Chapter Sixteen

As they walked further down the slope, the great scarp of granite seemed to rise until, as they made a turn towards it, it filled the view ahead.

"The ground's pretty level here," Doug observed. "It must be one of the old fields."

"According to Mack, it would've been perfect for setting a biplane down on," Martin replied. "Take away the trees and picture it in your mind's eye."

Doug squinted and nodded. "Yep, reckon Mack's right. I wouldn't fault her on anything to do with aircraft."

"Keep the noise down, guys," Lacon advised. He pointed at the ground. "Those tire tracks are heading right for the bluff. We could have company."

With an unspoken accord, he and Pete drew their handguns once more and rechecked them. Martin and Claudia glanced at each other and instinctively hung back. Only Doug went forward, his journalist's curiosity overcoming his caution.

The sound of a musical clinking carried to them on the still air. "Bottles?" Lacon mouthed silently to Pete, who nodded.

Following the noise, after a few minutes they saw ahead of them a dark mass of ivy spreading over the rock. Tracing the line of a fault down the face of the bluff Martin saw a darker area amidst the vegetation which resolved itself into a sizeable cave mouth some sixty feet across. The clinking sound grew louder, and someone was whistling a happy little tune.

Pete shook his head then looked a question at Lacon, who grinned and nodded. Cupping his hands to his mouth he called, "Hey! You in the cavern! This is the sheriff! Come out with your hands up!"

The bottles clattered and something crashed loudly. Martin winced. "There goes a few thousand dollars' worth of Scotch!"

"No loss!" Gerry muttered. "I'm sick o' that stuff."

"Don't shoot! I'm coming out, I'm coming out!" came a nervous voice.

A small figure appeared, clad in a bright orange waterproof jacket, his hands raised as high as they could stretch. He blinked at the group nervously through spectacles covered in condensation. "I'm not doing anything wrong!" he quavered.

"Are you alone in there?" Lacon demanded, keeping the man and the cave mouth covered.

"Yeah!" the man cried after a pause.

Lacon and Ashby shared a knowing glance. "Bullshit! Come on out, get down and spread 'em!" the sheriff ordered. "Agent Ashby? Would you cover me while I check out this joker?"

"With pleasure, Sheriff."

The man lowered himself clumsily to the ground and spread his limbs and Lacon executed a quick and thorough body search as he lay trembling on the wet grass.

Martin looked around. "You can't see this place until you're up close," he said to Doug, who was busy taking pictures. "When the trees are in full leaf, it'd be practically invisible."

"An ideal place to hide a plane." Claudia nodded then shivered and thrust her hands deep into her jacket pockets. "Or two bodies."

"He's clean," Lacon called. "Okay, feller, get up and state your name and business here."

"Michael, Michael P. Ryan. I…" He glanced back at the cave. "There's an old airplane in there, along with a load of old booze; real quality stuff."

Lacon glanced at the cave. "It's well hidden. How did you find it?"

Ryan looked at the open display of the law around him and seemed to sag. "I guess you may as well know. I was up here earlier this year on a charity hike through the mountains and I got lost. There was a storm coming on so I looked for shelter. I found the cave, saw all the booze. It's like an Aladdin's cave for alcoholics! Four crates of the stuff, all full of genuine old Scotch!

"When the storm cleared, I took a couple of bottles and left. I was going to tell someone about it, honest, but then I thought…" He hung his head. "I thought I'd come back with my brother's quad bike when Thanksgiving came and the tourist season was over and take it all home."

"Yet you gave one bottle to the man down at the Knight's Lodge resort," Martin pointed out.

No one missed the surreptitious glance the man cast towards the cave. "He did me a big favor. I wanted to repay him in some way, and figured the Scotch would do. I had another bottle. Two was all I could carry with all my hiking gear."

"And if he hadn't taken the bottle, I wouldn't have got out of here." Gerry sighed, walking past the group and into the cave. "Give the guy a break!"

"Come with us," Lacon commanded the hiker. "And don't try to run!"

They moved forward to the entrance where a quad bike stood, its headlights shining into the cave, a metal rack hitched to the back and hung about with yellow and black bungee cords. A bright red plastic crate stood beside it, filled with bottles of Scotch. Through the holes in the crate the liquid glowed in the reflected light with a rich amber hue.

Sheriff Lacon drew a bottle out and held it up to read the peeling label. "Holy cow!" He laughed. "You could have a very happy Thanksgiving with all this booze."

"Frankly, Sheriff, you can keep it," Pete said as he came up to examine it. "I'm a sour-mash man myself."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Martin murmured to Claudia, who hid a smile.

Pete turned back to call Ryan over. "Have you found any papers in with this stuff?" he demanded.

"Papers?" Ryan shook his head. "No, sir. This is all I got so far. There're three other crates in the airplane, though. They're wood with tarpaulin tacked onto 'em. I'm not sure if they're sound so I took care, got these bottles out one at a time."

"Good. Now, Mr. Ryan, go and wait outside." Pete stooped to take the ignition key from the quad bike. "Just removing temptation," he added, and winked.

Ryan walked away, crestfallen.

The two law-enforcers switched on their powerful flashlights and the added light filled in more of the scene inside the cave.

Out of the darkness there loomed a hulking shape, a great insect of rust-red and tattered silver. Two sets of wings, once proud and tight, now sagged dejectedly. The fat rubber tires had long since rotted and burst, leaving the aircraft resting on the rusted metal wheel rims. Next to the aircraft and partly covered by a rotted tarpaulin was a battered Ford truck of 1920's vintage.

Pete walked toward the aircraft and raised a hand, almost tenderly, to touch the rotting remains of a wooden propeller. A brief flash of actinic light made everyone jump as if galvanized. Pete turned on Doug who was lowering his camera. "For Chrissakes! You stupid fuck! Warn people before doing that again!" the agent snapped.

Doug grinned sheepishly.

"There she is." Gerry sighed, oblivious to the fuss. "A Spartan C-3. My sweet li'l Sally-Jane. I named her after my wife." Gerry walked over and patted the hulk. "I called her that 'cos like the real Sally-Jane, I climbed into her three times a day and took her to heaven and back." Martin winced. Gerry looked sheepish. "Yeah, I know. It seemed funny and kinda sweet at the time. Sally didn't mind, she thought it was a hoot." He looked back at the old airplane and sighed. "Poor ol' girl. She's not much to look at now, but boy! She flew like a dream back then."

"I believe you," Martin murmured.

He moved past the rusted hulk, the radial engine a solid lump of corrosion sinking slowly back into the rotting airframe. The three cockpit and passenger spaces were tattered holes, through which the remnants of tarpaulin-covered wooden crates were visible. Just legible were the words Sally-Jane, painted in black script on the doped fabric. Another three modern crates stood on the ground by the rear-most cockpit, three gleaming bottles nestling in one. A fourth bottle lay smashed on the floor, the contents adding the rich aroma of Scotch to the wet green odor in the cave.

The sheriff shone his flashlight into the deeper shadows at the rear of the cave. "Mr. Baker?" he called. "We know you're in there! Make it easy on yourself and come on out with your hands up!"

A stone clinked on stone in the darkness at the back of the cave. After a few moments a very sheepish looking Bruce Baker emerged, blinking into the light.

Martin felt his skin tighten like a drum-skin as the air in the cavern turned a bone-chilling cold. Dark shadows oozed from the rock walls to coalesce into two humanoid shapes between the aircraft and the old truck. Gerry stepped back, his fists swinging up into a fighting pose as the two black figures solidified into grinning skeletal forms wearing sharp suits and fedoras. One had a toothpick wedged in an absurd fashion between its rotting teeth. Martin realized he was looking at Joe Minotti and Ezra Ellis.

Claudia gave a strangled cry. "Marty!"

"I see them!"

Still around, fly-boy? Minotti scoffed, but Martin could sense the surprise behind the words. When the empty eye sockets turned to him they glowed a deep red and the surprise turned to outright fear. You too? Fuck!

"Yes, Minotti; your little trap back at the ravine failed," Martin sneered. "Removing that warning sign was a nice touch! I saw where you'd thrown it when we were making our way back."

The skeleton rounded on Gerry. You made a bad move comin' back here with your friends!

"We ain't afraid of you, you li'l bastard!" Gerry growled moving his fists in a milling action. "You killed me already, what can you do to me now?"

This…

The ragged tarpaulin covering on the old airplane flapped violently and flew into the air. Twisting and writhing, it took the form of a black shrouded figure, which swooped on the startled people with an unearthly shriek. The air in the cave was suddenly filled with windblown debris, filling ears and eyes and noses.

Instinctively Sheriff Lacon fired his gun, the round passing harmlessly through the shrouded thing. It lunged at him, forcing him to duck and roll.

"What the hell?" Pete yelled, as the shroud soared up to hover over their heads. It shrieked again, forcing the agent to clap his hands over his ears. The whiskey bottles rattled in the crates.

Martin grabbed Claudia's arm and dragged her to the cave mouth. "Stay here!" he shouted.

"What are you going to do?" she yelled.

"I'm going to get the others out of there!"

Martin ran back into the cave, quickly scanning for human and ghost alike. Sheriff Lacon lay stunned under the aircraft, his flashlight spinning slowly on the floor. Pete Ashby was crouching by his side, casting quick glances around for the deathly shroud. Martin soon spotted it.

Doug was crouching by the side of the old truck, trying to aim his camera at the shroud as it flew bat-like around the cave. Joe Minotti and Ezra Ellis glowed with an eldritch green light in the darkness, their mocking laughter echoing eerily in the roaring of the wind that filled the cavern. Gerry ducked and wove, his face covered by his arms; he seemed to be trying to close in on the other ghosts. There was no sign of Baker.

"Doug! Look out!" Martin yelled.

The shroud swooped. Doug gave a cry and tried to run, but the thing scooped him up and smothered him instantly. The mocking laughter rang louder as the journalist writhed within the folds of animated tarpaulin.

Martin ran over to it and was appalled to see the surface turn from tatty fabric to a slick tar-like substance which formed itself tightly about Doug. As he tore at it, the substance stuck to his fingers—then began to creep up his arms, binding him to the creature. An oily stench rose from it, acrid and biting in his sinuses.

Center! Center! Martin closed his eyes and strove to think as the foul mulch writhed higher. The tarp does not exist in this form. It cannot. It's an illusion.

Amidst the shrieking wind and Doug's muffled cries, Martin forced himself to become calm.

It's an illusion…

As his mind became more ordered, more tranquil amidst the chaos, Martin could feel the clinging sensation fade from his hands. It's an illusion… The touch of old fabric returned, coarse and brittle under his fingers. He half-opened his eyes then opened them fully, forcing his will to override all extra sensory intrusion.

Gradually the black muck returned to nothing more than tattered tarred fabric. Doug fought his way clear and gasped for breath, his eyes wild.

Martin smiled. "Nice to see you again! Come on; let's get you out of here."

* * * *

Pete had dragged Sheriff Lacon out of the cave by the time Martin emerged, Doug stumbling along by his side. Michael P. Ryan had fled, leaving the quad bike sitting outside the cave.

Claudia helped the battered journalist to sit on a pile of leaves well away from the cave mouth then rushed over to Martin. "Are you okay?" she demanded. "What the hell's happening in there?"

"Joe and Ezra want to play," Martin growled. "I'll give 'em play, alright!"

"Where're Bruce and Gerry?"

"Bruce has vanished. Gerry's trying to get at the other ghosts." He saw her expression and clasped her tightly. "Don't worry! Gerry's strong now; he'll hold them until I'm ready." He looked over to where Pete was tending to Lacon. "Is the sheriff okay?" he called.

Pete looked up and waved. "He took a knock to his head. He'll live!"

"What are you going to do?" Claudia pressed.

"I'm going to put an end to this, once and for all." Martin grinned as he took a small plastic case from his pocket and extracted a paper-wrapped package from a compartment.

Claudia shivered. His grin was not nice! "What's that?"

He held it up. "This is the psychic equivalent of a stun grenade," he said. "It's a type of incense, blended to an old recipe."

"Will it work?" she asked dubiously, glancing from him to the ominously silent cave.

"Oh, yes." He nodded firmly, rising to his feet. "There're more extreme measures I can take, but, as a wise woman once told me, 'never use more power than you need to.' I firmly believe that."

A quick search of the ground yielded a twig, which he used to impale the small cube of hard brown paste. Claudia looked at it dubiously. "That stuff looks illegal!"

Martin laughed as he struck a match and held it to a corner of the cube. "I know what you mean. It can be awkward, sometimes, getting it through customs."

The cube glowed where the flame touched it, then began to smolder. Martin blew on it gently, and a sweet, pungent aroma filled the air in spite of the breeze. He turned to face the cave mouth and set his shoulders. "Right! Here goes…"

*

With firm tread Martin walked into the cave, and into the midst of a howling, icy gale. Battered and blown, he held on firmly to the incense, which glowed brightly and gave off a thicker plume of smoke as the rushing air hit it.

In the light of the quad's headlights and the discarded flashlights, Martin could see the figures of Gerry and the two gangsters, frozen in a battle of wills. A fourth figure, that of a tow-haired youth in dungarees had appeared beside Gerry, his face screwed up in concentration as he faced the gangsters. The air seemed to crackle around them, and the psychic backwash of their fight gave him a dull ache behind the eyes.

"Hold on, Gerry, old son," he muttered, pressing forward into the wind. "I'm coming. Just a little longer…"

Caught up in the violent wind, the stream of smoke from the incense soon filled the front of the cavern, and began to flow quickly to the rear. When it reached the two gangsters they jerked, then shuddered as if galvanized. Their bony jaws opened to emit a weird, ululating wail and Martin walked forward through air suddenly still once more.

"Joseph Minotti, Ezra Ellis, in the name of all that is holy, I abjure thee begone from this earth to thine eternal rest!" he cried in strident tones.

The old Gaelic prayer rose in his mind.

"Deep peace of the running wave to you…"

Their skeletal forms seemed to melt and flow…

"Deep peace of the flowing air to you…"

…revealing two frightened and confused young men, coughing violently as the incense grew thicker in the air with Martin's approach. The toothpick fell from Minotti's mouth to the floor.

"Deep peace of the quiet earth to you…"

They flung their arms up in front of their faces and screamed…

"Deep peace of the shining stars to you…"

Their figures wavered and swam like a mirage…

"Deep peace of the gentle night to you, now, and forever more…"

The gangsters flickered, faded, and vanished.

Martin sighed. "Blessed be!"

* * * *

"There's no way I can report any of this!" Pete growled some time later.

The others had moved tentatively into the cave at Martin's call, and were looking around in the forlorn hope of finding any changes. All was as it had been.

"Yeah, me neither," Sheriff Lacon said. He sounded groggy, and reached up to touch the large bump on his forehead. Then he looked at the distant figure of Bruce. "Don't know how we're going to explain what happened to him!"

The resort owner was sitting hunched on an upturned crate in the cave mouth, staring blankly at the ground by his feet. Claudia knelt beside him. She caught the sheriff's look and shook her head.

"Away with the fairies," Martin said with regret. "What he saw in there must have flipped his mind. He was smack in the middle of it all."

Doug grinned and held up his notepad. "It's still great copy for me!"

"Do you think people will believe you?" Pete grunted, giving the journalist a nasty look.

"I can damn well make them try," Doug responded defiantly. He turned to Martin. "Why were those ghosts here anyway?"

"I think it may have been my fault, indirectly," Martin admitted. "They must have been caught in a kind of limbo, somewhere between here, where they forced Cutie-Boy to kill Gerry, and the diner, where they met their deaths. When I touched that photograph, I inadvertently opened the interface between that limbo and this world. Those two emerged and sprang back here. Jack Minotti stayed in the photo until I released him."

"You want to write that up, Mr. Kenyon?" Pete grunted. "On your head be it, pal." He turned to the aircraft and stacked unused crates to form a step alongside the Spartan. "Let's take a look in here. It's what we came for."

Climbing up he peered inside the cockpits one at a time, his flashlight flickering through the holes in the fabric. "Helluva a mess in here," he said, his voice muffled as he leaned further in. The airframe gave a warning creak under his weight and he leaned back. "It might be easier if we cut our way in through the side."

Sheriff Lacon produced a large clasp knife and offered it to the agent. Pete turned his attention to the fuselage, selected a spot where a number of holes had already weakened the doped fabric, and began to cut. Within a few moments a flap of fabric had curled downward and he reached inside to work on the crates. An industrious few minutes passed as he cut the still-tough remains of the tarpaulin, his sawing the only sound to be heard above their breathing. Then Pete gave a grunt of triumph.

Drawing back, he stepped down from the crates and held up a flat, boxy shape, heavily wrapped in yet more tarpaulin. "Gentlemen, I think we have a result!" he cried.

Setting the object on a crate, he swiftly cut through the protective wrapper to expose a flat wooden box, still sound and whole thanks to the cover. There was a clasp with a small padlock on the front. Pete prized open the clasp with the knife and opened the lid. Lacon shone his flashlight inside. Brightly printed sheets of paper lay within.

"Treasury Bonds!" Pete said, rolling the words around as if savoring the taste.

"What'll I do about the booze?" Lacon asked, shining his torch over to the whiskey.

Pete glanced at him. "Call in the ATF; keep it; drink it; give it away; auction it for charity. I leave that entirely up to you, Sheriff." Pete stroked the top sheet tenderly with a fingertip. "These bonds are far more important than anything else here."

"I don't think so," Martin said quietly. Pete gave him a hard look and Martin gestured at the spirits of the pilot and the farmer's son, who stood quietly watching. "Where are your remains, gentlemen?" he asked gently.

Gerry looked around. "Over here, Marty," he said, pointing.

John Gottlieb nodded. "Me too."

Slowly, the spirit from the sky walked towards the back of the cave and squatted down.

"Sheriff? Pete?" Martin called. "Could you bring your flashlights over here, please?" Pete and Lacon came over, the bright spots of light dancing on the floor as they moved. "Shine the light over there, gentlemen," Martin directed, pointing to Gerry.

Claudia came up with the officer and quietly took Martin's hand. The beams swept along the cave floor, stopped, settled. Martin heard Lacon take a sharp intake of breath. There in the light lay a scattering of bones, yellow and green with age and rot. Small pieces of material clung to them in parts, all color long since leached from the fabric. That and a handful of corroded lumps which might once have been buckles and studs formed the remnant of what, with imagination, could have been a set of overalls—and a flying helmet.

Martin cleared his throat. "Sheriff, I believe these to be the remains of Gerry Maguire, a pilot from Albany. Somewhere here you'll also find the remains of one John Gottlieb, of Gottlieb's Farm, Gainesville."

John Gottlieb's spirit moved to hover over the bones. With a grateful look at Martin and Claudia, he faded from sight.

Gerry looked at them with a sad smile. "I'll be seein' ya, fellers!" he said.

Then he, too, faded into the bones.