by Ron Ripley
“Why the distrust of old Jack?” the ghost said, a pained note in his voice. “I’ve not led you astray, now have I? No, not Jack. Did I not bring you to Shane, Frank? And Shane, did I not bring Frank to you?”
Shane didn’t answer the question. “Where did you slip away to, Jack?”
"Ahead and to the west, then back to the east, a bit to the north," Jack said, grinning. "All points of the compass did Jack cover, to make sure no trouble would be found."
"What did you find?" Frank asked, easing the duffel bag to the snow covered forest floor.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” Jack said. “Little and less. No sign of a boy. No sign of a savage. Nay, nary a one.”
“No?” Shane asked, thinking, You’re a terrible liar, Jack. I can see in your dead eyes something happened.
Frank unzipped the bag with one hand and rummaged around inside. His shotgun rested on one knee and continued to point towards Jack.
“No, no. All Jack saw was the glory of God’s creation,” he said, offering up an attempt at a winning, confident smile.
The air grew a trifle colder. Shane’s breath billowed a little more as it left his mouth.
“Oh, Jack,” Shane whispered, “payback is a terrible thing.”
The dead man's smile faltered, and then he howled as Frank thrust the gold button into the bag of rock salt. Jack vanished, and from either side of the evergreen, a couple of Indians appeared.
There was no posturing, no screaming, no howls to frighten Shane or Frank. The dead men charged forward, tomahawks ready.
Yet they were men of an earlier time. Creatures from a period when muskets were inaccurate at best. They were confident, and wrongly so. The sound of the shotguns being fired ripped through the air.
As the rock salt passed through the ghosts at a thousand feet per second, the dead men vanished. The shots knocked loose snow from the evergreen, and as it fell to the ground, Shane and Frank reloaded their shotguns in stoic silence.
“Have I mentioned,” Shane said, “that I don’t trust Jack?”
“You may have,” Frank said, picking the duffel bag back up and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’ll talk about this later, after we find the boy.”
“Definitely,” Shane agreed. “And I’ll have to have a chat with Carl when we get home. See who else is hidden in Berkley Street.”
Frank nodded. “Guess that would be a pretty good idea.”
“You think?” Shane asked, sighing. “Like I didn’t have enough trouble with the damned dead I knew about.”
With Jack imprisoned in the bag of salt, Shane saw a glimpse of an open space ahead and to the right, and took the lead.
Frank followed close beside him, and the men readied themselves to fight off more of the dead.
Chapter 49: Not the Only One Alive
The shots were muffled, but they were undeniably shots.
For a moment, Rowan paused, head tilted as he listened. No further shots came, and for a second he worried that he had heard nothing more than a couple of poachers looking for some venison.
No, Rowan thought, shaking his head and continuing on. That’s Shane. And there’s someone else with him.
Rowan had been following the trail left by Shane, and whomever had driven the car parked near the entrance to Preston Road. The men had a decent pace going. Rowan could tell by the length of their strides in the deep snow.
He wondered if they had fired at ghosts, and if so, how did they manage to keep the dead at bay when firearms didn’t work.
Think, Rowan, scolded himself. And so he did.
The gunshots had been on top of one another, almost indistinguishable. But they had been separate, and they had also been from shotguns. Shotgun shells could be loaded with either solid lead slugs or pellets of varying sizes.
Rowan also knew a few old timers who kept shotgun shells loaded with rock salt to keep raccoons and skunks out of the trash.
If a line of salt can keep one out, Rowan thought, what can it do when it's shot through them.
He looked at the iron in his hand and thought he might know what the rock salt was capable of.
I need a shotgun, Rowan thought and continued on through the snow. He moved as fast as he dared. Not only were the dead out and about, but there were two men armed with shotguns. And while getting hit with rock salt wouldn't kill him, Rowan suspected it would be extremely unpleasant.
His reflecting on the discomfort of rock salt came close to being fatal.
Rowan ducked to avoid a snow-laden branch, and a tomahawk slashed through the air where his head had so recently occupied. The attack surprised him, and Rowan fell, letting go of the iron and losing it in the snow.
A scream was torn from his throat as a sharp pain exploded in his lower back. He tried to scramble away, but he found his legs were unresponsive. Terrified, Rowan dug his hands into the deep snow, sought some sort of purchase, and tried to drag himself forward, away from his invisible attacker.
Keeping his head up, Rowan looked for the iron blade, but it had vanished. From his low vantage, he couldn’t see where the weapon had fallen, and then a man stepped into his field of vision.
The stranger was a Native American, not the same ghost as the one he had defeated on Preston Road, but from the same tribe. The man carried a war club, the polished wood caught Rowan’s eye and held his attention. Rowan gasped as a bitterly cold hand grabbed him by the back of the neck. Beneath the dead man's grasp, Rowan felt a deep chill penetrate his flesh.
The ghost in front of him said something in a language Rowan didn’t understand.
A chuckle was the dark spirit's response, and Rowan felt himself pulled up, his legs hanging loose like a rag doll.
The warclub-wielding ghost took a step forward, the upper half of his face painted black. He grinned as he looked at Rowan. After a moment, he looked past Rowan, spoke again, and the one holding up Rowan replied.
The ghost in front of Rowan laughed, nodding his agreement. He raised his weapon up until the edge of it grazed Rowan’s chin. Rowan quivered, the pain of the touch sucked the air out of his lungs.
The ghost took the warclub down, asked a question, and the ghost behind Rowan replied with a single word.
Rowan watched as the dead man raised the warclub up, and then brought it crashing down.
Chapter 50: With Doreen
Doreen lay on a bed, her arms secured by soft, yet strong restraints to the safety rails.
Allen Higgins took a chair, moved it closer to her, and sat down. He set his cap on his knee, pulled his gloves off, and looked at the woman. Her head lolled to one side, and her eyelids were open a fraction of an inch. Allen could see the whites of her eyes and her breathing was slow, ragged.
He couldn’t imagine her pain at the loss of her sons.
“Doreen,” Allen said, his voice low and gentle. The doctor on duty had told him there was a chance she might not be able to respond. Allen pitched his voice a little deeper, a shade louder. “Doreen.”
Her eyelids twitched, flickered, and then the left eyelid opened. Her eye spun around, jerked from left to right, up and down and back again before it fixated on Allen.
“Doreen,” Allen said. “I’m Captain Higgins. I’m investigating the disappearance of your boys.”
“My boys.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Allen leaned forward. “Can you tell me where you think they may have gone?”
She shook her head, the slightest of movements.
“Do you know anything that could help me? Could you tell me anything, anything at all?” Allen asked.
“There was a girl,” Doreen whispered. “On the ice. She said Matt was dead. She was taking Mark. There was a girl.”
“A girl?” Allen asked. “Like a teenager?”
“No,” Doreen whispered. “A little girl. Grade school. Thin. Terribly thin. She had a blanket on.”
Allen straightened up.
“You saw her?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else see her?” Allen asked.
“Rowan,” she murmured. “Rowan saw her.”
“Alright,” Allen said. He reached out, patted her on the leg and added, “We’re going to find your boys, Doreen. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Her only response was to close her eyes. A moment later, the sound of her troubled breathing filled the room. Allen sat by her side for several minutes, thinking. Finally, he stood, sighed and put on his cap. Digging out his phone, Allen walked to the bathroom in her room and entered it. He closed the door over and dialed a number he had memorized decades earlier.
The call rang twice before it was answered.
“Yes?” a woman asked.
“It’s Allen,” he said. “Patience is out and about.”
“Damage?” she inquired.
“At least one boy. Possibly two,” Allen answered. “An old man.”
“Containable?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
“Is this merely a courtesy call?” she asked, a note of annoyance entering her voice.
“For now,” Allen said, keeping his own tone calm and patient. “I may have to conduct an investigation.”
The woman hesitated, then said, “You’ll require a scapegoat.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Allen could hear her tapping her fingers on something. “Alright. I will make the necessary arrangements. Inform me immediately when the scapegoat is to be delivered.”
“Yes ma’am,” Allen replied.
She ended the call, and Allen searched his contacts for Phil Smith's number. When he found it, he called the man.
“Allen,” Phil said, answering after the first ring. “What’s the situation?”
“Lake Nutaq,” Allen stated.
“Damn,” Phil said, sighing. “I was hoping it wasn’t. What’ve you got?”
Allen told him.
“Alright, alright,” Phil muttered. “I’ll meet you there. Half an hour?”
“Make it an hour,” Allen said. “I’ve got to make sure the boys are looking on the other side of the lake, and not Preston Road.”
Phil snorted. “Yeah. Might be a little difficult to explain if Broken Nose started killing cops.”
“You think?” Allen questioned. “Anyway, one hour. Meet you there.”
He ended the call and looked at himself in the mirror. Allen could see the dark circles around his eyes, the stubble coming in.
You’ve got a long way to go tonight, Allen told himself. And you’ll have to talk to Rowan eventually. Be better if he’s the one to tell Doreen her boys are dead.
With a sigh, Allen left the bathroom and went to prepare for Preston Road.
Chapter 51: On the Edge of Lake Nutaq
When Shane and Frank came out of the tree line, they could look over the frozen expanse of Lake Nutaq. In the distance, they could see houses scattered about on the far shore. Smoke from woodstoves drifted up from fieldstone or brick chimneys. The snow covered landscape and the old homes were a perfect snapshot of the classic New England image of winter.
“There are no houses here,” Frank observed.
Shane looked around and realized his friend was right.
There were no buildings at all on their side of Lake Nutaq. Trees grew undisturbed, reaching up to the sky. Yet they didn't grow close to the shore. A wide expanse of land, at least a hundred yards, stretched from the shore to the first of the trees. Between the frozen water and the snow-laden evergreens were small mounds, averaging six or seven feet in height and equal in diameter.
“What are those?” Frank asked, a wary tone in his words.
Shane frowned, a memory picking at the back of his mind.
“I know what they are,” Shane muttered, taking a step forward. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”
He looked around, counting. There were at least fifty, perhaps more tucked behind the larger ones.
“Oh hell,” Shane said, straightening up. “I think we found what we were looking for.”
“What? Broken Nose’s bones?” Frank asked.
Shane nodded. “Yeah. This is how the local Native American’s buried their dead. Mounds. Graves beneath frameworks of branches. Almost like pyramids.”
“Damn,” Frank muttered. “Which one is he in?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I don’t even know how to figure it out. And where’s the boy, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t know,” Frank answered, “but we need to figure it out soon. We’re running out of daylight, and it’s going to get real cold, real fast.”
Shane nodded. He walked to the closest mound, brushed some of the snow off, and looked at the dry and brittle grass beneath it. Frowning, he grabbed a handful of the dead vegetation and gave it a tug.
He grunted in surprise as a chunk of dirt the size of his fist came free. Shane threw it down and saw he had made a hole into the mound. He glanced at Frank and saw he had dug a small flashlight out of the duffel bag. Shane took it with a nod of thanks, turned it on and shined the light into the mound.
Ancient branches, interwoven to form a thick framework, could be seen, as could a woven mat partially covered with dirt. But there was no boy in the burial chamber. Nothing at all.
Shane shook his head and stepped away from the mound.
Together they moved on to the next one and were greeted by the ghost of a Native American woman.
She was old, her face wrinkled, and her eyes intense. Her clothing was of fine deerskin, beaded and decorated. She was small, well below five feet, and she looked up at them with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.
“Who are you?” she asked in her own tongue, which was similar to the one Broken Nose had spoken.
"Strangers," Shane answered. She did not seem surprised by his reply or the fact that he was talking her language.
“Why are you here, among the dead?” she inquired.
“We’re seeking a boy, a living boy,” Shane replied. “He’s been taken here against his will. I seek to return him to his family.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There is only one here who would take a member of the living, and he is down there.”
The old woman gestured towards the end of the mounds.
“You had best beware,” she added. “He is not overly fond of the living. Or even the dead. I must not show you the way. He would do terrible things to me.”
Shane inclined his head, saying, “Thank you. I would not ask you to endanger yourself.”
She smiled and walked away from them.
“What’d she say?” Frank asked.
Shane told him, and Frank nodded. "Alright. Guess we're going to the end."
“Yup,” Shane said. He adjusted his grip on his shotgun. “Let’s hope it’s easy.”
“Hope for the best,” Frank said, “prepare for the worst.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed.
Together they moved through the mounds towards those at the end, and Shane wondered how soon Broken Nose would realize they were there.
Chapter 52: With Phil at Preston Road
Allen had known Phil for thirty years, the two of them introduced by the woman. He knew little about the man other than the fact that he, like Allen, had been paid to protect the sanctity of Broken Nose. And for three decades, they had done just that. Bodies had been disappeared, tracks erased. Cars disposed of.
In the dark hours of the night, when Allen lay awake in his bed, he thought about Lake Nutaq. He remembered when they had found his brother’s body, and what it had looked like. It was during those times of reminiscing when the question of ‘why’ arose.
Why was Allen helping to protect the secret of the thing that had killed his brother?
Why was Allen helping the Watchers, a group that condoned and hid murder in his small town?
And the answer was simple.
Blackmail.
Allen liked expensive food, expensive hotels, and expensive women. He had gotten himself
deep into debt with some individuals who liked to run meth and coke through his town on their way to Canada.
Somehow, the Watchers had found out, and they had bought his debt and blackmailed him. They held, and continued to hold, the threat of prison above his head.
It wasn’t all threats though. They paid him a significant amount of money for his work, to keep him malleable.
And while he despised the Watchers, Allen consoled himself with the thought that him being in prison wouldn’t bring his brother back.
That rationalization allowed him to carry out the duties the Watchers required of him.
The one aspect of his extra-curricular activities Allen didn’t enjoy was having to work with Phil.
What Phil did for a living, Allen didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. The man was in excellent shape, he was always clean-shaven, and his clothes were perfectly tailored. Even his winter attire was expensive and well fitting. Phil’s smile was one of even, white teeth. His brown eyes lacked any sort of warmth, and his nose had the hooked shape of a beak.
Allen knew instinctively that Phil was dangerous. It was a feeling, deep in his gut and from decades of police work that told him Phil was a psychopath.
They parked their vehicles at the entrance to Preston Road, and Allen was angry. There were two other cars on the road. One he didn’t recognize, the other belonged to Rowan.
“What’s wrong?” Phil asked, pulling his hat down to cover his ears.
Allen pointed to Rowan’s car. “Belongs to one of my cops.”
“Oh hell,” Phil said, frowning. “I’m sorry.”
Allen didn’t know if the man was sincere, but he appreciated the statement nonetheless. “Thanks.”
“What do you want to do?” Phil asked, putting his hands in his pockets.
Allen knew that the wrong answer would mean a bullet in the head.
“We’ll put him down if we have to,” Allen said. “I like Rowan, but his life isn’t worth mine.”
Phil nodded and took his hands out of his pockets. “Lead on, Captain.”
Allen snorted and took the lead. He followed a well-trodden path through the snow. When they reached the main stretch of Preston Road and saw the situation, Phil let out a low whistle.