by Ron Ripley
Daniel barely heard the second shot.
King jerked his leash out of Daniel’s hand and raced off.
The last girl followed the dog, but a shot caught her in the side of the head and knocked her off her feet.
Daniel turned around and saw King race towards a group of trees farther down the road.
Then something struck him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him and sending him tumbling to the road. As he lay on the asphalt, struggling for breath, Daniel realized he couldn’t hear his own heartbeat.
He didn’t even feel it.
And then he didn’t feel anything anymore.
***
“Kill it!” Brown spat.
“No,” Walter answered, shouldering the rifle. He bent down and picked up the four casings he had ejected from the Garand.
“Get rid of the damned thing,” the dead man hissed.
The long-haired dachshund scratched and clawed at the thick undergrowth, trying to get into the group of trees as Walter rolled up his poncho.
“It’ll give us away,” Brown said. “You going to risk that?”
“He can’t talk to anyone,” Walter answered.
“How do you know it’s a he?” Brown demanded angrily.
“How can you not?” Walter asked, grinning at the ghost who stood in the shadows.
Brown glanced at the dog and muttered, “Shut up.”
“Be happy to,” Walter said. “We’ve got to move. Traffic’ll be picking up here soon. Someone’ll find the dog and take him in.”
“I’d be happier if you’d kill him,” Brown sulked.
“I’m sure,” Walter said, anger creeping into his voice. “I don’t hurt animals, though. No need. They’re innocents.”
“And what about those three girls?” Brown snorted. “What were they?”
“Jezebels,” Walter replied, and he exited the copse, the dog still trying to get in.
From a distance came the sound of sirens and Walter grinned.
Someone had heard the shots and called the police.
“What are you so damned happy about?” Brown demanded.
“Life might start to get interesting,” Walter said, glancing over his shoulder at the road where the bodies lay. “They might even figure out how to find me.”
“And what’ll happen then?” Brown asked.
“Then I sell you to an antique store,” Walter answered, “and I kill as many of them as I can.”
The dead man’s laughter rang out through the woods as they made their way to safety.
Chapter 10: Something’s Wrong with Julius
Tom had fallen asleep on his bed, but the slamming of the front door woke him. He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he looked at his clock.
2:12 AM.
What’s going on? he wondered. His hair clung to his neck and forehead with sweat, and he realized the room was warm. When he had stretched out on the bed, he had done so fully dressed and with a blanket on him. The room had been terribly cold, to the point where Tom had sworn he could see his own breath.
Heater’s acting up again, he thought, stifling a yawn. He stood up, stretched and went to the bedroom door, opening it and listening for a moment. A rough, gasping sound reached his ears, and he frowned. The hallway was lit only by a weak nightlight plugged into a wall socket. His parents’ bedroom door was open, and he walked to it, wondering if they had heard the noise as well.
But the bed was empty.
His mother’s side was rumpled, but it looked as though his father hadn’t slept in it.
Tom hoped his father had gone to sleep on the couch, or in the spare bedroom on the first floor. A gnawing sensation in his stomach told him that he shouldn’t hope too much.
The tension between his parents had been coming to a head.
His mouth suddenly dry, Tom swallowed and moved to the stairs. He listened, heard the rasping sound again and called out, “Mom?”
When she didn’t answer, he called out for his father.
His father didn’t respond, although the rasping sound picked up speed.
Tom’s heart picked up its pace and panic crept into his throat. He snuck down the stairs, calling out to both his parents again, yet neither answered him. When he reached the first floor, he saw the light over the stove was on. He shivered from a combination of fear and a sudden cold that had sprung up in the house.
With his blood pounding through his veins, Tom stepped into the kitchen and saw nothing.
The room was empty.
He walked silently to the side door and opened it, wincing at the slight squeak of the hinges. The overhead light in the garage flickered into life and revealed only his father’s new Mercedes. His mother’s older model Volvo was gone.
Tom’s shoulders slumped.
He closed the door, turned around and screamed.
His father, completely undressed, sat on the stove, his eyes wide, and filled with terror. The man’s hands, which seemed to move of their own volition, were busy shoving a metal skewer through his lips. Blood dripped down his chin as the skewer joined others already threaded through his flesh.
The strange rasping sound, painfully loud, issued from his father’s throat.
Tom watched as his father’s left hand dropped to the stovetop, fingers dancing around until they found another skewer. Awkwardly, the man began to thread that through his lips as well.
“Dad,” Tom managed to whisper.
The man’s hands stopped, and a strange, hollow voice said, “Your father’s busy now, son. You’d best go back to bed.”
The voice came from somewhere near his father, but Tom couldn’t see who the speaker was.
His father tried to shake his head but some unseen force stopped him, and the voice said, “Stop moving around! This isn’t as easy as it looks.”
“You need to stop,” Tom stuttered. “Leave him alone!”
“I don’t,” the voice said, “and I won’t. Now, off to bed, young man, before I decide to keep your mouth closed as well.”
“Stop it,” Tom ordered, finding his confidence. “Stop it!”
His father’s hands froze, and the voice chuckled.
“What can you do to me?” the voice asked. “Tell me that.”
“I don’t know,” Tom said, his words losing the strength they had so recently found. “But I’ll find a way.”
The voice laughed and said, “I’m sure you will. Challenge accepted. But it will have to be for your mother, and not your father.”
Before Tom could react, his father jerked one of the skewers out and then thrust it up under his chin. The long, thin metal vanished into his skull.
Horrified, Tom watched as his father’s eyes rolled back to reveal their whites and his bare heels tapped and bounced off the glass of the oven door.
Then his father’s hands dropped down, his body slumped, and he fell backward into the wall. Glass bottles filled with spices were knocked off the top of the oven, some tumbling to the stovetop while others fell to the floor, breaking and scattering their contents.
The thick smells of cumin and basil filled the air, joined by oregano and cilantro.
“Now,” the voice whispered in Tom’s ear, “let’s see if you can find a way to save your mother, boy.”
And Tom was left alone with his father’s body.
Chapter 11: Stopping a Panic
“This is terrible,” Captain Desrosiers said.
Micky lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and looked at his superior. He studied the man for a moment to see if he was being facetious in any sort of way and then when he realized the captain had stated the obvious with all sincerity, he said, “Do you think so, Captain?”
Desrosiers glared at him and snapped, “I don’t need any sarcasm right now, Micky.”
“You’re going to get it,” Micky said, stabbing the cigarette towards the man, “especially when you say something as stupid as that. Hell, of course, it’s terrible. We all know it. You’ve got three de
ad coeds here, plus one retired high school principal whose dog is still running up and down the road, even though we’ve got people trying to catch the damned thing.”
Desrosiers shook his head, pointed a finger at Rafferty and said, “Get a grip on your brother-in-law.”
Micky watched the captain stalk away and turned his attention back to the crime scene.
“You don’t ever stop,” Rafferty observed.
“I needed him out of the crime scene,” Micky replied, “and I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like him because he made Captain,” Rafferty stated.
“I don’t like him because he’s a stuck-up, egotistical, brown-nosing moron,” Micky snapped.
Rafferty raised an eyebrow.
Micky sighed. “And because he made Captain.”
“As long as you can admit it,” Rafferty said.
The two men turned their attention back to the crime scene.
It was a mess.
The shooter, from what Micky could see, had taken them all out in a matter of seconds. There was a clear order by which the victims had been shot.
For another minute, he examined the scene, and then turned back and looked up the road. His eyes scanned both sides as troopers, and local police moved along, seeking any item that might serve as evidence. He forced himself to relax, to forget about the bodies, and to focus. His eyes drifted over the landscape and settled onto a small cluster of trees down the road.
Without saying a word to Rafferty, Micky walked along the asphalt. Rafferty followed half a step behind him, and soon they reached the stand of trees. There were scratch marks on the bark the height of a small dog, and some of the dirt and undergrowth were churned up.
Micky picked his way around the copse and found a slim opening between two of the trees. He peered in and saw where someone had lain down. Like the first shooting from behind the stone wall, the position in front of him offered an excellent line of sight to bodies.
“This is it,” Rafferty said.
Micky nodded.
Rafferty turned and left, calling out for the forensics team and leaving Micky at the site. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air and Micky turned around. He stared into the woods that stretched away from them and felt a sense of dread settle over him.
Micky shook his head, understanding that it was only going to get worse.
Chapter 12: Lunch and Death in Vermont
They sat at a table in Maxi’s Restaurant in Waterbury, Vermont. Victor was tired, strung out, and nervous. He hadn’t spoken with Janel Flanagan in person in years, and he felt guilty for even thinking of her. The two of them had enjoyed a brief, passionate relationship prior to his meeting Erin, and on those rare nights when he and Erin had fought, he wondered what might have been if he and Janel had tried to make the relationship work.
While those thoughts had been few and far between, the mere recollection of them was enough to cause him misery.
Erin was dead, and he had the audacity to meet with a woman he had once been intimate with.
Victor understood that he needed the information Janel might be able to provide, but part of him was concerned she might seek to pick up the relationship again. As far as he knew she was unmarried, and she had reached out to him for the first time in over a year when she had heard about Erin’s death.
“Victor,” Jeremy said.
“Hm?” Victor asked, looking at the other man.
Jeremy offered a small smile and said, “You seem to be far away from this small restaurant. Are you alright?”
“Thinking about Erin,” Victor confessed. “That’s all.”
Jeremy nodded.
Once again, Victor wondered about the older man. He didn’t know if the man had been married, if he had any children, or much of anything other than Jeremy hunted down haunted items and kept them tucked away in a house in Connecticut.
“Your friend is a woman,” Jeremy said, “and I take it you were more than friends at one point?”
Victor felt his face go flush as he nodded.
“Normal reactions, Victor,” Jeremy said in a comforting tone, “and normal thoughts. Do not abuse yourself over them. I take it your relationship with this woman was before your wife?”
Victor gave a short nod, picked up his water and took a sip.
“And you’re concerned you might strike up some sort of a relationship now that you are a widower?” Jeremy continued.
Victor cleared his throat and said, “Something like that.”
Jeremy said something else, but Victor didn’t hear him.
The door to the restaurant had opened, and Janel stepped in.
She was a striking woman, with high cheekbones and deep brown eyes accentuated by a long nose. Her hair matched her eyes in depth and color and fell past her shoulders to chest height. She was a slim woman, all edges with any curves she might have hidden beneath a charcoal gray suit.
Janel turned, saw Victor, and grinned. It was a crooked gesture, with one corner of her mouth rising higher.
As she walked to them in long strides, the heels of her shoes clicking loudly on the hardwood floor of the restaurant, Victor and Jeremy got to their feet.
Jeremy offered his hand, and when she shook it, he gave a short bow over her hand and introduced himself.
Victor tried to shake her hand and found himself pulled into a powerful hug instead. Beneath her clothes, her body was a mass of muscles, firm and unyielding. She held onto him for a moment, then she pulled away a little, kissed him on the cheek and said in a soft voice, “I’m sorry, Victor.”
Tears stung his eyes and he could only nod his thanks. She released him, and he sat down, wiping his eyes as best he could while she sat beside him. Janel ordered some food and by the time it arrived, Victor had regained composure, and she and Jeremy were engaged in a lively discussion concerning injuries caused by shrapnel.
“I like him,” Janel declared, winking at Victor.
Victor chuckled and shook his head. She still had the same, bold attitude that he had admired years earlier.
“I take it you’re up here because of the newest shooting?” she asked.
Victor looked at her in surprise, and Jeremy said, “You are referring to a shooting besides the one you wrote to Victor about?”
It was Janel’s turn to look surprised, and she nodded. “Yes. Yesterday we had another incident. Four dead, though. Three teenage girls from the University of Vermont and an older man who happened to be walking his dog at the time.”
“My God,” Victor murmured.
“And they were all killed with the same weapon?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes,” Janel confirmed.
Jeremy was silent for a moment as he rubbed his chin. Finally, he said, “This is a strange situation.”
“I think you mean terrible,” Janel countered, a sense of ire entering her voice.
Jeremy looked up and offered an apologetic smile. “No, I’m sorry. I am not speaking about the killings directly. Those are, without a doubt, a tragedy. No, what I am referring to is the weapon used.”
“The Garand,” Janel said. “Or at least I’m almost positive it would be a Garand.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, nodding, “exactly. Has Victor told you anything about what we suspect?”
Victor shook his head.
“Ah,” Jeremy said, sighing. “I suppose that burden falls to me then.”
Victor glanced at Janel as the older man began to speak. His voice was firm, the words chosen carefully. Yet as Jeremy spoke, Victor could see the disbelief and disdain form on her face. When Jeremy finished, he looked at her, smiled and said, “You don’t believe a single word I uttered.”
“No,” Janel said. “I don’t. I’m a scientist. What you’re saying is counter-intuitive as far as I’m concerned. There are no such things as ghosts. Therefore, the spirit of someone who has passed on cannot possess an inanimate object.”
She twisted in her chair, looked at Victor with a raised eyeb
row, and asked, “Do you believe him?”
“It’s why Erin’s dead,” Victor responded.
A piteous expression flitted across her face, and she said in a low voice, “Victor, she’s dead because she killed herself.”
“Janel,” Victor said, struggling to keep his composure, “we’re all entitled to our opinions here. But I came up to ask you a favor.”
“What is it?” she asked, a mournful note to her question.
“Can you introduce us to the investigating officer of the shootings?” Victor asked.
“My God,” she said, her eyes widening, “you’d look like an absolute idiot.”
“That’s fine with me,” Victor replied.
“We need to know if anyone has been firing Garands in the area,” Jeremy interjected. “Sales of ammunition and what not.”
Janel hesitated and then nodded her head. “Sure. Why not. He’ll think you’re crazy and not me.”
“Thank you,” Victor said.
“Don’t mention it,” Janel said, then she smiled. “Come on. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”
“I hear that you enjoy shooting,” Jeremy said. “Have you ever fired an M60 machine gun?”
Victor didn’t listen to Janel’s answer or Jeremy’s response. He was focused on the M1 Garand, and finding the next link to the seller. His hand dropped down to the satchel he had brought with him. Through the canvas of the bag, he felt the outline of his grandfather’s mug and contemplated a visit with the dead man.
Victor didn’t have anything to lose.
Chapter 13: A Meeting of Strange Fellows
Micky sat in his small, crowded office and looked at the two men who occupied the chairs across from him. Janel, over in the forensics lab, had requested that he speak with them about the shooting. She hadn’t told him why, and he couldn’t figure it out by examining the men.
Micky wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He lacked the ability to lay bare the secrets of a man’s life by a careful study of the way the subject might trim their nails. No, Micky was a nose to the grindstone type of detective. He searched for clues. When he found them, he put them into a mental picture frame, rearranging the pieces until it looked like a picture that made sense.