The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

just taken it away for official police business. So why did
this guy want it? Was he a criminal? And what was the big deal with The Book of
Death anyway? As Josh pondered his answer, the Santa took a swig from his hip
flask. A second later his eyes bulged open wide and he spat the contents out
over Josh’s face and shirt.
    Josh reeled back and wiped the
spittle from his face. ‘What the fuck?’ he groaned, sniffing the liquid on his
hands. It smelled like piss. Normally that would have made him react very
angrily but looking at the size of the Santa he decided to show some restraint
and just answer his enquiry instead. ‘Sanchez Garcia has the book you’re
looking for. He just left. You probably passed him on the stairs. Short fat guy
in a gay cop outfit.’
    The Santa was still retching
from the drink that he had just spat out. ‘What?’ he snarled.
    ‘Sanchez. He has the book.’
    The Santa threw the hip flask at
Josh. It hit him hard on the forehead and some more of the contents spilled out
over him. A smell of piss filled the air. Sanchez’s legendary finest homebrew
had struck again.
    ‘I’ll fucking kill him!’ the
Santa growled.
    By the time Josh had finished
wiping the piss out of his eyes the Santa was halfway down the stairs in
pursuit of Sanchez.

 
    Twenty-Eight

 
    JD had lost track of how long he’d
been on the road. His mind had been filled with numerous different scenarios of
how the journey might end. And what had become of Beth. He had no way of
knowing if she was alive or dead. All he did know was that he, JD, was not the
man to carry out any kind of rescue mission, or if necessary a revenge mission.
That was a job for the Bourbon Kid, the man he used to be. Others might look at
him and see the mass serial killer, but deep down inside he knew that he was
nothing of the sort. He was now a man with a conscience and more importantly a
soul. That soul was all he would have to bargain with in the Devil’s Graveyard.
    The drive had flown by, much like the
scenery, until finally he found himself on a familiar stretch of road. He’d
been down this particular highway before, almost a decade earlier. The highway
still looked the same and the desert plains surrounding it were still barren
and desolate. The sky overhead was clear blue, a stark contrast to darkened
cloudy skies above Santa Mondega. As he sped down the middle of the highway all
he could hear was the roar of the engine on his dust covered black V8
Interceptor.
    When he passed a burned out old
police car on the side of the road he knew he was close. It reminded him of a
high-speed chase he’d been involved in with the cops on his last visit to the
Devil’s Graveyard. He’d rammed several of their cars off the road and fired off
plenty of rounds at them, usually hitting his mark whether it be a tyre or a
cop’s face.
    A few miles further down the road
he zipped past the decrepit and abandoned gas station with the imaginative
title Joe’s Gas and Diner. As it disappeared from sight in his rear view mirror
he slowed the car down. There was a crossroads up ahead.
    The Devil’s Crossroads.
    He eased off on the accelerator
and pulled over at the side of the road just before the junction and turned the
engine off. There was no one in sight. Not a soul. But this was definitely the
place to be. He had to cut a deal here. The kind that Robert Johnson had cut
with the Devil back in 1931.
    He opened the car door and stepped
out onto the dusty highway. The silence outside in the Devil’s Graveyard was
eerie. Not the usual quiet one found anywhere else. There was a silent breeze
blowing, he could feel it on his face. But the only thing in the desert making
any kind of sound was him. His footsteps crunching on the gravel stones beneath
his black ankle boots offered the only evidence that he wasn’t in a dream.
    The crossroads looked just as he’d
remembered it. The signpost that was supposed to show where all the turnings
led was missing, just as it had been all those years before.
    So where the hell was the man with
the directions?
    He
stood at the central point of the junction and looked around. If he remembered
correctly, the now non-existent Hotel Pasadena had been a few miles down the
road after a right turn. So where did the other turnings lead? He looked to his
left. There was nothing to see but more desert wasteland and some high orange
coloured mountains in the distance. It was the same in all four directions. It
was while