The Boylan House Trilogy

by Ripley, Ron

  Just a little speed trap for the assholes, Charles thought, grinning.

  As they came abreast of the SUV, the lights came on, bright, harsh halogens that caused both of the boys to stop.

  They heard the door open, and a deep, male voice said, “Boys, it’s kind of late to be walking, isn’t it?”

  Before Nate or Charles could answer, there was the sound of something being launched, a small twang.

  And something had struck them both.

  Charles looked down and in the bright light of the headlights, he saw two small clips attached to his jacket, wires hanging from them and running back into the light.

  “What the hell?” Nate asked.

  Less than a second later, Nate’s question was answered.

  Whoever held the other end of the tasers squeezed their triggers, and electric current raced along the wires and into the two young teenagers.

  The boys collapsed and shook on the pavement.

  A pair of men came out of the shadows and into the cone of light cast by the headlights. The men were well dressed. Expensive shoes and suits. Gold wedding bands flashed, and the gems of Ivy League schools glittered. Each of the men bent down, and one picked up Nate, and the other lifted up Charles. They did it carefully and with respect.

  The men carried the boys quickly to the already open hatchback of the SUV. Zipties, duct tape, and blankets waited. The men put the boys down and in a matter of moments, they had the hands of the boys zip-tied behind their backs, their ankles ziptied together. Strips of duct tape went across their mouths, leaving plenty of room for the nose to get oxygen. The prongs of the tasers were removed, and the boys were covered with the blankets.

  The men stepped back, and one of them closed the hatchback.

  A car went racing by towards Brookline, the vehicle never slowing as the two men got into the SUV, one in the driver’s seat and one in the passenger’s. The driver shifted the large vehicle into gear, signaled and eased out onto the road. No one was around to see them.

  The driver moved the SUV steadily along, taking the appropriate turns until he was signaling to turn onto Meeting House Road.

  In the trunk area, they could hear the boys.

  Their screams were muffled by the duct tape. Their bound feet thumped against the side of the SUV, but the blankets absorbed most of the impact.

  In a moment the driver was turning the SUV around at the end of the road and parking in front of the Boylan House, turning the lights off. He knew that the few houses at the end of the road were empty. The Walkers were on a weekend trip, courtesy of John Walker’s boss, who in turn had received a significant amount of money to encourage John to have a nice weekend with his wife. Tom Kinney won a trip to Foxwoods down in Connecticut. And Martha Deere had met a wonderful woman up in Concord who encouraged her to explore her sexuality for the weekend.

  Liam Boylan’s pockets were deeper than anyone could suspect.

  The men got out of the car, opened the trunk and looked down at the two terrified boys.

  It was difficult for the men. They had sons of their own, but they knew what they were doing was necessary. It was what had to be done. There was no way around it, and their families had been doing it for centuries, when necessary.

  And today was a day when something necessary had to be done.

  One of the men picked up Charles, and the other lifted up Nate. Both of the boys struggled violently, but the men were strong. They were in shape. This wasn’t the first time they had to perform such an unpleasant task, and they were certain that it wouldn’t be the last.

  Holding tightly to the boys, the men carried them up to the Boylan House, where the door swung open for them.

  The men were thrilled, excited beyond description to be in the presence of Liam Boylan.

  They stepped into the house and moved over to the right towards the stairs. The entire first floor was dimly lit by a single, weak lantern. Holding onto the boys tightly, they climbed the stairs to the second floor. They walked into the darkness, moving by memory toward the top of the stairs. A moment later the lantern came up and moved past them slowly.

  The lantern stopped by the massive fireplace in the center of the room and the holder stepped forward.

  It was a middle-aged man, a small cut on his forehead. The clothes were torn, and the face was pallid, the nose and eyes red. The broken capillaries, the telltale sign of a man who liked to drink.

  He was not the man with whom the two men had dealt with before.

  But that meant nothing. The voice which issued forth from the man’s mouth was the same they had heard before.

  “Two?” Liam Boylan asked, sighing with relief. “Two. You have performed better than before, and I did not believe such a thing was possible.”

  The men both beamed with pleasure.

  “You have honored your predecessors,” Liam Boylan said. “I know what I must do will bother you both, so I release you from witnessing it.”

  “Thank you,” the men said simultaneously. They lowered the squirming boys onto the floor.

  Liam Boylan stepped forward, hunger glittering in his eyes.

  The two men quickly turned away and went down the stairs. They didn’t need the lantern to show them the way out.

  Soon they were walking down the hill in front of the Boylan House, breathing the fresh Fall air. They walked down to the SUV, got into their respective seats and the driver started the SUV.

  “What do you have on deck for tomorrow?” the passenger asked the driver.

  “I’ve got to finish up that brief for the Bonano Federal case,” the driver replied. “I’ll probably be there all day tomorrow. What about you?”

  “Taking a deposition for a witness for that car versus bicycle accident in Lexington,” the passenger said.

  “Who’s the defending lawyer?”

  “Jones,” the passenger said.

  “That should be easy then,” the driver said, turning off of Meeting House Road.

  “Yes it should be,” the passenger said.

  And the two men, feeling greatly pleased with themselves, settled in for the long ride back to Boston.

  Nine

  8:30 PM, November 2nd, 2015, The Home of Harold Philips

  The three men sat in Harold’s library, which took up nearly the entire first floor of the small house. Harold didn’t go upstairs anymore. The pain of trying to climb the stairs was simply too much.

  “How old are you, Harold?” Mason asked.

  Harold finished the whiskey he was drinking and smiled at him. “Ninety-four,” he said. He put the empty glass on the table beside his chair and took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Lucky Strikes and an old school Zippo tucked in with the last of the cigarettes.

  Harold’s hands were steady as he lit the cigarette, returned the Zippo to the pack and the pack to his pocket. He let the smoke stream out of his nostrils, the blue smoke curling up to the old and yellowed ceiling.

  “How are you still alive?” James asked laughing.

  “Ain’t nothing,” Harold said. “Every day is an extra one at this point. Has been since 1945.”

  Mason nodded, but James looked confused.

  “What are you talking about?” James asked.

  “Okinawa,” Harold said. “But you’re not here about that, so let’s focus on what we are here for. Finishing Liam Boylan.”

  Mason and James nodded.

  “First of all,” Harold said, looking at Mason and James, “you have to understand that he is not the powerful thing he has made others believe he is. Strong, yes, but not nearly as powerful as his little minions make him out to be.”

  “Are there more?” James asked.

  “Of course,” Harold said. “I don’t know how they continue to breed and produce children dedicated to Boylan, but they do. But that’s neither here nor there. We don’t have to worry about them for a few months at least.”

  “What is he, Harold?” Mason asked, taking a drink from his own whisk
ey tumbler.

  “Just a malevolent spirit,” Harold said. “Something that’s managed to attach itself to the house, to continue its perversity. Because all Liam Boylan wants is young boys,” Harold said, spitting out the sentence. “From what I’ve read, he can use the power of the boys to affect various things. Like possessing people, and for long periods.

  “But,” Harold said, “I don’t have anything solid to go on, so this is simply conjecture.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” James muttered, and Mason nodded his agreement.

  “I think so,” Harold said.

  “Have you thought of what to do to get him out of the house,” Mason said. “Or, even better, kill it?”

  “We need a priest,” Harold said, looking each man in the eye, one at a time. “A real priest. Preferably orthodox, either Catholic or Eastern European. They’re the only ones who are considered to have the ability to drive something like Liam Boylan out. No one else.”

  “Priests?” James asked. “I’m a protestant, Harold. So are you. How the hell are we going to convince a priest to go into the Boylan House?”

  “I don’t know,” Harold said, tapping the ash off into the standing ashtray on the chair’s left.

  “I do,” Mason said. “My mother raised me Catholic. I’m not a practicing Catholic, but I am on friendly terms with Father Moran in Nashua. He gives the mass in Latin once a month. That’s about the only time I go in.”

  “So you’ll speak with Father Moran?” Harold asked Mason.

  Mason nodded.

  “Excellent,” Harold said. “I’ll try to figure out what we’re going to need and a pair of arms and legs to get it.”

  “Ha, you’re funny, Harold,” James said.

  “I know,” Harold sighed, smiling a little. “I’m the funniest son of a bitch around.”

  James opened his mouth to reply, but his cellphone cut him off. It was a short, sharp ring that made him take the phone off of his hip quickly. He unlocked the phone and answered the call.

  Mason and Harold were quiet, listening.

  “What’s up?” James asked. There was a slight pause, and he said, “What? When was this?” He paused again.

  “Shit,” James said, putting his hand to his head. “Did anybody --”

  He stopped speaking, his head tilted slightly down, his hand still on his forehead.

  “So Anderson was out with his dog?” James asked. “Okay, and he said what?” Again silence. “He saw an SUV?”

  James straightened up, dropping his hand from his forehead to rub the back of his neck. “Massachusetts plates. Did he get the number?”

  “Damn!” James snapped. “No, no. Tell the Captain I’ll be down in about twenty. Where’s the command center going to be set up?” Again the pause. “Okay, Hollis Brookline Middle School. I’ll swing by the station and get my extra gear. Make sure that somebody calls the Greek out on Hayden Drive and get his dogs out. They can track anything.” Another pause. “Because what if the asshole who snatched them is hanging around town and not transporting across state lines, Mike?” he snapped. “Call Gus and get those damn dogs down to the high school.”

  James hung up the phone and looked at Harold and Mason.

  “Two boys are missing,” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Charles and Nathan Verranault. They were almost at their street when somebody in an SUV with Massachusetts tags grabbed them.”

  “Go to the Boylan House,” Harold said.

  James looked over at him. “We took care of the guy he had.”

  “That doesn’t mean he hasn’t gotten another one,” Mason said.

  “Are you kidding me?” James said.

  Harold shook his head. “Think about it for a minute, James. Massachusetts plates. Two boys. And you two stopped that monster from feeding before Halloween. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” James spat. He looked to Mason. “Are you going to come with me to the Boylan House?”

  “Yes,” Mason answered. He picked up his tumbler of whiskey and emptied it. “You all set, Harold?” he asked, standing up.

  “Of course I’m going to be all set,” Harold answered. He pulled out the drawer of the table beside him and took out a Colt model 1911 .45 automatic pistol. The weapon was big, black and deadly. The old Marine smiled at Mason. “I’ve been killing bastards with this bitch since 1944.”

  “Fair enough,” Mason said. “We’ll talk to you later. Let you know if anything happened.”

  Harold nodded.

  Mason followed James out of the old man’s house, letting the locked door close behind them. The air was cold, the first frost heavy in the night sky. James hit the remote key and start buttons, the truck’s doors unlocking and the engine roaring into life. They both got into the truck quickly and in a moment, James was racing towards Meeting House Road. It only took a few minutes, and they pulled up to find the ancient garrison house dark.

  James left the truck running as they both got out.

  “Do you think they’re in there?” James asked Mason in a low voice.

  Lights burst into life in all of the windows of the house, and Mason felt a chill race up his spine and spread out along his arms.

  “No,” Mason said sadly. “I think that they were.”

  Ten

  Father Moran and Father Alexander

  Mason didn’t bother calling Father Moran. He wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to get through to him in the rectory.

  So Mason sat in his truck in Nashua, in the empty Post Office parking lot, and waited to see the priest. He much rather would have spent the day in Monson with Julie, but that wasn’t going to be. They had sent a few texts back and forth, but she was going to be with her mother for most of the day. And both of them knew if they didn’t hear from each other, they were still going out for breakfast on Monday morning.

  Mason smiled at the thought of it.

  He enjoyed Julie’s company. She was well-read, intelligent, confident, and beautiful. And she didn’t take any shit from anyone. He’d seen her handle a gentleman who wanted to take out reference books which weren’t allowed to go out. She’d kept her cool until it was time for the gentleman to leave. Mason helped him leave the building before Julie decided to come around the desk and beat the man senseless with one of the very books he was seeking to use.

  And it was still difficult in Monson. The Verranault boys were still missing. There was no evidence other than what the neighbor had seen. In and of itself, that was merely a whisper of what had happened. Mason and James and Harold, they all knew what happened. As did Julie, after Mason had told her. Mason had no doubt that someone from Boston, from the law firm, had come up and brought the boys to Liam Boylan, especially since Halloween had passed.

  The lights in the house had helped to solidify that thought in Mason’s mind.

  Movement at the front of the Church brought Mason’s attention back to the now, and he looked as the tall, ornate wooden doors of St. Patrick’s opened. The faithful were exiting the building. Some of them quickly. Others leisurely. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away, and the attendance at the masses was undoubtedly increasing and would continue to do so until the crescendo of Christmas mass.

  A minute or two after the doors opened, Mason saw Father Moran walk out, a head taller than most of his congregation. He was a huge man who looked as though he could easily have led men in the crusades with a mace in one hand and the Bible in the other.

  With a grunt, Mason opened the pickup’s door and climbed out, his body stiff from having sat in one position for longer than half an hour. He stretched slightly, hooked his keys to a belt loop and closed the door. Checking the street, he crossed and walked against the exodus of Catholics and up the long stairs to find Father Moran shaking hands with the occasional person. Mason waited politely, a step below Father Moran.

  As the last of the people left, Father Moran turned to look down on Spring Street and saw Mason. His face broke i
nto a smile, and he adjusted his glasses. “Mason,” he said, “how are you?”

  “I’m well, Father,” Mason said, stepping up and shaking the man’s large hand. “How are you?”

  “Quite well, quite well,” he said. “What brings you to Church after mass?”

  “Something terrible, I’m afraid,” Mason said.

  Father Moran looked at him then nodded. “Yes, it seems as though it is. Come inside for a moment please.”

  Mason followed the priest into the large church. At the dais, a pair of altar boys were putting away the candles. “Jason, Jonathan,” Father Moran said.

  The two boys looked over.

  “Could you finish everything by yourselves today?”

  “Yes Father,” the boys said in unison.

  Father Moran smiled. “Excellent, thank you.” To Mason he said, “Come along, Mason, we’ll go through the vestibule to the rectory.”

  “I didn’t know that you could,” Mason said.

  Father Moran’s smile broadened. “It’s an old church, Mason. There are a great many little things within it. I’m sure that even I don’t know all of them, although I suspect I’ve found most of them.”

  Father Moran led Mason back to the vestibule, into the back portion of the room and pressed a bookshelf back, revealing a long, wide and low lit passage. As they entered the passage, the door closed behind them, and the passage angled down at a slight angle for quite a ways before leveling off.

  “We’re under the school now,” Father Moran said. “Well, the old school. This will come out in the kitchen. Although I’m not exactly sure as to why it should start in the kitchen. Or end in the kitchen. Whichever it is,” the man chuckled.

  The passage started to rise up slightly and soon they were facing a small door which Father Moran opened, revealing that they were in the large pantry of the rectory’s kitchen. He stopped in front of the pantry door, cleared his throat and said, “Martha, it’s Father Moran.” He turned back to Mason and said in a low voice, “I believe I actually made her wet herself one morning, so I try to give her a warning every time now. If she’s even in there.”