by Ron Ripley
It was not done out of compassion, but a need to know what had gone wrong.
For several minutes, she sat there, looking at the evidence before her. Gabby’s sleeve and most of the upper portion of the DHL uniform had been cut away by the doctor. The remainder of the yellow clothes were stained and spotted with blood. Gabby’s own as far as Clair could surmise.
“Gabby,” Clair said.
The woman didn’t respond.
Clair repeated her name, and Gabby continued to ignore her.
Frowning, Clair switched her small, clutch purse from her left hand to her right, and then reached out. With a large amount of force, she pushed her thumb down onto the freshly stitched wound.
Gabby inhaled sharply and with obvious pain, sitting up and letting out a string of curses. Her head snapped towards Clair, and pure hatred blazed in her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“Pay attention,” Clair said in a grim voice, “or I will gut you here and leave you to bleed out. Do you understand?”
Quivering with rage, Gabby nodded.
“Excellent,” Clair said as Gabby returned to her position on the bed. “Now, I want you to tell me what happened.”
Gabby did so. Her sentences were short, brutal, and exactly to the point. The story ran along a familiar theme, that of Shane and Frank destroying whomever the Watchers sent out for them.
"That's not all," Gabby said, and for the first time, Clair heard the emotion in the younger woman's voice.
“What else?” Clair asked.
“David,” Gabby answered.
Clair frowned. “Who the hell is David?”
Gabby shook her head. “Never knew his last name. Jenna and I went with him to Borgin’s. He was the old caretaker, the one who dealt with Borgin all the time. We were there as David’s replacements, or that’s what Harlan told him. We were supposed to hand David over to Borgin alive, and we did. Evidently, the guy was tougher than anyone thought. He made it out."
“Well, what about him?” Clair asked.
“I saw him pulling into the driveway of Shane’s house,” Gabby hissed. “He was driving that detective, Marie Lafontaine's car. Which means he’s probably been hiding at her place.”
Clair nodded, understanding what Gabby was implying. “You think he killed your sister?”
Gabby nodded. “I’m going back for him. Soon as I can get my hands on a weapon.”
Clair stood up. “I wish you the best of luck on that. I doubt the police will let you get anywhere near him.”
Gabby's head snapped over, and she glared at Clair.
“The shooting is all over the New England news channels,” Clair explained. “And national as well. Frank’s the new face of the NRA as far as gun proponents are concerned. It’s not often a half-naked man defends himself against seven assailants. Even if he is former Special Forces.”
“They’re taking his word on it?” Gabby snarled. “We can’t spin this?”
“Of course they’re taking his word on it!” Clair snapped. “After Harlan’s arsonist blew up one house and then died at Shane’s, people became paranoid. Home security systems were installed. Did you notice the neighborhood as you went through it? That’s old New England money in those houses. You and the others were supposed to keep it clean. Contained to the confines of the house. Instead, your images were captured on a dozen different security cameras.”
Clair shook her head angrily. “One of them even shows all of you entering the house. Someone leaked the footage to New England Cable News. You’ll be recognized anywhere you go. They’ve got still shots of you going into and coming out of 125 Berkley Street, Gabby. The fallout on this will be tremendous, and, if we’re both very, very lucky, we won’t lose our heads because of it. Or end up meeting the One before everything is in place.”
Clair crossed her arms over her chest and continued. “Because of this, we’ve lost the DHL van. It’s a total loss. We’ve got a shop chopping it, as we speak. The corpses left behind will be identified, their jobs and lives investigated. With all of our financial resources focused on the One, we won’t be able to pay off the necessary forensic technicians at the New Hampshire lab. Or fund any hackers to go in and change certain files. In addition to that, we lost four possessed items. Four of them. They are all now under the lock and key of the Nashua Police Force.”
“There has to be a way I can still get at David,” Gabby said.
Clair sighed. "There is, of course. Before I tell you how, I need to know if you've left out any other information regarding the event."
"Nothing," Gabby said bitterly. "There's nothing else to tell. We went in, and Frank butchered us."
“You’re certain of that?” Clair asked.
“Yes,” Gabby said.
“Excellent. Well, let’s see,” Clair said, opening her clutch. “I have some cash and a weapon in here for you.”
Gabby’s eyes widened with grim pleasure as she sat up.
“Now,” Clair said, holding up the small, black .22 caliber revolver. “it’s not a large weapon, but it will get the job done. Don’t you agree?”
Gabby nodded, extending her hand for the pistol.
Clair smiled and shot the woman twice through the left eye.
The orb exploded, spraying blood out as Gabby went tumbling over the side. She struck the floor with a hard, wet smack. Clair walked around and put the other four bullets into the back of Gabby’s skull, just to be certain.
“For your failure,” Clair said in a low voice to the corpse. “And your lack of foresight.”
The door to the operating room opened, and the doctor came in. He looked neither surprised nor concerned. Which was why the Watchers paid him so well.
“You’ll dispose of it?” Clair asked, putting the pistol away.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “I’ll dig out the bullets as well.”
“Excellent,” Clair said. “You’ll find a little more in your retainer at the end of the month.”
He gave her a short bow and turned to his work as she left the room.
By the time Clair reached the end of the hallway, she heard the dull whine of a bone saw start up. She was smiling by the time she left the private operating room.
Chapter 41: In the Hospital
Frank had spent a lot of time in hospitals through his life.
He had found that he didn’t enjoy hospitals, and this particular time was no exception.
Frank had awoken in the hospital, hours after the incident on Berkley Street. He had no memory of anything after the arrival of the police, so he could only assume he had passed out. Frank was certain it was from a lack of sleep, food, water, and from the injuries sustained with the release of Lisbeth.
Earlier, when a nurse had come into the room, Frank had seen that he wasn’t alone. A uniformed police officer was stationed outside of his door. He was surprised that the police hadn’t handcuffed him to the bed, but he didn’t think it was unreasonable that they might do so in the near future.
He had shot seven people in the house. One of whom had been the twin, and he didn’t know if she was among the dead or not.
An anxious fear settled into his stomach as he thought about her on the loose. Frank doubted she would return for him, but there was always the possibility. And it wouldn't be hard for her to figure out which of Nashua's two hospitals he was in. With that in mind, he wondered how he could get himself a weapon. Granted, there was an armed officer at the door, but Frank had a suspicion that the twin would be the resourceful type. A police presence wouldn’t prove difficult for her to overcome.
Frank was not in a situation that he felt was best for his personal well-being.
With a grimace, he adjusted himself on the bed and read the subtitles on the news program he had on the television. The flat-screen unit was mounted on a ceiling bracket which allowed him to look but not touch.
He didn’t know what was worse, having only a few channels to choose from, or the fact that all of the subtitles were a good thirty to
forty seconds behind what the people were saying. Frank found himself trying to read the lips of the newscasters and failing.
Finally, he gave up on the television, took up the remote attached to his bed and turned the unit off.
A moment later the door to the room opened, and an older, male doctor walked in with a young woman dressed in nurse's scrubs. The woman wore the green work uniform well, and her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat bun on the back of her head. Her face was soft, with gentle lines, and her eyes a chestnut color. She smiled at him, and Frank felt himself return it.
The doctor was shorter than the nurse and in need of a shave as Frank’s drill sergeants would have said. Frank watched the man run a thick-fingered hand through his gray hair and then put a pair of bifocals on.
The doctor spoke, and the young woman’s hands moved.
Frank slumped back into his bed. Looked at them both and said, “You need a writing pad.”
Both the doctor and the nurse looked at him in confusion.
"I wasn't deaf yesterday morning," Frank said. "But I am today. You need to get a writing pad, so I know what the hell you're saying. I don't know sign language."
The doctor turned to the nurse, spoke to her, and the young woman nodded, hurrying away. She returned less than a minute later with a notepad attached to a clipboard. The doctor took it from her with a nod of thanks, pulled a pen from a pocket, and wrote something down on the paper. He held it up so Frank could read it.
“What happened yesterday?” was the question.
“I got hurt,” Frank replied.
The doctor frowned and wrote the next question.
“How?”
“That’s not important,” Frank said.
“It is. I need you to tell me how you lost your hearing, and how you came to be covered in lacerations,” the doctor wrote.
“And I told you,” Franks snapped, “that it’s not important. I want to go home. Sooner rather than later. So, if you could, I can really use your help calling for a ride.”
The doctor and the nurse looked at each other before the doctor wrote a longer response.
“You can’t go home. You can’t leave here. The police are going to question you about the incident at your house. Then they’re going to decide whether you get released or remanded into custody for a clinical evaluation.”
Frank forced himself to keep his temper in check as he asked, “What type of clinical evaluation?”
The nurse's cheeks reddened, but the doctor's expression was bland as he wrote the answer down and then showed it to Frank. “You were saying some rather strange things, Mr. Benedict. The hospital wants to make certain that you are both physically and mentally at your best when you leave us. The clinical examination will be conducted by our on-staff psychologist.”
Frank shook his head. “No. I’d rather not.”
The nurse looked down at the floor while the doctor frowned and jotted down a quick reply.
“Mr. Benedict,” the note said. “you don’t have a choice.”
Too stunned to respond, Frank shook his head while the doctor wrote an additional note.
“Of course, I have a choice,” Frank managed to say.
The doctor shook his head and wrote, "We will be holding you for a seventy-two-hour evaluation."
“No,” Frank said. “Just no.”
“This is for your own safety as well as for others, Mr. Benedict. I’m sorry.”
And with that, the doctor and the nurse left the room, closing the door behind them. Frank remained upright on the bed, struggling to comprehend what was happening.
Then, with disturbing clarity, he understood one important fact.
He wouldn’t be able to help Shane. The man was on his own.
Chapter 42: At the Holiday Inn
Marie lay asleep on the bed of their hotel room. David sat in a chair, his cellphone on the table behind him, a new laptop beside that. He was exhausted. It had taken witness statements from most of the residents on Berkley Street, as well as some private home security footage, to convince the police he hadn’t been part of the shooting. In addition to that, he still hadn’t been able to get in touch with Shirley. His concern for her grew as more time passed.
Once the Watchers understood he was alive, they would begin to search for any sort of handle they could get on him. It was how they operated. Only a little work would be required to discover the connection between himself and Shirley, and then she would be used as leverage on him. A way to get him to come in.
And he would have to.
Shirley couldn’t be allowed to suffer because of him.
He had wanted to stay at Shane’s house to speak with the man, but the police hadn’t allowed that. They were processing the entire home as a crime scene, and they were actively searching for Shane. No one in the Nashua Police Department seemed to believe that Frank, by himself, could have done the damage he had.
David had been fortunate in the fact that he had been with Marie. If she hadn’t been in her own car, in the driveway, with her weapon, David was confident he would have been arrested as well. Or at least brought down to the police station for questioning.
That would have been unfortunate, especially since his fingerprints were undoubtedly linked to several unsolved murders and disappearances.
He and Marie had followed the ambulance with Frank to St. Joseph’s Hospital. A police guard on the man’s hospital room had refused them entry.
David’s level of frustration had been on the rise ever since.
He had sent Shane several texts. A pair from his own phone and two more from Marie’s.
The man hadn’t responded to any of them.
In the end, fearful of a return of the Watchers to Marie’s apartment, David had rented a hotel room. They had spent the better part of the morning in it, wondering what was going on, until Marie had taken her medication and fallen asleep.
David glanced at his phone and his email, and when he saw that neither Shirley nor Shane had responded, he sank back into the chair with a grunt of disgust.
He hated the fact that neither of them had replied to him. David hated it even more that they were losing time. The longer they waited to hit the Watchers, the better chance the organization had of regaining its footing. They would establish themselves with the One, and once a bargain was struck, it would be difficult as hell to break.
David, Shane, and Frank had done some damage to the Watchers, but if they don't keep the pressure up then it would be pointless. The organization hadn’t survived and thrived for decades because of a refusal to act when necessary.
David sighed, pushed the thoughts out of his mind, and tried to think of a way to distract himself.
Finally, he shook his head and picked up the remote control of the television. He turned it on and lowered the volume, not wishing to disturb Marie. While her medication had a tendency to make her sleep, it was by no means guaranteed that she would remain in that state. And he had made the mistake of waking her up once, and his jaw had hurt for the rest of that weekend.
For a few minutes, he flipped through the channels until he found a news network. David closed his eyes and listened to the weather report and then the sports recap. After that, a man, with far too much enjoyment, spoke about several other crimes.
“And there’s still no information on who may have killed Shirley Coleman, the young woman discovered in Jamaica Plains yesterday morning,” the newscaster stated.
David's eyes snapped open, and he sat up, staring at the screen.
A picture of Shirley smiling, taken at her parents’ house the Christmas before last, was shown on the screen.
“As we reported yesterday,” the newscaster continued. “Ms. Coleman was found yesterday with a single gunshot wound to the back of the head, killed execution style. Police are asking for any help with her murder. Her employer, an internet security company, has offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of her kil
ler.”
David shut the television off, the sight of his goddaughter unbearable.
His shoulders shook, and tears stung his eyes.
For the first time in decades, David cried.
Chapter 43: On the Village Green
Shane sat on a park bench in Amherst’s Village Green. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. The clock on the Congregationalist Church struck four in the afternoon, and a warm breeze curled around him, whisking the cigarette smoke away.
His back ached, and his eyes felt like a pair of pitted steel orbs as they moved in their sockets.
He had spent hours researching Samson. First in the thinly lit archives of Amherst Town Hall, and then far longer in the Amherst library. He had turned up nothing in regards to the family. Or even that particular parcel of land.
It was though all history concerning the family had been stripped out of Amherst’s history.
And Shane could understand that too.
He only wanted a way to find the cemetery. Shane didn’t care about the delicate sensibilities of an old New England town. They could keep their skeletons hidden from the rest of the world so long as they gave him a peek at them.
But they weren’t going to.
Shane doubted a dozen people in the town even knew anything about what happened with Samson.
He had one more avenue of research, and that was through the land deeds given out to men like Samson’s father. Whether the man’s name would be found in the papers wasn’t a concern. The absence of a name, as much as the presence of one, would help Shane locate the plot buried in the thousands of woodland acres.
And with a location, Shane could begin to hunt the dead boy down and finish him.
That research meant another two hours in the Amherst library, which in turn would require Shane to finish his cigarette and walk quickly back. The library closed at 8:30 and he still needed to convince a stubborn reference librarian to allow him to even see the copies of the original deeds.
A flash of motion caught his eye and Shane looked up.
The Amherst Police had driven by him four times in the past forty-five minutes. Part of him wanted to get up and go find where the One was. Another childish aspect thoroughly enjoyed the concern he had caused the small town police force.