Page 9 of Sins of the Fathers
“Can I help you, boys?” If the bartender shared the patrons’ discomfort, he covered it well.
“Mickey called us.” Dawson moved half a step ahead of Grady, speaking first because his lower voice and military bearing often stopped trouble before it started. Privately, Grady had to admit that both really turned his crank.
“Oh, yeah?” The bartender looked at them like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “For what?”
“Heard you had some problems out back—after dark,” Dawson replied, and a smirk hinted at the corners of his lips at the wave of uneasiness that shuddered through the regulars, making Grady wonder how many of them had seen things here they couldn’t explain.
“What are you going to do about that?” the bartender asked.
“We’re Kings. We fix problems.” Dawson threw down the gauntlet, putting the next move in the bartender’s corner.
“I’m Mickey. Glad you could make it. Hey, Red,” he yelled toward the door to the kitchen. “Need you to cover for me.”
A skinny young man with flaming red hair and bad acne came from the back, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’ve got it,” he assured Mickey. “See if they can help.”
Mickey’s gaze swept over the regulars. “Don’t none of you give Red a hard time, y’hear?” They all nodded, making Grady wonder what Mickey had done to earn their obedience, and what supernatural force scared the man who scared the bikers.
Mickey walked out from behind the bar and gestured for Dawson and Grady to follow him into the parking lot. “Thanks for coming. I thought the stories were just old wives’ tales when I bought the place until I saw for myself.”
Grady cleared his throat. “We know what you told Denny, but it would help to hear it from you.”
Mickey looked uncomfortable, like recounting the tale was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, but he swallowed hard and nodded curtly. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”
“McHenry’s has been around since the sixties, kind of a fixture in these parts. Been added on to, painted different colors, had to replace the wall on the east corner after a truck ran through it. Had its share of brawls, a few of which are legendary,” he added with a proud smile. “But no one wants to be parked in the back lot after last call.”
His smile slipped, and his gaze flicked past the roadhouse. “It’s not every night, but there’s no telling when they’ll be back. The regulars know the rules—and they believe. But now and then, we get someone who thinks he knows better. Sometimes, they get lucky and nothing happens. Sometimes, their luck runs out. Just last week, we found a guy screaming by his truck, all cut up.”
“Do you know what did it?” Grady pressed.
Mickey rolled his lower lip between his teeth, and Grady knew the man was working up the courage to tell the truth. “Vampires. Least that’s what everyone says.”
Dawson raised an eyebrow. “Vampires? Were there puncture marks?”
“Look—I’ve seen the movies. I know how vampires are supposed to be,” Mickey huffed, part bruised ego and part fear. “But I saw the security tape. Something appeared, messed the guy up real bad, and disappeared. Poof.”
Grady and Dawson exchanged a look. “Did this ‘vampire’ move in a blur?”
Mickey shook his head. “No. Like I said—poof.”
“Why would vampires pick your parking lot for their feeding grounds?” Grady asked, truly confused.Maybe biker vampires?
Mickey rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze kept flicking toward the back lot, even though it was bright daylight. “People say there was a house set back from the road on the same property as the roadhouse seventy or so years ago. A couple of locals turned up dead, and word went around that vampires did it—and that they lived in that set-back house.”
The bartender hesitated, then visibly forced himself to go on. “A mob of townsfolk got it in their heads that they were going to get the vampires. So they went to the house and dragged the people out and cut their heads off. Then they strung up the bodies on a big tree as a warning. Couple of decades later, a guy near here admitted to killing the locals, said he made it look like vampires to distract the cops.”
“The people you see on the security cameras that blink in and out—do they have heads?” Grady asked.
Mickey shook his head. “No. Damnedest thing.”
“Is the house still there?” Dawson asked.
Mickey shrugged. “I haven’t gone looking; folks say it burned a long time ago.”
Well, so much forthatstopping the ghosts,Grady thought.
“How do we find the old house?” Dawson looked at the woods with his hands on his hips, as if he could will a path to emerge.
Mickey pointed toward the back corner of the rear lot. “It’s hard to see nowadays, but the old driveway originally cut through there to the road, before the bar was built. Look for the gap between the bigger trees—everything else has grown up with scrub. Might want to be back before dark.”
