When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

shoulder. A screwdriver fell—it rolled across the floor scrawling a bloody trail.

“Answer the questions, Wildclown.”

“Why can’t I stay mad at you?” No new pain.

“Why were you at the Arizona?”

“I was looking for someone. Jeeze, I guess the hero cracked pretty quickly.” I had to play for time.

“Who?”

“I really, sincerely, wish I could tell you.”

“Who?” Following the word, I flinched. My coveralls were pulled roughly from my shoulders. Then, I felt the sharp teeth of a handsaw lightly prick my left shoulder. The saw rocked back and forth on the stiff muscle there, inches from my neck. “Who?”

“Richard Adrian, I’m trying to find him for an old girlfriend!” I shrieked. Three quick strokes of the saw and blood spattered my chest. Numbness rushed over my scalp and set fire to my mind. I screamed, twisted away from the blade—knocked the chair over. I landed cat-like, on my face. I held my breath against the pain. It was an angry presence gathering force in my shoulder—winding up like a clock spring. I knew it would just get worse and worse. My contortions had dropped me out of the cone of light. The cool darkness drew me in.

No time for sleep. The saw was thrown to the floor with a clang. I felt strong hands on me yanking the chair upright. New pain leapt from my shoulder and head. I leaned over—tried to hide between my knees. A large hand reached around and grabbed the hair at my forehead. As he grunted against the full strength of my belly muscles, I felt an odd tickling at the hairline. Inches from my face dangled an ankh with a swastika set in its oval. It hung from a chain around a thick wrist.

I was jerked upright. On impulse I spat at the cigarette that glowed in the shadow. I must have caught the Handyman by surprise because unprepared, he used a boring old fist on my jaw. I struggled against the ropes and pushed off with my toes. He punched me again. My fillings rattled. I got a mouthful of his shirt and kicked out. We sprawled in a heap. The Handyman leapt to his feet and started wiping the toes of his boots on my stomach.

“Enough!” A voice hissed.

“Yes.” The Handyman called off his attack like a good soldier. For a moment there it had become personal for him. I felt a large boot press against the back of my neck. “We’ll let you rest, Mr. Wildclown. I’ve got to make sure I brought a long enough extension cord.”

I heard his heavy feet cross the floor—a door opened. A flash of light struck me. I turned my head but only made out two silhouettes—one tall, one short. I shut my eyes for a minute and tried to remember why I liked being a detective.

The room was too dark for me to get any clue to where I was. There were no background noises so I ruled out the Arizona. No signs saying: “You are here.” Not many people had the balls to torture someone in a hotel, even in these strange days. What could have happened to Elmo? He wouldn’t run. I had heard no gun-battle, so my torturers must have entered the building another way. More likely, they had been waiting. That left me with the faint hope that Elmo might come to the rescue. Of course, they would leave the same way so Elmo was probably still sitting in front of the fake fireplace wondering why his boss was taking so damned long.

So, it was up to me, as simple as that. Luckily I was bleeding, dizzy and tied to a chair. Anything else wouldn’t have been worth the effort. My hands were bound with a plastic cord—tight; they were turning into brass monkey’s paws. Blood streaked my cheek and oozed from my shoulder. “Shit,” I told the darkness. I tried the army crawl, more like the worm crawl, and discovered I could make it to the door in about an hour. The chair gave me the agility of a tortoise. I struggled until my breath came in hot gulps.

The door opened. The new light blinded me. I was swung upright, placed under the lamp again.

“How’ve you been?” the Handyman asked.

“Go to Hell,” I growled. A fist smashed into the back of my head, and I was suddenly floating over Tommy; echoes of the blow tore up and down the halls of my consciousness like students on frat night. I tried to possess Tommy again. We’d have to act fast in the next few minutes if we wanted to survive. Tommy was awake below me, and angry.

“Where am I? You dirt fucking, sons of bitches, I’ll kill you all!” Saliva rained from his lips.

“Oh, your spirit has returned!” the Handyman laughed. “It makes my contract so much more worthwhile if the courage has to be broken.”

I watched as his shadowy form moved to a large tool chest. He picked up a heavy-looking instrument. He fiddled with a cord in the darkness. A high-speed electric motor whined.

Tommy laughed. The Handyman laughed.

“Who were you looking for at the Arizona?” the Handyman repeated.

“I was looking for the spoils of war, you decimated rat-sphincter.” Tommy laughed at his own wit unaware of the danger.

“There is spirit, and there is stupidity.” The Handyman pressed the bit against Tommy’s right shoulder. “I wonder if this bit could drill through your shoulder bone.” He gunned the motor. The sharp bit only twisted the skin.

“That’s a drill?” Tommy chuckled. “I thought it was your dick and you were going to fuck one of my pimple craters.”

Tommy screamed at about the same pitch as the drill. The Handyman put his weight against it. Blood poured from the wound. I was sickened by the gristly sound as the drill bit chewed muscle and scored bone. If I had had a stomach of my own I would have emptied it. The Handyman stopped.

“Now, I haven’t gone into the bone yet. Really just scratched the surface. Will you tell me who you were looking for at the Arizona, or will I finish this? I hate leaving a job undone.” The Handyman sounded slightly winded—either from his exertions or anticipation.

“Few things, demon, have the power to wrest from these lips the truth,” Tommy ranted in a rasp. “Give me your best.”

“Once more, I’ll ask. You’re bound to lose consciousness when I pierce the lung. Who were you looking for at the Arizona?”

I was helpless. Tommy was closed to me.

“I’ll tell you who I was looking for. You, you pig. I was looking for you, because I love to eat pig,” Tommy’s voice was strained. “There’s nothing like a pork sandwich!”

The smoker with the glasses hissed from the darkness. “The hell with it. Kill him. We’ll question him after Blacktime. If he doesn’t value life, maybe death will change his perspective.”

Something about the voice was familiar, but it sounded muffled.

Just then, a gun went off somewhere. The smoker leapt to his feet. “Kill him, I’ll find out what the hell…” He moved quickly to the door and out. Something flashed under the glasses.

“Okay,” said the Handyman as he turned to his tool chest. I heard the sharp rattle of a bit being dropped. “I think a longer bit will do it.” Metal grinding against metal. “Right beside the spine, past the shoulder blade, through the lung and into the heart muscle. Then a touch of Blacktime, and we can do it all again. Dear me, and you’ll be such a ragged dead thing.” He laughed mechanically.

A harsh crack snapped his head around as Tommy tore the back off the chair. He leaped into the air and swung his arms under him, skipping rope style. He whipped the remains of the chair over the Handyman’s head. It splintered. The Handyman jabbed the drill at Tommy’s gut. Tommy leapt aside like a gibbon; his long arms lashed out and grabbed the Handyman’s wrist. They both tumbled to the floor. The Handyman landed on top, freed his arm then rammed the drill at Tommy’s head. It screeched against the concrete floor. Tommy lunged upward and clamped his teeth on the Handyman’s jaw. The Handyman screamed. I could hear Tommy sucking and chewing at his opponent. The Handyman was off balance with this human bulldog. He punched Tommy’s head—screamed as the clown’s teeth ripped at gristle and bone. They tumbled across the floor. Tommy lost his grip and they both grappled for the drill. The Handyman’s right arm was tangled tight to his side with the extension cord.

Tommy’s muscles stood out like rope as his bound hands tore the drill away. He pinned the Handyman’s free arm to the floor with a big black boot and stared down at his face. The Handyman had a thin crop of spiky military hair. The scalp beneath it was damp and shiny with sweat. His eyes were wide in a thick-cheeked face. Twisted lips moved mutely over crooked teeth. He looked about sixteen, one of Greasetown’s forever teens—a muscle-bound adolescent.

Tommy smiled. “Like playing handyman, do you, Sonny-boy? Now it’s my turn. I’ll be the handyman and you be the piece of wood.” Tommy began talking in an exaggerated instructional voice. “Now, if you plan on reconditioning a face you’ve got to be willing to accept the size of the job.” The drill whirred. The Handyman gasped a garbled plea. “If it’s an older face, you should be prepared for some painful costs.”

The drill whined shrilly—the Handyman screamed as Tommy set the bit under his cheekbone.

“Remember,” Tommy continued. “To hold the drill firmly in hand so that the bit won’t bind up and the hole will be clean and true. Remember, clean and true.”

The Handyman shrieked. A few sickening, bone-cracking seconds and it was over. Tommy straddled the Handyman’s chest looking at the ruin. Smiling, he whispered. “You idiot, the only thing I ever passed in school was shop.” The Handyman lay wrapped in Blacktime, the drill jutting grotesquely from his face.

Tommy’s eyes were red coals flashing around the room. Another shot rang out. He ran to the door—me in tow—and out. A hallway set in a thin space between cinderblock walls led to the left and right. At both ends stairs ran up. Flickering lights cast strange shadows.

Another gunshot, to the right. Tommy showed teeth and ran to the left—crouching, his bound hands pulled close to his chest. His boots made too much noise and too many echoes as he raced the distance of the hall and up the stairs. I noticed a growing red stain on his back as he slammed into the door and out.

Lightning rent the black sky over an alleyway; I looked up. We were behind the Arizona. Tommy was off again. He sprinted madly through torn garbage bags and heaps of newspaper. The clown bolted between rusted trashcans, rats scurried. We were on the street in front of the hotel. Tommy looked left and right, the Chrysler was gone. All at once, rain fell from the sky like an airborne lake making a landing. More lightning.

Tommy’s back was a crimson smear of rain and blood. His breath came in gasps. He panted Elmo’s name. I tried to take over, but Tommy was unreceptive. He ran; I followed. More lightning. He dodged between parked cars, knocked over a dead prostitute taking shelter from the rain in a doorway.

“Stupid motherfucker!” she screeched from a puddle—yellow satin dress soaked—her dead wares damp. “You mother…”

Tommy ran wildly, apparently without a goal in mind. He just wanted to be anywhere away from the Arizona. I followed, rain passing through my substance without effort. More lightning. I hated lightning. I was too exposed.

Headlights, Tommy threw