Edward Lee - Ghouls

Kurt drew in a parched breath, and he reached over and reclaimed his revolver from Willard’s pocket. “Good shooting, Vicky,” he said, but then realized it couldn’t have been Vicky who’d fired the shot; he’d heard a rifle, not a shotgun.

Kurt and Willard looked up at the same time. In the study entrance, a figure stood just out of the light, warped through a shift of smoke and settling dust.

“Who the hell are you?” Kurt blurted.

Willard squinted ahead myopically. Blood eddied from his hand, but he seemed not to notice.

The figure then stepped dreamily into the light, a long, black rifle propped on one hip. “Good evening, Colonel Willard,” the figure said.

“My God,” Willard croaked.

Amazedly Kurt remembered the figure as the man he’d met at the Anvil. John, he thought his name was. The man with the scarred face.

Willard seemed horrified in his own recognition. “You can’t be alive. I emptied half a machine-gun clip in you.”

“Hard as nails,” Sanders replied, and tapped his chest with his palm. “Next to dogs, a ballistic vest is a man’s best friend.” He offered Kurt a snide, cocky smile.

“Thanks, man” was all Kurt could think to say.

“Don’t mention it. You can buy me one at the Anvil.”

Kurt laughed. “Hell, I’ll buy you the whole goddamned place.”

“How did you get into the house?” Willard demanded.

Sanders held up his set of picks. “When you went out about an hour ago, I took the liberty of letting myself in.”

“But the alarm system—”

“I picked that, too; tubular keyways are my specialty. Anyway, while you were out getting your Chinese food, I took a good look around. Real nice place you got here, Colonel. Great basement… I’ve been standing in the foyer the whole time, listening to you two.”

“Then I guess there’s no need to explain.”

Sanders shook his head. “I was pretty sure what was going on anyway; it was easy to fill in the blanks once I read the local papers. Missing girls, cops disappearing, graves dug up. What an asshole.”

Just then, Vicky edged into the room, the shotgun barrel poking in front of her.

“Just in the nick of time,” Kurt said.

Incredulous, she looked to Willard, then to Sanders, then to Kurt. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Don’t ask me,” Kurt said. “There’s the man with all the answers.”

Sanders seemed enlivened. He shifted his gaze again to Willard. “When I came to, that night in ’78, I started footing it back to the garrison, figured I’d head you off at Jidda in the morning. But then I ran into a little trouble along the way, and this happened.” He tilted the floor lamp to highlight his face.

Willard closed his eyes, shuddering.

“Guess they’ll never take me on Star Search, huh?” Sanders mocked. “The plastic surgeons at Reed said it was worth a shot, but it would mean several dozen operations and only moderate improvement at best. So I just said don’t bother.”

“But how could you have survived?” Willard asked. “You mean you actually killed one, single-handedly?”

“That’s right. I blew its lights out with my last willy-peter grenade. And got half my face torn off in the process. A couple of SP’s on perimeter patrol found me in the road just before I passed out again. A week later I was TDRL’d. When I told the doctors the truth, about you, about everything, they committed me to a VA psych wing.”

“And that’s where you’ve been all this time?”

Sanders nodded. “Seven years. They finally let me out last week, and I couldn’t resist stopping by for a visit.”

“To kill me,” Willard concluded.

“No, murder’s not my bag. I just wanted to see what you’d been up to since our last meeting. Almost wish I’d changed my mind, now that I’ve seen the basement.”

What’s all this about the basement? Kurt thought, but he didn’t really care about that or any of what they were talking about. Simply being alive right now was implausible enough. He owed Sanders his life.

Willard tied up his wound with a handkerchief, which quickly drenched red. He was pitiable now, a derelict in rich man’s clothes.

“You owe me money,” Sanders said. “I’ll take it now and be on my merry way.”

“I don’t have any significant amount of cash in the house,” Willard faltered. “Just what’s in my wallet.”

“Once a liar, always a liar. I’m no half-assed house-breaker, you know; carpet tiles in a study are a dead giveaway. Sixth from the wall and three up.” Sanders’s smile strained the edges of his broken face. “I don’t miss a thing.”

Willard cursed silently to himself; he went and lifted up the indicated tile. Recessed beneath lay a pyronox-insulated floor safe. Reluctantly, his fingers dialed in the three-digit combination, then slid back the double bolts.

Vicky gaped at them, cock-eyed. “Did I miss something, or is this armed robbery?”

“I’m not robbing him,” Sanders was quick to say. “He owes me money, and I’m collecting. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

“Yes, yes,” Willard muttered. From the safe to the desktop, he transferred what looked to be tens of thousands of dollars in banded fifties and twenties. Sanders began to count it, keeping his rifle trained on Willard’s head.

Vicky scurried over to Kurt, whispering, “Would you please tell me what’s going on. I turned on the walkie-talkie a few minutes after you went in. What was all that crap he was talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kurt said, his attention divided between her and the two men. “He’s crazy, that’s all. Willard’s crazy. He murdered everyone.”

“But I heard him say he only killed his wife and Glen.”

“He killed them all,” Kurt reiterated. “You heard his explanation; what more evidence of insanity do you need? Crazy people believe crazy things. The way I see it, Willard became obsessed with Muslem folklore when he was overseas. And now, on top of his obsession, he’s had some kind of psychotic episode, like a fragmented personality or something. He may not remember killing all those people, but he did just the same. He’s simply blaming it all on a delusion that’s been growing in his head for years—mythological monsters from the Middle East. He’ll spend the rest of his life in a nut shack.”

Kurt had never seen so much money in his life. It formed a virtual pile on the desk. From the pile Sanders took five sets of banded fifties. He skimmed the corner of each band with his thumb, listening to the flitter. “Squared away,” he said.

Willard’s eyes pinched, as if costive. “You mean you’re not going to take it all?”

“You owe me twenty-five grand, and that’s what I’m taking. No more, no less. You’ll need the rest, anyway. For a lawyer.” Sanders seemed satisfied now. He put the money into a dark green string bag. Then he flung the bag over his shoulder and said, “Adiós, all.”

“Wait a minute,” Kurt cut in. “Your friend Dr. Willard here just confessed to two counts of murder. You’re not leaving just yet.”

“I didn’t murder anybody,” Sanders exclaimed. “You can’t hold me.”

“I suppose you’ve paid your licensing fee for that automatic weapon. I kinda have a feeling that unlicensed machine guns are illegal in this state. Of course, I might be willing to look the other way if you should decide to maybe hang around a bit and do me a little favor.”

“A little favor?” Sanders looked back in dismay. “I don’t believe you, man. If it weren’t for me, your brains would be all over that wall.”

“Okay, you saved my neck, and I’m grateful, I really am. But I still got a job to do here, and there’re procedures I have to follow. This man just admitted to murder, and you overheard that admission. I’m going to need a statement from you, and you’ll have to testify as a witness against him.”