[2010] The Ghost of Blackwood Lane

by Greg Enslen

  “And no, I still can’t remember the phrase.”

  He heard her sigh loudly. “That’s really something you should’ve written down, you know. If it comes out on its own, it could really mess him up, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes. It was just...things were crazy then, and I thought it would be a bad idea to write it down—what if he’d found it? And I thought I could remember it, but I guess I just had too many other things going on in my mind.”

  Denise sighed again. “Then maybe you should tell him what you do know and let him find out the rest for himself.”

  John shook his head.

  “I can’t do that. It’s just too dangerous. He would be in danger, and he would try to find her and see her, and who knows what the Lucianos would do to him if they got him.”

  “But he’ll never be happy,” she said. “You know he can’t find a girlfriend—maybe some part of him won’t allow him to be happy. Maybe the wall is breaking down, and that’s where the dreams are coming from. Either way, he’s a terribly sad boy, and you have it in your power to fix that, even if it’s dangerous. He’ll never be happy the way he is,” she said, summing up her eight years of arguing about this topic in one concise sentence.

  He had told her the truth about what had happened only a year or so after they were married, and she’d been working on him ever since to tell Gary the truth. But he couldn’t.

  After a while, John finally spoke up.

  “No, I can’t do it. I hate to see him sad and confused, but at least he’s alive to be sad and confused. I can’t do anything to put him in jeopardy, even if he’s suffering. The secret has to stay a secret. Or we could all end up dead.”

  She offered no further argument, and he drifted off to sleep. If she had other thoughts on the topic, this time she kept them to herself.

  ------

  “Here, take this.”

  Mike was drying the breakfast dishes with Denise when she turned and handed Mike a small envelope. He took it—it was taped shut, with Gary’s name written on it.

  Mike looked at her strangely.

  “Don’t worry,” Denise said hurriedly. “This will answer some of Gary’s questions—that’s all I can say.”

  Mike looked back down at the envelope, this time with much more curiosity.

  Denise grabbed his arm. “Now, you have to promise me something. What is inside this envelope will take him to St. Louis in search of...well, it should make him search for answers. Will you please go with him, keep an eye on him? It could be dangerous. There are bad people back there...not to mention the fact that the answers he’s seeking could be very traumatic for him. He’ll need a friend.”

  Mike had no idea what to think.

  She glanced back over his shoulder. “They’re coming back—hide it.” He pulled up his shirt and stuffed the envelope into his belt as she continued, her voice low.

  “Don’t show him that until you get back to L.A.—and he’ll need you around when he looks at it.”

  Gary’s stepmother plunged her hands back into the warm dishwater just as Gary and his father came back into the kitchen, each carrying more dishes from the breakfast table.

  “So, thanks again for the breakfast, Mom. It was great,” Gary said, setting his dishes on the counter and kissing her.

  “No problem, honey,” Denise said. “Now you boys hit the road—it’ll be late before you get back, and you have to work tomorrow.” With one long glance at Mike, Denise scooted them out of the room.

  Chapter 19

  O’Fallon Township High School was located on the eastern edge of the small town, or at least what used to be the eastern edge until the building boom of the late eighties spurred the construction of a dozen new housing communities and property values on the eastern side of town increased by fifty percent.

  The housing market in O’Fallon was always in flux, but in 1986, Scott Air Force Base, the lifeblood of the small town, received word that the U.S. military was establishing a new Joint Command Headquarters of the U.S. Transportation Command to be located at Scott. With an estimated one thousand new families moving into the area, real estate developers in O’Fallon and northern Belleville and Fairview Heights began salivating.

  Building began in earnest as soon as the new personnel started arriving, and the past ten years had seen O’Fallon almost double in size. A new theater complex by the Interstate 64 interchange, two dozen new restaurants, and a number of big box stores had opened in the past few years, further increasing property values.

  But O’Fallon Township still had only one high school, and it had managed to grow along with its student base by adding new buildings and temporary structures. There were plans in the works to build a new high school on the western side of town, but the city council and mayor were still bickering about funding. The groundbreaking ceremony had been pushed back four times and finally put on hold until the budget could be ironed out.

  The high school now included a large complex of buildings grouped around a long central corridor. The gymnasium sat off the southern end of the school, with tennis courts and baseball fields right outside. The football stadium stood on the land south of the school and was the center of the town’s attention during the months of September through November. The O’Fallon Panthers were considered one of the best high school football teams in southern Illinois, regularly defeating rival teams from cities all over the state.

  On this quiet Sunday evening, there were no planned activities on the high school campus. The parking lots and the streets surrounding the school were dark and quiet, save for a patrolling security guard.

  South of the fenced-in football field was Highway 50, the main road through O’Fallon. To the east, it ran toward McKendree College and Carlyle Lake. To the west, it ran through the O’Fallon proper and intersected with Interstate 64 before continuing west to Fairview Heights.

  The 1997 O’Fallon Mayfest, the town’s most anticipated annual carnival, was less than a week away, and preparations had already started in O’Fallon Park, a large park and baseball field complex in the heart of the town about a mile to the west of the high school. The main pavilion had been decorated, and the first of the carnival rides had started arriving.

  But the high school grounds were not completely devoid of life.

  Tim, a young black man in a Dallas Cowboys jacket, was hanging out by the varsity baseball diamond stands, looking for the high school’s security guards or cops. And he was watching for customers.

  It didn’t take long—ten minutes after he’d shown up, a white boy in a scraggly flannel shirt appeared from behind the bushes separating the bleachers from the school and wandered nervously over to him.

  “You got anything?”

  Tim smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Not a problem. How much you need, man?”

  The boy looked around nervously, and Tim knew exactly what the kid was thinking—if the cops showed up, it would be very bad. Tim knew that all of his best customers in O’Fallon were kids from the high school and local colleges. They always looked like rabbits, about to bolt.

  “Let me get a hundred worth,” the kid said, flashing a short wad of twenties.

  Tim opened his large, dark jacket and pulled out four small packets of cocaine. Glancing around, he handed them to the kid and took his money in one practiced motion, counting the cash as the kid gingerly tested the weight of the small plastic bags in his hand. The money was all there, and as soon as Tim said so, the kid thanked him and took off.

  Another half hour passed, and Tim was starting to think he should move to his next location—he had two dozen regular spots where his customers could look for him—when a car appeared and slowed to a stop a hundred yards away. Smiley Road ran north and south along the western edge of the high school campus, and Tim watched as the car stopped and two men climbed out, heading toward him.

  They didn’t look like cops. The car wasn’t a typical police make and model—in fact, the car was too small to even carry suspects in the ba
ck seat. But it still wasn’t a good sign, and Tim started to move around the bleachers and head in the other direction when a third man, dressed the same way, stepped around the bushes and blocked his exit.

  “Hold up, son,” the man said, smiling.

  Tim already knew what this was about, and he didn’t see a good way out of it.

  The other two men joined them, but the one in front continued doing the talking.

  “You run for Shotgun, right?”

  It didn’t really matter, Tim thought. This could end one of two ways—one of which would hurt a lot and the other would hurt for only a moment before nothing ever hurt again.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’m with the Baker Crew.”

  Somebody grabbed his arms roughly from behind and another set of hands frisked him, pausing on the coke but not finding a weapon. He never carried—it was too easy to lose control of your piece and have it end up pointed at you. The hands came off of him and he straightened his jacket, staring back at the man in front of him.

  The man stepped out of the darkness and even Tim recognized him. Everyone in this town knew him.

  Vincent Luciano smiled. “You make good money for them?”

  “I do okay.” He nodded uncomfortably.

  Vincent reached up and pulled open Tim’s jacket, drawing out a small vial of crack cocaine. He held it up to the light of the moon, hanging low in the sky, and shook the vial. The coke looked brittle and powdery, a sign of low quality.

  Vincent handed it back to Tim and then reached inside his own jacket and pulled out a similar vial.

  “This stuff is much better. See how the rock isn’t starting to powder? Much higher concentration.”

  Tim looked at it.

  “Okay, I’m not going to waste your time,” Vincent explained. “I’ll give you twice the amount of product you have on you now. You sell all of that and keep the money. After that, you push for us only and keep 30% of the cash for whatever you sell. I know you get 10% now from the East Dogs and Shotgun. This is a good deal for you. What do you think?”

  Tim was surprised and apprehensive. The deal was a great one, much better than he would’ve ever dreamed of getting with the Dogs or by striking out on his own. He’d expected to get the crap kicked out of him, not a job offer.

  “Your stuff any good? Is it regular?”

  Vincent Luciano nodded. “We buy from the same supplier, my friend. And we cut our powder one-to-one, not two-to-one or three-to-one like your guys. And we’ve already lined up the next shipment. Whatever you can sell, we’ll have more. And if you’re interested, we can even take some of that money you’ll be making and invest it for you—of course the money is still yours, but we’ll invest it for you and guarantee a higher return.”

  Tim nodded, interested. This was a great offer, but he hated leaving the Dogs—Shotgun was a good guy, and a brother. It made sense to stay loyal to his boys. But this new deal was good....

  “Can I think on it?” he asked.

  Vincent smiled. “Sure. Call me when you decide, either way. We’ve talked to eight of Shotgun’s boys so far tonight, and three are already on board. The rest are like you—cautious. I would be too. But we’re going to make this a great business, and we want you in on it,” he said, handing Tim a card before turning around and walking away.

  The other two men turned and drifted back toward their car. Tim looked alternately at them and at the card he’d been handed—it contained only a hand-written telephone number that would surely only be in existence for a day or two. That much had been implied by the conversation—this was a limited time offer.

  Tim had been told there was a war coming, and it looked like it was going to be bad. He’d have to pick the right team.

  He liked that part about investing the money for him. If the deal was good, he’d start out with a nice bundle to sell and keep the cash for himself.

  Tim pocketed the card and walked away, heading for O’Fallon Park. He scouted for cops in unmarked cars and sold to an occasional nervous buyer, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His hand nervously toyed with one corner of the card in his pocket, fraying the paper.

  Chapter 20

  The drive back Sunday night was long and uneventful. Mike and Gary chatted off and on, talking about the visit and Gary’s parents, and some about what Gary could remember about living in St. Louis, but the trip had been ultimately frustrating for Gary. He wasn’t any closer to learning anything about the identity of the man in his Dream.

  Mike seemed distracted all the way home, more quiet than usual. Gary left it alone—he had enough on his mind without trying to draw out of Mike whatever was bothering him. If Mike wanted to share, Gary knew he would, in time.

  He stopped the car in front of Mike’s apartment just past 11 p.m. Mike had one more opportunity to say what was on his mind, but he seemed to decide not to share and hurriedly climbed out of the car, tugging his suitcase inside.

  Gary started for home—he’d insisted on driving both ways, and he was tired—but decided to avoid his apartment for a little longer. Any delay in going to bed was a good delay. He was suddenly inspired to go on one of his favorite drives, alone, with time to do some thinking. He popped a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and dragged slowly on it, enjoying the wind in his hair and the complete lack of traffic on the streets.

  He headed south toward Redondo Beach and the southern coastal towns. Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, and Redondo stretched around the coastal arm from Venice Beach down to the Palos Verdes Peninsula. Gary planned to take the road down and around the Peninsula before heading back—it was a long trip, but the scenery was gorgeous, and the moon would look good reflecting on the water. And, most of all, he needed to think.

  The traffic was light on the Harbor Freeway. He got off at the exit for Torrance, heading east on the Pacific Coast Highway. He headed past his favorite Chinese restaurant, then west through Torrance and part of Redondo Beach until he met up with Palos Verdes Drive, a two-lane highway that ran along the water. The road circled the rounded peninsula that jutted so dramatically into the channel that separated Los Angeles from the distant and mysterious Santa Catalina Island.

  The car purred along as Gary thought about his trip north to Sacramento. The trip hadn’t been completely unproductive—it had been awhile since he’d seen his parents. But the question he had driven all the way up there to ask remained maddeningly unanswered.

  Who were these people in his dream? Did he know any of them, or were they constructions of his mind? Did they have anything to do with him? Was the story something he remembered from his past, a story he had overheard, or just some scene from a half-remembered movie? And why did the dream repeat, over and over?

  The road curled south as Malibu and Redondo disappeared behind him. He loved to drive this road, even when it was fogged over and a little dangerous. The roar of the ocean off to his right was loud, helping to clear his mind. Both sides of the small highway were decorated with huge, expensive homes with breathtaking views.

  He passed through Camino Del Rey and the large ornate fountain that stood in the middle of an intersection—he remembered a nearby Italian restaurant there just a few hundred feet off the water with the most astonishing view of the ocean he had ever seen. He remembered sitting there with a date, looking out at the ocean, wondering at the support structures that held the restaurant precariously above the surf far below—no matter how he tried, he couldn’t help wondering how things worked, how the pieces of a building fit together. As long as he could remember, he’d been fascinated with stairs, rooms, interior spaces.

  Gary’s thoughts wandered back to Sacramento—why was his father always so reluctant to talk about St. Louis? Gary knew a lot about the situation, and he still couldn’t figure it out. With the loss of Gary’s mother in that car bomb, it was a wonder that his father had even been able to go through with his testimony. The FBI had arranged for their move and had set them up in Sacramento with new lives and new last names, changing O’Too
le to Foreman.

  It was still strange that his father never talked about it. The words would not come, no matter how many questions Gary asked.

  The Point Vincenté Lighthouse appeared from around an outcropping of rock, painting the cliffs and water with a cone of yellow light. On an impulse, Gary decided to stop the car. There was a large parking lot at the base of the lighthouse with a visitor’s center and tables for picnicking.

  The beam of light spun lazily from the tall, striped lighthouse as he turned into the parking lot, easing the car to a stop. The sound of the roaring waves hitting the rocks two hundred feet below was much louder with his engine turned off. There were no other cars in the parking lot.

  He got out, closing the car door behind him, and stretched. It felt good to stand after so many hours in the car. Gary strolled down to a wooden fence that overlooked the ocean far below—there were gravel trails that ran along the cliffs on both sides of the lighthouse, and a long wooden fence along the cliff to keep those appreciating the ocean surf from experiencing it too intimately.

  The light spun slowly, searching the distant water. Gary watched as it picked out and highlighted the gray crests of the far-off waves. He loved the ocean, loved the sounds it made as the water crashed against the rocks, slid up the sand, and retreated, hissing its way back into the ocean. He’d loved the ocean since he’d seen it the first time, shortly after he and his father had arrived from St. Louis.

  Gary needed a smoke—it was cold tonight. He’d tried giving it up many times, but couldn’t. It was his crutch. He’d given up drinking, and defeating one life-altering vice at a time was enough for anyone.

  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket but couldn’t find his lighter. He turned and walked back to the car, opening the passenger door.

  Reaching for the cigarette lighter and pushing it in, his knee brushed against something crinkly in the area between the passenger seat and the open doorway.