Berkley Street 09 Amherst Burial Ground

by Ron Ripley

  It wasn’t the license, of that David had no doubt.

  No, the problem lay with Shane’s house.

  The police would have processed the scene. All of the fingerprints would have been lifted and sent for analysis. With Shane’s house being the site of a multiple homicide, they would have rushed the prints out. Some of them would have come back with hits.

  All of the ones brought in and left dead on the hall floor would have kicked back names and criminal histories. Shane and Frank’s prints would have returned information that concerned their military background. Marie’s prints would have confirmed that she had, in the recent past, been in the house as well.

  And then there would be David’s prints.

  The first name would come back properly, but not the family name. Or the birth date, or his current residence. A photograph and a physical description would have been sent along.

  The investigators working the crime scene at Shane’s house would have realized that David matched the description, even if his information didn’t.

  The police didn’t look at information when it came to murder, and David had a couple of murders they could tie him to.

  He knew the two detectives were waiting for an arrest warrant to be written out against him. One of them would get a call or a text, get up, excuse himself, and leave the room. Within a few minutes, the man would return, and there would be several officers with him.

  And nothing could be done about it.

  David ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his hands off on the towel and left the bathroom. Marie smiled at him, and he returned it. He walked over to the dresser, took a bottle of water from the top of it and had a drink.

  As he set it down, Phil's phone chimed, and David glanced over at him.

  Phil took the phone out, chuckled and said, “It’s my mom. I’ve got to give her a call.”

  “Sure,” Richard said, “tell her I said hello.”

  The banter was good, but David heard the tension beneath it.

  Phil stood up to leave, and David attacked.

  He launched himself at the younger man and took him by surprise. As Phil reached for his pistol, David punched him in the shoulder, numbing the entire arm. David yanked the semi-automatic out of the holster and grabbed Phil, throwing him out of the way.

  The weapon in David’s hand was a police issued Glock 9 mm. He chambered a round as he twisted towards Richard. The older detective was slow to get to his feet, trying to pull his pistol at the same time.

  But David was fast, and he was a professional killer.

  David squeezed off two rounds that hammered into Richard’s chest. Deep red splotches blossomed on his white shirt over the left breast as the shell casings rattled on the floor. David spun on his heel, saw Phil on his feet and fired twice more, dropping the young detective with the same ease as he had the older.

  David lowered the pistol, wondered how long he and Marie had until the first uniformed police showed up, and gasped.

  A terrible blow had struck him in the back.

  Then two more, and then a fourth, which dropped him to his knees. The pistol fell from his fingers. Its thunk onto the carpeted floor was dull and lifeless.

  A fifth round was fired, and David tumbled forward. He landed on several still hot casings, his face against Phil's calf.

  It was then that David heard Marie. She was chanting in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  As darkness devoured his vision, David wondered if she was sorry for having shot him, or for him having shot them.

  David died with the question unanswered.

  Chapter 51: A History of Death

  The ghost of the old woman drifted in and out of the bathroom. At times, Shane heard her in the floor above. Occasionally he heard her in the kitchen, the faint scent of coffee reaching his nose.

  His stomach rumbled, a bleak reminder of him having not eaten since the morning. He rummaged through the kitchen and found a single, solitary can of baked beans among a collection of small, empty liquor bottles. There was an empty pack of cigarettes and a tattered blanket.

  Someone had squatted at the house, and recently, Shane realized as he turned the can over and read the expiration date. The beans were good for another month.

  Well, he thought, I’ve eaten worse.

  When the dead woman returned again, Shane had finished the beans and he spoke to her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  For a heartbeat, she solidified enough for him to see her, but then it was gone as she answered, "Amelia Pine."

  “Amelia, do you mind if I ask you some questions about the neighborhood here?” he asked.

  “No,” Amelia said, “I don’t mind.”

  Shane cleared his throat, tried to think of the most delicate way he could put the question, and failed. With a sigh, he asked, "Were there any other people who disappeared before your son."

  “Yes,” she whispered, the temperature in the room racing to the bottom of the thermostat and set Shane’s teeth to chattering.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “They were just rumors,” she said in the same low voice. “We didn’t pay any mind to them. Who would? The woods are large. People get lost. It is sadness, but it is also a truth. When we moved in, one of the older folk, Jonathan Engberg, came to our house to warn us of the boy in the woods. We laughed it off until he told us that his wife and daughter had both succumbed to the boy in the woods.”

  Amelia sighed. "After that visit, we assumed he had been devastated by grief. We gave him our pity, silently, and wished him the best aloud.”

  “Did Engberg live nearby?” Shane asked.

  "Yes. Several houses up. When he passed, it was a terrible day. We all went to his funeral, and they placed him in the ground between his wife and daughter. They had been declared dead, and the bodies had never been found. So instead of waiting for resurrection with his loved ones, Jonathan was alone." She went silent, and Shane waited several minutes before he attempted to talk.

  Her choked sob cut him off as she continued. “Herman left us a week later. And never returned.”

  Shane, unable to comfort the woman, refrained from speaking until she was done. When he was positive she wouldn't break into tears again, he asked, "Are there more ghosts on this street?"

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Lots of them. Whoever lost a loved one or a friend to the boy remained here.”

  “Shane,” a voice whispered in his ear, causing him to jump. Twisting around, he caught sight of Courtney and slumped back down. “Scared the hell out of me, Courtney.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied with sincerity. “You’re on an old street. Only the dead are here now. There are Jersey barriers at either end of the end of the street.”

  “Why the hell would a street be closed off?” Shane wondered out loud.

  “I don’t know,” Courtney said. “But there’s more.”

  Shane groaned as he asked, “What now?”

  “Local and state police units have shown up,” Courtney said. “They’ve got the entire area cordoned off. Only one group is allowed to enter and exit. No one knows who they are, but they’re armed and I know several of them were talking about you. I heard them.”

  “Alright,” Shane said, rubbing at the back of his head.

  “Shane,” Courtney said hesitantly.

  He looked at her. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been feeling different,” she said in a soft voice.

  His heart skipped a beat and he moistened his lips before he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t feel as bad as I did before,” Courtney said, giving him a small smile. “It doesn’t feel like I’m going crazy.”

  Shane relaxed and grinned at her. “Good. I thought you were going to tell me that you were feeling worse.”

  Courtney shook her head.

  “Good,” Shane said, nodding. “That
’s really good.”

  They were silent for several minutes before Shane said, “I need to do something.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out his cellphone and remembered with a frown that there was no power to it.

  “Damn it,” he grumbled, stuffing the phone back in his pocket. “Okay. No phone calls.”

  He looked at Courtney. “Will you follow me into the houses?”

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Why would you need to?”

  “According to Amelia, they’re here still because they lost people to Samson,” Shane replied. “I’m hoping some of them might be willing to seek a little revenge on my distant relative.”

  Courtney nodded. “Okay. Do you want to do it now?”

  He shook his head. Shane was exhausted and he hadn’t slept well in days. A quick rest, even one that was only twenty or thirty minutes in length, would help him remain focused. It was a trick he had learned in the Marines, one that had helped him survive long deployments and short, brutal firefights.

  "In a little bit. I need at least a few minutes of rest, or I'll never make it," Shane explained to her.

  “As much as you need,” she said. “I’ll watch over you.”

  With a tired nod, Shane slumped down, closed his eyes and tried for at least twenty minutes of sleep.

  Chapter 52: A Harsh and Terrible World

  Marie had been moved into an empty room next to the one she and David had shared in the hotel. Someone had wrapped a blanket around her, and someone else had brought her water.

  Lieutenant Wayne Hammett came into the room and sat down beside her at the table.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, care and concern evident on his broad face.

  “Terrible,” she replied.

  Wayne nodded.

  Marie glanced at the closed door, the one that concealed the hallway from her, but didn’t block the sounds of the forensics teams as they moved back and forth.

  “I didn’t know what he was going to do,” she whispered.

  “No one is saying you did, Marie,” Wayne replied.

  “I know that,” Marie sighed. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “Who knows? He was a bad man, Marie. We’ve got his prints on murders that are decades old,” Wayne said. “We’re going to have to question you about what you know.”

  She nodded. “I think I surprised him, at the end.”

  Wayne looked at her and stayed silent, letting her speak without interruption.

  “The shooting was over in seconds,” Marie continued, “and he lowered the pistol. It was as if he was thinking about how we were going to get out of there, and not just himself. I wish I was quicker, that I could have seen what he was going to do. They might be alive if I had thought about who David really was, about what he had done in the past.”

  “Marie, don’t tell anyone he had lowered his weapon,” Wayne advised. “It’ll go from a righteous kill to murder in the blink of an eye. And popular opinion has definitely swung against us recently.”

  “I won’t say anything,” Marie said.

  “Now, Marie,” Wayne said, clearing his throat. “we’re going to have to talk about why this man was here, staying with you and helping you. You know that, right?”

  Marie grimaced as she nodded. After a moment of thought, she added, “I think he forgot, at the end.”

  “Forgot what?” Wayne asked.

  “That I’m a cop,” she said, closing her eyes. “First, last and forever. And no one gets to shoot a cop.”

  Wayne put a hand on her shoulder, and when she started to sob, he pulled her close.

  No matter what anyone said, Marie knew killing never got any easier.

  Chapter 53: Manhunt

  Clair had equipped every member of her team with headsets and sent them out in ten groups of three and two of two. She had turned the back of one of the SUVs into a small command center from which she could monitor the progress of each team. They had hundreds of acres to cover and little time to do it. Clair didn't know how long the Colonel would allow her to run the operation, regardless of the dangers to his career.

  If he had a sudden attack of morality, she and the rest of the Watchers would be driven out of Amherst. In that scenario, Shane would have the opportunity to close in on the One.

  Clair doubted he could succeed against the dead boy.

  But she had also doubted he would come out victorious in Borgin. Or in any of the other encounters he had engaged in.

  Her cellphone rang and Clair glanced at it. When she recognized Dr. Waltner’s number, she picked it up, asking harshly, “Situation?”

  "Taken care of," the doctor responded. "I've written my report, stated that he needs at least three days of observation in a safe and controlled environment and that he shouldn't be released. The hospital and the Nashua police have agreed with me."

  “Excellent,” Clair said, some of her tension slipping away. “Well, done, Doctor.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Waltner replied. “Do you need me out there?”

  Clair considered the question for a moment and then answered, “Yes. Head out here.”

  She gave the doctor the directions and ended the call.

  Clair allowed herself a small smile. With Frank detained at the hospital for three days, Shane would be robbed of his biggest supporter. How much Shane had relied on the other man would be known soon enough, and even if it was only a small amount, it was still something.

  And any edge over Shane Ryan was worth its weight in gold.

  Chatter on the police band caught Clair's attention, and she reached out to turn the volume up.

  Two detectives have been killed in a hotel room in Nashua. Their assailant has been brought down by Marie Lafontaine, a detective from the Nashua Police Force on medical leave. Tentative reports over the radio stated the shooter had been a man named David. His documentation had been falsified, so they had no real information on who he was.

  Clair sat back, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

  She hadn’t thought anyone would be able to catch David. Clair had also thought he would have been smart enough to leave the area after his encounter with Gabby.

  Clair chuckled, shook her head, and straightened up in her chair.

  Shane, she realized, had no more allies left.

  His ghosts were in his home and not with him in Amherst. There was a cordon of police officers stretched around the entire perimeter of the One. And teams of Watchers were actively hunting Shane in the woods.

  For the first time in weeks, Clair relaxed.

  Smiling, she adjusted her headset and wondered where in her office she should mount Shane’s head.

  Chapter 54: The Second House

  Shane had been in difficult places. Areas of the world that had made him uncomfortable. Bosnia in Europe, and Fallujah in Iraq. The Korengal Valley in Afghanistan and his own bedroom as a child.

  When he stepped out of Amelia's door that same sensation of dread and fear settled on his shoulders. Fifteen houses stood on the dark street. Their windows stared at him with all of the empathy and liveliness of a dead man's eyes. In the moonlight, Shane could see overgrown yards and litter. It looked as though someone had reached down and plucked all of the residents out of their homes at the same time one evening, and the people had never returned.

  Courtney materialized beside him, and once his heart had settled back to its normal rate he asked, "Which one do we go to first?"

  She frowned and then pointed at the second house on the left. “There is a woman there. She has been there for a time. Not as long as Amelia. Not as short as some of the others.”

  “Is she a madwoman?” Shane asked.

  Courtney shook her head. “I don’t think so. But she could be.”

  Shane rolled his eyes and offered up a less than sincere, “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t speak with her,” Courtney said. “There was no need. I don’t think she even realized I was there.”

 
; "Even better," Shane muttered. In a louder voice, he said, "Okay. Second house on the left it is."

  The night sky was full of stars, and the moon was full. There was plenty of light by which to see, and more than enough of it to populate the abandoned street with shadows.

  Shane wondered if there was a way he could get word to either Frank or David. Even Marie if he had to.

  But he knew the battery of his phone wouldn’t recover, and he knew there would be no electricity in the houses. Not with the street dead and blocked off. Which made him wonder again why the police hadn’t found him.

  He hadn’t made good distance from the Amherst town green to Amelia’s house. And it would be common sense for the police to check the street itself. There was no helicopter searching for him, and no dog handlers and their canines out seeking his scent.

  Everything was wrong.

  And he knew why.

  Somehow, the Watchers had gotten into the mix. They had taken control of the situation, and it seemed as if they were determined to ensure his disappearance.

  If they left Shane alive, he could talk. Even if the majority of people thought he was completely out of his mind and a paranoid schizophrenic, there would be some who did believe. There always were. Someone, the Watchers knew, would believe him. Someone would start to dig.

  Digging would be an unnecessary interruption. Curious individuals or, heaven forbid, a few curious reporters, would put a halt to their activities in regards to Samson.

  Shane dead, on the other hand, meant there would be no one alive to speak embarrassing truths.

  Those thoughts receded as he reached the cracked cement sidewalk that lead to the closed-in front porch of the second house on the left. Shane stood there for a moment, looking at it. His eyes strained to see movement, or a face, or anything.

  Nothing.

  Shane squared his shoulders and marched up the walkway, hurried up the front steps and opened the porch door. The wood rotted and tore free from its hinges, knocking him off balance and leaving him grasping for a hold on the door jamb. His fingernails managed to dig into soft wood, and as his heart thundered in his chest, he pulled himself up.