Darkly The Thunder Read online

  Norris and Bergman, the state police team sent in to assist, sat in Gordie’s office and listened. They had viewed the remains of the two victims, both agreeing it was shaping up to be a very strange case.

  Now, all of a sudden, it was going from strange to really wild.

  Norris clicked off his tape recorder and looked at Sheriff Rivera and Watts. “Now, guys . . . come on! Floating eyeballs? Detached hands? Bloody lips? Monsters in the night? You people haven’t gotten into your evidence room and been smoking left-handed cigarettes, have you?”

  Gordie tossed his crotch-bloody trousers on the desk. Judy’s bloody shirt followed that.

  “I’ve had Dr. Anderson up since before dawn, comparing blood from the victims against blood scrapings from that clothing. It’s a match. One victim now has no hands, the other no eyes or lips. The assistant coroner checked the coolers this morning.” Gordie stared at the state men. “Last night, I had made up my mind that it was nothing supernatural. Had to be the work of a madman. Or madwoman. Person. Whatever. But sounds do not emanate from a dead radio. And I just had my radio checked out.”

  “Could have been a skip. Good time of year for it,” Bergman offered.

  “No,” Watts said. Up to this point, except for corroborating Gordie’s story, he had remained silent. This was Gordie’s show. Watts was just a civilian. Technically.

  “You have a theory, Colonel?” Norris asked. It was a bit difficult to address Watts by any other title, even if he was retired.

  Watts spoke for five minutes without pausing except for breath. He took it from the beginning. Sand. The killing of Sand. The thunder. The whole bag, from thirty years back to the present.

  Norris and Bergman stared as if Watts had taken leave of his senses. The phone rang. Gordie picked it up; his unlisted private number. He listened, smiled grimly, then handed the phone to Bergman. “It’s for you.”

  Bergman stuck the phone to his ear. “Bergman.”

  HEY, JEW-BOY! I’M GONNA NAIL YOU UP BY YOUR PECKER AND STICK YOUR YARMULKE UP YOUR TUSHIE!

  Bergman was speechless. He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

  DO BOP DE DO BOP DE DO BOP, DE DO.

  The singing faded.

  Bergman cleared his throat. “How . . . did he know my name? How did he know I was even in town? And Bergman is not necessarily a Jewish name. How?”

  “It seems to know everything,” Watts said. “And it seems to be everywhere. But something that we’ve been missing, or avoiding, came to me last evening.”

  All looked at him.

  “What does it want?”

  Angel Ingram and her brother, Howie, sat on the curb, waiting for the school bus. The kids, ages ten and eleven, looked up and down the street, wondering why the other kids had not shown up. It was almost time for the bus to arrive.

  But unless the other kids hurried up, it looked as though they were going to be the only ones getting on.

  “This is weird,” Angel said. “I guess I’m going to have to apologize to you. So I’m sorry. Big deal. You were right.”

  “You feel it now, Angel?”

  She sighed as only a ten-year-old can. “No, Howie, I don’t. But if you say you do, I believe you.”

  “Thank you. It’s rather hard to explain. It’s just a ... feeling, you know?”

  “What sort of feeling, Howie?”

  “Just odd, that’s all. A feeling of impending doom, perhaps.”

  “Howie, would you like to say that in English, please?”

  “Something bad is going to happen.”

  “I still don’t know what you mean.”

  “I have elucidated to the best of my ability, Angel.”

  She laughed at him. Even though she was a year younger, Angel was always looking after her brother – the smart one. The brilliant one. The eleven-year-old who was taking high school and college courses. But Howie sometimes didn’t keep up with things like other eleven-year-old kids. Howie didn’t give a flip about sports – which was all right with Angel, she thought them sort of dumb herself – but Howie didn’t even like to be around kids his own age. He was just too damn smart; even though he tried to talk like your average eleven-year-old, he just couldn’t pull it off most of the time. The funny thing was, with Angel, he could.

  When he wanted to.

  But the other kids didn’t like him. They shunned Howie and made fun of him. And Angel, who was no dummy herself, knew a lot of that ribbing had to have originated in the kids’ homes, from stupid parents with misguided values.

  “Here comes the bus.”

  “Nobody on it.”

  Angel looked around. Front doors were opening, and the kids were pouring out of the homes in the subdivision. She was curious about that, for usually the kids all gathered at the curb, talking and bitching about school.

  ’Course, Howie never bitched about school. Except when he caught a teacher in a mistake. Which didn’t endear him to the few sloppy teachers. Howie liked school.

  “Something is wrong with them,” Howie said, observing the mass of kids.

  Angel looked. “They seem fine to me.”

  “Look again. They’re all moving as though they’ve been automatized.”

  “Say what?” the pretty and petite honey-blonde asked her tow-headed big brother with two left feet.

  “Zombies, Angel.” He grinned, the kid in him surfacing briefly. “Doom doom de doom doom de doom doom doom,” he hummed a very bad version of the funeral march.

  “You want to knock that off, Howie?” Angel looked. But her brother was right. The kids were moving funny. She stood up. “Come on. We’ll miss the bus.”

  “We should be so lucky.”

  “Your home is lovely, Mrs. Jennings,” Sunny said, as she sat down in the den. The home was lovely, but there was a very faint odor of charred wood in the house, and she found that odd. And a very slight musty smell. There was another sort of floral smell that she couldn’t quite pin down. Then it came to her: that sweet fragrance was the smell of flowers. The smell of a funeral home, with the casket open and flowers all around it.

  This just gets weirder and weirder, she thought.

  “Please call me Linda,” Mrs. Jennings said with smile.

  Sunny nodded and placed a cassette recorder on a coffee table. She glanced at Richard. “Do you mind if I record all this? It’s so much easier than taking notes.”

  “No. I don’t mind at all. But there are others who might. If nothing comes out, I’ll apologize in advance for that.”

  Sunny stared at him briefly. What others might object? She wondered if Richard might have a drinking problem? Was he hitting the sauce this early in the morning?

  Richard said, “Sand wants the truth told, Sunny. The truth.”

  “Sand wants? . . .” She closed her mouth. Humor him, she thought. Just . . . humor him. “Sand has been dead for thirty years, Mr. Jennings. But I assure you, the truth will be told.”

  “Or nothing at all will be told, Sunny. Because no one will be here to tell it.” He knew it was wrong of him to say that; and knew those who kept the records would know it was no slip on his part. But right or wrong, Richard—as he was aware of his wife’s sharp glance at him – had concluded that Sunny Lockwood had to know at least a part of what faced her.

  Sunny leaned back. “Mr. Jennings, what in the hell are you talking about?”

  Richard and his wife both laughed. Robin seemed to be dozing. Richard said, “I mean, Sunny, that things are not quite as they seem here. If you stay, you could be in very serious danger. Now listen to me, young woman: I’m taking a chance just by telling you this much. Look at Robin, Sunny.”

  Sunny looked. The girl’s eyes were closed. My God, was she asleep?

  “No,” Linda broke into her thoughts. “She is not asleep as you know it. Our daughter is just . . . well, away for a time.”

  Her husband said, “She has to be protected for she is our flesh and blood, and much more vulnerable than you. And, I’ll admit,
much more valuable.”

  Sunny tried a laugh. It came out more like a very nervous giggle. “You’re . . . deliberately trying to scare me. I was warned that you hated reporters.”

  “It would be very difficult for me to hate, Sunny. I am limited to strong dislike. But even . . . before, I didn’t hate reporters. I just didn’t like the way many of your colleagues twisted words to suit their own gains. Sunny, be very sure you want to do this. There is still time for you to leave. But not very much time.”

  Sunny rose from her seat to pace the den. That damn sweet smell was annoying. She glanced at Robin. The teenager was still out of it. If she wasn’t asleep, then what the hell was she? Her eyes were sure closed.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Sunny looked out the window – and for a moment, she could see nothing – and became frightened. She did not see Richard lift a hand. All of a sudden, the landscape came into her view. The day was clear and cool and lovely.

  She didn’t understand the thunder.

  Yet.

  She sat back down. “Why am I in danger, Mr. Jennings?”

  She felt his eyes, those strange eyes, boring into her, almost as if he was seeing into her thoughts. She mentally shrugged that off as impossible. “I can protect you, Sunny, only as long as you remain here, with us, in this house. That’s why Robin is here, and not in school. Even we are permitted some . . . well, call it latitude. But once you leave our presence, if you do decide to leave, to return to your motel, I cannot help you.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve covered stories in Lebanon, Central America, Northern Ireland, and in Africa. Are you comparing Willowdale, Colorado with those places?”

  “Get out, Miss Lockwood,” Richard ordered. “Take your tape recorder and leave here. You have no idea what you’re facing.”

  “No. You invited me here, remember?”

  Both Richard and Linda Jennings laughed softly at that, Richard saying, “Did we, Sunny? You’re sure of that? Oh, I have no doubt that you were invited, but it wasn’t us who did the inviting.”

  She waved that away. She had the letter from them. At least a letter that was signed by Richard Jennings. Why was the man smiling so? It was infuriating. “Tell me what’s going on, Mr. Jennings.”

  “I’ve told you as much as I can, Sunny. The rest is up to you.”

  “To stay or to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Richard sighed. “Very well. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  The thunder rolled in heavy cadence.

  Chapter Four

  Detective Norris got up and walked to a window. “What is with this thunder? There isn’t a cloud in the sky.” He stopped, turning around to look at Watts. “The thunder? ... That’s what you just told us about, right?”

  “Yes. And now you’re hearing it.”

  “Which means?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The sheriffs intercom buzzed. “Some soldiers out front to see you, Sheriff.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Half a dozen of them. They said they sent a letter several months ago, requesting a meeting with you and the mayor and the city council.”

  “Ahhh ... yeah!” Gordie pawed through a basket. “Here it is, Sarah. Sure, why not? It can’t get any more confusing. Send them in, please.”

  “You want us to stay?” Bergman asked.

  “Why not? This probably won’t take long.”

  With six more people, the room was too small. Gordie suggested they move to the coffee room, where there were more tables and chairs.

  “I apologize for the mayor and the city council not being here, Major,” Gordie said. “I can’t imagine all of us forgetting about the meeting. However, speaking strictly for my office, things have been, well, a little weird around here the last couple of days.”

  “Weirder than your funky, filthy radio station?” Lt. Smith asked. She was still somewhat irritated about that.

  “We don’t have a radio station, ma’am. We had one, but it went out of business about five years ago. What radio station have you been listening to?”

  “K-U-N-T,” Sgt. Preston said.

  Norris choked on his coffee and went into spasms of coughing at that.

  “Are you serious?” Watts asked.

  “That’s what that deep-voiced announcer said,” Capt. Hishon told him. “But I’m here to tell you all: that was filth coming out of those speakers.”

  Gordie glanced at Watts. The man arched one eyebrow in a knowing reply.

  Maj. Jackson didn’t miss the furtive glance or the arched eyebrow. He wondered what was going on.

  Gordie picked up the phone and punched out the mayor’s office number, silently praying that the phone was working, and that damnable voice would not choose this time to start some crap. The town was not large enough to afford a full-time mayor, but Mason Adams was semiretired, so he spent most of his time in the office.

  Nell, the mayor’s part-time secretary, answered. Gordie identified himself.

  “Hi, baby!” Nell yelled into his ear. “How’s it hangin’ today, Gordie?”

  Gordie placed the phone on his desk and stared at it. Nell Upshaw was in her mid-fifties, married to the Methodist minister, and about as straightlaced as an old corset. She was vice president of the local chapter of Citizens for the Return of Acceptable Programming. CRAP. Nell didn’t like anything on TV. Not even the news.

  Watts looked at Gordie’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nell Upshaw. She just called me baby. Asked me how it was hangin’ today.”

  The chief deputy’s mouth dropped open at that.

  Gordie picked up the phone. “Ah ... Nell, is the mayor around?”

  “Around? That son of a bitch is so round he looks like a blimp with legs. Can you imagine him humpin’ his old lady? What a sight! Naw. I ain’t seen the old goat today.”

  “Ah ...” Gordie wiped away sudden sweat on his forehead. “Nell, tell Mason I called, okay?”

  “Sure, baby. Come around sometime. I got a bottle stashed in the desk.” She hung up.

  Gordie related the conversation, forgetting, momentarily, the military personnel.

  Gordie rubbed his graying temples with his fingertips. “Two murders in one day, strange voices on the radio and on the phones, now this. What else is going to happen?”

  “Don’t forget the eyes, hands, and lips,” Watts said.

  The military looked at one another.

  “And the monster that Judy saw,” Lee said.

  “I knew I wasn’t going to like this town,” Janet said.

  ROCK A BYE, BABY, ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP,

  WHEN THE WIND BLOWS, THE JAILHOUSE WILL ROCK.

  WHEN THE TIME COMES, AND IT WON’T BE LONG,

  DOWN WILL COME GREASEBALL, OLD PIG, AND TOWN.

  DO BOP DE DO BOP DE DO BOP, DE DO.

  “Let’s go home, Angel,” Howie said, taking her hand.

  “Howie!” She pulled away. “Don’t be dumb. This isn’t like you. We can’t just walk out of school.”

  He grabbed her hand again and jerked her along. “Now, Angel. Right now. Move. I mean it.”

  “All right, Howie. All right!” She walked along with him. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. Just away from this place.”

  “You’re weird, Howie. And you’re beginning to scare me, you know that?”

  “I hope so, Angel. I really do. Something is wrong around here.”

  “I can just see mother buying that excuse. Your butt is beat when daddy gets home.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  The kids walked slowly toward the main part of town, about a mile from the school complex, grades one through twelve. Three huge new buildings.

  Howie started to tell her that lately daddy had been acting just as strangely as many of the kids. He decided to let that slide.

  “The other kids giving you a bad time of it, Howie?”

&n
bsp; “What? Oh ... no. No more than usual. I really don’t pay that much attention to it, Angel. It used to bother me a lot more than it does now.”

  “Howie, I’m going to punch you out, if you don’t level with me about what you think is going on. And I mean that.”

  “Angel, I am usually very articulate, as you know.” She rolled her blue eyes at his language. “As well as quite precise in any explanations – ”

  “Yeah, Howie. Right. You’re a regular walking dictionary. But not with me. So how about dropping the professor bit?”

  “It’s very difficult playing a double role, Angel.”

  She smiled, and her attitude softened toward her brother. “Be what you are, Howie. It’s wrong trying to please others. And I’ve been wrong in egging you on to do that.”

  “It might not make any difference, Angel. Not now. And I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just trying to find some way to explain my feelings.”

  “Well, my best friend Cindy is acting real cold toward me. That’s been going on for a couple of days. I think she’s now my ex-best friend. Is it things like that, what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Yes. Precisely. There have been subtle shifts in attitudes and demeanor among many people . . .”

  “People are acting weird, right?”

  “That’s what I said, Angel. And I have been seeing more and more evidence of it over the past few days. Now you think about that.”

  She thought. Screwing her face up into an ugly, deformed mask and letting her tongue hang out, knowing how that irritated her brother. Angel was known as the class clown for good reason.

  Howie glanced at her and sighed. “Enough, Angel. Be serious.”

  “Howie, so people have been acting funky . . . big deal. Maybe it’s the moon or something. It doesn’t mean that werewolves are prowling the town.”

  “Two people were gruesomely murdered yesterday.”

  She moved a little closer to her brother with that reminder. “You do have a way with words, Howie.” Then she noticed the direction they were taking. “The sheriff’s department? Oh, come on, Howie! This is gettin’ too much, don’t you think?”