The Devil's Graveyard Read Online Free PDF Page A

day ahead. He toyed briefly with the idea of taking Joe’s gun and whatever ammo he could find, but discarded it. He didn’t like small-calibre pistols at the best of times, and that one had looked like the definitive Saturday-night special, accurate only to about six feet and as liable to blow up in your hand as to take down a target.
    The Firebird’s seat was still warm when he sat back in it and peered out through the dirt-covered windshield. The wipers had cleared enough of the muck away so that he could see where he was going, but the areas of the windshield outside of the range of the wipers were caked in sand, dirt and mud. Undeniably, the chase through the desert had taken its toll, but the car hadn’t let him down. It never did. The custom-built engine was not only powerful enough to outrun most other road vehicles, it was also very dependable.
    He turned the key and fired up the engine. As he did so, Jacko came out of the diner carrying a few bottles he had snagged from behind the counter. The Kid leaned over and part-opened the passenger-side door. His new travelling companion climbed in and placed two bottles of Sam Cougar and two bottles of Shitting Monkey beer on the floor by his feet. Pulling the door shut, he opened the glove-box in front of him and tossed two packs of cigarettes in before closing it again. The Kid was impressed. Not many people had the guts to get into his car. Not willingly, at least. And to do so after he had just seen the Kid gun down an old man in cold blood – well, that took some nerve. Jacko did look like a total jerk in his red leather outfit, though.
    The Kid stared at Jacko from behind his sunglasses, waiting for him to offer up some directions to the Hotel Pasadena. Instead, the Michael Jackson wannabe started with some questions of his own.
    ‘Reckon you’re the Bourbon Kid, ain’tcha?’
    ‘What gave it away?’
    ‘I have a real sixth sense for these things.’
    ‘Good. Your sixth sense had better be workin’ real good from here on, too. ’Cause, make no mistake, we take one wrong turn, I’ll kill you.’
    ‘Okay. When you get to the crossroads up ahead, take a right.’
    The Kid released the parking brake and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The car raced away from Sleepy Joe’s and back on to the highway. The wheel-spin from the screeching rear tyres created an almighty kick-up of sand and dust. By the time it had settled, the diner-cum-gas station was long out of sight.
    At a crossroads half a mile down the road, the Kid slid the Firebird into a right turn as Jacko had instructed. The car was half-covered in dirt already from the journey thus far, and this particular shitty concrete road, with its gravelly surface and frequent potholes, wasn’t going to improve things any time soon.
    ‘So whatcha doin’ round these parts anyway?’ Jacko asked.
    ‘Mindin’ my own fuckin’ business. It strike you that you should do the same?’
    From his response it shouldn’t have been difficult to work out that the Kid didn’t have much use for small talk. Jacko, however, seemed oblivious to this.
    ‘I’m hopin’ to enter that singing contest at the hotel, he continued. ‘Y’know, the Back From the Dead show?’
    The Kid didn’t respond or even take his eyes off the road ahead. Jacko carried on regardless. ‘Y’see, I’m a Michael Jackson impersonator.’
    The Kid took a deep breath through his nostrils, held it for a few moments then breathed out slowly. He was trying to keep himself calm, something that he often struggled with, never more so than on Halloween. At last he took his eyes off the road and glanced over at Jacko. His words, when he finally spoke, were surprisingly reasonable.
    ‘Seein’ as how he’s dead, there’s gonna be thousands of Michael Jackson impersonators at this show. All tryin’ to cash in on his fame. Why’n’t you just be yourself?’
    ‘You gotta be impersonatin’ a famous dead singer. And in case you ain’t noticed,