Johnny Gruesome (34 page)

Bill raced around the counter and up the aisle. He slammed the front door, the .38 in his hand poised for action. His ears rang from the gunfire, depriving him of another one of his senses. He’d save the last bullet just in case Johnny came back. In country, he’d heard stories about the angry dead from Vietnamese villagers who had believed in such things. He’d seen things that made a believer out of him. But he never expected to encounter one of the creatures stateside, especially not in Red Hill. Why would Johnny Grissom return from the grave and come for him? It made no sense! They’d always gotten along. Before he came up with an answer, he thought he heard a scream; it was hard to tell over the ringing in his ears.

Johnny ran across the snowy front yard. Damn, Old Bill was crazy! Passing the thick trunk of a tree, he charged into the street, straight into the path of an oncoming SUV. He glimpsed the driver—a chunky woman with sculpted blond hair, a cell phone pressed against her ear, her eyes wide and her mouth frozen open—just as the vehicle slammed into him.

Shit!

The impact pitched him into the air. Without intending to, he executed a perfect cartwheel over the SUV’s windshield and roof. Christ, he hated SUVs and the people who drove them. An instant later, he crashed to the pavement, shattering his left shoulder. His body rolled several times before coming to a stop in slush. Lying on his back, he gazed at the sky. The initial impact had smashed his right hip, and now his shoulder felt useless. He heard a car door open, followed by a stutter of footsteps. His mind raced: what the hell was he going to do?

Despite running late for her hair appointment, Nancy Anzello obeyed the speed limit as she drove her new Escalade along Morgan Street. She had washed and blow-dried her hair before leaving home. After all, she had to look good before she could look her best, and she had to look her best for the emergency town-hall meeting her husband, Mayor Anthony Anzello, had called for that evening. She disliked making public appearances on such short notice, but she had no choice in this case: embroiled in a real estate scandal, Anthony’s popularity had decreased in recent polls.

Goddamn Ed Holder for running that expose in the
Red Hill Gazette! And goddamn Tom Kennedy, Anthony’s political opponent, for running such a strong campaign. But these murders provided Anthony with a golden solution to his troubles: he had always been strong on crime, and he would appeal to the town’s sense of security. Tom Kennedy was nothing but a do-gooder, and the voters would see they were safer with her Anthony in office. Taking her cell phone from her purse, she called the salon.

“Hi, Sarah, it’s Nancy. I’m running just a little behind. I’m on Morgan Sreet right n—
Oh, shit!
”

A figure dressed in black had run into the street, right in front of her vehicle. She stomped on the brake pedal and the Escalade screeched to a halt, but it struck the figure, which disappeared over her windshield. She heard a thump on her roof, and as she looked over her shoulder at the rear window, she saw a dark shape strike the ground like a guided missile.

“Oh, my God!” She looked in horror at her cell phone. “Sarah? I’ll call you right back.” Shutting the phone off, she opened her door and ran around to the still figure lying on the ground. From his outfit, she gathered he was a young man. Through the eyeholes in the ski mask, she saw closed eyelids. Crouching down—but careful not to get her outfit wet—she peeled off the ski mask and gasped.

The teenage boy’s skin had turned blue, his lips black, the right side of his face a mass of carnage. She’d killed him! But it wasn’t her fault—the idiot had run in front of her. Regardless, she knew this would have dire repercussions for Anthony’s reelection campaign. And he would blame her. Everyone would blame her. What would Father Webb think? She’d never be able to show her face in church again.

Turning her head from side to side, she saw no other cars driving on the street and no witnesses standing outside. Gazing in the direction from which the figure had come, she saw Old Bill staring out from behind the door of his hobby store. Panic stilled her heart until she remembered Old Bill was blind. Pulling the ski mask back over the dead teenager’s mangled face, she ran back to her Escalade, climbed in, and sped away.

Opening his eyes, Johnny focused on the receding SUV’s bumper sticker: REELECT ANTHONY MANZELLO FOR MAYOR! He thought he’d recognized the driver; he’d seen her phony smile in the
Red Hill Gazette
countless times.
You fat bitch!

He had to act fast, before another vehicle came along. Maybe a Hummer would run over him. Concentrating on the inside of his body, he willed the muscles around his left hip and shoulder to rearrange themselves, crawling like snakes, to give his damaged bones additional support. Between the dogs, Old Bill’s gunfire, and the mayor’s wife, he felt much worse for wear. He’d been tempted to open his eyes and scare the hell out of Mrs. Anzello, but had opted to show discretion and play possum instead. At this rate, his body wouldn’t survive long enough to confront Eric, Karen, and Gary.

Gary
…

His husk filled with rage and determination at the thought of his killer. Maybe he should have started with the people responsible for his current situation. No, he wanted them jumping at the shadows when he took care of them. Getting to his feet, he looked over his shoulder at the hobby store. Bill had pulled down the window shade and turned over the CLOSED sign. He took an awkward step forward and heard a sloshing sound inside his body. Shaking his head, he hobbled off.

This town sucks.

L
imping through the grape vineyard that led to his house, Johnny reflected on his morning. It had started so well at the funeral home, then had quickly gone to hell. He regretted not killing Mayor Anzello’s wife; he could have stolen her Escalade and tooled around town in it. That would have been cool; he could have led Matt Crane on a high-speed chase. Instead, he had to waste valuable time hobbling around like a cripple.

Emerging from the rows of frozen vines, he cast his eyes at the expansive gray sky above his home. He had lived almost his entire life in that house. The wind blew and he heard a strange whistling sound. Stopping, he looked down at his chest. He placed one hand over the bullet hole in the center of his leather jacket and the whistling stopped. He removed his hand and the whistling resumed. Unzipping his jacket, he stared at the hole in his chest. Now he covered that hole and the whistling stopped again.

Son of a bitch.

Something exploded against his head, and he heard his brain sloshing around inside his skull.

Fuck!

Crouching, he raised his arms in a defensive posture. At first he thought someone had shot him again. Then he heard high-pitched squealing and laughter. Turning in a half circle, he saw two boys, perhaps twelve years old, run off down parallel rows of vines. They reminded him of himself and Eric at that age. They also left behind a small girl who couldn’t have been more than eight. Dressed in a pink parka, with blond hair visible beneath her woolen hat, she stared at him with bright blue eyes. Standing erect, he shook the remnants of the icy snowball from his hair. Then he advanced on the girl.

“I didn’t do it,” the moppet said, remaining still.

He stopped a half-dozen feet from her. Through the eyeholes in his ski mask, he watched the boys shrink in the distance behind her. “What’s your name?”

“Tammy.” She had a slight lisp. “What’s yours?”

“Johnny.”

“You sound sick.”

“I
am
sick.”

Tammy looked concerned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was in the water for a long time, and then I was in the ground, and I caught a cold.”

She cocked her head to one side as if considering the meaning behind his words. “You’d better zip up your coat. Want to help me make a snowman?”

“No.” He scanned the frozen terrain for a small stream he knew cut through the property into the woods. Would this little flower float? But all he saw was clean white snow. He moved closer to the girl, who showed no sign of fear as his shadow fell over her. “Who were those guys?”

“My brother and his friend.”

He towered above her. “Where do you live?”

Looking up at him, she pointed past the running boys at a large white farmhouse half a mile away. He had glimpsed the house many times in his lifetime, on an almost daily basis. Tammy’s parents owned the vineyard. “Why are you out here?”

“We were playing. Why don’t you want to make a snowman?”

“Your mother let you come out and play today?”

Tammy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

He found this impossible to fathom. “Didn’t she warn you about the bad man who’s running around hurting people?”

Her quizzical expression answered his question. “Mommy told us to stay in the backyard, but Mark and Danny wanted to come here.”

Reaching into his pocket, Johnny took out his switchblade, which he held close to his hip. He knew a way to really shock the good citizens of Red Hill; a way to suck the life right out of the town. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No. Why should I be?”

“Maybe I’m a monster.”

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “There’s no such thing as monsters, silly.”

“There are all kinds of monsters. Some are real and some aren’t. Didn’t Mommy ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“You’re not a stranger. I’ve seen you lots of times. You live right there.” She pointed past Johnny at his house.

Johnny swallowed air, a reflexive reaction. She knew him. If he had doubted whether or not to kill her, the uncertainty had passed. She
knew
him. He rubbed the knife handle between his fingers. “I don’t live there. You’re thinking of somebody else.”

“What’s that?” She pointed at his knife hand. “Do you have gum?”

Beneath the mask, his facial muscles tightened. “No. No gum. Just this.” He raised the knife and thumbed its trigger. The blade sprang out with a sound that cut through the air.

Tammy continued to stare at him, her breathing shallow. Did she finally sense danger? Johnny fisted his free hand. It would be so easy to stain the snow with her innocent blood. Matt Crane would suffer nightmares until his dying day; maybe longer. He lowered the knife, blade pointed out and ready to strike. Then, with his left hand, he tore off his ski mask, revealing his violated and decomposing features.