The Devil's Graveyard

  Dear Reader,

  It is never safe to make assumptions.

  In particular, it is never safe to make assumptions about things that may or may not appear to be safe.

  Almost certainly, they are not.

  ANONYMOUS

  By the same author:

  This particular ‘Anonymous’ is the author of The Book With No Name and The Eye of the Moon, in which the reader will find the further adventures of the Bourbon Kid (with a few rips in the fabric of time).

  The Devil’s Graveyard

  A novel (probably)

  ANONYMOUS

  Michael O’Mara Books Limited

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  Michael O’Mara Books Limited

  9 Lion Yard, Tremadoc Road

  London SW4 7NQ

  This electronic edition published 2010 by Michael O’Mara Books Limited

  Copyright © The Bourbon Kid 2010

  The right of the author (under the accredited pseudonym The Bourbon Kid) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-84317-504-9 in Epub format

  ISBN: 978-1-84317-505-6 in Mobipocket format

  Designed and typeset by www.glensaville.com

  Cover design by Ana Bjezancevic

  Cover image: www.shutterstock.com

  www.mombooks.com

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  One

  Shee-IT! Sure was true that there ain’t no substitute for cubes. The big-inch mill in this mutha could pull…

  Johnny Parks was finally fulfilling a lifelong dream. Driving down a desert highway in the early morning, at over a hundred miles an hour, was exhilarating. The fact that he was in a police squad car pursuing an infamous serial killer in a black Pontiac Firebird just added to the buzz.

  The car radio crackled into life and the Chief’s voice came through loud and clear for the third time in the last two minutes.

  ‘Repeat, all units pull back. Do not pursue fugitive into the Devil’s Graveyard! Acknowledge – that’s a goddam order!’

  Johnny’s partner in the shotgun seat, Neil Silverman, reached down and twisted the volume control on the radio until, one by one, the sound of the other officers acknowledging the message died away. The two cops shared a smile and a nod. As they did so, they sped past a giant sign at the roadside. It read:

  Welcome To The Devil’s Graveyard

  Johnny watched in his rearview mirror as the other seven squad cars strung out behind them stopped, turned tail and drove away. Gutless bastards. This was his moment – well, his and Neil’s, he supposed. Neither of them would normally have been involved in such a high-profile chase, but so many other officers had been killed that morning, they had been called into action. Both men were in their early twenties and had graduated from the Academy together just six months earlier. Neil had been the best shot on the pistol range, and was definitely going places in the force. As for Johnny, he was just excited to be driving the ace marksman along the highway. This was his big chance to make a name for himself. If anyone was going to take down the driver of the Firebird it would be his buddy Neil – which was why Johnny was so eager to keep up the chase a little while longer, even though it meant defying the Chief’s order.

  With the harsh glare from the desert sun in his eyes, Johnny was struggling to keep control of the car as they inched up to the Firebird. Navigating the highway, with its drifts of sand and gravel, while trying to intercept a madman who’d rammed at least three other vehicles off the road that morning took all the skill he had.

  If Neil was the best young marksman on the force, then Johnny considered himself to be the best driver. He had been a fanatical stock-car racer as a teenager, practising for hours on a specially built dirt track at his father’s farm, and winning many races at the local track. It was his driving skills that had landed him his fiancée Carrie-Anne, the head cheerleader at his high school. They were expecting their first child any day now. So if Johnny could capture the fame and fortune that would come with being part of the double act that took down the Bourbon Kid, then his soon-to-be-born child would have a father to be proud of.

  ‘Come on, Johnny! I can’t get a clear shot from here!’ Neil yelled, aiming his revolver out of the open window. ‘Get closer!’

  Johnny put his foot down on the accelerator and tried to pull the front of their squad car level with the rear of the Firebird.

  ‘You aimin’ for the tyres?’ he shouted above the roar of the engine noise and the wind blowing in through the open window.

  ‘Nah. The driver.’

  ‘Ain’t you supposed to aim for the tyres?’

  Neil took his eyes off the black car just ahead and looked over at him.

  ‘Listen. If I nail this guy, we’re gonna be fuckin’ legends, Johnny. Think about it – you’ll be able to tell your kid you took down the biggest mass murderer in history!’

  Keeping one eye on the road, Johnny grinned back at his partner. ‘Yeah. That’d be pretty cool.’

  ‘I can see it now. We’ll be openin’ supermarkets, doin’ after-shave ads, the whole nine yards.’

  ‘I could do with some new after-shave.’

  ‘Well, jest you keep the car steady, ’cause I’m about to make it happen.’

  ‘Can you just wound him, though? Couldja do that? Huh?’

  Ne
il shook his head impatiently. ‘What the fuck d’ya want me to do? Blow his fuckin’ nose off? I’m good, but I ain’t that good. No one is.’ He leaned further out of his window and added, ‘Don’t forget, this bastard killed at least ten of our guys this morning. Good men. Men with families. Happy Halloween, the boogeyman’s in town!’

  That it was Halloween was not lost on Johnny. The local inhabitants – the few that there were, that is – never set foot in the Devil’s Graveyard at any time, much less at Halloween. There were always rumours doing the rounds in bars and diners about what happened out there each October thirty-first. It was said that busloads of innocent fools were driven in every year, never to be seen again. Most people believed it. It was the local town’s dirty little secret. Johnny had already driven past the signpost that signified they were on deadly ground. It was foolish enough to be in a high-speed car chase with the serial killer known as the Bourbon Kid, but to be conducting that chase in the Devil’s Graveyard on Halloween ... well, that was about as foolhardy as a bungee jump with no cord.

  ‘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.

  Two

  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.