by Ron Ripley
The open fields would be too dangerous for them.
As Brian neared the treeline, he swept the flashlight from left to right and back again, looking for any indication someone had been around. Then, at the edge of the flashlight’s range, he caught a glimpse of a salt lick and something on the ground. Brian frowned.
A deer had been baited and shot.
As he got closer to the salt lick, though, he realized there were two shapes on the ground, and while one was definitely a deer, the other shape was dressed in woodland camouflage.
“Oh shit,” Brian said out loud. He broke into a trot, careful of his footing on the grass, knowing the treads on his sneakers were a little too smooth for good traction.
In a minute, he reached the body. The dead man was lying on his side in a mess of congealing blood offal. A rifle hung loosely off the hunter’s shoulder, and a skinning knife was a few feet away from the open right hand. Carefully, Brian took hold of the hunter and turned the body towards him.
The look of fear and horror frozen on the man’s face caused Brian’s heart to skip a beat.
It looked as though the man had literally died of fear.
Brian stood up and took his phone out of his back pocket. He pulled off his right glove and dialed 911. After asking his emergency and location, the operator patched him through to Milford, the closest police department. Mont Vernon wasn’t big enough for its own.
“And who is this?” the dispatcher asked after Brian told her the situation.
“Brian Roy,” Brian said.
“Address, Mr. Roy?”
“One Eighty-Five Old Nashua Road, Mont Vernon,” he answered.
When she asked his phone number, he rattled it off.
“Alright, Mr. Roy,” she said. “You’re sure the man is dead?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay. Leave the scene alone, and please wait at your house for the officers. Turn your porch light on, and all of the lights on the first floor if possible. We want to make sure they’ll be able to see you.”
“Understood,” Brian said.
He ended the call and looked down at the body of the hunter.
“Seriously,” Brian sighed, looking down at the dead hunter. “You had to do this shit on my first night here? Christ, even in Manchester, I never had a body in my backyard.”
Shaking his head in disgust, Brian turned around and headed back towards the house, trying not to think of the new and inventive curses that were going to tumble out of his wife’s mouth.
***
At eleven thirty PM, the last of the police left the house.
Brian was tired, angry and ready to punch a cop.
Jenny, per usual, had managed to keep him cool and to keep his overworked heart from sending him to the ER.
All of the police officers who had shown up had been decent guys. All except for the last one, a blowhard part-timer who had spent twenty years in Billerica in Massachusetts. The guy thought he was tough and threw his impressive bulk around.
Brian had referred to him as Jabba when speaking to one of the other officers, and that was when Jenny had stepped in.
Brian was in his pajamas and his robe, a pair of slippers on his feet, and a much-needed glass of Booker’s, neat, in his hand. He knew the police were going to be out in the backyard for a while, more than likely until the early morning. It was a crime scene, and everything had to be documented until they could get an autopsy done and officially rule out homicide.
Brian wanted to sleep.
Jenny had taken an Ambien and was already asleep upstairs. He had promised her he’d only have one drink, and he was already regretting the promise.
But he had made it, and he was going to keep it.
Brian sipped at the Bookers and closed his eyes.
This was definitely not how he wanted to spend the first night in the house. He had hoped there might be a romantic interlude at some point, but Mr. Poacher had put the squash on that.
Jenny was starting a new job in Merrimack in the morning, and she was already cutting it close with the Ambien. She’d never fall asleep without it, though; Brian could thank her ex-husband for that.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself.
Thinking like that would piss him off, and that wouldn’t be any good for either of them. She had already had to bring him to Elliot Hospital for one heart attack. He didn’t want her to have to bring him somewhere because of another one. And God forbid if he died on the next one.
He was sure she’d figure out a way to bring him back and kill him. More than once, too.
Smiling, Brian finished his drink and stood up. He started to carry the glass to the kitchen when he felt a cold breeze. Frowning, he turned toward it. The breeze vanished, but it had definitely come from the study Brian would be using as an office.
Walking into the study, Brian pushed the button on the old style light switch and looked around.
The room’s two windows were closed, and there wasn’t enough wind to force any sort of breeze down through the room’s small fireplace. His boxes of office supplies and electronics were stacked on his desk, but that was all. The shelves were bare; curtains blocked the view of the world beyond the room, and everything was silent.
Shaking his head, Brian turned off the light and walked to the kitchen. He put the glass down by the sink, put the Booker’s in the cabinet over the fridge, and turned the light out as he left the room. Walking down the hallway towards the stairs, he heard a click and looked back.
The light was on in the kitchen.
From upstairs, he could hear the gentle sound of Jenny snoring.
Turning around, Brian went back to the kitchen.
The Booker’s was on the counter beside the glass, and there was perhaps a half an inch of the liquor in the tumbler.
A chill ran along Brian’s spine, and the hair stood up on his arms.
“I finished my drink,” he told the kitchen, “and I put that bottle away. I’m not doing either one of those things again.”
Brian turned his back on the kitchen, turned out the light once more, and walked away. When he reached the stairs, he heard a second click.
The fear that gripped him was primal, but he turned and looked.
The kitchen light was on.
Slowly, taking deep breaths, Brian walked back to the kitchen again.
The glass was empty and stood alone by the sink.
The cabinet door over the fridge was open and showed the bottle of Booker’s standing there amongst the other liquors.
“The light,” Brian said after a minute, “is staying on.”
He left the room and walked to the stairs again. When he placed his hand on the banister, he heard a click for the third time, and he knew, before he looked, that the light to the kitchen was off.
A quick glance showed he was right, and Brian hurried up the stairs to the bedroom. He kicked off his slippers, shed his robe, and got into bed as fast as he could. He rolled onto his right side and put his back up against Jenny’s as he pulled the blankets up around him.
For the first time in a terribly long time, Brian felt the urge to pray.
Chapter 4: Brian and the Furnace Technician
Brian was on his second cup of coffee, and extremely wary of the house, when the technician from J. Lawrence Hall called and said he’d be there in about half an hour.
Brian took a break from setting up his office and walked out into the hallway, glancing down at the kitchen. Nothing was going on there, so he went into the parlor. He had thought about telling Jenny what had happened in the kitchen before he went to bed, but part of him doubted what he had seen. He had enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine, and a Booker’s, which was more than he usually did. Plus, there was the stress of the move and the whole dead poacher thing.
There were a lot of mitigating factors, but Brian couldn’t shake the feeling something real had occurred. Why it had occurred, he had no idea. He couldn’t ignore it, though.
D
eciding he would bring it up to Jenny after dinner, Brian worked on his office until there was a knock at the door.
Brian called out, “Here I come.” He put down his printer, wondering where the hell he’d put the damned thing’s power cord.
Grumbling and shaking his head, Brian walked to the front door and opened it. A young man stood on the porch, holding a canvas tool bag in one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other.
“Brian?” the young man asked.
“Brian indeed,” Brian said, extending his hand.
The young man shook it. “I’m Jack from J. Lawrence Hall. You have a furnace that needs a little attention?”
“I hope it’s just a little attention,” Brian said. “Come on in. The basement’s this way.” Brian led Jack to the basement door, which was surprisingly still closed. He opened it and turned the light on before leading the way down the narrow wooden stairs. The smell of earth and age rose up to greet him as a chill settled in around him.
“Dirt floors?” Jack asked.
“On the other side of the furnace,” Brian said. “Someone put some concrete down at one point or another. Some of the piping for the furnace does run through the dirt section, though.”
The basement was empty except for a few broken chairs and a half a dozen wooden apple crates that had come with the house. At the far end of the basement, under the kitchen, the furnace stood off slightly, to the left. A slim doorway was beyond the furnace, a pair of pipes branching off into the darkness.
“I don’t know if there’s a light in there or not,” Brian said, nodding towards the doorway. “I glanced in with a flashlight when we bought the place, but that was it.”
“Not a problem,” Jack said. He looked around and smiled. “It’s nice to work in an open area. Some people have years of stuff piled around, and others have a mess.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Brian said.
Jack chuckled. “Good times, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Brian laughed and shook his head. “Okay. Listen, if you need anything, I’ll be upstairs.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jack said, putting his bag down beside the furnace.
Brian left the young man to his work and went back to getting the office ready. The indicator on his cell was flashing when he walked into the office, and he picked the phone up off of the desk.
Did the furnace tech show up yet? Jenny had texted.
He’s here now. Give you an update soon, Brian texted back.
He put the phone down, picked up his coffee, and frowned when he took a sip and realized it was cold. He carried the mug into the kitchen and put another pot of coffee on. From under the kitchen, he heard Jack working. Occasionally the pipes rattled as the young man checked something.
Soon Brian was back in the office. He found some Motorhead in his music library and dropped the phone into the docking station. In a moment, the office was filled with music, and Brian nodded along happily in time to the beat. He took a sip of his coffee and then started hunting again for the cord to the printer.
Three and a half boxes later, he found it, mixed in with a package of padded yellow mailers.
Brian held the cord up, shaking his head. “How the hell does that happen?”
“Brian!” Jack yelled from the basement.
Brian dropped the cord onto his desk, turned the music off, and hurried out of the room. Standing at the top of the basement stairs, he called down, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. “You may want to come and take a look at this, though.”
Frowning, Brian started down the stairs.
Chapter 5: Officer Sal Merkins
Sal Merkins didn’t believe for a minute that the new owner of the old Kenyon place had nothing to do with Danny Sullivan’s death. Sal had known Danny for ten years and nothing, absolutely nothing, scared that man. There was no reason why Danny should have looked like that unless maybe somebody poisoned him.
While Sal had never gotten his detective’s shield in Billerica; too much internal politics and all that crap, he’d seen some messed up murders in his twenty years. Plus, having been on his pension for the past few years, he had a hell of a lot of time on his hands. He watched a lot of television now, especially those investigative shows and the old reruns of American Justice and the FBI Files.
Sal was positive that when the autopsy was done on Danny, they’d find poison.
He knew it.
Sal was almost a hundred percent positive the new guy, Brian Roy, must have used some sort of blow gun or needle gun on Danny. Something that wouldn’t be seen with a quick once over.
Sure, Danny liked to poach, but that wasn’t any reason to kill the guy.
Sal sighed, shifted his vanilla frosted donut from his left hand to his right, and settled into the seat of his car. He was parked a ways off from the house, but he had seen the J. Lawrence Hall van pull in, and he was waiting for the damned thing to leave.
Sal took a bite of the donut and smiled. He knew he shouldn’t eat it, with his diabetes and all, but he had been the stereotypical cop at the donut shop, and it was a hell of a habit to break.
Picking up his mug, Sal washed the bite down with a swallow of coffee, thick with Bailey’s and a couple of Sweet’n Lows.
One day a week, or maybe two, off the bullshit diet his doctor put him on wouldn’t kill him.
Sal finished the donut, took another drink, and put the mug down in the cup holder. He covered his mouth, belched, and glanced out into the woods to the right.
“Sweet Jesus!” he said, his heart pounding.
Thirty yards into the woods stood a boy, perhaps ten or eleven.
The boy was looking at Sal, a soft smile playing across his narrow face. The boy wore a baggy sweater and a pair of corduroy pants. His hands were in his pockets, and he had a newspaper boy hat tilted back on his head. The smile turned into a grin, and the boy took a hand out of his pocket, waving.
Sal gave a little wave back, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the Kenyon house.
What the hell is a kid doing out on a school day? Sal shook his head. Must be home-schooled or whatever. Crazy people keeping their kids home.
After a few minutes, Sal looked out the side window again.
The boy was perhaps five yards closer. When he saw Sal looking at him, the boy waved again.
Once more Sal returned the wave, feeling uncomfortable for some reason. He cleared his throat nervously, took a drink of coffee, and tried to focus solely on the house.
Only a minute or so later, though, Sal looked out the window again.
The boy was closer. Just another five yards or so, but still, he was closer.
Sal straightened up in his chair. The boy was exceptionally pale, like a prisoner who’d been hidden away for years.
Sal wondered if there was something wrong with the kid. What if he was autistic? What if he had wandered away from his house?
“Shit,” Sal grumbled. He opened his door and got out, holding the door and frame to steady himself, his knee complaining, his feet tingling. Turning around to look over the roof of the car, Sal saw the boy was gone.
Sal looked to the left and to the right, but he didn’t see anything.
The boy had disappeared.
“What the hell?” Sal said. He turned around and nearly fell, for the boy stood a few feet away from the car.
After catching his breath and hoping that his racing heart would calm down, Sal said, “Kid, are you okay?”
The boy smiled at Sal, nodding.
“Ah, well,” Sal said, sitting back down on his seat, “That’s good to hear.”
The boy continued to smile, the look on his face raising the goose bumps on Sal’s arms.
“So,” Sal said, clearing his throat after a quick glance at the house to make sure the van was still there, “Do your parents home school you?”
The boy only smiled.
“Do you go to school?” Sal asked.
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The boy nodded.
“The elementary in Milford? They bus you in?”
“No,” the boy said, his smile never leaving his face.
“Then where do you go to school?” Sal asked.
“My grandfather teaches me.”
Home schooled, Sal thought. “What are you studying today?”
“History,” the boy grinned. “History and the right to control.”
“Oh,” Sal said, “um, that’s interesting.”
The boy nodded.
“Where’s your grandfather?” Sal asked, wondering if the man was out looking for this odd grandson.
“There,” the boy pointed.
Sal looked out of the passenger side window and saw an old man standing in the forest where the boy had been a few minutes earlier. The man was grim, his face looking as though it had been beaten out of granite. His frown spoke of disappointment and sullen anger.
The man slowly faded from Sal’s vision as though a soft cloud had passed over Sal’s eyes. Then there was a black veil that moved across the world, blocking everything from view.
Sal tried to speak and found he couldn’t. He started to shake, to tremble. Sweat burst from his skin, and his heart pounded. His tongue swelled in his mouth, and Sal found he couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t move his hands to open his mouth and push his tongue aside. He fell back into the driver’s seat of his car.
Sal couldn’t do anything other than shake in his seat, blind to the world.
A hand caressed his cheek, the flesh so cold, Sal would have screamed if he could.
“I love staying home,” the boy whispered into Sal’s ear. “I learn so much.”
Sal felt his legs begin to twitch violently, smashing his knees into the underside of the steering column.
The cold hand vanished from his cheek, and Sal continued to writhe in his seat.
Chapter 6: Brian, Jack, and the Unlit Room
“You didn’t check this room out at all?” Jack asked, leading the way to the dark section of the basement.