The Devil's Graveyard Read online

  Once he’d finished, the judges were understandably scathing. Emily winced at the hurtful things they came out with.

  ‘Honey, my cat sings like that,’ was the worst comment from the normally sympathetic Lucinda.

  Not to be outdone, Candy followed with, ‘My cat sings better than that!’

  Nigel administered the coup de grace by sighing wearily, ‘I think my cat just hung itself.’

  Maybe the spiteful remarks were a blessing in disguise, for Emily was relieved to see that the audience felt sorry for the guy. His nerves had done him enough damage without the judges adding to his woes. So it was a relief to hear large sections of the audience booing the judges’ comments with gusto. Even so, there was no doubt about it: John Lennon would not be making it into the final.

  As the crestfallen Beatle impersonator walked offstage, he smiled at Emily briefly. She could see he was on the verge of tears.

  ‘You’ll get ’em next time,’ she said, offering a comforting look.

  ‘Think I’m gonna find Nigel Powell’s cat and borrow its rope.’

  It seemed inappropriate to laugh at his joke, but also rude not to, so Emily maintained her sympathetic smile and looked down at her shoes to avoid any further eye contact.

  On the stage, Nina Forina, the show’s presenter, was busy working the audience, getting ready to announce that Emily was up next. Nina was a glamorous blonde in her early thirties. She was wearing a long shiny silver dress that showed off just how thin she was, giving the impression that she had no feminine curves at all beneath it. She also sported the obligatory orange tan, perhaps from the same source as Nigel Powell’s.

  As Nina chattered away to the watching crowd, Emily caught sight of a man standing in the shadows to her left, near the edge of the stage. He was staring at her, transfixed by something about her. She was flattered at first, but there was a deeply unsettling quality to the way he was staring. He seemed unaware that she had noticed him staring, and every time she looked away she knew that if she were to glance back he would still be directing that fixed stare at her.

  After a while, she realized that he wasn’t staring so much at her as at her dress. Rattled, she glanced down to check that she didn’t have some kind of ghastly stain on the front of her frock. Everything appeared to be in order. Her shoes seemed fine, too. They were still shining brightly, for she had polished them less than half an hour earlier. They were an important part of her outfit, and she took a quick look over each shoulder in turn as she kicked her heels back one at a time, just to check that there was nothing stuck to the soles. They were as clean as they could be.

  Emily was nervous enough without the stranger gawping at her, and partly to ease her nerves she decided to flick her long brown pigtails too, even though the man wasn’t looking at them. She had taken great care to tie her hair up in plaits that hung down in front of her shoulders. She was sure she still looked exactly as she wanted. But her admirer – if that was what he was – was undermining her confidence, intentionally or not. She had checked her appearance in the dressing-room mirror about a hundred times to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. So why was this weirdo staring?

  She glanced over at him yet again. He was still staring at her blue dress. This time, however, when she looked at him, she saw his eyes move down. Now he appeared to be checking out her shoes, too. That’s it, she thought. This guy needs to be put in his place. Politely, but firmly. She decided that the best thing to do would be to try to engage him in conversation in order to break the ice. Maybe then she’d find out why he was acting so creepy.

  ‘Kinda bright, aren’t they?’ she called over to him.

  The man looked up and stared directly into her eyes. She offered a smile in the hope that it would be reciprocated. It wasn’t. Instead, he stepped out of the shadows he had been sheltering in. Emily couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. This guy was creepy. Worse, his presence wasn’t exactly what she needed just before one of the most important performances of her life. His all-dark clothing made it seem as though he brought the shadows with him as he stepped towards her. As he moved out of the shadows, Emily saw that he was wearing black combat pants and a black leather jacket with a hood hanging at the back. He walked past her, and as he did so he pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from a front pocket on his jacket and slipped them on, hiding his eyes.

  And then he was gone.

  Emily was glad to see the back of him. She made an immediate decision to put him out of her mind and regain her focus on giving the performance of her life. This was made all the easier for her when, within a moment or two of his disappearance, she heard Nina Forina enthusiastically announce that her turn to perform had come at last. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next performer, Emily Shannon!’

  Emily walked out on to the stage, her bright red shoes positively glowing as she walked. She stopped centre stage, next to the presenter. Immediately everyone in the audience began applauding, for it was obvious from her outfit who she was supposed to be.

  Nina announced it for anyone who hadn’t worked it out for themselves. ‘Emily is now going to perform ‘Over The Rainbow’ from the film The Wizard of Oz. Please put your hands together for – Judy… Garland.’

  Nineteen

  Emily’s performance of ‘Over The Rainbow’ put Nigel Powell in a good mood. The girl had the voice of an angel. Her performance had been breathtaking, and had rightly earned her the longest and loudest standing ovation of the day so far. She had stolen the show, just as he had expected she would. He and his two colleagues on the judging panel had been only too willing to lavish vast amounts of gushing praise on her, as well. She hadn’t let him down. He had handpicked her to be one of the five finalists, and secretly he hoped she would be the outright winner of the contest.

  Powell’s benign mood that followed her performance did not last long, however. Shortly after Emily had departed, Tommy, the head of security, signalled to him from one side of the stage. Something was wrong. But what? He called a twenty-minute recess to deal with the problem. He hoped Tommy wasn’t making a fuss over nothing.

  Having left the stage, Powell strode down a long corridor towards his office. Tommy seemed to be in a hurry, leading the way from a yard ahead. They were halfway there and still the security man hadn’t briefed his boss as to the reasons why he had been dragged away from judging the Back From the Dead contestants. Powell began to feel irritated.

  The corridor leading to his office was empty, but given the unscheduled break, many of the audience were likely to head to the bars, restrooms or the casino, there was every chance the area would soon be flooded with noisy guests. Tommy ushered his employer along the corridor. This just made Powell even angrier. Who was Tommy to be ushering him along?’

  ‘Why are we hurrying?’ he asked, failing to mask his irritation.

  ‘I don’t want anyone in earshot, boss.’

  ‘This had better be important, Tommy. I can’t go stopping the show every time you want a chat. We’re on a fucking tight deadline, you know,’ Powell complained.

  He still wasn’t quite sure why he was hurrying, but from a yard ahead Tommy kept on waving at him to keep up. It made him feel like an assassination target being shepherded to a safe place by a bodyguard, and he fervently hoped that wasn’t the case. The security man was picking up speed now, and even broke into a light jog as he called back to answer him.

  ‘Yeah, I know. A lot’s happened though, boss.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘We think Otis Redding is dead.’

  Powell stopped in his tracks and watched Tommy run on a few more steps before realizing that his employer had come to a dead stop behind him. Tommy turned and gestured to him to keep moving.

  ‘Come on, boss!’

  ‘Otis Redding?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m serious. He’s dead. I sent four guys up to that Sanchez Garcia’s room, just like you asked. While they were up there,
they saw two guys in an elevator with a dead body. They think it was Otis Redding.’

  A couple of young audience members ran past Powell from behind, almost knocking into him as they rushed to be the first to get to the bar during the recess. Realizing that they were most likely going to be the first of many, he resumed walking briskly along the corridor to his office, catching up with Tommy, who this time chose to stay alongside him rather than rush on ahead.

  ‘Did we get the guys in the elevator?’ Powell asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Anyone else see the body? We could have a panic on our hands if word gets out.’

  ‘So far we reckon not, but my guys are on it right now.’

  The other’s face almost contorted into a frown. Fortunately, the ultra-high levels of Botox in his face prevented him from revealing to the security man just how concerned he was. His voice was the only thing that gave him away.

  ‘Shit. So that Mystic broad was right. This bloke in seven-thirteen. He really is here to kill off the finalists?’

  ‘Looks that way. There was another man with him, apparently, but none of my guys got a look at him.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Powell pondered what Annabel de Frugyn had said to him earlier when she was making her hit-and-miss predictions. ‘That Mystic Lady, she said he’d have been hired by one of the contestants. We’ll need to keep an eye out for any erratic behaviour from the other contestants.’

  As he spoke, he noticed that Tommy was wincing. Either he had a stitch from the brisk walking, or there was another problem.

  ‘What?’ he asked, trying to frown.

  ‘That ain’t all, boss. There’s a reason we gotta go to your office.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘There’s a big scary guy in there.’

  ‘What? What in the fuck is a big scary guy doing in my office?’

  ‘Waitin’ to speak to you.’

  The door to Powell’s office was set back from the passageway, in an alcove. As they turned into it, Tommy reached for the door handle, Before his hand touched it, Powell grabbed hold of his shoulder to slow him down.

  ‘What’s he want to speak to me about?’

  ‘Sanchez Garcia.’

  ‘Jesus. Do I really have time for this shit?’ The frustration in his voice was becoming more evident with every word.

  ‘Yeah. I reckon so. Like I said, this guy is kinda scary.’

  ‘Does he have horns sticking out of his head? Is he bright red and carrying a large pitchfork?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he doesn’t scare me.’

  Tommy, aware of his employer’s growing irritation, tried to calm him in readiness for what was to come. ‘Do you think you could just try a little harder to stay calm, boss?’ he suggested.

  ‘Sure,’ said Powell. ‘’Cause right now I’m not trying at all.’ Then he barged Tommy aside and pulled a card from his jacket pocket. He swiped it through the reader next to the door handle and watched the small red light on it turn to green. Shaking his head disapprovingly at the hapless security man, he turned the handle on the door. It sprung open easily, as it always did, swinging inwards into the office.

  Powell strode in confidently, hoping to make a powerful impression on his waiting guest. He was greeted by the sight of a giant of a man seated in his chair, behind his desk, smoking one of his cigars. The man was wearing a long grey trench coat with a filthy black T-shirt underneath it. He had thick red hair and a wiry goatee. His well-worn, rugged face looked like it could take a punch, and had done many times in the past. Powell glanced at Tommy and rolled his eyes, then walked into the room and sat down opposite the man. Tommy dutifully followed him in, closed the door behind them and stood guard.

  The hotel owner was immediately aware of an aura of arrogance and disdain coming from the man sitting at his desk. He responded with indifference.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes. What can I do for you?’ he asked, politely enough.

  ‘I want you to give me twenty thousand dollars.’

  ‘No. Next question.’ He stared hard at the intruder before adding, ‘One and three-quarter minutes.’

  His guest took the refusal in his stride. ‘You know you gotta psycho in your hotel, runnin’ round killin’ off the contestants in your show?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And my guys are dealing with it now. I expect them to have captured this sicko inside the next ten minutes.’

  ‘Yeah? An’ d’you know who he is?’

  The questioning was irritating Powell. ‘Yes. Do you?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Well, who do you think it is?’

  ‘You go first.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘’Cause I don’t reckon you know.’

  Finding the conversation quite tiresome, Powell backed down first. ‘Okay. I believe his name is Sanchez Garcia,’ he said, sighing wearily. His boredom threshold was not high at the best of times, and this guy was already getting tedious.

  The red-haired man puffed on his cigar, then took it from his mouth and inspected the end to see how the ash was building. When he was satisfied that it wasn’t in need of a tap over the carpet, he looked back at Powell with a smug smile.

  ‘That’s right. But here’s the real question. Do you know who this Garcia guy is?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It does kinda make a difference.’

  ‘Go on then. Enlighten me.’

  ‘Sanchez Garcia is better known as the Bourbon Kid.’

  If he was expecting a reaction, he didn’t get it. Powell leaned back in his chair and called over to Tommy, who was standing by the door with his hands clasped together in front of his waist.

  ‘Tommy, who’s the Bourbon Kid?’

  ‘Probably the biggest mass serial killer in living history, sir. A psycho with a drink problem. Basically, someone you don’t want on your tail.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Nigel turned back to the man sitting in his chair. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘They call me Invincible Angus.’

  ‘And why do they call you that?’

  ‘Because it’s my name.’

  ‘I see. And you want me to give you twenty thousand dollars to kill this Sanchez Garcia guy, who apparently, according to Tommy, is the biggest mass serial killer in history.’

  Tommy coughed. ‘Actually, I said living history.’

  His boss tried to frown. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Well – uh – one’s living and the other ain’t.’

  ‘Do you even know what you’re talking about half the time?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then shut up.’ Powell turned back to Angus. Despite his impatience to rejoin the show, his interest was piqued. ‘So this Bourbon Kid, he’s a mass murderer. I think we’ve established that, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Powell turned back to the security man. ‘Okay. Hold on. Tommy, find out how your guys are doing in their hunt for this Bourbon Garcia guy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He pulled a small walkie-talkie from where it hung on his belt by his right hip. He pressed a button, raised the device to his mouth, and spoke into it.

  ‘Sandy. This is Tommy. Over.’

  A few seconds passed before a voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. It was loud enough for everyone in the office to hear.

  ‘This is Sandy. We got problems here, boss.’

  ‘What’s up? I got Mister Powell here with me. We need an update.’

  ‘You’re not gonna like this.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Thing is, Tyrone an’ me are in the men’s washroom on the ground floor and we’ve just found Otis Redding in one of the stalls. He’s definitely dead. Neck’s broken, looks like.’

  ‘Any sign of the guys who did it?’

  ‘No, but that ain’t all. We got two other bodies in here. Kurt Cobain and Johnny Cash are dead too. And they got banged up way worse than Otis.’

  In the office, Powell’s mood darkened.
He had now lost three of his five finalists. This was bad.

  Tommy spoke into the walkie-talkie once more.

  ‘Okay, keep looking for these guys. They can’t have gotten far.’

  ‘Sure thing, Tom – OH SHIT!’ Sandy’s voice sounded panicked, and his reply was punctuated by a crashing sound Tommy spoke urgently into his handset. ‘Sandy, what the fuck’s that?’

  The other man didn’t respond. What they heard from Tommy’s radio was what sounded like an almighty ruckus. For the next ten seconds, the airwaves were littered with the sound of punches connecting with flesh, with agonized yelps and Sandy’s attempts at shouting out a commentary on what was happening. It sounded like he and Tyrone were being attacked, but his voice came through muffled by all the background noise. Eventually the signal went dead.

  Tommy tried to get him back. ‘Sandy? Sandy? You still there? What the fuck’s happening there?’

  For twenty seconds or so they waited for a response from Sandy. Or even Tyrone. None came. Suddenly, Powell was wishing he’d asked Annabel de Frugyn a hell of a lot more questions. Taking a deep breath, he nodded at Tommy.

  ‘Go and get me twenty thousand dollars for this guy here,’ he said, pointing at the man sitting opposite him.

  Angus, grinning, tapped some ash from his cigar on to Nigel’s desk. ‘The price just went up to fifty,’ he said with a wink.

  Powell realized at once that he didn’t have time to bargain. ‘Get him fifty,’ he ordered Tommy. The security man nodded, then slipped quietly out of the door, closing it behind him.

  ‘Good to know you’ve seen the light,’ said Angus, puffing on his cigar and maintaining his smug look. ‘Should’ve listened to me in the first place, though, shouldn’t ya?’

  ‘I’m not even listening to you now.’

  ‘Well, that’s your right, I guess. Just get me the goddam cash.’