Cemetery Club (11 page)

“The Mayor doesn’t want maybes Chief. He wants answers. Now.” Smith glanced at Marisol, his handsome face twisting into a sneer. “Hello,
Ms.
Flores. I should have guessed you’d be involved in this mess somehow.”

Marisol felt her face flush. “This isn’t the time Jack.”

“Marisol performed the tests correctly Mr. Smith,” Corish said.

Jack turned towards the Coroner. “Tell it to the Mayor, Doctor. He wants to see you and Chief Travers right now.”

“I’ll go too,” Marisol said. If someone was going to question her work, she wanted to be there to defend herself.

Jack gave her one of his oozing, fake smiles, the same one he used when schmoozing potential campaign contributors. It’d taken Marisol years to see the supercilious attitude hiding behind it. “I don’t think that’s necessary. If the ME vouches for your work, that’s good enough for us. I believe the Mayor is more interested in discussing the...ramifications of your findings. Of course, if it turns out there were any problems with the tests, well...Wal-Mart is always hiring.”

Her ex-husband turned and exited the office, putting his back to her before she could respond.

“Don’t worry Marisol,” Corish said. “We both know the data is correct. He’s just being an ass. Go home and get some rest.”

“If you want I can go back to the lab and—”

“Go home.” Corish escorted her to the door. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. “This is a situation that calls for diplomacy Marisol. You’re great in the lab. That’s why I hired you. But when it comes to placating an irate mayor...”

Marisol sighed. “Yeah. I’d probably end up getting us both fired. Thanks Chief.”

He nodded and went back inside Travers’ office. As the door shut, she heard the police chief say, “I sure hope that techie of yours didn’t fuck this up.”

Asshole.
She walked away, not wanting to hear any more. Each insult, each insinuation that her skills weren’t up to par, was a knife in her stomach. She’d worked her ass off to be the best at what she did. In the short time she’d been at the ME’s office she’d already earned two promotions. But a life of being told she was worthless, first by her father and then by her shitbag of a husband, had succeeded in eroding her self-esteem until only a thin crust remained. A dangerously thin layer of ice over a seemingly bottomless lake of insecurity.

Fuck them all.
She looked at her watch. She had an hour to get home, shower and drive over to Todd’s house.

I’m going to forget about work and enjoy my night. Catch up with old friends, especially one in particular.

Then she remembered Cory’s odd, serious tone when he’d asked her to join them.

I hope this doesn’t turn out to be worse than staying at the lab.

John Boyd tossed and turned on the bed in Todd’s guest room. At one point, he cried out and opened his eyes, dimly aware of clanking pans downstairs and someone humming a gentle tune.

Then the nightmare took hold again, another variation on the same theme that had haunted him for twenty years.

They were hanging out inside that old crypt, like always. John, Cory and Marisol. And then Todd showed up...

With
it.

Gates of Heaven Cemetery, 20 years ago

“You guys wanna smoke a doob while we wait?”

John pulled the joint from his shirt pocket and waved it in the air like a man offering his dog a treat.

“Nah, let's wait,” Cory said. “Todd’ll be here in a minute.” Next to him, Marisol nodded her head, her dark hair brushing against Cory’s shoulder. He seemed unaware of her proximity, his eyes focused on the copy of
Rolling Stone
he’d brought to the mausoleum with him.

How can he not know she likes him?
John thought. It’s obvious to everyone else. “I got plenty more where this one came from.” He patted his pocket. “My brother has like, six ounces stashed in his closet. I snuck almost a whole dime bag out of it. He'll never know.”

Before anyone could answer, a shadow appeared at the crypt’s entrance. The door swung open with a grating squeal and Todd entered, a large cardboard box in his hands.

“Sorry I’m late.” He set the box down. White speckles dotted his summer-tanned arms. “I had to help my father paint the church doors.”

“Whatcha got?” Marisol asked, pointing at the box.

In the three weeks since school let out, they’d turned the dank mausoleum into their own private hideaway. Several sleeping bags and pillows made a makeshift sitting area, offering a soft seat and protection from the cold, damp floor. Cory had supplied two Coleman lanterns and two folding snack trays that served as end tables. Marisol had contributed a heavy-duty hasp and padlock so they could lock the door when they weren’t there. When asked where she’d gotten it, she’d shrugged off the question, leading John to believe she’d stolen it from the hardware store. Not that he cared; Mr. Fleming, the man who owned the store, was kind of an asshole anyway, always yelling at kids to stay away from the spray paint or he'd call their parents.

For his part, John had pilfered an oversized flashlight, matches, two bottles of wine and a two-burner camp stove from his garage. He knew his parents would never miss the items. They hadn’t gone camping in ten years and they had something like six cases of wine in the basement.

But it was Todd who’d done the lion’s share of turning the dusty, creepy space into a totally cool hangout. Every day he showed up with something new: cards and poker chips, a portable radio, even a roll of heavy black material to hang on the inside of the window so the light from the lamps didn’t give them away at night.

Best of all, he always managed to snag some food and soda from the canned goods, crackers and soft drinks his father collected each month as donations for the local soup kitchens and shelters.

“Don’t you worry about getting caught?” Marisol had asked one day, as they’d unpacked several cans of Beef-A-Roni and a liter bottle of Coke.

Todd had shrugged. “Nah. There’s cases of this shit down in the church basement. And it’s not like we keep track. People bring it in and stack it themselves. Once a month my dad drives around delivering it. At least this way it’s not going to feed some alky bum.”

“Got that right,” Cory had said, hefting a bottle of wine and taking a drink. Everyone had laughed.

So when Todd showed up with the cardboard carton, everyone had expected more of the same.

They’d been wrong.

“Check this out,” Todd said, his voice full of excitement. He reached into the box and pulled out a smaller box, this one flat and long. At first John thought it might be Monopoly or some other board game, then he saw the name.

“Ooji? What the fuck is ooji?”

Cory laughed. “It’s Ouji, not ooji.
Wee-gee.
Where’d you get it?” he asked Todd.

“It was with the donations. Beats me why anyone would give it to a church.”

“What is it?” John asked. “Some kind of board game?”

“It’s supposed to be a way to communicate with ghosts. My cousin had one but we never got around to playing with it.” Cory opened the box, revealing a board with fancy letters on it and a flat, heart-shaped object with a hole in the middle.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Marisol pushed her way between Todd and Cory to check out the game. “That’s too cool!”

“I don’t think it actually works,” Cory said with a bemused smile.

“Only one way to find out.” Todd placed the board on the blanket and motioned for them all to sit down around it. “Let’s conjure ourselves a spirit!”

Just then, a loud CRACK! echoed through the crypt. Marisol screamed.

“Something’s in here!”

*  *  *

John sat up, his heart pounding, his teeth clamped down on his own terrified shout. The banging sounded again, only this time it was just knuckles rapping on the bedroom door.

“John? Rise and shine buddy. Dinner’s almost ready and the others will be here soon. I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute; I just have to bring my mother her dinner.”

“Okay.” John rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes as Todd’s footsteps receded down the hall. His heart was beating so violently it actually made his head vibrate against the cool plaster.

Christ, it felt so real, almost as if I time-traveled back into my own body.
Even now he could smell the musty odors of the crypt beneath the tantalizing scents drifting up from downstairs.

His hands still shaking, he levered himself from the bed and pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d taken from Todd’s closet. The sweats were kind of short on him but they’d do. He looked in the mirror, almost expecting to see the sixteen-year-old boy he’d been in his dream. Instead, the sunken, bloodshot eyes of his present day alcoholic self stared back at him, their clear blue color dimmed by too many bottles of cheap booze and too many nights of no sleep. He combed his longish, sleep-flattened hair back with his fingers and headed downstairs.

He’d just given the gravy a stir and snuck a fingerful of mashed potatoes when a knock on the back door made him jump. He replaced the lid on the potatoes, feeling foolishly guilty, as if he’d been caught stealing rather than tasting the food at a friend’s house.

“C’mon in,” he said, seeing Cory Miles’s face through the window.

Cory entered, a wide smile on his face. John tried to return the man’s enthusiastic greeting but instead of making him feel better, Cory’s presence brought back the fear he’d felt during his recent trip down memory lane.

“John? John Boyd? Todd didn’t tell me you’d be here. Man, it’s good to see you. Jesus, you’re as skinny as you were in high school.” Cory patted the slight roll of his own midsection. “I haven’t been so lucky. What’s your secret?”

John backed up, putting the corner of the table between them. “Alcoholism and living on the streets.”

Cory’s face froze and then his expression slowly grew serious, as if someone held a match to a wax smile. “Oh shit. I didn’t know. John, I’m sorry. If there’s—”

“Forget it.” John opened the ‘fridge and pulled out two sodas, wishing he had the power to turn them into beer. “Todd can fill you in another time. Tonight he wants to talk about something else.”

“What’s happening in town.” Cory opened his soda. “Todd thinks...he thinks it’s like twenty years ago.”

“It is.” John sat down. “I’ve seen them. In the graveyard. The Grays.”

“C’mon John. That alien shit didn’t cut it in high school. You don’t still believe it, do you?” Cory sat down across from him.

“Oh, so it’s okay to believe in demons and ghosts but not aliens?”

“I didn’t say I believed in them either. Just because something weird happens doesn’t mean there’s a supernatural cause. I’d rather focus on a rational explanation.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Cory frowned. “That’s kind of why we’re getting together tonight, to figure that out. But offhand, I could say toxic gasses, drugs, a cult of Satanists or even just some psycho serial killer.”

“None of that explains what we saw in those tunnels.”

“Christ John, we were sixteen and scared shitless. Even if there wasn’t some kind of toxic waste down there, our imaginations could have conjured up anything and we’d have believed it.”

“Then how come what Todd did...why did it work?”

“I don't know. But it does kind of disprove aliens, doesn't it? Maybe it was a mass psychosis.”

“That kind of closed-minded thinking could get us killed. I—”

“Hey, calm down you two,” Todd said as he entered the room. “We’re gonna talk this all out tonight, in a calm, rational way. But first we’re going to eat dinner.” He opened the oven and pulled out a square cake pan covered in foil.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Marisol?” Cory asked.

As if in response, someone knocked on the back door.

“Come in,” Todd called out. He grinned at Cory and John “I saw her pull into the driveway just before I came downstairs.”

John watched Cory’s face as Marisol entered the kitchen.
Shit. He still hasn’t gotten over her. And judging from the way she’s staring at him, she’s carrying a major torch too.

Marisol greeted Cory with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Something about the way the two of them said hello - the inflection of their words, the nonchalant way they touched - told John it wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other recently. Her demeanor with Todd was different. She squealed like a little girl and wrapped her arms around him.

“Todd! It’s so good to see you! I heard what happened. It was terrible but I’m so glad you called Cory to get you out.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Todd said. He was obviously uncomfortable with her display of affection. After patting her once on the back, he gently escaped her bear hug and took a step backwards.

Marisol either didn’t notice or chose not to comment; instead, she turned her vibrant energy in John’s direction. “John? Oh, my, God! I can’t believe you’re here as well!”

She held out her arms but John backed away before she could reach him. He didn’t even realize what he’d done until he saw the happy smile fade from her face, leaving a bewildered look in its place.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to people wanting to get close to me.”

“What?” She turned towards Cory, who shrugged.

Todd saved John the embarrassment of explaining. “Um, until recently, John was...staying in a shelter.”

“A shelter?” She looked from Todd back to John.

“What Todd’s trying to say is that I’ve been a homeless bum for a while now. Today was my first shower in months. If you’d run across me this morning you wouldn’t have wanted to be within ten feet of me.”

“Oh.”

For a moment none of them spoke. Then Todd lifted the foil off the baking pan, filling the kitchen with the mouthwatering odors of meatloaf and roasted vegetables.

“Who’s ready to eat?”

Henry Coleman heard the sounds just as he lowered his aching body into his old recliner. The crushing humidity of the evening had set off his arthritis something fierce, making every movement a little slice of personal hell. Which was why the thought of getting up again annoyed him so. Sure, the echo of breaking glass and shouting voices coming from the trailer next door hinted at something strange going on, but his seventy-three-year-old bones were offering a pretty strong argument for just turning up the volume of the TV and letting the Mackleys handle their own problems.