Derek thumbed through more of the pictures in the stack. Most were of the same young boy: getting on the school bus, dressed in his baseball uniform, holding up a two-foot rat snake. All pictures someone would expect to see of a young, happy boy.
He dug deeper into the plastic tote, pulling out, then putting aside picture after picture. Though he didn't know what he was searching for, he trusted that he would know when he came across the right picture. As he continued to find and then discard pictures, Derek felt the air around him turn suddenly cooler. A few degrees at first, then sharply, bitterly colder. A fetid smell filled his nostrils before quickly dissipating.
He snapped his arm backwards when he felt the chilled hand racing up his back and gripping his neck. His deflection caught only air.
"Concentrate," he said to himself, certain that all he had felt was a blast of frigid air sent into rapid circulation by the blowing winds of the storm that was reaching the shoreline.
He returned his focus to the tote filled with pictures, wishing that Maggie had better organized them, labeled them, and had somehow known that he would someday need to find a particular picture of a particular person.
#####
Trooper Girard, having glanced at his phone, realized that the 10 minutes Mark Irish had allowed the two priests to search for whatever the hell it was that they were looking for had expired.
"Father," he said to John Flannigan, "I'm sorry but the 10 minutes is up."
"That's fine," John said in response. "I hope Father Derek is having better luck. If Maggie did save old family photographs, she didn't store them on the first floor. I'll go and collect Father Derek."
John Flannigan intentionally moved slowly to the staircase, hoping to give Derek a bit more time. He climbed the stairs with deliberate delay, pausing after each trio of steps, pretending to catch his breath.
"I'm still recovering from a bit of bronchitis," he lied to Trooper Girard, then immediately and silently asked for forgiveness. "All in the hopes of helping Maggie," he silently added to his prayer.
John was still six steps away from the second floor when he heard the noises. At first, he thought that the storm outside had collected and focused its strength and released an instant torrent of wind. But the sound he heard was more of a crashing sound, followed by a sustained silence. The silence ended with the distinctive thud an object makes after being thrown into an immovable object. The grunt and guttural scream confirmed his suspicion.
"Derek," he yelled as he bounded up the few remaining stairs. "Trooper Girard, quickly!"
As he reached out towards the attic stairs, the retracting staircase was suddenly pulled up and slammed back into its closed position, sending deep cracks into the sheet-rocked ceiling.
Trooper Girard reached the top of the stairs within seconds after hearing the crashing sounds coming from the attic. He stood next to John, pistol drawn in his excited haste.
"Is he alone up there?" he asked.
"Doesn't sound that way to me," John said. "Help me get the stairs pulled down."
Mark Irish was soon up the stairs and was pulling on the rope used to release the attic stairs. Both troopers pulled as hard as they could. When the concealed staircase began to open, it was quickly and powerfully pulled back into place, furthering the cracks that were now extending several feet down the hallway ceiling.
"Father Derek," Mark yelled. "Can you hear me?"
There was no answer.
"Try the rope again, quickly," John said.
"Derek, can you hear me?" Mark said as he, John, and Trooper Girard grabbed hold of the thin rope and, in unison, pulled hard. As the three were pulling, another thud was heard directly over their heads. Instantly, the resistance holding the attic staircase was released and the telescoping stairs raced open.
It happened so fast that none of the three were prepared to catch or at least break his fall when Derek, who must have been lying on top of the stairs, came crashing to the floor. His unconscious body sliding in an awkward position down each step until his decent had ended in a twisted form.
"Call 911," Mark ordered to Girard. "And get another trooper up here now."
Mark drew his modified Glock 23, removed and clicked on his flashlight, then climbed the stairs cautiously. He paused when his head and shoulders were above the ceiling.
"Who's up here?" he called, his voice betraying his desire to appear calm. "Come out with your hands above your head."
He flashed his light nervously around the attic. When another trooper arrived in the upstairs hallway, he motioned for the trooper to follow as he climbed the rest of the way into the attic.
John gently pulled Derek away from the stairs and placed him in a more comfortable-looking position. Though he had no medical training, John could tell that Derek's face had been scratched and bruised and that his right shoulder was in a position that it shouldn't be in.
"Derek," John said as he cradled Derek's face, "can you hear me?"
Derek's eyes fluttered before his face grimaced with his realization of the pain his body was saving for him until he regained consciousness.
"Don't move," John said, grateful that Derek was awake. "The ambulance is on its way."
"Hold the picture," Derek said. "I found it."
John looked to Derek's right hand and removed a crumbled up photograph. Though he didn't take the time to inspect the picture closely, he saw that the photograph held the frozen images of a man and a young man, who looked to be no older than 15.
"It's him," Derek said, now fully aware of both his surroundings and of the pain in his shoulder. "It's Phillip."
#####
The ambulance brought an even greater sense of worry to the neighborhood. The flashing lights bounced in a disconcerting fashion off the hibernating light bars of the three trooper cars parked in the Bryant's driveway. The promised winter storm had arrived, keeping neighbors inside their homes, but curtains and shades were drawn open in the homes of the curious and concerned.
The two paramedics who responded to the 911 call were tentative in their approach. They knew, from their extensive training, to assume that a home with multiple police cars parked in the driveway represented a potentially dangerous situation. After they were assured by the trooper who met them at the front door that the situation was under control, they proceeded quickly to diagnose, stabilize, and lift Derek onto the stair-chair and out into their warm ambulance.
"Tell me exactly what happened to you up in that attic," Mark Irish asked Derek as he sat beside him in the back of the ambulance.
"I have no idea," Derek said. "I felt something grab my neck, then pull me backwards so fast that I couldn't catch my balance. After that, all I remember is the feeling of being thrown."
"Did you see anyone, Father?"
"I don't think there was anyone to see."
"What do you mean?" Mark asked.
"I don't know what I mean. I'm sorry."
"You get to the hospital and get yourself fixed up, Father. I'll catch up with you later and will let you know what we find up in that attic." Mark opened the rear door of the ambulance and slipped out of Derek's sight.
With Mark out of their way, the paramedics resumed treating Derek. One of the paramedics mentioned that getting to the hospital would take a bit longer than normal, due to the storm.
"It's getting pretty bad out here. May be a slippery ride to the hospital."
"I can't go to the hospital," Derek demanded.
"Your shoulder is definitely dislocated and possibly broken. Plus, I'd bet you have a concussion."
"I'll sign off that I refused to go to the hospital. Just set my shoulder, and I'll be fine."
"Father," the paramedic said, "we aren't supposed to do anything except immobilize your shoulder. You may need surgery, and if I pop it back into place, I could cause more damage."
"Someone's life may depend on me not going to the hospital. I need you to pop it back into place."
"Father, I don't know.
Someone's life?"
"Yes, my child. Please."
The paramedic waited until the troopers had moved away from the ambulance. He shut the rear doors and asked his associate to "take a quick walk" before the he got face to face with Derek.
"This is gonna hurt like hell."
Grabbing Derek's humerus bone with one hand and stabilizing his shoulder with the other, the paramedic closed his eyes and slowly rotated Derek's arm. He was going by feel and was waiting until he could feel that the humerus was in proper alignment with the shoulder socket. Without pause or warning, the paramedic tugged firmly on Derek's arm then pressed hard on his shoulder socket.
The grinding sounds emanating from his shoulder, though expected, nearly caused Derek to lose track of reality and fall into a spinning world of nausea and pain. But it was the popping sound that shocked Derek the most. His intended stifled scream came howling out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Maggie knew she was driving too fast considering the weather conditions, though the speedometer in the car she had borrowed from John Flannigan was only reading 33 mph. The snow was falling in heavy waves, driven in dizzying circles by the ocean's wind. She risked taking her eyes off the road to find her cell phone. She dialed Jack's number then slammed the phone onto the passenger's seat when her call went directly to voicemail.
"This is Jack. Leave a message."
"Damn it," she said as she applied a bit more force to the gas pedal.
By the time she saw the signs indicating that Kennebunkport was five miles ahead, Maggie could see no further than a few feet beyond the windshield. The blowing winds had stabilized into sustained gale strength winds that were experts at finding gaps in the seals of John Flannigan's car and filling the car with high-pitched whistles. Maggie glanced at her speed. Ten miles per hour with at least 20 miles left before she arrived at where she believed Jack had brought Robby.
"You better not let anything happen to him," she said as she imagined Jack in her mind's eye. "Nothing."
#####
"Are you serious? Your arm must be killing you, and you want to go chase after a ghost?" John Flannigan was mired in disbelief and doubt when Derek handed him the keys to his car and told him that he needed to drive. "You're as white as a ghost, pardon the cliché," he said after Derek had dismissed Mark Irish's request for Derek to provide more details about what happened to him in the attic, and instead opened the passenger's side door of his car and sat down in an uncomfortable, twisting fall. "Why won't you answer my questions?" John asked before surrendering his concerns and taking his place behind the steering wheel.
"Father," Derek said, his voice muffled as he battled against the moans of pain from emerging, "I know who Phillip is, and I know why he calls himself 'Phillip.'"
"No offense," John said, "but who the hell cares? Maggie is who-knows-where and Jack has Robby. Why the hell do you think that knowing who Phillip is will help anything?"
"I know where Jack is."
"You figured out where Jack is by looking at a picture?" John said. He then remembered that he was still holding the picture Derek had given him. Before putting the car into gear, he studied the picture.
It showed a man, probably in his early forties, standing beside a teenage boy. The boy held a blank stare at whoever was taking the picture, while the man slightly behind and slightly to the boy's right, was smiling broadly. His hair was light brown and was beginning to gray at its edges. His eyes, dark brown and set deep within his face, were surrounded by sunburned skin. John could tell that the man was intentionally sucking in his paunchy belly and was hopeful he'd soon be able to relax his abdominal muscles the moment the shutter sounded.
"Who is this?" John asked.
"That, I believe, is Jack and his father," Derek said.
"So you are saying that Robby's Phillip is Jack's father," John asked.
"Does the background look familiar to you, Father? Look closely."
John studied the surroundings behind Jack and his father. He strained his mind to recall when and, more importantly, where he had seen this place before.
"It looks familiar, but I can't place it," John said.
"Head into Ogunquit."
#####
The roads were deserted. Passing only an occasional police vehicle and a single plow, Derek and John inched towards the center of Ogunquit.
"I'm going to try Maggie's cell," Derek said after having already dialed all but two numbers.
His call went right to voice mail, suggesting that either Maggie's phone was turned off or she was in an area of poor cell coverage. Derek turned to John who was struggling to see the road through the blowing snow. "Father, you never told me if you believe that ghosts are real. All you told me was that the Catholic Church's teachings are a bit hard to pin down, but you never told me what you believe."
"Why are my beliefs important?" John asked.
"Because, unless I'm wrong, the fact that you are driving me to where I think we will find Phillip and that you're not demanding that we spend our time and mental energies trying to find Maggie, tells me that you believe that this whole Phillip thing isn't something Robby made up or something that someone put into his head."
"Or maybe because I honestly have no idea what to do but feel I should be doing something. Anything that may help Maggie and Robby. Plus, you said that you know where Jack is. I assume, perhaps erroneously, that where you are leading me is where we will find both Phillip and the rest of the party."
"I think it's more than that, Father. I think that you either suspect something or may even know something about Phillip that you haven't told me yet. If so, I think now is the time to tell me."
John was quiet. His eyes were locked in a losing battle against the storm as he struggled to keep the road in his view. He sighed deeply and readjusted his hands on the steering wheel.
"I knew Jack's father," John said.
"You what?" Derek exclaimed. "You knew his father? That means that you've known Jack for quite a long time."
"I've been a priest for almost 30 years, and I've been assigned to different parishes all over Maine. I spent 13 years serving as a priest in churches in and around Portland. The first church where I was the pastor was Our Lady of the Sea, and Luke Bryant and his family were parishioners.
"Luke and I were the same age. In fact, our birthdays are six days apart. He and I became friends. Good friends. We used to talk for hours about all sorts of things. And, before you ask, yes, we both shared an interest in ghosts and in the paranormal. I grew interested in all things paranormal while I was in the seminary that was supposedly haunted. Though I never saw anything, I did have some strange experiences while I was there.
"Luke fancied himself to be somewhat of an amateur paranormal investigator, and I went on several of his investigations with him. He would always say that having a priest in tow made people feel better and gave him instant credibility.
"Over the years, we kept in touch, but he developed a pretty serious drinking habit. I tried to help him but couldn't. He told me that he drank so that he could forget something that he saw on one of his investigations. He never told me what he saw that affected him so much, but whatever it was, it must have been powerful. He was a good man. A good husband and a good father. But after years of abusing alcohol, he changed into someone that, I have to believe, he hated being.
"I tried to talk with his son, Jack, about how he felt about his father's alcoholism, but Jack just closed up and blocked everything out. He was such a good kid. Full of life, always willing to help and never had a bad word to say about anyone.
"A few months after his dad was killed, and the police investigation and rumors calmed down, I called Jack to see how he was doing and if there was anything I could do. All he said to me was to pretend that we never knew each other and to keep my nose out of his business. I think he used more colorful language, but you get the general idea.
"Do I believe in ghosts? There was a time when I was obsessed wi
th ghosts. I thought that if I could verify their existence, then doing so would prove that there is an afterlife. I would know that everything I stand for and everything that I preach is somehow proven – that God exists and that our earthly deaths are not the end but only a transition.
"I'm what you could call a reluctant believer now, a wishful believer in the paranormal. I want to believe in ghosts so much. Too much, probably. And as for Robby's 'Phillip,' my training says that it is a result of some psychological challenge or a sign that Robby is crying for attention. But my gut tells me that Phillip is as real as a ghost can be. And that is why, Derek, I am willing to risk my life driving in this blizzard so that you can chase a ghost around the coast of Maine.
"Do I believe in ghosts? Reluctantly, yes. I almost have to, don't I?"
Derek was quietly staring at John, listening to every word. His mind was so locked in to the conversation that when he noticed that they had missed the turn that headed to the parking area for Ogunquit beach, he practically yelled at John to turn around and head towards the beach.
"Christ almighty!" John said. "Nearly scared me half to death."
"Sorry, Father. I need you fully alive for what we are about to do."
"And what is it that we are about to do?" John asked as he turned the car down the road towards the Ogunquit beach.
"Recognize and return."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Trooper Mark Irish assembled his team in the Bryant home. He had been studying every file, photograph, and note on the Bryant case for well over eight hours before an idea came to him. That was how things worked with Mark Irish. He would spend hours making little or no progress before something small turned everything around. For this case, Mark was stuck trying to figure out why Jack Bryant would have killed Ron White.
Those of the Margin: a Paranormal Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 2) Page 16