The Town of Griswold (Berkley Street Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  She pulled her hand out of his and looked hard at him. “Give me a break, Shane. Find someone else to do it. You can’t.”

  Anger pulsed in him, but he kept his voice calm. “I have to.”

  “Why?” her voice was cold.

  “I’m a Marine,” Shane said. “And I can. I have to.”

  “You’ll die.” Her words came out flat and hard.

  “I might,” Shane agreed.

  “I can’t go back in there,” Courtney said.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to. And I can’t have someone else die. Not when it can be avoided.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I like you a lot, Shane. A real lot. I don’t know how much is because of Squirrel Island, or because of you, I just know I like you. But I’m not going to hang around while you risk your life. Not for this.”

  Shane nodded. He was surprised to feel his gut wrench and twist beneath his skin.

  “Will you be able to find a ride home?” she asked him after a moment of silence.

  “Yeah,” Shane said softly, smiling sadly at her.

  She nodded, not looking at him. “Okay.”

  Courtney turned and walked away from him, her head down and her arms across her chest.

  Shane didn’t watch her leave. Instead, he faced the other way and made his way towards the heart of the city.

  I’ll call a cab, he thought, his head hurting worse than before. But I need a drink first. A good, hard drink.

  He walked quickly and kept his eyes open for a bar.

  Chapter 30: Gordon Entertains

  Gordon opened the door and saw Donnie with a state trooper he didn’t know.

  “Come on in, gentlemen,” Gordon said, stepping away. Both of the men did so, Donnie leading the other to the kitchen table. Gordon joined them after he shut the door. He went to his seat, sat down, and looked at Donnie.

  “Gordon, this is Henry Martini,” Donnie explained. “He was down in Griswold earlier. We’ve got a couple of missing men.”

  “One’s a statie?” Gordon asked.

  The two men nodded.

  “Henry wants to know what you can tell him about your experience in Griswold,” Donnie said.

  Gordon swallowed uncomfortably. “It’s a little hard to discuss.”

  “I’m patient, Mr. Bay,” Henry said pleasantly.

  “Call me Gordon, please.”

  “Alright, Gordon, take your time,” Henry said. “I’d like to know what you saw.”

  Gordon cleared his throat, looked down at his feet, then back up at the two men. After a moment’s hesitation, he began to speak. He told them everything. About seeing the dead boy, Andrew, and the dog. He talked about how he had hidden in the church, and then how he had followed Andrew into the woods. Gordon told them of Eugenia, and of hiding in the brook, before following it. Finally, he told the two troopers of Abel Latham and the unknown camper. He told them of how the ghost had carried the stranger out of the tent.

  “It started to rain then,” Gordon said. He stood up, got a drink of water, and returned to his seat. “A hard rain. The type you want to hide from. Even when you’re home, you know it’s a bad rain. Lightning followed close on its heels, and thunder, of course. With every strike of lightning, Abel grew stronger. Firmer. He glowed as he worked. The stranger was crucified, between a couple of trees. It was brutal. Horrible.”

  “I’d seen men hurt,” Gordon said, looking from Donnie to Henry. “I’ve seen them tortured and killed. This was more than anything I’d seen before. A terrible job. When Abel went to work on the man’s feet, I couldn’t take any more. I ran. Ran.”

  Gordon shook his head. “Eugenia led me along the brook. And it took a while. A long while, until I reached Lake Charles. Even then I thought Abel was right behind me.”

  “Do you know what happened to the body?” Henry asked.

  “No,” Gordon said softly. “I wish to God I did. I used to pray that someone would find the bones, at least give some peace to him.”

  Silence fell over the men, and Gordon broke it a short time later, saying, “Can I ask why you’re interested?”

  He saw a glance pass between the two troopers, and finally, Donnie spoke.

  “There are two men missing,” Donnie said. “One of them is the brother of the man you found. The other is a state trooper. We had a couple in custody earlier.”

  Henry nodded, adding, “Evidently, Donnie here, thought you might be able to help. You see, the man we had in custody, well, the one we had brought in for questioning, he gave a description which matches yours perfectly.”

  “Abel?” Gordon asked, his voice suddenly hoarse and weak.

  Henry looked at him, and then said, “Seems like it.”

  Gordon’s mouth went dry, and his hand shook as he lifted his glass up for another drink. “You didn’t believe him?”

  Henry shook his head. “I didn’t. I’m not sure I still do. Have there been others who reported seeing this man, Abel, to the police?”

  “I don’t know,” Gordon said, looking to Donnie.

  “No,” Donnie said. “When I first overheard Gordon here, I went through the old files in the barracks. Then in Concord. Nothing. Not a damned thing. Seems like only Gordon, Shane Ryan, and the girl, Courtney, have seen Abel before.”

  “No,” Gordon said softly. “We’re just the only ones to live and report it.”

  Both of the officers looked at him, confusion on their faces. Gordon stood up, went over to his desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. “You may want to look at this.”

  He handed it Henry and said, “I’m going to put a pot of coffee on. I think we’ll be here a while.”

  Chapter 31: Home on Berkley Street

  Shane’s wallet was significantly lighter after his taxi ride from Manchester to Nashua.

  When he closed the door behind him and walked tiredly towards the kitchen, Carl appeared in the hall.

  “My friend,” Carl said pleasantly in German. “How was your adventure?”

  “Terrible,” Shane said.

  Carl frowned and followed him into the kitchen. Shane made his way to the liquor cabinet, pulled down a fresh bottle of whiskey, and opened it. He took a tumbler out of the dishwasher, filled the glass, and then carried it and the bottle to the kitchen table. With a drawn out sigh, he settled down in his chair and emptied the tumbler as quickly as he could.

  As he poured himself a fresh drink, Shane looked at Carl, who was eyeing him with concern.

  “May I ask,” Carl said, “what happened?”

  Shane gave the man an abridged version of what had occurred.

  Carl scratched the back of his head, confusion plain on his face.

  “Tell me,” Carl said after a short time, “what is it she would have you do?”

  “Let someone else worry about Abel Latham,” Shane said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “But you are a man,” Carl said, shaking his head. “You must do what a man would. You can do no less.”

  “I know,” Shane said. He hesitated before he poured a third shot. Who cares? No one alive is going to see me falling down drunk.

  “I am sorry for you,” Carl said.

  “She is a nice young woman,” Shane said. He hesitated and then added softly, “I was happy with her, Carl. I was very happy. I never thought I could be. It sounds melodramatic, I know. But we got along. She didn’t mind the way I am. Nothing I did bothered her. Except for this.”

  “My young friend,” Carl said gently. “I am truly, truly sorry for you. She seemed like such a nice, young woman.”

  “She is,” Shane replied. “An extremely attractive and nice young woman. She deserves better than a broken man haunted by his childhood.”

  “That is the whiskey talking,” Carl said, scolding him. “You should not drink as much as you do.”

  “I know,” Shane agreed. He knocked back the third drink and set up a fourth. “The problem, Carl, is I just don’t care. I may later on.
But not right now. Right now, my dear friend, all I want to do is drink and forget about her.”

  “When will you be going after this ghost? This Abel?” Carl asked.

  “The sooner, the better,” Shane said bitterly. “I need to know more about him. If I’m going to hurt him, that is.”

  Carl nodded. “I’m afraid you are correct. With whom shall you speak, my young friend?”

  Shane shrugged. “Someone who knows more, I figure.”

  The whiskey kicked in, a hard blast to his stomach that caused him to wince.

  “Perhaps you should not drink so much?” Carl said, his voice laced with concern.

  “You’re right,” Shane said bitterly, pouring himself another drink.

  Carl gave a short bow and left the kitchen. Shane was alone at the table, with only the whiskey for company.

  Fine with me, Shane thought.

  He drank a little more. The screams of Trooper Glenn Jackson echoed through his head. Shane pictured Andrew’s feet, and a vivid image of Jackson being tortured burned into his thoughts. Shane shuddered. He dug his cigarettes out, lit one, and exhaled a large cloud of smoke. The tobacco felt good, adding a pleasant, familiar aftertaste to the liquor.

  The door to the pantry opened, startling him, as it always did.

  Eloise looked out. The little girl eyed him carefully before she asked, “Do you want to play, Shane?”

  Startled, Shane laughed and smiled at her. “Why?”

  “You’re upset,” Eloise answered, taking a cautious step into the kitchen. The temperature in the room dropped significantly. “Carl has told us what happened. I thought you might like to play. Playing always made me feel better.”

  Shane considered it for a moment, tapped the head off his cigarette into the glass ashtray and nodded. “Yeah, Eloise. Yes. I’d like to play. What are you thinking of?”

  “A tea party,” the little dead girl said excitedly. She clapped her hands, pigtails bouncing. “You can have real tea, and I will have to pretend. We can sit here, at the table, just like grown-ups!”

  “I think,” Shane said, grinning, “a tea party is exactly what I need.”

  He stood up, a little unsteadily, and walked over to the stove. Shane got the tea kettle, filled it, and set it on a burner. Eloise skipped over to him, smiling.

  “Shall it be a grand tea party, Shane?” she asked in a happy voice.

  “The grander, the better,” Shane replied, talking around his cigarette. “Hell, we’ll even get some cookies out.”

  Eloise laughed and clapped her hands, watching him intently as he got everything ready for their tea party.

  Chapter 32: Investigating the Unexplained

  Tom Coach had been a reporter for fifteen years. He’d started off in print and been smart enough to shift into online work when the times changed.

  Print’s dead, he thought. It was a phrase he had repeated to himself many times when he had to get out and do some legwork for an article. Not only did he write columns for the Nashua Telegraph, the Manchester Union Leader, and the Concord Monitor, but he had his blog as well. He covered politics because New Hampshire was all about the presidential race, but Tom had started his career in crime. And crime was still his passion.

  He had managed to get his hands on an illegal scanner, one which allowed him to monitor everything going on where he lived. Tom had heard about the Quill brothers, and he had heard the calls about Trooper Glenn Jackson.

  Then there was nothing.

  No more chatter on the scanners. None of his former sources would tell him what had happened to Jackson or to John Quill. James Quill’s body had washed up on a private beach on Lake Charles. The State Police, the Manchester Police, and the Goffstown Police were all keeping a tight lid on the story.

  Too tight, Tom thought. He adjusted his backpack and brought his binoculars up. From where he was parked, he could see the State Police interceptor parked across the road which led down into Griswold. Tom frowned. I’m going to have to go in through the woods.

  He sighed, put his binoculars in the side pocket of his pack and shook his head. Tom was prepared for the hike, of course. He even had extra supplies in case he got lost.

  Not likely, he chuckled. But stranger things have happened, and best be prepared. What’s that phrase Franklin used to say? “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure?” Tom shrugged, Always prepared.

  With his car parked at the Mobil Station up the road, where he had given the clerk twenty dollars to make sure the vehicle wouldn’t be towed, Tom had hiked the half-mile up Route 111. He walked down the gentle grade, through the tall grass in desperate need of mowing, and entered the woods. The air felt heavy, too humid to be comfortable.

  Tom ignored it as best he could. The police were hiding information. No reporters were allowed into Griswold. The pretense was that the entire town was an active crime scene. He scoffed at the idea.

  They’ve had plenty of time to process it, Tom thought. They’re just holding onto it for some reason. All the anti-cop violence going on, I bet that’s the angle they’re trying to hide.

  It had been a long time since he had been out actively seeking information on a story, and excitement filled him as he moved further into the woods. He followed a thin game trail, which led steadily to the northeast. Every few minutes, he checked the compass he had brought along, making sure he was keeping to the right course.

  Griswold, or what was left of it, would be coming up shortly. He remembered when he had moved to Goffstown and how the retirees had talked about the ghost town. Stories of it being haunted. Unexplained disappearances. The strange, abnormal thunderstorms which erupted over it.

  Tom snorted derisively. Man the things people invent.

  The trail opened a little, and he heard the sound of water. He paused, pictured the map of the area in his head. There was a brook to the left of Griswold’s main street. The water ran all the way to Lake Charles.

  And there’s no other water here, Tom thought with a grin. He continued on, and soon he saw the remains of a house. It had been built of stone. There were still closed shutters on the windows and the door hung crazily in its frame. One wall was partially tumbled, the roof was gone, but the chimney still stood tall.

  Tom stopped and looked at the home. I wonder who used to live here, he thought. He walked closer and peered in. Leaves littered the floor, hiding it from view. A broken chair lay on its side, as did a table.

  “Why are you here?” a voice demanded from behind him.

  Tom let out an involuntary shriek and jumped. He turned around too fast, tripped and stumbled into the wall. He caught himself even as a stone fell inside.

  He saw a young man standing by a birch tree a short distance away. The man looked strange, his clothes soaking wet. Wet hair clung to his forehead and his eyes bore into Tom’s.

  Tom took a cautious step back, hands out until they found the chill stone of the house.

  Cold radiated from the young man, washing over Tom and causing him to shiver. The stranger didn’t look right. Something was off about him, but Tom couldn’t place it. But he knew he was afraid.

  “Are you going to answer me?” the young man asked harshly.

  Tom managed a weak smile and said, “I’m just out for a hike. That’s all. On my way to Lake Charles, figured I get a little exercise in, you know?”

  “This is private property,” the stranger said.

  “No,” Tom said defensively and tried to put a little authority in his voice. “This is public property. What’s your name?”

  “James. Tell me yours.”

  “Tom,” he replied. He stared at James for a minute. “You look familiar. What’s your last name?”

  James sneered. “Quill. But I don’t know you, Tom.”

  “James Quill,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’re not James Quill. He’s dead.”

  “I am,” James agreed, taking a step forward.

  It was then Tom realized what was wrong with the man. He
wasn’t whole. Wasn’t completely solid. He looked like a hologram from a science fiction movie. There but not.

  “Ghosts aren’t real,” Tom said defensively.

  James raised an eyebrow and in a bitter tone asked, “Would you like to meet my wife, Tom?”

  A cold hand touched Tom’s arm, and he screamed, wetting himself. He jerked away and turned. A young woman stood close to him. Around her neck was a terrible mark, as though someone had hung her. She smiled at him and stepped forward on bare, silent feet. Her dress was old, faded. And she was as thin and unreal as James.

  Her smile faded. “My husband is right. This is private property. Why are you here?”

  Tom’s heart thundered in his chest. He stuttered as he answered her, “I’m a reporter. I’m just a reporter.”

  His right arm went numb, and his pulse became erratic. Pain flared in his face, and he thought frantically, Oh dear God, I’m having a heart attack!

  He groaned, dropped to the ground, and sat there. His breath came in gasps, a tight fist closing around his chest. Tom’s heartbeat was a thunderous roar in his ears.

  James came closer and stood beside his wife, the dead couple looking down at him with disinterest. Their voices were faint but clear.

  “Is he dying?” James asked.

  “Yes,” the young woman answered. “He’s having a heart attack.”

  Then she added, “I don’t want him to stay here. He can’t haunt our home.”

  James sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Help me drag him,” she answered. “There is a little hill not far from here. At the bottom, he will no longer be in Griswold.”

  “Fine,” James said.

  Tom felt both of them grab hold of his arms, pulling him away from the house. Stars exploded around his eyes, and each breath was a struggle, a battle.

  I’m dying, Tom thought, tears springing to his eyes. Christ almighty, forgive me of my sins. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

  James and the young woman dragged him unmercifully across the ground. Vaguely Tom felt stones and branches beneath him. Then they were moving him up a small hill. When they reached the crest, they pushed him unceremoniously down the other side.