The Town of Griswold (Berkley Street Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  He yawned, the storm slowing down around him. Gordon glanced once more at the brook, stood up and followed the white stone path from the beach up to his small house. Once inside the mud room, he set his shotgun down, undressed, and hung his wet clothes up to dry. He pulled on his robe, put on his slippers, and picked up his weapon again. Absently, Gordon carried it with him into the kitchen, poured himself a beer, and brought both the drink and the shotgun into the front room.

  He turned on the television, sat down in his chair, and settled in to watch the news. A newscaster he didn’t know out of Portsmouth was talking about a missing state trooper. The man had vanished earlier in the day, and, according to unnamed sources within the state police department, there wasn’t even a signal coming from the trooper’s car or cellphone.

  Gordon took a drink of his beer.

  A second newscaster came on to report on a pair of notoriously troublesome brothers. The Quill brothers, out of Goffstown, had a history of run-ins with the police, and there was some speculation as to their having had a hand in the disappearance of the as-of-yet unnamed state trooper.

  Terrible, Gordon thought. He put his beer down on the coffee table, picked up his pipe and tobacco pouch and filled the bowl. Soon he had it packed, lit, and was smoking steadily. He washed the sweet taste of the Cavendish down with the cold beer and wondered if the weather forecast would actually be right.

  Their batting average is pretty terrible, he thought and nodded in agreement with himself. And you’re getting a little strange in your old age, Gordon.

  He snorted at the idea and took another long pull off of the bottle, quickly followed by a drag off the pipe.

  Gordon had the bottle on its way up to his mouth when the sensor light in the back yard burst into life. He quickly put the drink down and stood up with his shotgun. Long strides carried him to the plate glass window which looked out over the lake.

  Down on his beach, he caught sight of a coyote, bedraggled and thin, sneaking out towards something large that had washed up. Gordon clamped down hard on the pipe.

  That’s a body, he thought coldly. A goddamned body.

  By the time he reached the mud room and pulled on his boots, the rain had stopped completely. He was smoking furiously, great, pale clouds drifting up to the storm clouds passing overhead. Still holding onto the shotgun, Gordon hurried to the beach, his approach scaring away the coyote.

  When Gordon reached the body and turned the young man over, he could see it was already too late. The man had drowned. Quickly he searched the man’s pockets, found a wallet and the license.

  James Michael Quill, Gordon read. One of the brothers on the news.

  Gordon stood up and looked down sadly at the young man. Then a cold, mind-numbing thought stole over him.

  Was he in Griswold? he wondered, looking up towards the brook. Was he there? Was his brother?

  Shapes moved in the distant shadow, and the clouds broke open for a second. The pale moonlight shined down and illuminated a man and a woman. Then both were gone.

  Fear shook Gordon to the core.

  Chapter 18: Gordon Bay, Griswold, August 1st, 1975

  Gordon had a hard time with people. They made him nervous. He tasted steel in his mouth whenever he had to speak with them. He would sweat uncontrollably when with them for too long, and longed for solitude at all times.

  Wasn’t like that before ’Nam, he thought morosely.

  Gordon found the only people he could associate with were other veterans, and even then only when he was drinking. He sat in his Plymouth Valiant, his pipe in his mouth and the lingering aftertaste of Budweiser on his tongue. The sun had set hours before, and the exterior, fluorescent light on the side of the VFW Club filled the small parking lot. A few other cars and trucks were around him, the owners drinking cheap beer and bad whiskey.

  Don’t judge, he told himself. You were doing the same half an hour ago.

  Gordon had been planning to spend the better part of the night at the bar, but he hadn’t been able to shake his blues.

  Two years since Angelo was killed, Gordon thought sadly. Will you do it today? Maybe, he told himself. Maybe.

  Clenching the pipe between his teeth, Gordon started the engine, backed out of the lot, and headed along Route 111 toward his apartment in Manchester. He drove slowly, high-beams on to cut through the darkness. The clouds obscured the night sky, and the air was heavy with humidity. There was an electrical feeling in the atmosphere, as though the seemingly innocent clouds contained a fierce storm.

  Suddenly his lights illuminated a young boy and a puppy, the pair standing on the side of the road. Gordon blinked and they were gone into the darkness.

  What the hell? he thought, jerking the car over to the shoulder. I know I’m not seeing things. There was a boy there. And a dog.

  Gordon put the Plymouth in park, leaving the lights on and the engine running as he got out. He stood on the road, the heat of the day being slowly released by the asphalt. On the right, where he had seen the boy, there was a driveway.

  No, Gordon thought, correcting himself. It’s a road. It leads into Griswold.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth, exhaled a long stream of smoke, and looked at the road. Something heavy crashed in the woods to the left of the road. Too heavy for a boy and a dog.

  Where the hell are his parents? Gordon wondered. Are they squatting down in Griswold? Hell, is he living alone?

  The last thought chilled him, and Gordon stood still, thinking. Finally, he put his pipe back in his mouth, went to the car, and turned off the lights and the engine. He went to the trunk and unlocked it. Stuffing the keys into his back pocket, Gordon opened the trunk and flipped up the old wool blanket he had folded in the back. He had a small .32 caliber revolver there, and a box of shells.

  Silently, he broke the weapon open, loaded it, spun the cylinder to make sure it still moved properly, and then put the box of shells in his breast pocket. With the pistol in his left hand, Gordon closed the trunk and headed for the road. The light which slipped through the clouds was thin, the half-moon and the stars weak.

  Gordon felt the weight of the pistol in his hand and smiled grimly. A pleasant feeling washed over him, a familiar one he had enjoyed in Vietnam. He had an undeniable thrill, a sense of power. A memory of Mike Kenefick flashed through Gordon’s mind.

  The strongest man in the world, Mike had said, is the one who’s pointing a gun at you, kid. Don’t ever forget that. Ever.

  Gordon knew it was true. He felt it every time he wrapped his hand around the grip of the pistol.

  The darkness increased ten-fold when he started down the road leading into Griswold. He slowed down, making certain he didn’t trip on deadfall, and he paused constantly to listen. The hair on his arms stood on end and felt an uncomfortable surge of fear the deeper he went.

  A small yip, the noise of a rambunctious puppy, came from ahead of him, and Gordon pressed on. Sooner than he had expected, Gordon walked into the center of Griswold. The clouds had thinned out, and he was able to see what remained of the town. A pair of buildings, scattered chimneys.

  Watch your step, he told himself. Where there are chimneys, you’ll find cellars. Stick to the road.

  He glanced around, saw the door to the first building on the left was closed, but the one on the right was open. The second structure, Gordon realized, was a church, the cross on the top briefly highlighted by the moon.

  A cloud, thick and pregnant with rain, swarmed over the sky and a thick rain fell. The drops were cold, brutally so, and in the space of a heartbeat, Gordon found himself shivering.

  Where the hell did this come from? he thought angrily. He made for the church, thinking, I’ll wait it out.

  Gordon jogged the rest of the way, his clothes clinging to him uncomfortably. He reached the building, pushed the door open a little more, and went in. Water dripped down from the decrepit roof, and it took him a minute to find a relatively dry spot. Then he remembered why he had walked down
into Griswold.

  The boy and his dog, Gordon thought. He walked around the church, stepping over fallen pews and through piles of leaves that were older than he was.

  Nothing, Gordon thought. Not a damned thing.

  He listened to the rain and shivered, wondering where the boy and dog were, and if they were safe.

  You can’t look for him in the rain and the dark, Gordon, he told himself as he sat down. But as soon as the rain stops you can.

  Gordon put the pistol in his lap, rested his hands on top of it, and settled in to wait.

  Chapter 19: Waiting for Andrew

  Shane woke up quickly and realized Courtney was in front of him. She smiled tiredly, her face a pale shadow in the dimness of the church. Thin moon and starlight fell through the broken windows and cracks in the roof.

  “Do you want some water?” she asked, holding up a bottle.

  “Yes, please,” Shane said. She took the cap off and handed it to him. “Thanks.”

  He drank the tepid water slowly, looked around, and said, “Did Andrew leave?”

  Courtney nodded. “A little while ago, with Rex. He said he was going to see what Abel was up to.”

  “How are you holding up?” Shane asked, examining her carefully.

  “I’m a mess,” Courtney said honestly. “I won’t lie. I’ll have nightmares the rest of my life, however long that is. I didn’t, I … Damn, I didn’t think someone could scream like that.”

  “I know,” Shane said in a low voice. “The first time you hear it, it breaks you. Kills a little something in you.”

  Courtney hesitated and then asked, “You’ve heard people scream from being tortured before?”

  Shane nodded, thought about telling her, then he didn’t. Some things need to stay buried. Forever.

  “What’ll we do if Abel is gone?” Courtney asked. “Will we leave?”

  “Yes,” Shane said. He drank a little more. “If he’s gone, or asleep, we can take the road back to Route 111.”

  “What about Glenn?” she whispered.

  “We tell the police what happened,” Shane replied.

  She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

  “We don’t tell them Abel was a ghost,” Shane clarified. “We tell them the truth. We came down into Griswold for a little hiking. The trucks were here when we arrived. A mad man chased us into the church. Glenn arrived, was attacked by the man, and we stayed hidden in the church.”

  “What if they ask me about Abel, what he looked like?” she asked.

  “Tell them the truth,” Shane said. “You didn’t see him. I did, and we ran because I said to run. I saw him. I can give a description. They’re going to hold us. They’re going to interrogate us. As long as you don’t tell them about any of the supernatural elements, and you stick to the basics, everything will work out, doll.”

  “Okay,” Courtney said, and then she repeated the basic story.

  “Good,” Shane said, nodding. “We stick to that. I’ll offer up details about Abel.”

  “This is terrible,” Courtney said, anger flaring in her voice. “He killed him!”

  “I know he did,” Shane said gently, holding out a hand. She took and squeezed it. Pain flared up in his fingers, but he ignored it.

  “All I wanted was a nice day,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “That was it. I wanted a nice, normal day. Instead, there’s another psycho ghost.”

  Shane waited.

  She looked hard at him. “Why?”

  “I don’t have an answer, Courtney,” he said. “Any answer would sound trite and contrived. He’s dead. We’re not. We need to get out of here as soon as Andrew says we can. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Courtney nodded, crossed the short distance between them, and huddled up next to him. She had a sweet, powerful scent which reminded him of safety and he pulled her in closer, holding her tightly.

  “How are you doing?” she asked shortly.

  “Better with you in my arms,” Shane answered.

  She chuckled tiredly. “What a perfect answer.”

  “Really?” he asked, surprised.

  “Really, Shane Ryan,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “Really.

  Chapter 20: Gordon and the Church, August 1st, 1975

  Gordon awoke with a shudder.

  Damn it, he thought, I fell asleep!

  The rain still thundered against the roof, still made its way in to splash against the floor, the leaves, and the tumbled pews.

  He made sure the pistol was still in his lap and then checked his watch. The luminescent hands showed it to be 11:14 p.m.

  Quietly, he pulled out the knob on the watch’s side and wound the timepiece.

  Forty, maybe fifty minutes, he thought. He yawned, looked around and the yawn froze on his face. The boy and the dog stood by the open front door, looking at him in surprise.

  Lightning split the sky and the boy, and the puppy glowed for a moment. It was then Gordon realized he could see through the child, and the dog as well.

  Gordon pressed himself against the wall. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he thought frantically, he’s a ghost.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked in a whisper.

  Gordon swallowed nervously, then answered, “I’m Gordon.”

  “Whisper, Gordon, and be gentle in your speech,” the boy said softly, “he feels you near but doesn’t know where you are.”

  “Who?” Gordon asked.

  “Abel, my father,” the boy replied.

  “Oh,” Gordon whispered. “Is that bad?”

  The child nodded his head seriously, eyes wide.

  “Okay,” Gordon said. “Um, what’s your name?”

  “Andrew. Andrew Latham.”

  “Andrew, were you at the roadside earlier?” Gordon asked even though he was certain the boy had been.

  Andrew nodded. “We like to watch the cars go by. Usually, we aren’t seen. And we are never followed. Until tonight.”

  “I was worried,” Gordon said. He wanted to add, I shouldn’t have been since you’re already dead. But he didn’t.

  The boy smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

  Gordon nodded. “You’re welcome. Tell me, Andrew, do you think you could help me get back to the road? It’s a little too dark for me to see.”

  “You can’t,” Andrew said sadly. “Abel is there, on the road, waiting. The only way out is the brook, and we will have to ask my sister for her help. She knows the path best to it. I have … Well, I have forgotten.”

  “A brook?” Gordon asked, confused. “How do I get back to the road by a brook?”

  “The road?” Andrew said. “No, not the road. The lake.”

  “Lake Charles?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “In the dark?” Gordon said.

  “Yes.”

  “Great,” Gordon said angrily. “Well, your sister can bring me there?

  “Yes,” Andrew said. “I’ll find her.”

  Gordon wanted to ask another question, but the boy ran out of the church with the dog close on his heels.

  With a sigh, Gordon leaned his head back against the wall, shifted the pistol from his left hand to his right, and scratched the back of his head.

  What in the hell is going on here?

  Chapter 21: Trooper Martini

  State Trooper Sergeant Henry Martini kept his head about him. The New Hampshire police community was in a frenzy. Glenn Jackson had been missing for over twelve hours. Worse, they didn’t even know where Glenn’s interceptor was. No one could get a read off of its GPS.

  Every off-duty cop in New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, and Connecticut was looking for him. They were scouring back roads, garages, warehouses, rivers, ponds, lakes, quarries. People known to have anti-police sympathies were getting some rough treatment by out-of-state members of the thin blue line. Correctional officers were leaning on prisoners.

  Henry had been on vacation when the text messages and calls had come in.
He had left the house he and his wife had rented at Ogunquit, made his way back to the barracks and gotten the low-down on the situation.

  The last call Trooper Jackson had made had been about a car near the abandoned town of Griswold. No one had gone into Griswold, though, because the road was too narrow to fit a Prius, let alone an interceptor.

  Henry didn’t believe it, though. He knew Donnie Matterhorn, and how the man still felt guilty about the hiker who had gone missing. Glenn had gotten Donnie’s sector because Donnie couldn’t handle driving by Griswold anymore. Once, when Henry had gone to bring Donnie home from the drunk tank in Milford, Donnie had said something Henry had chalked up to being hammered.

  Donnie had told him how he occasionally saw Thomas Speidel, the missing hiker, standing at the entrance to Griswold late at night.

  And what if Glenn remembered Donnie and Thomas Speidel? Henry wondered, pulling up behind the Nissan Maxima Glenn had called in.

  Henry put on his lights and called in his location. He grabbed his light and stepped out into the cool air. Long strides carried him to the road which led down into Griswold. He turned on the Maglite and flashed its powerful beam down into the darkness. On either side of the road he saw broken branches at car height, scattered leaves twigs littered the old and cracked asphalt.

  Anger built up in him as he looked at the trees on either side of the road. They didn’t look, he fumed. God damn them! They didn’t look down the road!

  Enraged, Henry ran back to his interceptor to call it in.

  Chapter 22: Meeting Andrew’s Sister, August 1st, 1975

  “Are you ready?” Andrew asked in a whisper when he returned.

  Gordon nodded, got to his feet, and went to where the boy stood by the door. Andrew smiled at him, and Gordon smiled back. His breath came out in great white clouds. The air at the door was brutally cold.

  The clouds had vanished and left behind the light of the moon and stars. Gordon could see easily. He glanced at the road which led back to Route 111, and he wondered if he might be able to make it.