Moran and Moran
Death Hunter Series Book 2
Written by Ron Ripley
Edited by Kathryn St. John-Shin and Lance Piao
Copyright © 2020 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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See you in the shadows,
Ron Ripley
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Dirk’s Bar and Grill
Chapter 7: Dinner and Information
Chapter 12: The Sunday Nightshift
Chapter 17: Tracking Them Down
Chapter 18: Unwanted Attention
Chapter 24: After Midnight on Elm
Chapter 31: Ready for the Next Job
Chapter 32: Worsening Symptoms
Chapter 35: The Sandock Residence
Chapter 36: Necessary Information
Chapter 37: Calling Up the Company
Chapter 39: Preparing for a Visitor
Chapter 1: Dirk’s Bar and Grill
Bill Waits stepped out of Dirk’s Bar and Grill and took a deep breath. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the stuffy air in the bar. While he enjoyed drinking when Sheila was tending the bar, Bill couldn’t stand the smell of the place. Dirk Kennedy didn’t believe in cleaning, and if the health department didn’t threaten to shut him down on a regular basis, Bill was certain Dirk would let the place fester and rot.
So long as he has a hot bartender and good-looking waitresses to bring us in, Bill thought. He took a pack of Parliament cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tucked a cigarette between his lips, and lit it, coughing as he exhaled. I swear they pack these damned filters with glass.
He put the pack away and walked through the filled parking lot to his pickup, which sat at the far end. Bill had ended up with too many chips knocked out of the paint job to trust it next to any other cars. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before someone backs into it. Or, worse, drives into it.
The parking lot’s solitary, dull yellow lamp cast a weak light on the gathered vehicles, and Bill was thankful there was a half-moon in the sky. It offered better illumination than the lamp did.
He passed by a beat-up Crown Victoria, the sides dented and patched in places with bare Bondo. From what he could see when he glanced at it, there was a man asleep in the driver’s seat, arms folded over his chest.
Better make sure you sleep it off all the way, Bill thought, shaking his head. Friday night and the cops will be all over Route 3 looking for drunks.
Reaching his truck, Bill walked around the front end, decided he needed to go to the bathroom one last time before he took the short trip home, and stepped into the trees that ran along the lot’s edge. He was about to unzip when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt certain someone was watching him.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Bill glanced around and was surprised to see a man standing a few feet away. Was he there before?
The stranger was short, barely over five feet, and he had his arms over his chest as he leaned against a tree. Bill rubbed his eyes. Light’s playing tricks on me. Looks like I can see right through him.
“You’re a big ’un,” the stranger stated. There was a Southern twang to his voice, and Bill bristled. He’d never met anyone from the South who he had liked.
“And you’re short,” Bill replied. “Mind if I take a leak without you watching, Popeye?”
The stranger straightened up, and in the moonlight piercing the branches, Bill could see anger creep over the man’s face. “What’s that?”
“I’m about to go to the bathroom,” Bill clarified. “I don’t want you watching. You may want to, but no, that’s not gonna fly.”
“What do you know about flyin’?” the shorter man demanded.
“What are you, drunk?” Bill laughed and shook his head. “Get out of here and go back to whatever inbred, hick Southern state you come from.”
The stranger pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and stepped forward.
Bill opened his mouth to laugh again, then he stopped.
The left side of the stranger’s face was swollen, the eye nearly closed. His black hair was cropped short on the sides and swept back on the top, reminiscent of pictures of Bill’s grandfather in the late forties and early fifties. The man’s clothes seemed out of place, although Bill couldn’t quite figure out why.
But all these fell to the wayside as he realized he could see through the man.
It’s got to be a trick, Bill thought.
The man stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists. Bill could see cuts on the knuckles and what looked like fresh blood.
“You’re a big ’un,” the stranger grinned. “Let’s see how well you fight.”
Bill blinked, shook his head, and then the stranger was there. Before Bill could react, the stranger lashed out, a small fist smashing into Bill’s nose. The pain was instant and caused him to stumble back. Bill could feel the blood burst from his nostrils, and as he tried to bring his hands up to defend himself, a second blow landed on his mouth. He felt his lips split against his teeth.
With a snarl, Bill swung wildly, and his fist passed harmlessly through the stranger’s head, leaving Bill’s hand cold and numb.
The small man grinned. “Helps when you’re dead.”
Bill tried to comprehend what the stranger had said, but then the man was attacking him again. Each strike was delivered with ruthless efficiency, and Bill found himself falling forward, the small man stepping back.
Bill crashed to the ground and attempted to move. He got his hands under him, but as he went to push himself up, the stranger stepped closer and whispered, “Now you’ll be dead, too, I reckon.”
Bill whimpered as the man lifted a foot and brought it down upon his head.
***
“Johnny.”
He groaned and turned on his side.
“Johnny.”
Johnny Smith opened his eyes and saw Derek Knowles sitting in the passenger seat.
Is it sitting if he’s dead? Johnny asked himself as he rubbed his face tiredly. “Yeah, what’s up, Derek?”
“I reckon we should probably go,” the ghost informed him.
Johnny frowned. “Why, what’s up?”
“A fella saw me,” Derek answered.
Johnny groaned. “You killed him?”
“Had to.”
Sure, you definitely did, Johnny thought, not believing the ghost’s assertion. At least there’s no physical evidence when you do it.
“Okay,” Johnny sighed. “Yeah.”
He started the car and bit back a groan. The bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed, and he knew he needed to change the dressing.
Can’t do that now, he thought. Not with a fresh body here courtesy of Derek. Whatever, I need to get back to Manchester . Johnny shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking space, and then the lot. The Crown Victoria rumbled and sputtered as the car got up to speed, and soon it had worked out all the kinks. Johnny signaled and turned toward Route 3.
“Hey,” he said, glancing at the ghost.
“Yeah?”
“You gotta go back in your wings, man. Car won’t make it, remember?”
The dead man chuckled. “Hell, forgot about that, son. Yup. See you soon.”
A heartbeat later, the ghost was gone, and the temperature in the car increased noticeably. Johnny stifled a yawn, merged onto Route 3, and headed north.
Chapter 2: James Moran
James Moran sat in his chair, a thick blanket over his legs and a pipe in his mouth, and Shane Ryan was unsure whether the man was awake or asleep.
Lighting a Lucky, Shane waited, exhaling slowly through his nose and watching the old man. Finally, James blinked and smiled tiredly at Shane.
“My apologies, Shane. I fear I was wool-gathering.”
“Understandable,” Shane stated. “You’ve been under a lot of stress the past two days.”
“True.” James relit his pipe, the sweet smell of cherry tobacco drifting through the room. “I’ve made arrangements for you to go to the shop in the morning if that is still your desire.”
“It is,” Shane nodded. “It’s the best way for me to figure out what happened.”
James looked at him. “I am extremely hopeful that the dead will speak with you about this.”
Shane shifted in his chair. “They don’t have any reason not to.”
“They’ve never been forthcoming with us,” James commented.
“That’s because you sell their stuff, James. You know that.” Shane picked up his glass of whiskey, sipped it, and continued. “Plus, there’s no one on your staff who can see the dead. It’ll be a little bit of a surprise for them.”
James nodded as he smoked. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Did you resolve the problem in Detroit?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah. That’s all set.” Shane finished his whiskey and then took a long drag off his cigarette. “Okay, I want to go over everything again before I go into the shop. I know your niece and nephew were killed. What was taken?”
“It was a new consignment,” James explained. “I hadn’t had a chance to look at it. That was the plan for this morning, you see. Going into the shop and bringing the consignment into the backroom where at least I could have some sort of security, should one of the dead be so displeased as to lash out.”
“Did you know what you were getting?”
“Roughly,” James sighed. “There was a bill of lading which explained each item. The young woman who sent it to us was only faintly familiar with the contents. Her father had been a collector of some rather violent items, and, in his will, he had instructed her to contact us about any sort of financial benefit from them. I had assured her that I would appraise the items and inform her as to their worth.”
James grimaced. “It was only after the robbery, while informing her of the situation, that I discovered she did not pack the items properly. You see, despite her father’s explicit instructions to use their protective boxes, she packed them in salt, which she remembered having seen her father do in the past.”
“Why did she do that?” Shane asked, shaking his head. “That’s a level of idiocy I cannot even comprehend, James.”
“She explained that shipping them in salt was cheaper, and she was low on funds,” James replied. “I made the foolish assumption that she would merely have sent the items to us in their proper containers. But that is neither here nor there.”
“I guess,” Shane muttered. “Anyway, do you think they were worth a lot?”
“To the right collector,” James nodded. “Whether we would have found that collector in the next auction or two is unknown. Regardless, I need to see the bill of lading, which should be still at the shop. Once I’m able to review it, Shane, I’ll be able to give you a better idea of who to look out for. And, to compensate the gentleman’s daughter.”
“Is it going to put a dent in your overhead?” Shane asked.
James smiled sadly. “Shane, I would gladly pay the full price, and more, to have my niece and nephew with me. No, it won’t put much of a dent in our overhead. It’s merely the price of doing business. The death of my relatives, however, is not.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I hear that. Okay. I’m going to try and get some sleep. First thing in the morning, I’ll head over, have a chat or two. Once I figure out where things are headed, I’ll come back, and we’ll decide on the next move. Sound good?”
“Yes,” James said. “Do you remember the way to your room?”
“I haven’t had that much to drink, James,” Shane winked.
“No, of course not.”
Getting to his feet, Shane paused and added, “James, I’m going to find who killed your family.”
“And you’ll kill them?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” James whispered. “Good.”
***
Johnny Smith had pulled the old Crown Victoria off onto a dirt road and parked it, locking the doors and shutting off the vehicle.
I’m so damned tired, he thought, picking his way over the center of the front seats and climbing into the back. He hissed between his teeth as he jarred his injured arm. Collapsing onto the back seat, he lay down and stared at the roof of the car, noticing how the interior fabric was hanging down in spots.
That was stupid, he told himself after the pain subsided to a dull throb.
Okay, right. A couple hours sleep, then I can get back on the road. He closed his eyes and found himself reviewing the shooting and the robbery. The box taken from the store was in the trunk, and in it were the strange items. His thoughts drifted to the ghost, Derek, and he shook his head.
Until the robbery, Johnny hadn’t believed in ghosts. Not in the traditional way, and he hadn’t given much thought to it. When he was locked up, the subject of ghosts was occasionally discussed, but that was prison. Everything was discussed.
Johnny had never experienced spirits or hauntings, and whenever someone had said that they had, Johnny had thought they were a little off their rocker. Crazies who needed to be watched. His dad had been that way. The man would drink, see ghosts, then drink some more until he passed out.
Yeah, Johnny thought, maybe dad wasn’t seeing stuff because he was drunk. Maybe he really was seeing it.
The idea bothered him. Not because his father could see the ghosts, but because Johnny hadn’t been able to.
Ghosts, as Derek had shown him, did exist.
Johnny tried to ignore the pain and focused on resting. It was difficult, and as he struggled to do so, he shivered.
The car was getting colder.
The hell? he groaned. Am I going to have to turn on the heater?
He opened his eyes, and there was a woman glaring at him, her face protruding from the sagging fabric of the ceiling.
Johnny shouted, and as he tried to sit up, the ghost came through the ceiling. She landed on his chest, and he let out a howl as a horrific cold pierced his clothes. As she pushed against him, he reached up, grabbed hold of the door handle, and popped open the back door.
A second later, Derek was there, ripping the dead woman off Johnny and throwing her out of the car. The small dead man turned to Johnny and ordered, “Git her object out of the damn car!”
“What is it?!” Johnny yelled as he clambered out, landing hard on his injured arm.
“The only other open container!” Derek stepped up to the dead woman and punched her in the face, sending her reeling backward. The dead man laughed, and he waded in, throwing punches and elbows as the woman, who was easily six inches taller than him, lashed out.
Johnny jerked the keys out of his pocket, fumbled for the trunk key, and managed to get it open. He tore the top of the box wide and peered in. There were perhaps twenty objects packed in bags of salt, and two of them were torn open. One was a set of military wings, and the other was a necklace with a silver locket.
Johnny snatched up the locket, swore at the cold, and hurled it into the woods. He looked over to Derek and saw he and the dead woman were still fighting.
“Git in the damn car!” Derek ordered. “Start drivin’!”
Johnny threw the empty bag of salt out, slammed the trunk down, and went around to the driver’s side. He tried to open the door, cursed himself for locking it, and nearly dropped the keys as he struggled to get the door open.
Finally, he got in, slammed the key into the ignition, and started the car. Shifting into gear, he stomped on the gas pedal and sped away from the scene, the two ghosts flickering in the rearview mirror as they battled one another.
Johnny hadn’t been driving for more than a few minutes before Derek appeared in the passenger seat beside him, laughing.
The car’s electrical system flickered, and Derek shook his head. With a broad smile, he said, “I’ll tell you what happened later.”
Then the dead man was gone.
Johnny gripped the steering wheel with both hands while his heart rate slowed and he regained some modicum of control over himself.
***
Shane sat on the bed in James’ spare room and struggled with a surge of emotional exhaustion.
His phone chimed. He picked it up and smiled as he saw Detective Jacinta Perez’s name on the screen.
You alive? her text read.
Yeah. You?
Lol, yeah. So, you headed back to Detroit?
Shane chuckled and shook his head. Not yet. Got a call from a friend. Have to help him out for a bit. When I get home, you feel like coming by for a visit?
He stared at the phone as he held it, wondering if he had gone too far or if he had pushed it just a bit.
Are you serious?
Yeah, he replied.
I’ve got a lot of vacation time. We could make a weekend of it.
Shane grinned. I like that.
Cool. Alright. I got to go to bed. Lots of bad guys to catch in the morning.
Okay, Detective. Talk soon.
He put the phone down and realized his exhaustion wasn’t as bad.
Smiling, he lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and thought about what the morning would bring.
Chapter 3: Manchester
The building was old and run-down. Rust stained the old granite and marble cornerstones, and half of the windows on the second floor and all on the first were covered with plywood. Leaves and debris clung to the base of the building and filled the corners of the narrow foyer that lead to an old wooden door.
Johnny had a knapsack on his back and a duffle-bag in each hand. He stood in front of the door, read the sign declaring “No Trespassing!”, and waited. The Crown Victoria was parked further up the street by the Southern New Hampshire University Arena, and he had wiped it down in the early hours of the morning.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stood in the foyer, glancing up several times at a small hole in the ceiling above the door. There was, he knew, a camera behind it, and an alarm would have sounded as soon as he stepped into the foyer.
All he had to do was wait until one of the others let him in.
The door creaked open a moment later, and Johnny stepped forward without being asked to. He knew the drill.
Once he was inside, the door clicked shut, and multiple locks quietly slid into place. A light came on in front of him, momentarily blinding him, and he was suddenly patted down.
The light clicked off, and a woman commanded, “Go.”
Johnny went. Fluorescent green tape on the floor led him to a second door, and he stopped as the woman behind him stepped forward and opened it.
He relaxed as he walked into a large room that was well-equipped with surveillance equipment, several couches and chairs, a kitchen area, and a row of doors off to the left. Three men and a second woman were in the room, all watching him as he went to a table and set the bags and the knapsack on it.
Johnny stood at the table and looked at the only person in the room whom he knew.
Marty Feldman was one of the finest thieves Johnny had ever worked with, and he looked more like a college professor than a hardened criminal. Marty, at the age of fifty-nine, had been in and out of prison for most of his life. He could crack a safe, boost cars, and pick pockets. He ran a small group of professional thieves, and when Johnny had received an invitation to “stop by”, he had been thrilled. Fresh out of the men’s prison in Concord, Johnny had been looking for work, a tough find when someone has a felony.
“So,” Marty said, “things kind of went south, huh?”
“Yeah,” Johnny nodded. “You could say that.”
“Take a seat and tell me what happened.”
Johnny walked to one of the recliners and sat, facing Marty and the other people in the room. “We went in with Xander in the lead, me behind, and Darrius bringing up the rear. Xander started negotiations, and then he pulled his piece when they wouldn’t cooperate.”
“How fast?” Marty asked.
“Four, five minutes tops.” Johnny rubbed the back of his head. “He threatened the woman, telling the guy he would shoot her if he didn’t cooperate.”
“What happened then?” Marty leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Johnny, who shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
“Um, turns out, pulling the piece was a bad move. The woman, she reached for the register, and as Xander was telling her we didn’t want cash, she took a 9 mil out. She fired three quick rounds and hit each of us. Xander was dead when he hit the floor, and Darrius died by the entrance.”
“What did you do?” Marty asked.
“Killed her and put three rounds in the guy. Snatched the stuff on the counter and brought it here.”
“How many times did you change cars?”
“Four,” Johnny answered, wincing at a flash of pain in his shoulder.
“Where’s the piece?”
“Scattered over a hundred miles of highway after I wiped it down,” Johnny said.
“Clothes?”
“Donation bin in Worcester,” Johnny replied.
“You’re bleeding,” one of the women noted.
Johnny nodded.
“You were hit?” Marty confirmed.
“Yeah. Bullet’s still in there.”
Marty turned to one of the men. “Call Doc Westray, tell him to bring his supplies here.”
The man nodded and left the room.
Marty fixed his attention back on Johnny. He smiled. “You didn’t stop to get it looked at?”
Johnny shook his head. “Hell no. Listen, I’m young, Marty, but I’m not stupid.”
“No,” Marty chuckled. “I can see that. Everyone, relax. We’re good.”
Johnny watched as everyone in the room noticeably relaxed, the tension leaving their bodies. No one bothered to introduce themselves, and Johnny didn’t ask. Marty reclined in his chair. “You know, this isn’t our usual haul.”
“I didn’t even think about it,” Johnny lied. He had done nothing but think about it since Derek Knowles had made an appearance in the car the night of the robbery.
“Well, we may end up doing a few more like that,” Marty stated, “although we won’t be hitting any other shops. There’s a list of private collectors that has been forwarded to us.”
The man who had been sent to call the doctor came back in. “Hey, Marty, Doc’s on his way. Should be here in about fifteen. Maybe twenty.”
“Thanks, Craig.” Marty smiled at Johnny. “So, need anything for the pain?”
“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” Johnny nodded.
“Pills?” Marty asked, and there was a sly note in his voice.
Johnny shook his head. “No. If you’ve got scotch or something, that’d work. Jägermeister is better. Pills are too much, man.”
“I feel the same way. I’ll get you some scotch. It’s a step up from rotgut, but not much.”
“Whatever’s fine. Thanks, Marty.” Johnny watched the older man get up and walk over to the kitchen area. Then he sagged as exhaustion crashed over him. He closed his eyes and passed out.
Chapter 4: Moran and Moran
Shane could smell the blood when he opened the door and stepped into the shop. A glance down showed an unmistakable stain. One died here.
He walked around the dried blood and advanced through the shop. There weren’t any aisles, merely islands of glass cases with items on display. On the walls were collections of framed photographs and the occasional mirror, some paintings, everything from what looked like an old Dutch master to a child’s sketch of a cartoon tiger.
Moving forward, Shane caught sight of a pair of ghosts standing off to one side, half-hidden in the shadows. They watched him, and he ignored them in return. Not time for you guys to know I can see you, Shane thought.
He reached the front desk, a magnificent piece of furniture which looked as though it might have once graced a large library. There was a bit of blood splatter on the wood and the floor, but nothing else. Shane walked around the desk, saw a massive stain, and knew it was the spot where Angela and Michael had been shot and where James’ niece had died.
Why? Shane thought, sinking into a crouch and staring at the blood. What was the reason they gave you for wanting access to these dangerous ghosts? This was a professional hit. It had to be. They knew what they wanted.
Shane tapped his fingers on his legs, then straightened up. Right. Time to have a little chat with the eyewitnesses.
Shane leaned against the desk, folded his arms over his chest, and focused his attention on the ghosts. They were both white and both male, but that was where the similarities ended.
One of the dead men was tall, easily close to six-and-a-half feet tall. His skin was darker than his companion’s, and his hair was dirty blonde, tied back in a loose ponytail. He was dressed in a ragged black suit with a solitary, almost-withered rose pinned to his left lapel. The man’s companion was almost a full foot shorter than the blonde man. In addition to being shorter, he was stouter, and his face was freckled. The shorter man’s hair was a bright red, and where his colleague’s was straight, his own was curly and medium length. Like the tall man, the red-headed man wore a suit, but it was a vibrant blue.
Neither of them seemed to realize he was examining them.
Okay, let’s see what these two know.
Smiling, Shane waved at them.
The two ghosts stared at him, looks of confusion on their faces.
“Yeah, guys, I’m waving at you,” Shane explained. “I can see you.”
The shoulders of the red-headed man slumped. “You’re one of those,” he sighed, his words pronounced with a distinct New England accent.
“What’s your name, lad?” the tall man asked, the man’s accent difficult to place.
“Shane Ryan.”
“We’ve heard mention of you ’round here. From a few of the other ghosts who’ve passed through as well. I’m Silas Morne, and this is my friend, Virgil Perkins.”
“A pleasure.” Shane smiled. “I don’t suppose either of you men was here when the shooting occurred?”
“We both were,” Virgil stated.
“Aye, we saw it all,” Silas nodded. “I knew Angela had some skill with a gun.”
“Lord, she was always cleaning it,” Virgil added.
“Hm, she was, she was. Where was I? Oh, yes, one of the men drew a gun and threatened them, but she made short work of all three of the thieves,” Silas finished.
“She would have had all the crooks,” Virgil stated. “But the youngest of them, he shifted at the last moment, and the bullet hit him in the arm.”
“Do you happen to remember what he looked like?” Shane asked.
“Oh, quite,” Virgil nodded. “He was my height, I suppose. His hair was black, though. Cut rather short.”
“Lad had a tattoo on the back of his neck,” Silas mentioned. “I think it was a dragon. An Oriental one, all whiskers and writhing around.”
“Hm, yes,” Virgil agreed. “He had all his teeth, too. Blue eyes. Scar upon his head, looked like it was from the pox.”
Both of the dead men nodded.
“They weren’t wearing masks?” Shane asked.
They shook their heads.
They weren’t planning on leaving the Morans alive. “Do you know what was taken?”
“More ghosts such as ourselves,” Silas informed him. “We hadn’t had a chance to meet any, unfortunately. They were tucked away.”
“Probably in lead,” Virgil murmured.
“Perhaps,” Silas nodded. He smiled at Shane. “I think that’s about all I can remember. What about you, Virgil?”
The other ghost nodded. “Yes, that’s all I can remember. Oh, they arrived in a big car! I remember that. They came in a vehicle that, quite honestly, looked as though it should have been a tank. Massive really. It was gray.”
“Wait,” Silas turned and looked at Virgil, “was that the one that said Poly Pro Carpet Cleaning?”
“Yes!”
The dead men laughed, and Shane smiled as he got to his feet. “Thank you for the description, gentlemen. It is greatly appreciated.”
“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” Virgil smiled.
“Indeed, lad,” Silas chuckled. “It is not often, not anymore, that someone sees us before we really see them. You take care. I was a police officer for a few years, the men who were here struck me as part of a larger group. They were professionals.”
Shane nodded. “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
He waved goodbye to the dead men and left the store. When he stood outside, he took a Lucky from the pack, put it between his lips, and lit it. As the smoke drifted up, he put his Zippo away and thought about the information he had gathered.
No masks means no witnesses. Professional, according to Silas. Means the survivor wouldn’t go to a hospital or clinic. Not with a bullet wound. He would have dumped the van, too. Shane shook his head. Best get back to James’ house. Time to plan what to do next.
Shane slipped his hands into his pockets and walked to his car, the smoke of his Lucky trailing behind him.
Chapter 5: A Good Place to Go
Carrie Rochelle had a problem.
She couldn’t find a place to shoot up.
The police were all over the place on Elm Street, poking and prodding the various places she usually hid in when it was time for her daily dose of heroin. They weren’t looking for her, she knew that they were just looking for anyone with a habit.
All I want to do is get high, she thought bitterly, rubbing her left arm. That’s not too much to ask.
She had a needle she’d picked up in Veteran’s Park and washed off in a Dunkin’ Donuts restroom. Tucked into the left cup of her sports bra was a dime bag worth of heroin, which she was itching to get into her system.
Is that a good spot? She crept up on a building she hadn’t paid much attention to before. It was old and looked abandoned. Plywood covered the first-floor windows, and the front door looked as if it hadn’t been opened in months.
A smile crept across her face, and while she wouldn’t shoot up in the foyer, there was probably a place to do it behind the building. With her eyes fixed on the ground, she walked around to the back of the structure, only looking up when she was certain no one would see her.
For a moment, she stood still, her eyes darting around, searching for any place which might shelter her from the wind and hide her from prying eyes. More than once, she had come out of a high only to find herself robbed or worse.
She shivered at the thought and the need racing through her.
Okay. Looks good enough. Right? She nodded in response to her own question. Her attention fixed on a small alcove partially hidden by a dumpster that looked as though it had been there since the previous summer. She walked up to it and peered around it. She couldn’t see any rats, and that made her feel better. Rats were only a little worse than some of the people she usually got high with.
But since money to get high was scarce, Carrie didn’t want to risk anyone trying to jump her for the heroin she had.
Hurrying to the alcove, she grinned at the sight of some old cardboard. She moved it aside, sat down, then pulled the cardboard up and over her. Tugging the hood of her sweatshirt onto her head, she nestled down as best she could, ignoring the cold stone of the building penetrating her thin clothing.
I won’t even notice in a minute, she reminded herself.
For the next few minutes, Carrie focused on getting her fix prepared. Soon, she had her arm bared and the vein ready. She ignored the angry red puncture marks of previous injections and found a fresh spot that looked relatively healthy enough. Carrie sighed as she slid the needle into the vein, released the strap around her bicep, and eased the heroin into her system.
Before the high could take hold, she put her materials away, pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt down, and closed her eyes. The drug moved slowly through her, tugging at her, teasing her. She was almost completely under when she heard a man speak.
“What the hell you doin’ under there?”
Her eyelids were heavy as she blinked and tried to focus. Turning her head, she saw a young man, the left side of his face swollen as if he’d been beaten up. She frowned.
“Hey,” she slurred, “can I see through you?”
He grinned. “Yup.”
“Huh. Cool.”
Her eyelids lowered.
“What are you doin’?” he snapped.
She forced her eyes open and swore at him.
“What?!”
“Get outta here!” she growled. “I’m busy. Find your own place to get high.”
He stepped closer and laughed. “You got morphine in you?”
“No,” she scoffed. “Heroin.”
The strange, see-through man shrugged. “Dope fiend, huh? You gotta go, though. You can’t hang ‘round these parts.”
She swore at him again and closed her eyes.
“You ain’t listenin’ to me.”
“I don’t care,” she answered, flipping him off.
A cold hand grabbed her finger and broke it.
The pain pierced her high and caused her eyes to snap open. As they did so, she looked at her broken middle finger, which the stranger still held. Carrie could see through his hand, and she watched, horrified as the skin turned black beneath his grasp. She tried to pull it away, but he held tight. “Let go!”
She opened her mouth to scream, and the stranger punched her in the face with his free hand.
Her head rocked, and she tried to move but found she couldn’t.
“You think you can swear at me?” he demanded, punching her again. “Huh? You think I’m gonna take that from some lousy Yankee who can’t do nothin’ but shoot junk into her veins behind a building?”
“Please!” she gasped.
He punched her twice more, and she lost sight in her right eye. In the blurred sight of her left eye, she saw the skin flaking away from her middle finger.
“Nobody swears at me,” he snarled. “Nobody! When my old man swore at me, I punched him out, too. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Carrie couldn’t answer as he jerked her arm up high and punched her in the throat. Gasping for breath, she tried to raise her arm and block the blows.
He punched under her arm, the blow landing against her chest and making it difficult for her to breathe.
Chapter 6: In the Club House
Johnny had a slight buzz from the alcohol, just enough to take the edge off the throbbing pain in his shoulder.
Doc, a diminutive man with red-rimmed eyes and a look of permanent exhaustion stamped on his lined face, dropped the bullet onto a paper towel. “You’re lucky,” the man grunted. “If it hadn’t been close to the surface, I would have had to stitch you up.”
“You would have left it in there?” Johnny asked, surprised.
“This ain’t the movies, kid,” Doc told him, threading a needle with surgical thread. “There’s a reason why people used to just cauterize the bullet holes. Dig around in there, and you’ll cause too much damage. Cause infections, and that’s the worst of it: dying of blood poisoning. As it is, I’ll write you a script. Take it to the pharmacy on Elmhurst Ave. They know me, they’ll give you the antibiotics that you need. Don’t take it anywhere else. My name isn’t that good anymore in the fine city of Manchester.”
Johnny nodded and looked up at the ceiling as the doctor leaned forward and stitched the bullet wound closed.
Within a few minutes, Doc was done. The man wrote out a prescription, passed it to him, and reminded Johnny which pharmacy to fill it at. Johnny gave Doc a thumbs-up and took a drink as the man wandered over to Marty, accepted his payment, and left without another word.
“That’ll take a few days to heal,” Marty stated, walking over. “You got a place to stay?”
“Yup. Little apartment in Anger that I just got,” Johnny answered. “I’ll walk down to the YMCA, call an Uber from there, get the meds, and then head to my place.”
“You don’t have a car you could use?”
Johnny shook his head. “Easier without one. I alternate between Uber, Lyft, and Manchester Cab using fake profiles. That way, there’s no history that jumps to mind. I don’t want anyone thinking about where I live.”
Marty laughed and dropped into his chair. “Man, how in the hell did you end up in Concord, to begin with?”
“By not thinking,” Johnny shrugged. “I may not be stupid now, but I sure as hell was before I went in. Five years cooling my heels taught me to think. Plus, the guy I was cellmates with, he knew his stuff. He was a safecracker. Hell, I think he was at least eighty years old. Never asked him, though.”
“Did he have one eye?” Craig asked.
Johnny nodded. “That’s Parker. One-eyed Park. How he survived as long as he did in prison with only one eye is beyond me.”
“That’s because he was the meanest man around,” Marty added. “Yeah, Park knew his business. I swear, he taught half the guys working in the New England area. Anyway, you want a lift down to the Veteran’s Memorial Park at least? It’ll cut down your walk.”
“Nah,” Johnny shook his head. “I’m good. I’m not too drunk to get noticed or picked up. And if I do, they’ll drop me in the drunk tank for a while.”
“You won’t get your parole violated?” Craig asked.
“Nope. I’m good. Did my full five, and I was told to stay away from bad places, not from alcohol. Another reason I don’t drive. I don’t want to have a cop pull me over and decide to give me a hard time because I did time.”
The men and women in the room chuckled and nodded their agreement.
Johnny stood up slowly, making sure he wasn’t going to faint from the blood loss or the alcohol. His head was woozy, but he felt confident enough to walk.
“Keep your phone on,” Marty told him. “We’ll be headed out on another job in a couple of days. Three at most.”
“Sounds good to me,” Johnny nodded. He waved to everyone and left the way he had come in. As he stepped out onto Elm Street from the building, he felt the slim, metal wings in his left front pocket go cold, and a heartbeat later, Derek was beside him.
“Howdy,” the dead man grinned.
“‘Howdy’ yourself,” Johnny replied, bending down to check on the laces of his boots and hiding his face as he spoke to the dead man. “I’m going to be walking to the YMCA. From there, I’ll catch a ride home. So, you know, you’ll have to hide until I say your name, okay?”
“Sure, son, sure,” Derek chuckled. “Make your walk quick, though.”
An uncomfortable sensation flowered in Johnny’s stomach. “Why?”
“I killed a woman behind the building,” the dead man laughed. “Someone might find her, and you sure as hell don’t want to be here when they do.”
No, Johnny sighed. I sure don’t.
Without a word to the dead man, Johnny straightened up, slipped his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and started toward the Manchester YMCA.
Chapter 7: Dinner and Information
The dishes were cleared away, and Shane sat at the table with James Moran. They each had a glass of port, and Shane waited for the other man to finish lighting his pipe. When James finally shook out the match and dropped it into an ashtray, Shane spoke.
“The dead men in the store gave me a good description of the thief who got away as well as the vehicle he left in.”
James’ eyes widened with surprise. “No one else, Shane, would have gotten that from them.”
“Debatable, but thanks.” Shane sipped his drink. “I’m going to start looking tomorrow, and I’ll give you updates whenever I can. You may not hear from me for a while, though. Just to let you know.”
James nodded. “Whatever is necessary. Speaking of, you’ll inform me as to what funds you’ll require?”
“James,” Shane began.
The older man shook his head. “No. I refuse to allow you to do this pro bono , my friend. I know you wouldn’t charge me for anything, but I must pay for your daily expenses. This is something I must insist upon since I am unable to hunt the man down myself.”
Shane hesitated, saw the determination on James’ face, and relented. “Fine. Yeah. I’ll let you know what the costs are.”
“I trust you won’t skimp?”
Shane chuckled and shook his head. “No. I won’t skimp. Hell, I’ll even buy myself some Blue Label Whiskey.”
“If it helps put the man in the ground, you can drink it by the gallon.”
“Yeah.” Shane finished his port. “Any luck with the list of items?”
James nodded. “I managed to compile a list from purchases the deceased owner made over the years. I am hopeful that it will be of some use in finding the killer.”
“It should be,” Shane assured him.
“When will you leave?” The grim concern in the man’s voice was unmistakable.
“First thing in the morning,” Shane replied. “I want to leave with as much daylight as possible. More than likely, I’ll have to stop in some graveyards and such. The last thing I need is to be poking around some small town’s burial plot at dusk and get popped by the local police.”
“Yes,” James sighed. “However, should such a thing occur, you will call me or the shop. We will provide bail for you, if necessary.”
“Thank you, James.”
The older man shook his head. “No, thank you, Shane. I’ve taken the liberty of placing the list in your room. There are photographs of the items as well. As I said, I’m not certain if there were more in the box or not. I’m still waiting to hear from his daughter.”
“Excellent,” Shane got to his feet. “I’ll go and take a look at the list now. I want to be as familiar with it as possible.”
“Understood.”
Shane smiled, picked up his pack of cigarettes and Zippo off the table, and retired to the guest room.
The list, as well as a packet of photographs, was on the dresser. Shane took them to the small desk in the room, sat down, and began to read.
The list was short, containing no more than eleven items, and there was a photograph for each of them. Several were plain and banal. An old comb missing several teeth. A checkbook with two checks still in it. What caught Shane’s eye was a pair of WWII flight wings for the Army Air Corps as well as a patch for a Special Forces soldier from Vietnam.
When he read the description of each item, he shook his head and lit a cigarette. All the ghosts attached to the items were violent, though to varying degrees. The worst of the lot was the dead woman attached to the Special Forces patch. It had belonged to her son, who had been killed in Vietnam. She took her anger out on the world. Specifically, she climbed into a person and froze their organs as slowly as possible.
She is just an absolute sweetheart, Shane thought. Let’s hope she’s not out and about.
A trio of others vied for second place, though Shane suspected the former B-17 crewmember attached to the Army Air Corps wings might have an edge on the others. The dead man had been killed in a barfight, and, according to the description, he enjoyed beating people to death.
Great, Shane sighed. Any one of these gets out, there can be a real problem. And these are just the ones that James knows of. This guy’s tastes definitely ran toward the dangerous and violent type of ghost. If that collecting streak runs true, then whatever else might be in that box will be as dangerous as the others, if not more.
What the hell.
Shaking his head, Shane leaned back in the chair, finished his cigarette, and thought about what to do.
Chapter 8: Planning it Out
Johnny sat at the table, drinking a cup of coffee, in the same building where he had been patched up by Doc. Marty was at the table, as was Craig and a woman named Viv whom he hadn’t met before.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Marty asked. “I know I said I’d give you time, but the job came sooner than expected.”
Johnny nodded. “Yeah. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
“We all are,” Viv told him, brushing a strand of dyed red hair out of her face. She was an unremarkable woman. Her face was plain, neither too pale nor too dark, without any freckles or even any real definition. Viv’s appearance was one that would be easily forgotten. Her clothes were run-of-the-mill and could have been picked up at Wal-Mart, Target, or any other large retailer. She didn’t wear any make-up, and even the red of her hair seemed natural and somehow dull.
Johnny couldn’t tell how old she was, and he didn’t like the cold look in her eyes. He had met some lifers in Concord with that same look, and a few guys in Connecticut, too. Those were the eyes of a killer, someone who wouldn’t feel one way or the other about gutting a person and leaving them for dead.
“Marty likes to have our little planning sessions at weird hours,” Craig added, shaking his head. “Why is that?”
“Simple,” Marty grinned. “Only those who want to get paid show up for work, regardless of the hour, and believe me, this is work. So, let’s have a little chat about what I want to do next. Okay?”
Johnny and the others nodded their agreement.
“Great.” Marty stood up and rolled over a standing whiteboard. On it was a series of lines, each labeled with a street name. High Street was written in red and underlined twice. The number “31” was written in the same red and was circled.
“Ms. Wendy Dufour lives at thirty-one High Street. She is seventy-two years of age and is wealthy, but not excessively so,” Marty stated. “From the info that was forwarded to us, she has a large collection of items that our client would like to add to his own. We are going to do that for him.”
Marty flipped the whiteboard over to reveal several images taped to the back. One was of an elegant elderly woman, another was of a large Victorian house, and several more were of a street and various houses on it.
“This is Ms. Dufour. This is her house, her street, and her neighbors,” Marty stated. “From the initial surveillance, we can’t see any sort of alarm system. Not even the cheap stuff you can pick up from Home Depot or Lowe’s. Nothing. She lives alone with two cats and her collection. Our information is that she has a separate room on the third floor. It contains all the objects our client would like us to collect.”
“So, Marty,” Viv said, raising her hand, “hold on. Is this a smash and grab, or are we going in stealth? What’s the deal?”
He grinned. “Stealth.”
“Nighttime,” Craig sighed, rubbing his face.
Johnny looked from Craig to Marty.
“Our friend is bemoaning the nighttime aspect because he doesn’t like being a triggerman,” Marty explained.
Johnny managed to keep his expression neutral.
“No, of course, I don’t,” Craig grunted.
“Which is why Viv is going with you,” Marty stated. “She has no qualms about doing the deed, do you, Viv?”
She shook her head.
The lack of bravado from the woman was even more chilling than posturing would have been, and Johnny repressed a shudder. No one noticed.
“Do we know how many items are supposed to be in there?” Johnny asked. “How many bags we have to bring for spare clothes, all that stuff?”
Marty grinned and sat down. He pointed at Johnny and winked. “I like you, Johnny. You think. You think a lot. Here is a man who put his time inside to good use.”
Viv was the only person who didn’t chuckle. Johnny suspected there was something significantly wrong with her.
I bet the prison psychologist had you pegged in an instant, Johnny thought, avoiding eye contact with her.
“The answer, Johnny, is that there are fifteen little items that we are supposed to be scooping up,” Marty responded. “I had a little chat with our client last night, and he suggested we carry a few duffle-bags with us. Each bag will contain gallon Ziploc freezer-bags and a lot of salt.”
“What?” Johnny and Craig asked simultaneously.
Marty nodded. “Yup. Sounds strange, I know, and I questioned him thoroughly on it. We’re going to be doing things a little differently. First, you will wear thick leather gloves once you’re in the room. Latex or nitrile before that, whatever floats your boat. In the room, before you handle any object, you will put on leather gloves. Second, you will have the freezer-bags prepped with the salt before you go in. Got it?”
Johnny nodded.
“Good, good. Now, you definitely will be bringing a change of clothes. Each of you. Clothes, footwear, underwear, everything. Stop by the Salvation Army or Goodwill tomorrow. Make sure it fits and that you’re comfortable wearing it because that is what you will be wearing when you go into her house. Once the job is done, you’ll find a nice quiet place to strip down and get rid of your stuff. Be smart about it. Now, I’m in the process of having a burner car stationed close to the target. Once it’s there, you guys will get the nod and you’ll have three hours to get down there. Any more than that and I won’t be able to promise that the cops won’t notice the car.” Marty smiled. “I’m paying out a little more than usual to keep prying eyes away, got it?”
“We got it,” Viv said. “How do you want her taken care of?”
“Smother her,” Marty answered, all the humor gone from his voice. “She’s old. As long as you guys aren’t stupid, no one should look into her death. I’m telling you this once and once only. You are there for the items in her collection. The supposedly haunted items. Nothing else. I don’t care if she has diamonds and a stack of untraceable cash on her bureau, you leave it.”
Marty focused his attention on Viv. “You are the only person going into her room. Do you understand?”
Viv nodded.
“If anything is missing, Viv,” Marty stated, his voice flat, “you are going to be responsible. I will end you.”
Viv blinked and forced a smile onto her face. “I won’t take anything, Marty.”
“See that you don’t.” Marty grinned. “So simple, really. In and out. Nice and quiet, late at night. You’ve all done basic B and E before, it’s nothing hard. Especially when everything is laid out for you. Johnny, I want to talk to you. Viv, Craig, take a walk.”
Without a word, Craig and Viv got up from the table, leaving the room. Marty didn’t look after them. Instead, he focused his attention on Johnny.
“I have a question for you.”
“Sure,” Johnny said.
“You shot your way out of the shop,” Marty began. “Would you have a problem taking care of business at this next job?”
Johnny didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“What if I told you to kill Viv?”
“That might be hard,” Johnny admitted. “I think she’s a hell of a lot tougher than she looks.”
“She is at that,” Marty nodded. “But you wouldn’t have some sudden twinge of guilt?”
Johnny chuckled and shook his head. “No. She, well, hey, she scares the hell out of me. There’s something missing in there.”
“Oh, you are not wrong about that,” Marty stated. “I’ve known Viv since we were both six. She’s always been touched. They put her away for about ten years after they found her on her grandfather’s farm, killing some of the livestock. She was nine.”
“What the hell?”
Marty nodded. “They asked her why, and she said, ‘I wanted to see what happened in their eyes.’ I don’t know. She’s good on most jobs, but she’s got this thing about just taking stuff. Stupid stuff. She almost got everyone caught on one job because she stole a damned stuffed animal out of a kid’s bedroom. And no, she didn’t kill the kid. No one was home at the time. Anyway, what I need is this. If Viv decides to take something, if it looks like she has anything with her after the job that she didn’t have before, I need you to kill her for me.”
“You want it to look like a suicide?” Johnny asked.
Marty grinned. “Yup. Put the barrel against her temple, blow her brains out, wipe the gun down, and walk the hell away.”
“I can do that,” Johnny nodded.
“I figured you could. Now, Craig is going to be running point on this operation,” Marty informed him. “He has more experience, and he’s been with me longer.”
“Whatever you want,” Johnny replied. “I’m good.”
“I know you are, and I appreciate that. Come on, I’ll call the other two back in, and you can start a pot of coffee. We’re going to go over the finer details of where Ms. Dufour’s house is exactly.”
Johnny and Marty stood up, the man clapping Johnny on the shoulder. “This should be easy. Nice and smooth.”
Johnny smiled, nodded, and thought, The Moran and Moran job was supposed to be easy, too.
Chapter 9: Tracking
Shane drove along a quiet backroad, keeping the car at the posted speed limit and watching for the dead. The sun was bright, and he smoked, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the shifter. A cool wind circulated through the car, coming in through the slightly open windows. Shane had the radio off, removing all other distractions. He had turned his cellphone off and put it away in the glove compartment.
He had been driving for almost half an hour before he saw his first ghost. It was a young woman standing on the side of the road, her clothes torn, and her chest covered in blood. He slowed down, sighed, and pulled over.
When he got out of the car, he saw she was staring at the road. The violence writ across her young body told her history, and it tore at him to see it. Reluctantly, he slipped his hands into his pockets and put on his iron rings. He wasn’t sure what she might do when he approached her, but he knew he needed to be ready for an attack.
Right, he thought, straightening up. Here goes nothing.
Shane took a cautious step toward her, and when she didn’t react, he moved closer. At a distance of ten feet, she twisted around, noticing him for the first time. Her eyes were wide, shocked, and terrified. From the style of her tattered clothes, Shane guessed she had been there since the thirties.
He stopped, far enough out of arms reach, and smiled at her. “Hey.”
She took a step back, eyes darting left and right, searching for an escape.
Shane raised his hands, palms facing her, and he took a step back. “I know, I’m scary as hell to look at, but I’m not going to touch you.”
“I’m dead,” she whispered. Her voice was sweet, gentle, and beautiful, and Shane’s heart ached to think of the way she had died.
“I know you are.” He hesitated. “I don’t know if I can help you or not.”
A look of surprise flashed across her face, and a smile, bloody and battered, appeared. “No one can help me. I’m dead, and I don’t want to go.”
Shane nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”
“Is that why you stopped?” she asked. “To see if I needed help?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I’m also looking for a car, but I was checking to see if there was anything I can do.”
“Nothing can be done,” she whispered, “because I wish for nothing to be done.”
Shane lowered his hands and kept his distance, not wishing to spook her. “Okay. I really don’t know what to say, other than ‘Goodbye and good luck.’”
“What did the car look like, and why are you looking for it?” she asked.
Shane described the vehicle to her and told her about the murders.
Anger shook her frame, and she nodded. “I saw that car. There was a living man driving it and a dead man in the seat next to him.”
“What did the dead man look like?”
“His hair was swept back, and he looked at me when they drove by,” she answered. “The dead man, the left side of his face was swollen like he’d just been in a fight or something.”
“Thank you,” Shane smiled. “That is fantastic information.”
“Wait a minute,” she told him, and Shane paused. “They were driving slow, looking for something. I don’t know what.”
“I don’t know either, but I’ll find out. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered. Then, without another word, she turned her attention back to the road. Shane watched her for a moment, saw the horror creep back onto her face, and he knew she was once more reliving the nightmare of her death.
He turned away and went back to his car. Climbing in, he started the engine and glanced at the dead woman in the rearview mirror. He sighed, shifted into drive, and pulled back onto the road.
For a short time, he drove on, but after only a mile, he found what the murderer had been looking for.
There was a small garage with a collection of vehicles in various stages of decline parked around it. Most of them were for sale, and Shane suspected that, for a price, they would even come with a license plate or two.
Shane parked his car in front of the garage’s single bay door, got out, and walked to the office door. The “CLOSED” sign was up, but he could see a light on in the garage, and he glimpsed movement through a filmy glass window at the back of the office.
Whistling, Shane strolled around to the back of the shop and wasn’t surprised to see an old gray Econoline van with “Poly Pro Carpet Cleaning” stenciled on the side.
The vehicle’s doors were open, and there was a thin man in stained blue coveralls rummaging around in the car.
“Hey!” Shane called and the man inside jerked his head up, striking it on the interior’s top. A flurry of curses filled the air, and the mechanic stumbled to the back of the van. He clambered out, rubbing his head as he stood on the hardpacked and grease-stained yard.
“What in the hell was that about?” the man demanded.
“Didn’t want to scare you,” Shane told him. He took a Lucky out of his pack, lit it, and grinned.
“Well, you did,” the man muttered. His face was thin and sallow, his brown hair stringy and combed poorly over a bald spot. “Anyway, we’re closed. Don’t open up for another hour or so.”
“Yeah, that’s okay, I just have a couple of questions. About that van, actually.”
The mechanic straightened up, dropping his hand. “Ain’t for sale.”
“Wouldn’t care if it was,” Shane responded. “All I want to know is what car you gave the guy for it.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man mumbled. “Like I said, we’re closed. You don’t leave, you’ll be trespassing. I’ll call the cops.”
“No, you won’t,” Shane smiled. “That vehicle’s stolen, so I know you won’t call the cops. More than likely, the car you gave the guy isn’t on the level either. Which means, most of the cars on your lot aren’t. Having the cops stop in and take a complaint might cause a bit of a problem, especially after I tell them that I’ve been hired to help track down a thief and killer.”
The mechanic’s eyes widened slightly then narrowed. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not, but you go right ahead and call the cops. I can wait.”
“I don’t care if you can wait. You’re trespassing, and I’m telling you to get on out of here,” the man demanded. “If you don’t, I don’t need to call the cops. I got a pistol in my pocket and I will make you leave.”
The mechanic reached for his front pocket, and Shane sprang forward, driving a knee into the man’s groin and dropping him to the ground. As the mechanic gasped and vomited, Shane jerked him up to his feet and quickly patted him down, avoiding the second bout of vomiting.
There was nothing in the man’s pocket other than an old Motorola flip-phone. Disgusted, Shane tossed it into the back of the van and dragged the mechanic over to the back wall of the garage. He pushed the man against it and smiled. “Let’s try this all again, okay?”
The mechanic nodded.
“Good. My name’s Shane. What’s yours?”
“Josh.”
“Great.” Shane stepped back, and Josh sank into a sitting position, resting himself against the wall.
“That hurt,” Josh complained.
“You’re going to hurt a lot more if you keep the tough guy act up,” Shane informed him. “What did you trade for the van?”
“Volkswagen Jetta,” Josh grumbled.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“What plate number?”
Josh looked away. “Didn’t give him any plates.”
Shane stepped forward and slapped the man across the face hard enough to make Josh’s teeth clack. The mechanic howled and spat blood onto the ground.
“Plates?”
Josh rattled off a number, and Shane committed it to memory.
“Thanks.” Shane started to walk away.
“Wait!” Josh called out. “Did he really kill someone?”
“Two someones,” Shane answered over his shoulder. “Better hope the cops don’t think you’re an accessory after the fact for supplying a car.”
Josh’s silence brought a smile to Shane’s face.
Chapter 10: Out for a Run
Oscar Memlo loved to run.
He was, he knew, addicted to the endorphins released during a long run, which was why he ran obsessively for ten and fifteen miles a day. Nothing compared to the high, and nothing would.
He was no longer concerned with relationships or excelling at work. His goal was to eventually transition to a career where he could work from home, which would enable him more time to run.
I will run until I die, he thought, moving at a steady pace that would eventually bring him to Elm Street as his AirPods filled his ears with the pleasing sounds of freeform jazz. At Elm, he would continue, avoiding traffic and altering the way he would get home. He changed his course every Sunday. Sometimes, he repeated a course previously done in the month, but more often, he sought out new and harder places to run.
As he neared an intersection, Oscar saw a man standing on the sidewalk, arms folded over his chest and watching Oscar. The man’s features were fuzzy in the early morning light, but the entire world was currently like that. Oscar wore glasses, except when he ran. He couldn’t afford sports glasses, so he ran without them. Oscar didn’t need the world defined and clear when he ran. He just needed to run.
Be nice if he got out of the middle of the sidewalk, Oscar thought. I’m tired of people like this, I’ve got a right to the sidewalk, too. I don’t care if the rules say I should stay on the damned road. Whatever. He’s going to move.
As he drew nearer, Oscar saw that the man wasn’t going to move. In fact, he seemed to plant his feet just before Oscar plowed through him.
Stumbling forward, Oscar realized he hadn’t hit anyone, and as he tried to catch himself and regain his balance, he tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the sidewalk. He let out a string of profanity as he struck the concrete and tore up his knees. The pain was immediate and obscene.
A frightening thought leaped into his mind.
What if I can’t run?
Suddenly furious, Oscar tried to see where the stranger was, but then someone was gripping him by the hood of his sweatshirt and dragging him backward onto a lawn. The ground was wet with dew and as Oscar tried to free himself from his clothing, he found himself being brought behind a shed.
His fear spiked, the adrenaline drowning the pain and allowing him to get to his feet. Yet no sooner as he had done so, than someone swept his legs, knocking him back to the ground. There was a squelch in his ears and the music died. Looking up at the sky, Oscar saw the stranger step into view.
“Hey,” the man grumbled. “You were really a-movin’ there, huh? What were you gonna do, knock me down?”
Oscar tried to get up, and the man pushed him down again. His touch, Oscar noticed, was disturbingly cold.
“You know,” the man continued, “I wasn’t goin’ to do nothin’ today. Not a thing. But, you know, you came along, and you were just a-goin’ to run me over. Knock me down like I was nothin’. What the hell is that about, huh? And you know, there’s something about runnin’ that irritates me. I hated it in the service. Son, they used to run us everywhere those few weeks we were a-trainin’. Then, when it was all done, they put me in a plane! How much runnin’ are you gonna do inside a plane, huh? I mean, I reckon if the Krauts dropped us, then runnin’ would have been good, but I don’t think my chute would’ve opened if we had to bail out.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Oscar demanded. “Who are you?”
“Boy, you got a mouth on you,” the stranger answered. “You ought to mind your manners. I was a-talkin’, and you interrupted me.”
“You knocked me down and dragged me behind a shed!” Oscar’s voice raised an octave, and the man slapped him across the mouth.
“Yup, I did, ’cause you wanted to run me over!” the stranger barked. “I want you to apologize.”
Something was off about the way the man spoke, even about the way he looked, but Oscar couldn’t be sure.
Wish I had my glasses, he thought. I’d get a good look at this SOB and file a police report.
“I’m not apologizing!” Oscar yelled. “You should have made room for me!”
There was the slamming of a door, and a woman called out in an aged and feeble voice, “I’m calling the police if you don’t get out of my yard!”
“Yes!” Oscar cried, and the stranger punched him.
The blow was vicious, landing on Oscar’s nose and driving him backward. There was a flurry of punches that followed, and Oscar tried desperately to crawl away.
The stranger followed, punching and kicking, every blow meant to harm.
With an anguished cry, Oscar kicked out, and his heart skipped a beat as his foot passed through the stranger.
Shocked, Oscar could only stare as the man stepped forward and brought his foot smashing down onto Oscar’s right knee.
The pain was instant and far greater than anything he had experienced before, and as he vomited, the stranger leaned forward, stating, “You move for your betters next time.”
Oscar’s only response was another round of vomiting.
Chapter 11: On the Hunt
Shane sat on the rear bumper of his car, smoking a Lucky Strike and finishing a black coffee. He was in the parking lot of an empty office building, the windows on the first floor plastered with signs proclaiming that the structure was for lease and that it was perfect for office or manufacturing work. The streetlamps around the parking lot and along the edge of the road came on as evening settled in.
Shane lit a fresh cigarette off the old one, then he stubbed out the butt and field-stripped it before sliding it into his pocket. Standing up, he stretched and walked to a trash barrel beside the front door of the building, and as he tossed his empty coffee cup away, he considered his situation.
Three times, he had been forced to double back, losing and then finding the trail.
He had learned of how the killer had switched vehicles, even discovering that the man was traveling in a Crown Victoria. Shane had stopped and talked with a dead State Trooper who had been able to give him excellent details about the vehicle. Right down to the plate number.
But that last bit of assistance had taken place at almost one in the afternoon, and it was closing in on six in the evening.
Shane tapped the head of ash off of his cigarette as he walked back to his car.
I’ll go a little more tonight, he thought, climbing in and starting the vehicle. No reason to risk losing the trail in the dark and spending half the day tomorrow trying to find it again. If I even can.
He pulled out of the lot and started back along the road. I’ve been extremely lucky so far, he thought. If this goes on much further, if he travels past Worcester, then I doubt I’ll find him.
Shane ground his teeth at the thought.
Which means I’ll have to wait for something to happen or reach out to the living, and that’s always a problem. The living, Shane knew, couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths closed. It wasn’t their fault, especially when he wouldn’t be able to say, “Hey, I need to find this guy.”
Shane wouldn’t say it, but should the man show up dead, which was what Shane intended to happen, then it would be traced back to him.
I have too much I want to do, he thought, and spending time in prison won’t allow me to do it. And what would Jacinta have to say about it?
Shane smiled at the thought of the detective in Detroit. Another image flashed through his mind, that of Courtney, and his heart sank a little.
It had been some time since Courtney, but it still pained him to think of her.
Yeah, let’s not live too much in the past, he chided himself.
Shane focused on the road, steering with one hand and scanning either side of the narrow, two-lane road for any signs of the dead.
Half an hour passed, and Shane shook his head. I’ll have to pick this up tomorrow. I need a decent meal and a place to sleep.
He looked for a place to turn the car around, and when he spotted an open spot, he was pleased to see a ghost there as well. Shane pulled the car in and examined the female ghost. She was an old woman, although he could not tell how old she was, or in what time period she had lived in. Her clothes were ragged, her face sallow, and her hair wild and unkempt. She reminded Shane of every extra he had seen in a zombie movie.
Oh hell, he thought, putting his iron rings on, I need to at least ask her if she saw anything.
Shane turned the car off, but he left the keys in the ignition and the door open when he stepped out of the vehicle.
With his arms loose and ready, he approached the ghost in a wide semi-circle, not wishing to come up on her from behind. When he was certain she could see him from the corner of her eye, he broke the silence.
“Hey there,” he called, “I was wondering if you could help me.”
The dead woman turned and faced him, her lined face twisting into a malicious, feral snarl.
“Oh, okay,” Shane chuckled, taking a step back. “You are definitely not going to be able to help me. I’m sorry I interrupted whatever it was you were doing. I’m just going to head back to my car, and you can do your thing.”
The dead woman sprang at him, far quicker than he imagined she could.
Shane managed to duck her grasping arms, both disturbed and impressed with her speed and the distance she had crossed. He twisted around in time to block a slash at his face, and he punched her in the chest. The iron ring came into contact with her, and she vanished. Shane took a single step to the car, and she was back.
She threw herself at him, catching him in the stomach, and he let out a grunt as she bit him.
“Biting?!” he demanded, smashing her in the back of the head with his fist. She vanished, and he stood his ground.
The ghost appeared a moment later, less than ten feet from him.
“Yeah, I see you,” he told her. “Listen, I don’t know what your issue is, but I only want to leave. You keep this up, and I am going to destroy you.”
Her responding snarl gave no indication as to whether or not she understood him, but when she charged at him again, he side-stepped her attack. Pulling his iron rings off, he put them away and braced himself for the next attack.
It came a second later, the dead woman barreling into him. But Shane planted his feet and refused to be moved. She howled and spewed gibbering nonsense as he grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back.
“You didn’t know some of us can do this, did you?” Shane asked.
She shrieked, her jaw working frantically.
Shane shook his head, then he sank first one thumb, then the other, into her eyes. Her cries became piteous moans, and she tried to pull herself away.
Shane gripped the sides of her head with his fingers, then, with a grimace, he pulled the dead woman’s skull apart.
There was a sharp tearing, and then a small explosion rocked the area. Tree limbs, rocks, and leaves went hurtling by him, some striking him and others battering his car. Shane’s head throbbed, and the world seemed to spin around him.
Evidently, that’s where her item was, he thought, staggering to his car. He leaned against it for a moment, then his stomach churned, and he vomited. No, he groaned, not a concussion. I don’t have time for one.
No, it’s got to be the impact of the explosion, not a concussion. He straightened up and spat out the bitter taste of vomit. I need a hotel. If this gets worse, I’ll even need to find a damned hospital.
Furious with the dead woman, Shane managed to get into the car, close the door, and start the engine. Within a few minutes, the headache was subsiding, and none of the telltale signs of a concussion presented themselves.
Shane sighed with relief and tried to remember where he had last seen a hotel.
Chapter 12: The Sunday Nightshift
The house was exactly as Marty had described it, a beautiful old Victorian, and one which appeared to lack any security system.
Moran and Moran didn’t have a security system either, Johnny thought, and look at how that ended up.
Whatever. He shook his head. Focus.
Craig had parked the car a quarter of a mile away from the house in a gym lot that was half-full. They were using another unremarkable vehicle, a late model Ford Taurus, silver, which could have its plates switched easily. The items they needed for after the job were in the trunk, packed into suitcases and bags, just as if the three of them were on a trip and not breaking into an old woman’s house.
From the lot, each had taken a separate route to the house, finally meeting up at a quarter to eleven in Ms. Dufour’s backyard. They could see her back door, and there were only a few lights on in the house. One was the kitchen, into which they could see from their vantage point. A second was on the second floor, as was the third.
To Johnny, it appeared that the kitchen light was left on out of habit, a small, soft-light bulb over the stove. He suspected it was the same for the third light, which was also small. The second light, shining in two windows, he believed was Ms. Dufour’s bedroom.
The old lady isn’t my concern. I go in to the third floor. Craig and I get the goods, Viv takes care of Ms. Dufour, and we go out. End of story. Ten minutes tops.
Without a word, Craig started toward the back door, and Johnny followed. Viv brought up the rear. The positioning of each of them was important. Craig would open the back door, then he and Johnny would take the stairs directly to the third while Viv broke off on the second. She would wait at the landing for them to return, then bring up the rear again as they left the house.
They reached the back door, and Craig squatted down. He removed a small, gun-like lockpick, inserted it into the old deadbolt, and squeezed the large trigger on the pick several times. Finally, there was a click, and Craig repeated the process with the lock on the doorknob.
It took less than a minute for him to open the door. He did so quietly, listening to the hinges, waiting for the start of a squeak.
The hinges never made a sound, and they were in the kitchen a moment later. They moved silently, keeping to the edge of the hallway, and then the stairs to avoid loose boards and worn spots that might alert the old woman to their presence. At the second landing, Viv turned off, moving toward the light at the far end of the hall.
Johnny focused on the steps in front of him, and soon, he and Craig were on the third floor. They saw several doors, and all were open save one near the far end. As they moved down the hallway, they peered into each open doorway and saw only empty rooms. At the closed door, Johnny saw Craig hold out an open palm to the doorknob as if he was trying to tell if the metal was hot.
Craig motioned for Johnny to do the same, and when he did so, Johnny was surprised to feel waves of cold radiating out from the metal and piercing the gloves he wore. He remembered how cold Derek’s wings became, and how cold the car had been when the dead man had been in it. Johnny nodded, twisted the doorknob, and opened the door. He turned on the light and stepped in.
There were fifteen items in the room, each set on a separate pedestal, and they were the most mundane items he had ever seen. One was an old Betty Crocker cookbook. Another was a cats-eye marble.
Whatever, he thought and shrugged off his knapsack while Craig did the same. Without speaking, the two men removed the gallon-size bags of salt and started placing the items in them. It took less than five minutes.
Johnny turned off the light, closed the door, and they headed back to the second floor, Craig in the lead again. Viv stood at the landing, a soft smile on her face, the expression turning Johnny’s stomach.
They reached the kitchen, and Craig paused long enough to lock the doorknob on the back door. There was nothing that could be done about the deadbolt, but if they had done everything properly, then it would appear that Ms. Dufour had died of natural causes, and her death wouldn’t be investigated.
Once they passed through the back yard, they split off and followed alternate routes back to the gym lot. They didn’t speak until they were in the car, and the knapsacks were in the trunk.
“Smooth,” Craig declared, starting the car.
“Definitely,” Johnny sighed.
“Fifteen till we change,” Craig stated.
Johnny nodded and saw Viv wasn’t paying attention. She was, instead, examining a small, plain-looking silver bracelet on her wrist. A bracelet that she hadn’t been wearing before.
A cold understanding came over him.
They rode in silence until they came to a small commuter parking lot that held only a few vehicles, one of which was their next ride.
“There it is,” Johnny said, as he spotted an old Dodge Ram pickup in the far corner of the lot.
As Craig pulled up and parked next to the truck, Johnny got out of the car. The trunk popped open, and he walked to it, pulling his bag to him and sliding the small .22 caliber revolver out of it. Viv strolled around to the back, still examining the bracelet on her wrist.
Johnny put the barrel of the pistol against her left temple and pulled the trigger.
The dull crack of the .22 rolled out across the parking lot, and Viv sagged lifeless to the pavement.
“You saw the bracelet,” Craig stated.
“Yeah.”
Without another word, the men put their gloves on and carried her to the driver’s side of the Taurus. They put her in, set the pistol in her hand, and let her body flop forward. A small trickle of blood escaped the neat hole in the side of her head.
They closed the door, took the stolen items and their own bags out of the trunk, and closed it. Silently, they changed their clothes, put them in the bags, and then tossed them into the back. Craig got into the new vehicle’s driver’s seat as Johnny put the knapsacks with the stolen items on the rear seats.
“So, I guess Marty told you to take care of her if she stole anything?” Craig asked.
“Yeah.”
“What about me?”
“He said you were point on this job,” Johnny answered. “You know what you’re doing and what needs to be done. I was supposed to clean up any mess that Viv made.”
“And not me?”
Johnny smiled. “No. Evidently, he didn’t think you were going to screw up.”
Craig nodded. “About twenty minutes and we’ll dump the clothes. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Johnny replied. He folded his arms over his chest and watched the darkness roll by.
Chapter 13: Captain Jack
Captain Jack Thompson was eleven months away from retirement and the lake house he had built by hand over a twenty-year period. When he sat at his desk and closed his eyes, Jack could picture the pier that stretched into the water, and the small rowboat tied up there. He had built the rowboat as well, having spent the better part of two years on it. His son had helped, in the beginning, before leukemia had taken him.
Leukemia had taken his son and his wife, and it was a hard truth that invariably made itself known whenever he had two minutes of peace and quiet.
Will I ever stop thinking about it? he wondered. Jack didn’t think he would. It had been one of his own detectives, Evan Coffin, who had been the one to tell him about Miriam’s death. Her suicide.
He had been at a convention for State Police captains in Massachusetts, speaking to various suppliers and other law enforcement specialists when Evan had shown up. They had found Miriam’s car up in Maine, at York Beach, where she had taken Jack Junior every summer. Her body had been found at the Marginal Way, broken and battered against the stones. She had drowned, and Jack had buried her next to their boy.
His computer chimed, and Jack let out a tired groan. Opening his eyes, he straightened up and looked at his email notifications. Frowning, he clicked on it and saw he had a message from Lieutenant Dana Lettow.
Jack, I know you had some weird stuff go down in Anger a little while back, and I know I laughed with everyone else when some of the vics said ghosts did the damage, but now I’m not laughing so much. I’ve got a vic here, twenty-seven-year-old male says he was beat-up by a ghost. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but he’s got a couple of spots that the ER doc said are classic frostbite.
Jack shook his head and reread the last line.
So, the email continued, if you’ve got any sort of info you’d like to share, I’d be willing to listen. Give me a holler, Jack.
He picked up his phone, punched in the number for Dana, and waited as it rang on the other end.
“Lieutenant Lettow,” Dana answered.
“Dana, it’s Jack Thompson.”
“Hey, thanks for calling. So, do you have anything for me?”
“I don’t think I do,” Jack stated. “I investigated a few deaths, and while there were the same marks on some of the victims, it wasn’t consistent. It shifted even on some of the living vics. A few had them, then others didn’t. It was strange. I even went through some of Detective Coffin’s notes, but he didn’t have anything.”
Dana swore.
“So, your vic, fully functioning member of society?”
“Yeah,” Dana grumbled. “Like I said in the email, twenty-seven-year-old male. Works a typical nine to five, no previous history except for a disorderly when he was nineteen after a homecoming football game. Psych eval came back fine. I thought maybe he was confused about what he saw, since he needs corrective lenses, and he said he had thought so at first, too. But then, he said he hit the guy who beat him, and it passed right through him.”
Jack frowned. “Any other weird deaths?”
“Come on, Jack, it’s Manchester,” Dana laughed bitterly. “There’s always some sort of death that isn’t quite right.”
“I mean right after this, or before it.”
Dana paused, then answered, “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. A junkie turned up in the back lot of an abandoned building. Not usually out of the ordinary, but then it almost looks like she was beat to death. Thing is, we can’t figure out what made the marks. There’s no real definition with the injuries. Strange.”
“Well, keep an eye out for more like that,” Jack told him. “If they show up, either living vics or bodies, let me know, I’ll see if anything matches what happened in Anger.”
“Sounds good, Jack. Thanks for calling me.”
“You got it, Dana, good luck.”
Jack hung up the phone, paused, and then took his notebook out. He jotted down the date, the time, and the information Dana had shared with him. For several minutes, Jack stared at the page with the sinking sensation that it was only the first entry of many.
Chapter 14: Home
When Shane closed the door behind him, Carl walked through the wall and into the hallway, raising an eyebrow.
“You look displeased,” the ghost informed him in German.
“That’s an understatement,” Shane replied in kind.
“What has happened?”
Shane started up the main staircase, Carl moving with him.
“I was tracking the killer for James Moran,” Shane stated. “I lost track last night, spent the evening in a hotel, and then spent six hours searching through different areas, trying to find a ghost who might have seen him.”
“And you were unsuccessful,” Carl surmised.
“Yeah,” Shane sighed, walking into his library. He went to his desk and collapsed into his chair. Taking out a Lucky from the pack, he lit it and ignored the disdainful expression on the dead man’s face.
“Have you informed James yet?” Carl asked.
Shane nodded. “Right before I came back home. He sent me a list of items that were stolen, one of which was destroyed last night.”
“How so?” Carl asked, and Shane told him about the fight with the female ghost.
“I couldn’t leave her there,” Shane told him. “I wouldn’t have been able to find her item, either. Anyway, she matched the description and was along the route the thief took, so I crossed her off the list.”
“What is the next step, then?”
“Well,” Shane opened a bottle of whiskey on the desk and took a drink. “I’ll reach out to a few friends in the business. Victor and Tom. Maybe even Marcus up in New York. I know Brian and Jenny will be listening to everything as well. Kind of try and have them keep an ear out for the guy trying to sell the stolen items, or, worst-case scenario, more robberies of a similar sort.”
“Do you think they will end in death?” Carl asked.
Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. I would love to say no, they won’t, but I think the whole point with the store robbery was to wipe out the staff that was there.”
“And why is that?”
“They didn’t hide their faces,” Shane answered. “These guys were pretty smooth from what I was able to figure out. If the Morans didn’t always have a weapon nearby, and they all weren’t trained how to use them, then the robbery would have been a success with only the workers being dead. As it was, two of the three assailants were gunned down, and the third was wounded. Anyway, all I want now is to have a few drinks, smoke my cigarettes, and maybe order a steak or something.”
Carl smiled. “I always did enjoy steak.”
Shane chuckled. “Me, too.”
***
Johnny took a drink of bourbon and sat in the chair, waiting.
Marty was on the phone, his voice low. Johnny made it a point not to listen. It wasn’t any of his business and knowing too much could help him end up dead.
Craig brought over a plate with a hamburger and fries on it, saying in a low tone, “Hey, here you go, Johnny.”
“Thanks.” Johnny straightened up as he accepted the food. Craig nodded and sat at the table, and the two of them started to eat. A few minutes into the meal, Marty ended his call and strolled over to the table, sitting down at the head.
“Gentlemen,” Marty beamed, “you did something phenomenal last night. I have already sent the goods off to the buyer, and you will be happy to know that the funds have been wired in. I’ll make sure we get the cash in the next day or two.”
Johnny nodded, and Craig mumbled appreciatively around a mouthful of burger.
They had gone over the job as soon as they had arrived, but not into any great detail. Marty had been more concerned that the job had been completed. He had then taken the items and left for a short time. When he had returned, he had made the recently finished call.
“Now,” Marty’s tone became serious, “what happened with Viv?”
“She boosted a silver bracelet from the old lady’s room,” Craig informed him.
Marty looked to Johnny, who nodded.
Shaking his head, Marty sighed. “I told her. I told her constantly to stop it. It’s the little things that bring an organization down. Granted, we’re not a large organization, but we have to function like one. A small break in the machine can cause the entire mechanism to malfunction. Where did you leave her?”
“In the Taurus,” Johnny told him. “I used a .22 revolver. Entry wound, no exit. It’s not a perfect scene, but she’s got a record, right?”
“Yes,” Marty nodded.
“I don’t think they’ll dig around too much then,” Johnny continued, “especially if they find the bracelet and somehow tie it to the old woman. Even if they don’t make any sort of connection, Viv was a career criminal who died in a parking lot. Not exactly anything the cops are going to cry themselves to sleep over.”
“No,” Marty chuckled, and Craig grinned. “No, I don’t believe that they will be overly upset. Viv managed to put a few officers in the hospital over the years. And she wasn’t exactly the belle of the ball in prison.”
“Nope,” Craig agreed. “Last stint, she put a guard in the hospital for a month. Viv was good when she wasn’t being crazy.”
“Which was getting to be rarer and rarer,” Marty confessed, and Craig nodded.
“So,” Marty continued, “you did good, Johnny. I appreciate it. I’ll keep an ear out, see if any noise is made about her death.”
“Cool,” Johnny replied and finished his hamburger. After a moment, he looked up and realized both men were watching him. Suddenly uncomfortable, he managed a restrained, “What is it?”
Marty and Craig burst out laughing. As Craig stood up and took his dishes to the sink, Marty chuckled and shook his head.
“You,” Marty said finally. “Man, Johnny, we have had a lot of people roll through those doors. All of them big mouths with no balls. You finish a gunfight and get back here without a tail. I tell you to take out Viv if there’s an issue, and you take her out. Now, I say I’ll keep an ear out for people chatting about her death, and your only response is ‘cool.’ Anybody else, and I mean anybody, would have wanted to know how I could know what was going to be happening with an investigation. Why didn’t you ask?”
There was a sudden, dangerous undertone to his question, and Johnny knew it was another small test.
Pushing his plate away, Johnny looked at Marty. “I don’t know who your contacts are. If you say you’ll be able to learn about an investigation into her death, I believe you. Why wouldn’t I? And, there’s no need for me to know, is there?”
Behind him, Craig laughed, and Marty grinned.
“You’re good, Johnny,” Marty proclaimed, getting to his feet. “Damned good. Keep it up, and we’ll see how well you do on the next job.”
Marty walked over, slapped him on his good arm, and chuckled again. “Go get some rest. There’s a bed upstairs if you want it.”
“Shower, too?” Johnny asked. “I brought a fresh change of everything.”
“Shower too,” Marty nodded.
“Thanks.” Johnny got to his feet and left the room, grabbing his bag as he went.
***
Marty glanced over at Craig, who was opening a bottle of beer. “What do you think?”
Craig looked up. “What? About the kid?”
Marty nodded.
“Good material,” Craig answered, taking a drink. “He did everything he was told. Real professional inside, too. No messing around. We were in and out of there in no time. I’ve seen guys with more experience screw up easy jobs like that, Marty. Kid was cool and relaxed.”
“What about when he took care of Viv?”
“That was scary,” Craig stated.
Marty blinked. “How so?”
“I never saw it coming. His expression never changed,” Craig explained. “I mean, yeah, it was dark in the car, but even when I saw his face in the rearview when he popped open the door, all you would have thought was that he was getting out. And I was surprised he saw the bracelet. I saw it, and I was worried about what we were going to have to do.”
“What did he say once she was dead?”
“That you had told him to take care of her if she was a problem.”
Marty smiled. “That I did. Good. I’m planning another job. A little closer to home. It’s in Concord. If he does well, I want to bring him in a little more. You think that’s all right?”
Marty saw the hesitation on Craig’s face, and it pleased him. He didn’t want anyone to feel comfortable around him. Marty needed them to understand he was in control, and that he made the decisions. He was able to validate his control by the way they reacted to his sudden, out-of-the-ordinary questions.
Craig cleared his throat, paused a moment longer, and then stated, “Yeah. I think he’s all right. For now, you know.”
“Good. I do, too.” Marty saw the look of relief in Craig’s eyes, and he nodded. “Yes, I think he’s going to do fine. Get some rest, Craig. We’ve got planning to do in the morning.”
Marty watched the other man leave, then he stood up and went to the refrigerator. He took out a beer, opened it, and shook his head.
Here’s to you, Viv. You were a decent crook, but stupid as hell sometimes.
Marty took a drink and carried the beer back to his chair. In the silence of the room, he closed his eyes and considered the next job.
Chapter 15: Manchester Nights
Eric Boyle didn’t trust the world.
He was on his own, and he knew it. Life, he had learned, was tough, and no one helped. Not ever.
Eric shuffled his feet a little to keep them warm, took his hands out of his pockets, and adjusted his hood. His eyes scanned up and down the length of Elm Street, knowing he would have to walk again soon.
Police SUVs had rolled by twice, and they would stop to have a chat with him soon enough.
Eric didn’t like it when they spoke with him.
In fact, Eric, known as “Eee-Bee” by the Manchester PD and anyone else who hung around the west side, was a prime target for conversations.
He spat on the sidewalk, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and decided it was time to walk. Turning left, he headed down toward the old Amoskeag Mill, his eyes constantly shifting from left to right. He had a few hundred dollars in his back pocket and a dozen “nail heads” of heroin in the lining of his hoodie. It wouldn’t be hard for the police to find, but their placement would make it difficult for anyone to rob him.
And Eric was more concerned about getting jumped than he was about the police searching him. The police needed probable cause.
A thief didn’t.
For almost an hour, Eric wandered up toward the National Guard Armory, and then on to the campus of Southern New Hampshire University. He made a few sales, avoided the cops, and then turned right to go back to Elm Street. Sliding his phone out, he saw it was almost two in the morning.
He needed to crash, but part of him wanted to stay out. He had two nail heads left, and he was sure he could find someone who wanted to buy them.
As he reached Elm, he caught sight of a man walking. The stranger was short, his shoulders hunched, and he was watching Eric. The man’s hands were in his coat pocket, and he looked strange in the pallid glow of the streetlamp.
Must need a hit, Eric thought. “Yo!”
The stranger stopped.
“My man,” Eric walked toward him. “You lookin’ for chemicals?”
“What?”
“You need a hit?” Eric asked. “You need to get high?”
The stranger shook his head. “What in the hell are you talkin’ ‘bout, boy?”
Eric stiffened. “What’d you call me?”
“Boy,” the stranger answered. “It’s what you are. You’re a boy. What, I reckon you’re maybe fourteen, fifteen years old? Can’t you find any decent-sized pants? Or a belt?”
“Nah, I know what you meant by ‘boy,’ you racist SOB,” Eric snarled, striding forward, taking his hands out of his pockets and clenching them into fists. “Yeah, I know exactly what you meant. That’s okay. Old EB is gonna take care of you.”
Eric reached the stranger and threw a punch with all the force he could muster. It was only as his fist was about to slam into the stranger’s nose that he realized the man wasn’t all there.
Eric’s fist passed through the stranger’s head, and Eric stumbled forward, his balance off. He let out a shout of surprise as he went completely through the man, a wave of cold and nausea crashing over him.
Eric tried to stop himself, tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, and fell forward. He managed to turn at the last moment, taking the brunt of the impact on his arm and shoulder. Swearing, Eric rolled and got to his feet, bringing both of his clenched fists up as he ignored the dull throbbing in his arm. He jerked around, searching for the stranger who wasn’t really there.
As he turned back to face the way he had come, Eric saw him.
“You think you’re a-goin’ to punch me, boy ?” the man laughed. “You know, I was a-lookin’ for a fight. Feelin’ kind of down because I couldn’t find one. And here you are. You came to me. Ain’t that providence, boy ?”
Eric ground his teeth together at the emphasis the strange man placed on the word. “I don’t know who you are, what type of freak you are, but I am gonna take care of you.”
“You got a good stance,” the man stated, tilting his head slightly, and in the lamplight, Eric saw the man’s face was swollen on one side. Swollen and only partially there. It was as though Eric was looking at a faded photograph.
Eric’s arms dropped, and a horrible thought crossed his mind and leaped into his mouth.
“You’re a ghost,” he whispered to the stranger. “My grandma told me about ghosts.”
“She tell you that you shouldn’t bother ’em?”
Eric tried to answer, but no more words would issue forth.
“You look like you did some boxing, boy,” the ghost told him, stepping closer. “You ought to get your hands up, ’cause you’re goin’ to be fighting in a minute.”
Eric shook his head and took a terrified step back. “No. I just want to go home. That’s it. Nothin’ else, okay?”
“No, it ain’t okay,” the ghost whispered, moving nearer. “You swung at me, boy. A good swing, I’ll give you that, but you swung at me. If I was still alive and not payin’ attention, you would have got me but good.”
“Um, okay, you want to hit me in the face then?” Eric hated the fear in his own voice, but he couldn’t help it. Terror gripped him and wouldn’t let go.
“Oh, I’ll hit you in the face,” the ghost told him, “and anywhere else I damn well please, too.”
“What?” Eric asked, but the ghost stepped in and brought his hands up. The first punch smashed Eric in the jaw, and the second crashed into his stomach. He staggered back, the pain intense, far worse than anything he had experienced before. The blows had been horrifically cold as well, leaving him shivering and fighting to stay on his feet.
“You know how hard it is to control a punch when you’re dead?” the ghost asked, snapping out a quick jab into Eric’s right eye and dropping him to his knees. “So hard. I used to think wrenchin’ on an engine mid-flight was bad, but this, yeah, it’s a lot harder. Get up.”
Eric shook his head, his skull filled with throbbing pain.
“Yes, I said, get up.” The ghost stepped behind him, and Eric gasped as the dead man threw a cluster of short punches into his liver and kidneys. “It’s only goin’ to get worse if you don’t get to your damn feet.”
Groaning, Eric stood up, turning around to face the stranger. Rising anger caused his hands to close into fists, and the dead man nodded.
“That’s it, boy,” the ghost laughed. “Get angry! See what you can do to me!”
Eric threw several punches, but all passed through the dead man and left his hands aching from the cold.
“Good job!” the ghost declared, then he stepped forward and hit Eric twice in the face. The impact of the blows rattled his teeth while two more punches to his stomach knocked him down. He landed hard on the sidewalk, sitting there for a moment, and trying to think.
The dead man stepped forward. “Look at me, boy.”
Eric shook his head.
The ghost grabbed him by his head and turned it up to face him. The malice in the man’s face was worse than any Eric had seen.
“You’re nothin’, do you understand me?”
Eric swore at him.
The dead man laughed. “Yeah, nothin’ at all.”
Then, the dead man tightened his grip and slowly twisted Eric’s head until his neck snapped.
Chapter 16: Curious
“Did you see this?” Tom asked.
Victor looked up from the model soldier he was painting. “Did I see what, Tom?”
The teenager came over to the table and set Wednesday’s paper in front of him. Two days prior, a woman had been found dead in the Taftville Commuter Parking lot. Apparently, Victor saw, the authorities had decided she had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
“That’s a little gruesome,” Victor admitted. “Why was it important to show me this?”
“Because of this,” Tom replied, flipping the paper open to the obituaries. He pointed to one in particular.
Victor adjusted his glasses, leaned forward, and read the name.
Wendy Dufour.
He straightened up and looked at Tom. “Wendy?”
Tom nodded and sat at the table. “Yeah. Strange, right?”
“Strange,” Victor murmured. He and Tom had helped her less than a month earlier with an item she had ordered from Moran and Moran, which had proved to be too difficult for her to handle. “Still, she was old, Tom. And why would her death make you think it was connected with this unknown suicide?”
Tom’s face reddened.
Victor frowned. “Tom, were you prowling around the police systems again?”
“I was bored,” Tom muttered. “Their security isn’t anything to brag about, and when I saw the death in the lot, I got interested. I’m glad I did. Check this out.”
The teen pulled out his phone, thumbed open the pictures, and placed the device in front of Victor.
He found himself looking at a collection of items all laid out neatly on a table. They were individually cataloged and apparently had been the possessions of the suicide. One of the items, a silver bracelet, caught his eye.
It was a curious bracelet, with what appeared to be ancient Icelandic runes carved around its narrow width. He remembered how Tom had remarked upon it. Ms. Dufour had told them it had been a gift to her from her grandmother, and she had worn it every day for almost sixty years.
“That is disturbing,” Victor murmured, and Tom nodded his agreement.
“Do you think Wendy was killed for the bracelet?” Tom asked.
“I’m not sure she was killed at all,” Victor replied, and the teen grimaced. “No, hear me out. She may have passed away when this person was in the house. We’ll have to wait for an autopsy.”
“There’s not going to be one,” Tom told him.
“What? Why not?”
“She’s Jewish,” Tom answered. “Remember? She doesn’t have any family, but she told her rabbi that she didn’t want an autopsy. Since the police don’t have a reason to suspect murder, she’ll be buried today. Or tomorrow. I’m not sure how quickly Jewish people are buried.”
“Tom,” Victor said, “how did you learn all of that? We weren’t with her for very long.”
Tom grinned. “I like to talk to old people. They have a lot of information, and, well, you know, I didn’t see any wedding photos or anything. I asked about her family, that’s all.”
Victor shook his head. “I didn’t even notice the absence of photos.”
“Or anything, evidently,” Tom laughed.
Victor raised an eyebrow.
“Come on,” Tom teased. “If it isn’t about history, you’ve got blinders on.”
“True, true. Anyway, now that you’re done, is there a way to find out if the haunted items in the house were stolen?” Victor asked. “I mean, can you hack into the system and find that out?”
“Sure,” Tom nodded. “I don’t think it’s going to be quick or anything, though. She didn’t have any family, so, you know, the state and city aren’t going to feel pressured to do anything.”
Tom hesitated, then he added, “You know, I could always go over, take a peek in there.”
“I don’t want you breaking in.”
“I wouldn’t be,” Tom replied.
“Going into a property that isn’t yours, without permission from the owner. I think that’s fairly close to the definition of breaking in,” Victor stated dryly.
“But I do have permission,” Tom stated.
Victor frowned. “How?”
“She told her neighbors that I might stop by and that it would be okay,” Tom answered. “And, um, she gave me a key.”
“Tom, why didn’t you tell me this?” Victor asked, setting down his paintbrush.
“Honestly, I didn’t think it was that important,” Tom admitted. “I mean, she was an old lady who was lonely. I figured I’d go around and visit her once in a while. That’s where I was a couple weeks ago. I told you I was going up to Norwichtown.”
“I didn’t think that much of it,” Victor murmured.
Tom nodded. “I know. You had that new book about the Korean War you were reading. I was surprised you even heard me when I said I was leaving.”
“Still,” Victor sighed, “I don’t want you going in. Not yet. Let’s wait a day or so. I don’t think it’s that much time.”
Tom frowned and then nodded.
“Tom, I don’t want you going off and doing it anyway.”
The teen’s shoulders slumped. “C’mon, Victor. Shane called and asked us to keep an eye out for any stolen items.”
“Shane asked us to keep an eye out for any stolen items from a specific list,” Victor corrected. “Not any items that might be stolen.”
“But what if it’s connected,” Tom argued. “We should do it right away.”
Victor shook his head. “Listen, we need to keep as low a profile as possible. I’m fairly certain there are still people who can recognize you in Norwich and Norwichtown, despite your artificial arm and bald head.”
“Maybe,” the teen grumbled. “I am taller. And heavier.”
“So you are,” Victor agreed. “However, it doesn’t negate the fact that there is a level of danger to the entire situation. Correct?”
“Yeah.”
“So, no attempts to enter Wendy’s residence until I say we should?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. Now, have you finished your math?”
Tom’s groan told Victor that the teen had not.
Chapter 17: Tracking Them Down
Shane’s phone was ringing when he stepped out of the shower. Toweling off, he walked into his room, picked it up, and saw Jacinta’s name.
Grinning, he sat on the bed and answered. “You’re up early.”
She laughed. “Yeah, well, it depends on your point of view. I haven’t been to sleep yet.”
“It’s six in the morning,” he told her.
“Hey, thanks for pointing that out,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
He chuckled. “So, you were about to go to bed, and you thought of me?”
“And a few other things.”
Shane smiled, took a cigarette out of the pack on his nightstand, and lit the Lucky. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“You mentioned spending some time together.” The words were spoken in a soft, shy voice, and Shane was surprised at the fluttering in his stomach.
“Um, yeah,” he smiled. “The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
She laughed. “Yeah, me too. I talked it over with my captain, I can probably get the last weekend of the month off if that works for you.”
“Of course. it works for me,” Shane grinned, exhaling. “You going to fly into Logan or Manchester?”
“Manchester,” she replied.
“Good.”
“Oh, damn,” Jacinta muttered. “Listen, I gotta go. Work.”
“‘Kay, talk soon.”
They ended the call, and Shane dropped his phone onto his bed. He stood up and walked back to the bathroom, hanging his towel up before strolling into his room again.
Carl was there waiting, raising an eyebrow at Shane’s state of undress.
“I heard you speaking,” Carl stated in German. “I assumed you were finished preparing for the morning.”
“Don’t give me that look,” Shane told the dead man as he pulled on his clothes. “You’re the one who came into my room.”
“I know it.”
Shane shook his head, picked up his bottle of whiskey and took a drink, ignoring the look of disappointment on the dead man’s face.
“Really, my friend,” Carl sighed, “must you?”
Looking at him, Shane grinned, and then sang, “‘Ain’t found a way to kill me yet.’”
Carl frowned.
“Alice in Chains,” Shane explained. “Great band. Song’s called ‘Rooster’. It’s about the lead singer’s father. Anyway, that’s enough of a history lesson. Care to join me for breakfast?”
“I would be happy to,” Carl’s tone was dry, “if, by breakfast, you mean something other than cigarettes and whiskey.”
“I actually do this morning,” Shane smiled. He looked at the bottle of whiskey, resisted the urge to drink again, and set the bottle down. Too much, he thought. Aloud, he said, “I’m feeling like I could eat a bowl of dry cereal.”
“You are a strange man, my friend.”
“Yup.”
Together, the dead man and the living one left the room.
***
The apartment was small, only slightly larger than the cell he had lived in for five years, but Johnny didn’t mind. He had his own toilet, a standup shower, and a kitchenette. Everything he needed. His apartment was in an old Victorian painted a mustard yellow that had been divided into six different units. His was at the top. There was a built-in AC, which he would need to pay the landlord extra for if he turned it on.
I don’t see that happening though, Johnny thought, pulling his blanket around his shoulders as he put a movie into the DVD player. There was a permanent chill to the room from Derek’s wings. Johnny liked having the dead man around, though. It added a layer of security to the apartment. He had also discovered that since he was in the building, Derek’s ability to siphon off energy didn’t negatively affect his few electrical appliances. Although Johnny did need to keep his cellphone plugged into the charger.
As he thought of the phone, it rang, and he rolled his eyes and hit pause on the DVD.
Without bothering to look at the caller ID, he answered the phone.
“Johnny,” he stated.
“Hey, it’s Marty. Need you here as soon as you can.”
“Okay,” Johnny answered and ended the call. He scheduled an Uber pick-up for in front of the library, and then he turned off the DVD player and the TV. Finally, he pulled on his coat, and then picked up the wings, slipping them into a glasses case, and then the case into an inner pocket. Johnny made sure he had his key, wallet, and phone, and then he left the house.
In less than an hour, the Uber dropped him off in front of the YMCA in Manchester, and Johnny walked along toward what Marty euphemistically called “the Clubhouse”. Inside, Johnny found Marty, Craig, and a young man he didn’t know. Marty, per usual, refrained from making any introductions.
Sitting down in his usual seat, Johnny nodded to Craig and waited.
“Three,” Marty began as he sat, “is a magic number.”
Craig and the stranger joined them.
“We are going to be pulling a job in Concord tonight,” Marty stated. “You’ll use a trio of cars, much as you did for the other job. Disposable clothes, no phones. Our regular MO. Understood?”
Johnny and the other two nodded.
“Excellent.” Marty smiled. “Now, Johnny, you don’t know this gentleman, but the man on your left is Pete. Pete is going along because three is just right.”
Johnny nodded again, causing Marty to grin.
“So,” Marty continued, “Concord. The state capital. Home of wonderful arts and bookstores. Truly a gem within the granite foundations of our granite state. The three of you will be driving up to Concord and visiting the home of Mr. Allen Willoughby. He is a collector of items that our employer wishes to add to his own collection. We are going to help him with that.”
Marty stood and strolled over to his whiteboard, which he pushed back to the group of chairs. “Here,” he said, turning it over to reveal a floorplan, “is the layout of Mr. Willoughby’s house. He is in a wheelchair, and thus, lives in a large, single-story home. Unlike Ms. Dufour, Mr. Willoughby believes in alarm systems. Quite sophisticated alarm systems. This is why Pete is here with us. Pete has a certain way with electrical systems, closed-circuit televisions, and a whole panoply of other protective measures. He will lead the deactivation of all said protections. Craig will open the regular locks, of which there are said to be many. Mr. Willoughby is not a trusting man.”
Pete and Craig chuckled, Johnny did not.
“Something concerns you?” Marty asked, addressing Johnny.
He nodded.
“Speak,” Marty ordered.
“Someone who isn’t trusting, and who has an elaborate security system,” Johnny stated, “isn’t going to trust those systems to be one-hundred percent. Someone like that is going to make sure they can protect themselves and their property.”
Marty smiled. “You are absolutely correct. This brings us to our next point. From the information I have obtained, Mr. Willoughby is an avid gun collector and a skilled marksman. He is undoubtedly going to have at least one firearm near him, which is going to make your task all the more difficult, Johnny.”
Johnny blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
Marty nodded. “You are going to be required to remove him from the situation.”
Johnny could feel the other two men staring at him. “I’m not a fan of being the triggerman, Marty. That’s a lot of weight to carry.”
“I know,” Marty replied. “I’m certain you can handle it.”
Johnny could read the subtext of the statement. Whether he could handle it or not, he was going to. “I can. How do you want me to do it?”
“I believe this is the part where, if we were in a movie, I would tell you to be creative, or inspired, or some other such nonsense,” Marty chuckled. The man’s smile faded, and a cold expression replaced it. “This is not a movie, though. Viv had to be a suicide. No one, from what I have been able to gather, will believe that Mr. Willoughby killed himself. This is what you will do. Shoot him. I have a disposable weapon for you. A .38 revolver. You will take as many of Mr. Willoughby’s guns as you can find, and you will bring them back here.”
Johnny was unable to mask his surprise at the order.
“I haven’t lost my mind,” Marty assured them all. “There is a man who has decided he likes to talk to the police about what I do. After you obtain the guns, they, and the murder weapon, will end up in this gentleman’s possession.”
“Damn,” Craig murmured.
“Damned, he is!” Marty barked, his face livid.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Marty regained his composure and smiled. “I dislike being spoken about. We are all clear as to what the plan is and who is responsible for what?”
The men all agreed they were.
“Excellent,” Marty smiled. “Rest up. Eat up. You’ll leave as soon as it’s dark.”
Standing up, Johnny went to make a sandwich, and he tried not to think about the man he was going to kill.
Chapter 18: Unwanted Attention
Johnny was sweating by the time they managed to get into Willoughby’s house.
It had taken twenty long, anxiety-filled minutes to pass the various security measures, and by the time they did so, Johnny was thoroughly impressed with Pete. The man was, he realized, a genius when it came to security systems.
They stood in silence, listening from their position in the kitchen. The room was large, with plenty of space for a wheelchair to maneuver about. All of the appliances were stainless steel, the metal glittering in the soft, under-cabinet lighting which had flickered into life when the door had opened. It was a sign of the complexity of the systems in the house.
If the lights came on, what else would?
Johnny carried the burner gun in his hand, and he was close behind Pete. The younger man would need to take the lead on the job, but Johnny needed to be nearby should Mr. Willoughby roll up with a Glock.
After several minutes of silence, Pete motioned and led the way forward. They advanced to the doorway, and Pete paused. He dropped down, reached around, and there was a gentle click. The younger man didn’t bother to explain, and Johnny didn’t ask.
More lights turned on as they continued through the house, and Johnny kept the layout of the home at the forefront of his mind. He knew they would be coming upon the room for the collection, and he knew he would have to go on to the bedroom alone. There was a hope that the man’s door would be locked, that Mr. Willoughby wouldn’t realize he was being robbed.
Johnny crushed the thought and focused on the job.
They entered a long hallway. On the right was a closed-door which, according to the intelligence briefing from Marty, contained the items they were after.
To the left was a bathroom; beyond that was the third and final door, Willoughby’s bedroom.
Johnny eased past Pete as the younger man and Craig stopped at the first door. He kept to the left side of the hall as he approached Willoughby’s bedroom. The door, he noticed, his stomach tightening, was open. There was no light, but there was the sound of someone snoring. When he reached the room, he paused outside, listening. The snoring continued, and Johnny drew the revolver Marty had given him and sank into a crouch.
The weapons were believed to be in the bedroom, and Johnny had to assume that the man slept with a pistol of some sort by his bed for protection.
Remaining in a crouch, Johnny crept into the room.
The sharp cough of a suppressed weapon rang out, and the light came on. Johnny got a single, confused look at Willoughby, the man’s hand still on the bed lamp’s switch, and squeezed off two quick shots as he threw himself to the right. He landed with a grunt on the hardwood floor and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. Johnny kept his weapon pointed at the bed as time crawled by.
“Damn,” Craig hissed from the doorway. “Johnny, he’s dead.”
Getting to his knees, Johnny looked at the king-sized bed and the dead man in it. Willoughby was propped up on several large pillows, a ragged hole in his throat, and another beneath his right eye. The eye itself dangled from the optical nerve, the force of the bullet having ejected the eye from the orbital socket. Johnny refused to throw up. That would leave too much evidence.
“You good?” Craig asked.
Johnny nodded and took off his knapsack. As Craig returned to the room with the items, Johnny quickly scanned the room. The only weapon out in the open was the suppressed Glock in the dead man’s hand.
Hurrying over, Johnny took the weapon out of Willoughby’s grasp and slipped it into the knapsack. Next, he went to the man’s dresser, squatted, and opened the bottom drawer. He found another pistol beneath a stack of shirts, then, in the drawer above it, he took out a third. Each drawer had a weapon.
With six firearms in the knapsack, he slipped it back on and left the room. He met up with Pete and Craig, both of whom carried large duffel bags.
“Stuff’s heavy,” Pete muttered.
“It won’t weigh anything when we get in the car,” Craig informed him.
Johnny took the lead, his weapon still in his hand. He had four shots remaining in the revolver, and while he had no desire to have a shootout with any police, he also wasn’t going to prison for murder.
Better to die in a gunfight than rot like that, he thought.
He breathed a sigh of relief when they made it out of the house and there was no sign of any police presence. Pete set his bag down, locked the door, and reset the alarm. When the younger man picked the duffel-bag up again, the three of them retraced their steps and headed back for their base of operations.
***
Cherie Helman finished her workout and stood, trembling, in the doorway. Her arms shook, and she lowered her head, breathing heavily, knowing she couldn’t even lift them up to take the pull-up bar down.
Wow, she thought, closing her eyes. Pushed myself hard on that one.
Why? she asked herself. Because I let Miguel get to me, that’s why.
The unpleasant truth caused her to wince. Miguel had broken off the relationship earlier in the evening. He had texted, saying only, Fire’s gone, baby.
She knew what it meant. When they had first started dating a year earlier, he had told her how he had broken it off with the previous girlfriend. At the time, Cherie had found it part of his “bad boy” charm.
Toxic masculinity, Cherie sighed. And stupidity on my part for not seeing it for what it was.
She had a degree in psychology and worked at Manchester West High School as a school psychologist. I fell right into the same relationship trap that I warn my students about.
With her breathing slowed and the shaking lessened, Cherie walked through her house to the kitchen. From the refrigerator, she took out a premade protein shake. She carried the drink back to her workout room and sat on the weight bench. Five-minute cooldown, she reminded herself. Quick shower to rinse the grime off, and then maybe a nice bath. Help loosen everything up before I go to bed.
Cherie drank the protein shake, trying not to think of Miguel or the various meetings scheduled for the morning.
She shivered, suddenly chilled, and finished the drink. Standing up, she turned to leave the room and frowned as the light flickered.
Cherie glanced around, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Something was wrong. She set the empty shake container down and listened.
Nothing out of the ordinary reached her ears, and she knew her house and the sounds it made. She shivered as the temperature in the room dropped, and the lights flickered again.
In a heartbeat, Cherie knew what it was.
When she was a little girl, there had been a ghost in her home. It hadn’t been much more than a shape on most occasions, but on those rare instances when it had gained greater definition, the house had gotten terribly cold. The lights had flickered, and, on one memorable night, they had gone out. She had never been harmed by the ghost, although it had attacked her father several times.
But there are no ghosts here. Not in my house, Cherie thought. I didn’t buy anything recently, so it can’t be attached to an object.
How did it get here?
Her heart rate quickened, and she waited, hoping for the temperature to increase.
It remained the same.
Cherie cleared her throat. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I want you to leave my house. This place isn’t yours.”
She listened and scanned the room.
The light when out, and she clenched her hands into fists. She couldn’t see anything. Behind her, the shades were drawn to ensure her privacy when she worked out. The lights in the rest of the house were off, so she didn’t waste electricity.
Cherie took a deep breath and spoke again. “I want you to leave now.”
“Hell,” a male voice stated, “you’re a woman.”
“I am,” she responded, keeping her voice flat and calm. “I am also the owner. You need to leave my house.”
“Lady,” the ghost laughed, “I don’t need to do nothin’ I don’t want, got it?”
Her mind raced. Cherie didn’t know how to get a ghost out of a house. When she was a child, her parents had always dealt with the ghost by telling it to go away.
Is there a hierarchy to ghosts? she found herself wondering. Aloud, she said, “You need to go. That’s it.”
“What are you gonna do?” the dead man asked. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do to me.”
When he spoke again, he was closer, and his voice was filled with anger. “Nobody—and I mean nobody —tells me what to do. Especially not a damn whore. Got it?”
His misogyny and anger reminded her of Miguel, and her own anger reared up.
“You’ll do exactly what I say,” she commanded, “because it is my damned house!”
She reeled back as a blow landed on the side of her head. The back of Cherie’s legs struck the weight bench, and she tumbled over it. Her head struck first, clipping the edge of a 45-pound Olympic weight and crushing her skull.
For a moment, she could hear, then the world was silent. She tried to breathe and discovered her body wouldn’t.
Her thoughts were dazed, sluggish. Dimly, Cherie understood she was dying, that bone fragments had been sent into her brain. As she lay there, she found herself wondering if Miguel would care.
Chapter 19: A Phone Call
He was frustrated and angry. Neither of which were good.
Shane left his house, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up onto his head, tucked a cigarette into his mouth, and lit it. He took a long drag to clear his mind, exhaled through his nose, and then he started to walk.
Shane followed Berkley Street to East Stark, then turned up toward Concord Street. Once at the corner of Concord and East Stark, he paused, unsure as to where he wanted to walk to. With a shrug, he crossed to Stark Street and followed it until he eventually reached Saint Christopher’s Church. He walked down to Cushing Avenue, waved at some of the kids in the windows of Saint Christopher’s School, and eventually came to the side entrance of Edgewood Cemetery.
The wrought-iron fence and the headstones were familiar and soothing, as were some of the ghosts who watched him. Several called out their greetings, and Shane, well-aware that he was the only one who could see them, nodded in response.
At the center of the cemetery, he turned left, heading toward the oldest section. Fewer ghosts could be seen there, and it was rare that any of them wished to speak with him.
I’m not here for that though, he thought, taking a seat against an old elm tree and staring out at the traffic passing by on Amherst Street and branching off onto Broad Street. A few people passed by on the sidewalk beyond, and some cast him wary glances.
Shane grinned and lit a fresh cigarette off of the first, field-stripped the butt, and tucked the remnants away. That simple act helped to calm him, as it always did. Some people who saw it commented about the strange habit, but there was nothing strange about it to him. A life in the Marine Corps had instilled many habits, one of which was policing up his trash.
As he sat and smoked, he thought about the situation with the Moran killings. He had left messages with those people he knew were still active in the ghost business, and he had spoken with Brian and Jenny Roy about it. All Shane could do was wait and see if any of the stolen ghosts would make an appearance.
His phone rang, and Shane slipped it out of his pocket and saw it was James Moran.
“James, are you okay?” he asked when he answered the phone.
“I am as well as can be expected,” the man replied. “I have not called for a report. Rather, I am calling with news. A customer of ours, Allen Willoughby, was murdered last night in Concord, New Hampshire.”
“A friend of yours?” Shane asked.
“A client, and a fellow Marine,” James answered. “His son called me a short time ago to inform me of Allen’s death, and to report the theft of not only some of his weapons but of his haunted items.”
Shane straightened up. “In Concord?”
“Indeed. I have taken the liberty of emailing you the list of items Allen purchased from us over the years.”
“Thank you.” Shane paused. “I’ve spoken to a few people; they’ll be looking, too.”
“And thank you,” James stated. “I know what a difficult task it is before you. I can only thank you for your efforts.”
“Not a problem. I’m going to find out who did this, James.”
“I know you will,” the man responded. “I know.”
***
Victor waited in the car, parked in Wendy Dufour’s driveway. Tom had gone in less than five minutes before, after having spoken with one of the neighbors. Victor’s stomach was in knots, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
Regardless of Tom’s permission to be in the home, Victor was worried. He was concerned, as always, that someone would recognize the teenager, that something would be said.
No, don’t focus on that, Victor thought. Tom will be out shortly, and he will bring news that her items are safe and sound.
Victor’s eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. What if they are stolen, though? What will that mean? Will it put Tom in danger since we have so many in our own possession?
Before he could think more on the subject, Tom came out of the house. He locked the door behind him, waved goodbye to the neighbor he had spoken with, and got into the car. The muscles of his jaw stood out as he buckled his seatbelt.
Victor didn’t say anything as he shifted the car into drive and pulled out onto the street.
“Everything’s gone,” Tom stated, his voice tight.
Victor glanced at him. “Everything?”
Tom nodded. His eyes glistened with tears, and he clenched and relaxed his hand. He cleared his throat and looked at Victor. “Someone killed her and stole the haunted items, Victor.”
“So it would appear,” Victor murmured. “Will you call Shane now?”
“In a minute,” Tom whispered, looking out the window. “In a minute.”
They rode in silence, and Tom wept for Wendy Dufour.
***
Shane put his phone down, got to his feet, and left the library. In silence, he walked down to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. Carl appeared a few minutes later and frowned when he saw Shane.
“What is the matter, my friend?” the dead German asked.
“Tom just called me,” Shane answered as he sat at the table.
Carl smiled. “How is he?”
“Upset,” Shane stated. “An old lady he was fond of has died.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Please pass on my condolences,” Carl said.
Shane nodded. “There’s another issue. She was a collector.”
“Ah.”
“Her items are gone,” Shane continued.
“She was murdered, then?”
“Yeah.” Shane took a bite, chewed it, and then added, “James called me when I was out.”
Carl waited, his brow furrowed.
“A man was murdered in Concord last night,” Shane explained. “A client of James’. All his items were stolen, too.”
“What is going on?” Carl asked.
“I think someone is familiar with some of the collectors in the area,” Shane said after a moment. “They seem to be building their own collection. What bothers me is that there was a lot of killing in Detroit over ghosts as well.”
“Do you think this is part of a larger effort, then?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know,” Shane answered. He sat back in his chair. “It doesn’t seem like the items are being put back up for sale. There’s been no mention of them on any of the regular websites. No stupid, ‘Haunted Item For Sale’ listings on the various auction sites. It’s strange. If they don’t show up in the next week or two, I’m going to have to assume that someone is collecting them for either their own collection or because they have a buyer they’re selling to directly.”
“What will you do until then?” Carl asked.
“Well,” Shane answered, “I’m going to take a trip up to Concord and see if there isn’t anyone dead hanging around who might be able to give me a clue.”
***
Marty handed him a glass of bourbon, and Johnny nodded his thanks.
“How’s the shoulder?” Marty asked.
“Getting better,” Johnny replied. “Thanks for asking.”
Marty peered at him for a moment. “Other than the shoulder, are you good?”
“Hm? Oh, from being shot at?”
Marty nodded.
“Yeah,” Johnny answered. “I mean, it’s never fun. I’m not an adrenaline junkie or anything. If I had been standing up, I would have taken it right in the chest.”
“How did you know to go in low?”
Johnny shrugged. “I figured he would expect someone to come in ‘bold as brass’, as my grandfather used to say. Also, I was hoping I could get up close to the bed and use a pillow to muffle the shots. I was paranoid about making too much noise.”
“Fortunately,” Marty smiled, “the Concord police were delayed in their response.”
Johnny took a sip, considered asking Marty how he kept the police away from the crime scenes, and decided it wasn’t worth knowing. There is such a thing as knowing too much.
“I have some of our money coming in soon,” Marty continued. “If you like, you can rest upstairs again, or you can go home, and I can call you when it arrives.”
Johnny grinned. “I’ll rest upstairs. It’ll be easier then.”
“How so?” Marty asked, his odd, frightening intensity returning.
“I have a few bank accounts,” Johnny answered, trying to control the uneasiness in him. “Spreading the money around will help me if anyone decides to get a warrant for my finances.”
Marty relaxed. “You know, you are quite the planner.”
“Like I said before, I’ve had a lot of time to think about my mistakes. And prison, well, it’s just a school for crime,” Johnny added. “You get to talk to a lot of guys who know their business. Some stuff, like what Pete did, I can never do. But other things, you know, boosting cars, how to spot an undercover, stuff like that. You learn a lot.”
“So, no rehabilitation for you?” Marty smiled.
“Nope,” Johnny grinned, “just more education. Practical knowledge. And, you know, they had a decent wood workshop in the Concord prison. Learned how to make stuff and talked to the guys about what not to do.”
Marty chuckled and nodded. “Drink up, Johnny, then get some rest. There is no rest for the wicked, and we have a new job to plan out.”
When Johnny raised his eyebrows in surprise, Marty smiled.
“Yes, our employer, or whatever he is, is extremely anxious to have as many items as possible. I, on the other hand, am extremely anxious to help separate him from his money.”
“Fair enough.” Johnny finished his drink and got to his feet. “I’m going to crash for a bit.”
He waved goodbye to Marty and headed for the upper rooms.
Chapter 20: The News at Five
A cold hand shook Johnny awake.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Derek peering down at him. The dead man grinned as Johnny sat up.
“What’s up?” Johnny asked in a low voice.
“Nothin’, just wanted to talk for a spell,” Derek answered, taking a seat on a folding chair in the corner.
Johnny looked at the wind-up watch he had taken to wearing because of the dead man. The time was a few minutes past five in the evening. He rubbed his eyes, pushed himself into a seated position on the narrow bed, and pulled the blankets up around him.
“What do you want to talk about?” Johnny kept his tone neutral. He appreciated Derek’s saving him, and, to an extent, he enjoyed the dead man’s company.
But the ghost was an unknown quantity when it came down to it, and Johnny needed to be cautious. Derek had a habit of killing people.
“This town, city, whatever the hell it is,” Derek answered. “Place ain’t half-bad. What’s it called again?”
“Manchester,” Johnny yawned. “ManchVegas is another name, too. Lot of crime at times.”
Derek snickered, and Johnny frowned.
“Did something happen?”
Derek nodded. “Yup. I was roamin’ around, lookin’ for somethin’ to do, and then I found this house, and I thought, ‘Hey, this might be a good place to look into.’ When I went inside, there was this woman doin’ exercises and such. I don’t know, it was mighty queer, like she wanted to be Clancy Ross and win Mr. America. Anyway, she looked plum tough, so I wanted to go a few rounds with her.”
“You wanted to fight a woman working out?” Johnny asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his question.
The dead man didn’t notice.
“A-yup. Thing is, she might have been in shape, but her balance, you know, weren’t so good.” Derek chuckled. “I gave her a little love tap to let her know what was a-comin’, and the little lady went right over a weight-bench and plum caved her head in.”
“Damn.”
Derek nodded. “It was a mess. I mean, I seen worse in the war, but still, it was a mess.”
“I bet.” Johnny processed the information. “Okay, so, you didn’t beat her to death or anything? Just hit once?”
“Yup. Only once. Why?”
“Listen, I don’t know how much the cops get interested in accidents,” Johnny explained. “I mean, at least you didn’t beat the woman to death like you did the junkie. But, you know, keeping a low profile is a good thing.”
Derek shrugged. “Gotta have some fun, Johnny.”
Johnny sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just don’t want the cops to look around here too much.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Derek grinned. “I’ll make sure I get my fun as far away as possible. Sound good?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“I’d shake on it,” Derek winked, “but it’d hurt like hell.”
With a last chuckle, the dead man left the room. Johnny remained sitting up for a moment, then he lay down, got comfortable, and tried to fall asleep.
***
Jack Thompson had left work earlier than usual and was in his basement. All of the lights were on over his workbench, and his reading glasses were perched on the tip of his nose as he tried to read the instructions for a five-board bench. It was his newest project, the white pine boards stacked off to one side and waiting for him to transform them. The milk paint he had ordered had come in, as had the specialized iron nails. The goal for the project was to use only bench tools. Nothing powered by anything stronger than his own arms.
That may not be too much power, he thought, glancing at the saw on the bench. He had a hand-drill as well, the specialized wood-bit already set within it.
The phone rang, and Jack picked it up out of its charger. He saw the Concord PD number and answered the call.
“Captain Thompson,” he stated.
“Jack, it’s Colton Burrows. How are you?”
“Good,” Jack lied, taking off his glasses and setting them down on the workbench. “What’s up?”
“You heard about the murder the other night?”
“Mm, yeah, the one where some of the vic’s guns were taken along with a bunch of weird stuff?” Jack asked.
“That’s it. We got the shooter.”
“That’s good.”
“Thing is,” Colton continued, “he says it wasn’t him.”
Jack chuckled. “Colton, that’s not surprising.”
“No, no, I know. Problem I have is, he had an alibi for the night. Watertight, too.”
“What’s the alibi?” Jack asked.
“He was in Boston. In a holding cell for solicitation,” Colton replied. “Spent the whole night there and then took the bus back to Manchester. He lives with an uncle over behind the Catholic Medical Center. Guy doesn’t drive. Had his license revoked last month.”
“How’d you pick him up in the first place?” Jack’s curiosity was piqued.
“Anonymous tip on the crime-line,” Colton answered. “Said our man was trying to move some stolen weapons. We got there, he let us in, and we found them. I don’t think we’re going to make the shooting stick. Guy’s a small-timer, and that alibi is as good as gold, even if he represents himself in court.”
“Okay. So, why are you calling me, Colton? What can I do for you?”
“You can help me go over the crime scene,” Colton told him.
“Why?” Jack frowned. “I kind of have my own stuff to look after here. You’ve got a decent team of detectives and forensics to do a deep investigation.”
Colton hesitated, then he stated, “Jack, according to some of the paperwork, the items the vic collected were supposed to be haunted. We all know about some of the statements and eyewitness reports that came out of Anger. You ran point on that after Coffin, and, well, I need to know if this stuff is for real or not.”
“Colton, I don’t know if this stuff is real or not,” Jack answered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to focus. “There were rumors, and there were strange reports. I know that we had cases of extreme frostbite in small, focused sections on victims. I thought the vic in Concord died from gunshot wounds?”
“He did. One to the throat and the other to the head,” Colton sighed. “I just would feel better if you took a look, Jack. I don’t want to get in there, see something strange, and then have people think I’m off my rocker if I report it.”
“Okay,” Jack agreed, lowering his hand and opening his eyes. “Okay. I’ll go in with you. I want a uniform to go in with us, too. Someone reliable who won’t think we’ve lost it if we do find something.”
“Thanks, Jack. Could you do it in the morning?”
“Sure. What time?” Jack asked.
“Say at nine o’clock, meet me at the station? We can ride to the scene together.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
They ended the call, and Jack returned the phone to its charger. He stood at the workbench in silence for a moment, then he picked up his reading glasses and put them back on. Once more, he looked at the instructions for the five-board bench and planned out how he wanted it to look.
Chapter 21: Concord
Shane stepped out of his car, stretched, and tapped the head off of his cigarette. He looked at the long, single-story house in front of him. An American and a Marine Corps flag hung from a flagpole, and Shane wondered if there would be any ghosts around the property. A glance to either side showed similar homes, and he frowned.
The neighborhood didn’t appear promising.
There was always the chance that there might be a ghost around, but the properties couldn’t have been older than thirty or forty years.
He focused on the home and walked up the driveway. He smoked as he strolled around the property, scanning for signs of the dead. No one appeared, and nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention.
Shane made a complete circuit around the house and stood once more in the front of it. He lit a fresh cigarette, and as he field-stripped the butt, he considered how he might have to break in.
Back door, of course, he thought. He walked to the rear of the house, turned his back to it, and looked out at the property. It went on for several hundred feet before ending in a narrow tree line. Through the thin band of wooded land, he could see other houses similar to the victim’s.
Shane went forward into the woods, passed through them, and walked between a pair of houses. When he reached the street, he paused. He was in a cul-de-sac, the exit visible in the morning sunlight. Standing on the sidewalk, Shane considered his options.
I can walk up to the intersection, he thought, and see if there are any ghosts hanging around outside the houses. Or, I could get back in my car and come around to do that. Either way, I’m looking for the dead. I’ll walk. Stretch my legs a bit more.
Satisfied with his decision, Shane headed toward the intersection. He let his eyes roam from side to side, yet still, there was no sign of any ghosts. His shoulders slumped, and a knot of frustration formed in his chest. A sense of uselessness filled him, and he wanted to find a way to destroy that feeling.
Shane wanted information, and more often than not, the dead gave it to him.
He walked for half an hour, turned around, and walked back.
The neighborhoods were awakening. Several cars passed him, and more than one person looked at him suspiciously. He couldn’t blame them. A man had been killed close by. Murdered and robbed.
Shane made it back to the woods, walked through them and to his car. Rather than getting in, he leaned against the passenger side, lit a fresh cigarette, and wondered what he should try and investigate next.
Am I going to have to get a list of buyers in the area? Shane asked himself. And what qualifies as the area? Concord is a good two-and-a-half, three hours from Norwich, Connecticut. Even if those are extreme ends of the area of operations for the thieves, there’s too much room to try and cover everything.
As he smoked, movement caught his eye, and when he turned to look, he tried not to frown. A Concord police SUV had slowed down and was pulling up behind his car. Shane watched three men get out of the vehicle. Two were older than he was and dressed in plainclothes. The third was younger than Shane and dressed in a Concord PD uniform.
“Good morning,” one of the older men asked, his gray hair clipped short. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Shane smiled. The men approached and stopped a safe distance away. “How are you gentlemen this fine day?
“I would say about the same,” the gray-haired man chuckled. “Do you live around here?”
Shane shook his head. “I live down in Nashua. I was just up for a drive, had the need to pull over, stretch my legs a bit.”
“It is a good day for a drive.” The gray-haired man smiled. “I hate to ask, but could you provide us with some sort of identification?”
Shane bristled at the request, but he knew a refusal, while legal, would only aggravate the situation.
“Sure,” he smiled. “It’s in my back pocket. May I get it?”
“Please,” the gray-haired man responded. All three of the men watched Shane reach for the wallet and extract it. From its place, he took out his license. He held it out, and the gray-haired man walked forward and accepted it. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Shane answered.
“Mr. Shane Ryan,” the gray-haired man stated. “125 Berkley Street, Nashua, NH.”
“That’s me.” Shane grinned.
“Mr. Ryan,” the other gentleman said, “did you have any particular reason for stopping in front of this house?”
“The flags,” Shane gestured with his cigarette.
The three men glanced at the flags.
“And why is that?” the other gentleman asked.
“I’m a retired Marine,” Shane explained. “I figured if the owners came out, I could tell them that, and they might cut me some slack for parking here.”
“Why would they bother you to begin with?” the gray-haired man asked. “You are on public property.”
“Sure, but I don’t want to upset anyone,” Shane answered. “Everyone gets a little frustrated, especially when there’s a stranger parked in front of the house, leaning on his car and smoking a cigarette. And, come on, let’s be honest, guys, I’m not exactly the best-looking guy around.”
The police officers chuckled.
“So, I figured what the hell, I’ll stop here, smoke, and if someone pulls a nutty, I can tell them I was a Marine.”
“What rank?” the uniform officer asked.
“Gunny. You?”
“Terminal Lance,” the younger man responded. “I did my three and got out. Didn’t like getting shot at.”
“Yeah, tends to be an issue,” Shane nodded.
The gray-haired gentleman handed Shane’s license back to him. “Mr. Ryan, I’d like to thank you for your cooperation.”
“Sure thing,” Shane replied. He put his license and wallet away. “Is it good if I go now?”
“By all means,” the gray-haired man answered. “Have a good day.”
“You, too.” Shane smiled and got into his car.
He drove away without looking back, knowing full well that they were staring after him.
***
“What are you thinking about?” Colton asked as the strange man turned at the intersection.
“He’s not quite what he seems,” Jack answered. “You got a good look at his license, though?”
Colton nodded. “Oh, I did. I’ll keep the information filed. See if there’s anything on him. Well, do you feel like going inside now?”
Jack nodded.
Together, the three men walked up the driveway, then to the front door, and Colton used the key provided to him by the victim’s son. They entered the house, and Jack followed Colton as he led him to the victim’s bedroom. It was still a mess, with blood on the bed and the pillows. The drawers on the victim’s dresser were all open.
“That wasn’t done by an amateur,” Jack murmured.
“No, someone knew what they were doing,” Colton agreed.
“What do you mean?” Ray Newcombe, the young officer, asked.
“Those drawers,” Jack pointed. “A professional thief comes in and he starts at the bottom. That way, he doesn’t have to close a drawer to get to the next one. It minimizes the amount of time they have to spend in a room. What did he get out of them?”
“Guns, evidently,” Colton answered. “And whatever the things in the other room are supposed to be.”
Jack turned away from the dresser. “Show me that room, Colton.”
They left the murder scene and went back into the hall. In a moment, they were in a large room. Jack stood and examined it. Antique, glass-fronted barrister bookcases lined the walls. There were small, brass nameplates attached to each door, and when he shifted his attention to the room itself, it took Jack a moment to realize the room’s windows had been sealed with what appeared to be sheets of metal.
Colton saw where his attention was directed and nodded. “Yeah. Lead sheets. Strangest damned thing.”
“Is the whole room like this?” Jack asked.
Ray answered. “No, sir. Just the windows. At first, someone thought maybe he had built himself an anti-radiation room, you know, the lead shielding and all, but the only other thing in the room is a trough under the doorway. It’s filled with salt.
“What?” Jack asked.
Ray stepped aside as Jack and Colton squatted down. Jack pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a pocket, put them on, and gave the door-saddle on the floor a nudge. It moved a fraction of an inch, and then it grudgingly gave way. A narrow trough ran the length of the door saddle and under either side of the door’s frame. As the young officer had said, it was filled with salt. It appeared to be a mixture of rock and table salt.
Why is there a line of salt in the threshold? Is it for insects? Why mix rock and table salt? Jack took a small notepad out of his back pocket, retrieved a pen from another, and jotted the information about the salt and the lead down. He replaced the door saddle and stood up.
Jack walked to the nearest barrister bookcase and saw the brass nameplates were inscribed with names and dates. Silently, he walked around the room, writing down all the information. When he finished, Colton looked at him.
“What do you think?” the Concord captain asked.
“Don’t know, Colton,” Jack sighed, putting his notebook and pen away. “I’m going to look into it, though. Was the stuff in here worth anything?”
“Not that I can tell. The vic’s son gave us a list of items. I can forward it to you,” Colton added. “Most of the stuff was junk. A broken wristwatch, a checkbook. Hell, even a comic book from the late nineties. I checked that one out, guy at the local comic shop said it wasn’t worth more than a dollar or two.”
Jack shook his head. “Strange stuff, Colton. Yeah. I’ll check it out, look at any similarities with what happened in Anger. May take a bit.”
“That’s not a problem,” Colton responded. “I want to know why, and I want to know who. The ‘who’ more than the ‘why’ because the guy who was set up for this is more worried he’s going to get hit for having an alibi.”
“Who is he afraid of?” Jack asked.
“He won’t say,” Colton answered. “We told him if he doesn’t tell us, we can’t help him. Used all sorts of lines on him, too. The whole, ‘You’ve got a long sheet, kid and nobody’s going to care if you get hit’. He’s not buying it. I’ve got a couple of detectives really leaning on him. Thing is, since he has the damned alibi, we are back at square one for a suspect.”
Colton shook his head and then asked, “Do you need more time in here?”
“No,” Jack answered. “I’m good.”
The three men left the house, closing and locking up behind them.
Jack slipped his hands into his pockets and found himself wishing he was at the lake and fishing.
Chapter 22: Clearing His Head
Shane had grown up in Nashua, New Hampshire. Then, when he had finished high school, he had joined the Marines and traveled the world.
And I really don’t enjoy traveling anymore, he thought.
Most of his time in the Marines had been mundane, a fact few people realized. Marines weren’t killing people twenty-four seven. Combat arms Marines spent a majority of their time training to fight and stay alive, to carry the fight to the enemy, and to end the battle as quickly as possible to minimize casualties. Combat was a terrifying experience. Mastering fear and fighting for the men beside you were often the only way to get through a fight.
Shane had served under fantastic officers, men dedicated to their Marines, and to the art of war. He had learned when his brain needed to shut off in order to process information, and walking was the best way for him to do that.
Shane pulled into the parking garage near the Southern New Hampshire University Arena and got out of his car. He lit a cigarette and looked out at the brightly-lit city of Manchester. It had been a long time since he had wandered along Elm Street and a long walk would help him think.
And unlike Nashua, he didn’t have to worry about bumping into someone he knew in Manchester. With his hood up, hiding his lack of hair, Shane knew the likelihood of being seen by someone he knew was slim.
He preferred that.
Too many times in Nashua, he was stopped on his walk by someone with whom he had gone to school. They wanted to know how he was, what he had done in the Marines, to thank him for his service.
He didn’t want any of it.
Nashua no longer had a bookstore he could go to. The public library was focused on digital media. Too many people wanted to ask him questions about his life that he didn’t want to answer. Too many of them wanted to know what he was up to.
Hey, I talk to dead people. Done it since I was a kid, if you want to know why I was so messed up in school. Oh, yeah, let’s not forget there’s a little bit of PTSD thrown in from my time around the world, killing people. Watching my friends die. You know. Gets a little rough once in a while. Oh, you’re having a hard time because you can’t buy that new Audi. So sorry to hear that.
Maybe something will click, he thought, shaking his head. There has to be something that I’m missing.
Shane left the parking garage and turned left onto Elm Street when he reached the intersection. Elm served as Manchester’s Main Street, running for a little over nine miles, ending in a dead-end on either side.
Doesn’t that just scream New Hampshire? he thought with a wry smile.
Shane enjoyed the sound of traffic as it passed by, the voices of young people moving in and out of restaurants and shops.
He took a deep breath and let his anxiety out. His fingers twitched, and he realized he wanted a drink. He finished his cigarette and field-stripped the butt as he glanced around for a place that might satisfy his needs.
After a minute of additional walking, he spotted a place that appeared promising.
McGarvey’s, he thought. Well, seems like a decent place to grab a drink or two.
Shane entered the bar and caught the smell of stale beer and pool-cue chalk. Someone was singing Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” up on the karaoke machine and doing a decent job. Shane walked up to the bar, took a seat, and slipped the hood off his head. The bartender was a heavyset young woman in her twenties and tattooed from her wrists to her biceps, which were partly hidden by the “McGarvey’s” t-shirt she wore. Her hair was purple, shaved on either side and pulled back in a loose topknot. She had almost as much metal in her nose and ears as he did from shrapnel, and he grinned.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Good. You?”
“Workin’,” she winked. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey, please,” Shane told her. He got his wallet, pulled out sixty dollars, and handed it to her. She raised an eyebrow.
“You want me to keep filling it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Shane grinned. “That’s the plan. Will this cover a bottle?”
“Hell,” she laughed, “it’ll cover two. You going to drink two?”
“I hope not,” Shane told her. “I don’t want any change.”
“I will happily help part you from your money,” she said. “You want it in shots, or do you want me to fill the tumbler?”
“Yeah, just fill the tumbler. Otherwise, you’ll be running back and forth.”
“Sounds good to me.” She left and returned a moment later with his drink. “Holler if you need anything.”
Shane nodded, picked up the glass, and took a drink. He felt his nerves settle and smiled at the thought of Carl complaining about his drinking.
I give him a hard time. I wonder if he ever gets worried about what will happen to him when I die? Shane took another drink. Will he and the others in the house let someone else live there? Hell, I haven’t even thought about what should happen to the house after I die. Could I bequeath it to someone? Maybe the historical society. Damn, I don’t know.
He finished the whiskey, and the bartender came over a moment later. Wordlessly, she refilled the glass, and Shane nodded his thanks.
I don’t need to worry about the house right now, he reminded himself. I need to focus on who the hell killed the Morans.
He stared down into the glass, the noises and smells of the bar fading away as he focused on the liquid.
There have been three robberies that I know of. First, the Morans. Second, the woman in Connecticut. Third, the man in Concord. Haunted items were stolen from each. The first theft I know of resulted in a serious mishap, two of the players were left dead. It was well-planned, except for the fact that they didn’t realize everyone in the place knew how to shoot. So, if I were running the operation, what would I do?
Shane sipped at his drink and considered the issue.
I’d get a list of targets that may or may not shoot back. I’m looking for professional thieves. Men and women who are about getting the job done and not gunning the people down since that backfired.
But that doesn’t play out.
The old woman was killed, and the guy in Concord was shot.
Maybe those were planned a little better? He stared into his glass for a moment. Yeah. That would make more sense. Moran and Moran was robbed during business hours. Who knows about the old woman, but the man was shot in the middle of the night. Makes sense if she was killed then, too.
Right, we have people who may or may not be able to defend themselves, Shane thought. Even if they can, the robbery takes place at night. The police don’t notice the old woman’s belongings missing because they don’t know. Not like Tom did. That’s the only reason I know about it. Then, with the old man, the son knew what he collected, which is why James was able to tell me.
So, I’m back to the crimes being planned out. If this is an operation led by one person, how is the information getting to them? Who has a list of buyers? That definitely wasn’t something stolen from Moran and Moran.
Shane shook his head and straightened up. The sounds and smells of the bar rushed back into the forefront, and he took another drink.
I think it’s time to strike out for a longer walk, he told himself. He finished the whiskey, and when the bartender walked over to check on him, he smiled as he stood.
“No, I’m good,” he answered to her unspoken question.
“You sure?” she asked. “You had a hell of a lot. How can you even stand up?”
“A lot of bad living,” he confessed. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
Shane nodded and left the bar.
Chapter 23: Moving Forward
Johnny didn’t mind spending time at the Clubhouse. What irritated him was the constant company.
Marty didn’t seem to care what anyone liked or disliked. The man was planning another job, and so Craig and Pete were there as well. Sitting in the small room, Johnny rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked out at the streetlights. It was almost midnight, according to his watch, and he wondered if Marty ever slept.
Probably not, Johnny decided, pulling on his shoes and getting to his feet. The temperature in the room sank, and Derek appeared by the door.
“How are ya?” the dead man asked.
“Tired,” Johnny murmured. “What are you up to?”
“Gonna go out,” Derek replied. “Yeah, yeah, don’t say nothin’ at all. I know, I won’t go near any place hereabouts. I’m just a-goin’ to walk. That’s it. I like to see the sights. I won’t let anybody see me.”
Johnny nodded. “Cool.”
“Where are you goin’?” the dead man asked.
“Downstairs,” Johnny yawned. “We’ve got a meeting.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
Before Johnny could answer, Derek vanished.
Whatever , Johnny thought and left the room. When he reached the planning room, he found Craig and Pete playing a game of checkers while Marty watched from his chair. The men waved greetings to him, and Johnny did the same. He walked over to the refrigerator, got himself a beer, and went and sat across from Marty.
The man smiled. “How’s that shoulder, champ?”
“Better every day,” Johnny informed him. He yawned again, and Marty nodded.
“Yes, everyone’s a little tired today.” He glanced over at Pete and Craig. “As soon as they finish the tie-breaker over there, we’ll start the discussion.”
“Cool,” Johnny replied. He drank his beer and waited. In a few minutes, Craig swore, and Pete laughed. The two men stood and joined Johnny and Marty.
“This one is going to be the easiest so far,” Marty began, grinning at them all. He got to his feet and stretched. “The last job was a little stressful,” he stated, nodding to Johnny, “and I get that. I do. That’s why we’re doing an easy job.”
“How easy?” Pete asked.
“Easy as pie,” Marty chuckled. “The owner of this particular collection, well, they’re in a nursing home recovering from a fall. I found that little nugget of information this morning. He’s a widower, children all live on the West Coast and don’t have time for their father. Evidently, he was a bit of a hardcase. His collection is currently left unprotected on a small farm in Burlington, Vermont. And while we don’t have a specific location for the items in the home, I will say that we are fortunate his house is the only damned one on the road.”
“We’re still going in at night?” Johnny asked.
“Yes,” Marty answered, “as much as I believe this is an easy job, we’re still not going to take unnecessary risks. I have a layout of the home, and a scout checked it out again for me this morning. You will be going in tomorrow night. I’m not sure how long the owner is going to be in the nursing home for his rehab. Cars will be positioned, and you will all bring a change of clothes. In case it goes south, you still need to be ready.”
“Guns on this one?” Craig asked.
Marty shook his head. “No. No one’s home. If someone is there, then you call it off and get back here. We’ll plan it out again later. Understood?”
They murmured their assent.
“Good. Now, the word is, this guy has a lot of stuff,” Marty smiled. “A real lot. It’ll be the biggest score yet. As you may have heard today, there was a lot of tromping around. Lots of guys you normally don’t see around doing some work, and I want to show you why. Come on, follow me.”
They did so, and Marty led them up to the third floor. He flicked on several overhead lights as they went, and soon, they all stood in a large room. Each window was boarded up and sealed with heavy plastic. Shelves stood along the walls, and there was a large “U” of PVC piping around each shelf.
“We’ve been fortunate so far,” Marty told them. “We haven’t run into any of the ghosts which are said to inhabit the objects. Now, I know you may have some doubts as to whether there are such things as ghosts, but I can tell you, I’m a believer.”
Johnny looked at the man and saw his face was paler, his lip twitching nervously.
“I had a meeting with a representative for our client earlier today,” Marty explained. “He brought proof with him. Proof that—not to put too fine a point on it—scared the absolute hell out of me.”
Craig swore, and Marty nodded.
“Yes, I said a few things along those lines, Craig.” Marty led them back out of the room, closing and locking it behind him. “Now, I want you to understand that I have put those shelves in, and what constitutes security for the items, at the, well, encouragement of our client. Considering the large number of items I hope to be obtaining over the next week or so, the client felt it would be best for us to store the objects here until a vehicle could be sent to claim them. Understood?”
Johnny nodded.
“Good.” Marty sighed. “All right, let’s go back downstairs. I want to go over the layout of the house and where the objects are supposed to be. Then, we’ll discuss exactly what materials should be brought for the job.”
As they walked down the hall, Johnny glanced back at the room and wondered what sort of security precautions someone could take against the dead.
Chapter 24: After Midnight on Elm
Shane had begun to sober up, and he didn’t like it.
He reached the end of Elm Street, stood in the darkness for a moment, and then turned around. It would take him close to two hours to walk back to the parking garage.
I may have to call an Uber to bring me back to my ride, he thought, opening a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes. Have to see in half an hour or so.
He walked at a steady pace, enjoying the sounds of the city that reached his ears. Occasionally, a car rolled past him, bass thumping. In some houses, the lights were still on, the residents still up. The flicker of televisions could be seen around the edges of blinds or glimpsed through windows.
As he came up to an intersection, he saw a dead man standing across the street, staring into a house. For a moment, Shane considered walking up to the man and having a chat, then he decided against it. He was tired, and he had a long way to go.
As Shane crossed the intersection, the dead man noticed and turned to face him. Shane nodded and kept walking.
“Hey.”
Shane reached the sidewalk and stopped. Should have pretended not to see him.
“Hey yourself,” Shane replied.
The dead man stood in the middle of the street and stared at him. “You can see me.”
“Yeah.”
The ghost scratched the back of his head, and Shane saw that one side of his face was swollen as if he’d been in a fight. For some reason, the man’s appearance caused a twinge of memory. Why?
“How can you see me?” the dead man asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I don’t want to be seen.”
“Yeah, well, certain people see ghosts, it doesn’t matter whether you want us to see you or not.” Shane shrugged. “Sorry.”
He turned to leave, and the dead man called out again.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
Shane sighed and faced the ghost again. “I’m going to go wherever the hell I want to. Funny how that works.”
The dead man took a step closer, his face twisted with anger. “I didn’t say you could go. I ain’t done talkin’ to you.”
“Doesn’t seem to me that I should care. Or that I do care.” Shane slipped his hands into his pockets, found the iron rings he kept there, and put them on. “So, have a nice night. I want to get home.”
“You live ‘round these parts?” the dead man demanded.
Shane flipped him off.
The dead man moved closer. “I used to break guys bigger’n you in the Army.”
Shane laughed. “You’re not in the Army. You’re not alive. In fact, you’re dead on what is arguably the longest dead-end street in the US. So, I hope you enjoy the hell out of it.”
“I’m a-goin’ to smash your teeth in,” the dead man growled, his fists clenched as he stepped up onto the curb. He threw a sharp, fast punch that Shane sidestepped.
Concentrating, Shane brought an elbow up and smashed the side of the dead man’s head and sent him stumbling.
The ghost jerked around, his eyes wide. “How in the hell did you do that?!”
“I’ve got a lot of tricks,” Shane answered. “I’ll show you a few more if you don’t leave me alone and find something else to do.”
The dead man threw a second punch, hesitated, then another that would have caught Shane in the stomach if he hadn’t expected the quick attack. The ghost’s eyes were wide as both of his blows failed to connect, and then he barked out a curse as Shane focused and drove another elbow into the dead man’s back.
Screaming, the ghost threw a series of punches as he came at Shane again, and Shane lost his temper.
He snapped out a single backhand that connected with the side of the dead man’s head. As the iron passed through the ghost, he vanished, leaving Shane alone on Elm Street. He stood for a moment, looking to see if the dead man would reappear. When he didn’t, Shane sighed, took his phone out, and called for an Uber.
***
Shane debated whether he should grab an hour of sleep in his car or drive the twenty minutes home and sleep in his own bed.
His phone rang suddenly, and when he looked at the caller ID, he was surprised to see James Moran’s name and number. Frowning, Shane answered.
“Ah, I hope I didn’t wake you, Shane,” James apologized.
“No, not at all. What’s going on?”
“I have some additional information for you,” James explained. “I have someone who is rather sympathetic to our family in the local police department. He told me they have identified the men killed in the robbery.”
“Okay, what do you have for me?” Shane thought, And why couldn’t it have been emailed?
Because he’s stressed out. Don’t be a jerk.
“I’ll send you their names and such,” James stated, as though understanding what Shane was thinking, “but I wanted to let you know that one of the men lived in Hudson, New Hampshire, and the other lived in Pinardville.”
“They were both from here?” Shane asked.
“Yes. In fact, each was a career criminal, and their permanent residences were in New Hampshire. They were local to you, Shane.”
“Damn.” He paused. “Yeah, okay. Definitely send me the information on them. I’m headed back to my house now. I’ll look at it first thing when I wake up.”
“I will do that, Shane. Thank you.”
“Sure thing, James.”
Shane ended the call and set the phone down as he started the engine. He left the parking garage, got onto the highway, and as he headed toward the Bedford Tolls, he had a sharp realization.
The dead man who had confronted him. He knew why the swollen face was familiar.
One of the ghosts stolen from Moran and Moran had been a small man who had been beaten to death outside a bar.
Whoever is robbing collectors and killing them, Shane realized, gripping the steering wheel tightly, is in Manchester.
For a moment, Shane considered returning to Manchester.
I can’t, he thought. I’m no good like this. Too tired. I need to do this when I’m fresh.
He clenched his teeth and shook his head, frustrated and worried that his physical needs might cost someone their life.
Chapter 25: Rise and Shine
Jack Thompson sat at his dining table, the case reports from Anger spread out and separated in neat piles. He had suspicious deaths in one, natural deaths in another, and reports of paranormal activity in a third. A list of deaths, both natural and those that could be classified as either homicides or suicides, was in front of him, a splash of dried coffee on the upper right-hand corner.
Jack held a pen in his hand, and he tapped the end of it in a slow, rhythmic fashion on the table as he stared at the paper. After a moment, he marked those cases which had some sort of frostbite associated with them.
There were more than a few.
He looked at the case from Manchester, the one where the woman had been found beaten to death behind an abandoned building. Next, he picked up a blog post he had printed from his computer. Jack put on his reading glasses and skimmed the post again.
It had been written by a husband and wife ghost-hunting team. Brian and Jenny, the authors, didn’t pull any punches in their descriptions or with the information they shared. There was a no-nonsense air to the site that Jack had appreciated.
People associate cold spots with ghosts, the post read. This drop in temperature is increased not only by the ghost’s proximity to the person reporting it but to the strength of the ghost as well. If the ghost reaches out and touches the bare skin of an individual, frostbite can occur. This can be something as minor as pinpricks, to the total destruction of a limb.
Life isn’t a movie. No ghost is going to gently and lovingly touch you. If they want to touch you, it’s going to hurt, and you’re going to wish they hadn’t.
Jack shook his head. Frostbite from a ghost’s touch.
He reached out and took a file from the stack of homicides in Anger. Flipping it open, he retrieved a photograph and saw what looked like fingerprints on the victim’s ankle.
Leaning against the back of his chair, Jack stared at the image. Then, he picked up a photograph of the victim from Manchester. There were several small spots of frostbite noted by the coroner.
Jack’s phone rang, and he answered. “Morning.”
“Jack, it’s Colton.”
Jack took off his reading glasses and set them on the table. “It’s six in the morning, Colton. Everything okay in Concord?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Business as usual. Listen, I gave Nashua a call to see if they knew Shane Ryan.”
“Do they?”
“Officially? No. Unofficially, that is an emphatic yes,” Colton replied.
Jack frowned. “How is it unofficially?”
“Seems like most of the force knows him. He’s helped them with strange cases before. Not much, and he’s not like psychic or anything,” Colton stated hurriedly. “One of the detectives, a former Marine who served with Shane, he told me the guy speaks to ghosts.”
“What, like a medium or something?”
“No,” Colton answered. “Nothing like that. I guess he just sits down and has a talk with them. I don’t know for sure. The detective didn’t give me a lot of details.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Jack said, getting to his feet and pacing the kitchen while he spoke. “Shane Ryan talks to dead people. We see him in Concord, outside a murder scene where supposedly ghostly stuff was stolen?”
“That’s it.”
“What the hell?” Jack muttered. “Somehow, he knew about the items. Do you think it’s worth bringing him in to see if he knows who the killer is?”
“Not yet,” Colton sighed. “See, I asked the detective the same thing. He said no. Knowing Shane, the detective said the guy’s probably working the case from the dead side. Freaks me out to think some amateur Sherlock Holmes is poking around, and I sure would like to know how he was told about the murder in the first place. Anyway, I just wanted to share that info with you.”
“Thanks. I still think we ought to pull him in,” Jack stated.
“I know. If I do, I’ll let you know so you can see what’s up.”
“Thanks.” Jack ended the call and set down his phone.
Shane Ryan,
he thought, sitting in his chair and picking up his reading glasses. He jotted the man’s name down on a notepad. Then, he turned his attention back to the files and tried to see what, if anything, could connect them other than the frostbite.
Chapter 26: Vermont at Night
There was still snow on the ground, and Johnny hated it.
Not only did he dislike the cold, but he also despised the fact that they had to walk along the road rather than cut through the backwoods. It didn’t matter if there weren’t any other houses on the street. Walking out in the open left him feeling exposed. Despite it being eleven at night, someone could easily drive down it and spot them.
When they finally reached the farmhouse, Johnny was glad to see the lights were out. Marty’s scout had reported it as still empty, and that no one had been there. The owner had the foresight to put a temporary hold on his mail delivery, so there was no worry about anyone stopping by to bring it in.
The unbroken snow around the house left him uncomfortable. Their footprints would be easily seen come morning.
Another issue he had was the need to enter through the front door.
Pete stepped off the road and onto the property, and both Johnny and Craig made it a point to walk in the younger man’s footsteps. It would help hide their tracks, though not by much.
When they stepped onto the large porch, Pete went directly to the door, crouched down, and in a matter of moments, he had the door open. They entered the house, closing the door behind them.
Johnny’s nose wrinkled at the heavy smell of pipe tobacco and sweat.
“I’m turning the light on,” Pete murmured. Johnny closed his eyes and opened them a moment after he heard the click of the switch.
Blinking, he looked around.
Dust covered most of the items in the hallway, and the floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in months, if not years. None of the doors off the main hall were closed, and by the stacks of newspapers and mail on the stairs, he doubted if the owner of the house had traveled beyond the first floor in decades.
Well, at least that narrows down where we have to look, he thought.
“Right,” Craig said, “let’s find the stuff so we can get out of here.”
With a nod, Johnny turned into the first room on the right, flipping the light on when he went in. He found what he assumed was the man’s den. There was a large, old Zenith-brand television with a rabbit-ears antenna on top. The couch was piled high with blankets and pillows while the room’s only chair stood off to one side, angled to face the television. The chair had once been brown leather but was, as far as Johnny could tell, more duct tape than anything else. There was a lack of photographs and other paraphernalia that would speak of a man who had a family.
Guess the dislike is mutual, Johnny thought and stepped further into the room. He searched for anything which might appear to be some sort of haunted item, but there was nothing that caught his eye.
The room’s too warm. Johnny looked around. If the ghosts are anything like Derek and that crazy lady who attacked me, this place should feel like a damned freezer.
Satisfied that there was nothing for him to find, Johnny left the room, turning the light off as he went.
As he stepped out into the hallway, he saw Pete coming out of a second room. The younger man shook his head, and together they walked down the hallway. Craig poked his head out of a door, grinned, and declared, “Found it.”
Johnny and Pete hurried to the room.
It was, Johnny realized, probably the only clean room in the house.
He supposed it had once been a library or a study. Half-bookcases went around the room and they were crammed with a huge variety of items. He saw children’s toys, books, pieces of jewelry, bits of money, crockery, silverware, and every other item he could conceive of. Johnny even caught sight of an old Cadillac emblem. While they were clean, there wasn’t any sort of organization he could see. It was as though the collector had stuffed the shelves as he found the items.
How did he do it? Johnny asked himself, taking off his knapsack and removing the duffel-bags. Pete and Craig carried Ziploc freezer bags and large amounts of salt in their knapsacks. How could he tell what items were haunted and what ones weren’t? Did he really know?
Squatting down, he opened the duffel-bags and tossed one to Craig and then another to Pete.
Without worrying anymore about how the collector had known if his goods were the real deal, Johnny set about his work.
The men were silent as they dropped items into the freezer bags, covered them with salt, and then placed them in the duffle-bags. As they moved through the collection, Johnny noticed his fingers were becoming numb. A moment later, Craig swore as he dropped a black and white poker chip to the floor. Before he bent down to pick it up, he rubbed his hands together.
“Did it get colder in here?” Pete asked.
“That’s not a good sign,” Johnny told him.
“What do you mean?” Craig asked.
Johnny started to answer but stopped as a tall, broad woman flickered into existence. For a moment, she was clearly visible, then she vanished.
“Did you see that?” Craig whispered. Johnny nodded.
“See what?” Pete turned around to face Craig, and the woman reappeared.
She was taller than any woman Johnny had ever seen, and her face was sunburned. Her cheekbones were high and her eyes widespread, her dirty yellow hair pulled back into a pair of braids. She wore a homespun dress, and her hands were huge, the knuckles swollen with dried blood on them.
“What the hell?” Pete managed, and then, the dead woman struck him with a backhand.
The side of Pete’s head caved in, and the man dropped to the floor, his body limp and still except for his left foot, which twitched for a moment.
As Craig raced past him and into the hall, Johnny snatched up both his and Pete’s duffel-bags. He backed out of the room, watching the dead woman, who stared at him with remorseless eyes. Once he was in the hallway, he set down the bags.
“What are you doing?!” Craig snapped.
“We need our knapsacks,” Johnny replied, his voice tight. “Get the car, bring it up to the house.
“She’s going to kill you, too!”
“I sure as hell hope not,” Johnny responded. “Go.”
Craig hurried out of the house, and Johnny found himself alone with the dead woman and Pete’s body.
“Why didn’cha run?” she asked, her voice as deep as a man’s.
“Won’t do any good,” Johnny answered, keeping his tone calm. “You can kill me before I get two steps towards the door.”
She smirked, flashing him crooked teeth. “Ayuh, that I can. You afraid?”
“Course I am.”
She let out a braying laugh. “Pappy said he weren’t afraid of me. I drowned him in the well. Mama, too. Couldn’t drink no water from it. Stupid.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Johnny replied, listening for the sound of the car and hoping Craig wasn’t going to leave him alone in the house for good.
“Why?” she asked.
“Must have been a pain to get water after that,” Johnny answered. “If they weren’t stupid, you wouldn’t have had to kill ’em, right?”
The dead woman laughed and nodded her head. “Ayuh! I tol’ ’em I would kill ’em if they kept ridin’ me the way they did. Always ridin’ me.”
She looked down at Pete’s corpse. “He shouldna looked at me the way he did.”
“No,” Johnny agreed, “he shouldn’t have.”
“I like you,” the dead woman stated, narrowing her eyes. “Youse is all right. All right. I ain’t leavin’ here, am I?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“Nope,” she told him. “I don’ wanna. Grew up here. Lived here with ma little brother, till somethin’ bust in me an’ I died. He left a little while ago. Said he’ll be back. Jus’ gonna get fixed. Won’t leave.”
“Whatever you say,” Johnny smiled. “You mind if we take the other stuff, the stuff we loaded into the bags?”
“Nope. You want your friend back, too?” she asked, glancing down at Pete’s body.
“No.”
She let out her loud, braying laughter again. “Good. I’m gonna keep him with me till my little brother gets back. He’ll have fun with ’im. Or he won’t. Ain’t nothin’, really.”
The sound of the car’s engine reached his ears, and Johnny rejoiced inwardly.
The dead woman heard it, too. “You want anythin’ else outta here?”
“If I can grab the bags, that’d be great,” Johnny answered.
“Ayuh, c’mon in and grab ’em.”
Johnny did so, making it a point not to stare at her or Pete’s body. He gathered up the knapsacks, and when he straightened up, he found the dead woman grinning at him.
“I bet you smell good,” she whispered. “I bet you smell sweet.”
He smiled at her. “Nobody’s ever said that before.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then she laughed again. “Tell you what, sweet-smell, you c’mon back here when you die. I’ll show you a good time. Yes, yes, I will.”
“I’ll do that,” Johnny lied.
Leaving Pete behind, Johnny picked up the duffel-bags and hurried toward the front door as Craig’s footsteps rang out on the porch.