Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Bobby was a sweet guy, but always on the periphery. He hadn’t made the team; he was a little bit pudgy and had never managed to clear up his acne.

And normally, Hayley thought, Tiffany wouldn’t have given him the time of day.

“You, oh, my God! You, Tommy Hilliard! That was hysterical. All of you! Big, brave kids — going to spend the night in the cemetery. Wow. Thankfully, I have this all recorded on my phone. Oh, my God! It’s going to be so wonderful!” She started to laugh again, and she turned and stared at Marcy, “Wow, honey, I guess your cemetery party is really — dead! You forgot to invite me but, hey, not to worry — I wouldn’t really want to be in here with this group of silly cowards. Oh, lord, Marcy, you should have seen yourself. Some grave-digger’s daughter you are.”

“People are interred here, Tiffany. My dad has never dug a grave.”

“Whatever. Oh, my God, that was too good. Bobby, come along now. You were a big help, but I have other things I need to do, other people to see... oh, that was too, too, funny!”

Shrieking with laughter, she started down the path that led to the main gates, followed by Bobby McGill.

Tommy started to go after her; Marcy caught his arm.

“Tommy—”

“Marcy, not to worry. That was sick; she’s had it with me. Maybe we will all go into the house for the night. But I want her phone.” He turned suddenly, wincing. “Mary, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to knock you down. I really did freak.” He stared at the corpse. “And it’s just a leftover Halloween decoration. I don’t know why I didn’t see that!”

“Guys,” Hayley said. “I’ll go after her. I’m not — well, you know. I’m not local anymore — I mean, I’m not in school with you guys. I’ll see if I can reason with her before she gets out. If I need to, I’ll threaten that I’m going to call Officer Claymore, or... I don’t know. Let me try.”

She hoped they listened to her — if Tommy accosted Tiffany, it might get nasty. Tiffany was in a mood.

Tommy was a big guy.

Hayley didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

She heard footsteps behind her and swung around. It was Art.

“Hey, Hayley, I’m not going to speak, just follow, make sure you’re alright, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Hayley had followed a path that led straight to the main gates. But she’d been wrong, apparently. Tiffany didn’t seem to be along the path anywhere. Hayley turned back to Art.

Art shook his head. “She really thinks she can do anything to anyone. I keep hoping that graduation will make a change — get Tommy away from her. Tommy is really okay, you know?”

“I, um, I guess,” Hayley told him. “I’m not in school, but... I mean, anyway — we need to find Tiffany. Right now, I want to deal with her and not Tommy.”

“You know the place, right? Which way?” Art asked.

She hesitated. “She could have cut across to the entrance on Lafitte Court. There’s no street that way, just an alley and then the back of some houses. But if her car is on the road—”

“She would just have to walk down the alley to reach it. Of course, she could crawl over the wall in some places,” he said, pausing to grimace, “but she might break a nail.”

Hayley smiled. “We can cut through here.”

Barclay Cemetery was, from the air, laid out in a cross. There were two main paths through it — one with the center tomb being the Barclay tomb, and the one that crossed. Hayley led Art in a zigzag to reach that center path down from where Marcy and the others waited.

She didn’t want to report failure yet.

The moon was riding high again. Hayley had known the cemetery forever, but she still noted, by the moonlight, the beauty of the tombs, built more like a Colonial or Victorian house than homes for the remains of the dead. Most of the vaults or mausoleums were clean and painted; on some, the owners were far away and long gone from the area. Hayley’s uncle tried to keep up with them, but the space was large, and while there was only an occasional burial now and then, it was an active cemetery, and he tended to be a busy man.

Here and there, the tombs were covered with the darkness of age. Every now and then, a rusty old gate swung open on its hinges; weeds grew up around the tombs, and the atmosphere of death and decaying elegance was heavy. And still...

“She’s done it again,” Art said, shaking his head. “Bitch! She knew we’d come after her. Well, hell, I’m not screaming or staring like a fool again!”

Hayley stopped in her tracks. He was looking toward the gate. Between the last family tombs in the row, connecting ropes were stretched out again. Gargoyles, crosses, any piece of funerary art had been used for the anchors.

A body hung between them.

This one fresh.

“Oh, God — no, no! She’s fooling around,” Art said.

Hayley didn’t think she was. Compelled, she moved forward, and as she did, a horrified scream froze in her throat.

It was Tiffany... the body was Tiffany. Her eyes were still open, but it seemed a river of blood poured from her throat and down her shirt and her jeans... still dripping to the ground. She was strung out with arms and legs fastened to the ropes, like a creature caught in a spider’s web...

A creature with a gaping wound at the throat, so deep it almost severed her head from her body.

Hayley had the sense to shove her hand into her jeans for her cell phone.

“Oh, God! It’s real this time!” Art breathed. “There, oh God, there... on the ground. There — it’s Bobby McGill... on the ground, but not strung up yet, and...”

“We have to get him; he may not be dead.”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God—”

“Stop!”

She wasn’t sure if it was an instinct or something she had seen in a movie, but Hayley slapped him hard in the face, shoving her phone at him. “Dial 911 and get the others out! 911, now, and be coherent!”

“They won’t believe—”

“When they hear the sirens, they will.”

“He’s still in here. Whoever did this, he’s still in here!” Art whimpered.

“Go!” she snapped, and she hit him again. “Dial.”

The second hit did it. Art dialed 911 as he walked, and then ran, away. Hayley barely noticed; she was staring ahead, but Bobby seemed to be alone on the ground.

Of course, shadows were everywhere.

It was after midnight in the Barclay Cemetery.

She moved forward, carefully at first, keeping her eyes on Bobby where he lay on the ground and not on Tiffany — where she remained in the air, dripping blood.

She reached Bobby. There was no blood on him; he just lay there, as if he had been hit.

“Bobby! Bobby!” she whispered fervently.

His eyes opened. He stared; then he screamed.

“Bobby, stop! He — whoever — they’ll hear!”

“Dead, dead, dead, Tiffany... he slammed me on the head, he wrenched her away. I saw it while I was falling, oh, I saw it, saw him rip up her throat, oh, God, oh, God—”

“Bobby, get up. We need to get out of here. The cops will be here soon, but we must get out now, okay, come on, come on!”

“Out to your cousin’s house, can’t go that way!” Bobby said, indicating the closest exit. “I think he went that way, came in that way... has his stuff, his rope, whatever, that way. Oh, God, Tiffany!”

“Come on, Bobby, come on!”

Half-leading him, half-carrying him, Hayley got him to move. She headed straight down a path at first, moving fast.

But she sensed something, someone behind her.

She angled in among the tombs, taking a winding path, barely aware of the funerary art now — the angels and saints, guardian dogs, flower urns, and gargoyles.

Bobby started to trip in a nest of weeds; she straightened him and realized they were coming up on the Judith McCafferty family vault and she prayed silently the killer had not come upon the lowly veteran seeking shelter there.