Читать книгу Dead Girl - Craig Nybo - Страница 16

Chapter 10

We pulled up to teenaged looks of suspicion on the west side of the Milvian Bridge. I more than doubled the age of even Torre’s oldest buddy. I could tell by the looks on their faces that Torre’s gang thought they were at most busted for boozing and drugging, or at least strapped into spending the night with one of Torre’s old, wet blanket uncles. Either way, if I hoped to get any information from these kids, I would have to do some tap dancing.

Torre parked, adding his Civic to the wagon-circle of candy-colored rice-burners--their collective headlights trained on the central party zone. The kids had set up a pair of 50-gallon drums loaded with firewood. Tongues of flame danced from the steel barrels. An occasional knot popped like a .22 round. Teens stood like posts, all eyes on us as they wondered what I, the old man, was going to do.

Torre got out of the Civic, slammed the door, and walked away, defiantly leaving me behind. He went to the campfire and put his arm around a girl, a brunette with lovely skin and a perfectly kissable mouth.

This wasn’t getting off to a good start. I got out of the car and walked to the campfire. All eyes were on me as I warmed my hands over the flames. “I grew up in Kaysville,” I said. “Any of you know where that is?”

After a long pause, one of the youths finally spoke up. “Down south isn’t it?”

“That’s right. We had a party spot in town. It was called Kay’s Cross. Story was, Bishop Kay, who founded Kaysville had three wives. They all died in rapid succession, bam, bam, bam. As a memorial, Kay built a ten-foot-tall cross from concrete and stone. Before he sealed this magnificent sculpture, he put the bodies of his three wives, layered back-to-belly, crucifixion style, inside the cross. Kids in Kaysville used to say that if you went to the cross on the night of a full moon and got too close, one of old man Kay’s wives would reach through the stone and tear out your throat with her skeletal hand. Some said if you managed to climb and stand on top of the cross. You could look down and see the ground move as if it was covered by maggots.”

I looked up from the campfire into the eyes of the teenagers. The former looks of suspicion had largely left their faces. As a reporter, I have learned that there is nothing like a good story to break the ice.

I went on. “I and three of my friends went down there one night and climbed that cross at precisely midnight.” I let the story hang and continued to warm my hands over the fire. A knot popped like a mortar shell sending a rooster-tail of sparks and char flying.

“What happened?” One of the kids asked.

“Nothing. I didn’t see any maggots down there, just earth and scrub oak.”

Some of the kids snickered.

“Every town has one, you know,” I said, “A haunted hot spot where all the parties go down.”

“Who is this guy, Torre?” One of the kids asked.

“He’s some writer or something. He’s doing a story on Ridgewater, I guess. My nanna called him.”

“Does he know your nanna is crackers?” Someone else asked, a burley kid wearing a Ridgewater High Wrestling jacket.

“I think he’s getting the idea.”

“Why’d you have to bring him here?” someone else said.

“He got the drop on me, man. Said he’d call Biels about the beer if I didn’t bring him.” Torre’s eyebrows arched. “Oh yea, I got the beer.”

A sense of lightness came over the group. There were yea, mans, and Torre’s a studs all around at the mention of alcohol.

I rolled my eyes.

Torre trotted to his Civic to get the beer. While he was gone, I looked as many of the teens in the eye as I could until they looked away. This is a little trick I use as a reporter. I call it the eye-down. I use it as a method to mark my territory and establish my dominance. As I worked my trick, I caught a sense of relief from them. I wasn’t here to bust them. They didn’t want me around, but they would tolerate me.

Torre returned with the 12-pack and cut it open with a little pocketknife. A moment of awkward silence and sideways glances hung in the air before anyone picked up a can. I put an easy smile on my face and nodded, not out of approval--the last thing I needed was to hang out with a bunch of drunk teenagers--but out of tolerance. I needed them to know that I wasn’t a rat. Torre popped the top on the first beer. Everyone else followed suit.

“So you’re some kind of writer?” Torre’s girlfriend asked.

“I write for a paper called the Wasatch Times. It’s based in Salt Lake City.”

“That’s cool,” she said and offered a smile.

“He’s not our friend, Chelsea,” Torre said.

She looked me up and down with a flirty smile that made me feel uncomfortable as hell. “I think he’s cute.”

Before this went any further, I decided to get down to the real reason I had come to the acne-infested shindig. “I told you my ghost story. Now, why don’t you tell me yours? Who is Sarah Chase?”

All eyes turned to Torre. The unstated sentiment screamed: Torre, you’re the one who brought the loser old man; he’s your responsibility.

Torre rolled his eyes and sipped his beer. He spoke. “Sarah Chase was killed on the bridge back in the summer of ‘62. You’ve seen pictures of the four maniacs that did the deed: Joss Fielding, Ben Stitching, DeLoy Tillman, and, of course, my very own pappa, Stan Corelis. Muscle cars was hot back in those days. Everyone had one and they all tinkered, boring out the carburetors, fattening the pipes, adding glass packs, whatever they could do to make their cars faster and meaner. Stan and his three boys all went in and bought the ultimate hot rod, a 1-year-old Impala SS with a 409. I guess they planned to blow the doors off the competition.

“They played the same games we play today, spin the monkey, drop the lid, chicken, and straight-up racing for pinks, all right here on the Milvian. But they was maniacs. Some say this bridge has a way of making you go crazy if you race on it.”

“Dude, I felt that kind of crazy a few times,” the wrestler said. The name sewn on the breast of his jacket read, Zack. “Sometimes you feel kind of powerful or something when you take the bridge at seventy or better; I’ll vouch for that.”

“Anyways,” Torre went on. “On August 23rd--three nights from tonight being the anniversary--Stan, his three friends, and Sarah Chase decided to play chicken with old Henry Biels.”

I chimed in: “That wouldn’t happen to be a relative of Sheriff Biels would it?”

“I think he was Biels’s old man,” Zack said.

“Nope, Henry was officer Biels’s granddad,” Torre said. “I know because my Grandma tells this story to me all the time like a broken record.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So what happened?”

“The best we know, Henry Biels, driving a 56 Chevy Bel Air, started on the east side of the Milvian. Stan and his posse took off the line from the West. They was playin’ chicken, which in my mind is plain old crazy.”

A general chorus of agreement arose from the audience.

“Something went wrong and the two cars locked horns in the middle. It must not have been a full faced head on collision because Henry’s car went one way and my grand-pap’s went the other.” Torre pointed at the bridge, “Right there in the middle of the Milvian. Henry was fine, got away with a few bumps and bruises, but Stan’s car broke through the guard railing and splashed into the river. Sank like a stone.”

Torre paused to take a sip of his beer. Smiles broke on some of the kids’ faces. Torre was warming up for the coup de grace.

“Things go bad. Stan’s car sinks to the bottom. Stan, Joss, DeLoy, and Ben get out the window and swim to the bank. The river is high so they have to really work it to beat the current. By the time they are safe on the bank, it’s been a few minutes. That’s when they realize that Sarah’s not with them. She’s still in the car, trying to pound her way out. Funny thing is, not one of those dudes went back for her. They just sat on the bank looking at each other. They know’d they’d done wrong, but none of them is willing to risk the river to make it right.”

Silence followed Torre’s story, except for the crack of the fire and an unsympathetic cricket that chirped away from the nearby scrub oak. I looked up at the bridge. It looked somehow menacing, highlighted with the platinum moonlight glow.

Torre broke the silence. “Story goes, ever since the night Sarah died, she haunts this bridge, particularly around the night of the anniversary. Some even claim that, while racing on the bridge, they’ve actually seen her. But the funniest thing is, Sarah’s murder weapon is chained up like a monster in my nanna’s garage. You’ve seen it yourself, old man.” Torre tipped his beer toward me.

“He’s seen it?” Zack said, “When did she show it to him. Man, if I could only get a look at that cherry-bomb.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Torre said. “Old lady keeps the place locked up like a prison cell.”

I smiled. Small town ghost stories--Kay’s cross, Sarah Chase, and hundreds more--were all the same. But something in these urban yarns always raised the hairs on the back of my neck. When it comes to ghosts, I’m a skeptic; as a writer I have to be. But if someone put me at knifepoint and forced the question: do I believe in ghosts? I’d have to say … yes.

“What time is it?” I said.

Zack checked his watch. “Twenty past midnight, why.”

“Not exactly 11:57, but what do you say we take a little run, see if we can catch a glimpse of old Sarah Chase herself?”

Everyone looked away from me, some at their shoes, some up at the moon, some at the half empty beer cans in their fists. Nobody wanted to take me up on my proposal. “Come on, you don’t actually believe there’s a ghost on that bridge do you?”

A general utterance of unconvincing skepticism rose from the group. They were spooked. I almost laughed out loud.

Torre stepped forward. “I’ll take you, I ain’t scared. Hell, there’s no such thing as ghosts anyways.”

“I want to come,” Chelsea said.

“I don’t think so, Chels,” Torre said.

“Come on, don’t be a chump. I’m a big girl.”

“Okay, fine. Zack, did you bring your bolt cutters?”

“In the trunk.”

“Cut the chain, let’s get the gate open. We’re going to drop the lid tonight.”

Zack whooped. Torre’s friends patted him on the back and spoke up.

That Sarah Chase story is a bunch of bull crap anyways.

Even if she did die on the Milvian; who cares?

Show this old man what that Civic can do, Torre.

Make him pee his pants.

Blow that ridiculous newsie hat off his head.

We’ll keep an eye out for Biels while you drop the lid.

They said a lot of things. But what I didn’t hear was willingness from any of them but Torre to race across the Milvian Bridge.

Zack finished cutting the chains and opened the no-trespassing gates. We got into Torre’s Civic, Chelsea in the back, me riding shotgun. It was time to put the ghost of the Milvian Bridge to the test.