by Ron Ripley
What Frank and the woman had in finesse, Shane had in pure rage and brute power.
Shane plowed into her, his shoulder catching her in the ribs, breaking them while lifting her up off her feet. She exhaled and grunted all in one motion as Shane drove her into the wall. Pictures fell from their hooks, landing on the floor with a shatter of breaking glass.
Blood ran down the side of Shane's face, some of it slipping along the line of his cheekbone and spilling down over his mouth. The lower half of his chin became a grotesque imitation of a clown's smile and his teeth were stained red as he stepped back.
Frank opened his mouth to speak but didn’t have the chance.
Shane stepped forward and smashed his fist into the woman’s face. Her head snapped back, putting a dent in the horsehair plaster as her eyes rolled up to show the whites. She slid, seemingly boneless, to the floor.
"Kitchen?" Frank asked, his voice loud and harsh in his ears.
Shane shook his head. “Bathroom. The blood will be easier to clean there.”
Together they took the stranger by her arms and dragged her up the stairs.
Chapter 43: A Conversation between Friends
Shane's head pounded, and his hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. He was alone in the bathroom with a stranger. They had searched her and come up with a phone, a small coil of wire, a detective’s badge that said she was Lisbeth Walker, and far too much money for a police detective. She lay in the bathtub, bloody and battered, and Shane had no doubt she was still extremely dangerous in spite of her injuries.
Frank leaned in the doorway with a shotgun, a pair of rock salt shells loaded into it.
“She’s awake,” Frank said.
Shane looked at her. The woman’s expression was unchanged, but he didn’t doubt Frank’s assessment.
“Who are you?” Shane asked.
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared at him. A fine mixture of hatred and anger filled her eyes.
“I’m exactly who it says I am,” she said. Her words were cold and flat.
“Detective Lisbeth Walker,” Shane said.
She nodded.
“Then why, Detective Walker,” Shane said, “did you come here to kill us this morning?”
She looked from Shane to Frank, seemed to assess the situation, and said, “I’m not leaving here alive.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Shane replied.
Lisbeth scoffed. “I’m going to kill you, Shane. And you, Frank. The first opportunity that presents itself.”
“Why?” Shane asked. He was surprised and curious.
“It’s what I’m paid to do,” she responded.
“By whom?” Frank asked.
“Someone who is extremely upset with you,” Lisbeth snapped. “You’ve stepped on some toes, Shane. And you as well, Frank. You’ve interrupted a process of cultivation, and they’re going to stop you.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Shane asked.
A cold, calculating look appeared on her face. Her eyes lacked any sort of empathy, any sort of emotion.
His own face must have been easy to read, for Lisbeth gave him a cold and brutal smile.
“Life’s not what you thought it was, is it, Shane?” she snickered. “No. Not at all. And here’s a little bit of information for you. Something to wrestle with during your sleepless nights. They’ve been watching your house since before your parents bought it. They knew about the girl in the pond. They’ve always known. And when your parents bought the house, they wondered how long you would all last.”
“I lasted long enough,” Shane hissed. “And I’ll last longer than you.”
Lisbeth spat a wad of bloody phlegm on the floor.
“You were told to stay away from ghosts,” she snarled. “You could have been here, in your house, happy with your little assortment of dead friends until the Watchers decided to move. Instead, you became involved. Sanford, Kurkow, Nutaq. And now, Slater Mill. Pierre Gustav is to be left alone. Someone is going to make you leave him alone.”
“No one,” Shane hissed, “is going to make me do anything.”
“How many more of you are there?” Frank asked.
Lisbeth laughed. “I’m not a true believer, Frank. I’m a hired gun. And there are always more who are willing to pull the trigger. I happened to be closest. Others will come. One will succeed.”
“You won’t,” Shane said, standing up. “What will happen to you if we let you go? How is failure dealt with?”
She grinned. “Failure means I don’t get paid.”
“Success means money in the bank,” Shane said.
Lisbeth let out a laugh, nodding.
“How do you call it in?” Frank asked. “When you succeed?”
She shook her head, a broad, gruesome smile spreading across her face.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “That won’t do. You won’t get away that easily. And I know you won’t torture me for it, Frank. I know what you did in Afghanistan. And you, Shane. I know you won’t do it either.”
Shane nodded, finished his cigarette, and knocked the ashes off into the sink. He exhaled the smoke towards the ceiling and then turned his attention back to Lisbeth.
“You’re right,” Shane said. “I won’t. But there are those who will. Eloise.”
The dead girl slid out of the far wall, her face a mask of fury.
For the first time, fear flickered across Lisbeth's face.
“What do you need, Shane?” Eloise asked, glaring at Lisbeth.
"There's a number or a word that we need. It’s what she would tell them as confirmation of her having killed the two of us,” Shane said, keeping his rage contained. “She'll tell you when you've done enough," Shane said.
“How will I know it’s the right thing?” Eloise asked.
“Keep hurting her until she promises that it’s the right one,” Shane said. He left the room and glanced back at Lisbeth, who had pressed herself into the corner of the tub.
“You can close the door,” Eloise called out. “And turn the light out. I can ask my questions in the dark.”
Without responding to her statement, Shane turned off the lights and shut the door behind him. Before he and Frank reached the top of the stairs, the first of Lisbeth’s many screams punctured the stillness of the house.
Chapter 44: The Dead do not Forget
“Do you think Marie knows about any of this?” Shane asked.
Frank glanced over at him and shook his head. “No. I don’t.”
“I tried texting her,” Shane said. “I mean, I think it was the right number. I don’t even know anymore.”
“We can figure that out later,” Frank said, crossing the room. “Right now, we have a more pressing concern. He’s still out there.”
Shane looked up at Frank. The man stood by the back door, staring out into the dawn.
The pounding in Shane’s head made thinking difficult.
"Who?" Shane asked, the sound of his voice causing him to wince.
Frank glanced over at him and said, “Jack.”
Shane groaned and sank back into his chair, closing his eyes. “Hell. I forgot about him.”
"Yeah," Frank said. A moment later, the chair across from Shane's desk was pulled back, and the wood creaked as Frank sat in it. "Getting shot at, well that can do it to you."
Shane opened one eye and said, “Correction. Getting shot.”
“You were grazed,” Frank said gently
Shane let his eyelid sink down again and said, “Still, it qualifies as being shot.”
Frank snorted. “What do we do now about Jack?”
“We’re going to have to call Kurt and go at him with just the three of us,” Shane answered.
“Sounds like a terrible idea,” Frank said.
“Agreed,” Shane said, sighing. “I don’t see much of an alternative.”
“No,” Frank acknowledged. “I think you’re right about that. When do you want to call him?”
“In abou
t an hour or so,” Shane answered. “Can’t wait much longer. Got a feeling Jack won’t.”
“You’re right,” Carl said, stepping into the room through the wall beside the pantry.
The two men looked at the dead man and waited for him to continue.
“Thaddeus and I saw him earlier,” Carl said. “Jack Whyte did not so much run as he did turn and stroll away. He was attempting to come in through the study. I do not doubt he will find a place we are not near soon enough.”
“Great,” Frank muttered.
“If we are to move in on him,” Carl continued. “I would suggest we do it soon.”
“I’ll call Kurt now,” Shane said. He straightened in his chair, pulled his phone out, and called the officer. Within two rings, it was answered and a man who wasn’t Kurt answered.
“Sorry,” Shane began. “Wrong number.”
“If you’re looking for Kurt,” the man said, “it’s the right number.”
“Oh,” Shane said. “Could you pass the phone over to him?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man said, sounding decidedly unapologetic. “Who’s this?”
“A friend,” Shane said. “I’ll call back later.”
Shane ended the call and put the phone on the table. A moment later, he picked it up, accessed the search engine, and looked for local news. Within seconds, a headline caught his attention.
“Off Duty Police Officer Executed.”
“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.
Shane slid the phone across the table to him.
“Oh, hell,” Frank said, shaking his head.
“I think we can say this entire situation has gone sideways,” Shane said, standing up.
"Will you tell me what is going on?" Carl asked a note of exasperation in his voice.
“Sure,” Frank said. “We’re going to have to go after Jack Whyte on our own.”
“Ah,” Carl said.
“Yeah,” Shane said as he started to leave.
“Where are you going, my friend?” Carl called after him.
“To get some help,” Shane replied.
“From whom?” Frank asked.
“Courtney,” Shane answered, and walked to the stairs.
Chapter 45: Broken
She lay in the tub, drunk on pain and agony. Lisbeth couldn't move, and every breath was a struggle. The room was an ungodly black. She shivered, but she didn't know if it was from trauma or the residual effects of the ghost's torments.
Lisbeth suspected it was the latter.
She didn’t even know if she was alone in the room.
"You're strong," the dead girl said and Lisbeth whimpered. "Not strong enough, though."
Lisbeth didn’t speak. She didn’t know if she could.
“Tell me again,” the girl said.
“Forty-six, ampersand, two,” Lisbeth said, her voice as harsh and as broken as she was.
Pain exploded in her right arm as tiny fingers made of ice pushed into her flesh.
Lisbeth screamed, thrashed and screamed again as she struck her broken wrist against the side of the tub.
“Again,” the dead girl whispered.
Lisbeth repeated the call-in code for a successful termination. She didn’t know how many times she had told the girl the code. Or how many more times the girl would ask her the question.
“Please stop,” Lisbeth begged.
“For now,” the girl said. “But I’m going to come back soon, and I’m going to hurt you more than I have so far.”
“Why?” Lisbeth moaned. “Why? I told you the code.”
“Why?” the girl asked with a scoff. “Because you hurt Shane, and you tried to hurt Frank. You tried to do bad things to my friends. And I am going to do bad things to you.”
Lisbeth wept, and the dead girl remained silent.
After several minutes, Lisbeth realized the girl was gone, and she contemplated, for the briefest of moments, an attempt to escape.
Then she remembered the dossier on the house. The other ghosts who inhabited it. The idea of suffering more at the girl's hands, as well as that of others, Lisbeth sank into the tub.
She felt a chill creep over her, and she wondered if it was shock.
“Hello my love,” a deep voiced man asked. “Mm, you’ve been a bit broken, haven’t you? Yes, old Jack can see that. You’re in a bit of a spot, aren’t you?”
Lisbeth whimpered.
The man chuckled.
“Oh no, my love, you need not fear old Jack. I’ll not do those terrible things the little one did.”
Hope sparked within Lisbeth’s chest.
"Ah, yes," Jack said, chuckling. "Never fear old Jack. Jack's rough, but he's true. Aye, that, he is. Yes?”
Lisbeth couldn’t see Jack, but she nodded nonetheless.
“So I thought, so I thought. ‘Tis all well and good,” he said, chuckling. “So said I to myself, she’s in a spot and in need of a pair of helping hands. Do I speak the truth now?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And would you like Jack’s help?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice growing stronger.
“And Jack would like to give it to you, so he would,” Jack said, chuckling.
Suddenly cold hands wrapped around her throat, the touch of them excruciating. Lisbeth kicked out at the walls and clawed at the hands, but she encountered nothing. The hands tightened, squeezing the life out of her.
Lisbeth flailed about, her heels drummed against the old cast iron tub, and above it all, she heard Jack.
He was whistling, a happy, cheerful tune as he slowly, leisurely, tightened his grip.
Chapter 46: Tidying Up
Abigail had showered, dressed, and gone to her office. She sat at her desk, tapping her fingers on the leather blotter and stared at her cell phone, willing it to chime that a message had arrived.
Instead, the phone rang.
Abigail answered it with a cold, “Hello.”
“Hello,” the woman on the other end replied. “Dell has been confirmed.”
“Excellent,” Abigail stated, allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction. “Take care of the shooters.”
“Yes.”
The call ended.
Abigail placed the phone back on the blotter and accessed Channel 9 News in New Hampshire via the internet. She turned up the volume on her speakers and listened to the top stories.
A veteran officer of the Nashua Police Force had been gunned down, execution style, on the same street his partner had suffered a fatal heart attack. In Chelmsford, Massachusetts, a faulty gas line had exploded in the early hours of the morning, killing a husband and wife as well as their three children.
Abigail nodded, pleased with the events, and navigated away from the site. She glanced at the phone.
Aside from the two shooters, which was nothing more than minor housekeeping in the grand scheme of things, Abigail was waiting only on the operative in Nashua. The female detective had been an effective asset for a decade. While the organization had only used her a handful of times, she had always come through.
The tempo of Abigail’s fingers increased, beating out a maddening rhythm on the desktop.
Five minutes passed. Then, soon an hour had elapsed, and for the first time, Abigail found herself concerned.
A sound in the front caught her attention and made her reach for the silenced pistol she kept secured under the desk. She was by no means a trained sniper but Abigail knew she could hit anyone who walked through the door of her office.
It took her several moments to recognize the everyday noises her secretary made, and when Abigail did, she let go of the pistol’s grip.
The cell phone chimed.
Abigail picked it up with a hand that was steadier than she thought it would be.
The text was from the operative’s number.
46&2.
Abigail sank back into her chair, relief flooding her.
She deleted the message and dropped the phone to
the blotter. The intercom on her desk buzzed and Abigail answered it. “Yes?”
“I didn’t realize you were in this early, Ma’am,” her secretary said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” Abigail replied.
“Right away, Ma’am.”
Abigail took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and began to plan how she would bring Slater Mill back under control.
Chapter 47: Focus and Drive On
“Thank you,” Frank said to Eloise. He put Lisbeth’s phone down on the side table in the study.
“You’re welcome,” Eloise said, grinning. “What should I do with her now?”
“Keep an eye on her, please," Frank said. "I have to talk to Shane about what to do.”
Eloise nodded and skipped out of the room, leaving him alone.
The situation was decidedly sticky, Frank knew. There was no doubt that Lisbeth intended to kill Shane and him. Frank was still taken aback by her initial attempt, by the whole situation. Whomever she worked for had deep pockets, and were well aware of what Shane had done in the past. Why they were concerned about it was worrisome as well.
It meant that there was a group of some sort who concerned themselves with the unruly dead, and they weren’t pleased with what had been done in the past, or what he and Shane were attempting to do with Slater Mill.
Frank had little information on the group, and he hoped to get Lisbeth to talk about it. If she even knew.
But Lisbeth was a problem for another time.
The priority was Jack, and only Jack. Lisbeth was, at least for the moment, contained. The dead Englishman was not. Knowing Jack’s propensity for violence kept Frank focused. He and Shane could worry about the assassin, and what to do with her, later.
Eloise raced into the room, a look of dismay on her face.
“What is it?” Frank asked, pushing himself out of the chair.
“The woman,” Eloise said, her eyes wide, “she’s dead.”
“Did you kill her?” Frank demanded.
Eloise shook her head.
Without another word, Frank turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room. His footsteps thundered on the stairs, and when he reached the door, Frank wrenched it open.