by Ron Ripley
“I don’t know,” Jeremy answered. “It looks like a pen box.”
Sherman smiled and tilted his head in acknowledgment. “An apt guess, Jeremy. That is exactly what this is, and within it is a pen.”
“A pen?” Jeremy asked.
Sherman nodded.
Jeremy cleared his throat. “How is that a burden?”
“Did Demetri ever speak to you about this pen?” Sherman asked in a soft voice. “Did he ever tell you how he acquired it, or what he and his Granmamit, his grandmother, do from their home in New Orleans?”
Frowning, Jeremy shook his head.
“In this box is a single, beautiful fountain pen,” Sherman said. “It was crafted from mother of pearl and gold. The scroll work is inlaid with silver, and there is a pair of initials alongside the emblem for the Grand Army of the Republic.”
“Who did it belong to?” Jeremy heard himself asking.
“A man named George Maledon,” Sherman answered. “A hangman who killed at least sixty men during the late 1800s, and one who enjoyed it tremendously.”
“How do you know that?” Jeremy asked, sitting back and frowning.
“We’ve asked him,” Sherman stated.
Jeremy scoffed, shook his head and said, “Sure you have.”
“Would you like to ask him?” the older man inquired.
“Why not,” Jeremy said, chuckling, “by all means, yes, let us speak with a hangman.”
Sherman inclined his head, flipped up the small catch on the box’s side and opened the lid.
Placed on a bed of dark blue velvet was the pen Sherman had described, and as Jeremy leaned forward for a closer look, the temperature in the room plummeted. Jerking back, Jeremy looked about, his breath curling out of his mouth and nose.
A man stepped out from between the wall locker, and Jeremy exhaled in surprise.
The stranger was short, a long white beard decorating his pinched face. He glanced from Sherman to Jeremy and back again to the older man.
“Who are you?” the stranger asked, his voice thick with a mid-west twang.
“A pair of men,” Sherman answered, “and not much more.”
“Where are we?” the stranger demanded, striding forward to peer out the window and down onto the grounds.
“Walter Reed Hospital,” Sherman answered.
“Truly?” the man inquired, turning back around.
Jeremy noticed the brace of pistols the man wore. The handles were reversed, and the gun-belt was up on his waist rather than slung low. Jeremy had the suspicion that the man had a cross body draw for both weapons, and that he was fast.
It was an uncomfortable thought, and one that the man seemed to read on Jeremy’s face.
“Aye, sir,” the stranger said, “I’m a might fast with them. Many a man found that out, to their everlasting regret.”
“Might we have your name?” Sherman asked, and Jeremy was impressed with the politeness in his voice. The question was smooth and pleasant, as genial as could be.
“Certainly,” the man said, glancing out the window again. “My name is George Maledon.”
Maledon faced them, his hands dropping to the butts of the pistols, caressing the grips with all of the familiarity and affection of a devoted lover.
“I don’t like this place,” the dead man said. “It stinks of filth. Of the damned. There’s a tree out in the yard. I need rope. Strong, sturdy stuff.”
“Why?” Jeremy blurted out.
“I’m a hangman,” George said, shrugging, “and there are folks who need hanging.”
“You can’t,” Jeremy said, anger rising in his voice.
The dead man’s hands came to a stop, gripping his weapons. His lips twitched into a smile. “And who are you to tell me no? What gives you authority over me?”
A snap and a click followed the question, and George Maledon vanished. Warmth returned to the room, and Jeremy turned to face Sherman.
“Disturbing at times, I know,” Sherman said, putting the box away in his jacket pocket. “Now I must be honest with you, Jeremy, I did not show you the box merely to quell your doubt. No, I showed you Mr. Maledon because of Demetri and what you told him.”
Jeremy shivered. He knew what the man was going to say.
Sherman recognized it, smiled and said, “Do you remember what it was?”
Jeremy cleared his throat, nodded and said, “How could I forget? It’s not every day you see a corpse stand up, let alone ten or fifteen of them.”
With a nod, Sherman agreed. “No, it is not. What’s important is that you survived, Jeremy. And this says a great deal about you. It tells me that there is an inner strength that you are the possessor of, sir, and that you are needed. Greatly, I might add.”
“Needed?” Jeremy scoffed. “For what? I’m almost a cripple. I can hardly walk up a flight of stairs let alone across some field. What good would I do?”
Sherman sat back, smiling while folding his arms over his chest. “It’s your brain. Your brain is magnificent. You see and accept reality. There is no great fear in you of the dead, and this is essential, mind you.”
“Essential for what?” Jeremy asked, confused.
“For hunting down the dead,” Sherman explained. The smile faded as he continued, “And stopping those who seek to gather the dead to them.”
Jeremy hesitated and then, with a nod towards the pocket Sherman put the box into, he asked, “Dead like George Maledon?”
“Worse,” Sherman replied.
***
“Mr. Rhinehart?” a female nurse asked, interrupting the story and taking Victor by surprise.
Jeremy smiled at her. “Yes?”
“She’s conscious,” the woman said.
“Are you serious?” Victor asked?
The nurse nodded. “Whoever did this to her only nicked the carotid artery. She bled a great deal, but it wasn’t enough to kill her. Thankfully a neighbor found her, put his fingers in the wound and pinched off the artery. By the way, she requested to see Mr. Rhinehart.”
“She can talk?” Jeremy asked in a shocked voice, standing up too fast. He would have fallen back into the chair if Victor hadn’t stood and caught him by the arm.
“No,” the nurse said, shaking her head. “We don’t even know how she figured out you were here. She made me give her a notepad, and she wrote down your name.”
Without another word, Jeremy limped quickly out of the room, following the nurse and leaving Victor standing alone.
Taking a deep breath, Victor returned to his seat and picked up an old, battered copy of The Atlantic magazine. He flipped through a few pages, searching for an article to occupy his attention. His search was unsuccessful, and he was about to return the periodical to the table when Jeremy walked in.
Unlike his initial visit to see her, Jeremy’s face was flush with anger. In his hand, he held a single sheet of paper, small and rectangular. It shook in his grip as he extended it to Victor.
Taking it, Victor turned it around so he could read what was written on it.
In surprisingly legible script there were five words.
The Korzhs had a son.
Chapter 31: Therapy
“Hello,” Dr. Greene said.
Tom sat on his uninjured hand to keep it still. “Hey.”
“I know you’ve had a rough couple of days,” the doctor said.
Tom snorted and nodded, adding, “Yeah.”
Dr. Greene offered a placating smile, and Tom fought back the urge to strike the man.
“Now I was speaking with Dale,” the doctor continued, “and she said you were interested in starting up your therapy again.”
“Yup,” Tom said.
Dr. Greene raised an eyebrow and then asked, “How do you feel?”
Tom glanced down, shrugged and said, “Hurt.”
“You know, Tom,” Dr. Greene said, frowning, “we’re going to have to move past these monosyllabic responses if you’re going to get any benefit out of this therapy.”
Tom ground his teeth together, forced himself to smile and said, “Doctor Greene, whatever you think is best.”
“Tom,” the doctor said, leaning forward slightly, “I know you don’t mean that. But the fact that you can make yourself say it is a step in the right direction. Soon we’ll get you to the point where you mean it. And from there, it will be, as they say, smooth sailing.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “Let’s give it a shot.”
“There we go,” Doctor Greene said cheerfully. “That is the kind of can-do attitude we like here, Tom. Yes, yes it is.”
Tom forced another smile and then listened as the doctor spoke about the benefits of individual and group therapy. The need to confront and embrace one’s grief. Tom nodded at the right parts, spoke when he was expected to speak, and shook his head when it was necessary.
After forty-five minutes, he was exhausted from the charade he had played and more than happy to be escorted back to his room. When the orderlies arrived to take him away, Doctor Greene spoke again.
“Tom,” the doctor said, “I noticed there was a collation between your episode the other night and the arrival of the book in your room. Do you need it removed from your room?”
“No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Not at all. It’s nice to have it there. It reminds me of my mother. In a good way.”
Doctor Greene looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, Tom. We’ll leave it for now. If I think it starts to become prohibitive to your continued rehabilitation, then I’ll be forced to remove it.”
“Sure, I get it,” Tom said, and he walked with the orderlies to his room. He waited as they unlocked the door, stepped in when they told him to, and moved away from it when they closed and locked it.
Tom listened to the footsteps fade away, and he turned to look at his bed. Someone had changed the sheets. A fresh set of clothes had been laid out for him as well. Soft blue pants, a white shirt, and a new pair of yellow hospital socks with some sort of rubber affixed to the bottom. Soon, Tom knew, someone would be along to take him to the bathroom.
He was, it turned out, a danger to himself and others. The staff made it a point to work in teams when he had to be escorted anywhere.
A hard smile settled onto Tom’s face, and he went to the bed, sitting down on it and staring at the door. He remained in that position for several minutes, until finally, he reached out and picked up the book from the bedside table. The book was cold in his hands, but he had become desensitized to it. Tom found where he had last left off and began to read.
He was only a few pages in when the light in the room flickered and went out.
Tom closed the book and waited.
“How goes your progress?” Dillon asked.
“Fine,” Tom grunted. He didn’t bother to turn and face the ghost. He despised it. Taking a deep breath, Tom said, “How am I going to find the person who sold your book to me?”
“I know his name,” Dillon answered. “Once you have his name, we can begin to hunt.”
“Will I be able to kill him when we find him?” Tom demanded in a hiss.
“That depends on you,” the ghost answered in a sly tone. “He is a strong man and a crafty one, as well.”
Tom didn’t respond.
The dead man snickered and continued. “And, of course, it comes down to you.”
“To me?” Tom asked
“Yes, you,” Dillon answered. “Are you going to have the wherewithal to kill him? It takes a lot for most men. Killing isn’t easy. Your mind revolts against the act, at least that’s what others have told me. Now, tell me, Tom, do you have the heart to kill a man?”
“Shut up,” Tom snapped. It was a question that plagued his dreams and his waking thoughts.
The dead man chuckled. “Good. Very good. With anger like this, well, at this rate, we’ll be out of here soon.”
Tom nodded, unwilling to waste any more breath on the murderous ghost.
The light flickered back into life, and Tom opened the book again and went back to his reading. In the words of Caesar, Tom sought to forget his hate.
Just until he would need it again.
Tom hoped it would be soon because if he didn’t get out of the hospital in the near future, he was going to kill whomever he could get his hands on. With trembling fingers, Tom gripped the book and started to read Caesar’s chapter on the Helvetii.
Chapter 32: Finishing the Tale
“What are we doing here?” Victor asked, as Jeremy closed the front door.
“We need a place to stay,” Jeremy replied, passing him, “and we need to know what happened here.”
Victor followed the older man into the sitting room and looked around, uncomfortable. He had seen far too much blood since Erin’s death, and the large stain on the floor spoke of Leanne’s suffering.
“Did you ever learn which neighbor helped her?” Victor asked, stepping around the vulgar reminder and sitting down.
Jeremy eased himself into the same chair Leanne had occupied on Victor’s first visit and sighed.
“I did not. The man appears to wish to remain anonymous,” Jeremy said. “From what I understand this neighbor saw someone leave who didn’t seem to fit in. On a hunch, this neighbor went to the front door, found it unlocked, and went in. He was the one who called 911, and helped save her life. Evidently, he was a navy corpsman in Afghanistan. He kept her alive until paramedics arrived and were able to take her to the hospital.”
“Good God,” Victor said, sighing. “It’s amazing.”
Jeremy nodded his head in agreement.
“So,” Victor said after a moment, “if we know all of this, why did you say we need to know what happened here?”
Jeremy gave him a small smile. “Because that’s not the entire tale. Why was the Korzhs’ son here? What did he take, if anything? How did he find her?”
“I don’t know,” Victor confessed.
“And neither do I,” Jeremy said. “All we can do is wait.”
“Wait for what?” Victor asked.
Jeremy looked uncomfortable and said, “Let us leave it at ‘we need to wait.’”
“That’s a pretty cryptic statement,” Victor said, frowning. “I know, it’s meant to be. But knowing doesn’t make it any better. How long are we going to have to wait?”
“Not long,” Jeremy said, glancing at his wristwatch. “Sometime after nightfall, if I remember correctly.”
Victor wanted to press the man more on the issue, but he let it be. Instead, he slid down a little in the chair, rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, and what little sleep he usually got was fitful, shattered by nightmares of Erin’s death.
As he folded his arms across his chest, Victor sighed. Sleep tugged at him, and he attempted to allow his breath to even out. He felt the world slip away as he moved deeper towards unconsciousness. The room had a strong smell of black tea to it, with an underlying coppery scent.
Victor tried not to remember his own bed, with the comforting sounds and movements of Erin beside him. With his eyes still closed he asked, “Will you wake me up when whatever you’re waiting for shows up?”
“I certainly will,” Jeremy replied, a bitter humor in his voice, “but I doubt you’ll need me to.”
Victor tried to ask why, but exhaustion swept over him and carried him away to a fitful sleep.
Chapter 33: Retribution
Danny Martin had been out of work for two days after one of the new kids on the ward had hit him below the belt. Two days of sitting in front of the television with nothing to watch. Forty-eight hours of listening to his girlfriend complain about the apartment. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes of thinking about how he was going to repay the kid.
Surprisingly, it came the first night he was back.
Danny was alone on the ward. Ella had needed a smoke break, and Janice had gone off to make a phone call since her kid was sick.
When he was sure the two of them we
re away, Danny had snuck to the hallway where the boy’s room was. Outside of it he paused, listened, and when he was certain Tom was asleep, Danny used the nurse’s passcode to let himself into the room.
Tom was asleep on the bed, curled into a fetal position. The boy shivered, and his discomfort brought a smile to Danny’s face.
For almost a minute, he stood in the doorway, looking down at Tom, deciding what he would do next. He had imagined a wide range of punishments for the boy, but Danny decided simple was best and appropriate.
Danny took several short, quick steps forward, eyed the boy’s sleeping form, clenched a fist and punched him as hard as he could.
Tom let out a squeal of shock and fear as the blow launched him out of bed and onto the floor. Before the boy could get to his feet, Danny strode around to Tom and drove the toe of his sneaker into the boy’s soft stomach.
As Tom vomited onto the floor, Danny retreated from the room, accidentally knocking a book off the bedside table. He didn’t bother to pick it up on his way to the door, locking the boy in the room once again.
A smile spread across Danny’s face, his heart racing, and his blood pumping. He got back to the nurse’s station before either Ella or Janice did.
“Hey,” Danny said as Ella came in, “can I get a cigarette?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you quit.”
“I did,” Danny replied. “Well, for the most part. I need one every now and again.”
“You look flushed,” she said, taking a Newport out of her purse and handing it to him along with a lighter. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Danny said with a grin. “Never better. I’ll be back in about ten, okay?”
Ella nodded and when Danny left he passed Janice in the hall, letting her know as well that he would be back shortly.
Instead of the elevator, Danny took the stairs down to the first floor, then he followed the back hallway to the rear of the building. When he stepped out, the crescent moon was high above him. Danny gave it a nod and a wink, feeling fantastic as he lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag off it.