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

She paused, gasping, leaning against the enclosure there for a minute. Bobby was heavy; he was trying to move, he was just staggering, probably from the knock on his head. She could see blood on him now; a thin trickle that fell from a big knot on his temple.

Bushes were rustling near them.

The killer, she thought, had discovered Bobby gone.

And he was coming.

She eased out carefully, and then she froze. He was there. Right there in front of her, just feet away from the plaque that honored Judith McCafferty.

She didn’t know what she had expected. A human being, yes, but one with jagged teeth and drool sliding from his lips. Ugly and frightening in appearance...

He wasn’t ugly; he was just a man. Maybe six-feet-even, with brown hair now slightly askew over his forehead, light eyes, and an easy smile that seemed especially heinous as he was dotted in blood. His shirt was flannel; he wore jeans. He was perhaps twenty-something, maybe thirty... and, without the blood, he might have been appealing, charming even... someone Tiffany wouldn’t have hesitated to speak with.

He carried a huge knife. The moonlight caught upon it, but it didn’t shimmer.

It was covered in Tiffany’s blood.

“Well, hello there,” he said softly. “So, you’re the one who stole chubby-boy from me while I was setting up my trap. Well, that means some really special care for you.”

Bobby slumped in her arms.

She wasn’t sure if it was his injury, or if he’d just passed out cold.

She stared at the man, the killer in her midst, torn.

Her desire to live was almost overwhelming. And yet somewhere inside she knew if she left Bobby to die, she might not ever be able to really live again.

“Hi there, yourself,” she managed. “Sorry I stole fat boy. But, hey, not to worry — the cops are on their way. You might want some more fun, but you don’t have time for any more fun. You need to run — now!”

“Leave this lovely cemetery?” he asked her. Then he laughed. “You really think any of your idiot friends managed to call the cops?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now, I can see where you doubt that, but... really. You need to run.”

He smiled. A deep, deep, self-pleased smile, and he took a step toward her. She backed against the wall of the tomb, unable to hold Bobby. She needed to run, run fast, but...

“Oh, I am going to have so much fun—”

He broke off abruptly. He just stood there; Hayley had heard something, but she didn’t know what. Something, a strange sound, as if...

As if he had been the one struck on the head.

She stared at him, barely daring to blink. He suddenly fell forward, and in his place, she saw the shaggy homeless veteran she had spoken with earlier.

“Go! Grab your friend and go,” he told her. “I don’t know how long he’ll be out.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you—”

“Go!”

She nodded and reached down for Bobby, determined she was going to get him to go on a diet. She slapped him — she was getting good at slapping — and he groggily came to.

“We have to go.”

He nodded.

He got to his feet. And with him, Hayley ran the best she could. But as she reached the center of the “crossroad” in the cemetery and saw the gate to Marcy’s backyard not far ahead, she heard sirens screeching through the air.

Art had managed to dial 911. Help was coming.

And even as she dragged Bobby forward, Tommy and Frank came running out of the yard, taking him from her, yelling that they needed to get in, lock the gate, lock the doors!

They did so, locking the back door just as the first police car ripped into the front yard.

It turned out their haste at that point hadn’t mattered. The police had found their serial killer, Matthew Marin, back at the McCafferty vault, right where he had fallen.

He had been alone.

Hayley wanted to know where her homeless friend had gone. She explained over, and over again that he’d saved her and Bobby by cracking the killer over the head with something.

A piece of a broken gargoyle, fallen from the arch over the McCafferty vault.

There was no sign of anyone else in the cemetery. Police combed the place — there was no homeless man.

She insisted that there had been. But they were all exhausted and reeling. Parents were on the way; the police had finished with the questioning; the medical examiner had to come, which somehow seemed like an oxymoron to Hayley — coming to a cemetery to do a preliminary examination on a corpse.

The corpse was Tiffany. No, they hadn’t been friends. It was still tragic. Everyone had someone who loved them and the murder was horrible.

Marcy seemed to remain in shock. Hayley put blankets around her; she made her hot tea. Mary was oddly calmer now; the worst had passed.

The boys were quiet and thoughtful. She knew Tommy felt as if he had been a failure; he was ashamed of himself. They tried to assure him the shock of the situation had gotten to all of them.

Detectives were on the case, of course, but as time wore on, it was Officer Claymore who stayed with all of them, almost like a mother hen, watching them, helping with anything — coffee, water, tea, pillows, whatever.

“Water,” Hayley told Claymore at one point. “The man in the cemetery — I gave him a bottle of water.”

“We did find an empty water bottle,” Claymore told her, but he still looked at her sadly.

“A real person drank it,” she said.

“Maybe one of your friends, maybe Tiffany before...”

“Why can’t you believe me? I wish I’d had the courage to stand up against such a monster, but I’m telling you—”

“Maybe there was a man who saved you. Maybe, in all the trauma, you don’t know what really happened; Hayley, it doesn’t matter. You couldn’t have saved Tiffany; others are alive, you’re alive!”

She knew that. She should just be grateful.

But she wanted to be grateful to the stranger.

Claymore stayed with Hayley and she sat with him while she waited; her father was on the way. He’d be taking her and Marcy with him back to New Orleans.

New Orleans would be fine now. The City Slicer had come here. He had been taken away with a serious head injury; he might or might not live. Whether he did or didn’t, he’d be safely locked away.

Claymore looked at her, smiling gently. “You’re a strong one, Hayley.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not trying to be a pest, but I wish they could find him. I know that everyone questions me on whether he was real or not. I know that he was. Whoever he is, he saved our lives.”

“Hayley, I’m afraid if he was there, he’s disappeared.”

“Well, I wish he hadn’t disappeared,” Hayley said.

“Are you absolutely sure you didn’t throw that piece of gargoyle sculpture yourself?”

No, she hadn’t. Or had she? Was she losing her mind?

No. She’d seen him, as clear as day. Even by moonlight. He’d been real; her savior had been real. He had spoken to her. She’d left him her bottle of water.

“He’s gone now,” Claymore said. He offered her a grimace. “Hey. Maybe you were saved by the ghost of Ethan Fray. Anyway, I thank God that with that madman loose here we only lost one; it could have been so much worse.”

Hayley just gave him a weak smile. It was still sad; so tragic. Tiffany had been a jerk, but no one deserved what had happened to her.

And still, Claymore was right. It might have been so much worse.

She knew she was grateful to be alive. And eternally grateful to the man — living or dead — who had helped her.

She saw her father’s car pulling into the front yard; saw his face — the love, the fear, and the concern.

She ran to be taken into his arms.