Scott William Carter - [Myron Vale Investigation 01] - Ghost Detective

by Carter

  She stood on the porch for a long time, watching, scanning the trees, and I remained absolutely still. It was so quiet, except for the faint breeze, that even a single snap of a twig might alert her to my presence. I didn’t even hear any ghosts. I wondered if they were watching, too, as if this was all just an interesting spectacle to them. Finally, Beth marched north into the trees, toward the mountain, in a steady, monotonous gait that I could have picked out in a crowd. The crunch of her footsteps sounded as if they were coming right next to me.

  I watched the white of her shoes, flitting in and out of the trees. I couldn’t lose the shoes. When she’d gone as far as I dared, when the sound of her own footsteps was lost to me, I began to follow. I concentrated on the path, navigating toward spots on the ground, dry dirt and soft beds of needles, that muffled my footsteps.

  We walked for a long time, and now and then I lost her briefly only to pick her up again. I was careful not to gain on her. More than once the white sneakers stopped, and I could sense her studying the forest, listening. I stopped along with her, heart thudding away in my ears, the sweat on my back freezing immediately to my skin. It was during one of these stops that my head began to pound.

  It couldn’t have come at a worst time—my old friend, starting slow and gaining steam, that throbbing at the front of my skull where the .38 had made its home. All the symptoms reared their ugly heads: the nausea, the whoosh of wooziness, the bleariness in the eyes. I blinked and tried to follow her, lurching from one trunk to another. For a while I even managed to keep the fuzzy whiteness of her shoes in sight. Then it was gone.

  Leaning against a trunk, gritting my teeth at the pain, I scanned and re-scanned the forest, praying the shoes would come into view, but it was hopeless. I’d lost her. I was a crippled, useless joke of a detective, and I’d lost her.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the tree, the bark as cool as ice. Tony Neuman’s face, those chiseled cheekbones, those dead gray eyes, flared up in my mind, and I felt both helpless and enraged.

  He wouldn’t get away.

  Not now. Not when I was so close.

  As if in reply to my silent vow, I heard the murmur of chanting in the distance.

  With no other ideas, I followed the sound, tripping more than once on an unseen root or rock. Soon I came upon a clearing, where what little starlight that made it through the thick night air showed me a circle of six Native American men, their heads bowed, chanting in their own language. Their faces were painted white, feathers were braided into their hair, and most of their faces were bloodied, their wounds deep black gashes in the near darkness.

  I cleared my throat. They all looked at me, eyes flying wide with fright.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

  “I’m Myron Vale, the ghost detective.”

  The bigger of the men cautiously rose to his feet, his face as bone white as a skull’s. “I know you,” he said solemnly. “I hear your name spoken.”

  “I need your help,” I said. “If you help me, I’ll help you when you need it. There is a man hiding in this forest, a living man. The woman who lives nearby in a cabin brings him things. Do you know where he is?”

  The big Native American man hesitated, then spoke to his comrades in his own language. They spoke back. He nodded and turned back to me.

  “Why do you wish to find this man?” he asked.

  “He shot me,” I said, pointing to my scar.

  “And you wish … revenge?”

  “Justice,” I said.

  “Ah.”

  “I’m good to my word. If you ever need my help, I’ll be there for you. You can ask any—”

  He held up a hand. “We know your word is good—as good as any white man’s can be. You have simply never offered it to us before.”

  They conversed some more, then rose swiftly as one, the man who’d acted as their translator pointing the way. They hollered and whooped a battle cry, and I cringed, fearing I was losing the element of surprise, then remembered that neither Beth nor Tony would be able to hear them.

  As we set out into the forest, they flanked me in a V, the man who’d spoken to me at the front, the other braves spreading out to the sides with their tomahawks at the ready. The pulsing in my head was still there, and my vision was still blurred and my balance unsteady, but with them as my guide we made swift progress. We angled to the right, and though the way ahead seemed flat, we must have been going up ever so slightly, judging by the increased strain in my calves. It wasn’t long before I heard the murmur of a river.

  We crested a rise, the Native Americans crouching behind the trunks of the firs there, waving me forward. Joining them, I peered below, and the first thing I saw was a campfire perhaps a quarter-mile ahead, set back a short ways from a river that shimmered like a carpet of polished onyx. I felt moisture in the air. I saw the outline of a dome tent near the fire, as well as a couple of coolers. I saw the shadows of two people, one taller than the other.

  When I turned to thank my companions, I found I was alone.

  With the river, the wind, and the distance from the campfire, I was too far away to make out any conversation. Glock in hand, I crept along the rise until I was just above the campfire, close enough that I caught a whiff of wood smoke on the wind. They had their backs to me, and with the firelight and the openness of the sky above them, I could clearly see Beth’s white shoes. The man wore a camo jacket and had a rifle slung over his shoulder. They were whispering, then the man leaned over and cupped Beth’s face with both hands, kissing her.

  It was my moment. Glock aimed at him, safety off, I walked into the clearing from behind. The ground near the campfire was a mixture of pebble and dirt. Finally, my headache had subsided, my balance steady, my vision clear. I was halfway to them when the man broke off the kiss and veered toward me, bringing his rifle to bear.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  When he kept bringing the rifle up, I blasted an empty beer can on the ground near him. Dirt and rocks sprayed the air, and the can skittered high before plopping in the river. The shot made my ears ring, and the boom rolled over the trees and receded into the distance. My old police instincts kicked into gear, and I rushed forward, keeping the Glock trained on the man.

  “All right, all right,” he said, holding his rifle to the side.

  I felt both a surge of victory and a tremendous sense of relief, because not only did I recognize the man’s chiseled face in the firelight as Tony Neuman’s, even under a baseball cap, even with a scraggly dark beard, but I recognized the voice as the same one that had haunted my dreams. Nobody move! This is a robbery! There was no doubt now, and as I stopped within a few steps of him, I saw those same dead eyes peering back at me. Beth’s face was white as her shoes.

  “Drop it,” I said to Tony.

  He did, the rifle clattering on pebbles. He was thinner than in his photos, his face gaunt, the muscles in his neck defined. The fire crackled, shadows dancing around us, the smoke whipping up into the darkness.

  “How—how did you find us?” Beth asked.

  Tony snorted. “How do you think? He followed you.”

  “But I was so careful.”

  “Not careful enough, you stupid bitch.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “Just shut up!”

  Witnessing this little exchange, and seeing the adoring way Beth regarded him, even after being treated so poorly, made my stomach turn. I’d built this man up so much in my mind and now, facing him in the flesh, he was small and cruel and hardly worthy of all the animosity and fear I’d directed his way. I’d put dozens and dozens of guys like him behind bars. Maybe he was a little smarter, a little more handsome, but he was cut from the same cloth. Just another loser.

  “How much is it going to take?” he asked me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re obviously a smart guy—talented, resourceful. I’m sure we can c
ome to an arrangement here. What’s your price?”

  The anger he’d displayed toward Beth was gone; his voice was smooth, seductive almost. It was such an abrupt transformation that only a fool would fall for such fake sincerity—and yet, part of me wanted to fall for it. In the span of a few seconds, he’d showed me the two sides of himself: the lowlife thug he really was and the talented thespian who’d never met someone he couldn’t con. I finally had an inkling how he got not one, but three rich Thorne girls to fall for him.

  “I don’t want money,” I said.

  “Everybody wants money. It’s only a question of how many digits make your heart beat faster.”

  “I don’t want money from you.”

  “Oh, I see, holier than thou, huh? Fine. I don’t believe you, though. I’ve never met someone who couldn’t be bought, and believe me, I’ve met lots of people.”

  “Well, good for you. I just want to put the guy who shot me behind bars.”

  It was as if I’d fired off another round, the way this sentence got them both to turn rigid. Beth glanced from Tony to me and back again.

  “What is he talking about?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Tony said.

  “I think you do,” I said. “You’ve come a long way from robbing coffee shops, but you’re still the same lowlife who put the .38 in my brain.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “A lot of people would agree with that,” I said, “but that doesn’t make me wrong.”

  “You have no proof. You have nothing that will stick—not on that, not on Karen, nothing. You take me in, and there’s no way they’ll arrest me. I’ll be back on the street in minutes.”

  “That’s probably true,” I said, “and I’m sure Manuel Loretto’s people will be waiting at the curb when you walk out of the station.”

  He glared. The wind picked up, the flames shimmering, the tops of the firs bowing and leaning.

  “You wouldn’t do that,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “You were a cop once. Cops don’t do that sort of thing.”

  “I stopped being a cop the minute you shot me,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Beth said. “How did you know he was a cop once?”

  Tony hesitated. “You must have told me.”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t even know it.”

  “Yeah, Tony,” I said, “how did you know I was a cop once?”

  He bore into me with his lead-ball eyes, the thespian mask falling away. Above us, tucked back into the forest, I heard the chanting of the Native Americans. Far behind Tony and Beth, gathered at the river’s edge, a group of hairy primitives stopped to drink water.

  “Tony?” Beth said.

  He turned to her, sadness in his eyes, and brushed her cheek with the thumb of his left hand.

  Then, before I could do anything, he’d spun her around in front of him and locked her neck in the vice of his left arm.

  “Tony!” Beth gasped.

  “Shut up!” he screamed.

  I advanced a step, the Glock still trained on him. There was no clear shot with her in the way, but I’d remedy that in a moment. Unfortunately, I hadn’t even managed to take another step when his right hand appeared with a revolver, pointed directly at the side of her head.

  “Drop your piece,” he said.

  I did no such thing, keeping the Glock aimed at his head.

  “Drop it or she dies,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “A Smith & Wesson .38?”

  “I’m counting to three. One … two …”

  “Tony!” Beth screamed.

  “… three.”

  I put down the Glock. I felt like a fool for not frisking him earlier and a high-minded idiot for putting Beth’s life ahead of my own, but I didn’t see I had any choice in the matter.

  Tony tilted his head back and roared with laughter. “I knew it! Once a cop, always a cop!”

  He pointed the revolver directly at me and shoved Beth roughly to the side. She tripped and sprawled on the rocks, crouching on all fours and sobbing. Grinning malevolently, Tony took another step toward me, the gun only inches from the end of my nose. Then he lifted the gun so it pressed against the scar on my forehead.

  “Think you can survive two bullets in there?” he said.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “You’ll put me out of my misery, and I’ll haunt your ass for all eternity.”

  He made a oooooo sound and broke off, snickering. “I see. Believe in ghosts, do you?”

  “It’s one of the few things I believe in anymore.”

  “That’s great. That’s fantastic. You’re one crazy-ass person, Myron. I always wondered what that nutty wife of yours saw in you, but I can see it now. You’re two crazy-ass peas in a crazy-ass pod.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Life is funny, isn’t it? Who would have thought we’d come face to face again? I’ve been watching you over the years, but I never thought you’d recognize me. Here’s a little something to put in what’s left of your brain. Might as well have it be your last thought. It’s cruel, I know, but I can’t resist. Bet you didn’t know that wife of yours had an abortion, did you? I know she told you it was a miscarriage, but it wasn’t. And here’s the other thing. It was my child.”

  My face must have been quite a sight, because he erupted with gales of laughter. Beth, who’d been sobbing this whole time, fell utterly silent. I was swimming in a sea of rage and confusion, not wanting to believe any of it, but sensing some truth in it that had eluded me, a missing piece or two in the jigsaw puzzle of my life that was falling into place even if I couldn’t quite grasp the whole picture.

  Questions, dozens of them, sprang up in my mind, but before I could say anything, a shot rang out.

  The bullet hit Tony in the shoulder, a ripple of clothes and flesh. He yelped and staggered back, still on his feet, still holding the revolver.

  “Drop it!” Alesha shouted from the trees.

  I couldn’t see her. Tony, bent over and holding his side, turned his revolver toward the sound of Alesha’s voice. Another shot boomed through the forest, but this bullet missed him and hit the fire, sparks flaring into the black. Beth screamed and rushed toward Tony. Judging by the way she was turning her body, I guessed she was trying to protect him, but Tony must have thought she was attacking him because he shot her in the stomach.

  Alesha fired again and this time winged his thigh. He bellowed with rage and lurched away, along the river. Beth was on the ground, curled in a ball near the fire and keening.

  I snatched up the Glock. “Alesha! She needs help!”

  “Coming!” she called, voice closer.

  I ran after Tony. Alesha yelled at me to stop, but I wasn’t letting him get away. He was a dark shape in front of the wrinkled tarp of the river, lurching and stumbling over the bigger rocks near the water’s edge. He wasn’t moving fast, and I gained on him quickly.

  “Stop!” I shouted.

  He whirled around, bringing the revolver to bear. I fired, only wanting to wing him, but far from the fire and immersed in darkness, I had no choice but to aim for the chest. It hit him dead-on and he fell backward, the revolver arcing high behind him and Tony himself landing with a splash at the river’s edge.

  His arms and legs jerked spasmodically. I charged into the river and dropped to my knees next to him, ice-cold water soaking my legs and feet. He stared upward, his eyes hooded by shadows, a gurgled gasp escaping his lips. Still alive. He was still alive. I grabbed him by his camo jacket and pulled his face up to mine, close enough that I saw the blood staining his teeth and felt his breath hot on my face. Even in the darkness, I saw the pupils of his eyes narrowing to tiny dots.

  “No!” I yelled at him. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t get to leave!”

  I wanted answers. I wanted justice. If he died, I got neither unless he chose to give them to me. I shook him violently, trying to will him back to life, but he was
already going limp. His lungs produced one last rattling breath, then there was no more. Alesha was talking to me, hand on my shoulder, pulling me away from Tony and back toward the shore. Reluctantly, I let Tony’s body splash into the water.

  “Beth—” I said.

  “Already dead,” she said.

  Then I saw him standing on the far shore, dressed not in his camo jacket but an orange vest, tinted glasses, and blue jeans with duct-tape patches that glinted like silver. The steadily moving current between us might have only been a hundred yards across, but it might as well have been a mile. There was no reaching him. It was too dark and he was too far away to see his face, but he waved casually, as if to an old friend, and I knew he was mocking me. He was a ghost and he was mocking me, because he and I both knew there was nothing I could do to him.

  That’s when something emerged from the river.

  It was a dark oval shape a dozen yards from the far shore. I thought it might be an otter or a beaver until it kept rising and I saw that it was a head—Beth’s head, judging by the severely straight hair. Tony’s hand stopped midwave. Her shoulders came next, then the rest of her, walking out of the river as if she’d traversed it on the bottom—which she probably had. Black parka, dark jeans, and finally the white tennis shoes rose out of the depths as she marched toward him.

  Abandoning all pretense of mocking me, Tony turned and sprinted toward the forest behind him. Beth followed, arms raised like some kind of zombie. When he disappeared into the trees, she wasn’t far behind. I caught occasional glimpses of her white tennis shoes flashing through the trees. Hands gripping my shoulders, Alesha was murmuring to me, asking if I was all right, asking me if I’d been hurt.