Rockabilly Hell Read online

  They didn’t know about it.

  Yet.

  Captain Wood had made a lot of unsavory acquaintances over his years as a highway cop. He had deliberately overlooked some very major infractions of law over the years, in order to build up a large group of “you owe me” thugs. With a pocket full of money from Arlene and Victoria and some of the others in the club, setting up the ambush had been easy.

  But Captain Wood either forgot he was sending his thugs and hoodlums and country boy punks against experienced cops, and grossly underestimated Cole and the others, or grossly overestimated the abilities of the men he had hired for this night’s nefarious work.

  Cole’s radio crackled. “We’ve got three- and four-wheelers pacing us on either side,” Gary radioed from behind.

  Cole keyed his mike. “I spotted them a moment ago. They must be muffled down.”

  With hundreds and hundreds of radio frequencies to choose from, the odds of them being monitored were slim. Even if they were monitored, the transmissions would make no sense, because they were scrambled. It wasn’t entirely legal on the part of Cole and Jim, but if that worried them, it wasn’t evident. Sometimes one has to do what one has to do.

  “What is it, Cole?” Katti asked.

  “Ambush, I think. By a bunch of amateurs. And I’d rather deal with professionals. Amateurs can hurt you without meaning to.”

  “But in this case . . .” Jim let that tail off.

  “Yeah,” Cole said with a sigh. “I think push has finally come to shove. Someone has made up their minds to shut us up—permanently.”

  Riding with Bev and Gary, Bob Jordan said, “What the hell do those snake-heads out there in the fields want?”

  “Us, probably,” Bev told him, and unsnapped her 9 mm. “You carrying?”

  “I got my pants on, don’t I?” Bob replied.

  “The last time I looked,” Bev came right back at him.

  “Oh, you’ve been looking me over, hey?” Bob said with a smile.

  Bev smiled in the dim light from the dashboard. “Purely professional, I assure you.”

  Cole’s voice sprang out of the radio. “When we get to the club site, stay on the left side of the road, Gary. Don’t any of you even get close to the other side of the blacktop. You understand?”

  “Ten-four,” Gary responded.

  “What’s the big deal about the right side?” Bob asked.

  “Things that go bump in the night,” Bev told him. There was not the slightest trace of humor behind the words.

  “And neither of you have seen these . . . things, right?”

  “No,” Gary said. “But Jim told me they scared the crap out of him.”

  “I knew Jim back in his Tennessee trooper days,” Bob said. “I never saw him scared of anything.”

  Ahead of them, Cole’s left-turn signal was flashing in the night. The two vehicles pulled off the road and onto the turnrow of the soybean field. As before, they were directly across from the site of the old honky-tonk.

  The off-road vehicles were moving around them in a wide circle, as yet making no attempt to tighten the circle. The engines had been muffled down to a low purr.

  They all heard the beat of the music gradually building in volume, coming from across the road. After a moment, they could make out the words in front of the music. “Whole Lot Of Shakin’ Goin’ On.”

  “I do not believe this,” Bob Jordan muttered.

  The sounds of many feet on a hardwood floor wafted through the night, all mixed in with music and laughter.

  The three- and four-wheelers had stopped their circling. The riders were not visible.

  Bob Jordan’s head moved left and right, scanning the dark area across the road. The old club had not yet appeared out of the darkness.

  The song had changed.

  The music had increased in volume.

  The singer was crooning a ballad: “There Stands The Glass.”

  When he got to the line about filling it up to the brim, Bob said, “I could use a drink myself.”

  And he wasn’t kidding.

  At first, it was only a very dim light that appeared across the road. Then, gradually, the outline of the club could be seen; the parking lot was filled with cars and trucks.

  “Oh, my god,” Bev whispered, her eyes riveted on the sight.

  Katti glanced up at Cole. “You have a very strange expression on your face, Cole,” she whispered.

  “I’m wondering if those thugs who have circled us can see the club and hear the music.” He shook his head. “I’m betting they can’t.”

  “Are you saying that club appears only to people who want to see it?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.” He lowered his voice to a faint whisper. “I’m going to do something very rash. And I don’t want any arguments. You people get down on the ground and stay put. If what I have in mind works out, whoever set up this little ambush just may not have considered all the possibilities. Not a word out of any of you, not a sound. Just watch.”

  Cole jumped up and ran across the blacktop, stopping in the center of the parking lot, crouching down behind a ’55 Ford Crown Vic.

  Katti managed to stifle a scream and remain silent. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it might explode.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Bev whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Jim returned the low murmur. “But I saw him take some incredible chances in ’Nam. One of them earned him the Silver Star, and another got him put in for the Congressional Medal of Honor. He didn’t get it, but he should have.”

  “One of them ran across the road!” the shout came out of the darkness. “Earl! You and Luddy take him out.”

  “Yeah,” Jim muttered. “You and Luddy just try that. You’re both gonna be stickin’ your hands into a buzz saw, when you do.”

  “He’s that rough?” Bob whispered.

  “When he wants to be.”

  Across the road, Cole put his hand on the body of the Crown Vic. It was cool to the touch. So it was real—at least to him. He waited and watched.

  Two four-wheelers suddenly came out of the night and crossed the road. Cole watched as the riders rode right through the shapes of cars and trucks.

  Shit! Cole thought. Maybe my plan won’t work after all.

  The riders stopped, cut off their engines, and stood by their four-wheelers. “Where the hell did he go?” one asked.

  “I don’t know,” his partner replied. “Son of a bitch has got to be around here somewheres.”

  “We can’t let none of them get away, Luddy.”

  “I know that!”

  “Well, where is he?”

  Cole took a flat police slapper out of his back pocket and stood up. “Right here, assholes,” he said, then swung the slapper. The leather-covered lead ball impacted against the head of one of the men, and dropped him like a rock. Cole popped the second man on the noggin, stuck the slapper back into his pocket, dragged the nearly unconscious man to the front door of the club, and then slapped him awake.

  “How about going honky-tonking?” Cole said, when the man had opened his eyes.

  “Huh?” Luddy asked, still dazed.

  Cole opened the door to the club and shoved the man inside. He quickly closed the door and ran back into the center of the parking lot. From inside the old roadhouse, Luddy started screaming hysterically.

  “Luddy?” the shout came from the field behind the club. “Earl? What’s goin’ on? Who’s that screamin’?”

  Interesting, Cole thought. He dragged Earl to the door, opened it, and shoved him inside. But before he could close the door, a man appeared, holding the door open. The music stopped. The man smiled down at Cole.

  “You’re playin’ a game you can’t win, buddy,” the man said.

  “Maybe,” Cole told the man, and felt rather strange doing it. He hadn’t had much experience talking to people from the other side.

  “No one from out yonder’s ever won it yet. But
you got guts, I’ll give you that.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dutch Morrison.”

  Behind him, either Luddy or Earl started wailing. It was a sound of pure anguish.

  “I’ll see you again,” Dutch said. “Bet on that.”

  One of the men Cole had shoved into the ghost club was shouting and cursing. “I seen you dead, George Bailey! I went to your funeral. Tom Matthews shot you dead out huntin’. This ain’t real! Get your fuckin’ hands off me! You stink, man. Get away from me!” Then he started screaming.

  Dutch Morrison smiled down at Cole. “See you around, partner.” He closed the door.

  “Luddy? Earl?” the shout was closer than before. “What the hell is goin’ on? Who’s screamin’?”

  Cole crouched down and waited.

  The screams from inside the club had reached a new intensity. They brought chill bumps on Cole’s bare arms. They sounded much like the screams that Cole had heard in ’Nam, after a napalm drop on VC positions.

  “I’m gone, man!” another voice shouted. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on. But I don’t like it worth a shit!”

  “You stay put, Vic.”

  “Fuck you, Neely. I’m outta here.”

  The sounds of several off-road vehicles drifted to Cole. He stayed put, kneeling on the gravel of the parking lot. His knees were beginning to ache from the pressure on the sharp stones.

  “Dick’s right, Neely,” yet another voice sprang out of the fields. “This thing’s all fucked up. Let’s get out of here.”

  The screaming had ended. It was now more of an inhuman, bubbling moan of pain from inside the club. Cole could not imagine what was being done to the men. He really didn’t want to know.

  “We can’t leave Earl and Luddy.”

  “I think they’re beyond help,” another voice called out in a drawl. “Me . . . I’m outta here.”

  “Okay, okay,” Neely said. “Let’s go.”

  More off-roaders cranked up and pulled out. Cole ran back across the road and crouched down beside the others. “Dutch Morrison and George Bailey. Remember those names.”

  “What happened over there?” Bob asked, his voice shaky.

  “I think I just shoved a couple of guys into Hell.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Bob said.

  “Oh, God!” the wail came from across the road. “Oh, God, help me. Please, God, help me!”

  The cars and trucks in the parking lot began to fade as the club turned misty. For a brief second, the mist was filled with sparkling dots. Then . . . only darkness.

  “I saw it, I heard it, but I don’t believe it,” Bob said. “I just . . . can’t.” Then he shook his head, cleared his throat, and shouted, “What in the name of God is going on around here? What happened to those two punks? Where the hell is the club!” He pointed. “The goddamn thing was right there. I saw it; heard the music.”

  “Calm down, Bob,” Jim told him. “Just take some deep breaths and calm down.”

  “Has anybody got a cigarette?” Cole asked, slapping his pockets out of habit.

  Katti looked up at him. “I thought you told me you quit?”

  “I did. I just started back again.”

  Bob gave him a smoke, and they both lit up. Bob held the lighter, and his hands were shaking.

  “Who is this Dutch Morrison you mentioned?” Gary asked.

  “The dead guy who was talking to me over there.”

  Bob had just taken a deep drag from his smoke and started coughing at that remark. When he had caught his breath, he looked at Cole and shouted, “The dead guy you were talking to?”

  “I told you this whole thing was weird, didn’t I?” Jim said to the astonished Memphis cop.

  Bob did not reply. He turned away and slowly walked to the car, getting in the back seat and closing the door. He rolled down the window for ventilation and stared straight ahead.

  Cole suddenly snapped his fingers and said, “Well, I’ll just be damned!”

  “What is it?” Bev asked.

  “It just came to me. Dutch Morrison was wearing my ball cap. You know, Katti. The one that sailed off my head the other day, when we were out here.”

  “In-fucking-credible!” Bob muttered from the back seat of the car.

  “You mean he was the one, or one of them, who felt me up the other day?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I wish I had been over there with you. I’d have kicked him in the balls.”

  “Kick a ghost in the balls,” Bob muttered, but loudly enough so all could hear him in the very still and muggy night. “Sure. Well, you have no one to blame but yourself, Jordan. You just had to come up here. You could be eyeballing the girls down on the beach in Biloxi. But no. No. You had to come stick your nose right in the middle of all this weirdness. You just never learn, do you?”

  “Katti?” the voice sprang out of the night, startling them all.

  “Who said that?” Bob asked, jumping out of the car and looking all around him.

  “Katti?” the voice came again.

  “Tommy?” Katti called to the darkness.

  “Tommy?” Bob asked, moving closer to the others. “You mean, ah, like in Tommy Baylor?”

  “Yes,” Cole told him.

  “Oh, my god!” Bob said.

  “Sis?” the voice again spoke. It seemed to be close, but had a faraway sound to it. A hollow quality.

  “This is not happening,” Bob whispered.

  “It’s happening,” Cole said.

  “Get out of here, Sis,” Tommy’s voice warned them. “Take your friends and leave. This is not what it seems. You’re on the wrong track.”

  “Tommy,” Katti called. There were tears running out of her eyes. “Tommy, what do you mean? We came here to free you from . . . wherever you are. And we will.”

  But there was no reply.

  Katti called out again.

  Silence greeted her words.

  “This is most unusual,” Gary said.

  Everyone turned toward him.

  “I’ve been doing some reading on the subject of ghosts, the afterlife, things of that nature. There have been thousands of sightings of ghosts, but almost never does a spirit communicate vocally.”

  Bob opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He wasn’t sure he could speak.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cole suggested. “I could use a drink.”

  “You can sure say that again,” Bob muttered.

  “We’ll be back, Tommy,” Katti called. “I promise you, we’ll free you from this terrible place.”

  A breeze suddenly began blowing; the air was damp, filled with moisture.

  Bob shivered despite the nearly oppressive heat of the summer night and the high humidity. His eyes opened wide, and he pointed a finger across the road. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  Heads turned. Dozens of sparkling shapes had appeared where the old club had stood. They were bobbing up and down, moving from side to side.

  “They’re dancing,” Katti was the first to speak. “Dancing to music only they can hear.”

  The night was suddenly shattered by the sounds of “Good Rockin’ Tonight.”

  Then the music stopped.

  The sparkling dots faded into nothing.

  The night became silent.

  A light rain began to fall.

  “It’s over for tonight,” Cole said. “Let’s head on back to the motel.”

  “Y’all excuse me for a minute,” Bob said, heading out into the soybean field. “I got to go to the bathroom—real bad!”

  Thirteen

  Sheriff Pickens was waiting for them at the motel. He got out of his car and walked over to the group. “I figured you had all gone out to the old club. I don’t go out there anymore. Let’s go sit over there by the pool and talk. I don’t trust motel rooms. Too easy to bug.”

  “I’ll get a bottle, some glasses, and ice,” Katti said.

  “I’ll help you,” Bev volunteer
ed.

  “And some Coke,” Sheriff Pickens said. “I’m a country boy. I like my bourbon with Coke.”

  Drinks fixed and every one comfortable, Cole told the sheriff all that had transpired that night. The sheriff cussed softly. “Wood set that up. At the direction of someone in the club. Bet on that. Someone is running scared.”

  “Al, who is Dutch Morrison?”

  The sheriff frowned. Shook his head. “I don’t know the name. There are some Morrisons live ’way to hell and gone out in the county. But I never heard of one called Dutch. Why?”

  “Because I talked to a dead man who said his name was Dutch Morrison.”

  Bob sighed heavily.

  Al Pickens’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “And when I shoved those punks inside the club, one of them shouted something about a man named George Bailey. Seems he was shot dead by a man called Tom Matthews.”

  “That’s right. Ten years or so ago. Tom was fooling around with George’s wife, Susan. A few months after that so-called hunting accident, Tom and Susan were married. They live in town.”

  “Still married?”

  “In a way. They fight all the time. Both of them are trash. City cops are always having to go over to their house to break up fights.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to learn that George was out at the club.”

  “Nothing surprises me about that goddamn place. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a part of Hell. When I was younger, it used to be fun to go out there and stand across the road and listen to the old music and so forth. Until I realized what it really was. I haven’t been out there in several years.”

  “Never?” Cole asked.

  “Oh, I have to drive past the damned place every now and then. I never look in that direction. Place spooks me.”

  Cole waited, sensing something else besides ghosts was on the sheriffs mind.

  Sheriff Pickens took a healthy slug of his drink and said, “I spoke to my son a few hours ago. Told him I could make a deal with the DA—which I can. Turn himself in, go public with this whole sorry business, and let’s see what we could do about putting those . . . things out there at that old club to rest.” He expelled breath and shook his head. “Albert laughed at me. Called me a fool. That didn’t come as any shock; I was expecting something like that. What did surprise me was the viciousness behind the words. I think my son has made a ... well, a deal with those creatures out there. He didn’t say as much, but . . .” The sheriffs voice trailed off for a few seconds. “My wife has been wanting to go on a cruise for some time now. Bunch of women around here have talked about that for several years. When I got back home, I suggested she start packing. She needs a vacation, a long one. She and several of her friends are leaving day after tomorrow. Be gone about three or four weeks. It’s some sort of European/Scandinavian cruise. While she’s gone, we’re going to get this whole sorry mess all straightened out around here. And if my son has to take a hard fall for his part in it, so be it. So I’m in with you people . . . but if I’m dead in the morning, don’t be surprised.”