Rockabilly Hell Read online

  “I think that’s great,” Cole said. “I never thought I’d ever remarry, until I met Katti. Now we’re talking about it. When this . . . thing is over.”

  Hank toyed with his coffee cup. “Cole, does Katti realize that her brother, what’s his name? Tommy, yes. That Tommy might never be free of his entrapment? That he might forever be trapped between worlds, so to speak?”

  “We’ve discussed that. But she refuses to accept it. Says she’s going to find some way to free him. Put his soul to rest.”

  “I’ll ask for some help,” the priest said. “From a higher power.”

  “But no guarantees,” Bob said.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways, my friends. And I am of the firm belief that many things are the work of the Lord, but man doesn’t realize it and takes credit for it.”

  “I won’t argue that,” Cole said.

  “What does Al have on the agenda?” Bob asked.

  “Nothing until tomorrow night. Then he’s convinced that all hell is going to break loose.”

  “And it might not be confined to just the roadhouse site,” Hank said the words very softly.

  “What do you mean?” Bob asked.

  Hank sighed, frowned, and shook his head. “I’ve done a lot of rethinking and reshuffling of opinions and personal theories over the past days. I think the Devil is alive—in a manner of speaking—and doing quite well for himself. This nation of ours, once the greatest in all the world, is literally falling apart. Spiritually, morally, socially, you name it, we’re sliding right down the toilet. And I think Satan has a direct hand in it.” Hank paused, his face a study.

  “Say it all, Hank,” Bob urged.

  “I don’t quite know how to say it. But whatever happens out at that old roadhouse tomorrow night—if anything—could spread. It could be, well, uncontrollable.”

  Bob and Cole exchanged glances, Cole saying, “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Hank.”

  The priest shook his head. “I’m not sure myself,” he admitted. “I do know that I’ve got a bad feeling about what I believe could happen. And I stress could happen.”

  The Memphis cop studied the priest for a moment. “Do you know more than you’re telling us, Hank?”

  “No. Absolutely not. You recall that I scoffed at all this when I first arrived. It’s just a ... well . . . a feeling I have. What was it the voice said to you, Cole? Don’t get too smart for your own good?”

  “Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. But I don’t know what he, it, meant by that.”

  “Oh, that was clearly a warning. After all the antics of the other night—the devil having fun, in his own evil way—I read that as the voice telling you that things could get a lot rougher, if the devil so desired.” Hank waited until the waitress had refilled their coffee cups and was out of earshot. “And here’s something else to think about: maybe the devil is tired of this game, in this location, and wants to exit with a big number. Leave with a bang. I think he’s building up to something. Why else would he remain virtually unseen for all these years, and then expose himself to a few people bent on destroying his little playhouse? Have any of you thought about that?”

  Before either man could reply, the foyer of the coffee shop filled with people and the waitress pointed them out.

  “The press,” Bob muttered. “I know that woman from Memphis. Susan Marcotte. She’d sell her soul for a story.”

  “She might get a chance to do just that,” Hank said. “She’s certainly come to the right area.”

  Cole looked the group over. “There’s some top guns in that bunch. Laura Lordan, Kenny Gant, Cindy Callander. They work for the big networks.”

  “And here they come,” Hank said.

  “We really hate to interrupt you . . .” Cindy said.

  “I just bet you do,” Bob muttered.

  Kenny Gant narrowed his eyes at that remark, but said nothing. Yet.

  “... But we’ve been informed that you are with a ghost-hunting group. Care to comment on that?”

  “No,” Cole said.

  “Come on, Mr. Younger,” Laura Lordan urged. “This is off the record. We’re not recording or filming.”

  “Off the record’s ass,” Bob mumbled.

  Susan Marcotte had walked up in time to hear Bob’s remark. “I see your attitude toward the press hasn’t changed any, Detective Jordan. What’s a Memphis cop doing in Arkansas?”

  “I’m looking for leprechauns. I’m told there is a big market for them in Ireland.”

  “Ha-ha,” Susan said. “That’s very funny. A cop with a sense of humor.” She turned to Cole. “Is your name really Cole Younger? Like the famous outlaw?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where is the woman who is looking for her missing brother?” Kenny asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Anna Freeman, a TV anchor out of St. Louis, joined the growing circle around the table and stuck a microphone under Hank’s nose. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Hank.”

  Another reporter walked up. “I know you,” he said to Hank. “You’re a priest. My wife’s parents go to your church in Memphis. What are you doing here, Father Milan? Do you think there is something to this ghost business? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Which one of those three questions do you want me to answer?” Hank asked.

  A camera clicked on, and Cole said, “That’s it. We’re out of here.”

  The three men stood up and, without another word, pushed their way through the ever-growing knot of reporters and walked outside, the reporters right behind them, shouting questions.

  Jim Deaton was just pulling into the parking lot, when he saw what was causing the crowd. “Oh, hell, Gary. Let’s get gone from here.”

  “You going to come to our barbecue tomorrow night?” a man called to the trio’s back.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Hank called over his shoulder, as he and Bob got into the priest’s car and Cole into his Bronco.

  The reporters were still shouting questions as they drove away.

  * * *

  Saturday’s dawning was hot, and as the sun climbed toward noon, so did the temperature. The afternoon yawned on. No wind. Not even a small breeze to give some relief. Several times that afternoon, Cole drove past the old roadhouse site. Someone had rented or borrowed a big grill/smoker. Tables had been rented or borrowed, and ice chests full of beer were stacked around, cooling. Portable lights hooked up by the power company. The reporters were really going all-out for this party. Why not? Nothing else to do.

  At five o’clock, one of the big network reporters spotted Cole and Katti having glasses of iced tea at a small cafe on the outskirts of town, and asked if she could sit down.

  “Sure,” Cole said. When she was seated and had ordered iced coffee, Cole asked, “Where is your cameraperson and tape recorder, Ms. Lordan?”

  “My cameraman is taking a nap, and my tape recorder is on the seat of my rent-a-car, Mr. Younger.”

  Cole smiled and studied the woman. In her early thirties, he guessed. Honey blond and very attractive. She wore blue jeans and a denim shirt, both of which she filled out rather nicely.

  “Not into political correctness, Ms. Lordan?” Cole asked.

  “Personally, I think it’s probably one of the worst things to happen to this country. And that is damn sure off the record.”

  Cole and Katti both laughed, both of them taking an instant liking for this network reporter.

  “You certainly can’t be a liberal Democrat,” Katti stated.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been a very conservative Republican since I was old enough to vote. But I try to keep that from my bosses, and my reporting neutral. I like my job.”

  Cole said, “Go with us to that party tonight, Ms. Lordan. I—”

  “It’s Laura, please. Why?”

  “Cole and Katti then. Why? How open-minded are you?”

  “Try me.”


  “Laura, I’m a retired cop. Over twenty years behind a badge. I’m a realist, if you ever met one. Katti is a writer and journalist. Bob Jordan is a working cop out of the Memphis PD. Jim Deaton and his crew are P.I.’s out of Memphis. You’ve met Sheriff Al Pickens. Hank Milan is an Episcopal priest. Frank Bruce and Tom Starr are deputies. We’re all reasonable people. None of us have any mental illnesses that I am aware of. We’re not often given to soaring flights of fancy.” Cole looked around. They were seated in a back booth, well away from any other customer. “I have always liked your reporting, Laura. You seem to be a fair person. So sit back, sip your iced coffee, and listen to one of the wildest tales you have ever heard.”

  “And every word of it is true,” Katti added.

  * * *

  Victoria walked through the rooms, lovingly touching each article she came to. The chains, the whips, the instruments of torture. The sexual objects. She’d had countless hours of amusement in these rooms. She stopped in one of the film rooms and closed her eyes. In her mind she could hear the wild screaming and shrieking of those chained and tortured victims of her years-long perversion. Oh, my, the fun she’d had in these rooms. She especially liked to imprison big strong virile men and have her pleasure with them, reducing them to sobbing quivering masses of begging and pleading and broken useless slabs of meat.

  She almost had an orgasm just thinking about it.

  She walked on. My, but her climate-controlled and lusciously appointed basement rooms were filled with such delicious memories.

  And she had it all on tape and film. Hundreds of thousands of feet of all those wonderful moments of pain and pleasure, blood and sweat, screaming and torture, sex and perversion, those exquisite last seconds before death took a subject, the hauntingly beautiful faces just as death touched them. Oh, my, that was wonderful.

  And she also had, tucked safely away, totally unknown to the participants, thousands of feet of film of all those in her group . . . in very interesting positions, and with even more interesting partners. Senators, congressmen, judges, men and women of high power and importance.

  She giggled at the thought. A little ropy sliver of slobber leaked out of one corner of her mouth.

  Of course, Victoria was quite mad. Dangerously so. Had been for most of her life. And the events of the past weeks had done nothing except push her further and deeper into her dark and dangerous madness.

  She walked on down the long basement corridor. Pausing at first one, then another heavily locked door. This was a part of the basement that only she and a few others knew about. Whimpering moans reached her as she flipped on the lights. Cries for mercy and pity fell on deaf ears.

  The long corridor had cells on each side, where Victoria kept her favorite victims, insuring each a very long and miserable life, until she decided to fatten them up and clean them up for their final film appearance.

  “Darlings!” Victoria cried. “Mother’s here!”

  The moaning and pleading voices fell silent.

  Victoria reached for a whip on the wall and took a key out of her jeans. “Now we have some fun,” she said.

  Ten

  Cole talked for about fifteen minutes. Laura Lordan listened intently, then sat very still for a moment after Cole had finished his retelling of events, beginning with his trip up to Illinois to pick up a prisoner and bringing her up to date. After a moment, she smiled.

  “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “We’re telling you the God’s truth,” Katti said.

  “Would you feel better about this if you heard it from an Episcopal priest?” Cole asked.

  Laura thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “I ... guess I believe you at least think you saw all those things.”

  “We don’t think we saw them, Laura,” Cole said. “It happened just like I told you. Don’t join the other reporters tonight. Tell them you don’t feel well, and go with us and stay with us across the road. Maybe nothing will happen tonight. But don’t count on it.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then slowly nodded her head. “All right. On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “We talk to the others and give them a chance to make up their own minds.”

  “No way,” Cole said flatly. “Kenny Gant is a jerk and so is Paul Ackerman. I don’t know about Cindy Callander.”

  “Cindy’s all right. I’ve known her for years. But you’re right about Kenny and Paul. I can just barely tolerate being around them. They’re both liberal crybabies. I thought they both were going to have a snit when the Republicans swept the elections last year. It was really pathetic the way they acted. But I don’t feel right about not letting Cindy in on this.”

  Katti and Cole exchanged glances. “All right,” Cole relented. “Just tell her you’re not going with the others; you’re riding with us and we’re going to give you a story. Make up something. Bring her along when you join us this evening.”

  Laura nodded her head in agreement. “All right. But I’ve got to tell you, I feel rather foolish about this.”

  “Would you rather feel foolish for a few hours, or get seriously dead?” Katti asked. “And would you like to go over to the funeral home and see what is left of Gerald Wilson? It isn’t a very pretty sight.”

  Laura fiddled with her now empty glass. “No,” she said softly. “I’ll see you two back at the motel.”

  After Laura had left the fast-food place, Cole said, “You sure you want to go out to the club tonight?”

  “Positive.”

  “Let’s go find the others.”

  They were all at the motel dining room. The reporters had finally decided they weren’t going to get anything out of the group and wandered off, most back to their rooms to get ready for tonight’s party.

  Cole told the group about Laura.

  “I don’t trust reporters,” Bob said.

  “Neither do I,” Al said. “But it might be wise to have some of them on our side in this thing.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Cole agreed.

  “Are they taking their camera operators with them tonight?” Bob asked.

  “I guess so. Laura and her crew can ride with Katti and me. Who wants to take the other one?”

  “I will,” Hank said. “But I’ve got a very bad feeling about not just tonight, but what might happen in the days and weeks to come.”

  “I told Katti about your theory of it spreading,” Cole said.

  “I told the rest of the group,” Bob said.

  Al looked at Hank. “God help us all, if you’re right.”

  Hank was thoughtful for a moment. “Al, what kind of reserve force do you have?”

  “Not much of one. ’Bout twenty pretty good ol’ boys. It’s pretty loose. I figure I could count on about half of them, if it got down to the crunch. Why?”

  “Put them on standby, Al. Can you do that? Would you do that?”

  The sheriff nodded his head. “Sure. I guess so. Like right now, for tonight, you mean?”

  “Yes,” the priest said.

  “Well . . . it’s pretty short notice. But, okay. Hank, you’re beginnin’ to spook me. What do you know that the rest of us need to know?”

  “Just a very bad feeling. And I have learned to play my hunches. You’re a cop. You know what I mean.”

  Al chewed his bottom lip for a few seconds. Sighed. “All right, Hank. I’ll call them out and put them on standby at the jail.”

  “What are you expecting, Hank?” Bev asked, putting her hand on his.

  “A breakdown of civility. A breakdown of law and order. Domestic violence. Looting. Drunkenness. Local at first, then spreading, if we don’t contain it. I ...” He hesitated. “I feel like a fool for saying these things. But I am firmly convinced that they not only could happen here, but that they will.”

  “I’ll start setting things up,” Al said. He pushed back his chair and left the table.

  Cole met the priest’s eyes. Deeply troubled eyes. “Som
eday we’ll have to have a long talk, Hank. Then you can tell me how you reached this awful deduction.”

  “I don’t know how, Cole. I guess it came to me in my sleep.”

  “Maybe the Lord told you,” Bev suggested.

  “Maybe He did,” Hank whispered.

  * * *

  When Cole and Katti stepped out of their motel room that evening to join Laura and Cindy, who were waiting under the overhang, they both noticed a slight odor to the air.

  “What is that?” Katti questioned.

  “I don’t know. Unless there’s been a fire, I suppose. Smells like chemicals to me.”

  “Sulphur,” Hank Milan said, stepping out of his room. “That’s burning sulphur.”

  Cindy and Laura exchanged glances. “What would cause that?” Laura asked. “A plant close by, perhaps?”

  “No,” the priest said. “The devil at work would be more like it.”

  Cindy crossed herself and Hank smiled. “A good Catholic, hey?”

  “I don’t know how good,” the reporter replied. She fixed her eyes on the priest. “Are you deliberately trying to frighten us?”

  “I hope so, ladies. We’d all better be good and scared this night, and ready to run for it.”

  “Run where?” Katti asked.

  Hank’s smile faded. “That, my dear, is a damn good question.”

  The two reporters gave Hank a very strange look, but said nothing.

  “Where are your camera people?” Cole asked.

  “They wanted to go to the party,” Laura replied. “They left about an hour ago.”

  The others drove up, and everybody was introduced all around. Cole glanced up at the sky. It was still light, but the sky held a peculiar flatness to it. Dull. And something else, too. Ominous, the thought came to him. Somehow, the sky looked . . . evil.

  Cole cut his eyes to Hank. The priest was looking at him as if reading his thoughts. He turned to look at Katti. She had a very worried expression on her face.