by Ron Ripley
Bruce had led the charge into Adrienne Hall. A few other teachers and a pair of seniors had followed him. Halfway up the stairs they had heard a single shot, and Bruce had known it was the shooter.
Coward had killed himself, Bruce thought, frowning.
“Bruce,” Maureen said softly.
He turned his attention away from the school and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Stop it,” she said.
Bruce nodded.
They followed the sidewalk as it turned to the right, cutting across the last section of the Academy’s property. The cement path ran behind Deer Stag House, and it marked the apex of their nightly walk. From then on, they would loop back towards the house.
The two of them had heard about the destruction of the toilets, and rumors about strange events happening afterwards. A quick glance at the back of Deer Stag revealed yellow caution tape which was strung up, cordoning off the building. Bruce shook his head turned to speak to Maureen and realized she had come to a stop.
His wife stood perfectly still, her attention fixed firmly on the house.
“Everything okay?” Bruce asked.
Maureen didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up, adjusted a stray lock of her gray hair and smiled absently.
“Maureen?”
She ignored him. The smile was replaced by a frown and he heard her whisper, “Are you sure?”
A panic flashed through Bruce’s thoughts. Is she having a stroke? Is she sick?
Before he could answer his own question, Maureen bent down and picked up a discarded beer bottle that someone had thrown into an azalea bush. When Maureen straightened up, she was holding the brown glass firmly by the long neck. Only traces of the label remained, the bottle obscenely large in her small hand.
“Maureen,” Bruce said, his anxiety increasing. “Are you okay?”
She turned to face him. Her expression was one of outrage.
“I know what you’ve been doing,” she said coldly.
Bruce couldn’t even respond.
“I know you’ve been carrying on with Christine McCartney,” she said, her voice sinking low, a dangerous, angry tone Bruce had heard her use only a handful of times.
“Christine McCartney?” Bruce said, confused. Then he remembered. Christine had been the secretary briefly back in the early eighties.
Oh my, God, Bruce thought, horrified, she’s having a stroke.
“She’s a trollop,” Maureen hissed. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at her. The way you lust after her.”
“Maureen,” Bruce said, “please, you’re not feeling well. Try to calm down.”
“I’m calm,” Maureen spat. “And feeling perfectly fine.”
Bruce took his cellphone off his belt, flipped it open and looked down at it to dial nine-one-one.
Maureen struck him on the side of the head. His glasses flew off his face, and he dropped the phone at the same time he pressed ‘call.’ His knees loosened and Bruce stutter-stepped backward once, and then he fell sideways, an old and weakened tree felled with a single blow.
Bruce felt his eyes roll in his head, and it took him a moment to regain control of them. When he could finally focus once more, he saw Maureen standing over him. She had the bottleneck clenched tightly in her right hand as she glowered. Slowly, she pointed the bottle at him.
“Don’t bother denying it,” she snarled. “I’ve seen you with her.”
Bruce couldn’t respond. His mouth wouldn’t obey his commands.
Faintly, Bruce heard the nine-one-one emergency operator ask what his emergency was.
My wife’s going to kill me, was what he wanted to say, but Bruce still couldn’t form the words.
He tried to get back up to his feet, but the best he could manage was a weakened roll to the right. He caught sight of the street, gathered his strength, and succeeded in another slight roll.
Maureen stayed with him.
“Where are you going?” she asked in a sing-song voice. “Where have you been? You can’t get away, I’ll just hit you again.”
Bruce shivered at the menace in her voice.
The emergency operator must have heard Maureen as well, for within a minute Bruce could hear the scream of a police siren.
Maureen paid no attention to it. Instead, she swung the bottle leisurely from left to right and back again. Each swing brought the glass closer to him.
Some of Bruce’s strength returned as his head continued to pound and throb. Desperately, he scrambled to the street, coming to a stop in a wide arc of light cast by the street lamp. Maureen continued after him, stepping over the curb and onto the asphalt.
Yet when both of her feet were firmly on the street, she shivered to a stop. The bottle dropped from her fingers, struck the road with a loud clank and rolled haphazardly, finally coming to a stop against the granite curb. Maureen shook her head, looked around and saw Bruce on his knees.
“Bruce,” she said, “what are you doing on the ground?”
Before he could answer her, the police arrived. The cruisers came tearing around corners, their lights reflecting off houses and cutting through the darkness. When Bruce saw the first officer get out of a cruiser, he realized Maureen wasn’t going to kill him. With a sigh, Bruce closed his eyes and passed out.
Chapter 34: The Case Gets Stranger
Beth Skillings punched in and took her coffee to her desk.
Before she could even get her computer turned on, Mike Phaneuf called out to her.
“What’s up, Mike?” she asked, looking over to him.
The older detective walked to her, pulled out a chair and sat down. “We got another weird event over at the Academy.”
Beth leaned back in her chair, asking him, “What now?”
He told her about a strange assault that had occurred. An elderly couple out for a walk and the wife went crazy. The woman had picked up a bottle and smashed the husband in the head with it after he had called the emergency line.
“They think it was a stroke,” Mike said. “Her husband does too. Anyway, both of them are at Backus Hospital right now. They should be released later today. You might be able to talk to them before that, though.”
Beth shook her head. “I’d really like to know what the hell is going on there.”
“Me too,” Mike said, agreeing. He stood up. “I wanted you to know; I heard you talking about going to the Captain with a plan to have the whole school shut down.”
“Yeah,” Beth said, nodding. “I do, and for more than a day or two. We don’t know what the hell is going on over there. And anybody we send in should have a gas mask. We need to make sure everyone’s protected.”
“What do you have on deck for this morning?”
“Headed back over there,” Beth answered. “I want to walk the perimeter, get a feel for the place.”
“Be careful,” Mike said. “And take your own advice. If you’re going to be on the grounds, bring a mask.”
“You got it,” Beth said. Mike waved goodbye and walked away. Beth logged into her account, brought up the new file on the domestic assault incident from the night before, and tapped her fingers on the desk as she read. She moved quickly through it, wondering why Mike had told her about it if the attack happened in the street.
And then she saw what must have caught Mike’s eye.
…walking behind Deer Stag House, they paused, and Mrs. Sullivan picked up an empty beer bottle.
There it is, Beth thought. They were on the property. Not near it, but on it.
She pulled her notebook out of the top drawer, flipped it open and reviewed her notes.
Larry Case, she thought. Someone had taken his information down from the man’s driver’s license. Five foot seven inches. Brown eyes. Brown hair.
Brown hair.
Larry Case didn’t have brown hair.
His hair is white, she thought. Not brown. The license was issued a month earlier. Why is his hair white?
Beth held onto her notebook, s
tood up and grabbed her car keys off her desk. As she walked out of the office, Mike looked up.
“Got something?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she replied.
“Bird-dog the hell out of it, kid,” Mike said, waving as she walked away.
In a few minutes, Beth had picked up the keys for a sedan from the head mechanic and went to Backus Hospital. She parked the car, shut the engine off and went inside. A candy-striper checked the computer, told her Mr. Case was on the third floor in A312.
Beth took the stairs, moving quickly until she came to the third floor and stepped out into the cool air. A sign reading, “A-Wing, Rooms 300-316.” She made her way towards the nurse’s station, caught sight of room 308, and waved to the nurse.
“Who are you looking for?” the nurse asked.
“Larry Case, room 312,” Beth answered, pausing by the desk.
The young woman nodded. “Two more rooms down on your left. He should be awake. Are you family?”
“Detective,” Beth replied.
“Okay,” the nurse said. “The doctor came through a little while ago on her rounds. I don’t think anyone is expected, so you should be able to talk to him for a bit. Just take it slow, he’s on pain medication for broken teeth.”
“Thanks,” Beth said. She turned away from the desk, went up to Case’s room and knocked on the open door before she walked in.
Larry Case was upright in his bed, a cup of coffee in one hand. He was drinking it through a straw, and he looked like he had been run over rather than beat up. He looked at her through swollen eyes, the flesh around them a yellowish purple. The hospital gown he wore was hanging off of one shoulder and Beth saw bandages and bruises.
“Hello, Mr. Case,” Beth said, taking her badge out and showing it to him. “My name’s Detective Skillings. I’m here to talk to you about what happened. Is that alright?”
Without letting go of the straw, Larry gave her a single, slow nod.
“Thank you,” Beth said. She saw a chair against the wall under the television and sat herself down in it. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions. If you can answer them, great. If not, that’s okay too. If you would feel more comfortable writing a response down, I’ve got a notebook and pen. If you want me to leave at any time, hold up your hand, if you can, and I’ll end the interview. I’m here to try and help you, not make things worse.”
Larry took the straw out of his mouth and in a hoarse voice said, “I know. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Beth said, smiling. “I’m a little concerned about some other incidents that have happened at Northfield Free Academy, which may have something to do with you being attacked. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”
Larry gave her a slight nod.
“Obviously,” she said, “you know about the suicide. You know about your coworker smashing the glass of a display case. Do you know about the murder-suicide?”
Larry closed his eyes and whispered, “Yes.”
“Did you hear about the murder of a security guard?”
His eyes snapped open, muscles twitched in his jaw, and he hissed, “No.”
“There was,” she said. “Terrible, too. He was beaten to death. We also had a forensic technician injure himself, with no memory of it. And, finally, we had an elderly woman assault her husband on the school grounds last night.”
“Jesus Christ,” Larry whispered.
“It’s bad,” Beth agreed. “Now I have no idea why any of this is happening. No one does. But I think you might know why.”
Larry’s eyes widened. “I don’t.”
“Your hair tells me otherwise, Mr. Case,” Beth said gently. “Your driver’s license, which was renewed only a short time ago, has your hair listed as brown. But, as I can plainly see, it is now white. I’m curious as to what happened to it, Mr. Case. Was there a chemical leak, some accident not reported by the staff which accounts for, not only your unexplained physical change, but for the incidents which have occurred on the Academy’s grounds?”
Larry looked at her and then shook his head.
“Mr. Case,” Beth said, allowing a concerned tone to enter her voice, “you’re not in trouble, but if you hold anything back, anything at all, you will be.”
She saw him swallow nervously and wince. His eyes darted from left to right and back to her.
Got it, she thought.
He said a single word. “Ghost.”
Beth blinked and said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Not chemicals. A ghost,” Larry said again, forcing his weakened voice louder. “Something was let out. From Deer Stag. In the cellar. It doesn’t want us around.”
“Mr. Case,” Beth said stiffly. “I don’t think this is funny.”
“It’s not,” Larry said. “Look at me.”
She did so. His injuries were extensive, and she knew from the report on the attack about the various cracked ribs and hairline fractures throughout his upper body.
He wouldn’t protect anyone from this, she realized.
“A picture. Mr. Roy has it. Talk to him, Mr. Roy. He’ll tell you.” The last few words were barely audible, and Beth knew she had to end the interview.
Frowning, Beth got to her feet. “I’ll talk to Mr. Roy. Mr. Mitchell Roy, the principal?”
Larry gave a single nod.
“I’ll be back, Mr. Case,” Beth said. “I do hope you get better soon.”
He gave her a small, tired smile and Beth left the room.
I need to see Mitchell Roy, she thought, heading towards the stairs, and figure what in the hell is going on at that school.
Chapter 35: An Interview
Mitchell’s wife was at the Otis Library, working. Mitchell was in the kitchen on the phone with one of his faculty members, and Brian sat in the den.
He had spoken with Jenny the night before, and he had only managed a couple of hours of non-consecutive sleep. His brother haunted his dreams. Brian heard Mitchell say goodbye, and soon his cousin walked back into the den.
When Mitchell sat down, the man looked at Brian and asked, “How are you holding up?”
Brian shrugged. “Dealing with stuff I thought I had left in the past.”
“It’s never left in the past, Brian,” Mitchell said softly.
Brian looked at his cousin and remembered how often Mitchell had sat with him. How many times Mitchell had found him out at some bonfire, too drunk to walk.
Brian sighed. “Yeah, I know. I never thought he’d be trapped here, though.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Mitchell said sadly.
The doorbell rang and interrupted them.
Frowning, Mitchell stood up and walked to the door. Without opening it, he asked, “Who is it?”
“Mr. Roy,” a woman said, “this is Detective Skillings from the Northfield Police Department.”
Brian watched as his cousin unlocked the door and opened it, holding it wide for a woman to walk in. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties and built like a fireplug. Her shoulders were wide, her hips narrow, and her face was broad. Her black hair was cropped short. While Brian wouldn’t have called her beautiful, she wasn’t ugly either.
Looks like she can handle herself, Brian thought, and he caught a small shape flit behind her. Almost childlike. He kept his eyes turned away from it.
“Detective Skillings,” Mitchell said, closing the door behind her, “this is my cousin, Brian Roy.”
Brian stood up and offered his hand. She shook it and nodded to him. Her grip was strong and firm.
“Do you need me to leave?” Brian asked.
“That’s up to your cousin,” the detective said.
Mitchell looked confused. “Has something else happened?”
“Yes,” she said. “May I sit down?”
“Of course,” Mitchell said apologetically. “Please.”
Detective Skillings sat down on the couch, and Mitchell returned to his seat, as did Brian.
“What happened?�
� Mitchell asked.
The detective told them quickly and succinctly about an older man who was assaulted by his elderly wife. Behind the Deer Stag House.
“I suspect something has happened at the Academy,” she continued. “And I believe it may have been gasses released due to the unfortunate senior prank. I went to Backus Hospital and spoke with Larry Case.”
“And what did Larry say?” Mitchell asked. There was a note of concern in his voice as he looked closely at the younger woman.
“Mr. Case informed me that I was wrong,” Detective Skillings said, looking hard at Mitchell. “He told me there was no release of gas or chemicals. He said it was because of a ghost.”
Brian saw his cousin’s face go pale, and evidently the detective did as well. A look of surprise flickered across her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“We’re not sure what’s going on,” Mitchell lied.
Detective Skilling knew he lied as well.
“You’re not being honest with me, Mitchell,” she said. “I don’t believe you. I think you’re hiding something, and more than likely it is due to the pressure of the Academy’s board of trustees. If you continue to hide the truth, you will find yourself at odds with the police.”
Mitchell looked over, and Brian gave him a quick nod.
“Larry was telling you the truth,” Mitchell said uncomfortably.
“A ghost?” she asked, incredulity heavy in her voice.
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “Well, more than one, at this point.”
“Mr. Roy,” she said sternly, “you’re lying to me.”
“He’s not lying,” Brian said softly.
Both the detective and his cousin looked at him in surprise.
Detective Skillings recovered first. “Brian, is it? There’s no such thing as ghosts, and I don’t appreciate this.”
“What are you wearing for a necklace, Detective?” Brian asked. “Is it a locket? A locket with a bit of blonde hair in it?”
Her eyes widened.
Brian looked past her and said, “Come out. It’s okay.”
Both the detective and Mitchell looked confused. Neither one of them could see the young girl who stepped out from behind Skillings’ broad shoulders. She looked like a younger version of the detective. The same broad features, hair blonde instead of black. Eyes blue instead of gray.