The Lighthouse (Berkley Street Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  The small piece of jewelry had passed through generations to her.

  I will not fail you, Great Mother, Amy thought, closing the locket. It was no longer bitterly cold, only cool and comforting as she slipped it back over her neck. The lighthouse will be restored, and we will be great keepers again.

  She climbed onto the bed, pulled a sheet over her, and sighed.

  I’ve got a couple of hours, she thought. Get some rest, then find the Coast Guard and have a little chat.

  She smiled, closed her eyes, and let herself search for sleep.

  Chapter 41: Seeking the Way

  I have played at this game for far too long. Five children with that witless oaf. The only child worth a damn gone to the mainland. And who can blame her? Certainly not I. And my hated father, the proverbial albatross about my neck. Would that he had gone down with his ship off the Grand Banks. A watery grave would have been best, and might still be if I can break my oafish husband of his sentimentality.

  Fool.

  Perhaps one day he will read these journals. Will he be intelligent enough to understand half of what I’ve written? A third? A quarter?

  Yes, perhaps a quarter. But I distract myself with my complaints. I must remain focused on my task. I must not be distracted; it will lead to my ruination.

  The oaf must be convinced of the danger the children present. And my father as well. He may balk, and if he does, he shall join them. I’ve no qualms about manning the lighthouse on my own; I have done so with a new babe in my arms and the oaf drunk with his damnable rum.

  Can you imagine it, dear journal? A silent house? A well-kept house without the noise of children or old men? No husband to dirty the sheets. No children to scream for more food. No father to ask for help to the outhouse.

  See the lighthouse, her brass gleaming, her bricks white and red so the world will see and know of the danger.

  No child suckling at the breast. No husband’s rough pawing. No father demanding fealty.

  None of it.

  None of it.

  None of it!

  Shane closed the journal. It was nearly noon.

  Courtney was stretched out by the tools, her mouth partially open as she slept. Her long lashes kissed the skin beneath her eyes. Her short hair was disheveled.

  Beautiful, Shane thought. He put the journal down, took out his cigarettes, and lit one. He tilted his head back a little, exhaled towards the ceiling, and then looked to George.

  The younger man sat a little back from the doorway, staring out at the ocean. He had a small cudgel in his hands, the top of it studded with iron nails pounded out of the remains of the lighthouse door. Shane noticed how the man had lost his dazed look, a hard expression on his face.

  “George,” Shane said softly.

  The man looked at him, his eyes dark and haunted.

  “How are you holding up?” Shane asked.

  George shrugged. “Got nothing to compare it to. Part of me doesn’t even believe any of this garbage is real. I mean, come on, ghosts? But then there’s the part of me that saw everything, and it’s saying, ‘Don’t be stupid, Stupid.’”

  Shane chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. It’s a little rough.”

  “You seem to be doing pretty well with it,” George said, looking back out the front door.

  “Well, I also grew up in a haunted house,” Shane replied.

  “Things went bump in the night?” George asked.

  “Yeah,” Shane said bitterly, “and they eventually killed my parents.”

  George blushed, and he said, “Sorry, man.”

  “It’s alright,” Shane said, upset with himself for mentioning it. More tired than I thought.

  “So this isn’t your first time?” George said.

  “No,” Shane said. “Not by a long shot. I helped out on a couple of other hauntings, thought I could help with this one, too.”

  “These ones tougher than you thought?” George asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “I didn’t really think the place was haunted,” George said after a short time. “We, me and my friends, we had a website. Murder scenes. Suicides. Stuff like that. People ate it up. Hell, it was how I bought my boat. When we heard about Mike’s suicide, we decided we’d come out, get a little video footage. Maybe some pictures of the whole place. We figured we’d do well with this one. The island being isolated and all.”

  “That’s why you showed up yesterday?” Shane asked.

  “Yeah,” George said, sighing. “Vic and Eric got out of the boat, saw the kid, and started to click away. I told them to get back in the boat. I told them.”

  George stopped, and Shane waited patiently. Long minutes had passed before George spoke again. When he did, his voice was raw.

  “I feel terrible about leaving them,” George said, staring out the door. “But they didn’t listen to me. And I ran. I had to.”

  No, Shane thought. You didn’t have to.

  But he kept his opinion to himself.

  “I’m worried,” George said softly. “Worried I’m going to see them here.”

  “You might,” Shane said.

  George’s head snapped around, his eyes wide with fear.

  “What?” he hissed.

  “You might,” Shane repeated. “We’ve already seen the new dead. But I need to see the old dead, and I may be gone for a while.”

  “What are you talking about?” George asked.

  “In the cellar of the keeper’s house are five ghosts. The children and father of the ghost, Dorothy.”

  “Why the hell are they down there?” George said.

  “She put their bodies in the cellar after she had murdered them,” Shane answered. “They’ll be able to tell me more about her. If they have a mind to speak to me.”

  “You’re going down there?” George asked.

  “Yes.”

  “While knowing there are ghosts in it?” George said.

  “Yes,” Shane said. “I need everything they can give me.”

  “Information?” George said.

  “Yeah,” Shane said softly. “And an edge.”

  “Why do you need an edge?” George said, confused. “I thought we just had to wait until the Coast Guard shows up about the busted light?”

  “We will,” Shane said. “But I’m going to kill her, too.”

  George opened his mouth to reply, but he was too surprised for any words to come out.

  Chapter 42: Light’s Out

  Lieutenant Sid Cristo was sitting at the desk outside of the captain’s office, playing a losing hand of solitaire. He always played house rules, on the off chance he might actually travel down to one of the casinos in Connecticut, and he rarely won. The captain had been on conference calls all day with command down in Boston, and then with someone else from the Coast Guard Academy in New London.

  Sid frowned as he turned over his last hand. He flipped all of the cards over, gathered them into a pile, shuffled, and laid out another game.

  As he finished, the door to the office opened.

  Sid looked up and was surprised to see an attractive older woman walk in. The dress she wore was short and snug, leaving little to the imagination. She gave him a near-perfect smile, closed the door, and said, “Hello, I’ve come to tell you there’s a technical issue at the Squirrel Island Lighthouse. The contractor I have out there says the wiring may say the light is out.”

  The solitaire hand was forgotten. “The light’s out?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head but still smiling. “The wiring may say it is.”

  “Ma’am,” Sid said, “there’s no ‘maybe.’ The light is either on or it’s out. The wiring won’t send a false signal.”

  She stepped up closer to the desk, revealing a lot of her ample chest, and winked at him. “Well, even if it is, we don’t have to worry about it, do we?”

  Sid felt uncomfortably warm, his attention drawn to a locket hanging from around her neck.

  “Ma’am,” he said, forcing h
imself to look her in the eyes, “it is something we need to worry about. When the automated system does its check, it’ll kick back an alarm here. We need to take care of it as soon as possible.”

  “Maybe,” she said, her voice still seductive, “I should speak with your commanding officer?”

  Sid grinned. “Ma’am, I think that would be a wonderful idea.”

  He pushed himself away from the desk, stood up, and walked to the commander’s door. He knocked, opened it, and said, “Captain, we have a person here who wants to speak with you.”

  Captain Ellen Root glanced up from her desk. “Show them in, please, Lieutenant.”

  Sid looked back at the civilian, saw the shocked expression on the woman’s face, and smiled as politely as possible. “Ma’am, Captain Root will see you now.”

  He managed not to snicker as she walked dejectedly past him.

  Sid sat back down at his desk, looked at the hand he had dealt himself, and started to play.

  Chapter 43: A Decision Must Be Made

  Amy lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She fought the urge to chew on her fingernails, a nervous habit she’d broken herself of twenty years earlier.

  Damn it, she thought, sitting up. What am I going to do? She needs them.

  The desire to see the lighthouse controlled by her family once more burned with the intensity of a fever in Amy’s breast. The power of life and death on such a grand scale. There was no greater power in the world, and she and Dorothy would ensure the family had it again. She got up and paced about her bedroom.

  When the Coast Guard gets out there, George may still be alive, she told herself. I don’t have to worry about Shane or that girl who’s attached herself to him. Just George. George can say I kidnapped him. Threw him there. No one will believe ghosts did any of it. But George can mess it up. He can mess all of it up.

  Amy walked to her closet, flipped on the light, and found an old pair of jeans and sneakers. The sweatshirt she had taken from George’s boat lay on the floor. She picked it up, pulled it on, and then dressed quickly. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, wrapped it around and tucked it up as a bun. A battered Boston Red Sox baseball cap kept her hair up and out of sight.

  On her dresser, she found an old pair of black sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of the sweatshirt. She went over to the bed, knelt down, and pulled her gun safe out. It was a newer model, one equipped with a thumbprint scanner. Amy pressed her right thumb down, heard the satisfying click of the lock letting go, and opened the safe.

  She took the small, Glock 9mm out, removed the two fully loaded magazines and a holster, and then locked the safe again. She slid it back under the bed before she stood up. Quietly she loaded the weapon, chambered a round, and made sure the safety was on. The spare magazine went into her back pocket, the pistol into the holster, and the holster into the small of her back clipped to her jeans.

  She left the bedroom and grabbed her wallet out of her purse. A quick check showed her license to carry a concealed weapon was in there and up to date. She put the wallet in the front pocket, took the sunglasses out, and put them on.

  Amy looked at herself in the mirror by the front door. She didn’t have any makeup on. She had washed it all off after her failed attempt at seduction in the Coast Guard’s office. Without the makeup, and with her hair put up and away, she was barely recognizable.

  They still might recognize you, she cautioned herself, and she nodded in agreement.

  True, she replied, but this task needs to be done.

  She took her keys and left her house. Amy had to get to Squirrel Island as soon as possible. There was a lot of killing she had to do if she was going to correct the situation.

  And I have to do it before the Coast Guard gets there, she reminded herself. Also need to get rid of the bodies. I can’t forget that. The souls may remain, but the flesh must go. Yes, it must go, or else no others will be harvested.

  I need to make sure the crops come in, Amy thought, chuckling.

  She grinned to herself, broke into a whistle, and made her way to her car.

  Chapter 44: Going into the Cellar

  “Do you have to go?” Courtney asked softly.

  Shane nodded in reply.

  “Will you be safe?” she said.

  Shane smiled. “I don’t know. I hope so. There’s no real choice here, though.”

  “I know.” Courtney was standing beside him, her arms folded across her chest as they looked out the doorway at the Atlantic. “You don’t need any help?”

  “I don’t know,” Shane said honestly. “I hope I won’t, but if you hear screaming, well, I wouldn’t mind an assist.”

  “I’ll listen for you. What about him?” she asked, nodding towards George. The man was asleep, propped up between the wall and some of the construction equipment.

  “Be careful,” Shane said. “They want him more than they want us. I don’t know why, but they do. It might just be because they’re upset we brought him in here. Don’t trust him, though. He’d sell us out in a heartbeat if he thought he could get home safely.”

  “Will you be careful?” she asked.

  “I’ll do my best,” Shane said. “I’ve no desire to die here, Cort. Plus we’ve been having a good time getting to know each other. And I’d like to keep getting to know more about you.”

  She smirked at him, the tiredness and fear falling away easily, if only briefly. “I like the sound of that, Shane. Make sure you come back here alive and well.”

  “That’s the goal,” Shane said. “Alright, wish me luck.”

  “Luck,” Courtney said. Then she reached up, took hold of his face, and pulled him in for a kiss. It was quick but full. No sisterly gesture.

  Christ, am I blushing? Shane thought as she let go, his face burning.

  “Come back soon,” she said.

  Shane could only nod, and he stepped out of the relative safety of the lighthouse.

  The midmorning air was cool, a strong wind coming in from the east. The waves were still choppy, though not nearly as rough as they had been earlier in the morning.

  He glanced around.

  Nothing yet, he thought, and he made his way to the keeper’s house. He worked around to the back of the building, saw the bulkhead was still open and walked quickly to it. At the top of the narrow stairs, he looked down at the remains of the door. Wood littered the steps and darkness waited for him.

  Shane walked down into the cellar and stood in the pale rectangle of light cast by the sun. His own shadow stretched out before him.

  “You’re back,” the grandfather said.

  “I am,” Shane replied.

  “The children aren’t here,” the unseen ghost said, sadness in his voice. “Their mother came down earlier, in spite of her fear of this place, and frightened them all. They’re hiding.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shane said.

  “Why have you returned?” the old man asked.

  “To ask your name,” Shane said, “and to hear what you would tell me about Dorothy.”

  “My name is Wyatt,” the grandfather said. “And what would you like to know about her?”

  “Whatever you can tell me,” Shane responded, easing himself down into a sitting position on the floor.

  “Tell me your name first,” Wyatt said, the voice coming closer.

  “Shane.”

  “Well, Shane,” Wyatt said, “it is a pleasure. I’ve had no one but my grandchildren to speak to for a long, long time. I love them, but the conversation of children grows tiresome.”

  A shape glimmered and Wyatt appeared. He wore a thick, cable-knit sweater, his hair trimmed close to the sides of his head and a little long on the top. On his face, he had impressive muttonchops, the gray hair long and well-cared for. His pants were of some dark material, his shoes worn and black. The hands which extended from the ends of his sweater were large and thick.

  “You look as though you are a man of action,” Wyatt said as he sat down across from Sh
ane.

  “At times,” Shane said.

  “I appreciate that,” Wyatt said, smiling. The expression faded from his face as he looked at Shane.

  “I’ve been dead a long time,” Wyatt continued, “though I’m not sure quite for how long exactly.”

  Shane opened his mouth to tell him the year, but the other man held up a hand and stopped him.

  “I don’t want to know,” Wyatt said. “I’m afraid it would drive me mad, and I’m nearly there already, you see.”

  Shane hesitated, waited to see if the man would say any more, and when Wyatt didn’t, Shane asked, “Will you tell me about your daughter?”

  “Let us call her Dorothy, aye, lad?” Wyatt asked softly. “It pains me to think someone I brought into this world would murder her children and family.”

  “Dorothy it is,” Shane said.

  “Many thanks,” Wyatt said. “What would you know of her?”

  “Is she afraid of the cellar because of her husband, or for some other reason?” Shane asked.

  “From Clark, not at all,” Wyatt said, “her fear is from her mother, I’m afraid.”

  Shane waited.

  “I was a sailor,” the man continued. “Away more than I was home, it seemed, and I cannot tell if Dorothy had the devil in her, or if my wife couldn’t bother to be a mother. I learned later, much later, of the punishments my wife doled out. She would lock Dorothy in the cellar for days on end. No food. No water. Starved nearly to madness. It was the only way to discipline her, so my wife said. No amount of beatings seemed to silence the girl’s tongue. But the cellar, the darkness and hunger. When Dorothy was released, she was cowed. At least for a short time.

  “Either way,” he continued, “it seems as though Dorothy was marked. She could feign love. Affection. She could act any role you like. There was nothing in her, though. No spark. She was cold. I’ve known dogs with more affection than Dorothy Noyes showed the world.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat, looked past Shane briefly, and smiled tiredly. “It was she who convinced Clark to kill the children. How she did it, I know not. The hard truth is she did, and thus their small bodies are here with me.”

  Shane looked at the boxes and said in surprise, “Your bodies are still here?”