Those of the Margin: a Paranormal Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 2)

by T Patrick Phelps

  "My mom would be proud," Derek said. "Anyway, I had a conversation with Maggie about what I found out."

  "How did she react?"

  "She said she had heard it before. What was more interesting is what she didn't say. She didn't say that Jack didn't murder his own father, nor did she say that she felt those accusations were totally unfounded."

  "God forgive me," John said, "but I have never understood their relationship. Maggie is such a kind soul, and Jack, well, let me just leave it at I don't understand their relationship."

  "That's not the end of the story, I'm afraid to say. Robby had fallen asleep while Maggie and I continued talking. All of a sudden, Robby walked over to Maggie and said that Phillip told him that he, Philip, had been murdered. I didn't ask Robby who Phillip said murdered him, but the timing of his comment came right after Maggie and I were talking about Jack murdering his father."

  "The psychologist in me tells me that Robby must have overheard your conversation or that he must have heard his mother talking about it before. Actually, there are plenty of reasonable explanations, psychologically speaking. He may not have actually been asleep and heard your entire conversation. Since Robby believes he has been seeing a ghost, and probably knows that no one believes that he actually is seeing a ghost, he may have used what he overheard as a proof-statement. Could have been retained memories of a conversation he heard years ago. There are many reasonable ways to explain it, beyond assuming it was something paranormal."

  "That all makes sense," Derek said. "So, if that's what the psychologist in you says, what does the priest in you say?"

  "The priest in me? Well, honestly, the priest in me says holy shit."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Without the lamplights being on, Ron couldn't make see any details through his telescope. The crescent moon, hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, spilled its light infrequently. Still, despite the cold and the lack of enough lighting on his target, Ron remained at his post.

  It was well after 8 pm when a nurse's aide noticed him sitting on the porch, his eye pressed to the eyepiece of his telescope.

  "Mr. White," she scolded. "Do you have any idea just how cold it is tonight?"

  "I would hope that I do," he said, not turning his face away from his telescope. "After all, I am the one sitting out here, aren't I?"

  "You either need to come inside or let me get you a whole mess of blankets."

  "One would be enough. But not one of those damn wool ones. Damn things make me sweaty and itchy."

  The aide left and returned a few minutes later with the comforter from Ron's bed in her hands.

  "Wrap this 'round yourself," she instructed. "And you need to get yourself back inside for your meds in 30 minutes. I ain't coming out here to give 'em to you."

  "I'll see you in 30 minutes in my room," he said. "I'll be the grumpy guy sitting on the bed."

  Thankful for the comforter's warmth, Ron continued his vigil. He felt that tonight would be the night to confirm his theories with the additional proof he felt he needed. The conditions were right according to the research he had completed. The wind was mellow, the air held a numbing cold and the ocean's waves had seemingly been lulled to a peaceful quiet.

  "A perfect night," he said to himself.

  He strained his tired eyes to watch for any signs, any movement that would further prove his beliefs. A single point on the Marginal Way was, and had been his only focus. For weeks after completing his research, Ron spent hours each day and night focused on this one single point. He believed that he would recognize another one of his memorized targets and was certain about what would happen when that recognition occurred.

  Ron was good at being patient. His career taught him valuable lessons about the value of research and patience. So while he had long been retired, he maintained those disciplines. They would serve him well, he believed, and once his theory was proven to be accurate, he would not try to convince others. He would only let others know.

  But tonight, despite most of the conditions being ideal, the lack of lighting was impossible to overcome. If he marked something, he would never be able to convince himself of a reliable identification. He knew there would be other nights as he pulled his eye from his scope. He paused, hoping for a sustained break in the clouds, before accepting that the night's watch was over.

  He never heard the porch door open or the footsteps that surely must have made some sound approaching behind him. He only heard the voice.

  "You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you Ron?"

  #####

  Despite the cold, Derek decided to walk from Fitz's towards the Ogunquit beach where the Marginal Way began. The conversation that he and Father John Flannigan had had was a dizzying release of possibilities, unknowns, and conjecture.

  "Father, I agree that Robby could have overheard Maggie and me talking, and since Maggie came right out and told me that she's heard the accusations about her husband before, it is feasible that Robby heard some mention about what happened to his grandfather on any number of occasions. But," Derek continued, "despite all the psychological experiments, all the training you've completed, and all the ghostly hoaxes that we all have read about, is it possible that whatever is visiting Robby is real?"

  The thought that Phillip could be real chilled Derek more than the January winds.

  As Derek walked the Marginal Way, he strained to recall the exact spot where Ron White's telescope was aimed. He only had a brief glance through the scope but was sure it was directed at a spot of the Way that was elevated, surrounded by low hanging trees, and afforded only an obstructed view of the Atlantic. He was fairly certain that Ron's telescope was aimed near a point of the Marginal Way that was separated from the ocean by steep, 30-foot drop offs.

  He walked nearly a mile before reaching a point of the Way that Derek felt somehow familiar with. He had walked the Way twice before: once, several years ago, with his wife, Lucy by his side, then again only the day before as he walked to meet Jack and Maggie. He paused at the top of a small vista, hoping that he would notice something that would tell him that this was the spot where Ron's telescope was trained.

  Getting his sense of direction, Derek turned towards where he felt the nursing home was, trying to line up the home's porch to the spot he was standing. He was fairly certain that the distant lights he could make out were coming from the nursing home, and the fact that he could see the home's lights clearly from the spot he was standing, convinced Derek that this was the spot.

  "What are you looking for, Ron?" he asked.

  Derek pulled out his small, black Maglite flashlight from his front pocket and shined its light around the path. The entire Marginal Way was covered with macadam, but the sides of the path were hard-packed dirt and an assortment of different-sized stones. He moved further off the path and into a small cropping of wind-twisted trees. The trees were packed densely in one area, making Derek's search of the area nearly impossible.

  He walked back to the paved path, stood at the highest point, closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds surrounding him. The ocean was much quieter than when he met the Bryants the day before, sending a stream of muted hushes, each separated by a whisper of pregnant air. He stood, absorbed into the rhythmic pulses, listening to anything that sounded foreign.

  All that Derek could hear was the distant wailings of sirens that sent alarming echoes across the ocean. He opened his eyes, pointed his flashlight towards the area too thick with shrubs and trees to search.

  "Maybe if it was brighter out, or if I had more scotch in me," he said.

  As he turned off his flashlight and began walking back towards the deserted Ogunquit beach and the lot where his car was parked, Derek heard the shuffle of feet behind him. He turned quickly and saw a man standing where he had stood only moments ago. A flash of recognition shot through Derek's mind.

  "Ron?" he called back. "Ron White?"

  Whoever it was, turned immediately and bolted down the path, away fro
m Derek. Derek clicked on his Maglite and retraced his steps back. As he reached the apex of the sinuous path, he couldn't see where the man had gone. Carefully, Derek quickened his pace down the slight hill, following the faint footsteps that his mysterious visitor left in the two-inch high snow.

  "Can't be Ron," he thought as he continued his follow. "Man moves too quick for a guy who was still recovering from a stroke."

  No matter how quickly he moved, Derek could not get close enough to catch another glimpse of the man. The twists and turns of the Marginal Way afforded no straightaway long enough for Derek to see his visitor. It was only the footprints that told Derek that whoever it was he was following was still moving away from him.

  Derek increased his pace until he found himself running as fast as he could. His recovery time in the hospital and at his parents' home had certainly diminished his level of fitness, and soon Derek found himself gasping for breath. He stopped and braced himself using a tree to support his exhausted body, when he saw his target. The man was still moving away, getting close to Perkins Cove and the end of the Marginal Way.

  He resumed his sprint, determined to ignore the fire building in his legs and lungs. As he ran, he wondered what it was about this stranger that intrigued him so. Perhaps it was just a simple man who expected the Way to be deserted and, when seeing another person, panicked and decided to get as far away from any danger, real or imagined, as quickly as possible.

  Derek was moving at his top speed. His head growing dizzy from the exertion, he pushed himself to continue his pace. For some unknown reason, he felt he needed to reach the man before reaching the end of the Marginal Way.

  It wasn't the intense burning in his lungs or in his legs that stopped him from his pursuit. It was something beneath the ice and snow that tripped Derek and sent him crashing to the frozen and rocky ground. He slid off the path and crashed into a large bolder that lined that area of the Way. Derek felt the little breath his lungs were still clinging to being pounded out of his body. He lay on the ground, his right side still pressed to the bolder, gasping for air. Knowing that it would return but still desperate for a single breath.

  It took a minute or two before he could stand again. His head and side ached from the fall, but he regained his stance, looked ahead of him, further down the Marginal Way, and caught a glimpse of the lights marking Perkins Cove.

  "Damn," he said, stretching his back in a painful bend.

  He knew that whoever it was that he was following was well out of reach. Still, Derek continued walking towards Perkins Cove, still following the footprints. As he neared the end of the Way, he noticed that the footprints were becoming much fainter, as if the maker of the footprints had grown lighter and was unable to continue leaving his impressions in the snow.

  When he reached the end of the Way, the footprints had vanished.

  "Well, son of a bitch," he said.

  Derek turned and headed back towards the direction he had just come from, pausing to inspect the footprints. He could tell, thanks to his police academy training, that the man he was chasing was wearing about size 11 shoes. What Derek found interesting about those size 11's was that the bottoms were utterly treadles. As if the man was wearing slippers.

  "Odd choice of footwear, I'd say."

  He closely inspected the tracks, checking to see if they were indeed showing evidence that the runner was somehow able to glide over the snow and leave a much shallower report of his steps. Derek found that the snow's depth and consistency was the same all around the path.

  "Son of a bitch started floating?" he thought. "That can't be normal."

  He continued his walk back, despite the pain building in his side, and was soon back where he first saw the strange man standing. There, the man's footprints were deeply marked. Then he realized that he had seen no tracks from the parking lot leading to that spot.

  Derek pointed his flashlight off to the side of the Way, searching for footprints that would indicate which way the man had approached to Way. He found nothing.

  "I'm quickly losing my fanship of this place," he said out loud.

  With the distant sounds of the sirens still wailing away back towards the town of Wells, Derek felt very uneasy standing alone.

  "Might be time to head on back," he said, then, as quickly as he could, he continued his trek back to his car.

  With fear as his driving force, Derek made the mile plus walk back to his car in under 15 minutes. As soon as he started his car and blasted the heat, his iPhone vibrated angrily in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that he had missed seven calls during his nighttime chase. Three voicemail indicators told him that he missed something important.

  The first voice message was from Ralph Fox.

  "Hey there, Mr. Freelancer," Ralph said. "You need to call me as soon as you hear this message. Dug up some things that I find very peculiar. You know the number."

  The next two messages were from Father John Flannigan.

  "Derek," John's panicky voice started, "I'm sure you haven't heard what happened. Call me right away."

  Derek scribbled the cell number Father John left at the end of his message.

  The next message Father John left sent shivers throughout Derek's body.

  "Derek," John's voice sounding more subdued, reclined. "Ron White was murdered in the nursing home. I'm walking in now. Call me."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Derek dialed John's number as he drove towards the nursing home. When his call went unanswered, Derek ended the call and dialed Ralph Fox.

  "How's the weather up there?" Ralph asked.

  "Cold and getting colder. I wish I could explain what just happened to me, but I highly doubt you'd believe me. Your message said to call you right away. What's up?"

  "Now we will have to circle back at some point so you can fill old Ralphy in on what it is that you feel certain that I won't believe happened to you, but right now I have a more pressing concern. Pressing concern of yours, that is, or least it will be once you hear it. I am sure that you recall the conversation we had earlier today about Jack Bryant being a suspect in his own daddy's demise."

  "It's still fresh in my mind," Derek said, slowing his car down as he drove up Main Street through Ogunquit.

  "I am gonna, for the sake of clarity, refer to your Jack Bryant as your client and to his daddy as grandpa. I figure that way we can both be on the same page. Make sense?"

  "Fine, Ralph. You can call him Moses for all I care."

  "Doing that would be sinful, I'd imagine. So, grandpa was indeed murdered in his own home. To be more precise, he was murdered in his own backyard. Coroner's report stated the actual cause of death was exposure. Now, I know you are aware of what that means, but I feel compelled to provide some details."

  "That would be nice."

  "Grandpa was frozen to death. He was found stiff as a slate-top pool table in his own backyard. The report also said that he was drunk as hell."

  "Doesn't sound like a murder so far. Grandpa has too much to drink, goes in his backyard to take a leak, passes out, and no one finds him till the next day."

  "Now that would be a fine explanation except for the other details of the report that I was getting to before you went all freelance on me."

  "Sorry. Instincts, you know." Despite all that was happening with Derek, something about speaking with Ralph Fox made him feel calmer. He felt that Ralph's wit and keen mind somehow provided protection, despite the many hours and miles that separated the two friends.

  "As I was getting to, while being frozen was the final cause of death, and though being drunk did not help grandpa much, it was the blunt force trauma to his head that did all the dirty work. Grandpa was knocked out with something like a baseball bat, drug outside, and left half naked in a snowdrift. Exposure killed him, but the whack on the head gave Mother Nature a hell of a head start."

  "And Jack Bryant was suspected as the person that delivered that whack to the head?"

  "He and his mother."


  "Mom's involved in this whole mess, too?"

  "See, you used the past tense when you said 'was suspected.' Jack still is suspected, but back 20 years ago, his mom was where the police focused most of their attention. Seems she was home when the crime was perpetrated and didn't have any alibi excepting claiming she was asleep when grandpa stumbled on home. That didn't sit right with the investigators. They figured that either she done the whacking and the dragging or certainly would have heard someone else whacking and dragging. Either she was the killer or was covering for the killer."

  "And that killer may have been her son, my client."

  "And no mother can ever be forced to testify against her own children. So when the investigators started looking at Jack as a suspect, old Mama went silent. Turned out that she was nursing a couple of busted up ribs, and the investigators figured that she was in too much pain or had too many pain killers in her body to have done the whacking. Everything pointed to Jack, including fingerprints on an aluminum baseball bat."

  "Which, I'm sure were easily explained. Jack probably said his prints were all over the bat since it was his bat that he probably used in Little League."

  "Precisely correct," Ralph commended. "Not to go down a tangent, but I never did like aluminum baseball bats. Kind of takes the tradition out of the game. That's a conversation better had over a few cocktails, I suppose. Anyway, the police did what they could to pin the murder on Jack, but him being a minor at the time gave him all sorts of legal protection. Once his mom got him a lawyer, the police were left with nothing but suspicions to go on.

  "After a few weeks of asking around town about the relationship between Jack and grandpa, they were slapped with a defamation of character lawsuit and were issued a cease and desist order. Shut down the case like a coffin top closing on its resident. My friend, who was familiar with the case but not one of the investigators, told me that the file and all the evidence was stored away in the department's basement and never looked at again."