by Mark Tufo
Jerrod leaned against the truck and exhaled slowly. “My collection. I bought some antiques from those two. They claimed they were family heirlooms,” he continued his lie. “I had no reason to doubt them.” He finally turned to face his longtime friend and shook his head. “Then they come to me for more money and when I refused, they’re screaming about how they’ll take me down and…I just had them removed from my property. They’re drug abusers, so I figured they were on a bad…dose or whatever.” He pointed to the station. “Now they’re saying that they stole the stuff from a graveyard at the ghost town and sold it to me.”
“Oh man…” Stan moaned.
“Yeah. So, even if they’re telling the truth now, the stuff I bought is stolen property.”
“They’re going to want you to return it.”
“So it can be reburied and lost forever.” Jerrod shook his head and stared up at the night sky. He turned to face Stan. “And you want to know the worst part?”
Stan shrugged and gave him a questioning look. Jerrod waved his hands in the air, “My fucking collection is so big, I have no idea what pieces I bought from those assholes and which ones I didn’t. I mean, I’ve got over twelve hundred individual pieces in my collection and now, thanks to these two idiots, every one of them will come into question.” He wanted to scream but instead, his eyes welled up as he thought of police investigators digging through his prized display haphazardly.
Stan placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Give me a little time. I think we can come up with an idea.”
Jerrod shook his head. “I have no idea what it would be.”
Stan patted his shoulder then turned and leaned against the truck with him. “We’ll think of something.” He snorted a laugh and elbowed Jerrod. “Hell, between the two of us, we own most of the county. We’ve got to be two of the sharpest minds this part of the country has ever seen. Surely we can come up with something.”
Jerrod gave him a sideways glance. “You truly are stupid, aren’t you, Stan?” Stan’s teasing ended and he stood there, hurt. “We both inherited our fortunes. Between the two of us, I’m shocked we haven’t lost it all.”
Stan leaned back against the truck again and considered Jerrod’s words. “Well, maybe you’re stupid. I never got arrested.”
Jerrod turned and stared at him as Stan began chuckling. Jerrod couldn’t help himself as the laughter became contagious and he started laughing too. After a few moments, Stan clapped his back and pulled him into a bear hug. “Get your bruised ass home and open a bottle of single malt. I’ll be there shortly.”
“The single malt is a certainty. But why are you coming over?”
“We’re going to put our heads together and figure a way out of this.” Stan stepped over to his pickup. Apparently, he decided to leave the Ferrari at home this time. “And this time, you’ll show me what it was you actually bought from those two idiots.” Stan watched as Jerrod’s face fell. “I know you too well to ever believe that you don’t remember exactly where each and every piece came from.” Stan stepped up into the truck.
Jerrod inhaled sharply and finally nodded. “Fine. Then what?”
Stan started the truck and leaned out the window. “Then, if it isn’t there, there isn’t any evidence to back their claims, is there?”
Miller blanched at the idea of sending any part of his collection away from his immediate personal protection. “You’re going to take it with you?”
Stan laughed and shook his head. “We still have that storage locker, don’t we?” He allowed Jerrod to connect the dots himself. “It’s in my name, not yours. They’ll never be able to connect it to you, and you’ll have access to it anytime you need it.” He put the truck in reverse and held his foot on the brake, throwing an eerie red glow on the scene. “And right now, you need it.”
*****
Ben Gregory staggered out of bed and bounced against the doorway of his bedroom door, muttering a curse under his breath as he stumbled to the door, his eyes adjusting to the gloom of the early hours. He threw open the door and did his best to glare at the offending offender who offendingly beat on his door in an offending manner. Offendingly.
Jon snickered as he took in the sight of Ben standing in the doorway with his hair messed up and his sleep pants hanging off his hips. His face had serious ‘rack burns’ and the scowl in his eyes reminded him very much of a pouty child.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.” Jon pushed past the constable and made his way inside.
Ginger, Quinn and Calvin followed him into Ben’s place and Ben stood gaping at the quartet as they simply allowed themselves into his humble domicile.
“Sure. Just come on in. It’s not like I was sleeping at…” he glanced at his watch and tried to force his eyes to focus. “What the hell time is it?”
“Around three.” Jon helped himself into the kitchen and began digging around for stuff to make coffee.
“Good God, Jon.” Ben pattered into the kitchen. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Only on duty.” Foo began scooping coffee grounds into the coffee maker. “Go put a shirt on. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
Ben glanced down at his bare chest and smirked back at him. “Turning you on?”
Jon shot him a snarky look. “Man boobs do nothing for me, bro.” He nodded to Ginger. “Got an extra bra that you can loan him?”
Ben huffed and shuffled off to the bedroom. “Comodians. Just full of toilet humor.”
“Hustle up, old man. We got work to do!” Jon called. He punched the button to start the coffee pot and turned to face the trio sitting at the dinette table. “He’s a great guy. Promise.”
The three sat at the table, arranging the data that the UCLA group had collected and prepared to present it to Ben. Just as the coffee pot finished brewing, he stepped out of the bedroom in his academy sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. The sleeves had been cut off the hoodie sweatshirt and he wore a well-worn pair of house shoes.
Ben stepped into the kitchen area and pulled down a coffee mug. “Anyone else?” he asked and all tossed up a hand. Nodding he pulled down four more. “So can I ask why you decided to invade my place at such an ungodly hour?”
“We need that book you have,” Jon started. “The one with the history of the old west cop that’s doing all the killing.”
Ben set the mugs down on the dinette and sipped at his own cup. “Why? What good will it do now?”
Calvin set a mug in front of him and turned his laptop around to display the same charts and graphs that Ginger had shown Jon earlier. “We have the data to support your theory.”
Ben leaned across the table and stared at the charts but had no idea what he was looking at. After a moment he leaned back and sipped his coffee again. He met each of their eyes before nodding. “I have no idea what any of that means, but hold on a second.” He stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with Jana’s book, multiple bookmarks and tabs stuck in different pages. Pulling up a chair, he sat down between Calvin and Ginger. “Here’s the book. What exactly are you looking for?”
“Any information that deals with the identity of the spirit itself, his history, personal information…stuff like that,” Quinn said.
Ben nodded and flipped the book open. He thumbed through the pages until he found the chapter he was looking for. “There’s not a whole lot on the man himself, but here. Sheriff James ‘two guns’ Tolbert.”
Quinn and Calvin went over the book while Ginger and Jon tried to bring Constable Gregory up on what the data on the laptop really meant. Ginger showed him how the numbers compared to their previous investigations and pointed out the sheer strength of this specter.
Ben sat back staring at the line graphs. “This actually makes sense to me, though.”
“How is that?” Ginger asked. Calvin and Quinn both stopped their studying of the book and looked up at him as he spoke.
“Well, think about it for a moment. I mean, seriously, if you can try to put yours
elf in this guy’s shoes…er, well, boots for a moment. Here it is, the Wild West and he’s the only real form of law enforcement for miles around, right?” He sees everybody nodding in agreement, following his thought process. “These assholes roll up on him and ‘bushwhack’ not only him, but his GIRL, too. And they don’t just kill them, they torture them both. From what I read, they took their time with her. They raped her and beat her for hours until she finally just gave up the ghost, and then they hung him from a tree, but…”
“But what?” Quinn asked softly.
“Well,” Ben said slowly, “it wasn’t a typical hanging.” He met each of their gazes and shook his head. “When you hang someone, they fall from a height and they break their neck, pretty much killing them instantly.” He used his hands to indicate a snapping motion. “But with Jim, they hung him real slow like. They beat him senseless then let him dangle and choke for a long time.” Ben’s face twisted up in pain just at the thought, a hand absently going to his own neck and rubbing. “Then just before he went, they shot him.” He glanced up at Jon. “Right through the heart.”
Jon’s face went pale. “Just like our fist vic.”
Ben nodded. “I noticed the similarities, too. But I wasn’t about to say anything to Scott. He already thinks I’m too far out in left field.”
Jon sat back in the chair and sighed. “This isn’t good.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No, I mean,” Jon paused and turned to Calvin, “can you explain to him what you told me earlier?”
Calvin took a deep breath and scooted closer to the table. “Deputy Foo told me about a graveyard being dug up and the bodies robbed of personal effects recently.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ben snapped his fingers. “Out at Little Hope, right?” Jon nodded. “I heard something about that.”
“Yes…well,” Calvin continued, “there has been a LOT of evidence in the past where vengeful spirits have returned and stirred up a lot of problems, and it was often tied to their graves being disturbed.”
“Okay, so we go rebury the bastard and be done with it!” Ben offered hopefully.
“It’s not that easy,” Calvin explained sipping his coffee again. “I truly wish it were.”
“What’s the catch then?” Ben asked.
“Sometimes the bodies have to be destroyed,” Quinn added.
“So we bring a wood chipper,” Ben offered.
Calvin shook his head. “No, you have to use salt and fire. Elementals to tie them back to the soil. The salt, supposedly taken from the soil and the fire to return them completely to ash.”
“Okay, so we salt him and torch him. Big deal. Let’s go!” Ben started to get up.
Ginger quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his seat. “It’s not that simple, cowboy. Sit back down.”
Calvin lowered his face and gently shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s much more difficult. Since there is a distinct possibility that the grave was robbed, we may never be able to stop the spirit.”
Ben shook his head, unsure of what exactly he was hearing. “Why not?”
“Because, the spirit can attach itself to an inanimate object. As long as it was something personal to when he was alive, then…” Calvin said.
“Wait, you mean the spirit can…what? Be alive inside something that the person once owned? Like a wallet or a set of keys or…” Ben trailed off seeing them nod their heads.
“A piece of jewelry, a scrap of clothing, a lock of hair,” Ginger said.
“Oh, fuck me.”
“See?” Jon said. “We have to find out who robbed those graves.”
“And what they stole.” Ben stood up from the table.
“Where are you going?” Jon asked.
“I’m getting dressed. Looks like I’m starting my day a whole hell of a lot earlier than I planned.”
28
Roger Culley lay in his bunk, sleep being an allusive lover. The dim light of the jail casting an eerie glow through the bars in the front of the cell, causing the entire block to maintain a cold and dank feel. He pulled the wool blanket over him and rolled again, but kept bumping into the painted cinder block walls that made up the three solid walls of his new domicile. He could hear the soft snoring and other bodily noises made by his fellow cellmates as they slept through the wee hours of the morning.
Roger punched the flat pillow to try to fluff it up and rolled to the other side, facing the open bars of the front and sighed. He knew he shouldn’t be here. It should be that rich fuck Miller. He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts from his mind as a breeze blew through the jail. He opened an eye and listened for the steel door that the jailor used to come and go, but it never sounded.
He closed his eyes again, but the breeze continued, gusted in fact as it picked up, bits and pieces of debris and dust blew into his cell as the breeze became an all-out gust that blew through the cells, past the iron bars and into his cell.
Roger opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. Sand and grit blew into his eyes and he quickly shut them, pinching his eyelids shut and pulling his blanket up over his face to protect his mouth, nose and eyes from the grit that flew through the air. “What the hell?”
He could hear other inmates stirring and swearing profanities as the miniature sandstorm woke them from their peaceful slumber, coughing and cursing intermixed amongst the wailing of the wind as it suddenly gusted even higher.
Roger sat up in his bunk and pulled the blanket up over his face entirely. He tried to crack the blanket open to see what the hell was going on. He knew the jail didn’t have but two windows and both of those were far too small for a man to squeeze through. There must be one helluva windstorm outside for this kind of wind to blow through those tiny windows.
He worked up some spit and spat out the sand and dirt that had blown into his mouth just as something pulled the blanket from his head and completely out of his cell. “What the fuck?!” he yelled, instantly regretting it as dirt and sand blew into his mouth and up into his nostrils.
He spat and tried to cover his face with his arm, his eyes still clenched shut. He threw himself down on his mattress and pressed his face into the dirt covered material. The wind gusted once more then died down as dust and debris slowly settled from the air. Roger held his position, his face buried in the mattress until he was nearly certain it was over. Slowly he pulled his face from the mattress and using his fingers, he wiped the grit from his eyelids. He spat again and did a farmer’s blow to clear his nostrils.
“Fucking gross.”
He opened his eyes to see a light coating of sand and fine dust covering everything. “Fucking great.” He beat at the dirt that was imbedded in his clothing. The little clouds of dirt and dust rising with each hit.
The wind that blew the dirt in before picked up again, but this time, it was just a light breeze as it blew across the hallway between the cells. Roger saw the wind blow up the hallway, then back down, settling outside his cell and forming a small dust devil.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
The dust devil danced just outside his cell and left a snake like trail in the fine dust and sand in the hallway. Roger stared at it a moment then looked up and saw Casper clinging to the bars of the cell across from him, his eyes as big as saucers.
“Get a load of this shit, Cas.” Roger pointed. But Casper’s face registered only one thing…FEAR.
Roger looked back down at the little dust devil, but it wasn’t so little anymore. It had grown larger and more violent. It slammed from side to side in the hallway then danced further down the hall toward his cell. Roger stepped back slightly and continued to watch the little dust devil as it continued to dance and grow larger.
“Are you seeing this shit?” He laughed nervously.
“I’d tell you to run, Roger, but…” Casper shook his head.
“Yeah, right. Run where?” Roger joked nervously as the dust devil grew closer. “Jesus Christ, Cas, what is that thing?”
; Casper gripped the iron bars with such intensity his knuckles turned white. His eyes widened as he looked catty-corner to his own cell and watched as Roger continued to back away, deeper into his own cell.
Casper glanced down the hall to the door that the jailor had disappeared into hours before and he screamed, “Help! Guard, help us!”
“Shaddup down there,” another inmate yelled, oblivious to what was happening further down the block.
“Guard!” Casper yelled again as the dust devil advanced on Roger’s cell.
Roger watched as the dust devil came up to his cell and hit the iron bars. As soon as it did, it dissipated and settled out, the winds that caused it to twist and pick up debris dropping what it carried and simply dissipating like fog on a sunny day. Roger began to smile as he felt hope blossoming from deep inside.
The dust devil shrunk in size until it was barely the size of a rat, barely able to maintain itself any longer. With one final lunge, the little dust devil threw itself at the iron bars and all but exploded into a dust ball, its winds going every which way.
Roger stepped forward and smiled. “It’s gone, Cas. I guess these iron bars was stronger than it was.” He grabbed the bars and pressed his face against it.
Casper smiled back at him, the color starting to come back to him. Roger laughed and shook his head. “I can’t believe that a fuckin’ dust devil shook me up like that, can you?”
Casper shook his head. “I dunno, Rog. Something tells me that weren’t no ordinary dust devil.”
“Well, it takes more than a fuckin’ dust devil to get the best of me, buddy.”
Casper smiled at him, then froze. His smile slowly faded. Roger stared at him a moment and shook his head. “What’s wrong with you?” Casper’s bottom lip began shaking and the color drained from his face. Roger stared at him a moment and shook his head. “Dude, you look constipated.”
Casper raised an arm and pushed it out through the bars, pointing at Roger. Roger cocked his head to the side, “Dude, you’re losing it.”