by Ripley, Ron
Wayne wanted to stab them.
He wanted to stab them to death.
Wayne forced himself to look away, and he felt the desire subside. With a shaking hand he lifted up his coffee and took a drink, the whiskey settling his nerves.
Jesus Christ, he thought. What the hell is going on?
He looked over at the table he’d put all of Dave’s stuff on, the military crap the man had wanted to move. Something about it was wrong. Something about the damned things twisted his stomach.
Wayne shook his head and took another drink of his coffee.
If he didn’t sell most of Dave’s stuff today, he’d sell the lot wholesale to Tim over at the Army Surplus store.
Well, everything but the flask, Wayne thought with a grin.
He took the flask out of his pocket, added another splash of whiskey, and hoped the first customer wouldn’t be any sort of Asian.
Chapter Twelve
Charles and Wayne
Charles saw the militaria after wandering about the second floor for nearly fifteen minutes. He paused long enough to send Ellen a quick text and then made his way directly to the tables.
Three tables stood in a straight line, battered old folding tables that looked like they’d been cast out of a Church bingo hall. All sorts of items stood neatly on the tables, everything from old oil cans to ancient copies of Harper’s Weekly and the Saturday Evening Post. The last table on the left, however, had nearly everything that was missing from the library.
Behind the chairs, seated in a recliner that looked as old as the man who sat in it, was a man who was probably somewhere between sixty and ninety. He had a full, gray beard that reached down to his chest, a bald head, steel-rimmed glasses and a flannel shirt of indeterminate color beneath a pair of faded overalls. In one hand, he held a mug of coffee that proudly proclaimed, “Navy Veteran,” and in the other he held an uncapped silver flask he was tipping over the mug.
From the faint smell, it was whiskey. Then Charles got a better look at the flask as the man shifted it around to cap it.
The flask was engraved with the words “My Lai.”
The flask was part of the militaria, too, but the man seemed to be happy using it for its original purpose. Charles wondered when the ghost would start to work on the man.
Charles went up and stood in front of the militaria and looked down at the items. His stomach dropped, churning because he stood so close to them. He had read about them all, knew about each one and what it was capable of doing.
He took the list he had made out of his pocket and started checking them off mentally. A short, modern knife was taken from the first Gulf War. The flask, the old man had. A Nazi battle flag. A Japanese pack of cigarettes. A pair of Soviet sunglasses. A single gauntlet. The iron killing point of a Zulu spear.
“Do you see anything you like?” the old man asked.
Charles looked up, smiling and tucking the list away. Ellen came hurrying to stand beside him, smiling as she said, “There you are.”
“Here I am,” Charles said. He turned and looked at the old man. “Yes. I’m interested in all of them.”
“Are you now?” the old man grinned, his teeth all present, but yellow and crooked. “I would be pleased to sell you each and every piece.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Charles said. “But I want to buy your flask, too.”
“What?” the old man laughed. “Hell, son, the flask ain’t for sale. Just what you see on the tables.”
Charles smiled and stepped over to the right to stand directly in front of the man, only the center table and its assorted junk separating them. “I know you’ll sell that to me.”
“Really, son?” the old man asked.
“Really,” Charles said, lowering his voice slightly, forcing the older man to lean forward in his chair.
“Why is that?”
“Because I know what that damned thing is doing to you,” Charles answered.
The old man blinked, started to say something, and then he stopped. Charles continued.
“That flask you’re using,” Charles said, speaking even softer. “It has two words on it, My Lai. That’s the name of a village in Vietnam.”
The man’s face paled above his beard, eyes flicking down to the flask in his lap.
“Ah,” Charles said, “you know the name. Didn’t realize it before?”
The man shook his head ever so slightly.
“It makes you hate,” Charles said, looking steadily at the man. “It makes you hate. First it makes you hate Asians. Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese. Honestly, the flask can’t tell the difference between any of them. It hates them all. Because it hates them, and you hold it, you hate them. Soon you’ll want to do something more than hate them. Then you will do something more.”
“Jesus Christ,” the man said, putting the flask on the table in front of him and wiping his hand off on his pants leg.
“All of those things are like that,” Charles said, nodding at the other militaria. “Every last one.”
Thin beads of sweat appeared on the older man’s brow.
“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” Ellen said, stepping close to Charles, looking at the old man.
The old man nodded. “I can feel there’s something wrong with all of it. Every last one that Dave asked me to sell for him. Before he got sick and died.”
“Have you sold any of the pieces at all?” Ellen asked him. “I think there’s one missing.”
Charles looked at the militaria, did a mental scan, and then nodded his agreement, turning back to the old man. “There’s a gas mask that’s not there.”
“Nothing. I didn’t sell anything from that pile. But if Dave had it, and it wasn’t here, it’d be at his house,” the old man said.
Charles felt his shoulders drop. How the hell were they going to get into the dead man’s house? He didn’t want to break in, but he might have to.
“I’ve got a key,” the old man said, straightening up in his chair and giving the flask a wary look. “I don’t know if that’ll help at all, but I’ve got a key.”
“That,” Ellen said, smiling at the man, “would be a great help.”
“How much do you want for all of it, before we get carried away here?” Charles asked.
The old man gave a wry grin. “If I didn’t have to keep up appearances here, I’d give you the lot. As is, pass me a hundred if you can swing it, and everyone’ll think I took you.”
“Sounds good to me,” Charles said, nodding with relief. “I’m Charles.”
“Wayne,” the old man said. “Got a bag or something for all of that?”
“I do,” Ellen said, taking off her purse and opening it, pulling out a pair of large duffel bags.
“Good,” Wayne said. “Let’s get this stuff in there, and then I’ll see if Joan can spot my stuff for a bit. I’ll run you over to Dave’s.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. He took a hundred off of the roll in his pocket and handed it over Wayne.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Wayne said, folding the bill and stuffing it into his own pocket. “Dave wasn’t the cleanest man I’d ever met, and we may have one hell of a time finding anything in that sty of his.”
Chapter Thirteen
Charles and Ellen at Home
“He wasn’t lying,” Ellen said from her seat on the couch.
“What was that?” Charles asked.
“Wayne,” she said. “He wasn’t lying about that place being dirty.”
Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “No. He definitely wasn’t.”
“What amazed me, though,” she continued, “was he said it looked like the place had been gone through.”
“Yeah,” Charles said, “I don’t know how anyone could tell the difference. I’m curious what they were looking for. Nothing seemed to be taken.”
“Do you think that maybe they were after the ghost stuff?” Ellen asked.
Charles shook his head. “I sure as hell hope not. I don’t want to t
hink about someone else out there hunting for those things. I know Mr. Sherman collected them to keep them out of the world, but I don’t know about other people.”
“Definitely a disturbing thought,” Ellen said, closing her eyes and settling back against the couch.
“Definitely,” Charles said. “But at least we got the gas mask back. And the other stuff.”
Ellen nodded. “The only thing missing is the bayonet.”
“Yeah,” Charles sighed. “I was hoping the damned thing was going to be in that house.”
“Me too.”
Charles massaged his temples and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again and sighed. “I have to put those things back.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to go in there,” Charles said softly. “That library scares the absolute hell out of me.”
“I know.” She paused and then added, “Do you want me to come up with you?”
“No, thank you,” Charles said, smiling at her. “I’m going to try and engage one of them in conversation again.”
“That’s strange, you know,” Ellen said.
“What’s that?”
“Coddling a ghost,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, they’re dead. I don’t get any of it.”
“Neither do I,” Charles said, “but if talking with them keeps them from trying to kill us, then I’ll talk to them.”
“True,” Ellen sighed. “Anyway, I was going to run over to my apartment, get a couple of little things out of there.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Charles asked.
“No,” Ellen answered. “I should be okay. I’m going to need to do it alone at some point anyway. It might as well be at a time when I choose it.”
“Okay,” Charles said. “You can call or text me if you need anything.”
“I will, thanks,” Ellen smiled. She got up off of the couch and stretched. “I’ll talk to you soon, Charles.”
“Sounds good,” Charles said, returning the smile. He watched her leave the room and heard the door open and close behind her. He turned his attention to the duffel bags by the fireplace and stifled a small wave of fear.
Standing up, he walked over to the bags, picked them up, and went to the library. In a moment, he had the door open, and the light on, and he was setting the bags on the desk. From his jacket pocket he took out the gloves, put them on, and returned the various items to the shelves.
It didn’t take him long, and soon he was taking the gloves off and sitting down in the chair and looking about the library.
“Hello,” he said shortly. “I’m here. Does anyone wish to speak?”
“Why did you stop me?” a voice asked from a corner.
Charles felt a shiver of fear at the sound of the voice. There was a deep rage under the words, and Charles wondered if he was going to have to lock the item up.
He kept a firm expression on his face as he turned to face the voice.
A young man had materialized, nearly fully formed, and wearing the old olive drab green uniform of a United States soldier from Vietnam.
“I stopped you,” Charles said, “because you can’t be killing people now.”
“I can kill whenever I want,” the ghost snapped.
Charles took a deep breath and said, “Can you tell me why?”
The ghost grinned. “There’s a saying I learned when all those assholes were protesting in the States. They had Mao’s little red book, you know?”
Charles did, so he nodded.
“Anyway,” the ghost said, “the saying is, power stems from the barrel of a gun.”
“My father,” Charles said, “always said the strongest man in the world is the man standing in front of you with a gun.”
“Damned right,” the ghost laughed. “Your dad a soldier?”
“He was,” Charles said, “crew chief on a Huey. 1967 to 1969.”
The ghost nodded, seeming to relax slightly. “Your dad saw some shit then.”
“He did. Talks about it every once in a while when he’s got a good drunk on.”
Again the ghost nodded. “We saw some shit. Some serious shit. That’s why we cut all those bastards down in My Lai. We were tired of it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the ghost said.
Charles watched the ghost pull a pack of cigarettes out, fish one out and light it. The entire thing was odd. Disturbingly familiar, and at the same time painfully surreal. Charles could even smell, ever so faintly, the cigarette smoke.
“Yeah, yeah it was,” the ghost said. “You heard stories about what happened to prisoners. You heard stories of what the guys did when they got a couple of VC or NVA. You tried not to take prisoners. Too much bullshit. But at My Lai, well, we were sick of all the bullshit by then.”
The ghost exhaled and looked at Charles.
“Did you ever see what a shotgun does to kid?”
Charles shook his head.
The ghost grinned. “Well, let me tell you about it.”
And the ghost did.
Chapter Fourteen
Ellen at the Apartment
As soon as Ellen stepped into the apartment, she could smell smoke. With it was the sickeningly sweet smell of roast pork. The smell of someone who has literally been cooked.
She ran into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.
The smell was terrible, and she felt an urge to open the windows as she ran the faucet and the disposal to clean up the vomit in the sink.
But opening the windows would take time, and she wanted to spend as little as possible in the apartment. She needed a couple of sets of scrubs and a few photographs. Plus, her winter coat. It was getting cold --
“Hello Ellen,” Mike said from the den.
Ellen straightened up, stiffening. She swallowed nervously and fought the urge to run.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to me?” he asked.
Ellen walked out of the kitchen and looked into the den. The room was unnaturally dim, and once more, she could see her dead boyfriend sitting in his chair.
“Hello,” Ellen said softly. There was a chill in the room suddenly, and she folded her arms over her chest.
“Why aren’t you here anymore?” he asked. She could see a cigar in his hand, the tip glowing strangely.
“Because you’re here,” Ellen answered. “You’re dead, Mike. You need to go and be dead.”
“I am being dead,” Mike replied, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “I can’t get much deader than I am, Ellen.”
“I can’t be here,” she said. “I can’t. I want to get a couple of things and get out of here.”
“Where are you staying?” Mike asked, jealousy and suspicion joining the anger in his words.
“With a friend,” she answered.
“A friend with benefits?” he sneered.
“Seriously, Mike?” Ellen shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m having an argument with my dead boyfriend.”
Mike’s ashtray hurtled by her, shattering against the wall, ashes spraying out.
“Yes, seriously,” he hissed. The lights flickered in the kitchen and the temperature plummeted. “Where the hell are you staying?”
Ellen didn’t answer. She turned and started towards the hallway when the bulbs in the kitchen exploded.
“Where are you staying?!” Mike screamed.
She’d buy new scrubs, Ellen thought. Ellen turned away from the hallway and walked to the front door. Something cold rushed through her, and a moment later Mike’s disembodied voice came from in front of her as she grabbed the doorknob.
“Who says you can leave?” he hissed.
Ellen tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. A spike of panic ripped through her, but she shoved it aside.
“Let me out, Mike,” Ellen said firmly.
“Why?” he demanded. “Who are you going to go see?”
“Let me out, Mike,” she said again, trying the knob and finding it still immovable.<
br />
“Why?”
“Because I want to go,” she said, and suddenly a wave of sadness swept over her. “Because you’re dead, Mike. Because you’re dead.”
There was a long moment of silence before Mike spoke again.
“I am dead,” he said softly. “I am.”
Ellen tried the doorknob again, and it turned easily in her hand.
She opened the door and left the apartment, closing it behind her, but not bothering to lock it.
There was nothing in the apartment she wanted anymore.
Chapter Fifteen
Elmer and Charles have a Conversation
Elmer parked his car across from One Sheridan Street, put on his best smile, and got out of his car. He straightened up, made sure his suit coat and tie were perfect, and walked across the street and up the path and stairs to the front door. An old fashioned doorbell was on the right, and he turned the key-shaped handle. The bell rang loudly beyond the door.
A few moments passed, and then through the door, Elmer heard, “I’m coming!”
A brief moment after that, the door opened, and a man in his forties stood in the doorway. He had short black hair with random strands of white, and he wore a sweater and a pair of black pants as well as house slippers.
“May I help you?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Elmer said, extending his head. “I’m Elmer Hoyt.”
“Hello, Elmer,” the man said, shaking his hand.
“Are you Charles Gottesman?”
“I am,” Charles said.
“May I come in? I’d like to discuss the library you purchased,” Elmer smiled.
“I’m afraid you can’t come in,” Charles said, standing firmly in front of Elmer and barring any entrance.
Elmer blinked, but managed to keep the smile on his face. “I’m interested in purchasing some of the items within.”
“They’re not for sale,” Charles replied.
“I’m willing to pay a considerable amount for them,” Elmer said, still smiling.