by H. P. Bayne
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to help,” Dez said, grinding out his reply from between gritted teeth. “What’s more, I can help. I found Emory. He’s injured, but he’s alive.”
The anger and distrust in Hackman’s eyes faded, replaced by a widening of eyes and a sharp exhale of the deepest relief. “Jesus Christ. Jesus…. Where? Where is he?”
“My wife’s with him now. We’re going to need some help getting him out. His leg is broken, and he’s down a pretty deep hole. Where’s Clark?”
“Clark who?”
“Clark Davies, the cop in charge of the search. I’m going to need him to get some bodies and equipment together for a rescue.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, he’s around here somewhere. Can’t you call him? I want you to take me to my son.”
“I’m not going through this process twice. You can come along once I get the right people to join us. You want to get there sooner, help me find Clark.”
Hackman probably wasn’t pleased by the curtness of Dez’s reply, but that was fine. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Dez, the fact he was helping to rescue the loved one of a man who had played a crucial role in taking one of Dez’s from him. Hackman had been front and centre in what had happened to Sully at Lockwood. The so-called psych hospital had changed Sully. In many ways, he was the same person he’d always been: kind, introverted, strong and determined. But there was a wariness now, a fear that occasionally reared its head and left Dez looking for a way to calm a person who, during those moments, reminded him of a wounded animal.
Because of Hackman’s role in the creation of this new version of Sully, Dez would never forgive him.
Evidently, the situation wasn’t lost on Hackman either. “I’m surprised you’re helping me. You always seemed to hate my guts.”
“I do hate your guts,” Dez said. “I’m not doing this to help you. I’m doing it for Emory. He seems like a good guy. And I’m not the sort of person who allows someone to suffer needlessly.”
The dig was there, and Hackman was perceptive enough to pick up on it. “I know you blame me for what happened to Sullivan. But you need to understand, Dr. Gerhardt was trying to help him.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I know what he was trying to do, and it wasn’t to help Sully. He was helping himself. The two of you put my brother through hell.”
“Whatever he told you, Mr. Braddock, it needs to be taken with a grain of salt. He was unwell, even delusional at times. There were psychotic episodes which could only be controlled through strong medication. You know what I’m talking about because you’re the one who found him—twice—after he’d tried to kill himself. I didn’t do that to him. His mental illness was at fault, and Dr. Gerhardt was doing everything he could to get to the root of it.”
They were passing the old bank. From here, it looked empty, and Dez forced a smile onto his face as he headed for the doorway. “Come ‘ere.”
Hackman had never been a very bright man. He followed.
Dez waited until the older man had stepped through the door behind him, until they were both concealed within the shadowed interior. Then he allowed his hands free of their pockets, grabbing handfuls of Hackman’s shirtfront. Before the older man knew what was happening, Dez shoved him back hard into the wall, sending a cascade of dust from the crumbling ceiling over their heads. Whether from the dust or the impact to his lungs, Hackman gasped, then coughed.
Dez pressed forward, closing the distance between their faces, near enough he could see the worry in Hackman’s eyes. Near enough Hackman could see the full extent of the rage in Dez’s.
“Don’t you fucking feed me that crap,” Dez said. “I know what happened. I know what you did. And I know what happened because of it. As far as I’m concerned, you killed my brother. He died because of you, because of what you and Gerhardt did to him. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to put you through this wall. Give me one excuse, Hackman. Just one. Tell me again how what you did to Sully was supposed to help him.”
Dez waited. Hackman was a large man, almost as big as Dez himself. It likely said something about the nature of Dez’s anger that the other man hadn’t tried to get away, that he held back now on his excuses. There was nothing he could say Dez would buy, and Hackman had finally seemed to figure that out.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your brother,” he said at last.
It was weak, and he didn’t mean the words. But they didn’t give Dez the excuse he’d been looking for to finish what he’d started. His hands tightened into the material of Hackman’s shirt, hard enough he heard the popping of seams along one shoulder. It would be easy, too easy, to remove one hand, to drive his fist into Hackman’s cheek. Dez could picture the assault in his head, could almost feel the release of rage through the punches, kicks and stomps he was mentally delivering.
But it ended there. He wasn’t that guy, the one he could see in his mind. He could be, given the right circumstances. But this wasn’t it. Had he walked into one of those sessions at Lockwood, he would have had his excuse, and it was quite possible he would have killed those men at that point. But that was in the past. At present, what Dez had was a man nearly twice his age who’d opted not to fight back, a man with larger concerns on his mind than a potential assault by the irate, grieving brother of a former patient.
Dez let him go.
He left the bank first, listened as Hackman followed a few moments later. The older man kept his distance, keeping at least a few paces between them as Dez continued the search for Clark.
He found him with a group of searchers, beating a path through the overgrown grass and shrubs along the northern edge of the townsite. Clark greeted him with his usual smile, one that grew by a mile upon hearing Dez had located both his “friend” and Emory alive.
“My buddy got a bit lost, but I sent him on his way,” Dez said. “We’re going to need some help with Emory though.”
Clark took a few moments, passing along instructions to another police officer on scene to locate all the searchers and send them home. Then Clark gathered a few other officers and made calls to EMS and Search and Rescue.
“The rescue team’s only a few minutes out,” Clark said. “They’ll meet us on the road. You sure you can find the spot again?”
“I set coordinates where Emory is, as well as on the road where I’d been parked. We’re all set.”
Clark reached out, pumped Dez’s hand enthusiastically. “You’re the man, Dez. You’re the man. What say we go out and get this done? With any luck, we can all be home in time for lunch.”
Having followed Dez’s instructions about the shoulder, Sully settled onto the pullout couch for a nap. By the time he awoke, his brother was back, puttering quietly around the kitchen as he made something to eat.
“I thought you’d sleep longer,” Dez said.
Sully peered over the top of the couch. “How’d you know I was awake?”
“You don’t move around much when you’re asleep. How’s the shoulder?”
“Sore, but the hot and cold packs helped. Did you get Emory out?”
“Yep. He was headed to hospital when we left. It’s a nasty-looking injury, and I’m guessing he’ll need surgery. But he’ll live, and that’s the main thing. I’m making lunch. Why don’t you get a couple more hours? I’ll save you a grilled cheese. Promise.”
Sully grinned. Grilled cheese. Dez’s specialty. It didn’t seem like much to get up for, but the grumbling within Sully’s stomach suggested otherwise. He hadn’t eaten since sometime yesterday—he couldn’t even remember when—and it felt like ages ago.
Anyway, something else was on his mind, and he needed some advice.
Sully joined his brother at the table, taking one of the small squares of sandwich as Dez tossed a chunk of his own to Pax sitting next to him.
“I wanted to ask you about something,” Sully said. “When you were a police officer, did you ever hear of investigators using a hypnotist?”
&nb
sp; “What, like those guys at the exhibition every summer?”
“Not the entertainment ones. I mean real ones, the kind who do hypnotherapy.”
“Why are you wondering about hypnotherapy?”
“When I was chasing Sadie, it felt like it wasn’t really me. It’s hard to explain, but it was like it was someone else’s thoughts leading me.”
“Ghosts do that to you, don’t they? They kind of feed you their thoughts or feelings, you said.”
“Yeah, but the stuff I found out about recently, about Oliver Chadwell, it made me wonder if it was him I was feeling.”
“You think he’s a ghost out there too?”
“I didn’t see him. Maybe I wouldn’t anyway, if it turned out he dropped dead of heart failure or something. But I had a feeling it was something more, like maybe it wasn’t just me feeling what he was feeling. I thought maybe I am him. Maybe that’s why the name came to me the way it did. Maybe I used that name in another lifetime.”
Dez visibly shuddered. “A past life, you mean. You think that actually happens?”
“Yeah, I think it does. I talked to Marc about it a bit, actually.”
“And you want to try to tap into this past life? You sure that’s a good idea? It sounds kind of creepy to me.”
“Everything sounds kind of creepy to you.”
Dez smirked. “Ha ha.” The feigned levity faded as he sorted his thoughts aloud. “I think the police department does sometimes use hypnotists. Probably only when they get to the point of desperation, when a key witness saw something but is having trouble remembering. Hypnosis doesn’t serve a lot of purpose, really. No evidence obtained during the process would be admissible in court. It would be strictly for investigative reasons. And anyway, I don’t think that’s the kind of hypnotist you’d be looking for. Most of them probably aren’t going to go in for this whole past life thing. Maybe Marc knows someone you could talk to. But check them out first, huh? If you’re going to let someone mess around in your brain, better make sure you can trust them.”
“I know. I hear you on that.”
“So why all the interest in this past life stuff? You have enough to deal with in the here and now, don’t you?”
Sully considered keeping it to himself; Dez seemed anxious enough about this conversation without tossing in Sully’s concerns about his soul being tainted by a homicidal madman from the sixteen hundreds. But he’d reached the point where he’d have to lie to avoid talking about it, and there was already far too much Sully was keeping from his brother.
As expected, Dez shifted in his chair as Sully finished the story about the dream he’d had.
“You really think you were that guy?”
“Yeah, and I don’t know what to make of it. Marc says souls evolve, and that’s probably true. But it would make me feel better if I had some sort of proof of that. If I could see Oliver myself, if I could see he was a good man and that he and I do share the same soul, it would help me, I think.”
“It might help more than that,” Dez said. “If he’s really your ancestor, and he was the good guy Gillian Mondale said he was, that proves you don’t have to turn into this murderous nutcase the Dules seem to think you will. That stupid Dule curse of theirs would be proven a sham, and they’d lose their excuse to go around killing male relatives.”
“But his last name was Chadwell, not Dule. Maybe he’s not related to me on the Dule side, but my biological father’s. I have no way of knowing, not without figuring out who my birth father was.”
Dez appeared deep in thought, and the journey looked to be an unsettling one if the pinched expression on his face was any indication.
“You all right?” Sully asked.
Dez’s eyes snapped back onto Sully’s, as if he’d been suddenly reminded of his presence. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking…. Maybe Oliver Chadwell wasn’t the guy’s real name. Did you ever think it might be he was using a fake name the same way you are?”
“Why would he need to?”
“People get weirded out enough by this ghost stuff nowadays, and everyone’s more open to things like that now, aren’t they? But back then? Seems to me people would have been anxious enough in a small town about a stranger hanging around. If it turned out that stranger claimed to see the dead, that would lead to all sorts of talk, maybe worse.”
“During the Victorian era, most people were actually really fascinated with ghosts and mediums and stuff like that. They were way more open to this sort of thing than they are now. But I take your point. It wasn’t the Victorian era by the time he got to Loons Hollow, and beliefs might have changed. And, yeah, it was a small town. He would have stuck out around there to begin with, even without the psychic thing. And Gillian mentioned he had a Scottish accent. That makes me wonder whether he might have used a false name, not because he was trying to protect himself, but because he was trying to leave his past behind. What if that was because he’d done something bad?”
“Or maybe, if we’re going with this past life theory, he was in the same boat as you. Maybe he was running from someone.”
“Only one way to find out. I think I will talk to Marc, see if he can suggest someone.”
“Make sure it’s someone you can trust to not reveal the fact you still exist. No point using a fake name with a hypnotherapist. They could probably pull the truth out of you without you even knowing.”
It was a good point, and it bore some thought. But it seemed now wasn’t the time to do it.
Dez’s phone buzzed, rattling against the nearby counter as it rang on vibrate. Dez snagged it with a long arm and checked the call display. “Lachlan,” he said before hitting the talk button. Then into the phone, “Sorry I haven’t checked in yet. Family emergency. Good news is we found Emory. Emergency crews pulled him out of a big crack in the ground. He’s got a badly busted leg but, that aside, he’s going to be okay.”
Dez offered a quick explanation of what—or, more specifically, who—had befallen both Emory and Sully. Sully couldn’t make out what Lachlan said in response, but it ended in Dez hanging up a moment later.
“Lachlan’s headed over in a cab,” Dez said. “He sounds excited about something. That can’t be good.”
Sure enough, the man turned up about ten minutes later, his arrival heralded by a buzzing from the callbox. Within a minute, a frazzled-looking Lachlan burst into the apartment, jacket askew, hair uncombed, wide eyes dancing as they located Sully at the table.
“Good, you’re here,” Lachlan said by way of greeting. “Sullivan, I need you to describe the ghost you saw in the woods.”
“I actually have a better description for you now. I spent a little more time with her last night, as it happens.”
“Did you see her face?”
“No. Whatever there might be of it stayed hidden behind all that hair.”
“Blonde, you said?”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty dirty. So is her dress. And she’s barefoot.”
“The dress. Would you say it resembles something a woman would have worn in the nineteen twenties?”
“I don’t know much about twenties fashion, but I can tell you it’s ankle length and white. Why?”
Lachlan bustled over, dropping into the chair Dez had vacated. His hand dipped into his jacket pocket and fished around. “I’ve been doing some digging, and I had a thought. I’d forgotten about this particular detail until now, but I went to my locker this morning to do some reading, and I found it. Remember how you saw the ghost of a woman and a baby when you first met me? Have you seen her around me since?”
“No, actually. I don’t know why. I’ve seen the man once in a while, kind of from a distance, but he hasn’t really tried to communicate yet.”
“Let’s not worry about him yet. One problem at a time. The woman, though. Did she look anything like the ghost you saw on Hollow Road?”
Sully had only seen the ghost near Lachlan once. Although she hadn’t been holding a baby, Sully had guessed the two spirits belon
ged together nonetheless. He’d been so centred on the Faceless Flo legend, on working the Sadie Marquill angle, he hadn’t considered the Hollow Road ghost might be someone else entirely. Now the possibility hit him hard, and he found himself racking his brain trying to recall.
“I remember her back was to me in the room, but she was wearing a long, white dress. I think it was like the one on the ghost on the road.”
“Or maybe—” Lachlan said, pulling a photograph from his pocket, “—it’s the very same dress.”
He slid a photo across the table to Sully. It showed a young woman in what was obviously a Halloween costume, judging by the ghoulish makeup she’d applied. It wasn’t just a white dress she was wearing—it was the same one Sully had seen last night.
The same dress on the same woman.
The ghost is the woods wasn’t Sadie Marquill after all.
Dez edged in, standing at Sully’s shoulder as he studied the picture. “That photo looks old.”
“It is,” Lachlan said. “Thirty years old, in fact. That year, this young woman—Nora Silversmith—went to a Halloween party dressed as Faceless Flo. She was never seen again.”
17
“I was a patrol member at the time,” Lachlan said. “There wasn’t a whole lot I could do. The case went to Missing Persons, and they were looking after it. But I couldn’t let it lie. Some cases haunt you.”
Sully smiled. “I think I can understand that.”
Lachlan returned the smile with a sheepish one. “Of course you do. This one made the news for a while, mainly because she had her baby with her. It wasn’t so much for her people were interested. It was the baby, Ben. Everyone was worried about the little guy, which makes sense, obviously. People weren’t so sure what to think about Nora.”
Dez moved to lean against the counter. “What happened?”
“She and her boyfriend, Nathaniel Porter, went to a Halloween party that night and took the kid along. It was a family deal, not some drunken affair, so it wasn’t an issue having kids there. Party was at Porter’s family’s, I understand, kind of a meet-the-new-baby kind of thing. Ben was about a month old at that point. Anyway, something happened between Porter and Nora that evening, and they argued. No one at the party knew what about, just said they weren’t speaking by the time they left. Porter initially denied they’d fought, but later told police they had a disagreement over when to leave. He said Nora wanted to go home to put Ben to bed, and he wanted to stay and hang out with his family a bit longer. It struck me as bullshit at the time, but he never moved off that version of events.