by Nathan Roden
“Listen, Bert,” Bruiser said. “I’m thinking that you’ve been stuck down here waaaay too long with your little friends—and you’ve developed an overblown sense of drama, and you’ve sort of made all this up in your head. How many of these ‘heirs’ have come and gone?”
The beast cackled.
“I felt the birth pangs of destiny with this heir of Wellmore on the night that we first met—sixteen years ago.”
Bruiser could think of nothing to say because he believed the beast’s words.
Gwendoline and Oliver stared at the cardboard box. It continued to move toward them, a centimeter at a time. After two minutes, it moved no more.
Oliver reached for it. His wife pulled at his sleeve and shook her head. Oliver put a finger to his lips.
He picked up the box. He squinted and looked around the room again, hoping that The Man was not playing a sick joke on them.
He opened the box carefully. He reached inside and removed the paper sack. He picked up the hairbrush and toothbrush and held them for Gwendoline to see. She was as confused as he was. Oliver picked up the blouse with trembling fingers.
No. No. No, he thought. Please no. Please don’t let him have Holly.
Oliver brought the blouse to his face. He wept silently. He didn’t recognize the faint hint of perfume, but somehow he was certain that this was Holly’s blouse. He pulled it away from his face and hoped that Gwendoline didn’t see it. He put his hand back in the box, expecting it to be empty. But when Oliver felt the barrel of the pistol, his mind began to spin.
Oliver did not remove the pistol from the box, afraid that Gwendoline might scream. He opened the paper sack and reached inside. He flinched when he felt the hair, thinking that it might be a giant spider or something just as dangerous. The moment that he touched the hair, he saw a flickering image; a vague outline of a man. The man was inside the bars of their prison.
Oliver grabbed a fistful of the hair, and the man in front of him became clear. No, it was a small ghost of a man. The man floated to Oliver’s side.
“Can you see me?” Dougie whispered.
“Yes, I can see you. And hear you,” Oliver whispered. “Give me a moment, please.”
Gwendoline pulled at Oliver’s arm.
“Who are you talking to?” she whispered.
Oliver turned to his wife.
“Gwen, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he whispered. Gwen nodded.
“I want you to put both of your hands over your mouth,” he said.
“Why—?”
“Just do what I say,” Oliver said through clenched teeth. “This is no time for a discussion.”
Gwen placed her hands over her mouth.
“You must be absolutely quiet,” Oliver said. “Though that is the last thing in the world you will want to do. Do you understand?”
Gwen nodded. Her terror-filled eyes that bulged over her crossed hands gave Oliver little confidence.
“Okay,” Oliver said. “These are Holly’s things.”
Gwen blinked and a whimper escaped from behind her hands.
“You’re doing well, Gwen, but we’re not finished yet,” Oliver whispered. “There is a little man—a little ghost man, here. He is the one that brought the box. I believe that he is here to help. Nod, if you understand.” Gwen nodded.
“I’m fairly certain that inside of this paper bag is some of Holly’s hair. When I grabbed a handful of it, I could see the man—and hear him as well. I need to tell you something else, and I need for you to be ready.” Gwen nodded again.
“There is a gun inside of the box.”
Gwen’s eyes bulged before they rolled back in her head. Oliver grabbed Gwen to keep her from falling over. Gwen’s hands dropped away and no longer covered her mouth. Oliver dropped the handful of hair and covered Gwen’s mouth.
“Gwen,” Oliver said. “Gwen.” He patted her cheek. Gwen became coherent again.
“I need to talk to him now,” Oliver said. “I’ll just be a—”
Gwendoline held out a trembling hand.
“I want to see,” she said.
“But Gwen,” Oliver said. “He’s a—”
Gwen was nodding.
“He’s a ghost,” she whispered. “I know. I’m not going to hide anymore, Olly.”
This statement shocked Oliver twice. Gwen had not called him Olly in years—since before they moved into the Castle McIntyre; before she became a slave to her fears.
Together, Oliver and Gwendoline plunged their hands into the paper sack. As soon as they did, the Great Red Beast roared in the direction of Bruiser and Delbert. In a panic, Oliver and Dougie jumped to keep Gwen silent.
“Listen up, you two,” Dougie whispered. “As long as you keep quiet, you don’t have to worry about what’s goin’ on over there. My two friends are keepin’ that Devil occupied while I slip you the gun. We know about Wellmore, and we know he kidnapped you folks. We also know that he intends to try and nab your daughter.”
“What about the authorities?” Oliver asked. “Have the authorities been informed?”
“Not exactly,” Dougie said. “But they found your boat. That’s why we’re here in the first place.”
“Found our boat?” Oliver said. “Our boat was not lost—it was in storage.”
“It wasn’t in storage,” Dougie said. “It was stolen. That’s why everybody thought that you folks had drowned.”
Oliver’s shoulders slumped, and he hugged his wife tightly.
“So, the only people that know where we are—are ghosts,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. For now,” Dougie said. “That’s why we brought you this gun. Holly and her friends have gone back to America for right now.”
“America?” Oliver said. “Why would she—”
“She’s moved there, along with the castle,” Dougie said.
“Along with the castle…” Oliver said. “I don’t understand, Mr….”
“Douglas Day,” Dougie said. “Everybody calls me Dougie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Dougie,” Gwendoline said. Oliver looked at her in amazement.
“Likewise, Ma’am,” Dougie said.
“We can’t thank you enough, Dougie,” Oliver said.
“We’re not through tryin’ to get help to get you out of here,” Dougie said. He stared Oliver in the eye.
“But if you get the chance, Mr. McFadden,” Dougie said. “Take that Wellmore feller down. He is a very, very bad man.”
Oliver and Gwendoline nodded.
A hungry crow hopped through the hole where Dougie and the cardboard box had entered. The crow flew between The Great Red Beast and Bruiser, which caused the beast to look around. He spotted the narrow beam of light near the dungeon ceiling and dispatched one of his minions to investigate. Dougie squeezed beneath one of the cots and curled up in the fetal position around the shoe-box. The demonic creature returned to his Master to report. Dougie leaned toward Oliver McFadden’s ear.
“I can’t take the chance of trying to take this box out of here,” Dougie whispered. ”You’ll have to hide it.”
“I will,” Oliver whispered. “Thank you.”
Dougie Day signaled Bruiser, and then he disappeared through the wall.
Bruiser motioned with his head toward the exit, which was the sign that Delbert had been waiting for. He turned and floated as fast as he was able, followed by a retreating Bruiser Brady.
“Gotta run, Chief,” Bruiser said as he passed through the door. The Beast’s roar rose…and then faded into blackness.
Twenty-Eight
Wylie Westerhouse
St. Louis, Missouri
Five miles from the entrance to the KwyK ranch/mansion/estates, I watched in the rearview mirror as a State Trooper did a wide U-turn. He followed us at a distance.
“We have a State of Missouri escort,” I said to Quentin, who was stirring awake from his nap.
“Just remain calm,” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t pus
h the red button.”
“What?” I said, jerking my hands away from the steering wheel. I tried to locate the red button.
“Watch the road, Wylie,” Q laughed. “That’s the oldest James Bond joke in the book. Please don’t get us arrested.”
I slowed at the ranch entry gate and pulled alongside the same keypad and video screen that I had seen a few days ago.
“May I help you?” a voice from nowhere asked. The screen remained dark.
“Wylie Westerhouse to see Skyler KwyK,” I said.
“And your passenger, Mr. Westerhouse?”
“My manager. Quentin Lynchburg.”
“Make, model, and license number of your vehicle please?”
“Uh,” I said, smartly.
Q leaned across me and answered.
“1964 Aston-Martin DB5. Missouri license number XRC—”
“Holy crap! Are you serious?”
The video screen flashed on. Quentin and I both jumped and the top of Q’s head smacked into my chin. I almost blacked out.
I moaned and grabbed my chin while I counted my teeth with my tongue. Q massaged the top of his head. Three of the video cameras that were mounted on the gate whirred to life. They started scanning across the body of the car, like a trio of curious cyclops.
The face of a fifty-something security guard filled the screen. He leaned forward as if he was looking right at me.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!” the guard laughed and gawked. “Like James Bond himself. Goldfinger!” he sang badly. “The guy with the….how does that song go, again? Yo, Benji! Mondo! You guys seein’ this?”
“WooBoy!” a different voice came from an unseen source. “That is one beyoootiful machine right there, Artie!”
“Who drives somethin’ like that around, Artie?” came yet another mystery voice.
“That would be Mr. Westerhouse,” Artie said.
I tried to object.
“If you don’t mind my askin’, son, how much does a car like that go for? Like—half a mil?”
I shrugged and looked at Q. He leaned back over me.
“That’s pretty close,” he said.
“Really?” I said. “Wow.”
“I’m buzzin’ you through, gentlemen,” Artie said. “Do you know where you’re headed?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was here a few days ago.”
“Love that car,” Artie said.
“She’s really somethin’,” one of the other voices said.
“Say, when we finish up with our appointment, Artie, you and your friends wanna come out and look her over?”
“Yeah! That would be great, Mr. Lynchburg.”
“Artie, you give us a call, ya hear?” one of Artie’s friends said.
“You better call Sam and Lonnie up too, or you’ll never hear the end of it!” said the other voice.
Skyler and Chris Chadwick were waiting for us outside of the garage entrance. Another man waited with them—a familiar face. It was Artie, of the security detail. Artie opened my door after I stopped.
“Artie,” Skyler said. “Where is Steven? Is he not here today?”
“I got him doing something else,” Artie said. “Besides, you want some experience behind the wheel when you valet park a beauty like this one.”
“You’re not fooling me for a minute, you old goat!” Skyler laughed. “You just want to drive the James Bond car!”
“Correct-o-mundo,” Artie said, holding out his hand for the keys.
“Say, Artie,” Q said.
“I’ll treat her like she was my own baby, Mr. Lynchburg,” Artie said. “Don’t you worry about—”
“The name’s Quentin,” Q said, holding out his hand. “And I’m not worried about anything. Take her for a little spin, if the boss doesn’t mind. We’ll probably be tied up until at least lunchtime.”
“Are you for real?” Artie asked.
“It’s adequately insured,” Q said. “And after all—it’s just a car.”
“Skyler—” Artie said.
“Knock yourself out, Artie,” Skyler said. “As long as we have someone on the gate.”
“Sure. You bet,” Artie said. He got into the car and eased away.
I introduced Q to Skyler and Chris.
“I didn’t know that you had a manager,” Skyler said from the corner of her mouth. “Not—anymore.”
I opened my mouth and then realized that I didn’t know what to say. Quentin had that covered.
“Wylie and I have yet to put the details on paper,” he said. “In my estimation, Wylie possesses a remarkable talent, and I have thought so since the first time that I saw him perform. I believe that no one should walk into this business alone; although Wylie’s experience certainly proves how horribly wrong things can go if one partners with the wrong people. I care a great deal about Wylie and his career, and I have only his best interests at heart.”
Skyler smiled.
“Very good answer, Mr. Lynchburg,” she practically purred.
“You can call me Quentin,” Q said. “Or ‘Q’, if you like.”
“Time to go in,” Chris Chadwick said.
Skyler took me by the arm.
“We mustn’t keep Mother wait—,” she said. I jerked my head around when I heard Skyler gasp. She was staring toward the corner of the garage.
There was a man standing there—a man with a profound look of sadness on his face. The ghost of a man. His eyes moved to meet mine, and in that instant, we connected. He knew that I could see him.
And for the moment, so could Skyler. The man vanished around the corner.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I thought—” Skyler said. “It’s nothing. I’m just a little nervous, I guess.”
Yeah. Me too, I thought.
It had been days since I had been around Holly. It didn’t seem all that strange that I could see Duncan and the others. But to still be transferring the ability to someone else? To still be a conduit? Should that still be happening? It occurred to me that I was in the same position as Holly when it came to physical contact with other people. Great. What was I supposed to do? Treat Skyler KwyK like she had cooties?
Quentin and I followed the others to the studio lounge. The room held a large conference table. Several well-dressed and serious business-looking people stood up when we entered, including the stunningly beautiful Veronica KwyK. Veronica wore a tailored pin-stripe business suit—the kind with a skirt, not pants. I just happened to notice that, with my eye for detail.
The Skyler apple did not fall far from the Veronica tree, that’s for sure. This fact did not necessarily work in our favor. I watched Q’s face when he first saw Veronica, and I thought that he might faint. After we sat down, I kicked his foot under the table. He saw the smirk on my face and turned red.
“Mr. Westerhouse,” Veronica said. “We were not aware that you had a management representative.”
“Yes, well, I—”
“Ms. KwyK,” Q said, “I am not here to influence or intimidate on behalf of Mr. Westerhouse. I am here to lend my business experience and to provide Wylie with an extra set of eyes and ears—a little peace of mind if you will. Please, do not interpret my presence as adversarial in any way.”
Veronica smiled and nodded.
“Thank you for clearing that up, Mr. Lynchburg,” she said. “As I’m sure you are aware, we are here because Skyler wishes to play a part in the revitalization of Mr. Westerhouse’s career. She is now of legal age to do as she pleases though you should know that some of us have…reservations, concerning this decision.”
“Thank you, Ms. KwyK,” Q said. “May I suggest that we dispense with the formality of surnames? My name is Quentin, or just ‘Q’ if you like.”
“That’s fine, Quentin,” Veronica said.
“Good,” Q said. “Veronica, I have come to believe that all allegations of Wylie’s involvement in the television show debacle are entirely false. I find Wylie to be an honest and hard-working young man who possesses a
n exceptional talent.”
Skyler’s smile was immense. I was sure that she was already a huge fan of Quentin Lynchburg.
“Thank you for your input, Mr.—Quentin,” Veronica said. “I am sure you realize that until Wylie is officially cleared of all such allegations, his case can, and will be tried in the court of public opinion.”
“But—” Q tried to say.
“Ah, ah, ah! Quentin,” Veronica said with a wag of her finger. “Permit me to finish. I do not mean to imply that we agree with the court of public opinion. The reality of the situation is that this ‘court’ is where our business succeeds or fails. This court is where albums are sold—along with t-shirts, caps, jackets and concert tickets.”
Q sat back and digested that for a minute.
“All true, of course, Veronica,” he said. “Reality also shows us that Wylie’s former manager is presently avoiding extradition in Canada. Wylie, on the other hand, has had no criminal charges filed against him. He has sued his former manager. He has paid his personal attorney in full and held a full-time job managing a music store while pursuing his music career. I believe that his actions speak for themselves.”
Skip Walters, the KwyK’s business manager cleared his throat.
“Please do not get the wrong impression, gentlemen,” Skip said. “We would all like to see Wylie succeed. We do, however, have reason for concern. The vast majority of Skyler’s fans still live under their parents’ roofs. These parents are the ones buying the albums. They are the ones with the credit card accounts that pay for the downloads and the concert tickets and the t-shirts. We do not want these people seeing Skyler’s public image as anything other than a positive role model for their kids.”
“And a positive role-model would never be seen with the likes of me, right?” I blurted out. I was getting sick of being referred to like a disease.