Johnny Gruesome (33 page)

M
att crossed the parking lot of Lewton Hospital, which bordered Red Hill and Silver Wood on Central Avenue, with a steaming hot coffee in one hand and rubber-banded magazines in the other. The TV weathermen had predicted a storm, and his bones agreed. Entering the dark lobby, which lacked even remedial security, he thumbed the elevator call button.

On the third floor, he made his way along corridors strewn with unused gurneys. Through the open door of room #322, he saw Walt Butler sleeping with his mouth open, an oxygen line clasped to his nose. Entering the sunlit room, he heard the hiss of the oxygen machine over the morning talk show playing on the TV and he shivered from the cold.

Christ, Walt looked pathetic: he had lost at least another ten pounds since Matt had last seen him, and the remainder of his hair had fallen out. Dark splotches riddled his pale flesh.

Matt peeled off his coat, clicked off the TV with the remote control attached to the bed, and eased into the rocker.

Walt’s eyes opened and focused on Matt. Too weak to smile, he said, “You don’t knock?”

“Who says I didn’t?” Matt stuck a straw into the coffee and held it out to the old man. Walt leaned forward, sipped, then sagged back into the bed with an exhausted sigh. Matt placed the magazines on the tray. “Here’s your mail. Most of it looks pornographic.”

Walt closed his eyes. “I’m too tired to pull my pecker.”

“Everyone misses you at the station. We need to get you back on your feet.”

Walt stared at Matt. “Don’t waste what little time I have left on such nonsense. The only way I’m leaving this room is on a stretcher.”

Matt grasped Walt’s wrist. His mentor’s wife had died two years earlier, and he had no children. The job was all that remained for him. “What can I do for you? Anything?”

Walt made slight movements with his head.

“I hate like hell to bother you with this, but I need your advice.”

Walt’s eyes seemed to darken. “The murders.”

Matt should have known. Of course Walt had paid attention to the news, even in this condition. “They’re bad. Real bad. I’d hoped the Kumler kid was killed by a drifter or the school janitor, but that’s obviously not the case.”

“Two more kids last night, I hear.”

“And maybe one before Kumler. I’m not sure.”

Walt raised his eyebrows. “Charlie Grissom’s boy?”

Matt nodded. “Beelock did a half-assed autopsy.”

“That drunken fool. He ought to be lying here instead of me.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. I’m going to request a second autopsy. Exhume the grave and call in the chief ME.”

“What else are you doing?”

“I called Sam Crothers with the state police. They’ve stepped up patrols at the highway ramps, and they’re loaning us two manned cars around the clock. I’ve got the FBI on standby: one more homicide and they’ll classify the perp as a serial killer and step in and take over. That’s why I want Grissom reexamined.”

Walt stared straight ahead, his eyes unblinking, and for a moment Matt thought he’d fallen asleep again, or worse. “What else?”

“Anzello’s scheduled a town-hall meeting this evening. We’re implementing a curfew for anyone under eighteen. If that doesn’t help, I’m shooting for martial law. I need to let everyone know I’m on top of this.”

Walt stared, waiting.

“But I’m not. I’m in way over my head. Three, possibly four murdered teenage boys. Who am I kidding? We don’t even have a detective on the force.”

Walt grimaced. “Don’t give me that crap. I chose you to replace me, and I know it was the right decision. Step up to the goddamned plate. You’ve got no other choice. Everyone in Red Hill is depending on you.”

Matt bowed his head. “This town is dying around me, Walt. And I don’t know how to stop it. People who live here are leaving town until this blows over. The inn and motels are packed with TV crews from Buffalo, Jamestown, and Erie, and the networks are looking for houses to rent. Suddenly, we’re in the spotlight and under a microscope. We’re going to have a real legacy on our hands, and it won’t be pretty.”

“Don’t give those media whores the time of day. Don’t fall for any of their—”

Matt’s cell rang and he took the call in front of Walt, his stomach clenching. What had Carol said?
Every time the phone rings, someone else is dead.
“Yeah, Ben?” Matt’s eyes locked onto Walt’s. “Ah, shit …”

Matt stared through the windshield wipers as he sped along Central Avenue, the siren on his vehicle screaming. He hated to run out on Walt, especially since he hadn’t visited him all week, but duty called, literally. The snowfall had intensified, flurries slicing the air. He had little difficulty driving, despite the weather, due to the limited traffic. Large Victorian homes on the tree-lined street blurred by him, many of them serving as fraternity houses for the college.

He saw a figure walking toward him on his right-hand side. Leaning forward, he narrowed his eyes. Tall and lanky, dressed all in black, with a matching ski mask pulled down over his face, long hair protruding from the back.
Something familiar there.
A high school student playing hooky, or a college student between classes?
No time to worry about it now.

He saw strobe lights flashing in the distance, beneath tree limbs and telephone wires, and the fire engines came into view, surrounded by the vehicles of volunteer firemen. Then he saw black smoke billowing through the trees and flames angling in the wind. He slowed down and pulled over to the curb, watching the firemen scurry around the Lawson Funeral Home, blasting it with their pressure hoses. As he got out of the Pathfinder, he saw that most of the structure had already been consumed. A dozen people lined the sidewalk across the street, shivering as they witnessed the spectacle. He joined Dan Heller at the driveway.

“Place went up like a torch,” Dan said. “Red Hill’s bravest say it looks like arson, just like that Mazda last night. Fire started in the cellar and worked its way up. Looks sort of like hell on earth, doesn’t it?”

Matt watched the roof collapse, engulfed in flames, smoke and burning embers blowing out in all directions. “Anyone inside?”

Heller shrugged. “Four vehicles are parked out back and in the garage.” He counted on his fingers. “Harold’s Beamer, Lawrence’s caddy, the hearse, and the truck Willard drove. Looks like the family business is toast, and the family with it.”

Gazing at the flames, Matt imagined the thick smoke coalescing into the shape of a dark figure. “Send Ben out to Harold’s house. His wife’s name is Kitty.” He turned and ran to his vehicle.

“Where are you going?”

“To look for someone.” Matt leapt behind the wheel, backed up, and took off in the same direction he had come from. His eyes scanned the sidewalk on the left, but he saw no sign of the skimasked figure he’d seen only minutes earlier. He turned around and drove back, checking out the other side of the street, then circled the block, his heartbeat racing.

Nothing.

He expanded the perimeter of his search, driving in ever-widening squares until deciding that the man in black must have escaped in a car, or ducked into a house. His gut told him that the mystery figure was in some way responsible for the blaze, and he wondered if this instinct was what big city cops called “perp fever.”

J
ohnny chuckled when he saw Matt Crane’s SUV racing down Main Street toward the funeral parlor, its siren blaring. He didn’t laugh a few minutes later, though, when he looked over his shoulder and saw the vehicle in the distance, coming his way again. Stepping behind an oak tree, he hid as Matt passed him. Johnny waited twenty seconds, then dashed around the corner of Morgan Street to a bright blue Victorian house with clean white trim, his knees and ankles clicking. The wooden sign on the front lawn said CHANDLER’S HOBBY STORE.

Johnny took the wooden steps two at a time and bolted across the wraparound porch. Hurrying inside, he froze when he triggered a motion detector. As he closed the door, he glimpsed the empty counter on the other side of the aisle. A country-and-western tune drifted out from the room behind it. Seconds later, Matt turned onto Morgan, no doubt driving around the block.

Flattening his back against the wall beside the door, Johnny faced boxes bearing dynamic illustrations of battleships, fighter jets, and racing cars. He imagined the odors of modeling glue and Testor’s paint that he knew lingered in the air. He had been in the store many times and it felt good to see it again. He purchased all his monster models and action figures from Bill Chandler, the owner.

Old Bill had served as an infantryman in Vietnam, where he’d lost most of his eyesight in a fire fight. The town council arranged for him to purchase the two-family house at a bargain, and Red Hill citizens took up a collection to cover the closing costs. Old Bill had owned and operated Chandler’s Hobby Store for forty years. He ran it alone, though his children and grandchildren sometimes helped out.

Johnny had applied for a job at the store when he turned thirteen, but Old Bill had turned him down flat. Johnny had shoplifted from the blind shopkeeper for several years to get even. But he’d grown to like the old man, who regaled him with war stories, and he reserved his larceny for people and businesses he despised.

Peering through the glass panes in the door, Johnny saw that Matt’s SUV was out of sight. As he reached for the doorknob he heard footsteps coming from the back room. Turning, he actually felt an old emotion: fear. Old Bill emerged behind the counter. If Johnny’s heart had still been pumping, it would have skipped a beat. Old Bill wore a sweatshirt with its sleeves cut off, bearing a skull wearing a green beret, with rifles replacing crossbones beneath it. Above the graphic, bold letters declared,
KILL THEM ALL, LET GOD SORT EM OUT
! Bill wore his trademark sunglasses, his long gray hair tied in a ponytail.

“Hello?” he said.

A crazy thought crossed Johnny’s rotting brain: he hadn’t held a normal conversation with anyone since his murder. Bill couldn’t see him, right? Maybe they could enjoy each other’s company for a few minutes. Hadn’t Frankenstein’s monster befriended an old blind man in the movies? True, that friendship ended badly, but Johnny didn’t intend to stick around long. Of course, he’d have preferred a blind girl, but Old Bill would do.

“Who goes there?” Bill said.

With no time to debate the merits of his plan, Johnny cleared his throat. “Uh … hi, Bill.”

Bill stepped behind the cash register. His facial muscles slackened as he aimed his sunglasses straight ahead. For a moment, Johnny thought the old man actually saw him.

“Johnny—?” Bill’s voice trembled with fear and incredulity.

Johnny froze. What the hell?

“Johnny Grissom, is that you?” Bill’s voice grew louder and more forceful.

Johnny constricted his vocal cords, making his voice deeper. “Uh, no. My name is … Sam.”

“Bullshit!” Bill whipped out a polished .38 revolver from beneath the cash register. “I know your voice and I know what a rotting corpse smells like!”

“Bill, wait a—”

Bill squeezed the trigger and a gunshot rang out with deafening precision. The first round tore through Johnny’s ski mask and right cheek, snapping his head back. He felt no pain, but the wind went out of his sails.

The second shot splintered wood beside his head as he raised his left hand to his shattered cheek. He jerked his body as if playing dodge ball, uncertain which way to turn.

The third shot burrowed through his throat, exited the back of his neck, and shattered a pane in the door.

I’ve gotta get the fuck outta here!

The fourth shot hit him dead center in the chest. Wide-eyed and speechless, he spun on one heel and jerked the door open, triggering the motion detector again. Bill fired the .38 again, and the round bore through Johnny’s back, between his shoulder blades. Johnny fled outside, leaving the door open.