Lake Nutaq (Berkley Street Series Book 6)

by Ron Ripley

  Danny wasn’t there.

  “Matt!” Mark screamed, his voice muffled by the helmet.

  Matt jerked his head around to look at his brother.

  A huge monster was walking towards them. It had a twisted face and long, black hair. Matt couldn’t see arms or legs, both hidden by a long cloak it wore.

  Matt slipped as he tried to get away from the truck, and as he fell, he was hit in the face by the fantail of snow thrown up by his brother’s snowmobile. Panicking, Matt scrambled to his feet as Mark sped off, leaving him behind.

  The wooden face of the monster followed Mark’s passage, and Matt tried to get to his own snowmobile. Yet as his hand touched the handle, the creature remembered Matt’s existence. It stepped forward as Matt clambered onto the seat, fumbled his attempt to start the engine, and then felt needle-like pain explode in his bicep as the creature took hold of him.

  The monster turned him around, twisting Matt’s arm around until it felt as though the tendons would tear free. Matt’s throat closed up with the pain, and he began to suffocate from his fear.

  As Matt’s eyes fluttered and consciousness slipped away, he heard a yell. A great, terrible bellow and he wondered who else had come to kill him.

  Chapter 27: A Good Drunk Spoiled

  Shane hadn’t had quite enough whiskey to get drunk, but it had been more than enough for a decent buzz. Danny remained asleep on the bed, and Patience hadn’t returned. Shane leaned against the wall, his eyes closed as he thought about his current situation.

  The thoughts weren’t in any particular order. They tended to drift, from Courtney to the lighthouse, from the Marine Corps to the death of his parents. His mind rambled, opening and closing the doors to memories he didn’t want to recall.

  During an exceptionally vivid recollection of his first introduction to Eloise, Shane heard the sound of an engine.

  He opened one eye, looked at the curtained window and waited.

  It took him a moment, but finally, Shane nodded, returned his eye to its previous state of rest, and thought, Yup. That’s an engine.

  A heartbeat later, his eyes snapped open.

  An engine, dummy! he screamed at himself. Shane’s attempts to get to his feet were clumsy, and in less dire circumstances, would have been extremely funny.

  As it was, he only grew angry.

  Muttering under his breath, Shane picked up the piece of iron, stepped over the salt, and ran to the front room. A single, vicious kick sent the table flying away from the door. As it swung open, Shane leaped out, springing off the porch and into the snow. He saw the snowmobile, the young rider in the grip of Broken Nose, and Shane let out a furious roar.

  Broken Nose jerked around, the rider flailing about like a cornhusk doll.

  Shane brought the iron smashing down and through the Indian’s arm.

  The blow caused Broken Nose to vanish and reverberated through Shane as if he had struck a tree instead of a dead man.

  He managed to keep his grip on the iron and catch hold of the rider as he fell. Shane wrapped his arm around the stranger’s waist, and movement caught his eye.

  Looking down at the house at the end of the street, Shane saw Broken Nose stepping out of the doorway and onto the porch.

  “Oh hell,” Shane murmured, and he half carried, half dragged the rider back towards the cabin. Patience stood there, frowning. She stepped aside to let them pass.

  “What have you done, Shane?” she asked, following him towards the bedroom.

  “Saved this kid,” Shane grunted, picked the rider up and over the salt.

  “You should not have done so,” she scolded.

  “Why not?” Shane asked, putting the stranger down on the floor.

  “Broken Nose wanted him,” Patience snapped. “It was not good to take from him. Nor was it wise to strike him. I can hear him. He is displeased with you.”

  “Tell him to get in line,” Shane said, taking the helmet off the rider and revealing the face of a teenage boy.

  The young rider was in shock, his brown eyes wide, his acne-marked face pale. His dark brown, curly hair was damp with sweat, and saliva clung to the corners of his mouth.

  “Hey,” Shane said, snapping his fingers in front of the kid’s eyes. “Hey!”

  The teen blinked, focused on Shane and muttered, “What?”

  “Look at me,” Shane commanded. “Pay attention to me. Do you understand?”

  The rider nodded.

  “Okay. What’s your name?” Shane asked.

  “My name.”

  “Yeah,” Shane said, taking hold of the teenager’s chin and making the rider look at him. “Your name. What is it?”

  The teen frowned, then smiled and said, “Matt.”

  “Matt,” Shane started. But he couldn’t finish.

  Matt’s eyes rolled up in his head, exposing the whites. The teen went limp, and Shane had to drop the iron and catch Matt with his other hand, lowering the boy to the floor.

  Shane checked Matt’s pulse. Checked it again.

  He dropped onto the floor and sat beside the teen.

  The boy was dead.

  Chapter 28: The Englishman

  When Frank had been in the Army, he had been on intimate terms with death. After meeting Shane, Frank had been introduced to an entirely new aspect of death. He knew full well how dangerous ghosts could be, and how ghosts were not the powerless images of the past.

  The Englishman that was standing before him, Frank saw, would gut him without batting an eye.

  In silence, the dead man examined Frank, nostrils flaring as if he could smell Frank.

  “Who are you?” The Englishman asked, his voice sounding like metal dragged over broken glass.

  “Frank.”

  “You have a hard look about you, Frank,” The Englishman said. “Can you see out of that eye of yours?”

  “Most days,” Frank said, keeping his voice even, not letting his fear creep into it.

  The Englishman chuckled, thin lips parting to reveal yellowed and broken teeth. “What did you wrong?”

  “Shrapnel,” Frank said.

  “Aye?” the ghost asked. “We have a kinship there. You see this?”

  The Englishman pointed to a thick scar on his left cheek.

  Frank nodded.

  “My mate’s jawbone did that,” the man said. “Round shot tore his head away, sent the jaw through my cheek, took out a few of my gnashers as well. You ever swallow a tooth before?”

  “Once,” Frank confessed. “But it was someone else’s.”

  For a moment, the Englishman looked surprised, then he let out a loud, braying laugh. “Aye, but I do like you, Frank. The name’s Jack. Jack Whyte. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve seen what my touch does to those still taking air.”

  “I appreciate that, Jack,” Frank said, relaxing a fraction. “How long have you been in there?”

  “Who’s the King, then, my boy?” Jack asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “No king right now,” Frank said after a moment of hesitation. “Queen Elizabeth the second sits on the throne. Who was the king when you died?”

  Jack twisted his face into a scowl. “Fair question that is. Hm, who was on the throne? Ah yes, it was that bonnie tart George. Did my time on the wheel for speaking ill of him.”

  “The wheel?” Frank asked.

  “Punishment,” Jack said, winking. “Terrible it was, too. Strapped you down to a tilted wagon wheel and laid into you with a lash. Better than aboard ship, though. Those devils let the cat out of the bag more ‘n I care for.”

  Frank shook his head. “That sounds distinctly unpleasant, my friend.”

  “Aye, it was at that,” Jack said. “So, bonnie King George was on the throne when I came here to the colonies. Yes, ‘bout seventy if I recall correctly, though I have a hard enough time doing that without a bit of stout. What year is it now?”

  “Two thousand and seventeen,” Frank answered.

  Jack coughed, shook his head
, and repeated the number.

  “Yes,” Frank said.

  “So,” Jack answered, rubbing his chin. “I’ve been tucked away, then.”

  Frank waited, wondering if he could close the rosette if Jack became violent. Madness danced in Jack’s eyes for a moment, a curious, shimmering gleam that set Frank’s teeth on edge.

  “You’re not a foolish man,” Jack said, a grim look settling over his face.

  “Not usually, no,” Frank responded.

  Jack glanced at the gold button in the lead-lined compartment.

  “You need help, am I correct, my friend?” Jack asked, returning his attention to Frank.

  “Yes,” Frank answered. “I have a friend who’s in trouble. And I need someone who’s dead to help me.”

  A lopsided grin appeared, and Jack said. “Do you now?”

  “I do.”

  “And would you be willing to help old Jack?” the Englishman asked.

  “To a point,” Frank said.

  Jack chuckled. “Oh yes, I do like you, Frank. I do indeed.”

  The Englishman became serious, his voice hard. “Will you help me leave here?”

  “The house or your existence?” Frank asked.

  “The latter is preferred,” Jack said. “Though I’d take the former in a pinch.”

  “I’ll help you with either one,” Frank said. “To the best that I can.”

  “Well then, Frank,” Jack said, straightening up and running a hand through his hair. “I believe that we will be friends, good and true at that. Now tell me, where are we going, and what for?”

  “North,” Frank said. “And my friend is trapped by the dead.”

  “Take hold of the button then,” Jack said, nodding towards the gold button. “Put it in your pocket to keep me close, and we’ll be on our away.”

  Frank stepped over to the hearth, removed the button, and placed it in his pants pocket. The metal was cold and refused to get warm in spite of its closeness to his flesh.

  “Now, Frank,” Jack said, “do you know why I’m bound to such a tawdry piece of work?”

  Frank shook his head.

  Jack beamed at him. “Belonged to the last officer I killed. A nasty, priggish colonel.”

  “How did you kill him?” Frank asked, looking up into Jack’s eyes.

  “I twisted his head off his neck, I did,” Jack said with satisfaction.

  “And did it cure him?” Frank asked.

  Jack frowned. “Cure him? Of what?”

  “Being an officer,” Frank said and walked towards the hallway as Jack let out his strange, braying laugh. The sound raced through the house, and Frank shook his head.

  He may be a madman, and a murderer, Frank thought, but he’s still a soldier, and I can work with that.

  Chapter 29: Across the Lake

  Fear boiled in Mark.

  It pushed him to drive the snowmobile faster, racing across Lake Nutaq.

  He didn’t look back as he went, for there was a nagging, terrifying doubt eating at him.

  Mark wasn’t sure if his brother had left Preston Road, and he was too afraid to know the truth. All Mark wanted was to be home, where it was safe, where there wasn’t a monster lurking behind him.

  A shimmer on the snow ahead caught Mark’s eyes, and his mind, smothered by fear, failed to register what it was.

  Before he knew it, Mark was skipping.

  The open water wasn’t large, but it was enough since he hadn’t been paying attention. He didn’t have time to rev the engine or to swerve to either the left or right. All he could do was hang onto the grips and pray that he had enough speed to get across.

  He didn’t.

  The new sled slammed into the ice shelf, water splashing up and soaking him. With the force of the impact, Mark was launched over the handles. His body spun left to right while his feet began a slow arc up towards the sun.

  The world slowed down, and his vision became preternaturally sharp.

  He saw, out of the corner of one eye, the snowmobile slip into Lake Nutaq, the headlight shining beneath the water. Each ripple was defined, highlighted by adrenaline. His heart beat like a fist against his chest. He stiffened, felt the world reset itself to its normal speed, and slammed down onto the ice, his right leg bent beneath him.

  Mark heard rather than felt his femur snap. The pain was instant and blinding.

  Snow spilled down onto him, and when Mark tried to stand, darkness smothered him, and he lay on the shuddering ice.

  For a brief moment, he looked as lifeless as his brother did.

  His face contorted with pain, and Mark’s eyes snapped open. He swallowed back a scream, suspecting but not knowing that the monster was still out there. A small, horrific idea blossomed in Mark’s mind. The creature wasn’t satisfied with only Matt.

  It wanted Mark too.

  Mark rolled over onto his stomach and fainted as pain exploded in his leg.

  When he came back to consciousness, Mark discovered he had thrown up in his helmet. Vomit splashed across his face and stung his nostrils. Disgusted, Mark ripped the helmet off and scrubbed at his face with a handful of snow. The break in his leg felt like someone was smashing at it with a hammer, and Mark had to fight another faint.

  Breathing hard, he pushed himself up and looked around as best he could. It took him several minutes to get his bearings, but when he did, he was able to see where he needed to get off the lake in order to make it home. His hand shook as he reached into his coat, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt out, and managed to put it on.

  Home, Mark thought, refusing to acknowledge the silence behind him. Home.

  Matt will be home soon. He’s probably home now, Mark lied to himself.

  He started to crawl through the snow, across the ice, and he whispered to himself, “He’s probably home now.”

  Chapter 30: Discussions with the Dead

  “Why did he die?” Patience asked.

  The sound of her voice jarred him out of his thoughts. He looked at the dead girl. She was in her favorite place, seated on the other side of the salt and staring at him.

  “Shock,” Shane answered. He twisted around and saw Danny was still asleep, the injured man’s chest rising with a slow and steady rhythm.

  Patience frowned and shook her head.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “His body couldn’t handle the injury,” Shane explained.

  “But he was not hurt,” she said. “Not grievously.”

  “It doesn’t have to be severe,” Shane said. “People react differently to being injured. I’ve seen men with shrapnel wounds die, their bodies shutting down because of the trauma of being wounded. I’ve also seen guys with both of their legs torn off and joking with the medics trying to keep them alive. Everyone’s different.”

  “You haven’t died of shock,” Patience said. “You are missing most of an ear, Shane. And a pair of fingers. You have seen more than a little, I think.”

  Shane nodded. “You’re right. But, like I said, everyone’s different.”

  A groan from Danny interrupted Patience, and Shane stood up and looked down at the young man.

  Danny’s eyelids opened, his eyes darted around, pupils dilated. It took him a few seconds to focus, but when he did, he looked at Shane.

  “Oh hell,” Danny croaked.

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” Danny whispered. “I was really hoping it had all been a dream.”

  “Sorry,” Shane said. “No luck there.”

  “Figures,” Danny muttered, groaning. He turned his head towards the doorway and asked, “Is that a dead girl?”

  “Yup,” Shane answered.

  Danny closed his eyes and said, “I would really like this to be a bad dream.”

  “You and me both, kid,” Shane said. “You want some water, maybe something to eat?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “You should,” Shane said.

  “I know,” Danny said w
ithout opening his eyes. “I’m just not hungry. Not thirsty. I want to go to sleep and wake up at home.”

  “Not going to happen if you keep moaning and pretending we’re not here,” Shane snapped.

  “I don’t believe it is going to happen,” Patience said. “Broken Nose is not pleased.”

  “I don’t care if he’s happy or sad, or anything else,” Shane said. “Danny, open your eyes.”

  Danny kept them closed.

  “Danny,” Shane said. “If you don’t open your eyes, I’m going to slap you until you do.”

  The young man’s eyes opened.

  “Thank you,” Shane said. “You’re going to need to eat because we’re going to need to get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t.” Danny’s voice was thick with bitterness. “My truck’s destroyed. Clark’s van is worthless, and if that’s your car on the other side of the cabin, there’s no way it’s going to make it through two feet of snow.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about them,” Shane said. “I was thinking about the snowmobile.”

  “A snowmobile?” Hope tinged Danny’s voice. He turned his face towards Shane. “There’s a snowmobile out there?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said.

  “How?” Danny asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

  Shane pointed at the body of the teen, the dead boy’s head hanging to the right.

  “Oh God,” Danny whispered. “That’s Matt Rushford. What happened to him?”

  “Broken Nose,” Shane informed him. “The ghost who grabbed you.”

  “What did he do to him?” Danny asked. “I can’t see any marks.”

  “Seems to have died from shock,” Shane answered. He looked away from the teen’s corpse.

  “Broken Nose is looking forward to killing you,” Patience said, addressing Danny. “He is extremely upset about you leaving the house.”

  Danny’s complexion went waxen. His voice was hushed when he spoke.

  “I’ve seen you,” Danny said. “In there. When he was torturing me.”

  Patience smiled a broad, happy expression. “I’m pleased you noticed, Daniel. The other man only saw me before Broken Nose took him. And a few times whilst being tested.”