The Devil's Graveyard (8 page)

‘I sensed something was amiss when I received the letter telling me I had won.’

‘Really? Your psychic powers told you that?’ Powell sat up straighter, suddenly more alert.

‘Yes. That and the fact I hadn’t entered the competition to win a ticket in the first place.’

He smiled politely. ‘Let me cut to the chase. I’ve heard many good things about you. A friend of mine recommended you after visiting you for a reading once, a few years back.’ He paused, assuming a more solemn look. ‘And today I need your services for a matter of grave importance.’

‘You want me to tell you who will win the singing contest?’

‘No. It’s more important than that.’

The Mystic Lady was determined to divine what he wanted before he told her. ‘You wish to know what you’re getting for your birthday?’ she ventured.

Powell threw a look over her shoulder at the security guard by the door. A look that suggested he wasn’t wildly impressed by Annabel’s mystical powers. She still had to convince him she was worthy of the title ‘Mystic Lady’.

Sensing his scepticism, she tried to reassure him ‘I work a lot better when I have my crystal ball,’ she told him.

‘Ah. I see. And do you have it with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please do get it out.’ There was the hint of an order behind the suave delivery.

Annabel unzipped her handbag, but before reaching inside she frowned. ‘
Wait
,’ she said with a gasp. ‘I’m seeing something.’

‘What is it?’

‘I see you handing me five hundred dollars.’

Powell sighed. Annabel never worked for free, and she made sure that everyone knew it. Her reputation had spread far from Santa Mondega, so Powell had known what to expect. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick brown leather wallet. Opening it, he counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. Then he slipped three of them over the desk to Annabel, who snapped them up and quickly concealed them somewhere about her person.

Powell kept one finger on the two remaining bills on his side of the desk. ‘Three hundred now,’ he said coldly. ‘Two hundred more if you tell me what I need to know.’

Annabel pretended to contemplate his offer. In truth, though, there was no way she was going to refuse. Normally some haggling would take place, but her request for five hundred up front had been a somewhat optimistic one. The fact that he was willing to pay the whole five hundred made the three hundred up front more than acceptable to her. So, with another nightmarish smile, she delved into her bag and pulled out a small crystal ball, an object far cleaner than the dirty receptacle that held it. She set it down on the desk in front of her and looked up at the man sitting opposite her.

‘So tell me what you want to know.’

‘Well, Annabel,’ he said, leaning over the desk and offering his own dazzling smile, ‘a few weeks ago I was approached by a rough-looking Mexican fellow named Jefe. Claimed to be an assassin or bounty hunter of some sort.’

‘I think I know him,’ said Annabel.

‘You should do,’ said Nigel. ‘He’s the one who recommended I speak to
you
.’

‘About what?’

‘He told me he’d been offered a substantial sum of money to kill some of the contestants in this year’s show. He had accepted the job via a third party, only then to be told that the contract had been given to someone else.’

‘I see. And you want to know who that someone else is?’

‘Yes. I also want to know who it is who’s hiring these people, and why.’

‘Jefe didn’t know?’

‘No, but he said you might be able to help with that. That’s why you’re here.’

‘Okay. Anything else?’

‘That will do for now. Think you can manage it?’

‘Well, let’s see, shall we? Can you dim the lights?’

‘Sure. Tommy, dim the lights, please.’

The black-suited security guard turned a switch by the door and dimmed the overhead lighting until it was sufficiently dark to see that Annabel’s crystal ball was beginning to glow a gentle white colour. This was her cue to lean forward and begin waving her hands over the enigmatic sphere. After a few seconds, a swirling white mist appeared inside it. Powell had the good sense to remain quiet as she went through some rather dubious gesticulating with her arms. Eventually, after staring unblinkingly into the glowing glass ball and concentrating hard for just under a minute some insight seemed to come to her.

‘The man you seek,’ she intoned, ‘is in the hotel already. He has a list of people he plans to kill.’

‘Can you see what he looks like?’

‘I see two men together. One of them is a contestant in the show. The other is a merciless killer. They plan to kill off their main rivals so they can win the show.’

Powell reached a hand up to his chin and began rubbing it as if he had an infuriating itch.

‘Who are they?’ he demanded.

‘Wait. I’m seeing something. It’s – it’s a room number.’

‘Go on.’

‘This room is on the seventh floor.’ Annabel, staring fixedly into the crystal globe, was beginning to sweat with the effort of concentrating. Powell, too, was staring into it, but could see nothing other than the white mist swirling around inside. Again the old woman spoke, her voice now a monotonous drone, her words interspersed by short pauses.

‘It’s room number – thirteen on the – seventh floor. That’s where – you’ll find the – assassin you’re looking for.’

‘Wow!’ said Powell, sounding surprised. He was impressed in spite of himself. ‘That’s very precise. Do you have a name for the occupant?’

Annabel slowly shook her head. ‘No. There’s confusion over this man’s name. I can’t work out why.’ Her speech was beginning to sound normal again.

Shit!
thought Powell, but he kept it to himself. ‘Okay,’ he said gently. ‘Can you see anything else?’

‘Yes, there is one thing. But I suspect you already know this.’ She sounded hesitant now.

Powell raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘And what is that?’

‘This show is cursed.’

‘Excuse me?’ If he was surprised, he did a remarkable job of concealing it.

‘There’s some kinda curse on this show. I can’t figure out exactly what it is, but if I was a contestant, I don’t think I’d want to win.’

The show’s owner and promoter waved a dismissive hand and smiled at her. ‘I’m not worried about curses. Or what happens to the person who wins the show. I just want to be sure the show goes ahead without any glitches.’

‘It’s your call,’ said Annabel. ‘But I reckon a more appropriate name for your show would be
The Hex Factor
.’

Powell sighed. ‘I think we’re done here. Tommy, turn the lights back up, please.’ The white mist within the crystal ball began to dissipate and Annabel sat back in her chair, looking a little tired, and, if anything, even older. The security guard turned up the lights again and Annabel watched with unconcealed pleasure as Powell tossed the remaining hundred-dollar bills over the desk to her.

‘Thank you, Annabel. You appear to have done well.’ He looked across at her and added, ‘Of course, if we need you again for any reason, we know your room number.’ There was a note of subtle intimidation in his voice, and Annabel had no doubt that if even one of her predictions proved false, then her five hundred dollars might just be repossessed. She snagged the two hundred-dollar bills and quickly concealed them within her clothing with the other three, then picked up her crystal ball and placed it back in her bag.

‘It’s been nice doing business with you,’ she said, getting up from her chair. She was not altogether insincere – five hundred bucks was five hundred bucks.

‘Yes, hasn’t it? Thank you, Annabel. I wish you a pleasant stay.’ Powell reached over the desk and shook her hand again, before adding one last question. ‘Did you work out who’s going to win the singing contest yet?’

The psychic grinned. ‘If I was a gambling woman, I’d say it’s someone whose name begins with J.’

Powell and Tommy once more exchanged a glance and then the security man opened the door for Annabel to leave. When she was gone, Powell picked up the receiver of the white telephone on his desk and pressed several buttons. The call was answered within one ring. A woman’s voice spoke.

‘Reception. How may I help you?’

‘Hi, this is Mister Powell. Can you tell me who is staying in room seven-thirteen, please?’

‘Yes, sir. One moment please.’

Tommy walked over and sat down in the chair across the desk from his employer. A second later, the receptionist gave Powell the name he was seeking and he replaced the handset on the phone.

‘So, was the mad old bitch right, or not?’ asked Tommy.

‘Well, I’m told she only ever gets fifty per cent of her predictions right, but that’s not a bad ratio. As long as she’s given us the right room number for this hitman, then I’m happy.’

‘So who is he?’

‘According to reception, his name is Sanchez Garcia. Send some guys up there to find him. And make sure they’re armed. If he really is a hitman he could be very dangerous.’

‘What do you want them to do?’

‘Interrogate him.’

‘And if he is here as an assassin?’

‘Find out who he’s working for and kill them both.’

‘And if he’s not the assassin?’

Powell shrugged. ‘Just kill
him.
’

Having finally arrived at the Hotel Pasadena, the Bourbon Kid had made straight for the bar. He had a lot to reflect on. And as a man who didn’t generally like to indulge in reflection, he allowed himself just one day a year to remember the past and dwell on how things might have been if, ten years earlier, Halloween had panned out differently.

He had picked the quietest of the hotel’s bars, a lounge just off the lobby, and was sitting on a stool at one end of the bar, staring into a half-filled glass of bourbon. The barmaid, Valerie, a diminutive young woman with dark hair tied back into a ponytail, had wisely sussed out within a second of laying eyes on him that he wanted no small talk. His body language spoke volumes. He deliberately gave off a hostile vibe (although most days he did that unintentionally anyway). She had poured his drink quickly, and with minimum fuss had set it down in front of him on a coaster on the bartop.

There were no more than twenty people in the bar. As if picking up on his sour mood, none of the other customers had taken a place at the bar. They were all seated at the tables set artfully around the room, engaged in polite, hushed conversations. This was not the usual kind of lowlife hangout the Bourbon Kid was used to. It was a bit too classy and its customers too well-mannered. But in his present mood, that suited him just fine.

He had headed to the Devil’s Graveyard for a number of different reasons. Getting drunk was the first order of business. That way he wouldn’t remember so much. It was ten years to the day since, as a sixteen-year-old, he had killed his mother. On top of that, that same night he had left his teenage sweetheart, Beth, at the local pier with a promise that he would return before the witching hour was up. That had been before he had discovered what was left of his mother. It still regularly gnawed at him that he hadn’t been able to make it back to Beth that night. He’d had more pressing matters to attend to, like finding a home for his distraught younger brother, Casper. Casper had been born with severe learning difficulties, and the news that his mother was dead had sent him into a hysterical fit. To make a bad situation worse, the Kid, who was known as JD back in those days, had also broken Casper’s father’s neck later that night in a fit of temper. The two brothers had been fathered by different men. JD hadn’t liked his own father any more than he liked Casper’s, he just hadn’t got around to killing him yet.

Yet it was Beth who filled his thoughts for most of the time, on the rare occasions when he allowed the past to come back to him. Just on this one day each year he let himself remember her exactly as she had looked when he kissed her for the first time. They had been to a Halloween party together at their high school in Santa Mondega. JD’s mother had made him a scarecrow outfit to wear, and although it wasn’t exactly his kind of thing, he knew she’d gone to great trouble to make it. It had turned out to be an unintentionally brilliant choice because when he arrived at the Halloween disco, he had found Beth there dressed as Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
. Seeing this as a good omen, the two of them had ditched the dance to head to the pier. The road there wasn’t exactly made of yellow brick, but that hadn’t done anything to dampen their mood. Events later in the night had done that.