Chain Letter (4 page)

“When are you going to get that joint worked on?” Tony asked.

Neil quickly withdrew his hand from the sore area. “My mom and I are still trying
to put together the doctor’s fee. We’re almost there.”

Neil’s father had died when Neil was three, and his mother had never remarried. She
worked two waitress jobs—lunches at a Denny’s Coffee Shop, dinners at a Hilton restaurant—and
Neil put in long hours at a twenty-four-hour gas station. They barely seemed to get
by. Tony had a couple of grand in the bank, but knew it would be useless offering
it to Neil, who could be unreasonably proud at rimes.

“The way your body’s falling apart, pretty soon we’re going to be measuring you for
a box,” Kipp said good-naturedly, though Tony would have preferred if he had kept
his mouth shut. Kipp’s sense of humor did not always run the right side of good taste.
Sometimes he sounded like . . .

Like someone who could write a weird letter?

Tony knew he had better stop such thoughts before they could get started. If he didn’t,
he’d never get to sleep tonight.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Neil agreed, not offended. “I’ve had so much bad luck lately . . . ”
His eyes strayed to the remains
of the letter. “. . . I sometimes wonder if someone ain’t put a hex on me.”

The opposite of hardheaded Kipp, Neil was superstitious. Kipp often teased him about
it, and he had the bad sense to do it now.

“A ghost, maybe, in a tan sports coat?”

“Kipp, for God’s sake!” Tony said, disgusted. The man had been wearing a tan coat.

“It’s possible, I think,” Neil said softly, his eyes dark. “Not the type of ghost
you’re talking about, but another kind, I mean.”

Kipp giggled. “What
do
you mean?”

“Hey, let’s drop this, OK? It’s dumb and it doesn’t help us.” Tony stood and went
to the window. The football game had ended and the kids had disappeared. The street
was quiet. Soon his parents would come home. He wanted the guys gone before they arrived.
It was getting dark.

“I mean, none of us is a doctor,” Neil continued as though he had not heard him. “You
read online how someone’s heart stops, their breathing stops, and then, a few hours
later, they’re up and walking around. It happens quite a lot, I understand. And sometimes
these people talk about the strange things they saw and the strange places they went
to while they were dead. Usually, it sounds nice and beautiful. But this one man I
read about who tried to commit suicide talked about a place that sounded like hell.
It made me sick reading about it. But what I wanted to say was that these people who
die and come back
sometimes develop powers. Some can heal, while others can read minds and transmit
thoughts. It’s supposed to depend on how they died, whether they were scared or not.”

Could there be a death worse than premature burial?
Tony asked himself. Edgar Allan Poe had spent a lifetime obsessed with the idea,
and he had been a devotee of horror. It was obvious that this is what Neil was driving
at.

And the grave they had dug had been shallow.

Shallow enough to escape from? Maybe . . .

Dead dammit!

He simply could not allow these paranoid possibilities a chance to start to fester.
They had checked and rechecked: No pulse, no breathing, no pupil response, no nothing.
Dead, absolutely no question.

“And what else have you learned reading
The National Enquirer
?” Kipp asked sarcastically.

Neil did not answer, hanging his head toward the floor. Tony crossed the room, put
his hand on his shoulder. Neil looked up, his green eyes bright.

“The person who sent this letter is alive,” Tony said firmly. “It might even be, like
you suggested, someone in the group. But it’s certainly not a psychic zombie who can
give us diabetes from a distance or force us to turn ourselves in against our will.”

Neil smiled faintly, nodded. “Sure, Tony. I’m just sort of scared, you know?”

Tony squeezed his arm. “You’re no different from the rest
of us. No different from even Kipp here, though he would be the last to admit it.”

“Judges and juries frighten me more than witches and werewolves,” Kipp muttered.

On that pragmatic note, the discussion came to an end. Tony walked them both to the
front door and told them that as long as they stuck together they’d be all right.
It sounded like a decent send-off remark.

He had been worried about getting to sleep that night but as he climbed the stairs
back to his room, he felt suddenly weary and collapsed on his bed with his pants still
on, his teeth unbrushed and his window wide open. Coach Sager had put them through
a grueling workout in track practice that afternoon, but Tony knew it was wrestling
with the unknown Caretaker that had worn him out. If only he could sleep now he could
recover his wits for tomorrow.

And he got his wish, for within minutes he began to doze, or rather, he started to
dream, which must have meant he was asleep. But the sleep was anything but restful.
A shadow stood over him all night, forcing him to labor on a task that seemed impossible
to complete. They were in a deserted field and he was working with his bare hands,
digging a grave that would never be deep enough.

T
he concert had been great. Tony’s ears were ringing and he couldn’t hear himself think,
much less hear what the others were talking about. The crowd was thinning but it was
still hard walking. There were no lights in the Swing Auditorium parking lot and out
here in the valley there wasn’t nearly the background glow of electric L.A. It was
like being stuck in a black cave with a herd of cattle. He stumbled on broken asphalt
and almost tripped Joan, who was holding on to his hand. He felt loaded and hadn’t
even had a drink. Then again, there had been enough dope smoke in the air to waste
the security guards.

“What did you say?” Tony yelled at Joan.

“I didn’t say anything!” Joan yelled back, sounding ten miles away but leaning close
enough to make him wonder if
the evening’s fun wasn’t only beginning. She was wearing tight white pants, a skimpy
orange blouse, and her hair was all over the place, including in his face.

“It was I!” Kipp giggled, hanging on to Brenda, the two holding each other up. They
had sure put away the beer on the long drive out to the auditorium. There were still
several six-packs left. “Where the hell did I put my car?”

“There it is!” Brenda laughed, pointing so vaguely that she could have meant half
the parking lot.

“I drive a Ford, not a Volkswagen!” Kipp shouted. “Hey, Neil, do you remember where
my blue baby is?”

Neil did not have a date but they had brought him because he loved music and because
he was such a great guy to have around when you were trying to find your car. He didn’t
drink and appeared impervious to marijuana smoke. He answered Kipp, but his voice
was lost in the crowd and the ringing ears.

“You’re going to have to speak up!” Kipp shouted.

Using hand signs, Neil managed to get across the message that they should follow him.
Tony stumbled obediently on his heels, bumping into Joan whenever possible, with her
hanging on to his pants pockets, giggling and cursing up a storm as they dodged people
and slid between jammed cars. The maze seemed endless. Finally, however, Neil halted
and by golly if they weren’t standing next to Kipp’s pride and joy—a super-charged
’97 Ford. Kipp had parked at the far
end of the lot where they could supposedly enjoy a quick getaway. Too bad the exits
were all on the other end of the lot.

The wait in the traffic was tedious. The concert had strung them all up and now they
had to move like snails. A half hour later and they were still captives of the carbon-monoxide-spouting
train. To pass the time, Kipp—who was driving, naturally—and Brenda set to work on
the remainder of the beer. Joan even had a couple of cans, though her dad always gave
her a sobriety test when she got home from being out late, and Tony thought what the
hell and put away a couple of beers himself. The alcohol seemed to dull the ringing
in his head. Neil took a can, too, after prodding from Brenda, but nursed it carefully.

They were on the verge of a breakthrough to the street that led to the freeway when
someone knocked on their window.

“Alison!” Brenda squealed when Kipp rolled down the window, letting in a fog of exhaust.
“Wow! It’s
sooo
amazing running into you here!”

“Brenda, I was with you when we bought tickets for this concert,” Alison said, ducking
her head partway into the car. Her curly black hair was held back with a pin and there
were oil stains on her hands. She looked slightly exasperated, unusual for her—Alison
always impressed Tony as being in control. He was sitting in the backseat and, for
reasons known only to his sober mind, he immediately took his hand off Joan’s knee.
“Hi Neil! Hi Joan!” She smiled. “Like the concert, Tony?”

He grinned. “Wasn’t loud enough.”

“Having car trouble?” Neil asked from the dark corner of the backseat. The car in
front was moving and if they didn’t move too, the horns would start quick. Alison
held up her oily hands.

“Yes. Fran and I are killing the battery. It just refuses to turn over. Could you
please . . . ”

“Call the auto club,” Joan interrupted. “I’ve got to get back soon or my old man will
be out on the porch with his shotgun.” The car behind them honked. “Come on, Kipp.
Move it.”

“Pull over to the left,” Tony said, though he knew Joan’s dad disliked him and would
only be too happy to have an excuse to castrate him with buckshot. Joan scowled but
held her tongue.

“Sure,” Kipp said. Alison stepped back and he swung out of line, their personal slot
vanishing quickly. The glaring rows of headlights at their back made it a sure bet
it would be a while before they got another shot at the freeway.

Fran’s car was a Toyota Corolla, and Kipp promptly snorted his disgust for Japanese
workmanship. While he tried jumping the battery, Tony checked for loose wires and
Neil peered in the gas tank. All systems appeared go until Kipp put the jumper cables
directly on the starter. It didn’t so much as click, and they knew where they stood.

“Call the auto club,” Joan repeated when they paused for a hasty conference on what
to do next. “You’re a member, aren’t you, Fran?”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

“I am,” Alison said. “I guess I could call . . . ”

“No,” Tony said quickly. “It would take one of their men forever to get through this
traffic. This is a run-down area. Neither of you would be safe waiting around. You’re
coming home with us.”

“But my dad will have to drive all the way out here tomorrow to fix it,” Fran complained.

“He won’t mind the inconvenience once he understands it was to insure your safety,”
Tony said smoothly, having absolutely no idea about Fran’s father’s position on such
matters.

“There’s no room in Kipp’s car for seven people,” Joan growled.

“No problem,” Kipp belched, swaying. “You can sit on my hands.” Brenda punched him.
“My lap, I mean.” Brenda hit him again.

“Joan,” Tony said with a trace of irritation, “auto club employees do not install
starters, especially in the middle of the night. It’s settled; now let’s get back
in line. And Kipp, give me your keys. You’re drunk.”

“If I was drunk,” Kipp mumbled indignantly, “would I have trouble seeing like I am
now?”

He handed over his keys a minute later.

· · ·

Two hours had gone by and they were lost. At least the traffic had disappeared. They
hadn’t even seen another car in twenty minutes. Tony was sure he had gotten on the
freeway going
west toward L.A., but he wasn’t sure when
or how
he had switched freeways—not all the signs were lit up in this crazy part of the
country—and Alison’s shortcut on the surface roads back to the correct freeway had
definitely been a mistake. She was in the back this minute, poring over a tattered
map with a flashlight, telling him to turn this way and that. The first gas station
he saw, he was pulling over. In fact if he saw an ordinary house, he might stop. The
surrounding fields seemed to stretch to infinity. They could have stumbled into the
heart of the Australian desert.

Nevertheless, they were having fun. They had plenty of gas and fine conversation and
the beer tasted good and he was no longer worried about the alcohol slowing his reflexes.
He’d only had a few cans, anyway, and he was a big boy and had a hearty liver. He
knew what he was doing and as soon as he knew where he was going he would be just
fine. Joan’s mood had lightened considerably—her old man was away fishing, she had
remembered—and she was laughing and the way her legs were rubbing against his was
distracting but he wasn’t complaining. Even Fran was full of holiday cheer—she was
unmistakably loaded—and Kipp had taken to reminiscing, which was always a riot. No
one could lie with a straighter face than Kipp.

“Should I tell them, Tony, about the time we snuck into Coach Sager’s house to steal
his kitchen sink and caught him seducing one of Grant High’s teenyboppers?”

“Tell them the whole story.” Tony nodded. Coach Sager
was the football and track coach. They had never been within a mile of his house,
wherever that was.

A road was approaching, narrower than the one they were on but running north and south.
As the silhouette of the mountains was nowhere to be seen, Tony decided they must
have come too far south. “Think I should make a right here, Ali?” he asked, slowing.

“Is there a sign?” she asked, apparently lost in a part of the map that was mostly
gray. He could see her in the rearview mirror. She’d let her hair down and was looking
all right.

“No sign.”

“Might as well give it a try,” she said. “We
must
be too far east.”

“But this road runs north.” Tony squinted. Either it was taking a long time for the
brakes to take hold or else the road was approaching amazingly fast. He had to hit
the pedal hard at the last instant to make the turn. There was a screech of rubber,
and gravel sprayed the Ford’s underbelly. He flipped on the high beams, rubbing his
eyes. The night seemed to be getting darker.