The Devil's Graveyard Read online

  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.

  Getting the makings from a battered old fridge, he set a pan on the stove and threw in a chunk of fat, followed by bacon slices and two fat sausages. After a while, he pulled a rusty metal spatula from a drawer beneath a sink opposite the grill and began flipping the sausages. The cold meat sizzled as it landed in the hot grease and the aroma of cooking food floated up to Joe’s nostrils. When he sucked in the flavour he knew the day was fully under way. Feeling a sense of anticipation of all that was to follow, he called out to the dining area. ‘Lotta strangers headed this way, y’know. An’ accordin’ to the paper one of ’em might be a serial killer. You ever heard of that Bourbon Kid fella? He drops by here, then I’m recommendin’ you don’t want a ride in his car.’

  Jacko shouted back from the diner. ‘I’ll ride in anyone’s car. I ain’t fussy.’

  ‘Guy’s a killer, Jacko. Doubt very much he’s a man of God.’

  ‘Men of God come in many different guises.’

  ‘They carry enough ammo to conquer Mexico?’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘Well then, maybe he’s your man.’

  There was a pause before Jacko called out again. ‘Coffee’s good, Joe.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  The two of them exchanged idle chat for the next hour or so as Jacko ate his free breakfast and then sat around reading the newspapers while Joe sat on a stool behind the counter. He was on his third mug of burned coffee when a car finally pulled up outside. Joe had seen it drive past a little earlier at high speed. There was a signpost at a crossroads about half a mile down the road that gave directions to the Hotel Pasadena, but every year on Halloween the sign went missing, and any driver who passed by the diner invariably returned a few minutes later to ask for directions.

  Joe knew the drill. He had to act confused if anyone came in wanting to know where the Hotel Pasadena was. This would ensure that Jacko could offer his services as a guide in exchange for the ride he so desperately wanted.

  The car was a sleek black number with a long hood. From the size of the hood, it was a safe assumption that an extremely large and powerful engine lay beneath it. The engine roared pretty loud at idle, too. In fact, it roared in a manner that suggested the driver wanted the idling-speed revs kept deliberately high, rather than any suggestion that it was in need of a service. This was a powerful car, and no doubt the driver wanted people to know that. It was covered in sand and dust from what had almost certainly been a long journey across the desert. Being a cynical old bastard, Joe wasn’t one to give any indication that cars impressed him. He had a shitty old pickup truck and resented anyone who owned anything better. Truth was, he would have paid the black car no attention at all if he could, but unfortunately for him, Jacko wanted to know a little about it.

  ‘What kinda car is that, anyway?’ Jacko asked him. Joe, pretending he hadn’t noticed it, cast an exaggerated glance out of the dirt-covered window. He knew the model straight away.

  ‘Pontiac Firebird,’ he grunted.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A Pontiac Firebird.’ This time he elaborately stressed each syllable: ‘Pon-tee-ack Fye-er-burd’.

  ‘What’s a Pontiac Firebird? I ain’t never heard of it.’

  ‘Bad guy’s car.’

  ‘Whadda ya… ?’ Jacko cut his question short as the bell chimed, announcing that the driver of the car had entered the diner.

  Joe knew straight away that his prediction was right. This was a bad guy. That much was obvious from the aura that surrounded him. The man had a powerful presence. Anyone within screaming distance would have picked up on it. Except maybe Jacko.

  The stranger wore black combat pants that hung over a pair of well-worn black ankle boots, with a heavy black leather jacket, which, incongruously, had a dark hood hanging at the back of it. Underneath the jacket was a tight black T-shirt. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark polarized sunglasses with gunmetal frames, and his hair was thick, dark and
lank – greasy even. It hung almost to his shoulders, but it hung in no sort of style. The guy looked effortlessly cool, like he slept in his clothes and didn’t give a shit.

  As he walked over to the counter, most likely with the intention of asking Joe for directions, he glanced over at Jacko and nodded in acknowledgement. There was no doubt about it; this was the guy in the photo on the front of the newspaper. Joe felt his palms sweat. Was this a sign? Only a short while earlier he had been considering what to do if he was ever faced with the serial killer from the newspaper report. And now, as if to test him, God had sent this very man his way. Joe thought about the one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward. Did he have the courage to carry out his plan and shoot down this wanted murderer if the chance presented itself? Without doubt, here was his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make some real money. While he was caught up in a trance, weighing up the risks of doing anything about claiming that money, the man spoke. His voice was gravelly in tone, with a unpleasant, even sinister element to it.

  ‘You people round here not heard of road signs?’ he asked.

  Joe shrugged apologetically. ‘Normally only local folk round these parts, mister. Don’t need road signs.’

  ‘I look local to you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Right on cue, from where he sat at the table to the man’s left, Jacko grabbed his opportunity to butt in. ‘I can give you directions, mister.’

  The man turned, raised a finger to lower his sunglasses a little and peered over them at Jacko, looking him up and down.

  ‘You don’t look local.’

  ‘I ain’t. But I’ve been here before.’

  ‘An’ somehow you know where I’m headed?’ The voice rasped, like small stones shifting on a blighted river bed.

  Jacko grinned. ‘Hotel Pasadena, I reckon. If I could hitch a ride with you, I could point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Why’n’t you just point?’

  Joe felt edgy on Jacko’s behalf. Had he not realized that this guy was a serial killer – and not, therefore, the kind of guy you jump in a car with?

  ‘Well, I’m headed to the Pasadena myself,’ said Jacko cheerily. ‘So in exchange for the directions, I could really use a ride.’

  ‘Just point.’

  ‘Well, you see I ain’t never exactly sure ’til I see the roads. I wouldn’t wanna give you the wrong directions, y’know?’

  ‘No. You definitely wouldn’t wanna do that.’

  ‘So, okay for a ride then?’

  The man pushed his sunglasses up half an inch, concealing his eyes again. He seemed to be taking a long, hard look into Jacko’s eyes. As he was doing so, Joe made a choice.

  A hundred grand reward was too good to turn down.

  Slowly, without any obvious movements, he reached for a small wooden drawer at waist height beneath the counter. He kept a small nickel-plated revolver in there in case of trouble. All he had to do was pull it out and shoot this new customer in the back while Jacko had him distracted. A hundred grand in the bank. Nice work. Thank you very much. With a steady hand that belied his advancing years, he inched the drawer open and reached his hand inside. His fingers touched the cold metal of the revolver. His heart pounded against his chest, but he had time. The guy at the counter was still looking the other way, apparently mulling over Jacko’s request for a ride. Eventually, just as Joe got a solid grip on the butt of his pistol, the stranger responded to Jacko’s suggestion.

  ‘Okay, you can have a ride. But get me two bottles of bourbon from behind the counter.’

  Joe watched Jacko grimace as he stood up from his chair. ‘Er, I don’t, like, have any money.’

  The man sighed, then slipped his right hand inside the left side of his black leather jacket. From it he drew out a heavy grey pistol. Turning back to face the counter, he extended his arm and pointed the gun at Joe’s throat. Joe’s eyes bulged, but he pulled his own weapon from the drawer as quickly as he could and aimed it at the guy in black.

  What followed was a loud bang that would have been heard for miles around. The white mugs on the shelf behind Joe’s head were suddenly splattered scarlet with the blood that spouted from a gaping hole in the back of his neck.

  The day’s killing was well under way.

  Three

  Sanchez hated bus rides. Truth be told, he wasn’t a big fan of any kind of travel, but a seemingly never-ending bus ride with no apparent destination was near the top of the list of things he never wanted to do. Only drinking his own piss topped it. This particular bus trip had followed a three-hour flight. He wasn’t a fan of flying, either. Fact was, he wouldn’t have been there at all if he hadn’t won a mystery two-week vacation, all expenses paid.

  Sanchez was renowned as a tightwad in his home town of Santa Mondega, so it had come as no surprise to anyone that he’d taken advantage of the free first-class flight and accommodation in a mystery five-star hotel somewhere in North America. For all he knew he could be headed to Detroit (or some equally terrifying place), but he didn’t much care. It was simply a relief that the trip had taken him out of Santa Mondega on Halloween, a night when the place tended to be even more evil than usual. Which was saying something.

  It had happened because, a while back, he’d filled in a survey for an online dating agency, which had offered the vacation as a prize for the most eligible single person in each town of his region. Yet somehow, to Sanchez’s dismay, there had been a tie for most eligible singleton in Santa Mondega. Annoyingly, the other winner had been seated next to him on the plane, and was now in the seat beside him on the bus. And it was someone who got right on his nerves, bigtime.

  Annabel de Frugyn, or ‘the Mystic Lady’, as she preferred to be known, was the local fruitcake. She was a fortune-teller by trade, and an abysmal one at that – in Sanchez’s opinion, at least. Within a minute of taking off she’d predicted that they would crash into a mountain. Then she’d pointed out a couple of potential terrorists sitting a few rows in front. They had overheard her, and from then on Sanchez had been convinced that they had it in for him simply because he was sitting next to her. The only thing she had foreseen correctly was that they would be seated next to each other on the bus as well as the plane. And now she was predicting something that Sanchez found even more terrifying.

  ‘The spirits are telling me that you and I are going to end up spending a lot of time together over the next few days,’ she said jovially. She was smiling her hideous gap-toothed smile and there was an unnerving twinkle in her eye.

  For fuck’s sake, thought Sanchez. She’s at least sixty. And a total dog. She was indeed sixty, exactly twice his age. Not at all the kind of female company he had been hoping for on his free vacation.

  There wasn’t an empty seat on the bus, and it was noticeable that there were no couples. Everyone on board appeared to have won his or her ticket through participation in the same survey that Sanchez had taken. So, crammed into the seats were fifty-five single people, none of whom seemed to be under the age of twenty-five. Without doubt, though, the oldest and ugliest was the Mystic Lady, sitting next to Sanchez.

  I gotta ditch her early on, he thought. If he wasn’t careful, people might start to think he liked her, and that could potentially ruin his chances with any of the other women on the bus, all of whom he considered to be candidates for his irresistible charms. In particular, there was an attractive Portuguese woman two seats in front on the other side of the bus. Either she’d been checking him out for most of the journey, or she had a lazy eye. Either way, he wasn’t bothered; she was definitely a better proposition than the old hag next to him.

  Time to head any misunderstandings off at the pass, Sanchez reckoned, and with that in mind he turned to his companion. ‘Guess you know what these mystery trips are like, Annabel,’ he said, his voice almost drooling with insincerity. ‘We’ll probably get separated early on and not see each other again until the journey home. If at all.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Annabel laughed, slapping h
im on the thigh. ‘Since we don’t know anyone else, we must stick together. So much nicer to be with someone you know when you’re in a strange place, isn’t it?’ Her hand remained on his thigh. He was wearing a pair of brown knee-length shorts in one of the cheaper synthetic fibres, and they’d been creeping up his ass somewhat during the journey, so her hand was perilously close to touching flesh.

  The letter accompanying his winning ticket had suggested that he dress for warm weather, so above the shorts Sanchez was wearing a red short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. As a precaution he had a brown suede jacket on top of it, but judging from the weather they’d encountered so far he wouldn’t need it. Although the first thing to discard would be Annabel. Forcing a polite smile, he responded to her enthusiastic rambling through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. Trouble is, I get lost real easy when I’m away from home. Seriously. One minute I’m right there, next thing you know, you’ve turned your back for a second and I’m nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to make sure I don’t let you out of my sight then, won’t I? Don’t worry, honey – I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.’ Once again, Sanchez felt her hand squeeze his thigh, and inwardly shuddered. Unlike him, she hadn’t heeded the advice about the warm weather, and had swaddled herself in a long black dress beneath two cardigans. One of these was dark blue and worn underneath a hideous flea-infested dark green one. Much of her long grey hair hung down over the front of these fetching garments, no doubt acting as a ladder for fleas to climb up and down from head to clothes. Sanchez would have swatted her hand away from his thigh, but the sight of her yellow fingernails and wrinkly hands repelled him. They would, he thought, have shamed a leper. Fortunately, after an inappropriately long time, she removed her hand herself and pointed through the window at something ahead, close to the road’s edge.

  ‘Oh look,’ she said excitedly. ‘There’s a road sign. See what it says.’