipped white mug when, right on cue, Jacko, his annual visitor, arrived. Putting thoughts of becoming a local hero to the back of his mind, Joe reminded himself that the appearance of Jacko was about as exciting as his life was ever going to get.

As the newcomer pushed in through the door, the small bell above it chimed gently, announcing his arrival. He was a black guy in his mid to late twenties. And every year he came to the diner dressed as Michael Jackson from the days of the
Thriller
video. He wore a red leather jacket, matching red leather pants and a blue T-shirt. His black hair was short and held in a tight perm.

Every year Jacko spent the entire day in the diner chatting with Joe, drinking copious amounts of coffee and hoping to hitch a ride to the
Back From the Dead
singing contest at the Hotel Pasadena. Every year he failed miserably in his quest. Yet it never seemed to deter him, for, sure as eggs was eggs, he returned each Halloween to try his luck once again.

Joe watched him walk in and take a look around. Pretty soon their eyes met and both men smiled at each other. Jacko spoke first.

‘Still here then, Joe?’

‘Still here. You want your usual?’

‘
Yes siree.’ He paused, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot before adding, ‘You know I don’t got no money though, right?’

‘I know.’

Joe’s rickety wooden chair creaked loudly as he got up and headed back towards the counter at the back of the diner. On the wall behind it was a wooden shelf, set just below eye level. It held a row of white mugs identical to the one from which Joe had been drinking. He picked one out from the middle of the row and set it down on the counter. Then he picked up the coffee pot from a sideboard next to the kitchen doorway and began to fill the mug. By the time he had finished pouring Jacko had seated himself in Joe’s chair. He was reading Joe’s newspaper, too. The older man allowed himself a wry smile.
Same routine every year.

‘How’s business?’ Jacko called out, not looking up from the paper.

‘Same as ever.’

‘That’s good to know.’

Joe made his way over to the table and placed the mug of coffee down in front of Jacko, just to the side of the newspaper. He stood over him, watching him reading the front page.

‘Wadda ya think your chances are this year?’ he asked.

‘I feel
really
good about this year.’

‘That good, huh? Well, I got five bucks says you don’t get a ride again.’

Jacko finally looked up, to reveal a perfect smile, a smile full of optimism as well as bright white teeth, a smile the likes of which a young Michael Jackson would have been justly proud.

‘You have such little faith, Joe. God will send someone my way this year. I can feel it.’

Joe shook his head. ‘If God’s sending anythin’ this way, it’s trouble, my friend. You get in a car with anyone round these parts and I’m pretty sure I won’t be seein’ you again next year.’

Jacko laughed. ‘I dreamt it last night. I had a premonition that God is sending a man to grant me safe passage through these parts. It’s my day of destiny.’

Joe sighed. Jacko was so full of shit. And he talked in a language wholly unlike anyone else from hereabouts. It did make him kind of endearing, though.

‘Any idea who this guy is that God’s sendin’ for ya?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Any clues as to what he looks like?’

‘Nope. None at all.’

Joe reached out a hand and ruffled Jacko’s permed hair. Then he smiled. ‘Fair enough. Breakfast’ll be ’bout five minutes.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jacko in a manner far too polite to be wasted on such an establishment as Sleepy Joe’s Diner, for which the adjective ‘shitty’ might have been coined.

Its owner went out to the kitchen and started cooking Jacko’s breakfast. He knew it by heart. Two slices of bacon, two sausages, two hash browns and an egg, sunny side up. Four slices of white toast were already buttered and ready to go.