[2010] The Ghost of Blackwood Lane

by Greg Enslen

  After a second, he looked up and saw Judy drop the tire iron. She’d hit Vincent in the back of the head with it. Gary looked over and saw Vincent lying face down in the mud.

  She came over to Gary and checked his throat, then looked up at his eyes.

  “I need to get some things from the house, and I need clothes. He’ll be out for a couple of minutes. Can you find the keys? Pull the car up in front and just stay in the car. I’ll just be a second—I can’t forget to get the ring. I kept it, all these years.”

  Gary looked at her, not understanding. She was looking at him strangely, excited and happy even though her neck was bruised and there was blood in her hair.

  “The ring,” she said again. “The one you gave me.”

  Clearly she was trying to tell him something he couldn’t remember, so he smiled and nodded.

  Gary glanced back at Vincent—he hadn’t moved—and nodded at her, holding his throat. He pointed at the house—he couldn’t talk yet, but she understood and ran off toward the house.

  A ring—had he proposed to her? How could he not remember something like that? Maybe some part of his mind had known all along that he was engaged and that was why he’d never been able to stay in a serious relationship.

  Stranger things were possible.

  Gary also realized that he could look at her now without so much pain—maybe the shock and surprise were wearing off, or maybe the pain in his throat was muting the effect she had on him. He smiled and turned toward the field, where he thought Vincent had thrown the keys to the rental car.

  Chapter 64

  Judy couldn’t believe it—she was back in the bedroom. In just the past few minutes, everything had changed. Vincent was badly hurt, and now Chris was here. Chris! How was that even possible? Her mind raced as she changed clothes as fast as she could—she pulled on jeans and a clean shirt.

  She was doing it—she was getting out of here, breaking free. She grabbed some jewelry and a little bit of money she’d managed to squirrel away, shoving it all into her front pocket.

  The envelope. She had to get the letter and the engagement ring.

  He had looked at her funny when she’d mentioned the ring. Had he forgotten about proposing to her? She guessed it was possible—it had been a long time ago.

  She yanked the top drawer of the dresser out and jumped away as it crashed to the floor. Taped to the back of the drawer was the envelope. She ripped it free of the tape and folded the letter in half and stuffed it into her back pocket, feeling the thick part of the envelope where the ring was.

  From downstairs, she heard the front door creak open.

  ------

  “Chris, is that you?” Gary heard her calling from upstairs, but he was too busy to answer. The name wasn’t affecting him as badly as it had been before, but it still hurt to hear it.

  No, he was more worried about the guy with the axe.

  Gary slammed the door behind him, grabbed a loveseat, and dragged it over in front of the door.

  “He’s coming, Judy,” Gary yelled up the stairs. “He’s coming, and he’s pissed! We need to go!” Gary finished pushing the loveseat over just as the door burst open, and he cursed himself for not locking it. The door only opened a few inches before catching on the loveseat.

  Gary had found the keys and gotten the car stopped in front of the house when he’d turned and seen Vincent, fully recovered, coming after him with the axe. There are few sights to compare with the image of a bloody man walking toward you with an axe. Gary hoped that if he made it through this, he’d never have to see anything like that ever again.

  He’d raced inside and tried to block the door, but now the crazy man was banging the door against the back of the loveseat, trying to get in.

  Gary looked around for a weapon.

  There was a fire going in the fireplace, and he grabbed one of the fireplace tools, the long pointy one used to move logs around. He didn’t know what it was called, and at the moment, he didn’t really care.

  The door slammed against the loveseat again. One more hit and Vincent pushed leaned inside, looking at Gary holding the fireplace poker.

  “What’cha got there, man?” Vincent asked, shoving the loveseat aside and stepping around it. “You gonna put out my eye or something?”

  “Just stay back, Vincent.” Gary gulped, holding the poker with both hands.

  Vincent stopped and looked at him, his eyes focusing for a moment.

  “Chris? Chris O’Toole?” Vincent asked.

  The world swam, but Gary tried not to fall.

  “What are you doing here?” Vincent asked. “You and your dad got my father killed,” the man said quietly, ominously.

  Gary nodded.

  “That’s all water under the bridge, Vincent,” Gary said, trying to reason with the man. He knew it was useless, but maybe he could buy Judy more time to escape. Hopefully, she’d already climbed out the window for the second time tonight and was sprinting away from this madhouse.

  Vincent looked at him for a long moment, squinting as if he was trying to focus. “You’re the reason I got kicked out of the familia,” Vincent continued.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vincent,” Gary said, shaking his head. “You’re not making any sense.”

  Vincent nodded, remembering. The axe drifted down and the head tapped against the floor with a thump. “You. I was supposed to go out to Sacramento and kill you and your dad. It was the mission they sent me on. It took years for my family to get over it. And it’s taken me years to get back in. Now, I guess I’ll finish the job. I’m not letting you or that bitch screw it up for me.”

  Gary didn’t understand how the man could be standing there, reminiscing, with his arm broken and his hip dripping blood onto the carpet.

  “Just stay back, Vincent,” Gary said quietly. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  Vincent’s eyes went wide. “You don’t want any trouble? You don’t want any trouble? What do you think this is, coming into my house, trying to take my wife away?” he shouted, his voice climbing higher and higher in pitch until he was screaming. “Well, you’ve got trouble now,” Vincent bellowed, hefting the axe again.

  Gary began backing away.

  Vincent darted at Gary, swinging the axe with one hand like he was swinging a baseball bat.

  Gary ducked and the axe buried itself in the mantle of the fireplace, knocking several pictures of Vincent onto the floor. Gary noticed that there weren’t any pictures of Judy or of them together—only pictures of Vincent by himself or with friends.

  Vincent turned and almost slipped on one of the framed pictures that had fallen. He pulled at the axe, trying to get it out of the thick wooden mantle.

  Gary ran around the back of the couch, leaned into it, and shoved it across the carpeted floor of the living room. He pushed it toward Vincent and toward the fireplace.

  Vincent was still tugging at the axe, but it was lodged deeply—how could he have buried it that far only using one hand? Gary thought he must be running on pure coke and adrenaline—the broken arm and the massive hip wound, covered with his CSU sweatshirt, didn’t seem to be affecting him at all.

  Giving one good shove, Gary knocked Vincent over, pinning him to the stones of the fireplace.

  Vincent let go of the axe and shoved, climbing up onto the couch. He dislodged one of the thick white pillows, which fell through the open grate and onto the fire.

  The axe finally came loose with one last tug and Vincent swung it again, wildly, in a huge arc, missing Gary by inches.

  Gary struck back with the poker, hitting Vincent on the hand that held the axe.

  Vincent screamed. The axe fell to the carpet.

  Growling like an animal, Vincent bent over and charged, hitting Gary in the stomach and bucking him backwards. The deck of tarot cards flew from his pocket and broke open, the cards spilling onto the floor. Gary flew through the air, passing the heavy bookcase next to the stairs and hitting the edge of the dining ro
om table.

  Gary rolled over, groaning.

  That had hurt—his back felt weird, out of whack. Gary saw that, amazingly, he was still holding the fireplace poker.

  Gary slowly stood and turned, looking for Vincent.

  Vincent picked up the axe. Behind him, the couch was just beginning to catch fire, a runner of flame snaking up the left arm of the couch. The curtains of the window next to the fireplace caught, the flames running upward like burning smoke, flashing up the curtain and licking at the ceiling.

  “You pissant little prick! Look what you did!” The axe jerked toward Gary as Vincent came toward him, punctuating each word. “You set my house on fire, boy!”

  Gary waited a split second too long.

  That was his mistake. He thought Vincent would come at him with the axe, as he’d done before.

  Instead, Vincent’s arm whipped around his body. Vincent let go of the axe handle.

  The axe flew through the air and hit Gary squarely in the shoulder.

  The sharp edge of the axe missed him, but the heavy metal head slammed right into his shoulder. The momentum of the axe handle carried it up and over him, crashing into the dining room table behind him.

  The pain was like fire, far worse than any of the headaches.

  The bone along the front of his shoulder snapped in half, and a huge gash suddenly bloomed on his left shoulder. Gary could see the bone. The blood welled and filled the wound in the half-second he looked at it, and then it poured over and out of the wound, running down his shirt.

  Screaming, Gary dropped the poker and put his hands to the wound, trying to hold his blood in. Gary could feel with terrifying accuracy his heartbeat as the blood surged between his fingers. Somehow, he was still standing.

  Gary heard laughter and slowly looked up to see Vincent standing, looking at him.

  “You got yourself a little boo-boo there?” Vincent asked, smiling.

  Gary lashed out, not knowing where the energy or the anger was coming from. He stepped and swung his left leg, kicking for the sweatshirt and the hip beneath it.

  Gary’s foot connected—he felt something broken grind under his foot. Vincent stumbled backwards and slipped on the tarot cards that littered the floor, dropping to the ground.

  Half of the living room was in flames. The banister and stairs leading up to the second floor were catching. The couch and loveseat and other furniture in the living room were on fire, and it looked as though the carpet running back into another room—probably the kitchen—was going up fast. There was already a thick black smoke in the air, making it hard to see even the open door leading outside.

  Judy. He had to make sure she had gotten out.

  Before he could move, he heard a strange whistling sound as the fireplace poker spun around and caught him in the back of the knees, knocking him onto the carpet.

  His legs screamed in pain. They hurt, but then everything hurt. Gary wondered if all the pain would ever end.

  Vincent, holding the poker, slowly climbed to his feet.

  Gary crawled for the stairs. They were smoldering, smoke rising up out of the parts of the carpet that were already burning. Maybe he could get up there and find Judy and get her out. Even if he didn’t make it, maybe he could warn her.

  There was another surge of pain as Vincent hit the back of one of his legs again with the poker. Over the crackling of the fire, he could hear the man laughing.

  Gary crawled faster, past the bookcase next to the stairs, and he grabbed the banister, the one that hadn’t caught fire yet. He pulled himself up onto the first carpeted step, trying to avoid the burning patches.

  “Where you going?” Vincent screamed.

  Gary ignored him, pulling himself up.

  “You think she’s up there?” Vincent shouted, his voice going hoarse from the smoke. “Don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten about her. I’ll take care of her in a minute, so you don’t have to worry, capiche? I’ll take care of her good, just as soon as I’m done with you.”

  Vincent stood only a couple of feet from him, holding the poker over his head. Vincent was looking down at Gary on the second step of the stairs, and he was smiling.

  “Guess you just picked the wrong place to visit, huh?” Vincent asked.

  Gary started to say something to delay the inevitable, something, anything to keep Vincent from killing him, but as he started to speak, something in his peripheral vision moved.

  For a second, he thought his eyes were playing a trick on him.

  The heavy bookcase next to the stairwell looked like it was moving. Slowly, agonizingly, he saw the bookcase tip over and crash onto Vincent, knocking him down. The heavy case fell onto Vincent’s hips and legs, pinning him to the smoldering carpet.

  Gary looked up to the top of the stairs and saw her standing there. Judy had been behind the case. She had been waiting for Vincent to be in the right position before she pushed it.

  ------

  “Thanks,” Chris said weakly, looking up at her at the top of the stairs. The bookcase had fallen on Vincent—she had been worried that he would hit Chris again before he’d stepped forward, but he’d moved at just the right time.

  She smiled at Chris and glanced around the room. “This place is going up fast. Are you...oh crap, you’re bleeding like crazy!”

  She ran to him, avoiding the burning patches of carpet on the stairs, helping him to his feet and pulling him to the door.

  Vincent suddenly moved and kicked. He screamed and shoved at the bookcase, but it didn’t budge.

  “We have to get you to a hospital,” Judy said. “And fast.”

  The room was fully ablaze now. Flames ran up the walls, and the wallpaper was peeling in the heat. The couch was a pyre, shooting flames to the ceiling. Judy wondered how long the ceiling would burn before the second story collapsed.

  On the floor next to the open door was a big leather duffle bag and, as Judy struggled to half push, half carry Chris to the door, he leaned over and scooped up the bag up with his bloody right hand.

  Judy shoved the loveseat aside with her hip and pulled the door open far enough for both of them to squeeze through and out into the mercifully cool night air.

  Smoke poured out the door with them as they escaped the house.

  They shuffled down the steps and she helped him to the car, leaning him against the passenger door. Chris looked up at the house and shook his head.

  From inside the house, they could hear Vincent screaming for help.

  “Keys?” she asked the man she never thought she would see again. His eyes were bleary, and smoke and ash smudged his face, but he nodded and dropped the leather bag and fished them out of his pocket with his left hand.

  He handed her the keys, smiling weakly. She felt him shiver.

  Judy took them and opened the door. “Get in.”

  Chris sat down heavily in the passenger seat and grabbed the bag from the ground.

  She went around and climbed in and sat down, starting the car but not putting it into gear. Chris had one hand resting on the duffle bag in his lap possessively.

  Through the broken window of the rental car, she watched for a few moments as the house burned. Chris turned and looked at the house, then back to her.

  “Are we waiting for something?” Chris asked.

  Judy nodded, her eyes still on the house. She watched for the door to move, or for any sign of Vincent, and then she glanced at Chris. “When I’m sure, we’ll go.”

  He nodded and shut his eyes. “When we get to the hospital, I need to call my friend, Mike. He’s probably wondering where I am.”

  She pulled her eyes away from the burning house. “Who’s Mike?” she asked, looking at Chris for a long moment.

  “He’s my friend,” Chris answered, his eyes closed. He was absently touching his empty shirt pocket. Judy wondered how long it would be before he passed out. “He came out with me from LA.”

  She looked back at the fire—the second floor was burning now, and stil
l no one had stumbled from the front door. Fire ran up the outside of the house, and the roof was beginning to catch.

  It was finally her concern for Chris that made her leave. Judy started the car and drove away.

  She needed to get Chris O’Toole to a hospital, and as she drove down the long dirt driveway toward the road, she heard the first of the sirens. It was okay that they were coming—it had been long enough, to be sure. Her prison and her warden were both gone now, and the spinning lights and pressure hoses could not change that.

  She was going to be okay.

  “You live in Los Angeles?” she asked him. She needed to keep him talking, keep him conscious. “I thought you were in Sacramento.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. She listened to him begin to talk about his life as they drove, and it was wonderful. She passed the first fire truck as she turned out of the driveway. When she got to Blackwood Lane, she turned left, heading for O’Fallon and the hospital.

  Epilogue

  “You don’t need to do this,” he said, smiling. “We’ve got plenty of money.”

  Judy smiled back, but he could tell she wasn’t listening. She had her plane ticket in hand and was ready to go. Her new suitcase sat at her feet, and the open door of the cab waited behind her.

  “I know, Gary,” she answered. “It’s just something I have to do. My parents...I need to make that connection again, even if they’re gone. I need to see the places they lived, and talk to the lawyers. It’s not about the money they left me—I want to remember them.”

  Gary nodded.

  “As soon as I’m done, I’ll fly to California,” she said. “I’ll call, and you can meet me at the airport.”

  “Just be careful,” he said, nodding. “I worry about you.”

  He shifted his left arm, but the cast didn’t let him move much; there was a risk that he could further injure the shoulder. The doctors at the O’Fallon Hospital said he had at least another week of recovery before he and Mike would be able to fly back to California.

  One of the doctors had spoken to Simmons, his boss at MacMillan, explaining the injury and why he couldn’t fly immediately after surgery. Gary was sure he’d be famous in the office when he and Mike returned—their weekend vacation had turned into three weeks. At least part of their trip back here, about the riverboat crash, had made the national papers.