Chapter 10
The tyres of the Impala screeched to a halt outside the gates to the small security office. Sam dived out of the driver's seat, his shoulder burning agonizingly after digging the remainder of Nixon's grave. Scooting round to the trunk, he panted as he considered what he needed to take with him. Can't take much, he thought, my shoulder's killing me. Settling on a salt gun, he slammed the trunk shut, not sure where to start. I know he's in here somewhere, Nixon's done something to him, got him somewhere to stop him destroying his grave. He saw a guard peeking nervously through the security office's venetian blinds, and noticed him suddenly scramble away from the window, seemingly in a panic. What the hell? Oh yeah… Sam looked down at the sawn-off shotgun in his hand and considered his erratic driving on his approach to the yard. Crap. He's gonna call the cops. There was only one thing for it.
Sam put his head down and ran into the office.
"Put the phone down, now!" Sam demanded, pointing the gun at the guy's head. His hands were shaking, the receiver in his hands. His watery blue eyes stared up in fear. But the phone was still in his hand. Barely flinching, Sam lowered his voice. "I said, put the phone down."
Hating every minute of it, Sam knew full well that the guy didn't have a clue the gun only shot rock salt. Although, if he pulled the trigger at this close range so close to the guys skull, it'd probably still look like some five year old had been finger painting the walls with his brain. His voice never wavered, sounding more certain than it had the whole of the last two days. He knew he was good at this. That was why he knew he'd have made a good lawyer one day; he could perform. There was no way this guy was going to mistake him for a confused youngster, no way he'd be able to say 'put the gun down son, everything will be alright.' Sam looked like he already knew what was going to happen. The guard dropped the cellphone to his desk, the rattling sounding horrendously loud in the cabin.
"Son, there's no money in the cabin, y'know that, I don't deal with any cash here. All's ah got's my wallet." His voice shook.
"What's your name?" Sam kept the gun poised. Chances were the guy had a gun himself. He needed to talk to him before he lowered his weapon.
"My, my name?"
"Yes, your name."
"Oliver. Billy Oliver." Billy's eyes wandered to where the Impala was parked, clearly looking to see if Sam was stalling for time on behalf of an accomplice.
"Relax, Billy, I'm on my own. But I am looking for someone."
"Well, there ain't no-one here except me."
"That's okay. Billy, I want you to put your gun on the table and move yourself over to that chair. And don't even think about trying anything once you get your hand on your gun, believe me, you are not as good a shot as I am. I'm not going to hurt you unless I have to."
"Okay. I'm... I'm reaching for the gun now."
Sam's heart beat a little faster. Maybe the old man was a crack shot, maybe he could have him dead before he could blink. Using the law of averages, Sam hoped for the best, assuming the guy's shaky hands were genuine and he wasn't Batman. Billy placed a pistol on his desk.
"Good. Now move away from the gun". Sam's hands were getting greasy. Game face, Sam, he thought, moving Billy away from the desk and into a chair. Man, I don't believe I've got some poor old bastard held at gunpoint. But he couldn't risk having the cops called. He reached back to Billy's weapon and emptied the bullets into his hand, slipping them into his jacket pocket. He lowered the salt gun, placing it gently on the floor and stepping away from it.
"I'm sorry, Billy. I just couldn't risk you calling the cops. And I hadn't banked on you seeing me bursting into your yard with a sawn-off." Sam looked a little sheepish, not really wanting to look so fearsome anymore.
The man's face softened a little, realising that despite what he'd seen in this young man's eyes just moments earlier, he probably wasn't going to kill him. At least probably. That had to count for something, right? "Who are you looking for, son?"
"A guy came in here yesterday, I think he might have talked to you?"
"What guy? Lots of people come through here in a day. Lotta people, storing a lotta crap here."
Sam dug into his pocket, Billy visibly flinching. "Sorry. Look, this guy." He handed over a fake ID of Deans with a recent ish photo on. They didn't really take so many recreational pictures. Sam gazed back hopefully.
"That's that damn reporter that came past yesterday. What d'you wanna find him for? He was a pain in the ass…."
If he hadn't been so worried he'd have probably laughed. "You remember him?" Sam's voice became more urgent. "I…. I think he's in the yard somewhere. And I think he's in trouble."
"What kinda trouble would he be in? If he's been snooping around it serves him right!"
Sam thought about picking the gun up again, but sucked up the old-timer's condescending remarks. "Look. I haven't got time to explain it. But, but there's something weird going on here. And I think it's something to do with someone who used to work here. Do you remember a guy called Jimmy Nixon?"
Billy flinched again at the mention of his name. "Son, he's not worked here for a long time. Nasty accident."
"I know. Forklift accident, right?"
"Right. Some folk don't think that was the end of it though, think he's still wandering round here somehow."
It always puzzled Sam when civilians talked about ghosts and spirits. His downbeat mood lifted a little – had he got an ally? "So… what do you think?"
"Whaddya mean, what do I think? Course he's not still here. Guy was crushed almost flat, not a lot left of him."
"But… but people think they've seen his spirit, right?"
"Look son, just... just get outta here. I don't know what you're looking for, what kind of trip you're on, but if you get outta here now, I won't call the cops. Just take your gun and go." Billy sighed. He was pretty sure this kid wasn't going to intentionally harm him, but damn he had some whacked out ideas.
"Okay, okay. I'm going. But, was there ever… did Nixon ever store anything of his own?"
Whatever kid, just get outta here. "Actually, yeah. Needed somewhere to store a motorbike once so we fixed him up with a key for an old container; no-one was ever gonna pick it up, it was empty."
"And did he return the keys?"
"Damned if I know, son, come on, it was years ago!" What the hell was this boy looking for?
Sam's heart was beating faster. At least he'd have a starting point. "Okay, I'm leaving. I promise. Where was this container?"
"Somewhere in the back quarter of the yard. Nothing's moved from there for years."
"Okay, thank you. Thank you." Sam scrambled from the cabin so quickly he almost tripped over his own big feet, leaving Billy Oliver in the cabin shaking his head. Strange guy…